anabanana

Memento mori, live loudly and be good. L♡ve sex, forever.

[banditthewriter]

Redolence Masterlist

Summary: The reader is an Omega who works at a Companion Center that helps the Alphas through their ruts. She gets a request from an Alpha named Billy Russo. An immediate connection builds into more as the two of them navigate the ins and outs of the society they live in and the feelings their connection brings out of them.

Warnings: Smut. No really, lots of smut. Also angst because yeah. Sex in various positions. Oral sex (male and female receiving.) The reader does sleep with other Alphas but it is only ever mentioned, never described. Some talk of slave trade, not detailed. Angry sex. Unprotected sex. Reader experiences a bad panic attack that is described.

Word Count: 35.8k

Smut marked with **

Part 1** X Part 2** X Part 3** X Part 4** X Part 5** X Part 6**

[banditthewriter]

Finding Out [Billy Russo]

Prompt:  A story where the reader finds out about billy and Dinah? Prompter: Anonymous

I am weeeeak! Here ya go darling! It’s kind of short but I hope you like it!

Keep reading

[jamesdeanbby]

FUCK IT! LET'S BRING BACK THE AVENGERS TOWER FANFICS!!!!

BRING YOUR IDEAS TO ME AND I WILL WRITE THEM! FOUND FAMILY, CHAOS! THOR AND HIS POPTARTS, STEVE CATCHING THAT REFERENCE, IRONDAD, CLINT IN THE VENTS, LOKI BEING HELD CAPTIVE FOR SOME REASON OR ANOTHER! WANDA AND NATASHA BEING THE BESTIES! PIETRO IS HERE TOO! SAM AND BUCKY POWER DUO! THE STARK READER TROPE IS WELCOME TOO! WANDA'S POWERS BUT PURPLE? BRING IT ON BABY! PARTIES AFTER EACH MISSION WHERE EVERYONE TRIES TO LIFT THOR'S HAMMER?? HELL YEAH!

BRING YOUR IDEAS TO ME!! (also preferably giving Thor a little bit of content he might just be my new favourite Avenger of this writing season🙏)

[roxxmo]

° ｡☆ welcome to my island

+18, mdni please do not copy, translate, or republish my works on other sites. ai is not welcome! support human creations.

requests are welcome! lee currently writes for : bullseye, ormund hightower (more to come... ᰔ )

masterlist ao3 ko-fi 1k celebration

[roxxmo]

custody of blood | part II

summary: the seventh day approaches, and you test ormund's restraint. pairing: ormund hightower x targtower!reader content/warnings: 18+ (mdni), SMUT, dubcon, pussy inspection, fingering, edging, orgasm denial, spanking with belt, male masturbation, forced bathing, nudity, voyeurism, slut-shaming, jealousy, aftercare (...i think?), physical intimidation/rough handling, DADDY ISSUES!!, emotional manipulation, religious abuse and religious guilt, canon-typical incest (cousins), age gap (~20 years), icky guardian/ward relationship, canon-typical misogyny, canon-divergent, no use of y/n word count: 12k (i blacked out around 5k tbh) A/N: surprise!! got this chapter out a bit early! guys...what has this man done to my psyche. i'm writing shit i am not even into but since it's him i'm WET!!! this is a long one and i tried my best to proofread, but i'm sure i've missed some things so apologies if it's a lil wonky! sooo thankful for all the love on part I and i hope part II meets your expectations! mr. roxxmo and i are moving houses (yay!) this weekend so that's why the final part of the series will be a bit later. will try to do headcannons or short oneshots if i have the time, and as usual, if i can get part III out before schedule i absolutely will! <3

← previous chapter MASTERLIST finale →

The feast unfolded as such evenings always did.

Like the rest of the ancient tower, the Great Hall of the Hightower was composed of whitewashed limestone, its vaulted ceiling rising so high that you sometimes wondered where it ended. As children, you and the Hightower boys would race beneath it, shouting up to hear your voices echo through the chamber. Great tapestries of Hightower green adorned the walls, each depicting the house’s victories in battle alongside scenes devoted to the Faith of the Seven. No matter where you went in the Hightower, the Seven followed. 

Tonight, the hall was filled with noble houses from across the Reach. Lords and ladies moved between the long oak tables, drinking, laughing, and otherwise partaking in every sort of merriment before the coming days of tiresome discussions of taxes, grains, and preparations for the season’s harvest. 

You sat where you always did: at the head table, on Ormund’s right. In the very place once occupied by the late Lady Hightower. You had done everything he asked after the solar. Your women had pressed damp cloths to your tear-swollen eyes and pinched color back into your cheeks. They had laced you into the embroidered sky-blue gown Ormund preferred, its neckline high enough to preserve modesty, yet low enough that anyone seated too near might glimpse the suggestion of your bosom. You had been washed, gathered, and arranged once more into the woman he had made of you, with every trace of your momentary lapse carefully hidden away. 

Ormund had been pleased. He spoke none of Lord Godric Ashford or the excitement in the solar. He simply conducted himself as he usually did at such feasts, discussing philosophy and politics with the visiting lords, occasionally asking for your thoughts and praising you to anyone who would listen– commending how wise his ward was, how faithfully you attended the sept. All the while, his hand remained on your thigh beneath the table, squeezing gently as his thumb moved back and forth over the silk. Just as he usually did. 

This should have pleased you. His touch always did. Tonight, though, your mind was muddled with flashes of memories. 

The conversation with Lord Ashford you were not meant to hear. Ormund’s rings cutting into your face as he gripped your chin. The cool sheets of his bed twisted in your fists. His hand at your waist, his voice low as he hushed you and told you to be still. 

The seventh day. 

Following Lady Hightower in the Citadel, your small hand tucked in hers. Playing in the gardens with the Hightower boys. The letter from your queen mother coldly explaining why you could not visit the Red Keep on your sixteenth nameday. The burning pressure. Entering. Stretching. Confessing. 

The seventh day.

Ser Joldwin Mormont and the ashes of his fur-trimmed cloak. Lying across Ormund’s bare chest afterward, listening to the rhythmic beat of his heart. His lips against yours, tasting faintly of wine. Watching one of your siblings’ dragons fly overhead, its giant shadow blackening the earth. 

The seventh day. 

Being held. The knowledge you were never truly wanted. 

The seventh day.

“You are fidgeting.”

Ormund’s voice broke whatever spell your thoughts had cast over you.

You lowered your head. “I am sorry, my lord.”

Ormund hummed. Beneath the table, his hand shifted higher on your thigh, pressing into the soft flesh through the silk of your gown. The feast carried on around you, laughter mingling with the chords of lyres and flutes as they echoed through the Great Hall. No one could see the way their host groped you in plain sight. “Are you thinking of tonight?” 

Yes, you were. And of so much more. “No, my lord.” 

“You appear sad.” He leaned closer, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear, and you shivered. “Have you a reason to be?”

You shook your head quickly. “None, my lord.”

“Good,” he murmured. “Then stop pouting so unbecomingly before our guests and smile.”

You obeyed, because you always did. You arranged your lips into something soft and pleasant, as he liked. Ormund grinned in return and squeezed your thigh once more, hard. “Much better, my dear.”

“Lord Hightower! I do hope we are not intruding, but I simply had to introduce myself properly to your esteemed ward.”

Ormund’s hand stilled upon you, though he had not yet removed it. 

A broad, heavyset man stood before the head table, clad in a fine orange doublet. The wine cup in his hand was filled to the brim, sloshing around as he gestured. Drink had reddened his round, bearded face, and a crooked grin seemed fixed upon it. Behind him stood a tall young man with dark curly hair, fine features, and bright brown eyes. Those eyes were fixed entirely upon you. Something in his look sent warmth rushing into your cheeks.

“Lord Ashford,” Ormund greeted tensely. As the man drew nearer, Ormund briefly brushed one finger beneath his nose, the faintest crease appearing between his brows. “I was under the impression that only your son would attend the harvest feast this season. It is a… surprise to see you here as well.” 

“And miss the finest wine in the Reach?” Lord Ashford chortled, lifting his cup so enthusiastically that a little spilled over the rim and onto the marble floor. Ormund’s eye twitched as he looked at the puddle. “Of course I had to come.”

Lord Robert Ashford. You knew of him, if not the man himself. He was said to be kind, if somewhat silly, with a particular weakness for feasts and fine drink, but there was not one wicked thing about him. Which meant the young man standing behind him must be…

“And this is my son, Godric,” Lord Ashford continued, stepping to the side with a proud flourish to the young man behind him. “Though I understand the two of you require little introduction. He spoke with you earlier about a certain…someone, did he not, Lord Hightower?”

Godric coughed. “Father–”

“Oh, the boy has heard such wonderful things about the princess,” Lord Ashford went on, tipsy enough he was either failing to notice his son’s embarrassment or actively choosing to ignore it. “Her grace, her devotion to the Seven, and of course I would be remiss not to mention her beauty. I fear he has scarcely spoken of anything else since the prospect of betrothal was–”

“Father, please,” Godric interrupted him, a flush creeping above the collar of his doublet. “I am certain the princess has no wish to hear you recite every private conversation we have shared.”

Lord Ashford chuckled and clapped a broad hand against his son’s shoulder. “There is no shame in admiring a fine young lady. Nor, surely, in allowing two young people the opportunity to become better acquainted.”

Ormund’s fingers pressed so deeply into your thigh that you were certain they would leave marks. You did not dare look at him, though you imagined his face had gone terrifyingly blank.

Oblivious to the storm gathering beside you, Godric bowed. “It is an honor to meet you properly, Princess.”

Remembering Ormund’s warning in the solar– and with his hand still gripping you beneath the table– you offered Godric only the smallest inclination of your head before lowering your eyes once more.

“The honor is mine, my lord,” you murmured.

Godric smiled. Ormund, however, did not. 

“Lord Ashford, I am not sure if your son made you aware of the extent of our earlier discussion,” Ormund moved the hand that was on your thigh to the back of your chair. “He made his intentions sufficiently clear. As did I with him.”

Lord Ashford’s crooked smile lowered. “Well, yes…Godric did tell me some of the conversation. But I had hoped that perhaps, upon further reflection–”

“There is nothing upon which to reflect.”

Silence quickly consumed the small gathering at the head table. Ormund smiled urbanely, one hand still gripping the back of your chair. You felt caged. 

“Your admiration for my ward is noted, Lord Ashford,” Ormund said coolly. “You are certainly not the first to admire her, and I doubt you will be the last. But this match will not be considered.”

Humiliation ravaged you like a wildfire. You fixed your gaze on the grain of the table, afraid that if you looked up, the Ashfords would see the tears stinging your eyes. You wished– prayed– that they would go away. 

Ormund sighed and leaned back in his chair. At last, he released your chair and reached for his cup, lifting it with an air of studied levity. “Now then, I would hate to keep you from the wine you traveled so far to enjoy, Lord Ashford.”

“I– well, of course, Lord Hightower,” Robert stammered, plainly attempting to smooth over the moment. He summoned an easy smile, though it came out strained, and bowed low. “Thank you again for your gracious hospitality.” 

Godric’s eyes shifted between you and Ormund before he followed suit. “Lord Hightower. Princess.”

And then, finally, they were gone.

You exhaled shakily, blinking back tears. Ormund had already retrieved the pomander from his breeches and lifted it beneath his nose, breathing deeply. 

“Lord Ashford reeks of cheap wine and horse shit,” he grimaced, keeping the pomander close. “You should thank the Seven that you will not be sent away to live among such people.”

You had smelled neither cheap wine nor horse shit when the Ashfords stood before you. You wanted to tell him so. You wanted to tell him it was cruel to speak of them with such contempt when they had done nothing more than ask for your hand. Instead, you lowered your head. “Yes, my lord.”

Ormund’s eyes narrowed as he studied you over the silver pomander. His gaze moved from the wet shine of your eyes to the stiffness of your pouted lips to your quivering chin. He knew you more than anyone had or would ever know. He could see right through you. You knew it. For a second, it looked as if he was about to say something. 

A steward suddenly appeared at his shoulder. 

“My lord, Lord Uffering requests a private word regarding the grain levies before tomorrow’s council.”

“Lord Uffering can wait,” Ormund replied swiftly, eyes never leaving you. 

The steward shifted uneasily, wringing his hands. “Yes, my lord, but, erm…Lord Orme has joined him in the western gallery…and now they are disputing with each other. Quite loudly, I may add.”

Ormund exhaled hard through his nose. “If you could use your eyes, you would see that I am currently occupied.”

“Yes, my lord. But the matter is drawing attention, and…”

Ormund’s fingers tightened around the pomander before he finally lowered it. “Fine.”

He turned back to you, regarding you with such intensity that the clamor of the feast seemed to ebb around you. “You will remain seated here until I return.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“I will not be long.” His hand settled briefly at the nape of your neck, thumb pressing into the divot beneath your ear. “When I come back, we will retire for the evening.”

Your stomach churned. The seventh day.

“Y-yes, my lord,” you whispered.

Ormund held your gaze for another moment, as though searching for the truth only he could uncover. Then he withdrew his hand and rose from the table. You watched him follow the steward toward the western gallery and disappear beneath the archway.

The moment he was out of sight, the stiffness in your bones left you. You slumped in your chair and looked across the crowded Great Hall. The feast continued all around you– lords and ladies mingling, eating, drinking, laughing without a care. Without any knowledge of what these walls truly held.

Why did Ormund restrain you so? Why did he keep you from everyone? Why did he refuse to do the one thing expected of him as your guardian? You were of age. You were a woman in every sense. Would it not serve his interests as your kin to arrange a marriage for you? His sons had gone, and he had been widowed for years. Would it not suit him to be rid of you at last, free to take another wife of his own?

The thought made bile turn in your throat the moment it formed.

Why?

Why did the idea of Ormund with a wife make something sick and vicious twist inside you? Why was any of this happening?

Why was he so cruel? Why did you want him to be?

You understood, at least, his refusal of Aemond. Ormund had told you often enough what such a match meant: brother wed to sister, blood folded endlessly back into itself. Targaryen wickedness in its truest form. He would not permit you to remember that such customs belonged to your heritage as well.

But what of the others? Ser Joldwin, all those years ago, broad and steady and strong. The Martell boy. Every lord and heir who had been dismissed for some fault Ormund alone had deemed unforgivable. Perhaps each of them had shortcomings, that might have been true. But Godric seemed precisely the sort of man Ormund should have wanted for you– young, courteous, well-born, heir to a respectable house.

So what did Ormund want? To keep you as his ward forever? To hold you in his bed one night, kiss your mouth, and tell you how good you were, only to admonish you hours later for whatever sin he had decided lived inside you?

The ceaseless shifting in reality left you dizzy.

“Princess?”

So lost were you in thought that you had not noticed Lord Godric Ashford return to the head table and lower himself into the empty seat beside you.

You startled, and he immediately raised both hands in apology. “Forgive me, Princess. I did not mean to frighten you. I only hoped for a moment to speak with you, if I may?”

Your eyes flitted from Godric to the archway through which Ormund had disappeared. At any moment, he might return and find you speaking to the very man he had forbidden you to entertain. He would punish you, surely. The thought made something low in your belly begin to warm like embers. “Lord Godric, I…I am not certain it is proper for us to be speaking without a chaperone.”

Godric hesitated, glanced out over the crowded Great Hall, then looked back at you with a small, playful smile. “Surely a chaperone of a hundred feast guests would suffice?” 

Ormund would not think so. You bit your lip. You knew precisely what he would have you do. Turn up your nose at Godric and tell him you obeyed your guardian in all things. Then scurry obediently to Ormund and confess what had happened, so he might find some reason to bring about the end of House Ashford. 

But you always did what Ormund wanted. When had you last considered what you wanted?

The answer should have been simple. Godric was young, kind, and handsome. He wished to marry you. Surely this was what any young woman would want: to be admired by a good man and offered a life beyond the walls that had confined her.

Did you want to speak with him? Perhaps.

Or perhaps you only believed you ought to want it.

“I promise you, my lady, I shall do nothing to scandalize your reputation– aside from perhaps subjecting you to a few poor jokes.” Godric placed a hand solemnly over his heart. “I swear it upon my life.”

You could not help but giggle. You could scarcely remember the last time someone had been so light with you. Years ago, perhaps. “I believe you, Lord Godric.”

“Now my father, on the other hand…” Godric glanced towards the table where Lord Robert was engaging in a loud and animated recounting of some story, wine cup spilling with every exaggerated hand movement. Godric sighed. “He seems to be on the precipice of a scandal every time he steps foot out of Ashford. I am certain you could guess that from his earlier…revelations…which I should apologize again for.”

“There is no need to apologize. Your father was very kind.”

“Ah, you are being lenient with him. He can be a fool, but he is also my father, so I suppose that makes me one as well,” Godric chuckled, and his grin widened when you laughed with him. 

For a few moments, the two of you sat together and watched as Lord Robert continued his tale. Then Godric’s expression softened. 

“Did…Lord Hightower tell you anything of our conversation earlier?”

Your smile faltered. You remembered every word, pressed against the boarded door in that forgotten corridor. But you could hardly admit you listened to a conversation never intended for your ears. Or that Ormund refused you any true explanation of what happened. 

You chose your words carefully. “He told me only that you had spoken with him.”

“I see.”

“I do hope he was not unkind to you.”

“No more than might be expected of a man guarding something very precious to him.”

The words flooded you with warmth. Your gaze dropped to your hands, pressed into the sky-blue silk of your gown. The one Ormund chose for you. 

Godric continued, voice genuine. “Lord Hightower seems very protective of you, Princess.”

“He has always been so. Ormund is like a…a father to me.” You felt bile briefly rise in your throat. You swallowed it. “He took me in when I was just a girl. Oldtown is all I have ever known.”

“There is much virtue in that, my lady. A guardian should be concerned for his ward’s safety and reputation. Truly, I would think poorly of him if he were not. But…” He hesitated, glancing toward the western gallery before leaning nearer, his face suddenly gone serious. “You are no longer a child, Princess. And marriage, as you know, is not some minor matter to be settled without your input. A guardian may offer counsel, certainly, but I do not believe any woman should be forced into a marriage she does not desire…or denied one she might.”

You blinked at him, stunned. Ormund spoke of unsuitable bloodlines, weak heirs, vulgar fathers, and men whose intentions he did not trust. He spoke endlessly of what he would permit and what he would prevent. Never once had he asked what you desired. The concept was as foreign to you as Dothraki. 

Godric cleared his throat after a few seconds of silence. “Forgive me. I do not mean to speak against Lord Hightower.”

“N-no, no,” you stammered quickly. “You have said nothing wrong.”

He nodded, though concern lingered in his eyes. “Then may I ask you something else?”

You should have refused. You should have told him it was time to retire. You should have found Ormund. Instead, you found yourself nodding.

“Are you…happy here?”

The question struck you like a slap to the face. 

Happy? 

You had never considered it. Happiness was not a concept widely spoken of in the Hightower. Maybe there were moments. As a child, playing with the Hightower boys in the gardens. When Lady Hightower would sing you lullabies to sleep. Ormund’s bed, warm beneath you in the darkness. His lips against your brow when you memorized all your scripture. 

Moments that were fleeting. But moments that stuck. 

Then you thought of locked doors. Of punishments. Of Ormund’s voice, loud and raging, his mood shifting at the drop of a pin. Of the seventh day. Of sin. 

“I…” Your fingers tightened together in your lap. Would you confess? “I am…content.”

Godric did not appear shocked. Nor did he demand an explanation. He merely regarded you with a quiet sadness that made you feel more exposed than Ormund’s scrutiny ever had.

“I hope you will not think me forward, Princess, but I meant what I told Lord Hightower,” he said. There was a sincerity to him more pure than anything you knew possible. “I have heard nothing but good things of you, and what little time I have spent in your company has only made me wish to know you better.”

Warmth rose into your cheeks. 

“I cannot pretend to know whether you might ever desire such a match,” he continued. “But if you were willing, I would still like the opportunity to…entertain the prospect. If that is what you wished, of course.” 

Surely you should wish that. Surely you ought not to be thinking of Ormund’s hand gripping your thigh beneath the table. Surely you ought not to wonder what it would feel like if Ormund were the one offering you such a choice.

If he were asking you to be his.

Before you could respond, the musicians reached the end of their song. A livelier tune began almost at once, the beat of the drums rising above the conversations as couples moved toward the center of the hall. Godric glanced toward them, then stood. 

“Now, this may embarrass me so thoroughly that you decide to be rid of me altogether, but I must ask regardless.” He turned back to you and held out his hand. “Would you dance with me, Princess?”

You looked once more towards the archway. Ormund would return any second now. He would see you, dancing with Godric in front of the entire feast. He would see you being held by another man. If he did not kill you, he would surely kill Godric. 

“Yes,” you whispered, heart beating violently against your ribcage. You placed your hand in Godric’s. “I would.” 

Godric led you into the center of the hall crowded with dancing bodies, one hand holding yours while the other hovered near your waist, as though he feared even the smallest impropriety might send you fleeing back to the head table. 

“You should know,” he spoke loudly over the music as he guided you into the first turn, “that I was once declared the finest dancer in Ashford.”

“Oh, really?”

“Well…I was seven,” he admitted. “And the only competition was my sister, who could not yet walk. And the judge was my mother.”

Your laughter rang through the hall as he spun you beneath his arm and guided you back into step.

You should have been happy. You were dancing with a handsome young man who had made his interest in you plain. Godric was courteous. He kept his hands precisely where they belonged and made no attempt to grope or possess you. He complimented your dancing, whispered jokes near your ear, knew every step, and led you well.

Yet all you did was look over his shoulder, searching for Ormund.

Your gaze swept over every face, every couple, every archway. He was nowhere to be seen. Something inside you deflated and the realization came with a flush of shame: perhaps you were doing all of this for him. You wanted him to see you. You wanted him to want you. 

When the final notes rang through the hall, Godric drew you gently to a stop. Around you, the other dancers bowed and separated, their laughter mingling with the applause.

“I must say, my lady,” Godric was still slightly breathless from the dance, his hand holding yours lightly, “I think we make quite a fine pair of dancers.”

You blushed and lifted your free hand to smooth a few stray hairs from your face. You were about to say something, what exactly you could not remember, when a familiar, low voice spoke directly behind you.

“Lord Godric.”

You turned. 

Ormund stood only a few paces away, the crowd having parted around him. Conversations nearby were already quieting. His eyes, blue and still as a frozen pond, were fixed upon your intertwined hands. His face was empty. Terrifyingly, completely empty.

With sudden, perfect clarity, you knew you had gotten what you wished for. And you knew you had made the worst mistake of your life.

“Lord Hightower,” Godric said, his voice turning cautious. He followed Ormund’s gaze and untangled his fingers from yours. “I was only telling the princess that she is an excellent dancer. Whatever lessons you must have arranged for her–”

“Do you make a habit,” Ormund uttered, his voice carrying loudly enough to silence those nearest you, “of disrespecting your hosts?”

Godric blinked and glanced at the confused faces gathering around you. “...My lord?”

“Do you take me for a fool?”

“I– of course not, Lord Hightower.” Godric gave a nervous, uncertain laugh. “We were only dancing.”

“Dancing? Only dancing?” With slow, imposing steps, Ormund advanced into the center of the hall, closer to you. “No, Lord Godric, I think not. I think what you have done is force yourself upon my ward after being expressly forbidden to do so.”

Panic overtook Godric’s expression. “Lord Hightower, I-I did no such thing–”

“But you did, did you not?” Ormund continued, his composure making every word more horrible to endure. “I made my refusal perfectly clear. You pretended to accept my authority, and then, the moment my back was turned, you disregarded my wishes. You disrespected my house. You disrespected her.”

You wanted to interject and defend Godric. You wanted to cower behind Ormund. You did neither.

“You took advantage of her,” Ormund declared, gesturing toward you as though you were evidence to be presented before the hall. “You knew the princess to be quiet and kind. You knew she was too gently raised to humiliate you with a refusal before half the Reach. And so you waited until I was absent and imposed upon her courtesy.”

Godric’s face reddened with the pressure of the entire Great Hall watching this encounter unfold. “The princess agreed to dance with me. She wanted to.”

Ormund’s eyes shifted to you and the hall seemed to contract. Something sharp flickered in his gaze as he tilted his head. 

“Did she now?” he asked, so softly it was barely a whisper. 

Godric turned to you, an obvious plea in his expression for you to absolve him of whatever crime Ormund had laid at his feet before the assembled houses of the Reach. You felt as though you had committed treason against the Crown itself. No– worse than that. As though you had sinned beneath the very eyes of the Seven.

Contrition flooded you so completely that you could scarcely bear Ormund’s gaze. Instead, you fixed your eyes down at the marble floor of the Great Hall– the same floor you had once raced across as a child. 

“Is it true?” He stepped closer until the polished leather of his shoes entered your lowered vision. “Did you wish to dance with him?”

Your voice trembled when you finally answered. “...yes.”

Tears blurred the marble beneath you. Still, you forced yourself to lift your head. Ormund’s face had gone flat once more.

He regarded you for what seemed like minutes, then gave a single, measured nod, as though you had confirmed something he had already known. “I see.”

Ormund’s gaze lingered upon you for another awful moment before he turned toward the watching hall, putting his hand on your arm. His grip was tight. “The princess is plainly unwell,” he announced, his voice once again smooth and measured. “I fear the excitement of the evening has overtaken her.”

A few sympathetic murmurs moved through the crowd. You were unwell, but not for whatever reason Ormund was claiming. You simply kept your eyes fixed above the crowd and willed yourself not to start crying. 

“Please,” Ormund continued, offering the gathered guests his courteous, practiced smile that did not reach his eyes, “return to your dancing. There is no reason our feast should be interrupted.”

Then he looked to Godric. “You may rejoin your father.”

Godric’s mouth parted as though he might object, but whatever he saw in Ormund’s face silenced him. He bowed stiffly instead. “Of course, Lord Hightower.”

Ormund moved his hand from your arm to the small of your back. “Come, my dear. I believe it is time to retire for the night.”

You allowed him to steer you through the parting crowd and out of the Great Hall. By the time the noise of the feast had faded behind you, you were sniveling like a pathetic child. Nothing remained but the sharp echo of Ormund’s footsteps and the hurried patter of your own as you struggled to match his long strides through the stone corridor.

Perhaps you should apologize. Perhaps you should explain yourself. If you could only make him understand, then perhaps he would–

Your head snapped backward.

A cry tore from your throat as Ormund seized a fistful of your hair and wrenched you toward him. You stumbled helplessly beneath his grip, dragged backward until your spine struck the stone wall.

“You fucking insolent slut,” he hissed. His fist tightened against your scalp, wrenching your head back until tears sprang anew to your eyes. “I cannot leave you out of my sight for a single minute before you whore yourself before a hall full of lords?”

He yanked again and the back of your head struck the stone with a dull crack. You clawed at his wrist, desperate to relieve the searing pull at your roots, but he twisted easily beyond your grasp.

“O-Ormund, I am– I did not–” you sobbed, reaching for him again.

His grip only tightened. You felt strands of hair pull and snap beneath his fingers.

“Please,” you cried. “It hurts–!”

“I have given everything to raise you. Everything.” Ormund spat the words, flecks of spittle striking your cheeks. “My house. My food. My protection. My own bed. All I have ever asked of you is obedience and respect.” He wrenched your head farther back. “And this is how I am repaid? You make a cuckold of me before half the Reach, shamelessly flaunting yourself for some boy?”

“It was only– we only danced–”

“You might as well have sucked his cock in the Great Hall.” His body crushed yours against the wall until you were flattened beneath his weight, the scabbard of his sword digging painfully into your hip. “Is that what you wanted to do? Hmm? You accomplished so much in the little while I was gone. Perhaps you did that as well.”

Your face flushed in shame as you gasped at his words. “No, Ormund! No–”

He leaned closer until his face hovered mere inches from yours, pure vitriol burning in his eyes. Ormund’s fist remained tangled in your hair, holding you helplessly in place. Then, suddenly, he froze. The fury in him shifted as he lowered his head, the bridge of his nose grazing your jaw. 

He breathed in. Ormund’s face twisted at once with disgust, as though he were suppressing the urge to gag. “You smell of him.”

A broken sob escaped you, your scalp still burning beneath his grip. There was no reasoning with him. Still, your heart twisted, and you tried. “I b-barely touched him, my lord. Please. You must believe me!”

The muscle in Ormund’s jaw flexed. Without warning, he wrenched you away from the wall and dragged you after him. His pace quickened as he marched you through the corridor, forcing you to stumble in order to keep from being pulled from your feet. Servants flattened themselves against the walls at the sight of him– the master of the Hightower hauling a princess of the realm by her hair while she sniveled and sobbed behind him. None dared intervene. They only lowered their eyes and stepped aside.

“You are an ungrateful, treacherous brat,” Ormund growled. “You may lie to me. You may lie before every lord in that hall. You may even kneel in the sept and lie beneath the faces of the Seven.” He shoved open the door to his bedchamber and pulled you inside. “But the Father sees what is hidden.”

The door slammed shut behind you. Ormund released your hair only to seize the back of your neck. Though the force of his grip kept your head fixed, your eyes shifted toward the bed, already knowing what would come next.

Instead, he steered you toward the adjoining bathing chamber and threw open the door. Heat and steam billowed from within. Servants still moved around the claw-footed tub, pouring steaming, scented water from brass ewers. At the sight of Ormund storming inside with you trapped beneath his hand, they startled and pressed themselves against the tiled walls. 

“The Father judges every falsehood,” Ormund continued, his mouth close to your ear. “Every wicked thought. Every secret desire.”

“I did not–”

“Do not lie to me again.” His fingers dug harder into your neck. “You may deny it until your tongue rots in your mouth, but your body has already betrayed you.”

Ormund lowered his face once more, breathing against your hair, your cheek, the bare skin above your collar. A shudder of revulsion passed through him. “His stink is everywhere.”

He dragged you toward the filled tub. “You will wash it off.”

One of the servants, an older woman with a weathered face, hesitantly stepped forward. “My lord, we were not expecting the princess until later. The water is still too hot–”

Ormund’s head snapped toward her, his gaze blazing. “Leave. At once.”

The servants did not argue. They bowed hurriedly, abandoned the remaining ewers, and fled from the chamber. You did not blame them. For who would want to defend you, who had so obviously sinned before your lord?

Ormund pushed you towards the tub. “Undress.”

You did not move. You could not. Perhaps Ormund had seen glimpses of you before, the shape of your body beneath the sheer nightgowns he often gifted you, the outline of your breasts when candlelight illuminated the fabric. But those moments belonged to the night, in the darkness, when you could tell yourself his eyes were closed or turned elsewhere. 

You had never stood naked before your guardian. 

Your hair hung tangled around your face, scalp still throbbing where he had pulled. Tears and snot wetted the cupid’s bow of your lip, and you were shaking so violently that your teeth had begun to chatter. You had been diminished to nothing. 

“M-my lord,” you whispered, turning towards Ormund. “I can call the women back, they will help me–”

“No.” Ormund stared at you with open contempt. “You will not. You were comfortable enough flaunting yourself for that boy. Now, you discover modesty?”

Your cheeks burned and you hung your head. “Please, my lord…”

Ormund stepped nearer, hands twitching at his side. “You behaved like a harlot in my hall. You may undress like one here.”

Humiliation rippled through you like a wave. You began to believe he was right. You had disobeyed Ormund. You had accepted Godric’s hand. Why? Because you wanted a reaction from Ormund. And now, you had one. 

Your fingers fumbled for the ribbons at the back of your gown. They would not obey you. Each time you caught one, it slipped from your trembling grasp. 

“You are moving too slowly.”

“I-I am trying…” you sputtered. “But my hands…they will not cease trembling…”

The faint rasp of metal leaving leather made you freeze. Ormund drew the small dagger he carried at his belt.

“My lord, please don’t–”

Ormund caught the back of your gown in one fist, and with one swift movement, he cut through the ribbons. The bodice split open with a series of sharp snaps, the ruined ties falling loose around you. Ormund dragged the blade downward, severing embroidery and silk without care until the gown sagged from your shoulders and exposed your breasts. You gasped and tried to catch the fabric, but Ormund had already sheathed the dagger. He seized the torn gown and wrenched it down over your hips, leaving you naked in a pool of shredded blue silk.

