How do you think the men from A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms would react if a female reader were very tightβlet's just say, you know, she has a tight pussy?
Yes I know, posting twice in one day you guys are so lucky! Thank you anon so much for this request I hope that you enjoyed this. Donβt forget to reblog and comment if you liked it, enjoyed it, wanted more or just kind words. All of your opinions and support is greatly appreciated by me, and encourages me to write more. My inbox is always open so please fill it with whatever, and donβt forget you donβt have to send in anon asks if you donβt wantπ Tag list is always available too. Thank you guys again so much for all the love and support youβve always shown me. Happy readingπ»π master list
Aerion:
At first it surprised him with how tight you were, and he was worried it wouldnβt be pleasurable for either of you. But then once he started thrusting it was a very delicious feeling, and he couldnβt keep his hands off you from then on. Constantly wanting to slip his cock inside you when you were lying down in front of him, or stick fingers inside you while seated at dinner. He was insatiable and loved the feeling of how tight you were around him.
βBy the gods, you have the tightest cunt Iβve ever felt, and I want more.β
Baelor:
His only concern was he was afraid of accidentally hurting you during sex, and that you wouldnβt be able to handle him. But once little whimpers and moans left your lips that was all he needed to keep going. Finding new positions and angles that felt the best for you, and loving the feeling of how you slowly stretched around him. Kissing all over your face and whispering sweet things in your ear.
βThe only thing I need in my life is this sweet tight cunt waiting for me.β
Daeron:
He absolutely loved how tight you were. Wanting to just stay still inside of you forever, and feel you clench your tight walls around him. He was shocked that you were still this tight, but thankful that he had the privilege to be the one to try and stretch you out. Constantly grabbing you and lifting your dress and slowly pushing inside you praying you were still tight for him. He never lasted long either, it would take just a couple of thrusts before he was spilling inside you.
βIβve been blessed by the gods to have such a tight cunt all just for me.β
Duncan:
He had absolutely zero clue what to do the first time he felt how tight you were. Thinking that you werenβt real, and it was some sort of trick being played on him. He was terrified that he was going to hurt you and completely ruin sex, but once you cried out his name and begged for more that was all he needed to hear. Loving when you rode him at your own pace, and watching you try and hit the best angles. He couldnβt get enough of you, and found himself desiring sex more often.
βNever did I think I would be craving your tight cunt more than food.β
Lyonel:
He found it amusing and fun with how tight you were. It never bothered him or worried him in the slightest, and he would take you roughly and hard. It was just an excuse to always be inside you whenever he wanted. Constantly teasing you about it, and loving that he was the only one who got to feel it. Even bragging to his closest men about how he was the sweetest cunt to return to. He certainly was the happiest man in the whole kingdom.
βOnly I can be the one to stretch out this tight cunt, and by the gods I will.β
Maekar:
At first he didnβt know if he wanted to be with someone who was this tight, but once he really felt you and watched your face he was obsessed. That man was always thinking about it, dreaming about it and imagining it. If you walked into a room full of people he thought about just taking you on the table. He couldnβt believe how tight you remained even when he took you roughly, and thought you were a blessing given to him.
βYour tight cunt is just an excuse for me to fuck you whenever I want.β
Valarr:
He wanted to remain sweet and tender with you always cautious not to hurt you in any way. Always watching as you gripped around him tightly, and watching in amazement how well you still took him. He was even amazed with how tight you would feel around his fingers. Studying you closely trying to see if maybe he was doing something wrong, but based on your screams of pleasure he knew he was doing something right.
βI donβt know how this tight cunt takes me so well, but it feels like magic.β
Summary: Irritated by your behaviour, Mike initiates a steamy encounter in the locker room.
Word count: 1.3k
Warnings: MDNI, NSFW, smut, explicit, minors and ageless do not interact, no physical description of the reader, mentions of female genitalia, AFAB reader, she/her pronouns used, vulgar language, dom/sub themes, mentions of dacryphilia, rough sex, p in v, unprotected sex, creampie, oral (m receiving), mouthfuck, tittyfuck, dirty talk, free use kink, porn without plot, plot what plot, first draft yolo, no beta
Notes: This one uses a more vulgar wording because I felt like it. Keep in mind this is much more of written porn than my other works.
Continuation of Penalty and Double Penalty.
For days after tensions between you and Mike finally died down, some of your teammates would openly try to goad you into verbal arguments with him or try to stir some non-existent drama between you two. So much so that sometimes you wondered if they somehow knew about the ongoing affair between you two. Perhaps someone saw him enter your room?
When you asked Mike about it, he looked at you with stern seriousness.
βIβm not jeopardising this,β he spat out, his hand wrapping around your neck before he fucked you into the mattress again.Β
βYouβre mine, angel,β heβd whisper in your ear night after night, growling before emptying himself deep inside you, more often than not, your pussywalls fluttering around his fat cock.
The shrillish laugh spilling through the locker room brought you back to the present; you bit your lip nervously.Β
You promised Mike you would keep your mouth shut, but you talked back - not to him, to one of the other coaches. You knew you were correct, and your input would eventually be incorporated, but you lacked tact and diplomacy.Β
Sometimes, you knew how to say things; slowly, softly, sophisticatedly. Today was clearly not one of those days, emotions getting the better of you.
βI knew you wouldnβt be able to hold your tongue for long,β one of your teammates sneered.
A second-rate player who was warming the bench, your mind immediately formed a venomous strike, but contrary to Jessicaβs words, you were able to hold your tongue. This time.
Instead, you smiled, a wide, obviously forced expression.Β
βThank you for your observation, Jessica, Iβm sure that without your observation, no one else would notice.β
To Jessicaβs dismay, your silly remark that was also poking fun at you caused a wave of laughter.Β
You were the last to leave the locker room, half of the lights in the hallways already off. You were so tired, mentally and physically, you didnβt even shower, looking forward to the long bath back in your hotel room.Β
Well, at least until a familiar hold on your wrist pulled you into one of the unoccupied locker rooms.Β
His hands were on your face in seconds, pulling you into a wet, sloppy kiss, pushing his tongue so deep down your throat you felt it in your pussy too. But his grip was firm, firmer than it was lately.
βIβm sorry, Mikey,β you whispered with puffy lips as Mikeβs hand pushed you down on your knees.Β
βI know, angel,β his thumb slid over your lips, βbut we need to make this lesson stick, donβt we?βΒ
He watched as you slowly pulled his shorts down, your eyes going wide at the sight of his hard, leaking cock. It was so warm and heavy in your hand that just handling it sent jolts of pleasure to your pussy.
Pleasing Mike would often overwhelm you so much youβd lose yourself completely in it, this situation confirming this all over again. Cold tiles against your knees, the flickering lights overhead, unlocked door of the smelly locker roomβ¦
All of it faded as you kept kissing his cock, licking it from the tip to the base, tasting Mikeβs precum on your tongue.
βGood, angel, good,β Mikeβs hands were tangled in your hair, already holding your head in place. βGet it nice and wet, all of it, hm?β
Although at first, you could hear the squelch of your mouth sucking on Mikeβs cock, his moans filled your ears, his fingers pressing on your skull.
It was always a stretch, either when he was fucking your pussy or your mouth, his fat, veiny cock pushing in and you struggling to accommodate him. Tears formed in your eyes and a little bit of snot dripped down your nose, but you didnβt bother anymore; Mike wanted it rough and dirty, wanted you straining yourself to please him, watching the signs of it on your body.Β
He loved when youβd moan and whimper and even cry, and he especially loved when you gagged.Β
βAgain, angel,β Mikeβs voice was breaking already. βGag on it again, coat it nice and thick, cβmon now.β
You obeyed, immediately swallowing again, feeling his throbbing cock glide on your tongue, your face muscles too tired to even hollow out your cheeks. More spit coated Mikeβs cock, and he allowed you a short moment to catch your breath, his thumbs wiping the tears from your eyes.Β
βI need you now,β he said, βto open your mouth and stay still, yes, angel?β
He was smearing the tip of his cock over your burning lips, watching you enthusiastically nod.Β
βGood girl. Be a good fucking hole for me, hm?β
Both of his hands returned to your head, and he pushed all the way in, your nose hitting the little fat of his stomach. He kept it there for a while, the sweaty scent of him overwhelming your senses.
βHands on my thighs. Breathe through your nose, letβs go, angel,β he kept instructing, his voice anchoring you.Β
Then, Mike started face fucking you.Β
He promised already he would, but you had no idea it would feel so good for you too; not the act itself, but Mikeβs moans and his obvious desperation to claim you, mark you, made you dizzy in the head and hot in the cunt.Β
Suddenly, he pulled at your shirt.
βTake it off,β he helped you as you put your arms up, suddenly missing the taste and scent of his cock against your face.
Before he could say anything, you swallowed it all again, making yourself gag by accident, looking up to Mike as you pushed your head as close to his happy trail as possible.Β
βAngel, wait,β he pulled out again, his fingers caressing your pouty lips.
βTake the bra off too, cβmon darling,β he guided you further. βAnd sit over there,β he said, chuckling at how weak your knees were as you stumbled to take even those three steps.