Feebly, you crossed your arms over yourself. Ormund was quicker. He grabbed you by the upper arm and hauled you toward the steaming tub, his chest rising and falling with each furious breath.

“In.”

You lifted one trembling foot over the rim. The instant your toes touched the water, scalding heat shot through you. You recoiled with a yelp. “Ormund, it is too hot–”

“Good.” His hands closed around your shoulders. “Perhaps it will burn his stink from you.”

He forced you down. You cried as the searing water engulfed your body. You tried to rise, but Ormund held you beneath the surface of the bath, his fingers biting into your shoulders. Before you could catch your breath, he had dropped to his knees beside the tub and seized a sponge from the tray. 

He caught your wrist and began scrubbing your arm. The rough sponge dragged over your skin again and again, leaving it flushed pink and burning. Ormund’s eyes were wild, his movements frantic. Beneath the fury, there was a panic, a desperation you had witnessed only a handful of times before. It terrified you. 

“Men bow to their lords,” he muttered, dragging the sponge from your wrist to your shoulder as though he meant to strip away the skin itself and uncover something clean beneath it.

You recognized the words at once. Scripture, recited in the sept while you knelt beside Lady Hightower. Now Ormund spoke them in the bathing chamber she had once shared with her husband– only she was dead and rotting somewhere in a crypt, and you were grown and naked beneath his hands. 

“Repeat it,” he hissed. “As I taught you.”

“M-men bow to their lords.”

“Lords bow to their kings.” The sponge moved across your collarbone, then up the side of your neck.

“Lords bow to their k-kings…”

“And kings and queens bow before the Seven Who Are One.” He scrubbed the tender skin beneath your jaw. The same place where, in the darkness of night, he so often buried his face. 

Your voice shook. “Kings and queens bow before the S-seven Who Are One...”

The sponge dragged down your other arm. “All sins may be forgiven.”

“All sins may be forgiven...”

Ormund seized your knee and yanked your leg toward him, scrubbing harshly over your calf. “But crimes must still be punished.”

You swallowed a sob. “But crimes must still be…punished.”

At last, the sponge slipped from his hand and struck the tiled floor with a wet slap. Your entire body was rubbed pink and raw from his touch. Ormund remained kneeling by the tub, chest heaving as though he had just come from hours in the training yard. The water had finally cooled in the tub around you, though your tears had never once ceased. 

Men bow to their lords. Kings and queens bow before the Seven Who Are One. Crimes must still be punished.

The words could not cease circling your mind. 

Crimes must still be punished. Crimes must still be punished. Crimes must still be punished.

Steam from the bath had loosened Ormund’s brown curls, leaving them wild around his face. The sleeves and front of his doublet were soaked through. His collar sat crooked. Strands of hair had fallen across his brow.

You had never seen him so disordered. Ormund was particular about every detail of his appearance. Now he looked just about as ruined as you felt.

He rose and reached into the tub. You flinched, but his hands closed around your waist and lifted you to your feet. Water streamed from your body, droplets tracing the curves of your breasts and the softness of your stomach before falling back into the bath. The cooler air tightened your skin, your nipples pebbling as you shivered beneath his hands.

Ormund held you there, naked and trembling before him. Then he bent toward you. His nose brushed the wet skin beneath your ear. He inhaled once before moving lower to breathe against your neck and shoulder. You scarcely dared move.

At last, the terrible tension in his body eased.

“Clean,” he murmured. His hands tightened possessively around your waist. “You are clean again.”

Seemingly satisfied with his work, Ormund stepped back and surveyed you. His gaze traveled from your wet hair to your breasts, then lower still, lingering over the glistening curls at the apex of your thighs. 

He drew a slow breath, steadying himself, before turning away to restore some measure of order to his appearance. He straightened his collar and smoothed a hand over his damp curls, though the soaked fabric of his doublet clung stubbornly to him. Then he reached into the tub and took your hand. “Out.”

Water streamed from your body and pooled across the tiles as you stepped over the rim. Ormund kept one hand around yours and the other at your waist. Then he retrieved the linen nightgown the servants had left folded over a nearby chair and tossed it toward you without looking. “Dress yourself.”

You clutched it against your chest, relieved merely to have something with which to cover yourself. “Y-yes, my lord.”

With shaking hands, you pulled it over your head. The fabric caught against your wet skin, clinging to your breasts and thighs despite your efforts to tug it loose.

When you had finished, Ormund turned back. For a moment, the two of you merely stared at one another. Then he lifted a hand and brushed a wet tendril of hair from your face, his touch impossibly gentle after the same hand had scrubbed your skin raw only moments before. “Do you understand why I do this for you?”

You nodded slowly.

“Then tell me.”

You swallowed. “To…purge me?”

“Yes.” He stepped nearer, cupping your cheek. “I have told you before, and I will continue to tell you. At your core, you are a wicked creature. However earnestly you may struggle against it, the sins of your forefathers live within you. That is why you disobey. Why you cannot always recognize the corruption in your own desires.”

Your breathing grew shallow at his words.

“It is my duty to purge it from you, to discipline what is wicked and preserve what may yet be made good.” Ormund’s hand settled more firmly against your cheek, holding your face toward his. He studied you expectantly. “Do you understand me?”

“I understand you, Ormund.”

“Good girl.” His hand fell away. He turned and left the bathing chamber without another word. You remained where you were for a moment, waiting until you trusted your legs not to collapse beneath you, then wobbled after him.

The bedchamber had grown dim behind the closed shutters, illuminated only by the wavering glow of candlelight and slivers of moonlight. Ormund stood beside the wardrobe, peeling the soaked doublet from his body and revealing the muscled planes of his back. Though he so often slept without a shirt, you turned away bashfully. 

When Ormund faced you again, you kept your gaze fixed upon the ornate rug beneath your bare feet.

“Right,” he said. He dragged a hand over his jaw and glanced from you to the bed. Then he inclined his head toward it. “On the bed, then. Ready yourself.”

Your heart seemed to stop. Your gaze snapped up to him, your brows drawing together. “M-my lord?”

He scoffed as though you were a fool for questioning him. “It is the seventh day. Surely you did not imagine yourself excused…particularly after tonight. I have all the more reason now to question your purity.”

Your mouth opened, then closed again. “B-but, my lord…the bath–”

“The bath did nothing but remove the taint of horse shit from you,” Ormund spat. He advanced upon you. “As I told you before, you managed a great deal in the few minutes I was gone. How am I to know you did not give yourself to Lord Ashford?”

The accusation was absurd. Ormund had been absent for perhaps ten minutes. The hall had been filled with half the Reach. Surely he could not truly believe that you had…

“I said, on the bed,” Ormund repeated, each word sharpened by warning. “Do not make me say it again.”

You hurried toward the bed and crawled onto it. You had done this so many times that the motions should have come as second nature. Yet each time, every part of you trembled with the same terrible mixture of dread and anticipation…and something hotter beneath them both that you could never bring yourself to name.

You shuffled backward until your head met the pillows, then lowered yourself flat against the mattress. Ormund remained at the foot of the bed, the pale skin of his bare chest almost luminous in the candlelight. He looked at your position with a scowl, then closed his hands around your ankles. With one sharp pull, he dragged you toward him until your ass rested at the very edge of the mattress.

He tapped the outsides of your quivering thighs. You parted them, allowing him to step between your legs.

Ormund looked down at you. Your breasts rose and fell beneath the damp nightgown, each breath shallow and unsteady. “You are nervous tonight.”

You began to shake your head, but he clicked his tongue. “Remember what I told you. Do not lie to me.”

Your throat tightened. “I-I am nervous, my lord.”

“Why?” The question was edged with mockery. Ormund reached down and caught the hem of your nightgown between his fingers. “This should hardly surprise you by now. Or…is there something you are trying to hide from me tonight?”

“No, my lord. I swear, I have nothing to hide–”

“We shall see.” He began to draw the nightgown upward. Higher and higher, until the cool air brushed over your calves and thighs, raising gooseflesh in its wake. Higher still, until the fabric gathered around your waist and your sex lay completely exposed beneath his gaze.

Ormund inhaled, and you could have sworn his breath trembled. His thumbs pressed against your puffy pussy lips, parting you beneath the candlelight. You were unbearably sensitive after the scalding bath, and the sudden touch of cool air on your exposed flesh drew a helpless whimper from your throat.

Ormund stilled. His hands remained firmly in place, holding you open as his narrowed eyes lifted to your face. “What was that?”

You swallowed. “N-nothing, my lord.”

“Nothing?” he repeated softly. “Have you learned nothing tonight?”

“I did not mean–”

“Your mouth lies,” Ormund murmured. “But your body confesses so readily.”

Humiliation burned through you. You turned your face toward the pillows, but his voice sharpened.

“Look at me.”

You obeyed. Ormund studied you with a feverish focus. Without speaking, he prodded your entrance with the tip of his middle finger. The sensation made you jolt. He steadied you with a hand pressed firmly upon your hip. “Stay still.”

You tried, desperately. You fixed your eyes upon his face and willed every muscle to quiet, though your breath came shallow and uneven. 

Ormund paused, the tip of his finger still pressing against your hole. “What shall I find tonight, hmm? That you have been faithful to the Seven above? Faithful to me? Or shall I find you have let Lord Ashford fuck this pretty little cunt?”

You squirmed beneath his gaze, feeling as though you had been scalded again by his brazen words. “N-no, my lord.”

Ormund hummed in response. Then, once again, he used his other thumb to spread your pussy lips open, his gaze transfixed on where his finger rested.

“Look at you…” His voice was hushed, contemplative. “I have barely touched you, and your pussy is already fluttering.”

You whined, horrifically embarrassed, but he shushed you before you could protest.

“You are thinking of that Ashford boy, aren’t you?”

You shook your head immediately, adamant. You could hardly remember Godric’s face now. 

Ormund tutted. “Words.”

“No! No, I am not.”

“Then why,” he asked, his gaze never leaving you, “is your cunt weeping?”

You had no answer, other than your body had answered before your mind.

“It is no matter,” Ormund sighed, thumb still holding you open. “You are a deceitful bitch who will learn her lesson regardless.”

Slowly, Ormund began to push his fingertip into you. A broken moan tore through you at the burning intrusion, though you had felt this so many times before. The walls of your pussy clenched around him, and you tried to will yourself to relax your muscles. Breathe, you commanded yourself. Obey. 

His hand stilled, the tip of his finger seated inside you. He did not look away. 

“If you are not wet for Lord Godric,” Ormund whispered, finally lifting his gaze to yours, “then who is it for?” 

For a moment, you were no longer in Ormund’s chambers. You remembered attending the sept with Lady Hightower, kneeling beside her before the bejeweled statue of the Father. You remembered her lessons, her gentle voice, the certainty with which she had spoken.

“You must always tell the truth,” she had taught you. “For the Father sees all.”

The words echoed now, impossible to ignore. You were compelled. You had to confess.

“You.”

Ormund groaned at the confession, his hand tightening at your waist. 

“Do you hear yourself, you harlot?” His voice rattled maniacally, the rings on his fingers pressing into the soft flesh of you. “Do you not hear the lewdness of your own words? Lusting after me, your own guardian?”

Shame flooded through you. You should have lowered your eyes. You should have taken back the confession. But there was something in his voice that told you he was not reprimanding you. Ormund wanted you to say it. He wanted you to confess.

Before you could even think of a response, Ormund’s mouth twisted. Then he spat.

A hot, wet glob landed directly on the swollen pearl at the top of your cunt, obscene and shocking enough that your whole body shuddered. The sensation was like nothing you had ever felt before. Vulgar in a way that made humiliation burn through you even as a moan slipped from your throat.

Ormund saw it, because just as the Father did, he saw everything. A wicked, knowing grin spread across his face.

“Theeere it is,” he murmured, voice low and rough with satisfaction. “Moaning like a bitch in heat. Acting like the whore you are.”

Your face burned and you turned back into the pillows, trying to stifle the whimpering sounds that were attempting to escape you. 

Ormund leaned closer, caging your body in with his, the tip of his finger still inserted into you. “You think I do not know you? I raised you. I made you.”

Your thighs twitched instinctively, as if you could push him away. For a moment, he withdrew slightly, as if it were finished. As if Ormund would simply wipe his hand on the handkerchief he always kept on him and declare the matter settled. It had always been that way before.

The ritual– the inspection that occurred every seventh day– always ended the same. Ormund would stop at the first knuckle, claiming only to feel enough to confirm that your maidenhead was still intact. Then he would withdraw, disappear into the bathing chamber for a few moments while you caught your breath alone on the bed, and return composed once more.

Afterward was the part you cherished most. Perhaps it was the only reason you endured the ritual at all. Ormund would take you into his arms. He would press his lips to your brow, your cheek, sometimes even your mouth, and tell you how good you had been. How faithful. How untouched. He would allow you to rest against him, your head upon his chest, while he kissed the top of your head and held you as though you were something precious.

And for a little while, you no longer felt like a ward. No longer like an unwanted addition to his household. For a little while, you felt like a wife would.

You felt wanted.

But this time, Ormund did none of that. Instead, he pushed forward. 

You gasped at the invasion, hands tightening around the sheets as his finger slid deeper than it ever had before. It was only one finger, and still you felt stretched open by it, your body struggling to make sense of the unfamiliar pressure. Pain mixed with pleasure, a strange concoction that was better than anything you had ever known. 

Ormund watched the reaction move across your face.

“She is so tight,” he whispered, almost in a trance as he looked down at where his finger disappeared inside you. “So untouched. So desperate for more.”

Your stomach twisted at his words. Of course you were untouched. You could not imagine ever being touched by anyone other than Ormund. 

“So obedient for your lord,” Ormund added, voice husky. “And still you asked me not to stop.” 

His thumb moved slowly, the pad of it pressing against your aching clit right above where his finger held you open. The sensation struck through you so sharply your thighs closed his hand, though he pried them back open with ease. 

Ormund’s thumb began to circle your clit, slow and deliberate, while his finger remained seated inside you. The two sensations seemed to pull against one another: the deep stretch of him, the slick pressure of his thumb, the unbearable intimacy of being watched while your body answered him so honestly.

“Do not be so quiet now, my sweet girl,” Ormund commanded you. “Not when your body is finally telling the truth.”

His finger began to move. Slowly at first, dragging almost to the tip before pressing back in. The stretch came easier now, slicker with your growing arousal. His thumb kept circling with maddening precision, steady enough that something began to gather low in your belly.

A coil. A warning. A want. It was overwhelming. It was maddening. It was completely and utterly terrifying. 

“Ormund…”

His finger curled slightly inside you, pressing against a soft place that made you see stars, and you cried out, back arching. 

“There we are,” Ormund breathed. “That is what you have been trying to tell me.”

“N-no,” you said, though the denial sounded weak even to your own ears.

Ormund leaned closer, mouth skimming your jaw. “You want this. You have wanted this every time I stopped.”

Your lips parted, but no answer came.

The coil inside you wound tighter and tighter, every pass of his thumb dragging you closer to some precipice you did not understand. Your thighs began to tremble. Your breath broke into small, helpless whimpers. Panic and pleasure tangled together until you could no longer tell which one made you shake.

“Ormund, please,” you gasped. “S-something…something is happening!”

“Is it?” His voice was calm, almost cruelly so, his eyes fixed on your face. Then, just as the feeling rose so sharply it frightened you, Ormund withdrew completely. His finger slipped out of you, and his thumb left your clit all at once.

The loss was immediate. You whined, hips lifting after him before you could stop yourself, your cunt clenching around nothing. 

Ormund stepped back from the bed, composed and distant, as though whatever had existed between you moments before had vanished entirely. He reached for the handkerchief he kept in his back pocket, and cleaned your glistening arousal off of his finger with a maddening calmness. 

You propped yourself up on your elbows, chest heaving. Sweat had beaded on your forehead from the intense pleasure that was there just moments before. When you spoke, your voice was small and confused. “...My lord?”

Ormund did not look at you. “I have confirmed what I needed to know. You are untouched. That has not changed. But you still disobeyed me.”

You stared at him, searching his face for some sign that he did not mean it. Some indication that this was a test, that Ormund would relent as he always did. That he would gather you in his arms, kiss your face, and fall asleep.

He did not. 

“You are not forgiven,” Ormund said matter-of-factly. Then came the words you never expected to hear. “You will return to your own chambers tonight.”

Your own chambers. You had not slept there in years. Not since before Lady Hightower had died. 

The feast, the bath, the feeling of something coiling in you as Ormund used his fingers upon you like an instrument– it all came crashing down at once. You were unsteady, disoriented. Lost. 

He was sending you away from the only place where you knew how to exist. The only place where you had ever felt wanted.

You scrambled from the bed, your feet landing unevenly against the rug. Before you could think better of it, you reached for his arm.

“My lord, please.” Your voice shook. “I-I cannot sleep there.”

Ormund did not move.

“Please,” you whispered. “I can only sleep here. I have only ever slept here.”

He refused to answer. He remained focused on the handkerchief, wiping the finger that had been inside you moments ago. 

“Please, Ormund. I-I love you.”

He always liked hearing that. You lifted yourself onto your toes and pressed a desperate, open-mouthed kiss to his cheek, waiting for the familiar response. Waiting for his hand to come to your face, for his voice to soften, for him to tell you that everything was all right.

Ormund did not.

Your heart seemed to collapse inside your chest. You could not understand how he could stand there so calmly when you felt as though you were breaking apart.

“I was so ungrateful,” you sobbed. “I was t-treasonous, my lord. I was wicked.” Your hands tightened around him. “I should have rebuked Lord Godric. I should have listened. I was an insolent fool.”

Not knowing what else to do, you sank to your knees before him, head bowed as though you were kneeling before the altar in the sept. The posture came instinctively from years beneath Ormund’s instruction, a familiar act of surrender and supplication.

“Please forgive me,” you whispered. “I will do anything you ask of me. Please.”

You remained there before him, the room silent save for your trembling breaths and quiet sobs. Your forehead stayed bowed, your hands clutching the fabric of his breeches as though letting go would mean losing him entirely. 

Finally, Ormund looked down upon you. “You hear yourself, do you not?” 

You lifted your swollen eyes toward him.

“You beg for forgiveness, but you do not yet understand what it is you are asking forgiveness for.” Ormund crouched until he was level with you, hands on your shoulders. “This is not about Godric or a dance or a foolish mistake. It is about what lies beneath it, the thing I have warned you of for years.”

You shivered beneath his touch, the words chilling you. 

“The dragon within you.”

It felt as though the entire world had narrowed to this room, to this moment, to you kneeling before him. As though every lesson in the sept, every warning, every correction had led you here. 

“I have spent years trying to protect you from the worst parts of yourself,” he continued. “And still, when temptation came, you reached for it. That is why an apology is not enough.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

“You must learn that your impulses do not rule you. Your desires, your pride, they do not rule you. Not even the dragon that plagues your soul.”

“What rules you is none of those.” Ormund leaned closer, his nose brushing yours. “It is me.”

With that, Ormund rose to his feet, though you remained kneeling. His hand went to the leather belt at his waist, the same belt from which his sword scabbard hung. Slowly, he unfastened it and set the scabbard aside on the chest near the bed. He turned to you and gestured for you to stand. 

You obeyed instantly, rising on shaky legs. 

“If you want forgiveness, you will listen to me,” Ormund said, undoing the belt until it came loose in his hand. “You will disrobe. You will set yourself upon the bed. And you will take the strokes of my belt in penance for your sins. Will you do that for your lord?”

You nodded. You would do anything he asked of you. Hands trembling, you reached for the hem of your nightgown and pulled it over your head. You were bare, naked as the day you were born. It felt different from the bath. This time, there was no steam to soften the room. This time, you could clearly see Ormund take all of you in: the line of your calves, the curve of your hips, the plane of your stomach, the weight of your breasts. His eyes moved over your body shamelessly, intense and hungry.

“Onto the bed,” he ordered. “Face away from me.”

You complied, turning from him and crawling onto the mattress. Before you could move too far, Ormund caught your calf in one hand, signaling for you to stop once you were on all fours near the edge of the bed. His touch lingered there for a moment, and then his hand slid upward, palm dragging from your calf to your thigh, then higher still, until it settled over the soft curve of your ass. His fingers squeezed once, firm and possessive, before dropping lower.

You heard the soft whisper of leather as Ormund folded the belt in his hand. You could not see his face from where you knelt, turned away from him, but you could feel his gaze moving over you. The back of your neck, your trembling spine. Your exposed cunt, surely glistening now with arousal though you could not understand why. And then your ass, presented bare and vulnerable to him, where he intended to mark you. 

“You will pray the Seven’s lesson as you were taught,” he said, though his voice had gone strained. 

A familiar molten heat, like what you felt just a few minutes earlier, had begun to unwind in your belly. You nodded, eyes on the bed below you. “Yes, my lord.”

Leather cracked across your skin. The sound came before you could even register the pain, sharp and booming like thunder. You cried out as a bright line of heat bloomed over your ass, fingers clutching uselessly at the sheets. 

“The Father,” Ormund breathed, voice low. “Tell me His vow.”

You remembered learning your lessons. It was Ormund who taught you when you were just a girl. Before you knew what you would become. What he would become. 

“I-I submit to all judgement,” you recited shakily. 

The belt came down again, landing just below the first one.

You jolted forward, a broken sound spilling from your mouth as the second stroke landed just below the first. Heat spread through you in terrible waves and your knees trembled, but Ormund’s free hand caught your hip to hold you up. 

“The Mother.”

“I seek mercy.”

The third stroke fell harder.

You sobbed again, and shame burned through you at the sound, but Ormund only stepped closer. You could feel him now, the heat of his body just behind yours, the roughness creeping into his breathing. 

“The Warrior.”

You pressed your forehead into the sheets, squeezing your eyes shut, willing yourself to submit. “I will have c-courage.”

The fourth stroke cracked across you, closer to your wet sex. The sound that came from you this time was not a sob, but a moan. You heard Ormund utter a low curse under his breath from behind you. 

“The Maiden, now, girl. You should know this one by heart.”

“I will guard my innocence.”

Next, the fifth stroke. You cried out, smothering your sounds in the sheet, but this time Ormund made no attempt to hide the rough, ruined exhale he made in response. 

You realized there, completely naked on his bed, the bed you had shared with him for years, that Ormund was enjoying this. 

“The Smith,” he ordered you. 

“I will be remade.”

The sixth stroke landed and pain sparked through you, body sagging slightly before Ormund caught you with his hand. His wide palm moved from your waist to the punished, red flesh of your ass. 

“Ormund,” you whispered, though you didn’t know what you wanted of him.

His breath shuddered. “The Crone.”

“I will s-seek wisdom.”

You could hear how close he was. Hear it in the uneven pull of air through his teeth, in the way his hands trembled against your skin.

“Now, the last,” he said.

Like a final judgement, the seventh stroke came down. Hard.

Your cry broke open, high and helpless, your body finally collapsing forward into the sheets as the hurt bloomed through you in a final, burning wave. Ormund followed you down at once, his body bowing over yours from behind.

“The Stranger,” he panted into your ear, bare chest pressed against your back. “Tell me His vow.”

“I will leave behind what I was.”

The belt slipped from his hand and hit the floor. You heard the unmistakable frantic tug of laces being loosened, the rustle of breeches as Ormund shoved them down with no patience at all. 

You did not understand what was happening at first. You only knew he was behind you, breathing hard, one hand gripping your hip so hard it bruised while the other was moving between your bodies with a frenzied desperation. 

Then you felt him. The hard length of his cock, pressed against the swollen skin of your ass. You gasped at the silky, heavy, throbbing sensation. Perhaps you had felt it before, but between sheets, between linen, pressed against your back in the dead of night. You did not know, or did not want to know, or even fully understand what it was. But you knew now. 

You heard movement, skin rubbing skin. Ormund’s fist worked himself in quick, uneven strokes, the leaking head of him pressed against the raw flesh. 

Ormund groaned low in his throat, the sound muffled against your shoulder as he bent over you.

“Do you feel that, Princess?” he rasped. His hips jerked forward, the stiff length of him dragging on your ass. The contact made him shudder violently against you. “Do you feel me on you? This is what you do to me. You have bewitched me, heart and flesh alike.”

Your face burned so hot you thought you might cry from the humiliation of it. Bent beneath him in the bed he once shared with his wife. Marked by him. Listening to the rough, wet sound of his hand moving over himself while his body trembled against yours. 

You turned your head instinctively, trying to look back. To see the reality of what was happening to your innocence. Ormund’s palm came down between your shoulders, forcing your face down into the sheets. 

“No,” he ordered, voice ragged. “Do not l-look at me. Stay down.”

You obeyed. A broken sound left him at that, like a laugh. 

“My good girl,” Ormund breathed. “My sweet, good girl.”

His hand moved faster. From behind, you could feel every frantic pull of his fist in the rhythm of his body: the way his hips twitched, the way his thighs pressed against the backs of yours, the way his hot breath puffed against your neck. Ormund dragged the head of himself lower, close enough that you could feel the swollen head of his cock brush your cunt. 

“Do you want it?” he asked. “Do you want your guardian to finally take you? Do you want me to give you my cock and fill you with my seed so everyone will know who you belong to?”

You did. You wanted it so badly. You wanted Ormund to fuck you, to finally take the virginity he treasured so much. 

“Do you want it, my darling girl?” Ormund repeated shakily, dragging his cock up and down your slick folds, the leaking head of it bumping against your swollen clit. “If I pushed in right now, would you open for me? Would you let me take what is rightfully mine?”

Your fingers twisted into the sheets. You did not even know what you were asking for. You only felt the compulsion of the Father move through you. “Yes, my lord! M-make me yours…”

Ormund groaned. But, to your dismay, he did not push himself into you. Instead, he drew himself back, dragging his cock against your skin as his fist resumed its desperate rhythm. 

His mouth found your shoulder, open and trembling. His teeth grazed you once, biting down lightly. 

“You are mine,” he said against your skin. “Whether I fuck you tonight or keep you untouched for the rest of your life, you are mine.” 

Ormund’s hips stuttered hard against you. “Tell me whose you are, Princess.”

“Y-yours…”

“Say it properly for your lord.”

“I am yours, Ormund!”

With a final, low groan, Ormund collapsed over you, body shaking. You felt something hot and wet spurt across the marks of your ass. His hand kept moving through the violent pulses, dragging every last wave out of himself while he panted your name into the back of your shoulder. 

Finally, the spasming of his cock subsided, and his weight softened over you. Ormund remained bowed over your body, trembling as he pressed his forehead between your shoulder blades. His lips moved slowly along your spine. His palm, sticky with release, spread tenderly over your waist, drawing you more firmly beneath him. 

“My precious girl,” he whispered, pressing another damp kiss to your back. “My beautiful, perfect princess. You did so well for me.” 

You could do nothing but lie there beneath him, overwhelmed and exhausted, your body aching everywhere he had touched you. 

Ormund wrapped both arms around you, rolling onto his side and bringing you with him. He gathered your naked body so tightly against his own it felt like he had never intended to let you go. His release remained warm upon your skin, trapped between you as he fitted himself along your back. One arm circled your waist and the other slipped beneath your head, drawing you into the shelter of his bare chest. Ormund kissed the hairs at the nape of your neck, then your shoulder, his mouth lingering over every place it touched.

“Come here,” he murmured. “My pretty little thing.”

Ormund turned you carefully within his arms until you faced him. His hand moved slowly through your hair, smoothing it back from your flushing, tear-streaked face as he pressed kisses across your cheeks. He did not seem to care that you were both disordered and sweaty, that his breeches remained tangled around his thighs, or that his seed still clung to your body.

Your eyes burned. “I-I thought you hated me… That you would send me away forever.”

“No.” Ormund cupped the back of your head, keeping you against him. “No, my love. Never that.”

A sob escaped, and you buried your face against him, clutching at him as though the Hightower itself were crumbling around you.

Ormund drew you fully atop him, arranging your body over his with practiced intimacy. Your cheek rested above his thumping heart. One of your legs slipped between his, your naked bodies fitting together beneath the rumpled sheets as naturally as though you had been made by the Seven for this. 

“You frightened yourself tonight,” he murmured, rocking you gently against him. “You forgot what I taught you. But you remember now, do you not?”

You nodded silently. Ormund tipped your face upward. His gaze moved over your swollen eyes and trembling mouth with such devotion it hurt. 

“I forgive you.”

Finally.

Finally, the words you had spent the entire night longing to hear. The words you had wanted since the moment you realized your Valyrian blood was something impure. 

The weight of it all overwhelmed you, his forgiveness, his naked body beneath yours, the certainty that he was not sending you from his bed. It all crashed over you at once, and your body shook with the force of your tears. Ormund gathered you closer, shushing softly as he kissed your forehead, your temple, your quivering lips.

“I love you,” he murmured. “I love you. Must I say it a thousand times? I love you.”

You pushed yourself further into him and sobbed harder. You believed Ormund. You always did. For he always told the truth.

“I-I am sorry for the wickedness in me, Ormund,” you stuttered, tears wetting his chest. “I should have been better for you.”

“Oh, my sweet girl.” His fingers combed gently through your hair, the same hair he so often praised for lacking the silver-gold of your blood. “You are not the first woman to struggle against the wretchedness within her.”

Ormund shifted beneath the covers, drawing you higher upon his chest until your face rested within the curve of his neck. His lips brushed your brow again and again as though he could not bear to stop kissing you.

“The Seven have blessed you, though,” he continued. “They did not leave you among your diseased kin who would encourage that fire. They did not leave you in the Red Keep. They did not leave you to dragons.”

You lifted your face from his chest. The candles had long since sputtered out, leaving only moonlight to illuminate the handsome angles of his face. The face you loved, the face you worshipped so dearly. Ormund cupped your cheek and brought your mouth to his.

The kiss was slow and delicate, nothing like the frenzy whose presence still marked your bodies: the angry welts left by his belt, his seed drying against your thighs. Ormund kissed you with the solemnity of a husband sealing a vow before the gods. When he pulled away, he did not allow even an inch of space to form between you.

“You were given to me,” he whispered against your mouth. “To raise. To correct when you wandered. And to cherish when you returned.”

A smile spread across Ormund’s face, full of such love and adoration that your soul ached with it. “And you will always return to me.”

Ormund took your hand in his and pressed it flat over the steady beating of his heart. Then he brought your fingers to his lips and kissed each tip one by one. “The Seven knew you needed something greater than blood or the Iron Throne. Greater even than dragons.”

Your eyes grew heavy as the last of your terror loosened beneath his attention. Ormund drew the covers more closely around your entwined bodies and tucked your head beneath his chin. “They knew you needed a home. A father.”

You nestled deeper into his chest, lulled by the heart beating beneath your ear. Sleep had nearly claimed you when his arms tightened around you.

When Ormund spoke again, his voice was so hushed that you thought perhaps you had dreamed it.

“They knew you needed me.”

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[feral4youu]

ᴡʜʏ ᴍᴜꜱᴛ ꜱʜᴇ ʙᴇ ᴋᴇᴘᴛ? ᴀɴᴅ ᴡʜʏ ɪɴ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴘʟᴀᴄᴇ ᴍᴜꜱᴛ ꜱʜᴇ ʙᴇ ᴋᴇᴘᴛ?

Summary: Sent to Oldtown as Ormund’s ward, you expected nothing more than lessons, duty, and his protection. What you didn’t expect was the man beneath his pious reputation, or the way his feelings for you would blur every boundary between lord and ward.

Pairing: Guardian! Ormund x Ward! Rhaenyra’s Daughter! reader

WC: 11.3k

(this is a darker fic in some aspects, please read the warnings!)

Warnings: 18+, manipulation, non- canon and a few things are changed, heavy religious themes, dead dove do not eat: slight mentions of dub-con, possessive behavior, threats, arguments, council drama, mentions of previous deaths, mentions of physical punishment, reader rides vermithor, rough handling, stockholm syndrome, guilt, toxic guardian/ ward relationship, misogyny, mentions of violence, complex dynamics, age gap.

"You're late." Ormund spoke, his hands clasped behind his back and a displeased look on his face.

You curtsied, walking closer to him. The echo of your boots bouncing off the wall of the sept.

"I am sorry, my lord. I did not intend to—"

"It does not matter what you intended, darling. You were late and lateness is not tolerated."

Your eyes were fixed on the floor, your green gown shifting against your body.

"Yes.. yes, I apologize. Please forgive me."

He stepped forward, bringing his fingers to your face— lifiting your chin so that your eyes could meet his.

"I forgive you, It would be wrong for me not to."

You nodded, still holding your breath and waiting foe the other shoe to drop.

"Thank you." You mumbled.

He gave a half smile, moving his fingers away from your face.

"Do not do it again. It is unbecoming of you and me as your guardian. Punctuality is important to me and to the very gods that you've come to pray to this morning. Sloth behavior is a sin, a sin that I will not tolerate."

"I understand, my lord."

He nodded and usehered you to the altar.

Both of you knelt at the altar, the candles and candlelight overtaking it. You brought your palms together, glancing into the flames.

Ormund glanced at you, his eyes raking over your appearance, the thing that he had the most control over. He stared at you often, his face unreadable— but deep down you knew that it was disdain. You knew that your your silver hair, violet eyes, your formidable dragon, your vulgar tongue—all of it angered him. An anger that was boundless and grew by the day.

Just as you were about to begin you your prayer, Ormund leaned closer to you— his lips near your ear.

"You will be punished for your lateness."

You felt your stomach drop at his words, a chill running down your spine.

He wasted not a moment longer as he began his prayer. A prayer that you knew all too well and had practically memorized word for word. He asked for strength in the brewing war, for understanding, for patience while being your guardian, for forgiveness in his sins.

You however stared off into the distance again, a tear running down your cheek. You always prayed for different things, some things within your grasp and others not. That morning, you prayed for love— the one thing that you wanted so badly and could never reach.

You wanted a husband or even a betrothed like your siblings would have. You wanted to be like the other noblewomen around the realm, singing praises about their husband. You wanted it so badly and Ormund constantly denied you of it.

Ormund always finished his prayers before you did, leaving you in the sept with the two knights that were tasked with watching your every move, Ser Bronn and Ser Humfrey.

The cool air in the sept crept up your skin, the sadness flowing through your veins like an aged wine. You did nothing to deserve the fate of being forced to live in Oldtown, seperated away from your mother and siblings for most of your life.

It was truly an accident, you didn't mean to hurt Aemond on purpose. You only wanted to defend Jace, but your grandsire saw this as a necessary course of action.

It was an accident that you had been paying for ever since, an accident that would rob you of any joy that you could've had.

When you first came to Oldtown, all of it was unfamiliar to you. Your mother had never forced the faith onto you, it was at your discretion whether or not you'd follow them. She gave you a choice, the one thing that you would not have under Ormund.

After praying in the sept, you went back to your chambers— waiting to break your fast at the usual time. You sat at the at the seat near the window, looking out into the distance— thinking of home and what you had missed. Being under Ormund's thumb meant that you did not receive messages from them often, if you did, they were read by him beforehand to make sure that they were suitable for you to read.

He did not want you ingesting more of their heretic words or ideolgies, you were already too far in when you came to him and he had to fix you. He had to make you better, show you that what you knew was wrong and improper.

Living in Oldtown was like a beautiful, specially crafted cage that was wrapped in gold. The bars would have just enough of an opening that you could imagine being free, you could feel the freedom on your fingertips and the fresh air against your skin. You watched as everyone walked around your cage with a smile, their smiles often making you forget about the cage altogether. It was when the night would settle in and you'd want to spread your wings, when you'd realize that you were still in a cage. A rare bird that lived in a beautiful gold cage.

Fed, bathed, loved, but punished when you would chirp too loudly and grab the attention of the people around you. Always reminded that you were just merely a bird, his bird, his pet.

Despite your grievances, you did not hate him. You should've, you should've hated every fiber of his being— but some part of you found him to be the closest thing to your home. He protected you from yourself, from unruly men, unsuitable marriage proposals, from sin, from your incestous ways. He was your guardian and he had your best interest in mind, at least that's what you'd tell yourself.

You repeated those words over and over again, "He is protecting you."

"It's for your own good."

That was why he'd have your feet or hands whipped when you were caught misbehaving, when he'd make you sit in the tub and scrub your skin raw if he thought that you had sinned, make the maester check your sex to see if you'd betrayed him, hurl vile insults at you when you overstepped.

It was love and his protection, just as he'd said.

You were an uruly girl, made with tainted blood and in vile sin. You needed his guidance or you'd be doomed like the rest of your family.

Your food was brought to you on a tray, set on the table near the chair. You glanced over it, bowing your head before indulging.

"Mother above, I ask you for mercy in this war. Not for me, but my family. I ask that you keep them safe and whole in the pursuit for my mother's throne. I ask for mercy, because they might not and I know that they will need it. Warrior, I ask that you give my father and brothers strength in battle. I ask that you guide them to victory." You whispered to yourself.

"Your mother's throne?" A voice questioned.

Your head snapped the direction of the voice, your heart stilling in your chest.

"Forgive me.. my lord. I did not hear you come in." You stammered.

He stood across the room from you, his eyes fixed on you.

"The throne does not belong to your mother, which you know. The true king and rightful heir is your uncle, Aegon."

"Grandsire named my mother his heir, he defended it publicly and privately." You replied softly.

Ormund nodded, his head slightly tilted.

"Stand up."

You stood up, your palms sweaty and your heart racing in your chest like a rabbit.

He walked closer to you, his steps slow and calculated. He stood in front of you with his hands clasped, the pomander swinging at his hip.

"Your mother is a treasonous bitch, along with the rogue fraud that she is married to."

Your face twitched instinctively, his words wriggling under your skin like a worm in soil. He knew how much his disparaging remarks about your mother bothered you, yet he still made them. Perhaps, it was because they were true and you needed to hear them, or because he was cruel. Somedays it was hard to tell.

You kept your eyes on the wall instead of looking at him, because if they looked at him then he might see how your eyes had become glassy and that would be troubling. It would be troubling for your guardian to see you crying over the people who opposed the rightful heir, crying over the people that had you living in sin.

"You've been served a delicious meal by the servants here in the home of your guardian, yet you waste a prayer on those traitors. Why? Do you still not understand their actions and the gravity of this war?"

"I do understand, my lord." You replied.

"Look at me." He commanded.

Your eyes slowly shifted from the wall, glancing over his frame as he stood in front of you.

"Why would you pray for traitors to the realm?"

You hesitated, your mind racing for an answer.

"I prayed for them.. because in the eyes of the seven there is no person that cannot be prayed for. No one is perfect, which means that all of us sin and have sinned. In the eyes of the seven there is no such thing as treason or a rightful heir, just people who have strayed and should pray. No one is above being prayed for and this war is the will of men, not the gods."

Ormund smirked, stepping closer— bringing his hand to your face. You leaned into his touch, his hands holding your face as if it had always belonged there.

He began to grip your chin.

"Do you like disappointing me?"

Your eyes stared into his, "no, my lord."

"Do not let me hear you saying prayers for those bastards again. It is beneath me and you.. you are an extension of me."

"Yes.. my lord."

Ormund smiled, letting go of your chin and placing a kiss to your forehead.

"Good girl—"

"Now, eat your food before it gets cold. I would not want it going to waste."

Ormund walked to the door, leaving you standing there— the door shutting with a thud behind him.

A bird trapped in a beautiful cage.

Instead of eating, you sat back down in your seat. You tried so hard to fight back tears, but they came out anyway. It felt hard to breathe, your fingers gripping the fabric of your deep green gown. You wanted to tear it, feel it rip between your fingers. Higtower green, the colors of the people that betrayed your mother and stole her throne.

The gown felt tight against your skin, constricting your movements. The pins in your hair dug into your scalp, pinning up your silver locks up to make you fit the look of a proper noblewoman in Oldtown. The seven pointed star rested against your chest, the necklace rubbing against your skin. Every part of you was precisely picked and constructed by him. You were his and the worst part was that some part of you liked it.

You liked him and the control that he had over you, because control was all that you knew. It was a cage, but it was your cage and it could've been worse.

You wiped the tears that painted your cheeks and began to pick at the food on the tray, most of your appetite being lost after his visit.

While you sat in your chambers an emotional mess, Ormund was in his solar continuing a conversation with Gwayne.

"I'm glad that you have cleaned yourself up and began to settle in here." Ormund mentioned, blowing out the candle in front of him.

The smell of citrus and sandalwood drifted through the air.

Gwayne sat in the chair, his hands in his lap as he stared around the room. His eyes took notice of the tidiness in the room, how everything had a specific place, how everything was nothing less than perfect.

"Yes, it was nice to get a warm bath." Gwayne nodded in agreement.

"How is Daeron?"

Ormund leaned back in his chair, "he is fine. He's learning the fundamental importance of his new role as king."

"King?" Gwayne questioned, his brows furrowing.

"Yes, king. Aegon is dead and it seems as if Aemond is too, or he's willfully abdicated. Which means that it would be him that is next in line. He must be prepared."

"Rhaenyra sits the throne." Gwayne reminded him.

Ormund scoffed, "the bitch with dragons? that will not last long and it is being handled as we speak."

"She will not abdicate, you are setting him up for failure."

"She will, if her own people are starving and cannot trust her. There are still plenty that do not support her and that will be used to help us." Ormund protested.

"What of my sister? My nieces?"

Ormund's lip twitched at his questions. There were two things that Ormund could not stand, rotten smells and people who questioned his decisions. A lack of faith made his skin burn hot.

"You are full of questions it seems. Perhaps, it would've been wise for you to stay with Cole and finish out what you were tasked with."

Gwayne tilted his head, his face filled with confusion.

"Cole was on a suicide mission. He has no intention of coming back at all from battle, he intends to die in this war even when it is not necessary."

Ormund's brow raised, "do you suppose that you will get your nephew on the throne without bloodshed?—"

"It might be a bit too late for that sentiment."

Gwayne gritted his teeth, shaking his head in disbelief. It felt as if everyone around him had lost their senses, no one was interested in listening to his reason.

"What of the girl?"

Ormund sat up in his chair at the mention of you, his facial expression changing within an instant.

"What of her?"

"If this half-baked plan of scaring Rhaenyra from the throne does not work, what then? Her and Daemon will come for their child, Gods help us when they do." Gwayne noted.

"What makes you so sure that she will want to go with either of them? She has spent years here in Oldtown with me as her guardian, both her and Daeron growing up under my wing. They have been cared for and taught the proper things."

Gwayne hung his head in defeat, "that is her mother, Ormund! Do not be a fool and let your feelings for her cloud your judgement. She is not your wife and she's not required to stay at your side."

Ormund's brows furrowed, the lines on his forehead deepening as he leaned closer to his desk.

"What is that supposed to mean? She is my ward."

Gwayne chuckled, bringing his eyes to Ormund's.

"I have been here merely three days and I have heard the whispers. I will spare you the indignation of asking whether the two of you have been intimate, but she goes beyond being your ward—"

"I beg your fucking pardon?" Ormund interrupted.

"Whispers of you sharing a bed with her on some occasions, bathing her or with her, dressing her in some of your late wife's gowns. It is wrong."

"Those are vile insinuations." Ormund Argued.

Gwayne laughed bitterly, "insinuations are they?"

"You come here to Oldtown with your tail tucked after abandoning your men, yet you want to lecture me on my ability to be a guardian to my wards? This pursuit of the throne is for our blood and yet, you are too craven to see it through. It is a disgrace, you are a disgrace." Ormund spat, his patience thinning.

Gwayne nodded his head, listening to his words.

"As you say, cousin. I just hope that she is not truly aware of what has happened in this war thus far or you shall have an even bigger war to fight."

Ormund shrugged, "she is only aware of what I tell her and the same goes for Daeron."

"How do you suppose that he can be king, if you only tell him small tidbits of information?" Gwayne pried.

"He does not need to know everything at this moment, only what is necessary. I cannot guarantee that he will not share certain pieces of information with her as they are close. We need them on our side, that gives us two extra dragons."

"You truly believe that she'd get on dragonback and fight her own blood, kill them if need be?"

Ormund smirked, "you have far too little faith."

"Or maybe I have seen enough." Gwayne countered.

There was a silence that lingered between the two of them, not that they were at a loss for words— but there was truly nothing more to say. It was clear that Ormund had his mind made up and was not going to budge on the ideas that he's constructed in his mind.

"I must attend to something else, but I will talk to you more during supper." Gwayne spoke as he stood up from his chair.

"Very well." Ormund replied, watching Gwayne leave his solar.

Once Gwayne left the room, he could feel the anger brewing inside him. How dare he question him about you? about what he does for you? About his efforts in this war?

Ormund yelled, knocking everything off his desk and onto the floor in a bit of rage.

Once you had finished your food, you spent time with your septa as you tended to your studies.

That day, Septa Lyra had you working on needlework. Septa Lyra was nice, but you found needlework to be fatally dull. You would've rather spent your time reading or sneaking off to see your dragon, Vermithor.

Ormund had Vermithor chained as soon as you arrived, but not before he burned three dragon keepers. You pleaded for him to keep him free, because he would not like it— but you were scolded and chastised for your feelings regarding it.

Ormund hates dragons, he hates feeling inferior to them, and he hates knowing just how powerless he is because of them.

"Pay attention to what you are doing, you don't want to poke yourself." Septa Lyra spoke.

You adjusted how you held your needle and snapped back into the moment.

"Apologies." You mumbled.

She glanced at you, placing down her fabric in her lap.

"What has gotten into you today, child? You've barely spoken, not even a snide remark about your disdain for needlework."

You kept your focus on the fabric, guiding the needle through it—poking your finger to take your mind off of him.

"I was late to meet Lord Ormund in the sept for prayer this morning and then, he caught me praying for my mother and family in this war. He was not pleased."

The sound of the bells tolling clouded your mind for a small moment, reminding you that it would soon be time for you to pray again.

"Hmm.. Lord Ormund can be strict about people's commentary on this war. It has everyone worried, wondering what shall come the next day. I don't think that you should be too hard on yourself about a prayer."

You brought your eyes to hers, "he said that it was wrong of me to pray for them. I want them safe, but I don't want him harmed either. I just do not like being in the middle of this."

Septa Lyra's facial expression softened, reaching her hand for yours.

"Lord Ormund might be in charge here, but he cannot control what you pray for as that is yours and your relationship with the gods. He might find it to be in poor taste, but that is merely his own opinion."

"But, he was right. It is ungrateful of me, he has been too kind and good to me."

She sat back in her chair as she gave a half smile, one that didn't reach her eyes all the way.

A look of pity for Ormund's caged bird.

You began working the needle into the fabric again, your mind thinking of him. Thinking of things that weren't appropriate. He was your guardian, but why did he make you feel weak? Why did he make you want to be close to him, in his bed with his lips on yours?

Your skin felt warm, the memories flooding your mind.

For the rest of the time that you were in the prescence of Septa Lyra, you were quiet. You had hoped that being quiet would've changed the thoughts that consumed your mind, but it didn't. He consumed you, plagued your mind.

Once the time with Septa Lyra came to an end, you said your goodbyes and made your way to the sept for prayer. As Ormund wished, you visted the sept twice a day to pray and prove your devotion. In his mind, if he kept you busy with prayer then that meant less time for you to sin and cave into your innate herectic desires.

You walked to the sept, your stray hairs blowing in the wind with Ser Bronn and Ser Humfrey behind you. During your walk, you saw Gwayne— his eyes lingering on you for only a moment before he averted his gaze. He seemed like he was afraid to look at you, like he'd been ordered not to.

Your guards were merely one step behind you, almost on your heels— walking you to the doors of the sept as they stood outside of it. You weren't able to say anything to Gwayne, but even then you doubted that he would've held a conversation with you. You knew that Ormund would've forbid it.

At that hour, the sept was almost empty as most came to pray in the early hours of the morning or later in the afternoon before supper.

The sound of your boots clicking against the floor consumed the sound of the faint prayers that could be heard from the two nearby septa's.

You knelt at the altar, lighting a candle and pressing your palms together. With a bowed head and closed eyes, you began whispering your prayer in high valyrian— something that Ormund would never allow.

"Please, Mother above, I beg that you grant me peace. I cannot carry the burden of these feelings any longer, they fill my body and linger within me. Lord Ormund is my guardian, he is not mine to have and yet some part of me craves him. I think unsavory things, even after his punishments.."

"I am a rotten girl, a girl who does not deserve him and his leniency. Please, take away this feeling. I don't want to sin, I don't want to disappoint him. I want to be good, I want to be proud and I cannot be that with those thoughts." You begged silently, tears flowing down your cheeks.

Praying normally didn't bring you to tears, but that day it did. It brought out something in you that you had refused to admit for years.

After prayer, you went back to your chambers. You had hoped for a nap before supper as you had nothing else to fill your time.

You took your boots off and walked back over to the window to glance out, when you saw it or rather, them. Two large shadows flew over Oldtown, they looked to be Caraxes and Sunfyre. It was clearly a message being sent to Ormund, something meant to rattle him.

They hadn't forgotten about you, something that had brought you more hope than you had ever experinced. One day soon you could be leaving your cage. You could finally be free.

Even though you had thought about it plenty, you truly had no idea what it would mean to be away from him. Would you be happy? Would you miss him? Would you regret it? Would you mourn him, if he died?

You shook your head, stopping the questions as they entered your mind. You'd be lost without him, because who would teach you the proper things? Punish you when you were being a rotten girl?

The sound of panic and chaos could be heard from below with the dragons startling everyone, you even heard roaring from Vermithor and Tessarion. People rushed into their homes and knights cleared through the alleyway's.

You sat there, wondering if they'd fly over again.

The sun had dipped low in the sky as you sat in the window seat, blissfully unaware and deep into your accidental nap. It was the sound of a servant entering your chambers that startled you awake.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, my lady. I've come to prepare your chambers for the night." The woman spoke softly.

Your eyes fluttered open, a yawn escaping your lips.

"I can return in a few minutes, if necessary?"

You stood up, "no, that will not be necessary. I did not intend to fall asleep anyhow."

The woman came in and lit the fire in the fireplace.

You noticed that you still had his book on your desk, the book that you borrowed to advance your knowledge. It was supposed to have been returned, but it had slipped your mind. You grabbed the book, immediately rushing to bring it to his chambers, Ser Humfrey and Ser Bronn following in tow.

The shilouette of your dress moved along the wall as you passed the lit sconces. Servants gave half smiles and quick nods as they passed you.

It didn't take long before you reached his doors—the tall, heavy, oak doors with two knights standing outside of it.

"My lady, I do not think Lord Ormund wishes to be bothered at this moment." Jon Roxton spoke, standing on the left side of the doors.

"I came to bring something that belonged to him, that is all. It shall only take a moment." You mentioned.

All of them shared a look, both of them sliding out of your way. You rose your hand with a bit of dread, lightly knocking against the door.

"You may enter." Ormund called out.

You opened the door, shutting it behind you with a loud click.

His chambers smelled of a hint of vanilla with a deep wood smell, a smell that you knew all too well. The fireplace crackling with a small fire.

You turned to face him, holding the book in your hand— when you realized that he was in the middle of bathing.

"Oh.. I am sorry for the interruption, my lord." You stammered.

He gave a troublesome smile, the kind that made knots form in your belly.

"It is not interrupting if I told you to come in. To what do I owe the visit, sweetling? —"

"Supper will be happening here shortly."

Your eyes lingered on the tapestries in his room.

"Look at me, I will not tell you to do so again." He commanded harshly.

Your eyes darted to him, staring at him in the tub as the steam curled around him. He looked even better when he was relaxing and undone. He looked like a piece of art, the kind that takes years to paint, the paintings that you can't look at for too long without getting lost in them.

"I still had your book in my room and I had forgotten to bring it to you, my lord."

"Ah, you seem rather forgetful today. Forgetting when to arrive at the sept for prayer, forgetting who you should be praying for, and now my book."

Your palms began to sweat as you held the book, standing there in front of his judgement.

"I apologize.. forgive me. I don't know what has gotten into me. I will not make habit of such behaviors."

He motioned for you to set the book on the nearby table, which you did with a quickness. You didn't want to upset him more than you had nor did you want to remain in his chambers.

You curtsied and began to walk back towards the doors.

"I didn’t dismiss you, did I?"

Your fingers dug into your palm, your tongue poking your cheek. Just a few more steps and then you would've been out of his room, instead you found yourself scared for what could come next. Out of respect, you turned to face him.

"You did not, my lord."

He stood up in the tub, the water falling off of his body as he stepped out. Your heart stilled in your chest, your eyes immediately finding the floor as he stood bare in front of you.

"I see that on top of not remembering, we must also have issues with listening?" He questioned.

You immediately knew that he was referring to you keeping your eyes on him. You slowly brought your eyes over him and his body, every inch of it. It wasn't your first time seeing him bare, but it was wrong. He wasn't yours to admire.

He put his green robe on, tying the fabric in the front and keeping his eyes on you the entire time. Neither of you spoke as you were at a loss for words, trying to fight the image of his length in your mind.

His footsteps pattered against the rug as he walked over to his desk, opening one of his drawers.

"Come here."

You blinked hard and gulped even harder, a pit in your stomach.

"My lord?"

"Do not.. make me repeat myself, girl." He gritted.

You slowly walked over to his desk, standing in front of it— trying to see what he had in his hand.

"Hands on the desk, palms up." He instructed.

Your lips started to quiver, tears threatening to fall from your eyes.

"Please, Ormund. I am sorry."

He laughed, walking around the desk with a small, black whip in his hands. It was the same one that he had used for punishment before. The same one that he had Jon Roxton use on your feet when you were caught sneaking to the kitchens with Daeron late at night.

He hovered over you, his body just barely touching yours as he leaned in to whisper in your ear.

"Sorry is not good enough."

You closed your eyes, your cheeks already wet from tears as Ormund walked away from you.

The whip hit your left palm first, a cry escaping you.

"Make no mistake, I take no joy in punishing you and making you cry. You must learn to listen and be obedient as you've been taught—"

He struck your right palm.

"What kind of guardian would I be if I didn't punish disobedience? Would you rather live in sin and insolence?" He lectured.

The whip came down again. Your cries getting louder with each instance.

"You will learn, it doesn't matter if it takes until my last breath. You will do better, you will learn, you will be an exact reflection of me as your guardian." He reminded.

The whip came across your hands several more times, your knees wobbling with each hit as he forced you to stand still and take each one. If you cried too hard, interrupted him, or pulled your hands away— it was worse, always worse.

When he finished, he put his whip away and walked over to you with a smile. You took deep breaths as you fought through the pain, your hands still on his desk.

He wiped your tears with his thumb.

"Why must you make this so hard? Disappoint me so greatly?" He questioned.

You didn't answer, because you didn't have one and anything that you could've said would've gotten you another punishment. Your left hand had began to bleed, blood seeping into your palm.

"I shall have the Maester come attend to this wound, stay in here while I go fetch him. I want you to eat supper in here with me tonight—"

"I will inform Gwayne that I will be busy."

Of course you weren't perfect, but why did he punish you so harshly? You listened to him, followed him and that still did not spare you his ire. You submitted to him, you were his in your mind and heart, even when you didn't want to be. Why wasn't it enough?

A few moments later, the Maester came in and cleaned your wound, applying a bandage to it. He didn't ask questions as he knew what had happened and he knew better than to ask.

Ormund came back into the room, while you sat in one of the chairs. He came in with a good mood as if nothing had happened, but maybe nothing had happened in his mind. Punishment wasn't something to linger over, especially when he found it necessary.

"There has been great news these last few days about how this war is progressing."

You stared into the fire, thinking over the right words to say. You knew that his very statement was a trap, another lecture waiting for you. The best thing would be to acknowledge it and change the subject, but you couldn't.

"Was that mother on Sunfyre, flying over Oldtown with Caraxes?" You asked before you could stop yourself.

He pursed his lips and you could see the irritation all over his face within an instant.

"That bitch—"

His words were interrupted by the servants bringing supper into the room. They placed your trays on the table and left quickly, the door shutting behind them.

You glanced at the food and back at the fire in the fireplace while he prepared to dig in.

"Are you not going to eat?" He asked.

"I'm not hungry."

His fork tapped against his plate, a deep breath escaping his lungs.

"Do not be wasteful, eat."

"I am not hungry, my lord."

He did not bother to hide his irritation, " if you do not eat this food tonight, then you will not eat at all tomorrow. How does that sound?"

You caved as you didn't have much of a choice. You sat there silently, taking a few bites from the meat and vegetables on the plate.

"Back to talking about your bitch mother as you couldn't help but to bring her up, that was her on her dragon earlier. She was lucky that we did not have the scorpions ready to shoot the two of them down."

"You would dare kill a dragon?" You responded, your brows furrowed.

"Those filthy beasts are just that, something that you incestous aliens should've never trifled with." He griped, taking a sip of wine.

"Those beasts are loved by most of the small folk and made in the eyes of the gods. They would not be happy to witness such acts."

His eyes looked as if they could've popped from his skull, "made in the eyes of the gods? You know better than anyone to say such a thing, that is not true. It is odd that you could even suggest the mere notion."

Your fork scraped the plate, a blank look on your face.

"The gods would not will them to live if they were such abominations, yet they continue to live and thrive."

He dropped his fork onto his plate, his fists slamming against the table.

"You will cease this nonsense and heretic talk! I am in no mood for this, you rotten girl."

You scoffed in your mind, but you knew better than to do it outwardly.

"I am sorry, please forgive me. I have just had an overwhelming day, my lord."

Ormund nodded his head and resumed eating. His ability to regain control over his anger was something that you hadn't seen before. It was a perfected skill.

"All is well, just do not say those things again."

The rest of supper was quiet on your end, while Ormund complained about small things here and there. It wasn't anything that was of importance or that would matter to you, because the last thing he needed was for you to get to curious.

Once he finished eating, the servants came into his room— taking the leftover food and emptying the tub. The sun had gone down, the moon sitting in the sky.

You stood from your chair, "it is getting late and I should get to my chambers."

"Sleep in here tonight, it's been a while since you've last laid with me."

The last servant glanced at you, her face saying everything her mouth couldn't as she grabbed the empty pitcher and left the room.

"Okay." You agreed with a nod.

He brought over the silk nightgown that he kept of yours in his room. You took it from his hands with a small smile, watching as he walked to the window to look out while you changed.

You stripped out of your clothes and put on the nightgown, "you can turn around now."

He looked at you like it was the first time that he'd ever seen you, a look of possibly adoration. It was hard to understand, because you didn't know what it meant to be adored, not genuinely.

The servant had put out the fire in the fireplace, leaving the room to just the small slit of moonlight that came from the now closed shutters. You crawled into bed beside him, sleeping in the spot his late wife slept in, wearing a nightgown identical to the one that he had made for her years ago.

He pulled you close against him, his arms wrapping around your waist, his warm breath grazing against your ear. It felt as if you belonged in his arms, a home away from your true home. He kissed your head, a low hum in his throat.

"I've missed you sharing a bed with me, sweetling. It pains me to keep you away from it." He whispered.

He kissed your head again, taking in the scent of your hair. You could feel his cock hardening against you, a wetness forming in between your own legs.

His fingers would find your wet folds, gliding between them and rubbing your sensitive bud. His breaths ragged as he chased friction against your skin through his thin breeches. You were still unwed and his ward, it was wrong. It was a sin, something that would ruin you for any suitors.

Sometimes you'd pull away, but he pulled you closer and whispered sweet nothings in your ear.

When he fell asleep, you laid awake— staring at the ceiling. Even when you felt most at ease in his arms, that night you found yourself questioning it all. Was any of it real? Did he truly care about you or did he pretend that you were her? His do over, his chance to mold you into what was desirable. Had you lost your senses for feeling that way?

The next morning as the sun crept in, Ormund was already awake and had left his chambers. The maids came in at the time that they always did, bringing your gown for the day and preparing a bath. When they came in, they had hushed voices and low eyes, never allowing themselves to ask questions about the obvious.

You took your bath, sitting in the water for longer than you normally would. It was hard to place how you felt that morning, but you didn't feel happy. 

After your bath and getting dressed, you had time before you were to meet Ormund at the sept for prayer.

The maids had left the room, leaving you to yourself. You opened the door to peak outside and you had no one standing guard. Your heart raced in your chest as your eyes scanned the hall and you walked out of his room, shutting the door behind you. You walked quickly through the hall, hoping not to be noticed by anyone.

Once you were outside, it was easier with everyone beginning to get up for the day. It created a distraction for you to effortlessly blend in. You finally reached it, the dark pit where the dragons were being held. It was dark, the sound of your breathing almost loud enough to echo, the dim firelight from the sconces guiding you.

There he was, sleeping peacefully— chained like an undeserving animal. It pained you to see him chained, he was the bronze fury, a formidable dragon, a good dragon and yet he was punished. When you walked closer to him, you stopped in your tracks as you noticed Daeron near Tessarion.

"I won't tell." He spoke in a hushed voice.

Neither of you were supposed to be in there with your dragons and you could only hope that you hadn't been spotted.

You walked to Vermithor, his eyes opening as he nudged against you. You rubbed his head, bringing yours close to his.

"I've missed you." You whispered, your eyes watering.

Being away from your dragon was a special kind of torture, feeling so connected to something and not being allowed to be close. 

"Are you alright?" Daeron asked.

"I would be, If me and him could fly again."

He glanced down at your bandaged hand, "what happened?"

You looked down with confusion like you had forgotten what had happened, until you realized. Daeron saw the hesitation on your face and he immediately understood. 

"It is easier, if you just listen." He murmured.

You scoffed.

"It is easier, because he treats you differently. You are not a child that was born by his enemy, he protects you."

Daeron shook his head in disagreement.

"It is not me that he protects so fiercely. In your years here, you've grown to take over the spot of his late wife and he's turned down every marriage offer for you."

You gave a blank stare, a lump in your throat.

"Can I ask you something?" You replied, your voice wavering.

"What is it?"

"Do you know if my family is okay during this war? Do you know what has taken place?" 

He rubbed Tessarion's head, his eyes looking elsewhere instead of at you.

"You know that you shouldn't ask that." He gently reminded you.

"I know, but—" you started and then stopped. 

Daeron walked over to you, looking to make sure the two of you were still alone.

"You should just drop it, while you're ahead. It is truly best if you do not know."

You grabbed his hand, your eyes widening into a look of desperation. 

"Please, Daeron. I have lived here for years, completely in the dark. I can count on one hand the letters that I've been able to read from them. I just want to know."

Daeron was conflicted as he understood your position all too well, but he also didn't want to anger Ormund. 

"Rhaenyra has taken King's Landing with Daemon, my uncle Gwayne said so once he returned." 

Your brow raised, "she has taken King's Landing? Are you sure?"

He nodded.

You felt genuine hope again, she did what she had set out to do. She was the queen of the seven kingdoms.

"Is everyone okay as well?" You followed up.

He shrugged. "I do not know, he doesn't tell me everything as I've told you before. Perhaps, you can get a raven out to ask?"

You rolled your eyes, biting back a sarcastic laugh.

"That would never work, the risk is far too great."

Daeron hesitated again, going back and forth on what to tell you.

"There's a box in his solar, in the bottom drawer on the right side of his desk. It's filled with all the messages that are correspondence about the war with your mother.. you should find your answers in there."

"How.. would I do that when he's always nearby?"

"Go after dinner, I shall stall him for a short time. Read as much as you can and don't get caught. If you get caught, I will deny my hand in this."

You hugged him, something that was foreign to both of you. Despite your families being on opposing sides, the two of you did look after one another when you could. You were truly all each other had in Oldtown, both of you under his thumb.

"Thank you."

"I would want someone to do the same for me." He admitted.

He started to walk towards Tessarion, "I cannot stress this enough, no matter what you read, do not tell him. Do not react, please."

The bell rang, which meant you only had a few moments to get to the sept. Both of you shared a look before you gave Vermithor a head rub and left to get to the sept.

You rushed through the streets, hurrying to get there in time. When you entered, Ormund was finishing up a conversation with Gwayne as he awaited your arrival.