The cold air made your nipples harden immediately, as you braced against your own thighs. Mike leaned in to kiss you and nibble at your lips.Β
βTake them in your hands,β he kept instructing, standing between your legs, cock in hand.
With his other hand, he slapped your tits as you were pressing them close, before he smeared more of his precum and your saliva over them. His cock was still coated like he wanted, and he now pressed it between your tits.Β
Mike moaned hard immediately, at the sight and the feeling, his cock nestled in between your gorgeous tits, as he started to grind and snap his hips, fucking them.Β
βOh, angel,β he moaned. βFuck, fuck, fuck.β
You watched his face, mesmerised, happy that Mike could find a use for your whole body, happy that he could satisfy himself with you, on you.
βIβm close, angel,β Mike groaned not even a couple of minutes into this whole adventure.Β
βWhere do you want to cum?β you asked him, your fucked out throat straining under your voice.
βTits,β Mike breathed out, his hips still dragging his cock against your soft, sticky skin.Β
He took a half step back, one of his hands immediately grabbing his cock; you expected at least a little of a jerk action, perhaps even Mike to change his mind and fuck you senseless against the wall.Β
Instead, you watched his warm cum shoot out, landing immediately onto your tits, long white ropes painting your skin as Mike moaned like a madman.Β
He kept standing, trying to catch his breath, his hands once again tangled in your hair as you licked the last drops of his cum from his softening cock.
Slowly, like in a dream haze, you moved onto scooping his cum with your fingers of your tits, licking them immediately.Β
βI thought this was supposed to be a punishment?β you teased, looking up through your lashes, catching Mikeβs smirk.Β
βNot my fault you like to be used, angel,β he muttered back. βWould you like me to ignore you? Give silent treatment?β
βNo, please,β you answered quickly, too quickly, shakily standing up.Β
So Mike knew how to properly punish you after all, he just chose not to.
βOf course not, angel,β he kissed you slowly. βBut donβt tempt me.β
If you like my writing, all interactions are greatly appreciated-`β‘Β΄-
About: NSFW headcanons about our favorite Hightower
Warnings: NSFW, MDNI, 18+ content, mentions of somnophilia, degradation, angry sex, religious themes, etc.
Notes: I am now taking Ormund Hightower requests!
A = Aftercare
Ormund's aftercare is strategic. He would learn everything he needed to in order for you to feel safe and reliant on his comfort, especially after sex. He'd known the exact amount of time to hold you, the right amount of touch you'd need, and if you required snacks, they were always ready. It was a necessity to keep you under his control.
B = Body Part
On himself, Ormund loves his chest and torso. He actively keeps himself well-groomed and adored how toned he is. It makes it easier for you to rest on top of him. On you, he'd love your hips, your waist, your tits, your ass. I don't think he'd hate any part of you, really.
C = Cum
Ormund is so pent up all of the time. His temper is proof of how wired and pent up he truly is. So when he cums, it's always hard and intense. He'd bury his cock deep inside of you and groan so loudly as he finally lets go of all the tension inside of himself. And it's always so much all of the time.
D = Dirty Secret
Ormund loves when you get on your knees in front of him. The idea that you pray only to him, bend only to him, never fails to make his cock hard and ready to be pleasured. He is someone that does not believe in the seven but uses religion as a metaphor for sexual endeavors.
E = ExperienceΒ
With how particular Ormund is, he is someone that has only slept with a small amount of people. He's someone who is calculated and takes his time so he'd rather be with someone that he knows he would be with for a long time so that he can learn their body. With you, he took his time to map you out and to see exactly what you liked and didn't like.
F = Favorite PositionΒ
Ormund's favorite position is the mating press for sure. He loves locking you in place and being able to look down at you as he fucks you relentlessly. I also think he'd love taking you from behind, especially when he's angry and needs to blow off steam.
G = Goofy
I don't think Ormund is goofy at all during sex. He would tease you relentlessly and mock you but he isn't silly about it.
H = Hair
Ormund is very well groomed. He ensures that he doesn't have chest hair and with his cock, I'd assume that he at least keeps it very well trimmed. On you, he would expect something similar. You don't need to be completely bald but he would want you to be well taken care of.
I = IntimacyΒ
Ormund can be very intimate and this goes into the teasing and mocking thing as well. He would lean over you, thrusting into you, his hand intertwined with yours, while murmuring in your ear. "You like that, sweet girl?" He'd ask. "By the sounds of it, you certainly do." And his voice would be smooth and low.
J = Jack Off
Ormund almost never masturbates. Not unless you're in the room with him and he wants to watch you pleasure yourself while he does the same. He much prefers to have you take care of him with your mouth or your cunt. There's really no need for him to jerk off.
K = Kink
This man absolutely loves to give degradation to his lover and praise them when necessary. He also has an immense breeding kink and when you're pregnant with his heir, he can't help but fawn over the firmness of your tits and the swell of your belly. I also think Ormund would be into choking during sex, especially in a manner of controlling you.
L = LocationΒ
He very much prefers to spot in the privacy of your bed chambers away from prying eyes. However, Ormund has cleared a room with one simple command while angry just so he can bend you over a nearby surface and pound into you relentlessly. And he's done that more times than he'd ever truly admit. I also think he would love a more intimate atmosphere and have sex with you in the tub.
M = MotivationΒ
Ormund's motivations are linked to his self-control (or the lack thereof). He'd want you to rely on him, to need him in every aspect. And sex is one of the best ways to make that happen. The idea of you needing him just as much as he wants you is more than enough to be a motivator. His temper is also a very huge motivator.
N = No
I think his biggest no's are anything that include any form of bodily fluids. As well as he wouldn't do anything that would cause physical harm to you. You are like his delicate flower, he wouldn't want to hurt you.
O = Oral
At first, Ormund would be against giving head. He would say that it is beneath him to get on his knees for anyone. But he does it for the first time in a moment of weakness and loves it so much that he almost cannot stop. The way you tasted, the way you smelled, the whines and moans that left your lips as his tongue moved across your clit. He loved it all, especially when you would sit on his face and use him to seek out your pleasure. Only he can make you feel such a way.
P = PaceΒ
Pace is always so hard because it depends on the mood of the situation. I think during more intimate moments, Ormund would take his time. He would want to ensure you were enjoying yourself, especially when it's night time and you're in his bed chamber. But when he's angry, he's hard and fast and without mercy. And when you seek him out to give you what you need, he lets you have your way with him in any way. But only because he allows you to do so.
Q = Quickie
Quickies only really happen when Ormund is angry. Bending you over the nearest surface when recieving a letter that he did not like the news from. Or pulling you into a storage closet when a random lord visiting the castle annoyed him so he fucks you until all of the tension is gone from himself. He loves to pretend as though he's always in control of himself but really, he isn't.
R = Risk
Ormund's riskiness is all dependent on his temper. Normally, he didn't like being risky. He didn't want anyone to know or see any sort of weakness he may have. He mostly avoids having sex in public when he's of sound mind but other times, he simply does not care. He is Lord of Hightower and if he chooses to fuck his wife in his office or in a corridor, then he will do so.
S = StaminaΒ
His stamina is very good. He can last at least two rounds before growing tired. But most of the time, he goes one round in the morning and another later in the day.
T = ToysΒ
In a modern world, I think Ormund would hate the idea of toys at first but then he'd get intrigued by a vibrator and use it on you for the first time and absolutely love how fast you cum because of it. He'd never buy you a dildo but vibrators? You guys have a lovely collection of them.
U = Unfair
Ormund can be so unfair!! He will deny you of an orgasm randomly if he felt like it. You weren't acting the way he wanted you to so now you just don't deserve to cum. Or he'll make you cum so much because well it's what you want and it's the perfect reward right? So don't complain. You'll take what he gives you.
V = Volume
I don't think Ormund would be terribly loud. He's the type to grunt and groan, murmur in your ear, but he's never loud enough that anyone could hear through the door. The only thing people would be able to hear from him is the clapping of skin with his hard he was fucking you.
W = Wild Card
There was a time when you woke Ormund up by rutting against his thigh and he loved how needy you were that he just laid there as you sunk onto his cock and rode him until you were cumming so hard around him. He had to actively make sure he didn't cum too fast because he wanted you to take your pleasure from him. He's also woken you up with his cock inside of you because you were just to pretty and he needed to feel you around him.
X = X-Ray
They call them Hightowers for a reason and it's not just because it's the sigil of their house. Ormund is about eight inches and girthy. He knows he's well-endowed and he is not afraid to admit it.
Y = Yearning
At the end of the day, Ormund is a man and it is quite easy to make a man horny. I think he'd look at you and be in the mood but would control himself until the two of you had the ability to be alone. His cock, however, was always ready to be inside of you at any given point in time.
Z = ZZZ
After sex, Ormund isn't someone who falls asleep immediately. He will make sure to go through the motions of aftercare and hold you. But after a while, he would fall asleep, holding you close to him with his legs intertwined with yours. And he'd never admit to himself how much he adores holding you.
Could someone please send me requests, because fuck me, everything I already wrote is still in my drafts on the other account, and because I have to fucking wait, I created a new Prompt List. Send them, please! I had just reached 1001 followers and fuck, my heart, I truly hope I can get my account retrieved.