Gwayne gave a nod as he walked past you, leaving the sept.

"I see that you have arrived on time this morning." He smiled as he approached you.

He pulled you into a hug, his body flushed against yours— his chin resting on the top of your head. He sniffed you a few times, an unusual smell coming from you.

He pulled back to look at you, his brows furrowed.

"You reek of dragon back."

You feigned ignorance, "I have no idea what you mean, my lord. I haven't been able to see Vermithor for a while now."

He brought his hands to your face, causing you to flinch. He pulled your closer, pressing his lips against yours in a kiss.

Ormund did occasionally kiss you, normally in situations where he was happy. You had no idea why he would've been so happy in that moment.

He pulled back from you, his lips curling into disgust.

"Do not lie to me, my love. I would hate to punish you again."

"I'm not.. I promise." You reiterated, your stomach turning.

He brought his pommander to his nose, taking a sniff of the citrus oil inside of it.

"Very well, let's not waste more time than necessary. Let us pray."

The two of you walked over to the altar and knelt, both of you praying as you always did. 

Instead of praying for love, you prayed to find the answers to your questions— even if the answers broke your heart in the process. You wanted to trust Ormund, be sure in the reasons that you cared for him so deeply— but you needed the truth.

The entire time that you were in the sept you felt unwell, your nerves had gotten the best of you. After prayer, the two of you stepped outside. While standing there, you threw up— catching Ormund off guard and getting vomit all over your gown.

"What is the matter with you?" 

You shook your head, your hand pressed against the wall as you leaned over.

"I just have an upset stomach, my lord."

He had you escorted back to your chambers so that you could change and be cleaned up, but not before he almost threw up himself at the smell.

You took another bath and upon further inspection, the maids noticed that your other gowns had been taken to be cleaned. You were left with only the gowns that your mother had sent to you a year ago, beautiful gowns in your house colors. 

As beautiful as the gowns were, Ormund had forbade you from wearing them. Hightower green was the color that you wore or he'd allow you to wear House Arryn's colors, since that was your grandmothers house.

You didn't want to disobey him, but you had no choice this time. Surely, he'd understand?

All throughout the day your nerves had been a jumbled mess, you could barely think straight— worried about what you'd find out. It was wrong of you to plan going through your guardian's belongings, but why couldn't he tell you what was going on? Did he intend to keep you in the shadows forever? If he cared about you to the lengths that he claimed, wouldn't the two of you share information and be one?

Luckily for you, Ormund was going to be busy for most of the day as he prepared for the small feast being held. Lord Borros had sent an envoy of Baratheon men to pledge his support for the greens during the war. You hoped that by the time the feast started at least one of your gowns would be cleaned and you could change gowns before he noticed.

You weren't going to see Septa Lyra that day as she had other duties to attend to. Instead of sitting in your chambers all day, you decided to go to the library. You didn't want to spend the day trapped in your mind with no escape until you got into his solar.

As you walked the halls, servants and maids gawked at the sight of you in your gown. A beautiful, silk gown with small dragons at the hem of it. House Targaryen colors, something they knew Ormund would never let you wear. They knew the punishment would be severe for even wearing such a thing.

It didn't stop them from whispering and commenting you on the gown.

You spent most of the day in the library, getting lost in the few books that they had on the histories of House Targaryen. It brought you comfort reading them and being left alone to your own thoughts, not having your thoughts controlled for you.

You loved reading about your family and Old Valyria, you wanted to embrace the side of you that made you proud. He could embrace embrace being a Hightower, a traitor to his queen— but you couldn't embrace being a Targaryen? It wasn't fair.

As the hours had passed on, you went to the sept and even returned back to the library. Ser Humfrey came in to ask if you were okay, if he needed to notify Ormund but you reassured him that you were fine. 

The halls outside of the library clattered with noise from the bustling of servants and maids. The Hightower would be in perfect condition as guests were due to arrive. 

You finished two books before you left the library. You peered down from the window and saw that guests were arriving. You knew that you needed to make an appearance shortly or you'd risk a conflict with him.

When you stepped out of the library, Ser Humfrey glanced at you again.

"Are you sure that you are alright, my lady?"

You nodded, twisting your fingers.

"I am fine, Ser Humfrey. However, I do appreciate your genuine concern." 

Him and Ser Bronn shared a look, but both decided that it was best to let you be.

While walking the halls, you could hear the faint sound of music being played in the dining hall. Guests lingered in the hall, talking amongst one another. A few of them saw you, even tried to approach to ask questions but they were stopped. You gave a half smile and continued on as you'd been told to.

When you walked into the dining hall, it was decorated beautifully. The feast was not a grand event, but just one to show appreciation— but it felt more than that. The Baratheon men would have no qualms with bending the knee and being shown such hospitality. That level of hospitality would certainly be rewarded.

The table that you'd be seated at was at the front of the room. Everyone at the table was present, but you. Ormund was in the middle of a conversation, his focus elsewhere. As you walked up to the table, Gwayne's eyes followed your every move in shock, while Daeron found you to be bold.

You approached Ormund as he stood near the table, preparing to take your own seat. His words paused in the conversation, his eyes raking over you and that gown.

"Please, excuse me." Ormund smiled, waking away from the man.

He grabbed your arm, his fingers digging into you.

"How dare you?—"

"What do you have on?"

"My other gowns had been taken away for cleaning at your request, so when I threw up this morning I had nothing else to wear." You admitted.

The scowl on his face only deepened, his grip growing tighter. He leaned closer towards your face, "you mean to make a mockery of me on such an important day?"

You couldn't bare to look at him, you never could when he was angry. His anger made you feel small, made you feel worthless, it made you feel the exact opposite of what he'd whisper to you in bed.

"No, I didn't intend to do that, my lord. I could return back to my chambers, if you wish?"

"I do not fucking wish for you to go to your chambers, but this.. this will not go unanswered." He fumed.

You stared into his eyes, "what was I supposed to do? I would be punished for not attending, but now I am to be punished for what I had available."

"You could've put on one of Samantha's old gowns!—"

You pulled your arm back from his grip, your brows furrowed.

"Samantha? As in your late wife?—"

"You'd want me to wear one of her gowns? You kept them?"

He huffed, realizing that maybe he'd said to much.

"I did not mean to—"

Before Ormund could respond, Gwayne called his name and got his attention. He saw the way that he was with you and wanted to save him from everyone else seeing the same thing.

You took your seat in the chair beside his, a bitter taste in your mouth. 

Samantha was his late wife, she'd been long dead by the time you were brought to Oldtown. You'd heard that she was a beauty, that she was kind, and gentle. Ormund always said that despite everything, their marriage was merely a political match. 

It didn't matter much when you heard his words years ago, but now it struck a nerve— a nerve that you thought was neatly tucked away.

She was a ghost in the Hightower, someone seldom mentioned but fondly remembered. Ormund had only ever called you by her name one time, when he was yelling at you. An accident is what he claimed, but it didn't hurt you any less.

A place holder, a rotten girl, a mistake, tainted, someone that would never be Samantha.

A servant came around the table, filling your goblet with wine— which you happily accepted. Anything to make you feel even a fraction of less shame and the disappointment than you felt.

Ormund took his seat beside you as he finished his conversation with Gwayne. 

"We will talk more later." He mumbled.

You raised your brows, bringing the goblet to your face once more— the sweet wine gliding down your throat.

People approached the table, speaking with Ormund on different matters that pertained to the war. You watched silently, waiting for the moment that you could leave. Underneath the table, Ormund had his hand on your thigh— giving you a subtle reminder to behave.

The plates were brought out to everyone, forks clinking and scraping their plates. The smiles on their faces were big, bellies full, everyone in support of the greens. They gave Ormund looks of pity for having you as his ward, raising Rhaenyra's rotten seed must've been the hardest thing that he'd ever done in their eyes.

You toyed with your food, only taking a few bites and instead filling your belly with more wine.

As people finished their food, they began to get up and mingle again— some even dancing. Ormund sat beside you with a pleased look on his face, proud of the support that he'd rallied.

Daeron left his seat at the further end of the table, approaching him for a conversation. You scooted your chair back, getting his attention.

"I do not feel well, I need to step out for a moment."

"My lord." Daeron spoke, standing to the side of Ormund.

Ormund glanced at him and back at you, "very well. Do not stay gone for long."

Darron mouthed words to you as you stood up.

"Go now."

You walked away from the table, your feet stumbling some as you had indulged in too much wine. When you got outside the dining hall, you realized that all the guards were in the room. The hall was practically empty as you walked down it, everyone was so busy with the feast.

When you got to Ormund's solar, you took a deep breath and entered the room— quietly shutting the door behind you. 

The room was dimly lit with a small fire going in the fireplace.

"The bottom right drawer at his desk." You whispered to yourself.

You walked to his desk, kneeling behind it as you opened the drawer. There it was, a small brown box as daeron had described. 

Your hands trembled as you held it, walking closer to the fire so that you could read. With a click the box opened, filled to the top with letters. You decided to start at the bottom and then work your way to the top.

At first, most of the letters were just small and meaningless things— but it didn't stay that way.

Your breath hitched in your chest, tears falling onto the papers as you read most of them. You stopped reading them, pulling your knees to your chest as you sobbed on the rug.

Luke was dead, Rhaenys was dead, Jace was dead, Rhaena was believed to be missing, and Ormund was actively having gold cloaks killed in the city to sow discord.

He always said that your mother initiated the war when she heard the news of your grandfather's passing, but that was far from the truth. Aemond used Vhagar to chase down and kill your little brother, sweet Luke.

Your family had been falling apart while you slept in the bed with a man that celebrated it. You were a fool.

In a bit of rage, you took the letters and dumped all of them into the fire— placing the box back into the drawer.

You took longer than you should have, but you walked out of his solar with wet eyes and your stomach felt like you could vomit at any moment.

How could he betray you that way? You knew that he wasn't perfect, that he opposed your mother— but never to the scale of the letters that he had written. The letters were so cruel, cold, and just evil— far too evil for a pious man.

Drinking the multiple goblets of wine had caught up to you, you stumbled through the hall— your hands holding onto the wall for stability.

Your heart was shattered into pieces, everything that you thought that you knew faded into the wind.

When you walked back into the dining hall, Daeron was standing up from your seat that he had been sitting in.

"There you are, I was about to go looking for you." He spoke as you stumbled past him.

He noticed your red eyes and he could smell the wine on you, but his thoughts were interrupted.

"My lord, the envoy from House Baratheon has arrived to treat with you." The man spoke.

Ormund stood up, an even bigger smile than he had on his face earlier.

"Let the stormlands lead the way, HighGarden will have no choice but to follow."

Gwayne stood from his chair and approached Ormund, the rests of the guests still talking amongst themselves.

"Let me do the talking."

You stood near Ormund, almost swaying in place— causing Gwayne to stare at you for a moment.

The men walked in towards the table and Ormund, the stench of them stronger than cow shit. It was the kind of smell that made your lips curl. It was truly insulting that they were sent to treat and we're beyond filthy, tracking in mud.

"Lord Ormund Hightower, beacon of the south, defender of the citadel, and voice of Oldtown." Jon Roxton spoke, grabbing the attention of a few guests.

Ormund's face had turned a hint of red, the unexpected smell beginning to overwhelm him.

"Well met, Lord Ormund. I come as an envoy of Lord Borros Baratheon. Lord paramount of the stormlands." The man greeted.

Ormund coughed clearing his throat, clearly overwhelmed— but he wasn't the only one. The smell was making it harder to keep down what had went into your stomach.

"You are quite welcome, Ser—"

"Ser Arrion Baratheon, cousin to Lord Borros."

The men stared at you like they knew you, yet you could not place any of their faces. It could've been the wine, but they seemed off.

Ormund took a step back, standing closer to you.

"I most regret presenting ourselves in this state. The road was long and filthy, but I thought it best to speak to you immediately." Arrion admitted.

Gwayne stood there, his eyes scanning the face of Arrion. 

Ormund shook his head, "we are honored to receive you and what word from Lord Borros?"

"Well, House Baratheon bends the knee to his grace, Aemond Targaryen and offers it's many banners in alliance with House Hightower." 

Arrion struggled to keep his eyes off of you, his hands making a small movement for his sword.

"That is good news. Your lord has made a wise choice." Ormund claps, a miserable smile on his face.

There was a beat of silence amongst the men.

"I hope you do not mind the question, but is that Rhaenyra Targaryen's daughter?" Arrion asked with his head slightly tilted.

Gwayne grabbed the blade from Ormund's belt, lunging and slitting the man's throat.

Ormund stood in front of you, "no! Stop him." He yelled.

The dining hall got quiet, people starting to panic at the havoc that seemed to have come out of nowhere.

Your hands shook as you stood behind Ormund, terrified of what could happen next— to you and him.

"These are assassin's sent for you and me, from the Queen." Gwayne yelled, chopping a man in two.

You watched as Jon Roxton disemboweled a man with his valyrian steel sword, cutting through him like warm butter.

"Ser Arrion Baratheon has hair of light chestnut.. and he is far more comely."

Ormund leaned against the table, his face redder than before and his breathing ragged. He turned his gaze to you, "what did you do?" He gritted.

"I will cleave the bitch.. from crown to cunt—"

"She will die wishing she never dared.. dared."

Ormund started throwing up on the table, causing a few people to gasp around you.

Your day had just worsened as it continued… You stumbled from the table and down the steps towards the other tables. Servants rushed in to clean up the mess and keep the scene from being too much of a spectacle, but it was far too late.

Gwayne chased after you, helping you down the stairs as you almost fell. His hand held you up, his hand pressed against your backside but lower than it should've been.

Ormund saw, a rage taking over him.

While everyone else was too busy trying to understand what happened and preparing to leave, Ormund pulled you from Gwayne's hold— grabbing a fistful of your hair.

"Ow!" You cried out, your hands reaching for his as he dragged you into the hall with no shame.

"You filthy whore." He fumed.

"Ormund, you're hurting me." You cried out.

His grip on your hair was tight, it felt as if he could pull it from your scalp. 

Due to the fact that you had drank so much wine, you couldn't keep up with him— your feet tripping over eachother. 

You fell onto the ground, but that still didn't stop him. He walked you like a dog down the hall, a tight grip on your hair and unwavering level of anger. The few servants that saw it, closed their eyes and shut their mouths. If he'd do that to you, then he'd do far worse to them.

He opened the door to his chambers, slamming it shut behind him.

You struggled to stand up, tears falling from your eyes.

"Let go of me." You whined.

He brought his face closer to yours, pulling your hair and neck back— making you look at him.

"You dare flirt with Gwayne in front of me, allow him to put his hands on your body?"

"I almost fell and he helped me, it was not like that. I swear." You breathed.

His face twisted into something that you'd never seen before.

"You swear? You are the daughter of a whore, nothing more than the biggest mistake of her life. You probably would've sucked his cock in his chambers tonight, had he continued being nice."

You pushed against him, his grip loosening. 

"You lied! You fucking lied to me—"

"Praying to the gods and condemning my blood, yet you'd commit grievous atrocities and sins for yours?"

He pulled his shoulders back.

"What are you talking about?"

You laughed bitterly, tears rolling down your neck and chest.

"I saw all of the letters, all of them." You gasped, beginning to sob.

"They murdered Luke, Rhaenys, and Jace.. they murdered them and you praised them for their efforts."

"You went through my things? you ungrateful, sniveling bitch." He roared, his eyes dark with nothing behind them.

"I would've crossed oceans and mountains for you.. because I loved you. I believed—"

"I believed that you loved me too, but you Ormund Hightower are no better than a Dothraki savage."

He grabbed your arm, pinching it.

"I could never love someone so rotten and so utterly foul. If your mother loved you then she would've killed me to get to you, so I must not be the only one with that sentiment." 

You stared at him, unable to recognize the man that you'd known for most of your life. 

You spat in his face, his hands leaving you as he took a step back in disbelief. He wiped the spit from his face, his breathing deep and heavy.

Ormund reached forward, wrapping his hands around your throat.

Both of you stumbled back, your hands tapping at his as you couldn't catch your breath—your foot hitting the tub that was near the wall.

"Ormund.. I can't—" you gasped.

It felt like the room was closing in around you. Your chest felt like a fire consumed it, your eyes bulging as you tried pulling his hands off.

It felt like an eternity, but Ormund let go of you with a push—causing you to stumble back and fall.

There was a heavy thud as you hit the floor, your head hit the edge of the tub. 

You laid on the rug, blood streaming down your face from the small wound. You blinked and blinked, feeling as if you'd been in the same place forever. For a moment you'd sworn that you might've died, that those might've been your last moments in the world.

After a moment, you picked yourself up. Ormund watched you and slowly regained his senses. You touched the wound, bright red blood coating your fingers and dripping down onto your face.

He approached you, grabbing your face into his hands— his touch softer than a mere moment ago. A feeling of disgust overtaking you.

"It was an accident, I shouldn't have—"

"I'm sorry. I am so sorry, please forgive me."

"I'm going to leave you alone here one day and I'll never look back." You muttered, staring into his eyes.

His facial expression softened, maybe because he believed you more than he ever had before.

He let go of your face, grabbing your hand instead.

"I love you, I love you more than I can put into words."

It was the first time that he'd truly said it and it sounded like that, like he meant it— but he wasn't ready to say it. He loved you, but only when you were good and not rotten.

He pressed a kiss to your lips, your blood smearing onto his skin. He kissed you like he'd never get the chance to again and even after everything, you didn't deny him. You should've killed him on the spot, but instead your heart fluttered like it always did. He had a grip on you, one that you would never truly outrun and that grip was mutual.

"I am going to leave you." You reiterated, your lips against his.

"I will make you mine, I will not lose you. I cannot. I would go to war for you, sin for you. You are mine as you always have been."He mumbled against your lips.

You pulled back, a singular tear sliding from your eye.

"Bend the knee to my mother then and I will forgive you for your actions tonight."

He shook his head, his lips pursed as if your statement was painful to hear.

"I would never."

You scoffed, pulling away from him.

"Then, none of this—" you spoke, pointing around the room.

"Is good enough."

He sighed as if were out of options, "do not force my hand on this. I am begging you, because you will not like the outcome."

reblogs, likes, and comments are appreciated.

[roxxmo]

custody of blood masterlist ♖

"Your mother whored herself to a Targaryen. I will not give you to your own brother. I will not allow you to repeat her sins and bring further shame upon the Hightower name.” By then, he had crossed the solar and taken your chin firmly in his hand, his fingers dimpling the skin of your cheeks. You had begun to cry, though you could not tell whether it was from fear, shame, or the sudden loneliness of knowing you might never truly belong anywhere. “But then I could live with Father and Mother,” you whispered, tears slipping down your cheeks. “I could go home.” Ormund bent until his face was close to yours, his breath hot against your skin. His grip tightened beneath your chin. “This is your home.”

sent to oldtown as a ward beneath your cousin lord ormund hightower's protection, you learn there are some vows that are easier to preach than to keep.

warnings: 18+ (mdni), eventual smut, canon-typical incest (cousins), sexual humilation, loss of virginity, religious guilt, age gap (~20 years), grooming, dubcon, emotional manipulation, obsession (mutual), stockholm syndrome, power imbalance, canon divergent, no use of y/n

taglist

part I.

part II.*

finale.*

letters from oldtown

* indicates smut / sexual content

[cintoasted]

CIN (SIN)

Cin {sin} | 26 | she/her - writing blog for the depraved, multifandom. minors and ageless blogs are not welcomed.

CAUTION

SOME FICS MAY INCLUDE DARK CONTENT. THIS BLOG IS NOT FOR MINORS. 18+. Please read all warnings on each fic before proceeding. I am not responsible for the content you choose to consume.

Any hate will be deleted. I tag all work appropriately so if you don't like something, no one is asking you to be here and you can just block me.

NAVIGATION

archive of our own here

fic recs by month - august / september / 4 month sabbatical / february / march

@bittertarg second blog - super disturbed and the following is monitored heavily

who i write for

MASTERLISTS

A KNIGHT OF THE SEVEN KINGDOMS

HOUSE OF THE DRAGON

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JUJUTSU KAISEN

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...

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dividers by @ chrisssiren

[heldbybarnes]

hydra in my head

pairing: bucky barnes x reader | 6.1k words

warnings: heavy angst, vivid descriptions of torture & brainwashing, nightmares, ptsd, dissociation, mentions of violence and murder (non-graphic, canon-level), soulmate au, brief panic attacks, guilt, self-worth issues, but soft hurt/comfort and hopeful ending

summary: soulmates see the life of one another through dreams. what happens when your soulmate looks like he's from the 1940's and has experienced a hell you can't even begin to imagine?

authors note: soulmate au's will always have a huge piece of my heart and add the angst of sharing dreams with the winter soldier? i'm there. loved writing this one so much!!

----------

You have your first nightmare at eight years old.

It starts out ordinary, the way all the stories at school say soulmate dreams do. You open your eyes in the dark and you’re not in your bedroom anymore—you’re somewhere else, somewhere colder. You’re standing in a narrow alley that smells like smoke and rain, watching a boy with too-long hair tuck a smaller kid under his arm and laugh.

“C’mon, Stevie, we’re gonna be late,” he says, accent warm and rough, and your heart does something strange in your chest.

You don’t understand why you know his name. Why you know that if you could reach out and touch him, the skin of his hand would be rough from work and the softness behind his eyes would be just for you.

But you’re eight. You just know this is important. You just know this is yours.

You spend that first night trailing behind him like a shadow. Watching him steal bread from a windowsill and give all of it to Steve. Watching him charm a girl behind the soda counter and then turn around and share the free candy with the skinny kid at his side. Watching him sit on a tenement rooftop and lean back on his elbows, staring at a sky full of city light and smoke, somewhere in Brooklyn.

You wake up smiling. Head full of his laugh. Heart full of the way he tipped his head back and told a joke you can’t quite remember.``

The next night, you dream of him again.

And again. And again.

At school, kids whisper in corners, swapping stories about their own soulmate dreams. The girl who sees a boy in Seoul practicing violin on a rooftop. The boy who watches his soulmate paint murals across brick walls in São Paulo. They talk about first kisses in borrowed bodies, about the way it feels when their soulmate looks into a mirror and for one breath you see their face and yours overlap like a promise.

You stay quiet.

You don’t tell them that your soulmate is older than you. That instead of fumbling through middle school with you, he’s out there in the world, already grown. You don’t tell them that every night you lay your head down, you wake up in the 1940s—the clothes, the cars, the ration lines, the war posters peeling on brick.

You don’t tell them that your soulmate signs a piece of paper and becomes a soldier.

You don’t tell them how, the night he ships out, you wake up in his skin.

It happens without warning. You go to sleep in your own bed—a little bigger, a little more lonely than it was when you were eight—and your eyes open into blinding sunlight. You’re on a train platform. Your hand—his hand—is gripping a duffel bag so tight your knuckles ache. Steve is talking, voice breaking, telling you to write. To come back.

You feel your own throat burn when you hear yourself say, “Don’t do anything stupid ‘til I get back.”

“How can I?” Steve shoots back. “You’re taking all the stupid with you.”

You laugh. Except it’s not really a laugh. It’s something torn, something afraid.

You wake up with tears on your face. The world is dark and quiet and the clock on your nightstand says 3:07 am. You press your shaking hands over your mouth and feel the echoes of his goodbye like a bruise.

It takes you three days to stop crying.

You tell yourself this is what soulmate dreams are. Messy. Overwhelming. Beautiful.

You cling to that word—beautiful—for as long as you can.

It carries you through boot camp, through the taste of dirt and the ache of muscles that are not your own. It carries you through Europe, through the first time you watch a body fall because you pulled the trigger.

It lasts right up until the night everything changes.

The night you watch him fall off the train, it feels like your own heart shatters inside your chest.

You wake up screaming. Your own bedroom walls. Your own hands, empty and reaching. Your mother bursts through the door and gathers you up, still half asleep, asking if it was another nightmare, sweetheart?

You can’t breathe.

“He fell,” you choke, words tearing out of you. “He fell, he fell—”

“Who?” she asks gently, like she doesn’t already know. Parents grew up with soulmate dreams too. They know the helpless, distant look that comes with them. The way kids wake up with tears that aren’t quite theirs.

“My soulmate.”

Something in her face folds. She holds you tighter.

“Sometimes,” she says softly, “the timing’s just… the timing’s cruel, baby. It doesn’t mean your story’s over. It just means…”

She trails off, because there’s no good ending to that sentence.

You don’t dream for three days. You can’t decide if that’s mercy or punishment.

On the fourth night, you open your eyes into a cold so vicious you can’t feel your fingers.

Water crushes you from all sides. It burns your lungs. Your body—the one that’s not yours—is thrashing, pulling, dragging itself toward a pinprick of light above while the weight of metal on your arm drags you down.

The scream rips your throat raw. Bubbles burst from your lips and vanish into the icy dark.

You don’t make it to the surface.

When you wake, you taste blood and river silt in the back of your throat. Your bed is soaked with sweat. Your nails have left crescent moons in your palms.

You don’t sleep again until your body gives you no choice.

The next dream isn’t better.

White light. A ceiling blinded by it. A ring of faces leaning over you, mouths moving in a language you can’t quite understand but immediately hate.

A bite of cold against skin as someone presses a scalpel to flesh.

You scream awake again.

Your mother starts taking you to therapists after that.

Most kids, the brochures say, dream of exams and awkward dates and milestones. Your charts fill up with words like recurrent nightmares and secondary trauma and dissociation.

None of it changes the fact that every time you close your eyes, you are dragged back into that room.

Back into that chair.

You learn the cadence of commands in Russian before you ever learn where on a map to put Moscow. Nine unpronounceable words barked like gunfire. Each one a hammer blow. Each one chipping away at a man who used to laugh on rooftops and steal bread for his sick friend.

You watch them strip him down to bones and obedience.

You watch them shock him, carve him, freeze him.

You watch them put a metal arm where flesh used to be.

You watch until the line between what’s his and what’s yours starts to blur around the edges.

You startle when people touch your left arm. You flinch when someone says the word soldier too loudly. You hold your breath when you hear Russian in movies and your heart slams against your ribs like it’s trying to claw free.

You learn how to build walls between your nights and your days, between the girl who smiles and nods and does her homework and the girl who wakes up hoarse from screaming words in a language she shouldn’t know.

You get very good at pretending.

You stay very, very quiet.

Because the first time you tried to explain this to someone—really explain, not just, “I have bad soulmate dreams”—they looked at you like you’d made it up for attention. Like it was impossible that one man could hold that much darkness.

Impossible or not, he lives inside your skull.

And for some reason, you’re still helplessly in love with him.

Your soulmate never dreams of you.

That’s how it’s supposed to work—two lives, two vantage points. Two people growing together in parallel, building a mosaic of each other’s days until, one day, you meet. You’ve lived each other’s memories. You’ve hurt when they hurt and laughed when they laughed. You fit.

Except.

He has never once looked into a mirror and seen your face.

You know because you’ve checked. Every time he’s near a reflective surface, you hold your breath, waiting. Wondering what you’ll look like in that cheap barracks mirror. In the gleam of a Hydra scalpel. In the shine of a shield’s vibranium curve when Captain America bursts into a lab and says his name like a miracle.

You never see your own eyes looking back.

And later—much, much later, when the Soldier with the metal arm stands on a sidewalk in a world full of color television and smartphones and watches Steve drive away—there is a terrible emptiness where your presence should be.

You know he doesn’t dream at all. Not really. Just orders. Missions. A voice in his head telling him to comply.

You lie awake sometimes, staring at the ceiling. Wondering what it was like for him in the 1940s, before you were even born. Before your existence meant he was supposed to have something soft to fall into, a second life to land in when the world got hard.

Did he think his soulmate had died? Did he think he didn’t have one at all?

Did Hydra take that away from him, too?

The questions feel like weights on your chest.

You grow up. You go to college. You study psychology because of course you do. Professors call you insightful. They praise your understanding of trauma. They don’t know you learned it half-asleep on a concrete cell floor.

You watch news footage of Washington, D.C. tearing itself apart—carriers falling out of the sky, smoke boiling up between monuments. You watch a flash of metal and a familiar face with hair that’s now long and wild and eyes that are empty in a way you’ve never seen in your dreams.

You frighten your roommate when you fall to your knees in front of the television and sob like someone stabbed you.

She thinks you’re crying about the city.

You’re crying because your soulmate just dragged Steve Rogers out of a river and collapsed beside him on the mud, and for the first time since that train, you feel something fragile and human slip through the cracks of his programming.

“Who the hell is Bucky?” he says, and you press your face into your hands and whisper, It’s you. It’s you, it’s you, it’s you.

Later, when footage leaks of him in Bucharest, of governments calling him a terrorist, you shake so hard you spill coffee all over yourself. Your hands don’t stop trembling all day.

By the time word spreads—half rumors, half official—that the Winter Soldier is dead, you’ve gotten very good at breathing around a permanent ache.

He’s not dead, you think stubbornly, even as your therapist gently suggests a new medication.

Because you still dream.

The locations change. The walls switch from damp concrete to smooth wood. The windows open onto African sun instead of Siberian ice.

But he’s alive. You can feel it every night when you close your eyes. You make coffee in a kitchen that smells like earth and greenery and peace while a man with long hair and a beard leans in a doorway and tries to relearn how to be a person.

You’re there when people call him White Wolf as a joke. You’re there when he wakes up screaming and claws at his arm like he wants to rip it off.

You see every tremor, every step forward, every stumble back.

You keep your silence like a promise.

Because there is a tiny, terrified part of you that believes if you ever try to step into his real, waking world—if you look him in the eyes and he doesn’t know you—the last piece of you still holding on will break.

You meet him on a Tuesday.

It’s almost insultingly mundane.

New York sky, too bright. Air full of car horns and overheated asphalt. Your shoes pinching a little because you wore the nicer pair for the interview. The building in front of you is an angular tower of glass and metal that the world knows on sight.

Avengers Tower.

They’d asked you to come in for a consult. Trauma specialist, they said. We have people who need help and don’t trust easy, one of the recruiters had told you over the phone. Your résumé is… unique.

You laughed. If only he knew.

The security check is thorough. The elevator ride is nauseatingly smooth. Your own reflection in the mirrored walls looks small and out of place between the polished chrome and the sleek lighting.

You’re smoothing your hands down your blazer when the doors slide open.

And he’s standing there.

Just standing there, in the hallway, like a dream you didn’t mean to interrupt.

He’s wearing a Henley that clings to shoulders you’ve only ever seen under body armor. His hair is shorter than it was in Wakanda, pulled back into a low knot, a few strands falling loose around his face. The stubble on his jaw is a shade darker than you remember from last night, when he shaved in a small bathroom, the mirror fogging up with steam.

His eyes are the exact same blue they’ve always been.

For a second, you forget how to breathe.

He blinks, clearly not expecting the elevator to open on a stranger. He shifts his weight like he’s considering retreating.

You know every micro-expression in that face.

You know what he looks like when he’s bracing for pain.

You know what he looks like when he’s trying not to hope.

“Uh,” he says finally. “You lost?”

The sound of his voice in the same space as you is… wrong. It vibrates in your ribs like a plucked wire.

You swallow. Realize your fingers are trembling. Clench them into fists.

“I—um. No.” You hold up the visitor badge dangling from your neck. “Here for an interview. Trauma team.”

His eyes flick down. Your name flashes in black letters against your chest, next to the Stark Industries logo.

Something in his gaze sharpens. Not hostile. Just... wary.

You’ve seen that look from behind his eyes. It’s different being on the receiving end.

“Right,” he says slowly. “Right. They mentioned they were bringing in someone new.”

You should leave. You should step out of the elevator, shake his hand, introduce yourself like you don’t already know the shape of his scars, the cadence of his nightmares, the way he curls his fingers when he’s trying not to reach for someone.

Instead you stand there, staring, while your heartbeat hammers in your ears.

He frowns. “Are you okay?”

The question snaps you back like a rubber band.

“I’m fine,” you lie, because what else is there to say? Hey, I’ve watched every second of your life for as long as I can remember, you look good in daylight?

You force your feet to move. You step onto the floor. The elevator closes behind you with a soft whoosh.

You’re close enough now to see the tiny pale lines at the corner of his mouth. The faint shadow of where a scar used to be along his jaw, before Wakanda’s healers smoothed it away.

“Name’s Bucky,” he offers, almost awkwardly, like he’s still getting used to saying it out loud.

I know.

You bite the words down before they can escape.

You offer your own name instead, and he repeats it—your name—in that careful, rough voice, like he’s trying it on his tongue.

You feel the sound all the way through your bones.

You get the job.

Of course you do. You’re good at it. You’ve spent half your life studying trauma and the other half drowning in it. You know how to listen. You know how to sit with silence without flinching away.

You don’t get assigned to Bucky.

You think that’s probably for the best. At least at first.

He’s… there, though. In the halls. In the kitchen at 3 am when you’re both pretending you don’t have insomnia. In the training rooms, working a heavy bag until his chest heaves and sweat darkens his shirt.

You get used to feeling his eyes on you, quick flickers, like he’s cataloguing your presence. You get used to swallowing a dozen confessions every time he looks your way.

You do not get used to the way your whole body hums when he stands too close.

It takes exactly three weeks for everything to crack.

You’re in your office. It’s late. You should have gone home hours ago, but you’re dictating notes for a session and staring blankly at your laptop screen when there’s a knock on the door.

Your heart knows who it is before your eyes do.

“Come in,” you call, somehow sounding normal.

The door opens. Bucky steps in, hovering just inside the threshold like he’s not sure if he’s welcome.

He’s in sweats and a threadbare t-shirt, hair damp from a shower. There’s a tension in his shoulders that sets off every alarm in your body.

You stand up automatically. “Is everything okay?”

He huffs a breath that’s not quite a laugh. “Define ‘okay.’”

You gesture toward the chairs. He doesn’t move.

“I know I’m not on your schedule,” he says. “I’m not… your patient. Or whatever. I just…”

He trails off. His jaw tightens. His metal fingers flex against his thigh, the plates catching the light.

“It’s okay,” you say softly. “You can sit. Or not. You can pace if you need to. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, Bucky.”

His eyes flick to yours. For a moment, something like trust flickers there.

He comes in. Closes the door.

And then he just stands there, breathing hard, like walking from the elevator to your office took more energy than a mission.

You wait.

“I’ve never had dreams,” he says abruptly.

You blink. Your grip tightens on the back of your chair.

He’s staring over your shoulder, somewhere past you, like if he looks at you this will be too much.

“Not the soulmate kind,” he clarifies. “Everybody else did. Back home. Before the war. They’d talk about seein’ their girl, or their guy, or just… faces. Names. Whole lives.”

You knew this. You’ve wondered about it your whole life. Hearing it in his voice feels like stepping off a ledge.

“I kept waitin’,” he continues, words rough. “Figured maybe it’d start late. Or maybe my soulmate was younger. Or maybe…” He swallows. “Maybe I just didn’t have one. Maybe they died. Maybe I did somethin’ wrong before I was even born.”

Your chest aches. “You didn’t,” you say, without thinking. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

His gaze snaps to you.

There’s a sharpness there. A warning. A plea.

“You don’t know that,” he says quietly.

I do, you think. I’ve seen you my whole life.

He takes a shaky breath. “Then the war happened. And the train.” His voice stutters on the word. You know the memory he’s stuck on. The rush of air. The scream. The impact. “And then… nothin’. No dreams at all. Just… missions.”

He says the word like it tastes like ash.

“I thought that was it,” he says. “That whatever chance I had at… that kinda thing… it was gone.”

He laughs again, brittle. “Then I get out. Hydra’s gone. I’m in Wakanda, learnin’ how to be a person again. And I start hearin’ about people seein’ my life in their sleep. ‘The Winter Soldier is my soulmate,’” he quotes, in a mocking falsetto that makes something in your stomach twist. “Jokes. Memes. Kids on the internet makin’ content.”

His mouth curls in disgust.

“It’s not funny,” he grits. “There’s nothing—there’s nothin’ funny about any of it. And I know most of it’s bullshit. But I keep thinkin’… if there is somebody out there who had to watch all that—” His breath hitches. “Every time they shut me down. Every time they woke me up. Every time I—”

He cuts himself off. You know the word he’s swallowing.

“Kill,” you say softly.

His jaw clenches. He nods once.

“If there is someone,” he whispers, “if I do have a soulmate… and they saw all that… I don’t know if I want to meet them. I don’t know if I deserve to.”

Your own hands are shaking now.

He looks at you, really looks, and you realize there are tears standing in his eyes. He blinks them away violently, like he doesn’t have the right.

“I came here because…” He trails off. His shoulders slump. “Because I thought maybe talkin’ about it, with someone who knows how this stuff works, would help. Except I feel worse. Because all I can picture is some kid who grew up with my nightmares. Some—some sweet person who maybe just wanted to see their soulmate’s first day of school and instead got strapped into my life like a horror movie they couldn’t turn off.”

His voice breaks.

“And I don’t know how to live with that.”

The silence that follows is thick and heavy and humming with something electric.

You could lie.

You could say something clinical. You could talk about vicarious trauma. About how whoever they are, they’re probably fine now. That it wasn’t his fault.

You could stay safely behind your professional distance.

Instead, you take a breath that feels like stepping off another ledge.

“Bucky,” you begin, gently. “Look at me for a second?”

He hesitates, then does.

You step around your desk. You sit in the chair opposite him so you’re on the same level, knees almost touching.

Your heart is beating so loud you’re sure he can hear it.

“You’re right,” you say softly. “It’s not funny. At all. And if your soulmate… if they saw what you went through… I’m not going to pretend it didn’t hurt them. It did. It… it does.”

His face crumples, just a little.

“But,” you continue, before he can drown in guilt, “they’re not that kid anymore.”

He swallows. “How would you know?”

“Because,” you say, and your voice shakes, “I’m not a kid anymore.”

The words hang there between you.

For a second, he doesn’t understand.

You watch the moment he does.

His pupils blow wide. His lips part, but no sound comes out. His metal hand curls slowly, fingers digging into his own thigh.

“I—” His throat works. “What?”

You force yourself to hold his gaze.

“I’ve… always had dreams,” you say. “About you. Since I was eight. Brooklyn. Steve. The war. The train.” Your eyes sting. “The water. The lab. The chair. The missions. Wakanda. Here.”

You see his breath stutter. See his jaw go slack. See denial and hope crash together behind his eyes like two waves colliding.

“No,” he whispers. “No, that’s— you can’t—”

“You just told me you came here because you were worried,” you say, gently but firmly. “Because you couldn’t stop thinking about what it must have been like for your soulmate. For me.”

The word lands between you like a thrown knife.

He flinches.

“I thought about telling you earlier,” you admit, voice shaking. “When I first got here. When I saw you in the hallway, it almost knocked me over. Like… like the world finally lined up the way it was supposed to. But I didn’t know if you’d want that. If you’d want me. Knowing everything I know. So I… I waited.”

“And you—you saw…” His voice breaks.

“Yes,” you whisper. “I saw.”

“All of it?”

You close your eyes, just for a second, and it’s all there behind your eyelids. Blood and ice and metal and a scream cut off mid-breath.

“Enough,” you say. “More than enough.”

His face twists. He jerks to his feet like he can’t bear being still. He paces once, twice, then presses his metal hand against the wall like he needs the anchor.

“I’m sorry,” he says hoarsely. “I’m so— God, doll, I’m so fuckin’ sorry.”

The nickname slips out before he can stop it. It rips through you like a live wire.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” you repeat, more fiercely this time.

He whirls on you. “I killed people.”

“You were tortured,” you shoot back. “You were brainwashed. They took your choices away. They took your— your dreams—”

He laughs, raw. “That too, huh?”

“And they tried to take your name,” you say. “Your face. Your heart. They tried to make you a weapon. But they didn’t win, Bucky. They didn’t.”

His eyes shine. “Then why do you wake up screamin’?”

The question knocks the breath out of you.

Because of course he’s thought it through. Of course he’s pictured it in more detail than you ever wanted him to.

You swallow. “Sometimes I do,” you admit. “Especially when I was younger. It was… a lot. To see that much pain and not be able to stop it. To watch someone you—” You break off, tongue thick.

“Someone you what?” he asks quietly.

You look up at him. At the man you’ve watched fall and break and get rebuilt over and over.

“Someone you love,” you say.

His breath hitches like you hit him.

“You don’t even know me,” he says, but it’s weak. Tattered.

You smile, shaky. “I know you better than anyone alive, James Buchanan Barnes.”

He flinches at the full name, but doesn’t correct you.

“I’ve seen you steal bread for a sick kid,” you say, voice gaining strength. “I’ve seen you dance in a Brooklyn club like you owned the whole damn room. I’ve watched you sign up to go to war and then get on that train even after you thought you lost your best friend because you couldn’t live with yourself if you didn’t try to stop what was happening.”

A tear slips down his cheek. He doesn’t wipe it away.

“I’ve watched you be hurt and broken and put back together more times than I can count,” you continue. “And every single time, there was this… this core of you that never went away. This stubborn, ridiculous goodness. This… this refusal to give up, even when giving up would have been easier.”

You take a breath. It comes out broken.

“Those dreams… they hurt. They still do, sometimes. But I never once wished for someone else.”

His face crumples.

“Not once?” he whispers.

“Not once,” you repeat.

He stands there, for a long moment, breathing like he just ran a marathon. Then, slowly, like he’s moving underwater, he comes back to the chair and sinks into it.

His metal hand is shaking.

You bite your lip. Then, very carefully, you reach out and lay your fingers on the back of his knuckles.

He goes absolutely still.

“You asked how to live with it,” you say softly. “With the fact that someone had to see what you went through.”

He swallows. Nods, just barely.

“You live with it by letting me choose,” you say. “By letting me tell you that I’m here on purpose. That I walked into this knowing exactly what you’ve carried, and I still… I still want to be the one who sits with you when the nightmares hit. I still want to be the one who makes you coffee in the morning and teases you about your bedhead and tells you when you’re being too hard on yourself.”

Your voice drops.

“If someone had to be in that room with you, I’m glad it was me.”

A sound tears out of him. Not quite a sob, not quite a laugh. Something in between and more broken than both.

“I don’t deserve you,” he chokes.

You squeeze his hand. “That’s not your call to make.”

He lets out a strangled noise that might be agreement. Might be surrender.

Very slowly, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish, he turns his hand under yours so your fingers fit between his, metal and flesh and skin. The plates are warm from his body heat. You can feel the faint whir of servos when he moves.

“You sure about this?” he asks, eyes searching yours. “Because once I start… I don’t know if I’ll be able to—”

“I’ve been sure since I watched you steal that bread,” you say, and a wet, disbelieving laugh escapes him.

“Okay,” he breathes. “Okay.”

You fall asleep beside him for the first time two weeks later.

It’s not planned. You’d met up in the common room after a late debrief, both too wired to sleep. One thing turned into another—movie, conversation, a shared blanket. At some point, his head tipped against the back of the couch and his breathing evened out.

You watched him for a long time. In your own bed, he’d always been half a world away. Here, his arm was draped along the back of the couch behind you, close enough to feel the heat radiating off him.

You dozed off listening to his heartbeat under your ear.

You wake up in your own bed.

Not the Tower couch. Not his room. Your room, where you fell asleep months ago with his whimpers echoing in your head.

Except the pillow smells like him and you’re warm all over, like someone tucked a blanket around your shoulders.

You blink blearily. Sit up.

And realize this is not your room.

It takes a second to piece together what you’re seeing. The walls are the wrong color. The window looks out over a city skyline instead of the tree outside your apartment. There are pictures on the dresser—Avengers in various stages of exhausted celebration. Sam grinning. Steve. Nat. A younger, thinner Tony.

Bucky, looking startled in every single one, like he can’t quite believe he’s allowed to be there.

You look down.

You’re in his bed.

He’s not beside you.

Your heart jackhammers in your chest. You swing your legs over the side, bare feet hitting cool floor—and then you freeze.

Because the light in the bathroom is on. And you can hear the shower.

Water. Steam. The faint silhouette of a man through frosted glass.

You back away instinctively, cheeks burning, and that’s when the wrongness hits you.

You don’t feel like a passenger.

You feel… solid.

You lift your hand. It’s your hand. Your skin, your faint scar on the knuckle.

But the air tastes like him. The room smells like him.

And something about the angle of your own vision is off, like you’re seeing yourself from a height you don’t have.

“Hey,” a familiar voice says behind you, slow and careful. “You okay?”

You spin.

Bucky is sitting up in the bed, hair mussed, eyes heavy with sleep. He’s shirtless. The sheets are pooled around his waist, baring the curve of his shoulder and the scars you could trace in the dark.

Except.

You look down again. Your hands. Your body.

You look back up.

“Holy shit,” you whisper.

He blinks. Then his eyes widen.

“Are you—” He scrubs a hand over his face. “Is this—god, please tell me this isn’t some fucked-up hallucination.”

“You’re… dreaming,” you say slowly. “About me.”

He stares at you.

Then he laughs, helpless and hoarse.

“I fell asleep on your couch,” he says. “I remember that much. You were… right there. Warm. Breathin’ against my chest.” His voice goes soft. “And then I… I opened my eyes and I was somewhere else. Here. But different. And I could feel things that weren’t mine. This…”

He gestures to you. To your body. To the way you’re standing in the center of his room, wearing his t-shirt, hair a mess from sleep.

“This is your place,” he says. “Or… a version of it. From before you moved in here.” His mouth quirks. “You sure have a lot of books, doll.”

You laugh, shocked and shaky. “You… saw my apartment?”

“Think I might still be seein’ it,” he replies. “Or I’m seein’ you seein’ me seein’ it. I don’t know, this soulmate physics stuff is above my pay grade.”

You step closer, slowly, like approaching a wild animal.

“You never dreamed before,” you say. “Not like this.”

He swallows. “Guess I finally caught up.”

You can see the moment it hits him, really hits him, what this means. His shoulders tremble. His eyes shine.

“For all those years, you… you watched my life,” he says. “And I never gave you anything back. Not a single night of peace. Not a single stupid moment of my day to balance out the bad.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” you begin, but he shakes his head, smiling through the tears.

“Maybe not,” he says. “But I still hated the idea of you bein’ alone in it. Of you carryin’ all that without ever gettin’ to hand me somethin’ to carry in return.”

He reaches out. His flesh hand hovers near your cheek, not quite touching.

“Let me have some of it now,” he whispers. “Let me see you. All of you. The good and the bad. Let me watch you cry over exams and spill coffee on yourself and dance in your kitchen when you think no one’s lookin’. Let me be the one who wakes up shakin’ because you had a rough day and I need to make it better.”

Your eyes burn.

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he cuts in, fierce. “I’ve wanted to, since the day I realized you exist. Since the day I stepped into your office and saw how my nightmares had carved lines in your face.”

He steps closer. His hand finally lands on your cheek, calloused thumb brushing away a tear.

“Let me share it,” he says. “Please. I can’t go back and stop those men from hurtin’ me. I can’t take those images out of your head. But I can be there now. I can stand in front of whatever’s comin’ next.”

You sink into his touch.

“I don’t want you to keep punishin’ yourself for things you couldn’t control,” you whisper.

“Then don’t you do it either,” he says softly.

You let out a small, wet laugh. “Hypocrite,” you murmur.

“Yeah,” he says, smiling a little. “Guess I am.”

You look up at him. At the man who has haunted your nights and now, finally, stands in your days.

“Stay,” you say. “In my dreams. In yours. In the kitchen at 3 am. On the couch when we both pretend we’re really into whatever movie’s on.”

His smile deepens, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Anywhere you’ll have me, doll,” he says. “I’m there.”

You step into his arms. He wraps himself around you like he’s been waiting his whole life to remember how.

You breathe him in. Warmth and soap and the faint metal tang that’s always hovered at the edge of your senses.

You tilt your head up.

He kisses you like you’re something holy.

It’s not like the secondhand kisses you watched him give girls in clubs. It’s not like the bruising, desperate collisions you felt through his body in Hydra missions. It’s slow. Reverent. His mouth soft against yours, his hand cupping the back of your head like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

You kiss him back like you’ve been practicing in your sleep for years.

When you pull back, you’re both breathless.

“Think I’m gonna like this whole dream thing,” he murmurs, forehead resting against yours.

“Yeah?” you whisper.

“Yeah.” He huffs a quiet laugh. “Got a lot of time to make up for. A lot of nights to give back.”

You curl your fingers into the fabric of his shirt.

“I’ll be there,” you say. “Every time you close your eyes.”

He nods, like that’s a vow you just exchanged.

You wake up on the Tower couch with your head on his chest and his arms around you, holding on like the world might try to take you if he loosens his grip.

His shirt is damp where your tears have soaked through.

His eyelashes are wet, too.

“Morning,” he murmurs, eyes blinking open.

You smile up at him, throat tight.

“Morning,” you whisper. “Did you sleep okay?”

He looks at you like you hung the moon.

“I dreamed,” he says simply.

Your chest aches in the best way.

“Me too,” you say.

He kisses your forehead.

You think, for the first time in your life, that maybe nightmares can be outnumbered.

That maybe, together, you can rewrite the story.

Not by erasing what Hydra did. Not by pretending the chair and the lab and the missions never happened.

But by layering new images over the old ones. Shared breakfasts and late-night talks and soft touches and kisses that taste like hope. By letting him see you the way you’ve always seen him—flawed and hurting and still, somehow, unbelievably good.

By letting your dreams finally, truly, belong to both of you.

tags: @firingstars @iamthatonefangirl @its-in-the-woods @houseofhyde @superbassbuck @chateaubarnes @earthsmightiestbenders @barnesonly @54nboo @winterdecember18 @unificsation @wildflowersandvibranium @juniebjonesin @blowingbarnes @grumpysunnybarnes @missvelvetsstuff @daisynotquake @colettebarnes @lokirogersgirl @sapphire882 @buckyfmd @justadaydreamingfangirl @quantumbarnes @overwintering-soldier @buckyboudoir @domitaylorsversion @multiversefanfics @avgdestitute @meowrz1a @barnes-babydoll @globetrotter28 @mariamorales1998 @okaytrashpanda @icantfindanamenottakenn @happygooberpastel @pinksplace @cautiouscas17 @infinitewithenvy @herejustforbuckybarnes @yexbarnes @sassandscribbles @ozwriterchick @spdrveil @r1ssa + add yourself here

[flowersforbucky]

don’t you ever end up anything but mine

bucky barnes x reader {soulmate au}

everyone is born with a mark that matches their soulmate’s. but what if the red room erased yours before you were old enough to remember it?

word count: 15.7k+ ~ warnings/tags: 18+ only mdni! smut, post thunderbolts, ex widow reader, angst, themes of fate vs choice, heavy mutual pining, no use of y/n, reader is implied to be shorter than bucky, bucky is a level 84827282 yearner, mentions of trauma associated with the red room and hydra, pov switches, oral, reader is afab

author’s note: i haven’t posted anything for bucky in monthsss. this took me an embarrassing amount of time. i think i struggled with this more than anything else i’ve ever written but thanks to @fru1t4fr0gs continuous love and encouragement, i finally finished it after more than two months of writing.

i tried to keep physical descriptions to a minimum but this fic does feature soulmates being born with matching tattoos, birthmarks, scars, etc. also, this fic was inspired by “the prophecy” by taylor swift ♡ i highly recommend giving it a listen!

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

Soulmate.

A word that fills most people with hope and peace.

Hope for those who have yet to find their other half, but know that it’s only a matter of time. Peace for those who have already found them, and fall asleep each night knowing that they’re exactly where they’re destined to be.

For others, it can be a word synonymous with grief. They found their soulmate and had to say goodbye to them too soon.

But for you, it means nothing. There’s no warmth, but also no ache. No hope, but no loss, either.

Because there’s no point in hoping for something that’s impossible, and you can’t lose what you weren’t allowed to have in the first place.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

“Are you sure you don’t want to come with us?”

You smile, and shake your head. It’s the third time she’s asked in the last half hour. You appreciate the invitation, but the thought of being a fifth wheel is somehow more depressing than spending your Friday night holed up in your bedroom eating an egregious number of peanut butter cookies by yourself.

“I’m sure, Lena.” You try your hardest to sound convincing. “It’s been a long week, anyway. I’m just going to relax and catch up on some laundry.”

She gives you an understanding look. At this point, you know she expects you to find some kind of partial truth based excuse to avoid whatever plans she, Bob, Walker and Ava have.

You can’t help it. It gets to you more than it should - seeing Walker and Ava walk hand in hand while Bob has his arm around Yelena’s shoulder and you awkwardly stand to the side or trail behind them.

It wouldn’t be as big of a deal if Valentina hadn’t used it as a marketing tactic to win people over. The New Avengers: not only did they save all of New York from being consumed by interconnected shame rooms, but four of them found their soulmates in the process!

It’s an effective strategy, you’ll give her that much. Really pulls at the heartstrings. People go fucking crazy over it.

“If you change your mind, you know where we’ll be,” she tells you gently before exiting the kitchen to catch up with the others, leaving you to finish baking your cookies. You exhale, roll up your sleeves, and turn back to the bowl of dough on the counter.

Everyone on the team has their own little rituals. Walker wakes up at the ass crack of dawn every morning to go on a run, no matter the weather. Yelena drinks peppermint tea before bed every night. Baking is your thing.

It’s usually a good distraction. It keeps your hands busy and your mind quiet enough. But tonight, on the six month anniversary of the New Avengers forming, your thoughts are louder than usual.

Tonight makes six months of watching almost all of your teammates fall into the kind of love that you have only ever dreamed about. Walker and Ava. Yelena and Bob. Even Alexei has his soulmate in Melina, Yelena’s mother figure.

You drop another scoop of dough onto the baking sheet and for probably the millionth time, you wonder how different your life would be if your soul mark had survived. If you’d only been old enough to remember what it had looked like before the Red Room erased it. Like Yelena. Hers too had been taken from her, but not before she was old enough to commit it to memory - the initials RR written in black cursive letters on her wrist.

But you’d been even younger than her when the Red Room took you, and you have no memory of what your mark looked like or where it had been on your body.

They vary person to person. Some soulmates are born with matching tattoos, others identical birthmarks or scars. Had yours been your mate’s initials, like Yelena and Bob? Or a constellation like Walker and Ava? Maybe a small, heart shaped scar like Alexei and Melina.

Whatever it had been, the Red Room did a phenomenal job of getting rid of it. You’ve inspected your body from head to toe more times than you can count throughout the years, and you’ve never been able to find the faintest trace of what could have once been a soul mark.

“Chocolate chip?”

A familiar voice interrupts your thoughts as you place the cookie sheet in the oven. You glance over your shoulder to find Bucky taking a seat at the kitchen island, undoubtedly returning from the gym or an evening run.

“Peanut butter, actually,” you hum, trying to ignore the way your heart rate spiked at the sight of him, flushed face and glistening skin.

“Peanut butter? You must be feeling adventurous. Friday night is usually chocolate chip night.”

“What can I say?” You sigh, unable to stop the way the corners of your lips quirk upwards. “Felt like changing things up.”

“It’s my lucky night then. Peanut butter is my favorite.”

Your cheeks heat up. You know peanut butter is his favorite, but you don’t tell him that. Just like the way you’ve memorized how he takes his coffee, or the exact protein powder he prefers - details he’s never actually said aloud, yet somehow, you know. Little things that stick in your mind without effort, even though he isn’t yours to take such notice of.

No matter how much you may wish that was the case.

You might know what his favorite kind of cookies are, but you don’t know the one thing you wish to know the most about him. Where or what his soul mark is.

You’ve never seen it, so it’s safe to assume that it isn’t somewhere highly visible, like his wrist or neck. But you can’t stop yourself from wondering sometimes - what does his mark look like? Has he found his soulmate? He’s single now, but has he always been alone? Maybe it was someone he knew a century ago, before the war? Before Hydra? Before his innocence and bodily autonomy were stripped away? Someone old and gray now, or someone that he’s already lost?

Or is he still searching, all these decades later?

As curious as you are, you don’t ask. Asking someone about their soul mark is like asking about their weight or salary. It’s taboo - you just don’t do it. If they volunteer the information, fine. But Bucky has never mentioned his mark or his mate, so it remains as much of a mystery to you as your own mark.

You realize that you’re staring at him and try to play it off. “Really? I would’ve guessed chocolate chip’s your favorite by the way you ate over half of them last week.”

There’s a look of exaggerated hurt on his face, but he can’t hide the amusement in his eyes. “I can’t believe you’d say that to your most loyal taste-tester.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, well, my most loyal taste-tester is going to have to start pulling his weight if he’s going to keep eating half of the product.”

“Pulling my weight?” His brows shoot up. His eyes dart back and forth from yours to all of the ingredients and baking supplies spread across the kitchen island. “I mean, I’d be happy to, but you’re gonna have to teach me.”

“Teach you?” You snort, unsure if he’s just messing with you. “Have you never made cookies before?”

“Well, not from scratch, no,” he admits with a sheepish grin. “But it’s better to learn at 110 years old than to never learn at all, right?”

You purse your lips to refrain from looking too excited at the prospect of getting to spend your Friday evening teaching him to make cookies, but you don’t doubt that it reaches your eyes. You can think of very few ways that you’d rather spend your time, but you don’t want to seem overeager. He probably just doesn’t have anything better to do tonight.

“I suppose it is your lucky night. I just so happen to have enough ingredients left for one more batch.”

He comes to stand beside you on the other side of the island. With all of the ingredients already on hand, you slide the mixing bowl in front of him. If he really wants to learn to bake cookies, the best way to do so is a little hands on experience.

You can’t help but think he looks a little apprehensive as he picks up a measuring cup. “Don’t tell me the Winter Soldier is intimidated by baking.”

He rolls his eyes, his already flushed cheeks turning a deeper red. “By baking? Psh. No. By how you’re going to critique my cookies? Maybe a little.”

“I’ll try to go easy on you,” you promise. You hand him a piece of paper with your handwritten recipe on it. “Now start by combining the peanut butter, unsalted butter, brown sugar, granulated sugar, and vanilla. Then mix all of that together until it’s smooth. Sound easy enough?”

“I think I can handle that.”

You take a seat on one of the barstools beside him and watch as he takes his time measuring each ingredient before dumping them into the mixing bowl.

Right away, he’s focused. His brows knit together and his lips are pressed in a firm line - by looking at him, you’d think he’s trying to diffuse a bomb instead of measuring out a cup of peanut butter. You try not to stare too hard, but you find it quite endearing.

It’s impossible to not notice the way a thick lock of his dark hair falls into his face when he leans over the bowl, or the way he seems to bite the inside of his cheek when he’s concentrating particularly hard on getting the measurement of the brown sugar just right.

It’s a far more gentle and domestic version of him than you see most days. It hits you how much you long to see this side of him more often. No training, no missions, no teammates surrounding you almost always.

For a moment, you allow yourself to pretend that soulmates don’t exist. That no one has marks that tell them who they should be with. It would be so much easier, in a lot of ways, you think. At least for people like you.

He turns to you, interrupting your thoughts as he shows you the pale brown mixture in the bowl. “Like this?” He asks, an almost eager smile on his face.

“Perfect,” you hum, hoping that your face doesn’t give any of your thoughts away. He smiles, visibly pleased with himself at your praise, and waits for the next set of instructions.

So you do all that you know how to do - push your thoughts down and enjoy this moment for what it is. Even if it’ll never be anything more.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

Bucky had lied to you, and he doesn’t regret it.

Well, partially lied.

Peanut butter cookies aren’t his favorite anymore. They had been - but these days he’s more partial to chocolate chip, thanks to you making the best chocolate chip cookies he’s ever had.

But an excuse to spend the evening with you is a valid reason for telling a white lie, in his opinion. He had been telling the truth when he told you that he’s never baked cookies from scratch before.

What can he say? Baking wasn’t exactly something he was interested in back in his twenties, and he’s been busy, to say the least, since he was pardoned a few years ago. For the first time in over seventy years, life is just now settling down enough for him to think about something as mundane as baking.

No, he’s never cared about baking too much, but that started to change about six months ago. Not even forty-eight hours had passed since The Void had nearly succeeded in turning New York into a giant cloud of shame rooms when he followed the scent of cinnamon and vanilla to the Watchtower’s communal kitchen, where he found you making cinnamon rolls from scratch.

You had been so immersed in rolling the dough into a perfect log that you hadn’t noticed him enter the room. Right away, his eyes were drawn to the dusting of flour that you’d somehow managed to get all over your cheek. He couldn’t help but think back to just forty-eight hours prior when instead of flour on your face, it had been blood and grime from the aftermath of The Void. You were just as pretty then, he thought, but there was something so peaceful about you in that moment that he couldn’t stop himself from watching you.

Until you inevitably looked up and saw him staring at you like a creep.

He had yet to decide whether he wanted to stay at the Watchtower or go home. Valentina had announced to the entire world that you’re all members of the New Avengers and an invitation to live in the Watchtower had been extended to the whole team, but Bucky already had his own place in Brooklyn - a city that had just started to feel like home again.

Did he really want to terminate the lease to his private apartment and move into the Watchtower with a bunch of people that he barely knew and Walker?

But as he stood there and watched you cut the rolled dough into equal sized pieces, the answer became clear to him: with you here, this is place could easily feel like home to him, too.

He felt a little crazy for thinking so. He barely knew you. He’d only met you a few days ago, but every time he was in close proximity to you, he felt it - a faint, phantom tingling sensation deep in the vibranium plating of his left forearm.

Right where his soul mark used to be.

Six months later, he still has to convince himself that he’s imagining it. Even if his mark hadn’t been ripped from his body when he fell from that train nearly a century ago, that isn’t how soul marks work. They aren’t magnets. They don’t tingle or glow or ache when one is in the general vicinity of their soulmate.

It’s wishful thinking for something that he’ll never have. That’s all. His mate is probably in a senior care facility or six feet under already.

He knows this. Reminds himself of it as he falls asleep each night. You and him - the two of you aren’t Bob and Yelena. Or Walker and Ava. No, the two of you didn’t get quite so lucky. His mark exists only in his memory and yours is a mystery even to you.

He wonders though, when he’s reminding himself of these things, if it would really be so crazy to forget about it all - soul marks, destiny, fate - and just choose each other.

Because when he looks at you, he finds it hard to care about the lack of ink on your skin. He thinks about what his own mark looked like, and the thought of yours having been different doesn’t lessen his feelings for you.

Maybe it should. Maybe he should hold out hope that his mate is still out there, waiting for him with a mark identical to the one he once had.

But the thought of that doesn’t excite him like it should. It fills him with a sense of dread. Because in the unlikely event of finding his soulmate at 110 years old, he’d be forced to face the reality that it isn’t you.

So instead, he hangs onto the tiniest sliver of hope he feels every time the phantom itch in the crevice of his vibranium arm flares up.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

“This sure would be a lot easier if someone could fly.”

The twelve foot tall tree in the middle of the New Avenger’s common area is almost fully decorated. Through the combined efforts of all seven of you, the branches of the bottom two-thirds of the tree now twinkle with ornaments and lights of every shape and color.

There’s no theme whatsoever, and it looks like a bunch of five year olds got their hands on it, but it’s been a lot more fun than you expected it to be. You don’t remember the last time you decorated a Christmas tree. Plus, Walker has only been somewhat of a control freak.

Bob rolls his eyes at Walker’s teasing and hands Yelena another ornament from where he stands at the base of her ladder. “Why don’t you try to fly, Walker?” says Yelena, always quick to match his energy. “Just step right off of that ladder and give it your best effort.”

You shake your head at them, focusing on the shimmery gold ornament in your hand. Unlike Yelena and Walker, you don’t have a ladder, instead choosing to add a final few ornaments to the bottom half of the tree. The branch you want to hang it on is just out of reach, even standing as tall as you possibly can on the tips of your toes. You lean a little farther, wishing your arm was just an inch longer—

Yelena yelps and Walker curses as the entire tree shifts slightly. Your foot slips on the tree skirt and you brace yourself to fall directly into the tree when firm hands grab onto your hips from behind, steadying you.