I still canβt believe it, I remember creating this for my main blog, but as this one is solely going to be dedicated to answering requests, I decided to post it here instead.
FANDOMS I WRITE FOR;
A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms.
House of the Dragon.
Game of Thrones.
Stranger Things.
Jujutsu Kaisen.
The Boys.
Marvel.
DC.
James Cameron's Avatar.
Any characters played by Bertie Carvel and Sam Spruell.
The prompts below contain mature, and sexually explicit themes. So minors, dni. If you need further proof that I am indeed @/sintaera, you are more than welcome to send me a private message.
1. βYou can hate me all you wantβ¦ just donβt stop fucking me like you still love me.β
2. βI told you Iβd ruin you. Why do you look so surprised that I meant it?β
3. βSay my name when you come. I want the last thing you scream to be the person who broke you.β
4. βYouβre shaking. Is it because youβre scared of meβ¦ or because youβre already wet?β
5. βI shouldβve left you alone. God knows I tried. But then you looked at me like that and I remembered how good it feels to destroy something beautiful.β
6. βDonβt you dare look at me with those eyes. Not after what you let me do to you last night.β
7. βI love you. I hate you. I want to bury myself so deep inside you that you forget every soft thing that ever tried to save you.β
8. βBeg. Not because Iβll stop if you donβtβ¦ but because I want to hear how pretty you sound when you break.β
9. βYou think this is love? No, baby. This is me keeping whatβs mine. And you stopped being free the second you let me touch you.β
10. βI can still taste the blood from when you bit me. Do it again. Harder. Make it hurt the way I hurt you.β
11. βCry if you need to. Just donβt ask me to stop. We both know you donβt really want me to.β
12. βI ruined every soft part of you on purpose. Now look at youβ¦ still crawling back for more.β
13. βTell me you hate me while youβre coming on my cock. I want the lie and the truth at the same time.β
14. βYouβre allowed to miss the person I used to be. Just donβt forget Iβm the one who killed him.β
15. βI would burn the whole world down just to keep you in this bed, shaking and ruined and mine.β
16. βYouβre not allowed to leave. Not after I finally made you mine in every way that hurts.β
17. βKeep looking at me like that and Iβll fuck the defiance straight out of you.β
18. βI know you still dream about the night I took everything. Thatβs why you came back, isnβt it?β
19. βDonβt pretend you donβt like it when Iβm cruel. Your body gives you away every single time.β
20. βI could be gentle. I just donβt want to be. Not with you.β
21. βSay you belong to me. Say it while Iβm still inside you and you canβt lie properly.β
22. βYou look so pretty when youβre trying not to fall apart for me.β
23. βI didnβt break your heart by accident. I did it because I wanted to be the only one who gets to put it back together.β
24. βStop fighting me. Youβre already soaked and we both know how this ends.β
25. βIβll ruin every future version of you just so the only one left is the one who needs me.β
26. βYouβre allowed to hate how much you need this. Just donβt stop taking it.β
27. βI want you crying, shaking, and still asking for more. Thatβs the only version of you I love.β
28. βIf loving you means destroying you, then Iβll do it with both hands and zero regrets.β
29. βYou can leave when Iβm done with you. And Iβm never going to be done with you.β
30. βCome for me like you hate me. Make it messy. Make it real.β
31. βI marked you so deep last night that even if you run, youβll still feel me every time you move.β
32. βDonβt you dare apologize. I want the version of you that bites back and still spreads for me.β
33. βYouβre mine in the dark. Youβre mine when youβre bleeding. Youβre mine even when you wish you werenβt.β
34. βI love the way you look at me like Iβm the worst thing that ever happened to youβ¦ and still pull me closer.β
35. βKeep your eyes open. I want you to watch yourself fall apart on me.β
36. βYou can hate the way I love you. Just donβt pretend it doesnβt feel better than anything soft ever did.β
37. βIβll give you every piece of me that still worksβ¦ as long as you let me keep breaking the rest.β
38. βYouβre not allowed to come until you admit who owns this body now.β
39. βI ruined you on purpose. And Iβd do it again just to hear the way you say my name when youβre desperate.β
40. βStop pretending this is temporary. We both know youβre already too far gone.β
41. βI want the version of you that cries during sex and still begs for the next round.β
42. βYou can leave bruises. I can leave worse. Letβs see who remembers who longer.β
43. βTell me it hurts. Tell me you still want more. Lie to me if you have toβ¦ just donβt stop.β
44. βI donβt need you to love me clean. I need you to love me like youβre already drowning.β
45. βCome here. Let me remind you why you stopped fighting me in the first place.β
46. βI keep waiting for the day youβll look at me and finally mean it when you say you hate me. Iβm not sure which of us will break first when it happens.β
47. βYou were the softest thing I ever touchedβ¦ and somehow I still managed to leave you in pieces.β
48. βI loved you in the only way I knew how β like a wound that refused to close.β
49. βSome nights I still reach for you in my sleep, and every morning I hate myself a little more for missing the way you ruined me.β
50. βYou left fingerprints on every quiet part of me. I donβt know how to be untouched anymore.β
51. βI would have given you gentleness if I knew how. Instead I gave you everything sharp I had, and you stayed anyway.β
52. βThere are versions of us that never learned how to hurt each other. I think about them sometimes, and it feels like mourning people who never got to exist.β
53. βYou taught me that love could taste like blood and still feel like the only true thing Iβd ever known.β
54. βI keep the memory of your voice the way other people keep prayers β quiet, desperate, and never quite enough.β
55. βIf I could go back, I wouldnβt save us. Iβd just ask to break a little slower.β
56. βYou were the last soft place I ever rested, and I still donβt know how to forgive myself for what I did to it.β
57. βSome loves donβt end. They just learn how to ache more quietly.β
58. βI still wear the shape of your hands on my skin like a second skeleton. Some days it holds me together. Most days it just reminds me Iβm hollow.β
59. βYou left, but the damage stayed. Thatβs the cruelest part β how thoroughly you taught me to miss something that was never safe.β
60. βI loved you the way a house loves the fire that finally burns it down, completely, helplessly, and too late to stop.β
61. βThere are nights I still write your name in the dark just to feel the old hurt settle into place again.β
62. βYou were never mine to keep. I only ever borrowed the privilege of destroying us both.β
63. βIf love is supposed to heal, then what do we call this? This quiet, endless bleeding that still feels like home?β
64. βI would rather be the reason you cry than the memory you eventually forget. Selfish, I know. But I was never good at letting go of the things that hurt me most.β
65. βCome back. Not because it will be betterβ¦ but because some part of me is still waiting to be unfinished by your hands.β
66. βGet on your knees. I want to see how pretty you look when youβre choking on the only thing Iβll ever give you.β
67. βYouβre dripping all over my hand and still pretending you donβt want this. Keep lying. It makes me harder.β
68. βIβm going to fuck you until the only word left in your mouth is my nameβ¦ and then Iβm going to keep going.β
69. βBite the pillow if you have to. Just donβt you dare tell me to stop.β
70. βLook at the mess youβre making. All that wetness for someone who treats you like this. Pathetic. Perfect.β
71. βIβm not going to be gentle. Iβm going to take what I want and leave you shaking and full and ruined.β
72. βYou can fight me. You can cry. Just donβt close your legs. Those belong to me now.β
73. βI want to feel you clench around me when you realize youβre not getting away this time.β
74. βSay βpleaseβ like you mean it. Say it while Iβm stretching you open and making it hurt.β
75. βYouβre going to take every inch. And when Iβm done, youβre going to thank me for breaking you properly.β
76. βI love how your body betrays you. Soft and wet and desperate while your mouth keeps trying to hate me.β
77. βHold still. I want to watch you fall apart the second I push inside.β
78. βYouβre not allowed to come until I say. And I might not say it for a very long time.β
79. βFuck, look at you. Already so used and still begging for more. I made you this way.β
80. βIβm going to leave you so full of me youβll feel it for days. Thatβs the only reminder youβll need.β
81. βKeep your legs open. I want to see how ruined you look when Iβm done using you.β
82. βYou sound so good when youβre struggling to take it. Do it again. Louder.β
83. βIβm not fucking you to make you feel good. Iβm fucking you so youβll never forget who owns this body.β
84. βCrawl to me. I want to see how desperate you look when you finally stop pretending you donβt need this.β
85. βYour tears make me harder. Keep them coming while I bury myself deeper.β
86. βIβm going to fuck the fight out of you until the only thing left is the way you moan my name.β
87. βYouβre already so close. Donβt you dare come yet. Not until I decide youβve earned it.β
88. βFeel that? Thatβs me taking whatβs mine. And Iβm nowhere near finished.β
89. βI want you sore. I want you marked. I want you walking funny tomorrow and still thinking about how good it felt.β
90. βBeg me to ruin you. I want to hear how badly you need the thing thatβs going to break you.β
91. βYouβre going to take it until you canβt think. Until the only thing left is the way I fill you.β
92. βI love how you try to push me away with your hands while your hips keep rolling back for more.β
93. βKeep your eyes on me. I want to watch the exact moment you stop pretending this isnβt exactly what you wanted.β
94. βIβm going to use you until youβre empty of everything except me.β
95. βYouβre so fucking tight when youβre trying not to come. Donβt hold back. Give it to me.β
96. βI donβt care if it hurts. I care that you stay open and take every single thrust.β
97. βLook at the way youβre shaking. Thatβs what happens when someone finally fucks you the way you were meant to be fucked.β
98. βIβm not stopping until youβre crying and coming and completely mine.β
99. βYou can hate me in the morning. Right now youβre going to spread wider and let me finish what I started.β
100. βCome for me. Come like the ruined little thing I turned you into. And then thank me for it.β
Reblog if youβre taking any of these.