You instinctively step back, trying to put space between you and the gargantuan tree before you can completely knock it over, your back colliding with a solid mass that stops you in your tracks. You’re vaguely aware of Walker scolding you to be careful, but all you can focus on is the stark contrast of warm skin and cold metal on either side of your waist.

“I assumed that Alexei would be the one almost accidentally knocking over the tree,” Bucky laughs lowly. You feel the soft vibration of it against your back. Only when you tilt your head to look up at him does he drop his hold on your waist and step back.

“He doesn’t have enough eggnog in him yet,” you mumble, your cheeks hot from the sudden close proximity. “Give it another hour and we’ll see if this tree is still standing upright.”

Without taking his eyes off of you, he takes the ornament that you’d been attempting to hang on the tree out of your hand and comes to stand beside you. “Where did you want this?”

“Oh - uh,” you look away from him, back to the tree in front of you. Your eyes dart around, suddenly unable to pinpoint the branch that had seemed like the perfect spot just moments ago. “Just…right here,” you shrug, motioning to a random branch in the general vicinity of where you’d been reaching.

He smiles, placing the ornament on the branch without any difficulty. Show off.

“Is that good?” He asks, his gaze back on you.

“That’s perfect.” You nod a bit too quickly and your voice sounds breathier than intended, but if he notices, he doesn’t say anything.

He’s just being helpful, you tell yourself. He didn’t want you to fall into a tree. You would’ve knocked the entire thing over and dozens of ornaments would have shattered and then—

Yelena calls your name, breaking the tension between you. She’s climbing down from her ladder with an amused expression. “We are completely out of ornament hooks. Will you come with me to buy more?”

Something about the look on her face makes you nervous to say yes, but the alternative is to stay here and try to pretend like Bucky didn’t just make your brain completely short circuit, so you agree.

As soon as the elevator is in motion, she turns to you with a smile that makes your stomach tie itself in knots.

“I have a confession to make.”

You exhale. “Let me guess. We aren’t actually out of hooks?”

“Nope.”

You brace yourself. This would not be the first time she’s broached the subject - you and Bucky. She’s made little teasing comments here and there over the last few months, but she’s never pushed you too much. But between finding an excuse to get you alone and the look on her face, you know your luck has run out.

“So,” she continues, infuriatingly casual. “Who do you think will be the first to break? You or Bucky? Personally, I think it will be Bucky. Bob thinks it could go either way, but I suppose only time will tell.”

You snort, refusing to look her in the eye. Not that it matters - she can see right through you, anyway. “I hate to disappoint, but you’re wasting your time placing bets on me and Bucky. We’re just friends. That’s all. You know that,” you add in a smaller voice.

From your peripheral vision, you can see her shaking her head. “Just friends do not look at each other like that.”

“And how do we look at each other, exactly?”

You can’t help it. The question leaves your lips before you can stop yourself. It shouldn’t matter. The answer serves no purpose other than satisfying a selfish curiosity. Whatever she says won’t change the truth of the matter: you and Bucky will never be anything more than you are right now. Whatever that is.

“He…looks at you like you hung the moon and stars. Like you are the moon and stars, really.” She may have been joking about her and Bob betting on your love life, but she’s completely serious now. “And you…well, you look at him like he is the only thing you really want but will not let yourself have.”

The elevator comes to a stop at the first floor of the Watchtower. A large group of people are waiting to enter as soon as the doors open, and you can’t help but feel grateful for the brief moment it gives you to process what Yelena had just said. She grabs you by the arm, looping hers through yours as she guides you through the throng of people.

You don’t even bother trying to argue. Do you really believe that Bucky looks at you as if you hung the moon and stars? No, but Yelena does, and when she has truly made up her mind about something, there’s no point in trying to convince her otherwise.

“I don’t suppose it really matters, does it?” You sigh. “At the end of the day, facial expressions aren’t what make people…” You trail off, unable to bring yourself to say the word. It tastes a little more sour every time you do.

“Soulmates?”

“Yeah,” you grimace. “Soulmates.”

She doesn’t say anything for a moment. Just hums to herself in thought. Then, she hugs your arm tighter, as if you might go sprinting down the street at what she says next.

“Have you ever considered that it doesn’t matter as much as you think it does?”

You tense beneath her touch. “That’s easy—”

“Easy for me to say, I know,” she interrupts. “I know our situations are not exactly the same. I do not know how you feel. But I am not blind. I see the way you look at each other…it reminds me of how Bob and I look at each other. How Walker and Ava look at each other. How every pair of soulmates I have ever known have looked at each other.”

When you don’t respond, she continues. “It is only natural for you to wish to know the truth. But you may never get the answers you long for. Does that really mean you should resign yourself to being alone for the rest of your life when love is right in front of you?”

You swallow hard, trying to force down the sudden lump in your throat. “I don’t think it’s that simple.”

“Maybe not,” she agrees. “But simple or not, it’s still a choice that you have. The Red Room tried to take that choice away from you. All I’m saying is that you should not let them.”

You could tell her to drop it. Part of you wants to. Part of you wants to say but they already did. But deep down, you know she isn’t entirely wrong.

Truthfully, you’ve never had much of a reason to care. For as long as you can remember, you have told yourself that it doesn’t matter - the lack of answers. The matter of choice. You had resigned yourself to a life of solitude a long time ago. You’d made peace with it all. At least, as much as you could.

But that was before you met someone that made you want to say screw destiny and question all of the rules.

That was before Bucky.

“You’re really nosey sometimes. You know that?”

She snorts a laugh. “I might be nosey, but I am also right. Usually. Most of the time.”

You roll your eyes. “That’s reassuring.”

“Let me ask you this,” she implores. “If you were to find out today that he is not your soulmate, would it change the way you feel about him? Or would you still love him?”

“No pressure to answer me,” she continues quickly. “Just…give it some thought, yes?”

As if it doesn’t already consume your every waking thought.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

Bucky had been naive to think that he’d actually get to sleep in today. He hasn’t had a Saturday off in nearly two months, why would today be any different?

No, he isn’t surprised when his phone buzzes with a text from Valentina to the team’s group chat demanding a last minute meeting at the crack of dawn this morning.

Zero indication as to what is so urgent, of course. That’s not Valentina’s communication style. Just be at this place, at this time, and don’t ask any questions.

He’d been having the best dream, too. A dream he’s had more times than he can count - not all that much different than what he daydreams about while awake, but it always feels more lifelike when conjured by his subconscious.

You, prancing around an apartment that overlooks the city. He doesn’t recognize the place, but it looks how he’d imagine home to be. Low, soft lighting and a vase of fresh wildflowers on a dining room table just big enough for two. Occasionally, a small white cat makes an appearance, weaving herself between Bucky’s legs and purring in an effort to get his attention.

You never say a word. You don’t need to. He’s content to watch as you chop vegetables at the kitchen island, bare-faced and wearing nothing but an oversized t-shirt. Every few minutes, you glance up from your task and smile at him.

It’s simple. Impossibly so. There’s no New Avengers, no missions or impending doom. It’s just you and him, somewhere entirely your own. And it always ends too soon.

Reality is never quite as sweet.

Listening to Walker, Yelena, and Valentina all try to talk over each other at seven o’clock in the morning on a Saturday, before he’s had a chance to take a sip of coffee… that’s his reality.

You sit directly across from him, slouched back in your chair and pinching the bridge of your nose with your eyes closed. Bucky is at least attempting to hide his displeasure at this morning’s agenda, but yours is on full display. This doesn’t surprise him in the slightest, as you aren’t much of a morning person even in the best of circumstances.

“Alright, alright!” Val snaps at Yelena and Walker with enough bite to shut them up. Then, addressing the whole group with a sarcastic smile, “How lovely of you all to join me this morning.”

“Didn’t really have a choice, did we?” Ava mumbles.

“No, you didn’t,” Valentina agrees. “I have a flight to Mumbai to catch in a few hours so I need to get this over with.” In front of her are a stack of manila folders. One at a time, she slides the folders across the table to each member, starting with you.

Bucky watches as you open yours with a yawn, your tired expression morphing into something between confusion and unease within seconds of skimming the first page. Your eyes dart back and forth between Valentina and whatever it is you’re seeing. Bucky opens his folder the second it lands in front of him.

“What the hell is this?” You ask, not bothering to hide the annoyance in your voice.

Bucky’s eyes scan the first page. Key words catch his attention: Slovakia. Decommissioned Hydra warehouse. Low frequency signal detected. Encrypted, Hydra coding.

He knows this facility. He’s never been there personally, but he knows someone who has.

Someone sitting directly across from him, looking like she’s seconds away from jumping across the table and throttling Valentina or throwing up.

“This should be straight forward,” Val answers. “Details can be found in the dossiers I’ve given you all. All you really need to know is that there’s some kind of low frequency signal pinging from what should be an inactive Hydra base in Slovakia. The site was flagged three days ago. It’s weak and intermittent, but seeing as how Hydra fell over a decade ago, it should not exist.”

“So? What?” Yelena huffs. “You want us to do a welfare check on a haunted warehouse?”

“You’re verifying that the site is empty,” Val clarifies impatiently. “If it’s not, you neutralize whatever is there and secure anything of value. Files, tech, archives.”

Your eyes snap back to Valentina at that.

“You know your way around, I presume?” Val directs the question at you. “You were stationed there for a brief time, after all.”

Your face is unreadable. Bucky normally prides himself on being able to read you like an open book, but right now, he’s drawing blanks. When you’d first opened the folder, you looked like you were seeing a ghost. Now, your expression is impassive - eerily calm for someone who has just learned they’re being asked to return to a place they were once held prisoner and pumped full of drugs that took away their free will.

Whatever you’re feeling, whatever you’re thinking, you’re doing a great job at hiding it.

“If by brief time you mean over ten years,” you say flatly, “then yes. I know my way around.”

“That’s why you’re running point on this operation. No one else has been—”

“It can’t be too difficult of a place to navigate, can it?” Bucky speaks up for the first time since entering the briefing room. “Most Hydra bases are roughly the same. I’m sure that the five of us can handle it ourselves.” He glances around the room at Yelena, Ava, Walker, and Alexei. “I don’t think it’s necessary to make her go back—”

“I’m fine, Bucky,” you interrupt, gentle but firm. “No one is making me do anything.”

“Perfect.” The annoyed look on Val’s face is quickly replaced with a satisfied smirk. “The jet leaves in twenty-four hours. You’re dismissed.”

And just like that, the meeting is over. Chairs scrape back against the floor. Ava and Walker are already halfway to the door, Walker muttering something about Val wasting his weekends under his breath. Alexei follows, declaring he’s going to sleep the entire flight to Slovakia. Only Yelena hesitates, looking at you as she stands. She seems to be searching for the same answers as Bucky, but when you don’t look up from the folder in front of you, she reluctantly follows the others.

Bucky doesn’t move.

You slowly close your folder with a steady exhale. When you finally stand, you don’t look at him. You’re the only two left in the room, and you don’t say a word to him as you start to walk towards the door with the folder clutched to your chest.

“Hey,” he calls softly, standing to follow you. “Wait.”

You stop just short of the entryway. For a second, he thinks you won’t turn around at all. When you do, your expression isn’t quite as stoic as it was moments ago. Your face mostly remains neutral, but there’s a storm of emotions in your eyes.

“You’re sure you’re okay with this?” He asks, his voice low even though you’re alone now. “Going back there?”

You give a small shrug. “We’ve had plenty of missions far more complicated than this.”

He frowns. “That’s not what I asked. I’m asking about you.”

“I know what you’re asking, Bucky,” you say flatly, “and I said I’m fine. I’m going with you guys. Alright? Drop it.”

You’re turning around and walking away before he can get another word out. He stands there, staring after you with his mouth agape and your name on the tip of his tongue.

He feels it as he watches you disappear down the hallway. The faint but undeniable phantom itch in the bend of his vibranium arm. His flesh hand comes to rest atop the spot where his soul mark used to be.

It may as well be a tiny devil perched on his shoulder urging him to chase after you.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

You don’t go back to your room.

You take the file and go straight to the roof of the Watchtower. It’s windy, and cold, but the alternative is your bedroom where the silence is just a little too loud right now.

There’s something about the hum of the bustling city below that serves as calming white noise to your mind when it’s whirling. So, you often come up here when you need to clear your head.

There’s a small part of you that expects - and selfishly hopes - that Bucky will follow you. Still, you aren’t surprised when he doesn’t. You’d been short with him when he had shown concern for you, and he didn’t deserve that.

You’ll apologize to him later. It’s probably for the best that you aren’t near him at the moment, anyway. Looking at him will only make you second guess what you’re about to do.

Of course you don’t want to go back to Slovakia. Going back there is something that had never even crossed your mind until Val said the word archives and a lightbulb went off in your brain.

Archives that might not even exist anymore. That might have been destroyed ages ago. That might have never existed in the first place.

Archives with information about you.

You had been stationed there for over a decade, after all. You and dozens of other widows at various points. There had to have been some sort of records about all of you. Personal history, special abilities, weaknesses. Operations and procedures you’d undergone throughout your life. Maybe, just maybe - the smallest maybe possibly ever - documentation about your soul mark and its removal.

It’s a long shot. But it isn’t impossible.

And if you’re ever going to get an answer to the question that most people never even have to ask themselves because the answer is displayed on their bodies, this is your chance. What are the odds that you’ll ever have another?

You tighten your grip on the file in your hands as if the wind might carry it away. You try to read through the first few pages of the dossier, but all of the words just run together on the page. After trying to read the same paragraph for a fifth time, you slam the folder closed with a huff.

You can’t retain any of the information because you can’t get his fucking face out of your head.

Every time you picture his ocean eyes, or his plush pink lips, or his effortlessly perfect hair that most people would only be able to achieve with the help of a Dyson Airwrap, it makes your conversation with Yelena replay in your mind.

Have you ever considered that it doesn’t matter as much as you think it does?

If you were to find out today that he is not your soulmate, would it change the way you feel about him?

Or would you still love him?

Deep down, you know the answer. No, it wouldn’t make a difference. You’d love him. You’d love him no matter the truth.

But he has a mate. There’s someone for him, somewhere. And maybe, just maybe, if you can see proof that you have a mate - that there’s someone, somewhere meant for you - it’ll at least lessen the ache that you feel in your chest every time you look at him.

That’s what you’re going to keep telling yourself, anyway.

“I can tell that you’re plotting something.”

The sudden voice makes you nearly jump out of your skin. You jerk your head around fast enough to give yourself whiplash, though you know who it is before you see him.

“I’m not sure what it is,” Bucky shrugs, thumbs hooked in the front pockets of his jeans. “But I know you well enough to know you’re plotting something.”

You huff, though this time it’s more out of amusement than frustration. You look away from him, back to the morning skyline in front of you. “How’d you know that I’m up here?”

Soft steps thud against concrete until you feel his shoulder brush against yours.

“Like I said. I know you well enough.”

You hum. He might be a little cocky, but he isn’t wrong.

Here you are, as suspected. Plotting.

“I’m sorry I snapped at you,” you say, partially because it’s true and partially because it’s easier to apologize than it is to confirm or deny his assumption. You glance at him to find that he’s already looking at you.

He shrugs again. “I’ll let it slide if you tell me what you came up here to think about.”

You sigh. You know him well enough, too. Well enough to know he isn’t going to drop this easily. You breathe in, bracing yourself for what you’re about to say. Bracing yourself for whatever his reaction may be.

“I’m thinking about something I’m going to do in Slovakia.”

He shifts his weight, turning to face you fully and leaning against the railing. “Okay,” he says patiently. “Do you want to tell me what that is?”

You swallow hard, choosing to stare down at your hands instead of meeting his eyes.

“There might be files in the base,” you start. “Might be leftover archives. Records with information about the widows that were stationed there.” Your face warms under his stare but you still can’t bring yourself to look up. “I want to check. I want to see if there’s anything about me. About my past, what was done to me as a child. About what was…taken from me.”

For a moment, the silence between you is filled only with the sound of traffic below and the low howl of wind. And then—

“Okay,” he murmurs.

Your head snaps up. You blink. “Okay..?”

“Yeah,” he nods. “If you think there’s something there worth looking for, then we will look.”

We.

You shake your head. “No. You don’t have to—”

“I know.” His voice is gentle, but there’s no trace of pity. “I know I don’t have to. But you shouldn’t have to face that alone.”

Your mouth opens but nothing comes out. You aren’t entirely sure what you expected him to say, but it wasn’t this - no hesitation, no questions asked.

It makes your chest ache in a way that you can’t fully explain. There’s gratitude, but there’s also fear. Gratitude that he’s willing to help you with something so deeply personal. Fear that maybe the outcome - should you actually succeed in finding what you’re searching for - won’t affect him either way.

It crosses your mind, just for a split second, that you should ask him right then and there. What is your soul mark? Is it on your chest, your ribcage, your back? Do you hope that mine looks exactly like it?

But you don’t. You’re too scared of the answers.

“It might be a giant waste of time,” you murmur instead. “I don’t even know for certain if there were ever any files to begin with. Let alone all these years later…”

“If it helps bring you peace of mind,” he says softly, his gaze unwavering, “then it isn’t a waste of time.” He offers a small smile, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You deserve answers. Whatever they may be.”

You nod because you don’t trust your voice enough to speak.

Best case scenario? A slight tremor in your voice when you try to say thank you.

Worst case scenario? You word vomit every thought you’ve had since learning you’ll be returning to Slovakia.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

Bucky wishes that he could be selfish when it comes to you. With every fiber of his being, with every molecule, he wants to be selfish.

And if he loved you just a little bit less, he would be. If he didn’t love you enough to care more about your happiness than his own, he wouldn’t hesitate to tell you that he doesn’t want you to step foot anywhere in Slovakia.

But he does love you that much. He loves you enough to stand by your side as you search for the revelation that fate says you belong with someone who isn’t him.

Not only stand by you - actively help you make that discovery.

Because if anyone deserves to know the truth, if anyone deserves that shot at finding true love, it’s you. Even if it leads to you eventually finding your soulmate and he has to watch you fall in love. Even if it isn’t with him.

“So, what’s the plan?” Bucky murmurs low enough that none of the other super-soldiers in the jet can hear him, taking a seat directly across from you. “Val put you in charge here, so I’m assuming you have a plan. What are we doing?”

Yelena is piloting with Ava beside her in the cockpit. Walker is cleaning his guns a few yards away and Alexei appears to be sleeping, but he isn’t snoring loudly enough to rock the whole damn jet, so Bucky isn’t convinced.

A couple hours into the nine hour flight to Bratislava, you’re curled up in one of the leather seats by the window with the mission folder open across your lap. You sit up straighter, your knees brushing against his.

“My memory is a bit hazy since I was under chemical subjugation the whole time I was there,” you say quietly, closing the file and glancing out the window beside you. “But from what I can remember, the building’s layout was relatively straight forward. I doubt it has changed very much.”

“We’ll sweep the basement,” you continue, now looking at him. “You and me. If there are any sort of archives, that’s where they’ll be. Yelena and Alexei will take the east wing and Ava and Walker will take the west. If they find anything of concern, we abandon our little side quest and go to them right away. Even if things go smoothly, we won’t have a lot of time to search. Ten, maybe fifteen minutes max.”

He nods in agreement. “However much time we have, we’ll make it count.”

You purse your lips, once again looking back to the endless expanse of ocean and sky outside of the jet. You’re nervous - he can tell by the tension in your jaw and the way you’re fidgeting with a ring on your thumb. He just isn’t sure if you’re more scared of not finding answers… or finding them.

“Hey.” He leans forward and braces his forearms on his thighs. His hand comes to rest on your knee - a featherlight touch to remind you that he’s there. That he’s with you, no matter how this goes. Your gaze flashes down to his flesh hand on your leg and then to his face.

“I mean it,” he murmurs. “We’ll take however much time we can get it. If there’s anything down there worth finding, we’ll do everything in our power to find it.”

You huff a humorless laugh. “You seem awfully sure for someone who’s never seen the place.”

He shrugs, his lips quirking ever so slightly. “Call it a gut feeling.”

That’s what he’s been calling it, anyway. Because he doesn’t know how else to explain the way he just knows that by this time tomorrow, everything will be different.

For better or for worse.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

The abandoned base is somehow even colder than you remember it being. Despite the well below freezing winter temperatures, you’re sweating through your tactical suit.

Yelena had noticed that you were distracted. Of course she had noticed. You’d barely been able to give everyone their mission instructions because your thoughts were running wild with all of the unknowns - all of your questions that may or may be answered by the time you’re back on the jet.

You’d tried your hardest to lie through your teeth and assure her that you’re fine. You doubt you were very convincing, but thankfully she didn’t have time to hound you before she needed to land the jet.

Like muscle memory, you find your way down to the lowermost level with Bucky right beside you. He’s been uncharacteristically quiet since your conversation on the flight to Slovakia, but the warmth from his arm brushing against yours every few steps is enough to keep you from completely spiraling at the unwelcome familiarity that has crept into your bones since you crossed the threshold of the building.

The overhead lights are long dead, leaving only the illumination of your flashlights to guide the way. Every sound feels infinitely louder down here, from the scuff of your boots against the concrete to the slow, steady drip of water from somewhere in the distance.

“This is it,” you whisper, more to yourself than to him. “This is the last level. I think.”

Bucky nods. “You’re doing good.”

You want to laugh at that. Your hands won’t stop shaking and your heart is beating so hard it feels like it’s trying to break out of your ribs. You’re barely keeping your composure.

A left turn. Then a right. You don’t have to think about it. Your body begins to remember the path, even if your brain wishes it didn’t. Soon, you stop in front of a rusted metal door. An old biometric lock is nothing but a dead panel now, a spiderweb of cracks running across the busted screen.

Bucky steps forward without hesitation. He wedges his metal fingers into the seam of the door and pulls. The screech of rusted hinges ricochets down the empty corridor, loud enough to make you flinch.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. He isn’t looking at the door - he’s looking at you, checking if you’re still with him. “You okay?”

You swallow and nod once.

Inside, the room is dark and the air is thick with dust and disuse. But the outline of shelves and dozens of tall, metal filing cabinets are visible in the glow of your flashlights.

Your stomach somersaults. This has to be it. If anything is to be found, it’s in this room. Bucky called it a gut feeling, but you feel it in your bones.

You don’t even know where to start. This had been one of the very few rooms completely off limits to the widows. Of course, you’d never questioned it at the time, but now you hope that the restriction had been in place to prevent you and the other girls from discovering certain information.

Bucky shines his flashlight towards the far right of the room. “We’ll start on opposite sides,” he suggests quietly. “Meet in the middle?”

He pauses, his gaze settling on your face before taking a step inside the room. He looks like he wants to ask are you sure you’re ready for this?

You wouldn’t know how to answer that if he asked. But you came all this way, so you suppose you have no choice but to be ready.

“Okay,” you whisper.

You move to the nearest cabinet. The metal handle is icy beneath your fingers. You hesitate for half a heartbeat and then pull it open with a rusty screech.

Inside are rows and rows of old manila folders, each labeled in Russian. You curse under your breath - your Russian is a bit rusty to say the least. You primarily spoke Slovak and Hungarian.

Dates. Identification codes. Names that you don’t recognize. Words in a language you aren’t fluent in.

You take a deep breath and begin flipping through the files. One by one, line by line, until you’re confident that each one contains nothing of value.

You try to move as strategically as possible, forcing yourself not to rush even though the voice in the back of your head keeps reminding you that you don’t have much time. Any of your teammates could call for help at any given moment.

Most of the files are filled with incident logs and mission reports, some are behavioral assessments of girls who may or may not still be alive. You don’t recognize any names.

You grab one at random and flip it open.

Not you. Another widow - someone you didn’t even know that you remembered until right now, looking at a grainy, black and white Polaroid of her young face.

You can feel your heartbeat pounding in your ears.

Is she still alive? Did she make it out of this place? Has she found safety? Happiness? A life for herself, like you have?

“Any luck yet?”

Bucky’s voice snaps you out of your trance. You clear your throat, quickly closing the file and cramming it back in the drawer.

“No,” you murmur, voice strained. “Nothing yet. Nothing about me.”

You keep going. Third cabinet, then fourth, then fifth.

Your stomach feels as if it is tying itself in knots, each drawer that turns up empty making bile rise higher in your throat. Maybe this was stupid. Maybe there’s nothing here. Maybe Bucky was wrong, maybe you were wrong, maybe this is a waste of time and—

Your fingers halt on a tab. The label is faded and the ink is smudged with age, but the writing is still visible. Still legible. Numbers - it’s how they identified you. Widows were just numbers to them. Just assets. Not people worthy of names.

“Bucky.”

Your voice is only a notch above a whisper, but he hears you. He pauses what he’s doing right away and walks the short distance to where you stand frozen with the manila folder clutched in your trembling hands.

“68465,” he breathes, then glances up at you. “That’s you?”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “This is me.” You place the flashlight you’re still gripping tight on top of the filing cabinet to take the file in both hands.

You could be seconds away from answers. From closure.

Still, you hesitate. Your mouth goes painfully dry and your fingers hover over the cover as you’re hit with the overwhelming realization that whatever you see when you open this file cannot be unlearned. Once you open it, there’s no going back.

But you came all this way for this. 4,263 miles, to be exact.

You take a deep breath and start to pull the cover back.

“Wait.”

Bucky’s vibranium hand closes around your wrist before the folder opens a fraction of an inch. You freeze, looking up at him. He’s already looking at you, mouth parted like he’s on the verge of saying something but holding himself back.

“What?” You breathe. “What is it?”

He doesn’t drop your hand. His grip is loose enough that you could pull away if you wanted to. But you’re still frozen in place, your heart pounding in your chest.

“Before you open that, there’s something you need to know. Something that I should have told you before now,” he says, voice low.

You nod because you don’t trust your voice enough to speak.

“I don’t care what that file says,” he starts, looking at you with a kind of intensity that you’ve never seen from him before. “It doesn’t matter to me.” He pauses, exhaling a shaky breath.

You shake your head meekly. “I don’t understand—”

“Because I’m in love with you.”

The confession is followed by the kind of silence that would allow you to hear a pin drop from down the hallway. You blink, trying to convince yourself that this isn’t your subconscious playing some kind of twisted joke on you.

Your body feels numb except for where the icy vibranium of his fingers still grip your wrist. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

“I’m sorry if that’s weird for you to hear,” he continues, swallowing thickly. “I know my timing isn’t great. But I needed you to hear it. At least once. Before everything changes. I’m in love with you. Even if you open that file and find out that you’re meant to be with someone else. Even if your mark looks nothing like mine, it won’t change the way I feel about you. I’ll love you just the same as I do right now.”

You hold your breath the entire time he’s speaking, only exhaling when heavy silence settles over the room and you feel lightheaded. A thousand different questions race through your mind.

“Bucky—”

Crackling static from your comms interrupt whatever thought hasn't even finished forming inside your head when you speak his name.

Yelena’s voice fills the silence and Bucky finally drops your hand.

“Guys? We think we found the source of the signal,” she calls, blissfully unaware of what she is interrupting. “Looks like some old equipment came back online. Probably just wires short circuiting from the recent snowstorm.”

Walker’s voice pours from the comms next, muttering some complaint about traveling so far for nothing, but you’re not paying attention to him.

Neither is Bucky. His gaze drops from your face down to the file in your hands.

“Barnes?” Yelena calls, followed by your name. “Can you two hear us?”

You click on your comm without looking away from him. “Yeah,” you answer, your voice cracking. “We hear you. Let’s get out of here.”

It’s not that you want to walk away from him. It’s that you can’t fucking think straight while he’s looking at you the way that he is. Like you have the ability to break his heart into pieces with whatever you choose to say next.

And even if you didn’t know that was possible until two minutes ago, breaking his heart is the last thing you ever want to do. But he just dropped a nuclear level bomb and said the last words you ever fucking expected him to say to you.

You don’t know what to think. What to feel. You’re torn between kissing him, looking in your file for the answers you came here for, and screaming at the top of your lungs.

You do none of these things, of course.

Instead of doing something in the heat of the moment that you might regret, you tuck the file under your arm and turn to walk away.

You haven’t even taken three steps when a hand closes around your wrist again. This time, warm skin instead of vibranium. You immediately come to a halt - both your steps and your breathing.

“Say something,” he pleads, voice low. “Anything.”

You don’t look back. Can’t quite bear to face him. At least until you’ve had a chance to clear your head and attempt to make sense of what you’re feeling right now.

But you don’t pull your hand away, either.

“I just need some time to think,” you whisper, though it feels like you’re shouting in the eerily quiet warehouse basement. “I don’t know what to say, Bucky. I just..need some time.”

His fingers twitch around your wrist like he’s debating whether he should let go or hold on. “Okay,” he whispers back. “I can wait. When you know what to say, you know where to find me.”

God. He’s so good. Gentle, patient, understanding. Even now, when you can’t bring yourself to say the one thing he most wants to hear.

You nod because your throat is too tight for words. You nod because if you open your mouth, you’ll let your heart make a decision that you aren’t ready for.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

The flight is calm in the familiar way that they usually are after missions. Everyone is ready to be home, and annoyed that the trip to Slovakia was essentially for nothing.

Well, to their knowledge, it was for nothing. Everyone except for Bucky remains unaware of what transpired in the warehouse basement, as you had managed to conceal your file in the interior of your tactical vest until you made it back to the jet.

Yelena was quick to curl up under a blanket across the aisle from you, her face now lit by the glow of her phone as she FaceTimes with Bob. Walker and Ava are cuddled up on a cot that is far too small for the both of them, already fast asleep. You’re not really sure where Alexei is - probably raiding the nonperishable food supply in the back of the jet.

Bucky, who detests flying and usually does everything in his power to get out of doing so, took it upon himself to pilot the trip back to Manhattan.

As soon as everyone was properly distracted, you crammed the file into your duffel bag. Out of sight, but far from out of mind.

You’d been so sure that you were moments away from answers. And you had been - just not the answers that you were expecting.

Bucky loves you. He’s in love with you.

You haven’t gone a full minute without replaying his exact words in your head since he first said them.

I don’t care what that file says. It doesn’t matter to me. Because I’m in love with you. I needed you to hear it. At least once. Before everything changes.

Say something. Anything.

But it isn’t any of these words that echo the loudest in your mind. Not the confession or the pleading for a response. No, it’s something else that he said - something that answers a question you’ve had since you met him but never had the courage to ask.

Even if your mark looks nothing like mine, it won’t change the way I feel about you.

The implication of the words isn’t lost on you. Maybe your mark doesn’t match his - but there’s a chance that it could. There’s a chance it could because he’s never found his soulmate.

Not at any point in the thirties or forties. Not during the war. Not when he was in and out of cryofreeze for decades, not during his time in Romania or Wakanda, not after the blip.

The weight of that truth sinks in as you lift your gaze toward the cockpit. You can only see the edge of his profile from here, the line of his jaw illuminated by the soft light of the controls.

The sight of him makes your chest ache. You dig your nails into the leather of your seat to resist standing up and going to him right now.

He loves you. Not because he’s meant to, not because a mark on his skin tells him to, but of his own free will. And that’s enough for you. More than enough - enough to keep the file closed and choose him, too.

And when you get back home, that’s exactly what you plan to do.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

Bucky doesn’t remember the walk from the jet to his bedroom. He barely even remembers going through the motions of showering five minutes ago, let alone flying a jet from Slovakia back to New York.

Honestly, it’s a miracle that he got everyone back safely. The last thing he should have been doing was piloting a fucking jet, but he needed something to focus on other than you.

You, and what he said to you, and how you looked at him in the old archive room where he begged you to say anything.

Maybe he should have kept his mouth shut. Maybe he should have just let you open the file. But he knew that once you did, he may never have the chance again. He knew that if he didn’t say it then, he may never say it at all.

And saying it hadn’t felt wrong. How could it? He meant every word. He meant it when he said he loves you, he meant it when he said that he doesn’t care if your mark doesn’t match his, and he meant it when he said that he can wait for you.

He sinks down on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, hair still damp from the shower and dripping onto the floorboards. He should be exhausted. He is exhausted. The digital alarm clock by his bedside reads that it’s nearly four in the morning. But his mind hasn’t stopped spinning since the moment you pulled away from him in that cold, musty archive room.