Tag me if you write something dark and messy.
And thank you again for 1k, but not on this blog, as I am still waiting to get my old, @sintaera back.
You absolute disasters, my pretty dragonlings, send them requests. You can send as many requests as you want, and I'll write for any character within the fandom. Hopefully I'll have a few in my inbox, as I am still cursing my rotten luck for deleting my main account.
YALL sintaera is gone!!! I got a notification about their blog posting! And then when I went to it and refresh the page, they deleted their blog!!!!! I really hope theyβre OK
Honestlyπ , was just going for something whimsical and space like. Something that could go for both sifi and fantasy because I do both. Anywhere from lord of the rings to a knight of the seven kingdoms. And the Star Trek to Stargate lol
2. Latest movie? What did you think?
Last MOVIE I watched was project Hail Mary. I liked it. Rocky was cute, probably my fav part of the whole movie was the two of them interacting.
Last SHOW I watched was bbc Merlin. That whole show is an emotional roller coaster. Do with that what you will. Messed me up worse than baelors death.
3. What are you looking forward to right now?
Being off work the next couple of days π π . Itβs been hell.. thatβs putting it lightly. Work has been terrible lately and I canβt even talk about it more than just saying what I said. But other than thatβ¦ the final ep of house of dragons tomorrow. I NEED IT
4. If you could do anything at all today, what would it be?
I meanβ¦ lay in bed snuggling my big punk baby dog. Sheβs adorable and I love her and Iβm tired.
5. Drink of choice?
Sobe.. but thatβs discontinued so literally ice tea.. I WILL LITERALLY LIVE OFF OF ICED TEA. Just out of spite I swear.
6. Hair routine?
Iβm going through hair hell right now trying to find the right routine. It sucks because I honestly donβt know my hair type. Because it cs. Be super Curley one second and then the next day super waves. My dad had huge curly Italian when he was younger so I have no idea what to do here.
7. Favourite way to travel? Is there another you want to try?
By car or by boat? I was on a plane ones, even with my fear of planes I tried. I was absolutely terrified and just sat there stiff the entire time. But I like boating itβs fun. I do wanna try riding a train sometime.
8. Favourite month and why?
December, I love winter and warm soup and hot chocolate. Makes it all comfy and feels homey. Summer hates my ahhhh.
9. Favourite time of day and why?
Night time because again, nice and comfy and you can relax and not have to worry about work. Just get to kick back and look at the stars if theyβre out.
10. Do you play or follow any sports?
Play? No, I have eds and the dislocations⦠woof not fun. I use to skateboard tho. I am trying to get back into it. SAFELY OBVIOUSLY. But I just have to be more careful. Other than that I watch snowboarding and skateboarding. Figure skating to. And racing and horseback racing. Not your normal sports stuff.
11. What kind of music has been stuck in your head lately?
Iβve been listening to alot of alt bands lately and more than one background of music so itβs hard to pinpoint one. I have been listening to whereβs your head at by eurrotripp on repeat. I also like taemin, dorthy, icon for hire, black veil brides and so on. If any of these bands are bad let me know cus sometimes Iβm behind on whoβs cancled.
12. Dishes or laundry?
Laundry! Need I say more. Dishes YUCK
13. Something you learned recently?
The most overdue library book was 288 years late.
14. What would you talk about if you could give a TED talk on anything?
Star Trekβ¦ thatβs it thatβs allβ¦ Star Trek
15. Piece of advice you find yourself giving a lot?
Stop being disappointed when that same person whoβs consistent in their actions towards you hasnβt changed.
16. Piece of advice you would give yourself five years ago?
Stop trying to connect with your dadβs side of the family. They donβt care about you and never will. Itβs not worth crying over.
17. Do you believe in luck and superstition? Do you carry any lucky items or follow any rituals?
I donβt know. I havenβt really thought about that. I mean I know I probably have many rituals I do. I like things consistent so probably.
18. Are you musical (play any instruments, sing)? Would you ever perform for an audience?
Iβve played piano and violin all the way though high school. Now that Iβve been out for a while. Absolutely not in front of an audience.
19. Write, type or speak?
All three, it depends on my mood.. if my hands hurt and so on. Anything to get something written down. Especially because I donβt want to loose the idea. Watch it fizzle out the brain. Writing tho makes it impossible to delete.
20. What do you wish someone would ask you?
I dunnoβ¦ wouldnβt know where to begin myself. I normally just listen to people.
βββ-
Well thereβs that XD anddddd I nominate @venmondiese and @alexjacobsgoodnight anddddd @king-baelor and @ladyoverlord95 Sorry if yall have been tagged in this by others already. π«ΆπΌπ«ΆπΌ
Notes: so this sort of happened. It was only suppose to be a head canon. Anyway. Please like comment and reblog. It lets me know you want more. Ask box is open!
Warnings: NSFW, smut, desk sex, cockwarming. I give the general a name ( Oliver ) so the reader also has something to call him, cussing, pussy pronouns. Let me know if I missed anything, not beta read. Maybe slightly ooc because heβs soft for the reader.
You didnt know how it happened, how you wound up here. Here, in your husband's lap. Entirely bare and impaled by his thick cock , stuffed so full while he worked away at his desk. One hand carefully wrapped around your mid section while the other paid meticulous attention to the paperwork he had before him.
Ok, so you lied. You did know how it happened. You knew full well what you had done to get yourself into this type of predicament you were currently in here and now. You couldn't help it, he had been gone all day. Working, slaving away at his job. He was a General after all, quite the important one. All he needed, all he wanted was just one hour to finish up his paperwork for the night and then he would have been entirely yours for the remainder of the evening.
But you simply just could not wait, couldn't be patient. Coming up behind his desk chair your hands ran along his shoulders briefly. He had changed out of his uniform and into something simple he could wear around your shared little home, a simple black t-shirt and some soft grey sweats. Really it was his fault, at least you thought so in that little head of yours. He knew what those sweatpants did to you. How they hung perfectly low on his hips, gave you a clear view of the soft lines down to his navel when he was to lift his shirt. Not that he did that this time around, but you knew. You knew and that was the problem.
Carefully your thumbs dug into his shoulderblades, massaging the tense mussel there as he worked. A welcomed moan of relief fell from his lips as he seemed to scribble away at yet another paper. No doubt signing off on something clearly important. Your lips met the top of his head, slowly like any caring and compassionate wife would when trying to help relive some of the tension in their husbands shoulders after a long day at work.
Slowly, you made your descent. Lips catching the tip of his ear, innocently, pressing feather light kisses down along his earlobe. Working your way carefully to his neck. inconspicuous or at the very least you thought you had been. His hand had come up to the side of your face thumb, running gently along your cheekbone before he turned enough to look up at you, β Not quite darling.. Iβm almost finished and then we can indulge on any little thing your heart desires.. dinner, maybe that movie youve been telling me about.. hmm? β
Indulge you then, pulling you in for a simple heated kiss. One that would leave you craving more, but also hopefully hold you over until he was finished with his paperwork. Or rather one he had hoped would hold you over temporarily. But his kisses where so intoxicating, so fulfilling that it just left you craving him more.
β Oliver.. β you tried to sound firm, like you werenβt just trying to work your way into his pants. Like you where just being innocent when you where most definitely not.
β Iβm just trying to help you relax. β you spoke, sparing a second while he seemingly went back to his work before you began again. Right where you left off, lips cascading down along his neck again. Hands sliding over his shoulders and down the front of his chest. Nails wracking gently along the tshirt, working slowly back up untilβ¦
Suddenly, he was pulling you down into his lap, guiding you down so you gracefully landed on his lap. Papers all but forgotten in that moment right there.
β couldnβt be patient huh? β his face pressed softly into your hair. Arm coming to snake around your mid section gently, then pulling firmly. β β¦. Couldnβt just wait thirty more minutes for me to finish up my workβ¦ β his fingers trailed down, slipping past the waistband of your pants working, probing softly along the soft supple skin.
β Do you crave me so much that you simply could not contain yourself? β his fingers slip firther, past your underwear and straight for your clit. Finding that little bundle of nerves with his index and middle finger. Circling gently, once twice before adding more pressure just enough to hear that pretty little gasp fall from your lips.
You couldnβt answer him, how could you after all? As his fingers worked over your sensitive clit. A steady pace was set, working you up before he swipped his fingers lower. Through your wet folds and gently pumped them into your aching heat, β oh my darling wife.. youβre so wet for me.. should we fix that hm? β
You nodded vigorously, your mistake really. Softly he pats your thigh with the hand not buried in your cunt. Working you over so deliciously you did not want it to stop. Yet still you listen to his every word, β up.. up.. letβs get these pants off you shall we.. β He hooks his fingers in the waistband of your pants. Making sure to take your underwear with it. Tugging gently when you stand for him. All the way down your legs until you have to step out of them.
He releases you for a moment, just a moment to lift his hips and pull his grey sweats down along his ankles. Revealing his throbbing hard cock before he settled back into his chair. His fingers returned to youβre center, only to collect the slick that had been leaking there. Bringing it back to his thick length and running it along himself. From tip to base, lazy, gentle, teasing. A couple of good strokes as you watched him, the soft struggle of a strained groan from his lips before he moved his fingers from his cock. Grabbing your thighs now and pulling you forward.
Forward until you landed into his lap now, straddling his hips as you started kissing from his collarbone up to his neck. Almost to his lips before he stopped you. Hand gently crashing your face, the pad of his thumb ran along your bottom lip. Your tongue darted out, licking along the pad of his thumb now. Pulling a soft, satisfied groan from his lips. You thought you had him, you genuinely did.
β come on baby.. raise your hips a littleβ¦ let me in.. hmm? β he sounded so sweet, so willing to give you what you had been craving all day long. Carefully, and with his guidance, you lifted yourself. Knees pressing into the chair in order to help you balance as he held you. As he took hold of his stiff cock and fed the tip into your tight head. Moans falling from both of you as you as you slid down the length of him. Slowly, carefully. He made sure you didnβt slip. He always was so gentle with you, careful like you where some delicate flower. Which is what you where, to him at least. You where his whole world and nothing, nothing in that world would ever lay a hand on you.
He bottomed out inside of you, a collected sigh of relief left the both of you. So full, so deliciously full and satiated. You needed a moment before you where to move, or so you thought. A gentle testing roll of your hips was stopped instantly. His hands firm at holding you down against his cock. Not giving you the opportunity to grind on him, to bounce on him like you so desperately wanted.
β o.oliv.. β he silenced you with a simple kiss pressed to your lips. A smile, clearly evident when he pulled back just enough to take in youβre reaction. Oh he was loving this.. to much.
β You couldnβt wait for me like normalβ¦ so now you get to sit here, warming my cock until I finish these reports darling. β he rolled his hips, once, just for good measure to get his point across as you gasped, β stay still until Iβm doneβ¦ and then Iβll reward you.. β a kiss to the corner of your lips now, β let me finish these papers and then.. Iβll fuck you right here until youβre shaking and canβt think of anything else. β
A promise and he always made good on his promises to you, especially you. His arm wrapped around you now. The other hand moving back to his papers, papers he genuinely had to get to before the night was to end. Leaning forward to look them over, still writing with that god awfully annoying pen.
Your arms went to wrap around him, something he seemed to allow as they tightened softly on his body. Head now resting on his shoulder as he worked. Thick, hard length buried deeply into your snug heat. You could feel him, twitching every so often. And it took every part of your concentration not to grind yourself against him as he scribbled away at those dammed papers.
Shuffling, scribbling. The soft etching sound of his pen was one of the only sounds you could concentrate on. But you where growing impatient, terribly so.
How much time had passed? Was he dragging this along on purpose? Because you had been so insistent and impatient the second he walked within the threshold of their door.
Sometime between your thoughts, the pen scribbling and the soft ticking of the clock he had stopped. Face pressed into your neck as now both hands where on your body. Gentle, firm. As if finding his own composure in that very moment. Should you test it? Should you try and move just to see what he dose?
Before your decision was made he moved. One hand moving from your back to settle somethingβs around his desk, neatly. Without moving his face from your body, just an eye to see what he was doing.
Both his hands are on your hips now, fingers pressing into the soft skin there before he took a deep breath you hadnβt realized he had been holding. A gentle pull, he slid your hips away from his length. Causing you to whimper in protest before he was slamming you back down on him. Steady, constant. Working you over his throbbing cock with strained grunts. The sound of your gasps, the whimpering moans that tumbled from your throat as he pumped you on his length was like music to his ears.
Within seconds one of his hands hooked under your thigh, the other at your back for stabilization as he stood himself up clumsy. Depositing you on his neat and meticulously organized desk. The one he seemed to pride himself on so dearly. His hands all but ripped his shirt over his head, now using the desk as leverage to fuck himself into your tight, wet heat. Walls fluttering and milking him for everything he had.
β Youβre so.. god damn impatient, you know that? β there was no real bite to his words. Not now, never with you. You where his love, the light of his life in this annoying place. The one he would do anything for, the only one that mattered, his wife.
Your hands where pawing at his back now, fingers searching for some sort of traction. Something more stable to hold onto as your moans bounced off the walls of your little shared home. β oh.. nnh babyβ¦ please right there. β begging, youβre begging for him now. The thickness of his dick dragging in and out of you.
A plap plap plap sound all but fills the room accompanied by both of your ragged panting for air. Desperate moans that swirled around the room as he all but growls into your skin. β you like that baby? Getting fucked on my desk.. all improper like? β his thrusts grew sharper, chasing as your nails softly dug into his skin. The broken sob of a moan that fell from you in that minute was all that he needed in order to know that he was right.
β yeah.. β his thrusts continued, hand sliding up from your back to your shoulder so he could hook his fingers there. Get an anchor so he could thrust into you more precisely while your legs hooked perfectly over his hips, drawing him in more, β.. gunna come baby?.. want to feel you.. want you to gush on my cock pretty girl. β
The hand that was on your thigh now found your clit, even with his sharp thrusts into your body. He knew you like the back of his hand, knew what got you going. Knew what had you coming apart at the seems, simply because he loved you.
His fingers worked you over now, in like with the deep drag of his cock in your pussy. You could all but shout. Whining, moaning.. whimpering as each jolted thrust now had your legs shaking. That build up in your body, the coil tightening somewhere deep in your belly. Like you where vibrating violently, just wanting it to snap. Feeling so close to just that.
β I.. Iβm gunna.. please.. I.. mhgg.. come.. please let.. me.. β your voice is a broken sob of his name as his hips snap forward again.
β Come for me sweetheart.. let me feel you pretty girl. β his fingers rub your clit more firm, deeper circles as he worked you over that edge. The coil snapping and violently at that. Your back arched, butt lifting off of the desk as your orgasm rippled through your body like electricity. Legs shaking, body shuddering as you practically screamed his name.
Music to his ears, his thrusts became erratic, trying to work you through your high while he chased his. Keeping you from collapsing onto his desk as you where all but jelly in his hands now.
Onceβ¦
Twiceβ¦
A third thrust and he was gone, hips bucking against his own will. Entirely coating your insides, filling you with an animalistic growl. Shuddered groans turned into what you could only describe as soft moaning whimpers in your ear as his hips turned to gentle subsided rolls. Keeping his spent deep within your heat.
Listening to the rapid beating of your heart it took him a moment, just a moment before his head moved, dragging his lips along your cheek before pressing them passionately against your lips. Pulling you in by your very soul for this kiss.
His breath came slow, as did yours, panting, savoring every moment like this between the two of you.
β Who knew paperwork got you this worked up General.. β you said his rank instead of his name entirely on purpose. Earning a soft grunt and sharp thrust of his hips Despite the both of you just having a mind blowing orgasm. Simply beside he knew it would pull that sweet, broken little gasp of an overstimulated moan from you.
Your fingers found his face now. Sliding along his cheek as you simply just took him in. Thumb sliding back and forth, soothingly as he still remained buried deep within you, β We should move to the bed my love. β
Your voice came through, cutting through his thoughts as he leaned into the touch of your hand, β in a minute.. β he savored this.. really savored it, β .. just want to stay here with you for a moment darling. β his voice was quiet, a sharp contrast to the hardened general he was outside of this home with you. His lips captured yours once more.
Just a minute..
He only needed a minute to compose himself and take you to bed.
Whatever that meant moving forward for the evening.
Hey, so Iβm gonna be a little slow on posting this next fix update. I maybe kind of broke my finger π. Just bear with me while I regain my bearings and Iβll be able to write properly. οΏΌ
summary: gwayne finally returns from the war after months away to claim you at last, only to find that you and ormund have grown far closer than he anticipated, and that his cousin has no intention of letting you go so easily. (13k)
contents: targ!reader (no physical descriptions), love triangle, enemies to lovers, angst, hurt/comfort, forbidden love, infidelity, canon divergence, cw for emotional manipulation, mentions of ptsd, descriptions of blood and gore, s3ep6 spoilers, smut 18+ (MDNI): gwayne gets a much needed handjob, fem receiving oral
( PART ONE ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )
vi. RUIN & RETURN
It had been six days since Gwayneβs letter arrived at camp; five since the Hightower host marched for Tumbleton; and one since you arrived within the ancient walls to wait.Β
Ormund had not allowed you to read it. He tossed the parchment into the hearth before you could so much as ask and promptly reached for his sword, unsheathing the steel with a strange air of control, right before a shout tore from his throat. He brought the blade down onto the war table hard enough to splinter the old wood. βUseless cravenβ Cowardβ Cunt!β he bellowed with every blow, until the ivory pieces sitting atop the map scattered to the floor like knocked-out teeth.