He has yet to stop replaying the look on your face. Equal parts disbelief and shock mixed with something that he wants to believe was longing. You may not have verbally returned his sentiments, but the way you’d looked at him had given him hope. At least a little.

He doesn’t blame you for not answering. Hell, what answer had he expected? You’d literally been holding the file in your hands and he physically stopped you from opening it when you were seconds away from learning crucial information about yourself.

Information you’d been denied your entire life. Information that he had no idea what it was like to not have. At least, not in the same way as you. He may have lost his arm, and with it his soul mark, back in the forties when he fell from that train - but he eventually regained his memories. This was your only chance to know what most people know about themselves their whole lives.

And he’d essentially asked you to choose him without knowing it. Without knowing anything other than he loves you.

That wasn’t fair.

He wonders if you’ve opened the file yet. Or if you crawled in bed and fell asleep as soon as you closed the door to your bedroom. Or if you happen to be wide awake and borderline spiraling like he is right now.

A quiet sound pulls him from his thoughts. A soft, tentative two tap knock against his bedroom door.

He freezes. For a split second, he thinks he imagined it - that it’s just sleep deprivation and he’s hallucinating. But a moment later, he hears it again.

“Bucky?” You call softly from the other side of the door. If he didn’t have heightened senses, he likely wouldn’t have heard you at all.

He’s on his feet before his brain makes the conscious decision to move. When he opens the door, you’re standing there. Barefoot in plaid pajama shorts and a tank top, file clutched to your chest.

“Hi,” you whisper. Your voice is hoarse, like you haven’t used it since the warehouse.

Bucky swallows. “Hi.”

“I know it’s late but…” You shift your weight nervously, looking down at the ground. “Is it okay if I come in?”

“Of course,” he murmurs, stepping aside and opening the door wider for you. “Always.”

For one, impossibly long moment, neither of you speak. You pause near the foot of his bed, looking like you aren’t sure if you should sit or continue to stand.

He parts his lips to speak when you take the words right out of his mouth.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt out.

He stiffens. “Sorry? For what?”

“For…back there.” You lift your eyes to meet his. “For not saying anything. For just walking away and leaving you hanging.” Your throat bobs as you swallow. He opens his mouth to tell you that you don’t owe him any kind of apology, that he shouldn’t have put you on the spot like that, that he understands - but you keep speaking before he can.

“I haven’t looked,” you murmur, looking down at the file in your hands. You release a shaky breath and toss the folder onto his bed. “Haven’t opened it. I didn’t even touch it again until I came here.”

His breath catches in his chest. He tries not to look relieved - knows he shouldn’t feel that way, but selfishly does. “You didn’t?”

“No.” You shake your head. “There’s something else I want to do more.”

You take a step closer to him. And then another. And another, until you’re close enough that he can feel warmth radiating from your chest and smell notes of vanilla from your perfume. Until you’re close enough that he can count each individual eyelash.

He doesn’t move. Couldn’t even if he tried.

Your eyes lock onto his, seemingly searching for some hint of hesitation that you aren’t going to find. Then, your gaze flickers to his lips and he swears his heart stops beating until the moment he feels your lips touch his.

The first brush of your lips is featherlight and still manages to send a shock through him. Your hands hover against his chest for a brief moment before curling into the fabric of his t-shirt and pulling him down to you.

He melts. There’s no better way to describe the way his vibranium hand grips your waist and flesh hand raises to cup the side of your neck, tilting your head slightly to deepen the kiss.

You’re somehow even fucking sweeter than he imagined you’d be. One taste of the birthday cake flavored balm on your lips and it suddenly makes sense why he fell from that train over seventy years ago.

He tries and fails to swallow a groan as your fingers trail up his chest, over his shoulders and into the still damp strands of his hair.

You let out the tiniest whimper against his mouth when his tongue rakes over the swell of your bottom lip and he’s convinced he’s dreaming. He had to have passed out when he got home and this is one of his dreams on steroids.

He’d happily stand here and kiss you until you both pass out from lack of oxygen or exhaustion, but you pull away all too soon.

“Did you mean it?” You breathe, spearmint breath fanning across his lips.

He doesn’t need to ask what you’re referring to.

“Yes,” he whispers, immediate and more sure than ever. “More than you know.”

You close your eyes with a shaky exhale, cupping his face in your palms. “That’s all I need. That’s all that matters to me.” You lean up on the tip of your toes, pressing your lips to his once more. It’s brief but still knocks the air from his lungs all over again. Before you pull away, he notices that your cheeks are damp and he can’t tell if it’s from your tears or his own.

“I love you, Bucky,” you whisper. “And I choose you. Of my own free will. Regardless of what any mark or piece of paper says, I love you.”

He doesn’t know who kisses who this time, but that doesn’t matter. All he can think about is the way you said you love him.

I love you, Bucky. I choose you.

Regardless of what any mark or piece of paper says.

It would be so easy to lose himself in this. Too easy to pick you up and carry you the short distance to his bed and continue to kiss you all over as you tell him exactly what he wants to hear until the sun rises.

Which is why it takes every ounce of strength he has to tear his mouth from yours - breathing hard and eyes squeezed shut like it physically pains him to stop.

“Wait,” he manages, missing the way you taste the second he pulls away. “Hold on just a second, baby.” The petname slips from his lips without a second thought.

Fuck, he hopes he won’t regret his next words.

You look up at him, dazed, and drop your hands from his face. “What’s wrong? Did I do something—”

“No, no. God, no,” he huffs, planting his hands firmly on either side of your waist. “Not at all. You have no idea how badly I want this. How badly I’ve wanted this for so long. But the last thing I want is for you to have any regrets. You deserve to know the truth. The whole truth.”

You shake your head, your eyes boring into his. “Bucky, it doesn’t matter—”

“Look… whatever is in there, it changes nothing for me. But it’s yours. It’s a piece of you that you deserve to have before making any decision. So please… don’t do it for me. Do it for yourself. Look in the file. And no matter what you find, if you want me, I’m yours.”

You exhale something between a sigh and a laugh. Then, a smirk blooms on your face. “If I look in the stupid file, will you let me keep kissing you?”

He releases a breath that he hadn’t even realized he was holding in. He smiles. “Of course.”

You stare at him for another moment before reluctantly stepping out of his hold and turning to where the file still rests on his bed.

His hands fall to his sides and he forces himself to stay still. To let you walk two steps without reaching for you again, to give you space until you’re ready to share whatever you may find. He doesn’t move, doesn’t sit, doesn’t even breathe. He just watches as you sit down on the edge of his bed, taking the file into your hands.

You glance up at him one final time, as if you’re expecting him to change his mind and tell you to stop. When he doesn’t, you take a deep breath and flip open the cover.

He watches as your eyes skim the first page before flipping to the next. At first, your expression is impassive, giving nothing away. Then, upon flipping to a third page, he hears a sharp intake of breath. He can’t see what you’re looking at from where he’s standing, but the way your teeth dig into your bottom lip and your brows knit together tell him what it must be.

“It’s your mark,” he murmurs. “Isn’t it?”

You don’t answer right away. Your fingers trace over something on the page. Then, slowly, without looking up at him, you nod.

His stomach sinks. He knew it was coming, but yet his stomach still sinks. He hesitates for a moment longer before taking a tentative step towards you, still unsure if you want him to see. Then, you angle the folder enough for him to catch a glimpse.

A Polaroid. A three inch by three inch square picturing a tiny arm. Too small. Barely the size of his fucking hand. And on that tiny arm, right in the ditch - right where his soul mark once decorated his own skin - is dark lettering. He can’t make out exactly what it says, but the location and positioning is so similar to his own that his knees nearly buckle.

“It’s in Russian,” you huff, holding the photograph out to him.

The brief hope he’d felt immediately disappears.

His soul mark hadn’t been a word in Russian - his had been a word in English.

Home.

“My Russian is rusty. What does it say?” You ask softly.

He reluctantly accepts the picture. His heart plummets at the sight of your tiny arm. You couldn’t have been more than two or three years old. He focuses on the soul mark in the bend of your arm. The picture quality is grainy but he can still make out the Russian letters.

The picture nearly falls out of his hands.

“дом.”

“дом?” You repeat, dumbfounded. “What does that mean?”

But his brain is reeling. His heart feels like it’s beating a mile a minute.

“Bucky?”

He opens his mouth, but no words come out. Just a breathless, incredulous laugh that leaves you looking more confused than ever.

He’s going to answer you. He’s going to tell you what your soul mark translates to in English. But first, there’s something he wants to find.

In just three large strides, he’s to the closet on the opposite side of his bedroom. He flings the door open and crouches down, sifting through random storage totes and boxes on the floor as you question what the hell he’s doing from behind him.

He knows he looks like a lunatic right now. But it’ll all make sense to you in a matter of moments, if he can just find—

There.

A manila folder. Similar to yours that lies on his bed just feet away. A folder that, years ago, Natasha Romanoff had managed to get her hands on. A folder that she gave to Steve when he first began his search for Bucky after learning that he was still alive. A file that, like yours, contains photographs of him.

Various photographs. One of him at just twenty-seven years old, in his army uniform. One of him in a cryofreeze chamber. And lastly, the one he’s about to show you.

A picture taken the day he fell from that train in 1945. A picture that has made him sick to his stomach every time he’s looked at it, until now.

Because now, it isn’t just the last picture ever taken of his left arm - mangled and bloody and barely attached to his body before Hydra fully amputated it and replaced it with a metal appendage.

Now, it’s physical, undeniable proof of what that pesky phantom itch in the ditch of his vibranium arm has tried to tell him since he first met you.

That you’re his soulmate.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

“Bucky, what the hell are you doing?”

It’s the third time you’ve asked that exact question in the last sixty seconds.

You can see what he’s doing - rummaging through his closet on his hands and knees. What you don’t know is why. He hadn’t given you any explanation as to what he’s doing - what he’s looking for.

He said a word in Russian - presumably the word that was once displayed on your arm - and started ripping shit out of his closet like his life depends on it.

“Jesus Christ,” you mumble, sitting down on the edge of his bed. “If you’re not going to tell me what you’re looking for, will you at least tell me what дом means? I didn’t bring my phone with me so I can’t exactly ask Google Translate—”

He turns around, a rectangular photograph visible in his hands. You freeze mid sentence.

“It means home,” he murmurs, his expression calm. A soft smile that reaches his eyes. He stands up and walks over to you, stopping when he’s standing directly before you. He holds the picture out.

“Home?”

You take the picture. At first glance, you grimace at the sight, not even entirely sure what you’re looking at. It’s an arm - barely attached to a human body cut off from the rest of the picture. No face, but you quickly deduce that it’s him. Then, after processing the initial shock of what you’re looking at, your eyes settle on black lettering in the middle of his arm.

Home.

It’s English. Not Russian like yours. But it’s on the exact same arm, exact same location, exact same font. Same word. Just a different language. Like Yelena’s and Bob’s marks - each other’s initials. They may not be identical, but they’re still a perfect match.

You look up at him to find him smiling at you. “Home,” he repeats quietly, as if he’s still trying to believe it himself.

“Does this really mean what I hope—”

“Yes.” His answer comes before you can finish your question, his voice gentle but certain. “That’s exactly what it means.”

You blink rapidly, fighting a losing battle with the tears that threaten to spill over. “You’re my soulmate. I’m your soulmate.”

They aren’t questions. Just facts - beautiful facts that you want to scream to the skies, but it’s the middle of the night and everyone else in this tower is undoubtedly asleep, so you’ll settle for saying it loudly enough for the two of you alone to hear.

“I am,” he hums. “You are. Always have been.” He crouches down in front of where you still perch on the edge of his bed, kneeling on both knees before you. “I’ve waited more than a century to be able to say that.”

You lift one hand and rest it gently on his jaw, your thumb brushing over his cheekbone. He seems to melt into the touch, his eyes fluttering shut. You just stare at him, overwhelmed with emotion and at a loss for words.

He’s so fucking pretty. You can’t help but feel a little silly for thinking so at a time like this, but it’s true. He’s so pretty. His hair - his beautiful hair that you get to run your fingers through. His gorgeous ocean eyes that you get to gaze into. His lips. Oh god, his lips that you get to kiss because he’s yours.

He’s really yours.

“Come here,” you murmur.

He braces his hands on either side of your hips on the mattress, pushing himself up just enough that your faces are inches apart. You can feel the warmth of his breath against your lips. He’s close enough that you can see every fleck of blue in his eyes. Close enough that he could kiss you if he leaned forward a fraction of an inch.

“I love you,” you hum. He swallows hard, like he’s having to physically hold himself back from pinning you to the mattress at the sound of those words leaving your lips.

His hands settle on your sides, one warm and one cold. You aren’t sure which causes goosebumps to erupt across your skin. His intoxicating scent, his close proximity, the feeling of his fingers twitching against your waist - it all makes you feel lightheaded. If you weren’t already sitting down, your legs would surely turn to jelly.

“I love you,” he breathes, his eyes darting between your eyes and your lips. “Remember how I said you could keep kissing me if you looked in the file?” Heat pools in your core. Your mouth goes dry. Too dry for you to form a verbal response, so you just nod dumbly.

“Yeah? You should do that now.”

Your heart thuds at the gentle command. You barely have time to register it before he leans in and closes the last sliver of distance between your lips and his.

This kiss makes the first ones seem tame by comparison. You quickly realize you had both been holding back, but there’s none of that now. No caution, no restraint. Just months and months of tension and longing pouring from one into the other.

You pull him onto the bed with you by the collar of his shirt until you’re lying flat and he’s hovering above you, caging you to the mattress. He supports himself with his vibranium armed braced next to your head, his flesh hand caressing the side of your neck as he explores every inch of your mouth with his tongue.

Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him flush against you. Through his sweatpants, you feel the firm press of his erection between your legs and involuntarily roll your hips, earning a low, guttural groan from him.

He pulls his mouth away from yours with a breathless laugh before attaching his lips to the column of your throat. He sucks the flesh between his lips and then soothes the bite with a kiss before peppering more down your neck, all while you rock your hips against his.

There’s an unprecedented type of want blooming within you. It isn’t a want, it’s a need - like if you don’t get as close to him as humanly possible, you’re going to fucking combust.

You grab the hem of his shirt and begin to tug the fabric upwards. He realizes what you’re doing and leans back on his knees to yank his t-shirt over his head, tossing it to some far corner of the room.

With his long brunet hair falling around his face and his pink lips kiss-swollen, he looks ethereal staring down at you in the soft orange glow of the lamp light. Your gaze drifts to the jagged scar carved along his shoulder, and then lower - over the broad planes of his chest, the sharp dip of his hips revealed by low-hanging sweats, and the unmistakable outline straining against the thin fabric. Heat coils low in your belly, wanting nothing more than to touch every inch of him.

“You’re so pretty,” you hum, voice unrecognizable with adoration and arousal. Pretty is the understatement of the century, but you can barely form a coherent thought.

He blushes pink. “Pretty,” he scoffs lowly, shaking his head, though he can’t conceal the smirk growing on his lips. “You’re one to talk.” He trails a vibranium finger along the waistband of your pajama shorts before hooking it inside, pausing before moving the fabric. “Is it okay if I take these off and make you feel good?”

“Yes.” You can’t find it in you to care if you sound too eager, because you are. Your panties are uncomfortably sticky and the ache in your lower belly is growing by the second, desperate for release. “Please.”

He eases the cotton material, along with your underwear, slowly down your thighs and calves and then discards them haphazardly behind him. Feeling awkwardly half-dressed in only your tank top, you sit up just enough to yank it over your head before you can talk yourself out of it.

You’re left completely bare before him. Normally, if someone looked at you the way he is right now, you’d feel the urge to hide - to cover your chest with your arms or turn away. But with him, you feel none of that. You feel the opposite. You feel seen in a way that doesn’t make you feel like you need to shrink. You’re happy to open yourself up for him because you’re made for him. And he’s made for you.

His gaze drags down your body and back to your face, his normally bright eyes dark. “Ты идеальна,” he whispers, voice strained but still soft.

Heat blooms across your cheeks and you exhale a shaky laugh. “Gonna have to tell me what that means,” you murmur. “My Russian isn’t the best, remember?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he slowly parts your legs, his hands splayed over the skin of your inner thighs as he presses them down to the mattress. You bite your bottom lip to refrain from hissing at the sudden sensation of the tower’s chilly night air washing over your wet, sensitive folds.

“I said you’re perfect.” He answers at the exact same moment that he presses the pad of his flesh thumb over your slit, not taking his eyes off of your face as he massages the digit over your clit. A small gasp escapes you and you arch into his touch, giving your hips another roll.

He pulls his thumb away and you practically whine at the loss of pressure, but the digit is quickly replaced by his index finger teasing your entrance. He swirls the tip of it around your opening, coating it in your arousal before pulling it away, too.

Before you can so much as utter a noise of complaint, he brings the slick-coated finger to his mouth and wraps his lips around it. His eyes roll shut and he groans at the taste. “Perfect and so sweet.”

“Fuck,” you whimper. “Fuck, Bucky. Please.”

You aren’t even sure what you’re begging for. Something. Anything. There’s a fire blazing in your lower belly begging to be put out.

He hops off of the bed, hooking his arms under your knees and easing your body across the bed until your ass is level with the edge of the mattress, your legs dangling over. He crouches down, nestling himself between your legs, his face just inches away from where you need him most.

“What is it, baby?” He croons. “Tell me what you want.” Two cool vibranium fingertips tease your hole and you fight against the overwhelming desire to sink yourself onto them. “Do you want my fingers?”

Just as you open your mouth to plead with him, he glides those two metal fingers inside you - just up to his middle knuckles, but you still see stars at the welcome but sudden stretch and fullness.

“Or my mouth?” His breath fans across your cunt and he presses his lips to your clit in a brief kiss. Your fingers thread through his hair, nails digging into his scalp with just enough pressure to draw a half laugh, half hiss from him. He shakes his head in amusement, the tip of his nose brushing over the sensitive nub.

“Take your pick and stop being such a menace,” you sigh. “You’re really gonna torture your soulmate like this?”

“Sorry,” he huffs a laugh. “I’ll be nice now.”

His definition of nice, you quickly find out, is plunging the two thick digits the rest of the way inside you and curling them at the same time that he sucks your clit between his lips until you look like you’re having an exorcism. His flesh hand glides up your stomach and settles over your breast. He kneads it with enough pressure to send heat rushing through you, each squeeze making that coil in your abdomen grow tighter and tighter.

He alternates between sucking your clit and soothing it with soft kitten licks of his tongue while pumping metal fingers inside you at a torturous pace and in no time, you’re a borderline delirious mess, gasping out pleas and desperate sounds.

The sound of you whimpering his name has him moaning into you, the vibration of it giving you the tiny push you need to go tumbling over the edge. Your walls clench around his fingers as he continues to fuck you through the height of your climax, not ceasing until your body goes slack against the mattress.

Bucky presses one final kiss to the inside of your thigh before rising. He lays down on the bed beside you, propping himself up on his elbow. You’re still catching your breath when he tilts your face towards him in his flesh hand and leans down to kiss you slowly.

When he pulls back, he looks down at you hesitantly. “We don’t have to do anything else tonight. We can stop right here, if you want. We can take our time. We have all the time in the world now.”

Your heart swells at the promise. The promise of simply being with each other, for all time. You tuck a lock of his hair behind his ear and shake your head.

“Bucky,” you whisper, your voice shaky but sure. “I want you. All of you. Now that I have you…I’m always going to want all of you.”

“You have me,” he murmurs, flesh hand trailing down your arm, pausing when he gets to the spot where your soul mark once adorned your skin.

“All of me.”

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑ one year later ✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

“If we do the chicken marsala and the lemon rosemary chicken, is that too much chicken? That’s too much chicken. Right?”

Before Bucky can give you an answer, you’re switching topics and rambling about the seating chart - something about how Sam and Walker can’t sit too close together because even after all this time, they still bicker every chance they get - as you flip pancakes with your back to him.

It’s Sunday - the one day of the week that always looks the same. He wakes you up with fresh coffee, you cook breakfast for the two of you, and you spend the morning lazing around your Brooklyn apartment. From catching up on housework, going grocery shopping for the week, and eating lunch at that one sandwich shop you love so much, it’s usually a day of familiar comfort and routine.

But you’re on edge this morning. Frazzled. The wedding is a mere six months away and it’s time to lock in final decisions about the menu, seating arrangements, and all of the other things you’ve rattled off of your mental checklist before nine o’clock this morning.

Bucky had practically felt the stress radiating from you as soon as you woke up. He’d done what he could to help you relax, of course - not letting you leave the bed until he had taken his sweet time making you moan his name in that raspy, sleep-laced voice of yours that he adores so much.

Unfortunately, the effects of that had been temporary and your fretting returned tenfold by the time you started cracking eggs into a bowl.

Even Alpine seems to take note of your stress. The usually mellow white cat is perched on top of the fridge, tail switching as she watches you pace around the kitchen. Every few minutes she lets out a little mewl, like she’s trying to ask if you’re alright.

“And we need to decide on a wedding cake flavor this week, too. The lemon one tasted like floor cleaner, so that narrows it down a bit, but we still have to decide between red velvet and—”

Bucky doesn’t give a shit if the cake tastes like Pine-Sol or if Sam and Walker knock each other unconscious in the venue parking lot. He just wants to marry you.

“What about…no chicken, no Sam or Walker, and no cake?”

You glance up at him with an annoyed expression. “What are you talking about?”

He shrugs, trying not to smirk. He knows that even propositioning something like this is risky, but it’s worth a shot. “What if we just…didn’t? Didn’t worry about any of it? What if we just go to the courthouse and get married? Tomorrow morning.”

You freeze where you’re standing on the other side of the kitchen island, plating up the food. Your expression shifts from annoyed to amused, like you’re trying to figure out if he’s joking or not. He quirks his brow and takes a sip of his coffee.

“You’re serious,” you scoff. It isn’t a question.

“Dead serious.”

“But we - we already sent out invitations. And paid a deposit on the venue. And booked a photographer, and videographer, and—”

By this point, he’s already made his way to the opposite side of the island where you stand, pulling you to him by your waist.

“Look,” he starts softly, cutting off your panicked rambling. “If you want to have a wedding, we’ll have a wedding. Of course. I want you to have whatever the hell you want.” He takes your left hand in his, staring down at the ring on your finger. His mother’s ring, from the early 1900s, passed down to his sister, Rebecca, and then given to Bucky to give to you.

His soulmate.

“But I’ve waited a very long time to marry you. All I care about is that I get to call you my wife. None of the other stuff really matters to me. Not the color of the table linens or the—”

“Okay.”

“Wait. What?” He takes an involuntary step back as if you’ve physically shocked him. Whatever the next words out of your mouth were going to be, he definitely was not expecting okay. “Really?”

You’re smiling from ear to ear. “Really. I mean, a wedding sounds nice in theory, but…this is a lot.” You gesture vaguely to the dry erase board that you had used to sketch potential seating arrangements and an array of fabric swatches littered across the dining room table. “You’re right. None of that stuff really matters. In fifty years, we probably won’t even remember any of it. When we’re old and gray, all that will matter is our vows, the rings on our fingers, and the fact that it’s me and you.”

A soft laugh escapes him. He cups your face in his hands and leans down to bring his lips to yours, vibranium thumb grazing across your cheekbone. “Speaking of vows…” He sighs, pulling back, “if we’re doing this, I should probably finish writing mine.”

“Finish them? I haven’t even started mine. I’ve been too busy trying to keep up with how many fucking gluten free entrees we need to order.”

He cackles at that. “Well, you better start writing, then. Because tomorrow morning we’re driving to the county clerk’s office and I’m making you my wife.”

He starts to lean down to kiss you once more when a melodic purr sounds from the floor at his feet. He glances down to see Alpine weaving herself between your legs, her bright blue eyes blinking up at you both.

“What do you think, Alpine?” You coo, leaning down to scoop her into your arms. “Do you think your mommy and daddy should get married tomorrow?”

The cat nuzzles your chin in answer. Bucky grins, scratching behind her ear. “See? She thinks it’s a great idea, too.”

You laugh softly, pressing a kiss to the top of her fuzzy head before setting her back down. Bucky slides his arms around your waist the moment you straighten, pulling you against him. “Tomorrow,” he murmurs into your hair. “I can’t wait.”

You smile up at him, cheek still pressed to his chest. “Tomorrow,” you hum in agreement.

Right in his line of sight are the scattered linen samples, dry erase board, and a planner all taking up the majority of the small dining room table. “Should we, uh…do something about all of that?”

“Hm?” You follow his gaze to see what he’s talking about. “Oh. We can chuck all of that off the fire escape for all I care.”

He was so hoping you would say that.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

if you read to the end of this, thank you so much. i love you forever if you comment/reblog <3

[b4mbiseyes]

Texting Billy Russo

[princessoshi]

i love you john price.

[tsukimirecs]

SLYTHERIN // fic recommendations

note: remember to read the tags! + i do not own any of these works

REGULUS BLACK

le lendemain matin

the salt and the sea

forever

the better of two bad options

a pen

the door

the black heir

distraction

THEODORE NOTT

love is sour grapes

by netws & nott

something stronger

like snow on the beach

the only heaven i'll be sent to (is when i'm alone with you)

TOM RIDDLE

desiderium

love again

from the glue

salted caramel, metal, strawberries, vanilla, and ink

midmorning

effects of amortentia

DRACO MALFOY

our little secret

honeydukes

firsts

how could i ever forget?

makeup

draco malfoy with shy!male!reader headcanons

cherry juice

MATTHEO RIDDLE

the cat

puppy eyes

the game

rainy nights m.r

LORENZO BERKSHIRE

like nobody else

[pinksplace]

Simon knows your body like he knows a gun.

How to take it apart and put it back together. How to turn it inside out and then right side out again. Pulling your trigger with a calloused finger.

He touches you with care, but not like he’s afraid you’ll break. No, that’s not how you touch a gun.

You touch a gun like it’s something with the power to take. Something with the power to destroy. To kill.

God knows you could kill him, wake up and realize you deserve more than he could offer. You could blow up in his face and leave him bleeding out on the floor.

He worships you with the same precision he uses to clean his gun, careful strokes with delicate touches. Just like a weapon, sometimes you need different things from him. A gentle hold and little aiming. Rough hands and a steady prop against his shoulder. Sometimes his entire body is behind every movement, thighs wide for support even when his back starts to ache with effort

Simon fucks you like a bullet.

He tears himself apart, or at least he would if you asked him too. Slowly losing his sharp edges with every ricochet as he bounces around you.

He fucks into your cunt as if you pulled a trigger, letting himself go in whatever direction you ask. Hard, slow, fast, teasing, nights when you make him do that thing with his hips.

You go at it like animals most nights, pulling that raw want out of the holster and flicking off any safety’s that get in your way.

There’s no bullet proof vest or gun case that can hide him from the most dangerous weapon of all.

You.

[honeysucklewatr]

catch me if you can

smut | kai parker x vampirewitch!reader

kai chases you through the woods and you realize fighting for your life is useless when he could syphon it away. but he didn’t chase you down for just your magic.

mystic falls was eerily quiet, which was all the more unsettling.

the horrors of the town acting as though they’ve taken the night off and while she’s been running for her life from a fucking power thirsty sociopath. the cool autumn air hitting her bare arms as she runs harder, heart thumping in her chest.

the night was hardly over, and kai was on a mission now— finding her.

“here kitty kitty,” kai calls from the depths of the forest.

he’s dragging along a long wooden stick with him to show that he was not afraid of what she is, but that she should be afraid of him.

she helped bonnie perform a cloaking spell on herself to kill kai. well, she tried, but of course kai doesn’t die easily and he had the suspicion that something like this would happen, playing every horrific detail out.

twisted thoughts finding home in his mind and tasting the feeling as though it was something for him to savour.

she’d snapped his neck without realizing he stole the gilbert ring from jeremy. the ring—which allows the user to die an unlimited amount and still survive—was now in her clutches after he threw it at her to showcase how he’d survived.

that cocky, egotistical bastard.

kai had killed her coven in retaliation, being the psychotic power hungry manchild he is. she should probably hate him but he was kind of doing her a favour. her coven was meant to merge with geminis, though kai slaughtered them before they got the chance and then turned on his own family. her family was not good by any means, having children only to maintain power and keep the covens name on the forefront of all witches minds, building fear though power and submission.

now kai was not only alive, but she could presume he was angry she’d stopped their merging. he’d been chasing her through the forest with a dagger, glistening with vervain. she knew, he was going to catch her and he when he did, he was definitely going to kill her.

panting hard and taking enormous steps, she’s off, going through trees, careful not to hit any branches. any sign of magic would tip him off so she kept any chance of her vampirism out of sight.

all i have to do now is actually kill him, her thoughts echo.

still speeding through the forest to get away. but kai was inching closer and closer, and she could smell him. he had a cut, probably from the branches tearing at his skin as he chased her.

a whistle, calm and collected, echoes through the empty space. loud and clear enough to distract.

he was taunting her—purposefully disorientating her.

chuckling to himself he calls out again, “kitty, you can’t run from me,” the sound reverberating across the forest, “mmmh i can feel that magic radiating off you. you know that? it’s fucking intoxicating.”

the shuffling of the branches suddenly felt like it was surrounding her. was there more people there? a crack echoed though mystic forest, followed by a snap that was closer than she’d like.

before she could turn around he was already there, a sickening grin flashing back at her and a faint speck of blood on his cheek. in his hand, a wooden stake remained, gripped tightly by his ring-clad fingers. “boo.”

her arm shot out to shove him but he flicked his wrist, pushing her against the tree trunk hard enough for her to let out a sharp exhale of air. a groan escaped her lips at the impact, not expecting him to follow after her in mere seconds. her eyes widen and grasp at his hands as they grip her throat next, letting the slab of wood fall.

kai tsks, “you should know by now you can’t run from me. not you, not liv. definitely not my dumbass brother.” beginning to giggle to himself.

even with her fingernails digging into his hands, he doesn’t seem to mind the pain and instead groans into a laugh, “very kinky of you.”

struggling under his grip, her legs kick out beneath her while he lifts her up. she shoves at him to no avail like her life force was being pulled just by their contact.

struggling against him and groaning, “mmhf—fuck you kai.”

“i’d like that,” he says bringing his nose to the crook of her neck and rubs his face right in before making a sound that was too close to a moan.

confusion floods throughout her conscious and the hiss that leaves his throat only creates more. she tries to tilt her head away but he only inches closer. normally she could outstrengthen him, though tonight kai had laced her drink with vervain.

“get the fuck off me!” she squirms as he grips her closer.

again, his hand tightens around her throat enough to make her choke. airway restricted by his impossibly strong grip before he gives a tilt of his head and looks her up and down like he’s burning her to memory.

“okay,” he laughs against her skin, “whatever you want.”

suddenly he lets go, letting her fall and collapse onto the forest ground. the thud echoing around them as he only stares. she’s heaving and grabbing at her neck, coughing out at the new found air filling her lungs. the distant stirring beneath her skin only a forethought now. though kai is amused. he watches her with a practiced tilt in his neck and a slight stretch as licks his lips like his interest peaked. like a toy had been found to break.

when she meets his eyes, a scowl forms and her lips part to chant at him.

fully aware, he ruins it. kai’s been waiting for this. itching to show what it means to wield power. what it is to be powerful without compromising with nature and nepotistic principles he didn’t receive.

his hand clamps over her mouth before she can say anything.

“aw, don’t ruin the fun. i never said i was gonna hurt you but you seem like you really want me to.” amusement in his tone as he yanks her by her shoulders and holds her against his chest.

her voice comes out muffled against his palm, chants useless as he restraints her. until she bites his hand hard enough to draw blood.

“ah—ow, ha,” he abruptly lets go of her mouth but still keep his other arm seated around her midriff. holding tightly as he draws her closer, laughing lowly as he brings his face closer, “you could’ve just told me you were into that.”

the words finally slip out from her lips, a desperate chant to get him to get away with so little words.