You stood on the far side of the tent, wrapped in your nightgown and still sticky with sex between the thighs, and watched the man lose all of his usual composure in the space of a single breath. Daeron stood just in front of you, not quite broad or tall enough to protect you from his uncleβs rage, but trying to shield you from it nonetheless.
With one final wavering exhale, Ormund sheathed his sword again and left it lying flat on the ruined table before him. His tense shoulders loosened as he raised a hand to swipe a rogue auburn curl from his brow. He turned to face you again with a much more careful, if only slightly unhinged, smile on his mouth.
βThere has been no sight of Aemond,β he announced at last. βNor Vhagarβ Weβll have to proceed to Tumbleton on our own. Gwayne will meet us there in time.β
It was not joy alone that heavied your chest at the sound of his name. It was much closer to dread, which burned as it rose into your throat like bile β alongside something that shouldβve felt like love but had since grown into something far more complicated in your last few moons as prisoner. You turned from him at once and shoved the tent flap aside just in time to exorcise your sickness onto the dewy grass below.
The dread did not leave with it, and neither did the guilt.
Now you sit at the long table of another manseβs dining hall, far humbler than that of the Red Keep but still a palace compared to the war tents, and watch the last of the orange sunrise die over the hills through the arched windows. Somewhere down that road, your husband rides towards you β alone and hunted and entirely unaware of what awaits him in these walls.Β
βYouβve hardly touched your supper,β Ormund says beneath the soft scrape of his knife as he cuts himself a slice of honeyed boar. Despite not having properly dined since the war began, he eats with a methodical sort of restraint. He takes small bites, chews each of them thoroughly, and doesnβt talk again until he swallows. βIβm not going to have to feed you myself again, am I?β
You miss the amusement dancing on the edge of his melodic voice with your attention fixed on the window, where the dark edge of the hill meets the violet sky. βIβm not hungry,β you answer distantly.
βYes. You said as much yesterday as well,β Ormund sighs with all the exasperation of a man grown tired of losing his battles with you. βIβd have thought you might be glad to have a proper kitchen. With proper cooks. With proper food.β
His apathy cuts you like a blade, which has grown sharper and more frequent since the letter arrived at camp. It seemed to sever whatever spell had briefly held the two of you together before now; or otherwise shut something in Ormund that has not opened since he learned of his cousinβs imminent arrival.
βWell, forgive me, my lord,β you say with a voice as thin as Valyrian steel. βIf my husbandβs sudden return from the dead has rather spoiled my appetite.β
Ormundβs eyes snap up from his plate at once. Theyβre pale and unreadable and utterly void of the warmth youβd grown so accustomed to. When the blue of his eyes are warm, theyβre like swimming in the languid blue of a summer sea. They carry none of that silken familiarity tonight.
βHe is not dead yet," Ormund reminds you with his brows raised to his hairline. βSo far as either of us knows, anyway.β
Yet. The word alone makes you flinch, though you cannot yet tell if he means it as cruelly as it feels. You find more and more these days that you can no longer tell the difference with him now.
βWhat am I to say to him?β you wonder suddenly aloud, as if the question had been building in your throat since you learned of Gwayneβs arrival. Your anxious hands twist in the charcoal-silver skirts borrowed from Lady Footlyβs closet; a gift, Ormund called it, despite it not belonging to either of you. βWhen Gwayne arrivesβ what do I tell him? How am I meant to look at him?β
βYou are his wife,β Ormund responds plainly, with one careless roll of his broad shoulders. βI suppose youβll look at him as you always have.β
Your face screws with a choked-back anger. βThatβs not an answerββ
βNo. But itβs the only one I have.β He sets his fork and knife on the plate with a heavy clink and leans back in his chair. He tilts his chin upward to stare at you over the top of the glittering candles between you, ringed fingers fidgeting over the pale white cloth.
βI have an army to feed, men to protect, and walls to build before Rhaenyraβs dragonfire can swallow the castle whole,β he continues in a monotone. βUnfortunately, I no longer possess the luxury, or the patience, of coddling your guilt.β
His words burn red-hot through your chest, searing you like a brand. You flinch away from them as if heβd struck you physically, though it mightβve hurt less if he had. Your eyes sting as your throat tightens around all the words you want to fling back at him β perhaps that he had not seemed so burdened by you a week past, when his mouth was on you and his fingers were in you; that he had not been so burdened by your guilt all the weeks before that, when he swore your safety mattered to him above his cousinβs own claim to you.
But you swallow down the accusations now and throw your napkin onto your untouched plate instead. Your chair scrapes hard against the cobbles as you rise from the table in a rush of black and silver silk.
βWhere are you going now?β Ormund huffs.
βFor a walk,β you answer without looking back at him.
βYou havenβt even touched your food,β he calls to your retreating figure, motioning to your uneaten plate with a ringed hand. His even voice begins to fray at the edges, βSit down and eatββ
βFeed it to the houndsββ
βSit!β His voice cracks through the room like thunder when your hand curls around the cold brass door handle. The sheer volume of his voice, the raw bite underneath it, roots you in place. Your head turns slowly to find the man glaring at you from his spot at the table, though the scowl on his chiseled features disappears just as quickly as it came on.
His eyes flutter shut as his broad chest inflates behind his emerald coat, with a slow breath in through his nose. You watch the man walk himself down from some invisible ledge β tense shoulders dropping, clenched fists easing, rough breaths coming easier again.
βIβm sorryβ¦β Ormund says when he opens his eyes again. The light in the pale blue of his gaze has returned to him, you find, and so has the softness in his smile when he rises from his chair to meet you. βI am sorry, my loveβ I forget myselfβ This war has driven me half-mad, if you could not already tell.β
He exhales a faint laugh that you do not join him in. He crosses the distance between you in a few short strides, wide hands settling along the outsides of your elbows β warm, even through the thin sleeves of your gown. You peer up at him through your lashes, uncertain whether the tenderness he extends to you now is real or simply the version heβs allowing himself to show you.
βIf ever I amβ¦ cross with you. Or short with you in any wayβ It is never because of you, understand?β Ormund confesses lowly, eyes darting back and forth between your weary ones. βIt takes me a moment to remember myself, is allβ¦ You understand that, donβt you?β
You swallow hard and nod wordlessly in response, though what you most desperately want to tell him in that moment is that Gwayne had never been so cross with you. That not once in your moons of marriage had he so much as raised his voice at you or frightened you the way Ormund has in such short time. You want to say it if only to see it hurt him the way his words have hurt you. Instead, you say nothing.Β
βHe does not have to know,β Ormund murmurs to you, thumbs brushing your arm in an absent, reassuring gesture. βNothing occurred between us that was not asked of me. I gave you only what you wantedβ Surely a man cannot be faulted for answering his summons.β
Your brows lower over your narrowed eyes. βAre you saying thatβ¦ that what we did is my fault alone?β
βOf course not!β Ormund laughs, broad hands rising to cup your burning cheeks between them. His palms are warm and calloused; they feel like velvet as they brush your skin. βIβm saying neither of us is at faultβ You said it yourself, did you not? The war broke your vows. Not us.β
Some traitorous part of you, so desperate for absolution, nearly softens into his touch at that. You did not ask to be taken from the Red Keep; you did not ask for Ormund's protection; you did not ask for a husband to ride off at dawn and leave you to wonder all these months whether he was living or dead.
You are desperate and half-convinced in your own madness, but you think that perhaps Gwayne will understand that. That surely a woman who believed herself abandoned and already widowed cannot be faulted for the comfort she found in the meantime. It is a thing far too fragile to build a conscience on, but you cling to the comfort of it anyway.
βMy cousin rides to Tumbleton aloneβ without his own army and with Daemonβs surely hunting him,β Ormund coos gently to you, sweeping his thumb across your skin. βIt is entirely possible that he will not survive the journey here at all. And then there would be nothing for you to confessβ¦ And you wouldβve spent all these days worrying for naught.β
The words settle over you like ice in your veins. Your eyes dart back and forth between his own as you search for something human within him β some acknowledgment of what heβs just comforted you with β and find nothing in return.
βYou speak of his death like it would be a mercy to me,β you whisper, voice thick with unshed tears.Β
βI speak of it only as a possibility," Ormund corrects softly. βI only mean to spare you the fear of it, my love. Is that not a kindness?β
You do not answer him. You could not even if you wanted to; not with the invisible hand curling its way around your throat, as you listen to the man whoβs protected you from certain death frame your husband's demise as a kindness done on your behalf.
But when Ormund ducks softly down to press a sickly sweet kiss to your mouth, tasting of the sweet wine and honeyed figs from supper, you cannot seem to pull away from him. Gods forgive you, but you lean into it instead; you ball the collar of his coat into fists and chase the comfort in his mouth the way youβve chased the safety of his hands since you were brought to his side.
You think of the man who fed you bread from his own fingers when you would not eat; who cut down a hedgeknight before he could harm you; who wrapped you in his blankets and warmed your fingers in his hands on particularly freezing nights.Β
That man is still in there, somewhere, hidden beneath the throes of war.Β
You fear what might become of him before itβs done.
vii. MUD & MERCY
You stand before the tallest window of the Tumbleton manse, overlooking the winding ivied streets below. They lead straight to the western gate, where the scouts had seemingly spotted a rider without banners in the distance β a messenger from another camp, they said, or maybe Gwayne. The dying sunlight paints the sky in milky orange hues while you pick at the ragged skin of your thumbnail in an absentminded worry. The delicate nailbed splits and blooms red.
You do not notice until a silken handkerchief is motioned suddenly in the corner of your eye.
Your head whips to find Daeron standing at your elbow, green eyes glimmering and pink mouth fixed into a firm line of boyish solemnity. He stands taller than you now, which hadnβt been the case when you first arrived at camp β now you have to look up to properly meet the young boyβs gaze.
βOh,β you say within a surprised breath. βThank you.β
You take the cloth from him with a trembling hand. The pale linen blooms pink when you press it to the raging skin of your bleeding thumb. Daeron grimaces sympathetically in return, though you arenβt looking at him to see it.Β
βAre you nervous?β he wonders aloud, hands crossed firmly behind his back.
βA bitβ¦β you confess in a sigh, dabbing at the wound and knowing that there is no string of words you could possibly put together to express just how nervous you are.
βAye,β he nods. βI suppose I am, tooβ¦ Iβve not seen him since I was a child.β
Your head turns slowly to flash the boy a knowing look. βYou are still a child, my prince,β you remind him with a smile.
βA younger child, then,β Daeron mutters sheepishly back, freckled cheeks flaring as he turns back toward the window. His long, auburn tendrils sway softly at his shoulders when he shakes his head. βLong enough that I can no longer recall the last conversation I had with himβ¦ Though Iβm sure it was about you, no doubt, with his betrothal to you and allβ¦β
βWell, he spoke of you often,β you tell him, and watch the boyβs pale eyes flicker with a newfound life when he turns to you again. βHe made it clear he was quite proud of youβ¦ And if itβs any consolation, I did not intend to steal him from Oldtown.β
βIβm glad for it,β Daeron blurts, then shakes his head at himself when the words donβt come out right. βNot that he left, of course, but that it was you he was given. There are far worse fates, to be trueβ¦βΒ
He trails off and watches your face twist with confusion. His anxious gaze drops to the blood-spotted handkerchief as the tips of his ears glow pink. The words seem to escape him without a single thought in his floundering attempts to explain himself.Β
βI only mean thatβ that he is good. My Uncle Gwayne. The best of us, really, and Ormund isβ¦β Daeron forgets why he brings up the older man the second his name spills from his lips, though he cannot seem to stop talking. βOrmund is good, too, Iβm sure. Somewhere deep down. But heβ He does not lose well, my lady. And Iβve learned thatβ¦ that it's a dangerous thing, toβ to be the prize heβs decided heβs won.β
The words come out of him in a rush; sentences half-formed and stumbling. He glances at you only once in a quick and searching look, before looking away again like he canβt stomach a second more of the contact. Your stomach twists in a sick feeling at each word from his mouth. Your throat runs dry as you choke on whatever response you might have given him β some careful deflection, maybe, or a warm laugh to soothe the boy β but a horn sounds from the tower before you can find any response at all.Β
Three short, sharp blasts send the keep into motion immediately.
βHeβs here!β someone yells, far off in the distance. βOpen the gatesβ itβs Ser Gwayne!β
Your feet seem to move on their own accord. Despite the dread sitting heavy in your belly, your legs carry you instantly towards Gwayne. You hold your dress skirts in your fists as you rush down the winding stone stairs, through the crowded hall, and out the heavy oak doors of the entrance. The humid, evening summer air takes the breath from your lungs as it strikes you across the face; it becomes near-impossible to take another one in, with your heart climbing so suddenly in your throat.
The thundering of hooves against cobblestone finds you before youβve made it down the steep stone steps of the ancient castle. Youβre blinded, briefly, by the setting sun until you hold a hand over your squinted eyes. Armored knights and groomed horses come into view β straddled loosely behind Bold Jonβs mare is Gwayne, though his face and hair are so caked with dirt and blood you scarcely recognize him.
Gwayne tries and fails to dismount on his own. His legs betray him after days of nonstop walking, and the exhaustion makes them buckle almost instantly. βGwayne!β he hears you shout, right before he feels your hands reach for him before he can fall.Β
Your arms curl beneath his own to keep him upright. He leans the bulk of his weight against you without ever really meaning to, clinging to your warmth and the scent of floral bathing oils he isnβt quite used to. And, though he smells like dirt and death, you hold him back just the same.Β
βYouβre alive,β you pant, breaths fanning in his muddied hair.Β βGods, youβre aliveββ
βWellβ¦β He huffs a not-quite laugh that you can feel in his shoulder, pulling just far enough away to meet your wet eyes with a pair of duller, paler ones. βI told you I meant my vows, didnβt I?βΒ
His words come out in rasps, voice dry from days of thirst and weeks of shouting. His chest sears with a foreign feeling at the way youβre looking at him now β like heβs half stranger, half god. βApologies for my appearance, dear wife,β he pants and swallows down the sudden urge to cry. βBut I have had aβ¦ rough go of things as of lateβ¦β
Your features crumble under the weight of your own tears. You shake your head at the man, and at his sorry attempt at a joke. βGods, Iβve missed you...β
Gwayne exhales slowly through his nose as his cracked lips curve into a crooked smile, visibly exhausted but his even still. βNot nearly as much asββ
βSer Gwayne.β The voice cuts through the bustling courtyard at once.
You feel every muscle in your body seize on instinct as your head whips back towards the stone steps, where Ormund stands at the top of them. His eyes scan the scene below β of you and Gwayne and your bodies only just now easing apart as the red-haired man attempts to stand on his own.Β
The silver chain of Ormundβs pomander clinks faintly in the newfound quiet as he brings the perfumed incense up to his nose, inhaling deeply to rid the scent of sweat and blood and death from his nostrils.
βI see youβve made it,β is all he says.
Gwayne exhales an exhausted huff, a mixture of a laugh and a scoff. He sways softly on his muddied boots and clutches onto your shoulder with his free hand. βItβs good to see you too, cousinβ¦β he responds in a monotone.
Ormund turns to Daeron, whoβs hovering just beside him with his pale hands clenched into fists β it takes every bit of strength in the young boyβs body not to run down to his uncle alongside you, worried about how Ormund might react.Β
βSee that a room is made ready for your uncle. And a hot meal is sent with hasteβ whatever the kitchens can manage quickly,β Ormund says to the boy, then pauses as his eyes drift back to Gwayneβs. βAnd perhaps a bath.β
Gwayneβs cracked lips curl into a slow smile. He breathes a laugh through his nose as he watches his cousin spin on his heel to walk away. βYou always did have delicate sensibilitiesβ¦β he attempts to call to the man, though he fails to muster the strength in his voice to be heard.Β
It is you who insists on escorting Gwayne to the bath. You wave off hovering knights and Tumbleton servants with a firmness that surprises even you β no longer a prisoner of war, but a high lordβs wife.Β
Gwayne, it seems, is much too spent from the journey to do anything more than lean into your shoulder the whole way up the winding castle. He braces himself on your firm weight as you peel the ruined layers of clothing from his body and coax him gently into the steaming tub.Β
Your own borrowed gown joins his tattered things in a forgotten heap on the cobbled floor as you sink into the water alongside him. The warmth laps gently at your waist as you shift yourself over his lap, resting the bulk of your weight on his thighs.
The bathwater turns the color of weak tea by the time youβve worked the worst of the grime from Gwayneβs pale skin. Dark streams of dirt and old blood swirl away beneath the cloth in your hand, brushing a tad too gently over his shoulders and chest and back, as if anything too hard might break him entirely.
Gwayne sits slumped against the tub, eyes half-closed and head lolled back. The war had certainly taken its due upon his pretty features β the new hollows beneath his cheekbones, the fresh scar above his brow, the deep grey exhaustion under his once bright eyes. Thereβs a leanness to him now that suggests missed meals and weeks of marching; and a sort of heaviness in his gaze that suggests longer weeks of grief.
But still he softens for you, minute by minute, as you drag the cloth over the angle of his dirtied jaw. He exhales slowly through his nose and leans instinctively into your touch.