“incendia,” rasping the word before fire erupts around them, instantaneously circling in front of the tree where he stood. she kicks him in the stomach, letting him fall into the ring of fire and letting both of them to fall to the ground. a dull ache from the loss of his touch, but a newfound clarity that had been stolen.

a sharp sound erupts from her throat as she falls to the ground. hand coming up to rub at her throat and sputter out a cough. wheezing and trying to compose herself when the laughter in front of her seems to grow louder. stealing her attention as dangerous remained. taking a deep gulp, she looks up to find targetted eyes on her already, tilting his head like he’s figured it out.

horrific realization dawning that she didn’t even know what she was planning herself, though kai seemed sure he had the options mapped out. he drags his hands through the dirt, a low hum leaving his perfectly sickening throat as his palms sink right in. leaves, twigs and stones, parting for his fingers to dig into. the scariest part should’ve been the way the flames started dying out but what was worse was how his lips parted and a soft groan left his lips. but as the magic disappeared from the land and the fire with it, it weakened her and stole from her supply.

how he seemed to derive pleasure from this, she was truly fearful of.

“you should’ve figured out by now,” he starts, fire simmering until it completely extinguishes. “i prefer siphoning from pretty things.”

she tries to hide it, but the shakiness is evident with body language as the earth below them drains the very power coursing through her veins and lighting up the forest. pulling all that delicious power she threw at him and absorbing it just to strengthen himself. then, she’s kicking herself up and nearly falling before holding her weight and staggering away. when she’s turned, he also stands and strides after her before she could even react and watches as she stumbles away. weakened by him.

a hole in the ground causes her to slip, body falling forwards before kai catches her. fingers curled around her wrist while the other holds her steady by her waist, lingering. her eyes heavy and fluttering as she breathes deeply and lets him hold her there. through heavy, evaluating eyes, kai watches her and reaches up to his necklace, abruptly tearing it off. the soft clatter of the chin hitting the ground stirs her again.

from this angle, just below his chin, he almost looks human. he almost looks good.

but that thought was dangerous and he proved it.

his hands on her began to siphon almost like it was unintentional. pulling the magic that kept her alive from the depth of her soul and stealing the energy it provided. a breathless gasp escapes her as she tenses, already weakened from his previous siphoning. weakly grabbing at him, the feeling overwhelmed her and felt like death and euphoria all at once. like being high for the very first time. hands spanning up to grab at his shoulders, digging her nails right in. kai hisses and bites his lip through a devilish chuckle.

“you look terrible,” he says, “like you’re really falling apart and i barely did anything to you.”

she trembles as she leans forward to bare her teeth, “chasing me down and killing my coven wasn’t enough?”

“they wanted to merge with me instead of jo. that’s stupidity on their part.” kai’s laugh erupts, teeth white and pearly as his impossibly bright smile bordered on insanity.

slowly, the siphoning seizes and she falls into his chest, breathing heavily as exhaustion threatened to take over. though kai was far from finished.

“so,” she shakily asks, unable to pull herself off his chest as he held her there even when attempting to pull her arm from him, he tightens it again. “why don’t you kill me? fucking get it over with.”

“who said i wanted you dead?” he coos by her ear, teasing in his stupidly attractive tone despite it all, “i just needed you compliant.”

the syphoning only halts enough to make her jolt again, relief and confusion flooding her expression. he lets go of her wrist yet keeps his other arm around her waist, more strengthen in his grip than she’d assume he could wield. staring into her like he could read her mind, she hesitates.

if she uses magic now to stop him, he could just absorb it all over. her very being was magic since vampirism was the product of transcending the afterlife. plus it would have to be a lethal blow for it to work and that simply isn’t possible. it would have to be perfect, but she has no energy to exert now and the upper hand is his.

“compliant for what?” breathing out the words as his wicked smile only grew.

“you’re gonna be like a little power bank hmm? boosting my morale one pathetic stare at a time.” without thinking, she immediately writhed in his grip, pulling at his fingers that closed around her waist tighter. kai sighs dramatically. “jeez, can you relax?”

“no,” she seethes, staring up at him with daggers in her eyes, “you’ll have to kill me cause i’m not helping you, you fucking psychopath.”

he just smiles ear to ear, tilting his head to the side as if evaluating. “i prefer sociopath actually.”

suddenly, he shoves her hard against another tree again, coaxing a sharp oof from her. his hand moved to grip her hip tight, the other snaking up to grab her jaw, not hard but enough to know it was holding her there. something in his eyes almost looked human as he trailed them over her features. his thumb shifts, dragging down her bottom lip as she takes ragged breaths.

“damn, you’re really pretty.” smearing the spit over her chin as he shamelessly stares. finally, he looks backup to her eyes, softened by something she couldn’t place. he takes his hand off her hip and speaks quieter, almost eerily calm, “it’s weird. i have this feeling in my stomach like my heart is beating in it. ugh, i don’t like it.”

she blinks at him, entirely thrown off, “what?”

something sharp is pressed against her hip and she sucks in a sudden breath. kai continues, “it’s probably like that blood lust you vampires feel. ever since i saw you at the salvatore house, meddling with the bennett witch. poking your pretty nose in things that don’t concern you.”

gulping, she leans her head against the bark to create some distance. though, he follows.

kai leans in closer to her face, “i said,” leaving less than a couple inches apart, “it’s your fault. so fix it.”

“i can’t fix crazy,” she retorts, trying hard to push down the warmth simmering inside.

“it’s not that i blame you specifically little witch,” cooing in his cocky and horribly sultry tone, “it was your coven, trying to send me back to the prison world. but then you happened to fall into my hands.”

a slow creep of loss, tingles at the skin on her face. pulling energy just low enough to feel like exhaustion bordering sleeping. the low hum that pooled in her stomach grew as he pressed himself against her. she gasps softly at the feeling, back arching off the side of the tree trunk. though kai only pressed on harder, watching her through low eyes as he drops the knife in his hand on the ground.

breathing more ragged as he closes the distance, his eyes trailing over her bitten lips, “and who said i wanted you to fix me?”

he presses his lips to hers in a hurried frenzy. eyes wide as the plump flesh meets hers. the contrast of the dryness of her mouth, cotton-like from running in fear, to the warm wetness of his was debilitating like none other. he was enjoying all of this so intently. the chase and the catch, it was what he was after. kai pushes his tongue past her lips, coaxing another gasp out of her and utilizing it to shift his jaw. fighting hers just to push it flat down and lap past her lips like he’s trying to remind her that this was his dominance—and failing terribly.

the sick feeling subsides into something of deep, unfiltered desire.

with her arm free, she grabs a fistful of his hair and tugs, pulling his head back. he winces and laughs, pulling at her hair all the same.

“you’re not scared of me?” he asks.

“of you?” she laughs as her grip tightens in his hair, and he hisses, “a disowned, powerless man-child? i’m terrified.”

the colour drains his face at her sarcasm before he suddenly smiles. demeanour shifting again, he scoffs, “you probably should be. you know, they say things about me,” whispering low while he watches her.

despite herself, she leans into him. a dull ache taking form on her supple skin. but kai notices because he was the source. his corners of his mouth turn upwards and the devilish smile returns.

“you feel that?” he rasps.

the creep of heat blooms over her face and something warm demands attention between their closely knit bodies. one of her hands graze his side and his head turns to watch in evaluation. he watches as she slides her hand up his torso and settles on his chest. the buttons of his henley open and exposing his skin now.

her breathing slows and an impossible to ignore warmth pools low in your stomach. “what the fuck is happening?”

kai puts one of his hands over hers now and slides it down their bodies, settling near her lower stomach. hands pressed against one another as her breath hitches when their conjoined fingers put pressure on her aching core.

“syphoning is like an art you know? i can feel things from the sources i interact with. can amplify feelings by draining another,” lips pressed by her ear now.

her breathing gets even swallower. he continues.

“like distain for example. i can take that fiery energy and leave you with the rest,” murmuring lowly as leaves an impossibly soft kiss on her neck, “leave you with lust and desire.”

it felt like the ground was beginning to slip from her feet. she sighs delicately as he holds her between him and the tree and trails his lips up her face. she coos his name when she throws her head back, though he only grins.

she lifts her head to look at him, a heady look on her face as if drunk on him already. a small sound slips past her lips, “i need…”

“yes? you’ll have to speak up. what do you need?” he coos again.

gripping the fabric of his shirt tighter, “i don’t know.”

he’s about to say something, another snarky remark when she muffles it entirely, smushing her lips against his. for a moment kai freezes, having not believed that she’d truly do that. not really thinking that his syphoning could work in such a strong manner, he laughs into the kiss. his hands flex around nothing before he wraps them around her tightly, tugging her up further so her legs wrap around his waist. she gasps into his perfectly imperfect mouth and lets their skin touch voluntarily. one of his long hands snake down the front of her jeans and apply pressure until she’s wide eyed, though she doesn’t move and neither does he. kai moans into her mouth as she grinds against his hand. the soft chimes of wind swoosh past them as he holds her there against the tree and she impatiently continues moving against him.

“needy,” he murmurs, “it’s a good look on you.”

pulling him impossibly close, she snaps back, “shut up and touch me.”

he laughs but she’s having none of it, pulling back just to drag him by his hair again. kai groans and hisses as he siphons again, coaxing the same hiss from her. behind his eyes something glows and he fumbles with the button of her jeans.

“you want this?” almost surprised that she’d even consider anything with him.

without pulling away from him, she continues kissing down his neck, nodding and humming egregiously. nipping down his soft neck as he tilts his head for her and sighs dreamily. the sound reverberating from her lips down to her core in a way that felt heightened. as though she’d become part of the undead all over again, though she lets that thought go.

he chokes on his spit when he palms at him through his jeans.

“ah—shit,” failing to muffle his moan as he grinds back against her hand. “what’re you doing to me.” he states rather than asking.

“could ask you the same thing,” she moans in response, letting him free her from her jeans and pull them down her legs until it hung low by her feet. kicking them away as he watches.

he makes quick work of his own and with impossible strength she didn’t know he had, kai holds her there, pressed on the tree. the thought of his source of power should’ve occurred to her, but a defeating need had taken form. pushing his pants low and taking the turn to kiss down her neck, kai takes the opportunity again. the soft humming of the siphoning continues as he pulls from her unconsciously. subconsciously desperate for power that was not his own. but the feeling was desperately delicious and it heightened the feelings of pleasure he was creating. fingers dancing by the waistband of his boxers while he impatiently pulls and pulls until the fabric rips.

she gasps his name. “i liked those.”

“oh.” he pretends to care but fails miserably. “it was in my way.”

his smile evident in his tone as he kisses up her jaw. tilting her head back more unconsciously, he doesn’t miss a beat in his coaxing. meticulous fingers, sliding down between her thighs again. the cool metal of his rings making her breath hitch and simmer for moments that felt entirely longer than it really was. dragging the slick that pooled there, he laughs lowly and his eyes scan over her features once more.

“god, you’re pretty.”

before a response could formulate or the folds on her mind had decided what to think of implication of their exchange, he applies pressure. not hurriedly or demanding, but deliberate.

soft, barely there circles with thumb but the sound of her desperation was cooing him along. dropping his head to the crook of her neck, he hums and breathes her in as he presses his thick length against her thigh.

the heaviness taking her aback enough to open her eyes wide, only to find kai already staring. grin plastered over his face as he smiles wide enough for his dimples to carry a place there.

“could keep you like this forever,” admitting quietly to her as he drags his fingers back over her slit. “i might just do that since you’re going so willingly, hmm?”

without a beat, he pushes his fingers without restraint inside. her lips part in a silent gasp that he immediately closes the distance with. using the opportunity to push further inside until his knuckle brushed against her pelvis. she whines when he turns the kiss gentle and retreats his hand only to thrust back home again. taking her bottom lip between his teeth and biting hard. she opens her mouth wider for him and his amusement grows tenfold.

“so fucking easy,” he coos, “all i had to do was a little siphoning, a little theft of your anger and it all melted into lust didn’t it?”

the realization dawns on her as he pressed himself against her inner thigh harder though his fingers continued their movements. she bites down a moan and grabs at his shirt.

“w—what do you mean? so what you took some of my magic?”

kai smiles wider, plunging his fingers torturously slow but deep enough to make her head fall backwards against the trunk of the tree. all other thoughts seemingly disappearing even as he admits his deception.

he follows and his lips press to the shell of her ear enough to rasp, “no, i took your heightened emotions. you see, the funny thing about vampires, every part of you is magical. i just played with you long enough to figure that out.”

desperate for him to continue, her lip slips from between her teeth and a loud moan fills the air. her hand falls between them to grab at his length and pump it slowly. his eyes seem to glaze over as she guides him to her entrance and a sickening, hungry look brakes form.

“okay,” the word echoes mind. “you think i’ll back out now? do your worst parker.”

something in his eyes shift to horrific hunger that could have been enough for her to cower. but kai shifts his hips up to push the tip inside, prodding and killing resistance. she folds onto him instead of the tree and he loves it. before her mouth opens for another remark, he thrusts his hips forward, driving himself home like he belonged. the words die in her throat as a hearty moan rips through it. he hoists her up higher, pressing her further into the tree.

then the relentlessness took over and calm collection went out the window.

with heavy palms, he squeezes the plush of her ass and uses it as an anchor and a source. their skin flush and her chest pressed to his, kai grunts as he watches her eyes roll back in her skull.

“i always knew you’d be such a needy whore.” he chuckles, “i’m glad to see it in action pretty girl.”

the contrast of his words made her head spin. his praises and his degradation, soothing the other to create this balance in her mind that spurred her on. she would’ve protested, called him names back normally but everything melted into the pleasure he created. she leans towards him, lips aching to touch his again. to feel the warmth from him that could over a sweetest she needed badly.

but that would be too easy wouldn’t it?

that would be unlike kai to give something for nothing in return.

he watches her move closer and peels his head back a little to tsk. then he plunges back inside over and over enough for her head to spin and a whimper to escape past her lips.

“you need something princess?” practically glistening as sweat wicks his face, a thin layer from chasing and catching her. from having his way like he had been dreaming about.

she grips at his shoulders and digs her nails in enough to draw blood. the smell headier than anything she’d smelt before. with less restraint her lets her, and she presses her lips to his, more aggressive than before. more needy and demanding. all tongue and teeth that were sharp and ready to take.

she sinks her teeth into his lip and sucks the nectar she craved while his hips never stopped. she pulls back to trail her kisses down his neck, licking up the dribble of blood she’d drawn until she reaches the soft, fleshy part of his neck. the hunger takes over and she bares her teeth, already wet with his blood. she breaks the skin quickly and moans again this throat while her fingers curled into his hair. pulling and drawing while he desperately moans and opens his neck up for her more. the seconds blend into one another as his movements pick up. kai groans and sputters a broken laugh tag quickly turns into a soft whimper. she’s about to pull away but his hand lifts to grab the back of her nape and keep her close. “holy fuck i— don’t stop.”

her body floating like it was suspended in air and the sensations clouding all over judgement, she doesn’t let up. seemingly, kai doesn’t either, silencing siphoning from her so that he could have the same energy to continue.

his hips showed no slowing, thrusting up into her again and again. watching her breathe hitch as he reaches the depths and how her teeth release when he kisses her cervix. desperately saying his name like a call to prayer from the most damned.

it brings a smile to his face.

clenching around him like a vice, he seethes and hums. fucking into her deeper as his resolve completely crumbles and his ministrations became sloppier. the sound of skin against skin, obscene throughout the forest. his free hand moved against to run tight circles on her sensitive nub and she jolts in resistance. his hold tightens.

“kai,” she rasps out desperately. in understanding of her silent words, he nods and kisses her face uncharacteristically sweet.

“i know baby. let go. give me what i want.”

breath stuttering, he closes the distance of their warm mouths again. tongue slipping to tangle with hers as he plunged deeper and could barely hold himself back. she clenches around him and cries out, though he swallows it down before filling her throat with one of his own sounds of relief.

the feeling crashes over her as she finally lets go and her hands tighten around him enough that she knew it must’ve hurt. neither of them cared. kai chases his own high and prolongs her, lips still sloppily working against hers as she tries not to whimper but fails. he stutters at the feeling of her still clamping around him, and buries himself deep, painting her walls like his lewd canvas. the pulses hitting her depths as both of his hands move to hold her there. to pull her back into him for a few more swallow thrusts before sheathing himself fully inside to keep his spend there.

panting and shaking against him as he hums by her ear before kissing it. slowly sucking her earlobe and gently biting it, kneading it with his teeth. she hums in respond and lets her head fall onto his shoulder. hands moving to push her sweaty hair and watch her face glisten under the moonlight. though exhaustion had a heavy hand and its grip on her was tight now.

god, he thinks to himself. he’s never seen anything quite as magnificent as her in the prison world and he’s sure he’ll never see it after her.

“you’re truly gorgeous, you know that?” he pants out the words as he continues to kiss the side of her face.

she hums in response, “you keep saying that like it means something.”

lifting his head you grasp her chin, he watches a slow droplet of sweat fall from her jaw bone and he caves. letting his tongue slip and suck at her jawline before inhaling her scent. making another sound of blissful approval, her eyes shut and her head tilts for him to continue. the curve of his lips on her skin told her he was still scheming but she didn’t seem to care. she couldn’t seem to care about anything but him right now and though alarm bells had been ringing, she let them go.

“such a shame,” kissing her neck delicately and kneading the plush of her ass with his hands when one of them slip down.

“what’s a shame?” she mindlessly asks as she bites her lip when he bites tenderly at the skin.

kai huffs, “that i don’t quite trust you yet.”

she furrows her brows and pulls his head back by his hair to look at him. “you just fucked me and you don’t trust me?”

though he only blinks like it was enough. “so you’re saying you trust me?”

the moment hangs and she eventually sighs and shakes her head, letting her arms wrap around his his neck loosely. tender like lovers who didn’t just try to kill another.

“thought so,” humming while he still sheathed inside, ignoring their combined essence slowly making its way down her thighs.

pulling out with an obscene sound, the both of them shudder at the sudden change and kai pulls up her panties from her ankle. once he puts them back on her, he taps at her clothes core and she jolts. one of his hands kept her upright against him and the tree while the other ran soothing paths up her spine before dropping down to his torso. keeping her complaint and unsuspecting.

then he opens his mouth again and she feels the prick of something sharp against her neck. “but i’m not ready to let you go just yet babycakes.”

siphoning more than magic, taking more than just what normally could be used. kai’s mind filled with ideas of what to do with her and his ego inflated as he considered what these hybrid affects could have.

how power could be amplified.

the sharp decline of her high made a deflating sound leave her lungs as he pricked her with something. she didn’t have to ask him to know he’d dosed her with vervain, enough to slow her heart and knock her unconscious.

she rasps his name before consciousness slips and weakly grips at his collar only to be met with that same expression. the smug smile and the pearly whites, matching his stupidly attractive whiny voice. she knew it wasn’t over yet even when he shushed her weak protest and struggled to stay upright as her feet dangled over the forest ground. he just kept her there—compliant and silent.

“mhmm, sweet dreams, we’ll discuss what i’ll do with you in the morning yeah?”

though he poised it delicate and coaxing, as her eyes rolled back and her head slipped into his chest unable to hold it up on her own, she knew death was still on the table. only this time neither of them knew who would be the wielded of that fate and kai had so many plans to consider.

i’ve reposted this so many times, if it gets flagged again i’m gonna end my shit…

[divineangel222]

Holy shit this is amazing!!! Thank you for sharing it with us 🤭

[wh0rephobic]

MDNI

TWD!MEN would have a serious thing for anal I feel. especially with limited resources and no proper medical care, the last thing they need is another mouth to feed. so, the best solution? the back door.

he’d still be polite about it however, taking the time to play with your perfect pussy, drawing one, maybe two orgasms from you with calloused wingers after you’ve licked the dirt from them.

then, he’d plunge a wet finger into your puckered asshole when you’d least expect it, caught in the haze. carefully working you open with two, three fingers while he subtly grinds against your thigh, relieving some of the pain from their straining hard on against denim. he listens to your low moans become higher-pitched at the sensation, until they begin to get louder.

“shh, darlin’,” he’d whisper, “don’t want anyone to hear us now, huh?”

so you bite your lip, stifling soft gasps with quiet hums, and he’d praise you for it.

“good girl, perfect li’l slut for me, ain’t that right?”

your eyes flutter shut at the words, heat blooming in your core as you squirm beneath him.

he’d continue to loosen you up with his strong hand until he feels you’re ready for him, or until he can’t take it anymore.

he’d plant kisses on your cheek and jaw as he rolls you over onto your stomach, pushing his jeans down while gently pushing your legs apart to make room for him behind you. your back arches, eager to feel him inside of you even if it can’t be in your pussy. he’d let a glob of spit drop down onto your hole for good measure, lubing you up extra as he lines his angry cockhead up and firmly pushes in.

his hands can only do so much, and you still suck in a sharp gasp at the stretch of his dick. he wraps his other hand around your mouth, concealing your lewd sounds as he begins pistoning his hips in and out of you. he has to bite his own lip at the warm and tight feeling of you around him, free hand massaging circles into the muscle of your ass, contrasting with the subtle burn. your eyes roll back.

he grunts, “shit, you’re so fucking tight f’me,”

when he plunges deeper, you have to reach a helpless hand back to him, nudging his abs back in motion to slow down. but he only grabs you by the wrist and pins your small hand against your back, he knows you can take it.

he continues chasing his high, taut skin of his hips pounding against the fat of your ass as you drool against his palm, completely fucked-out.

“fuck, i’m gonna cum soon,” he warns.

in a swift motion, he removes his hand from your mouth and pushes your face into the mattress. he grips your hips firmly as he picks up the pace, railing you rough and deep as he chases his high. you sob into the old blankets beneath you, until finally, he pulls out of you, pumping his cock a few times with his tight fist until he spills out onto your back.

he tries his best to hide his deep growl as he watches his hot seed paint your tender skin, head lulling back from the pleasure until he lets go, softly grinding his balls against your still-wet cunt to ride out the rest of his high, twitching tip resting against your tailbone. only then can you collapse onto your stomach panting, exhausted while your legs shake beneath you.

[sickobuff]

♱ day 7: chastity ⸝⸝ rick grimes

kinktober 2025 masterlist . . wc: 2k

cw: dubcon, heavy themes of religion/blasphemy, corruption, p in v, creampie, virgin!reader summary: man’s first sin was giving into temptation, and my god, don’t you just look ripe for the taking.

his maw snapped around your throat before you had even spoken to him. canines, dangerously sharp, goring into your soft, unblemished flesh, tongue suckling the sweet nectar that he bled from your neck. his mouth watered, saliva pooling in his throat, frothing at his lips, at the thought of tasting something so forbidden, sinking his teeth into you, swallowing you whole.

his sense had gone. blinded by faith, he would later muse, despite never having had a truly religious bone in his body. it was a passive belief, one that seemed more fleeting with every day spent on the road evading the dead. it would have been snuffed out entirely if it hadn’t been for you.

you, a local farmer’s daughter, taken under herschel’s wing after your family had been torn apart by walkers. you, whose granddaddy was the town’s old priest, he learned, more devoted to your faith than the greene patriarch himself. you, who would barely look at the men of the group when they came poking around on the farm, too shy and skittish to give them a proper greeting like the rest of your people had.

he recognized the starved look in his men’s eyes. he knew it was only mirrored in his own. that unsatiated look of hunger glowing deep within the dark abyss of their pupils, the internal seething that came from not being able to gorge themselves full. you were tantalean, kept just out of reach, leaving them aching for just another glimpse to sate their appetites.

but you were off-limits – herschel made that clear from the get-go. it was one among the many; herschel had laid down a lot of rules when they first showed up, ultimatums wrapped in the guise of hospitality, dictating their stay on his farm.

now, rick was a respectful man, thought himself honorable through and through – but to ask him of that? to resist such temptation? he might have been a good man, maybe, but even the best succumb to sin eventually.

that’s what he told himself, anyway. that he was only a man. that the lecherous feel of that forked tongue brushing at his ear was only natural, the whispers of depravity as earthly as the winds that carried in the sky. that there was something reverent, something unequivocally holy, about the slide between your thighs, the warm spasm of your walls as he sullied your untouched cunt.

he grit his teeth at the feeling of his tip pushing past the leaking seam of your pussy, notching against the snug catch of your fluttering hole.

“that’s it… biiiig stretch,” he’d said, tongue prodding against his molars at the ‘pop’ he felt feeding his cock into you, little virgin cunt finally giving way. you cried, choked gasps punched out of you like he was splitting you apart. weak hands shot out to claw at his arms, teary-eyed sobs of ‘s’too much, too much’ falling pretty from your lips.

in hindsight, it probably would have been nicer of him to break you in on his fingers first. pry you open gently, get you soft and pliant before giving you the real thing – but it had been hard enough coaxing you into the barn in the first place, his placating, lulling words falling on deaf ears as blasphemous guilt tore you to shreds. 

“rick, i— i don’t.. i’ve never done this before—“

but goddamn, did he try.

“that’s alright, sweetheart, i’ll show you how.”

“don’t be scared, baby. it’s natural… you feel that? see it? that just means you want it. and this..? s’means i want it too.”

“look, you won’t even have to do anything, yeah? perfect just like this.. so perfect for me, huh…”

“m’right here, honey. you’re alright… doin’ so good for me…”

working you onto his cock seemed like the only thing to do. righteous, in a way. batting away any hesitant, wavering murmur of ‘chastity’ or ‘marriage,’ of ‘purity’ and ‘propriety’ that lingered like syrup on your tongue with every slow rock of his hips. and it worked. all trepidations melted away from you, trickling from your ears with the slog of your brain, coagulating in the hollow of your throat.

your dress was rucked up under the swell of your breasts, his hand splayed wide over your tummy, pressing you flat to the haybale to hold you still as he rutted into you. he felt bad, looking down at the sorry pinch between your brows, the tears wetting your lashes as you winced at the sting, but he just couldn’t bring himself to stop. 

it was overwhelming, the feel of you wrapped around him. squeezed so impossibly tight, convulsing as you tried to contend with the brute force battering its way inside you. were you dragging him in? or were you pushing him out? did you even know?

you sobbed when he fully sheathed himself in you, cock twitching in tandem with the wet pulse of your cunt.

“fuuuck, there we go,” he breathed, grinding into you once you’d taken him to the root. it ripped a keen from your throat when he nudged the gummy flesh of your cervix, your nails digging into the wrist at the foreign feeling.

“shh, you’re alright, you’re fine,” he soothed half-heartedly, leaning up to look at where you were connected. god, you were just so full, weren’t you? little pussy stretched wide around him, skin pulled taut around the thick of his base.

he gave a mean thrust. watched the way your slick glistened on his cock as he left the warm clutch of your walls, felt the way you clenched around him at the feel of him sliding out, heard the filthy wet squelch when he snapped his hips back in.

your mewls fell on deaf ears, completely blind to your tears, to the jutting pout on your lips as you tried to make sense of the heat flushing through your body, the jittery, confusing pleasure you felt from something so forbidden.

no, he was focused on the thing curling around his head, constricting around his skull, squeezing until his ears popped. the open hinge of its jaw pressing into the tender flesh, fangs exposed, spitting venom into the deepest recesses of his brain. vile, unforgiving, sinful thoughts, spewing forth like vitriol.

he was ruining you. 

he could see your whole world view shattering behind your eyes with every thrust of his cock. watched as you realized that everything you knew, everything you had based your life upon, was suddenly wrong. tipped upside-down. because of him.

his hands circled your waist to fuck you down on him, dragging you across the scratch of the hay to meet the fervent pace of his hips. and you let him. soft, buttery thighs curling into his sides, little fists knotting in the fabric of his sleeves. your head tipped back to let out a small moan.

“yeah, that’s right, honey,” he crooned, grinning as you clamped your eyes shut at the slick sound of his balls slapping against your ass. “feels good, doesn’t it? me fuckin’ this tight little pussy?”

you whined, pulling a hand back to smother your lips. you were overwhelmed, the heat of arousal singeing every neuron, burning every synapse, until your brain ran runny, pooling molten in your skull.

“yeah it does,” he hummed, answering for you when you didn’t reply. “best fuckin’ thing in the world.”

he knew he was fucked. he knew it the moment he stepped foot on the farm, the moment he laid eyes on you, tantalizingly ripe, all but dripping your saccharine nectar from where you stood.

herschel’s words meant nothing to him. the temptation was too great, too transcendental to pass up. he would glut himself on you, slake his thirst with the arousal that drooled from your cunt. it was some base instinct, some primal, human compulsion. he needed to sink his teeth into you. he needed to gorge himself full, to swallow you down, to lodge you in his throat.

his fingers dragged over the smooth slope of your stomach, brushed over your mons. he spread your lips, saliva pooling on his tongue at the mess he found there. you were wet, fucking gushing, around his cock.

he slipped his thumb over your clit and you yelped, thrashing in his hold as your twitching pussy clamped down on him. he could feel you tensing up, feel your knees pressing harder at his sides, your walls spasming every time he bullied his length back into you.

you peeled your eyes open, a confused whine settling in the back of your throat as your orgasm crept up on you. god, weren’t you sweet, looking up at him like that.

“s’alright, i got you.”

your lip trembled, a soft whimper drifted its way into the air, and you nodded. fuck, you trusted him. to lead the way, to guide you through this and keep you safe.

his hips stuttered, sent reeling from the gluttonous sludge of greed that surged through his veins, black tar oozing in place of blood, all pumping down to his cock. he twitched inside you, felt the pull of his own orgasm snaking down his spine.

he almost lost it when you mewled out his name, grabby little hands reaching down to tangle with his own. you didn’t know what you were doing, did you? fucked dumb for the very first time, eyes glassy, mind gone. his teeth buzzed at the sight.

god, he fucking ruined you, didn’t he? spread out underneath him, hay tangled in your hair, hands clasped with his on either side of your head. your thighs squeezed tight around his hips as he split you apart, stuffed you full, plugged you up. you were spoiled the second he plucked you away from them.

this was repugnant. this was disgusting and defiling and depraved. he took you into his dirty hands, unsullied and pristine, and mangled you onto his cock. pure and untouched, twisted about as he bullied into you. this was desecration—

“rick— rick, please?”

he shuddered, bowing his head to rest against yours. you gripped his hands tighter, moans spilling unabashedly from your lips as he fucked you through your peak. you clenched down around him, twitching and writhing at the slide of his cock as he battered into your poor cunt. he watched the tears trickling down the the sides of your face, settling wet in your damp hairline, and he came.

slammed into you, buried himself as deep as he could go. and you welcomed him. choked out a wet sob and wrapped your arms around his neck, hugged him close as he spilled inside of you.

he didn’t have it in him to push you away, to pull out and come on your belly, hope he moved fast enough for it to not take. he stayed, cock pulsing, spitting up more and more spend with every spasm of your sensitive pussy clamping down around him.

no — no, this was veneration. this was worship. pious and devout, drinking in the soft hymns that fell from your lips, laving in the golden ichor that gushed around his cock. only something divine could have created you, shaped you with their godly hands, the very image of perfection.

you were his object of ruination. put in his path to test his resolve, and fuck, if he didn’t fail. his pride, his greed, voracious and destructive in the face of something so sweet, so delectable.

it was his sin to bear, but he dragged you down with him. left you marked with his crimes, all but scrawled your name on the gates of hell, right beside his. 

he cooed when you mewled at him shifting inside of you, twitching as he slid himself out of the warm clutch of your pussy. would’ve died right there, on the spot, watching your poor, abused hole clench down around nothing, his cum dribbling out with every pulse, spilling down the cleft of your ass.

purgatory could wait, he figured. he wasn’t going to let you die any time soon, and he wasn’t going anywhere either.

⤷ this is my magnum opus.

tags: @slutforgrey @4unnyr0se @may-nia @c1eepypas1a @noooah @rafecameronswhoore @arigoldsblog @friedpickle1243 @asparagus-antics @bunnybichbabby7709 @thisclassisrodikulus @sarah-bear706318 @xanaxiii @nichemint @the-mist-ery @mattibuttface @cinefilaleitora @parkersbunny76 @truth-shifts @sweetiebbi @blushinglace @littlelovingideas @m0th3rcal @sexcworm @death-in-a-tar0t-card @eternallydean @rickgrimeshusband @jdmslover @looopylooony