βYou neednβt do this to yourself, you know?β the man murmurs, but makes no further move to stop you. βThere are servants more than capable of tending to my bath.βΒ
βI want to do it,β you tell him simply, dabbing at a speck of blood on his cheek. βIβve missed you too muchβ Iβd rather not share you with a servant just yet.β
He gives you a tired, crooked smile in response. βI missed you, too,β he says with a sigh, fingers clutching you harder by the waist beneath the waterβs surface, like heβs still trying to make sure youβre still real. βGods, you cannot imagine how badlyβ¦βΒ
You rinse the cloth in the cooling water and press it gently to his hairline, dabbing at the remnants of dirt clinging stubbornly to him there. His adamβs apple bobs as he swallows through a tightening throat β being touched this gently threatens to undo him entirely, after weeks away and days of nonstop bloodshed.Β
His tense shoulders finally sink beneath the water as he admits, βI thought only of youβ¦ The entire way hereβ¦ I fear itβs the only way I managed itβ knowing that I could not die without seeing you first.β
Your throat tightens as guilt strangles you all over again; the bitter reminder of what youβd done, and all the nights you forgot to miss him back. Your fingers move anxiously to set the cloth on the rim of the tub and dip into the ceramic dish lying there. You scoop a handful of lavender soap onto your fingertips, and work it between your palms until it starts to foam.
βI thought of you, too,β you tell him with an averted gaze, which is true enough even though it feels like a lie when it escapes your mouth. βEvery day.β
βAnd what of Ormund?β Gwayne wonders aloud, cracking one pale eye open to study your face as you rake the suds through his long auburn hair. The dull, muddy strands slowly return to their proper flaming color with each gentle pass of your fingers, as the last of the warβs blood and grim streams down his pale shoulders in dark rivulets. βI trust my cousin treated you well in my absence. He can be insufferable, I know, but he is not unkindβ¦ Not truly.β
You falter at the mention of him. Your hands still briefly in his damp tendrils as a sick feeling curls in the pit of your stomach. You swallow hard through the cold hands of guilt strangling your throat and force your fingers to keep moving, praying he does not notice how they tremble faintly against his scalp.Β
βHe wasβ¦ accommodating,β you answer carefully, eyes trained on his hair rather than on his attentive gaze, lest he read the whole truth of it plainly upon your face. βHe kept me fed. Housed. Safeβ¦ For the most partβ Tilt your head back; let me rinse your hair.β
You lift yourself slightly off the manβs lap to reach for the pitcher resting on the table beside the tub. Glittering rivulets of bath water cascade down your arms, glimmering in thin ribbons over the curves of your breasts in the dancing candlelight. Gwayne tips his head back to oblige you when you settle astride his scruffy thighs once more. His long, pale fingers smooth absently over your hips beneath the water, tracing idle circles along your soft skin.
βYouβve gone rather short with your answers, dear wifeβ¦β he observes lowly, peering at you from the bridge of his nose. βThatβs not like youβ¦β
βIβm just tired, is allβ¦β you deflect, cupping one hand over his brow to shield his eyes while your other pours the clean water steadily over his hairline. The suds run clear down his temples and trickle back into the bath below. βItβs been a long dayβ¦ A long several months, if Iβm honestβ¦β
βYesβ¦ For us all, Iβm sure,β Gwayne sighs and lifts his head once more when you shift to place the pitcher back onto its table. He arches an auburn brow and musters a quiet smile; the simple ease of being with you returns to him by the minute now, as his fingers settle over your ribcage again. βThough I do hope my letters kept you some companyβ¦ Small comfort as they must have been.β
You go suddenly very still above him, muscle locking despite yourself. The guilt that had been simmering in your chest surges up your throat all at once now, in a red-hot flame that makes you feel halfway sick. For a long moment, you fail to make sense of the words β his letters β after so many months of waiting to hear from your husband, and after so many months of hearing Ormund tell you each day that there had been not a single word from him.
ββ¦Your letters?β you repeat on bated breath.
βYes,β Gwayne nods, brows pinching at your confusion. βI wrote every time I could manage itβ At every stronghold we arrivedβ¦ Did you not receive them?β
Your mouth opens and closes as you struggle to find the words to respond β words that would placate your own confusion without disclosing what you had been doing in the days awaiting his letters. βPerhapsβ¦ Perhaps they got lost. Along the roadβ¦β
Gwayne scoffs a humorless laugh at the thought. βWell, I pity the poor hand who got my letters instead of youβ¦β he croons lowly.
βWhy?β you press with a wavering grin. βWhat did they say?β
βNothing of substance,β he shrugs his bare shoulders. βJustβ¦ foolish things.β
βLikeβ¦?β you trail off, soothing your palms down the pale canvas of his chest.
A faint uncertain smile tugs at his mouth as he watches your hands dip below the waterline. βI wrote ofβ¦ what fields I passed. What foolish things Ser Criston said that day. What Iβd seenβ What I missed of home, what I missed of youβ¦βΒ
He trails off when your fingers find his cock, lying limp along his left thigh. He feels like velvet in your fist as you massage him slowly hard. βKeep goingβ¦β you coo to him.
His hips twitch beneath you when you tighten your grip on his stiffening length. βIβ I wrote of your hands,β he manages, and swallows hard when your thumb swipes across the sensitive tip of his cock. His eyes grow heavy with desire as he watches you work at him through the haze of cloudy water. βHow I missed theβ the feel of them on meβ¦ Godsβ¦βΒ
βGo onβ¦β you murmur, smearing your lips along his jaw.
βI wrote thatβ¦ that I missed your smell,β he confesses, fraying with each slow pass of your hand. βYour hair after a bathβ¦ The wine on your breath after supperβ¦ The sweat between your thighs after a long dayβ Seven fucking hells.βΒ
His jaw clenches tight when your free hand dips down to cradle his balls, squeezing the sensitive sack between your fingers until his cock jerks in your fist. His heavy head lolls into your kiss; he feels you smiling against his cheek.Β
βYouβre already close, arenβt you?βΒ
He swallows hard. βYou have no idea how long itβs beenβ¦β he confesses in a blissful sigh.
βIβm sure there were plenty of whores on the road,β you singsong in his ears.
He shakes his head instantly in protest. βNone as beautiful as youβ¦βΒ
His denial does little to comfort you. Instead, you feel a white-hot rage searing in your chest. Some distant, ugly part of you wishes he had taken a thousand whores while he was away, if only to take the weight of your own betrayal off your shoulders. At least then you could share it, this guilt, instead of living alone in your sin. You hate yourself most of all for even wishing it, and you feel very suddenly disgusted in your own skin β eager to be free of him and this moment altogether.
βThen cum,β you command against his pulse, jerking his cock faster in your fist. Gwayneβs fingers clutch at the plush skin of your hips hard enough to etch bruises there, and you revel in the hurt as his grumbled moan fills the bathing chambers. βCome on. Cum for meββ
He makes a broken sort of sound in the base of his throat as he seizes just beneath you, tense and trembling as his high hits him full force. The cooling water threatens to slosh off the rim as he twitches through his orgasm, which spurts into the cloudy water in short ropes of pearly-white, until he relaxes finally with a sigh.
βGive me a momentβ¦β he pleads through ragged breaths. βIβll make you feel good, I justβ I need a momentβ¦β
βIβm alright,β you assure him with a shake of your head, and with a sad smile that he doesnβt catch with his eyes still closed. βYou rest tonightβ¦ Iβll see you in the morning.β
viii. CAGE & CONFESSION
You do not go to find Ormund until long after Gwayneβs breathing has steadied.Β
He takes up the whole of the bed in his inhuman exhaustion; one leg straight and the other bent beneath the quilts, one pale arm slung over his bare stomach and the other left reaching out for your empty side of the bed as you slip from beneath the silk. You storm for Ormundβs solar in the dimly lit halls in nothing but your thin ivory nightgown; the fabric catching at your ankles with every furious stride in the manβs direction.
You find the room lit by a sea of glittering candles when you throw open the door without ceremony. It strikes the wall a harsh bang, far too loud for the late night; the wind of the blow makes the flames gutter wildly in their sconces.Β
Ormundβs head snaps up from his dispatches at the sudden intrusion. His quill pauses on the parchment β because the work of war is never truly done, not even at the dead of night. His eyes are cold for a flicker with a soldierβs instinct, then warm again all at once when he finds no threat β only you. The corner of his mouth curls into a slow, knowing smile accordingly.
βCome to warm my bed already, have you?β the man lilts in his usual melodic voice, setting his quill aside as he slouches back into his cushioned seat. βI confess, I hardly expected to see you tonight, what with your husband so newly returned. Bold of you, reallyββ
βDonβt,β you snap.Β
The word slices through the solar like a blade, and wipes away the smug curve of his smile in an instant. Your nightgown billows around your ankles with every furious step inside; the shadows of the fabric catch in the candlelight and turn you into something half-spectral as you loom over the desk across from him.
βHe wrote to me. For months, he wrote to me,β you agonize. βAnd when he asked whether Iβd received them, I sat there like a fool, knowing I hadnβt gotten a single one.β
Ormund draws a long, even breath through his nose. His ringed fingers settle flat over the desk as he keeps a measured composure about him, even though yours unravels by the minute.
βAhβ¦β he hums under his breath.
A shocked laugh escapes your mouth. βThatβs all you have to say to me?β
βWhat would you have me say?β he asks, pale eyes locked with yours as he braces himself on the arms of his chair to rise. The wood scrapes harshly along the cobbles when he stands to full height. βThat I kept them from you? That Iβ read them for myself and burned each one in the hearth when Iβd finished? Very wellβ¦ I did.βΒ
The plain admission threatens to knock the breath from your lungs. You had braced yourself for denial, to be true, to spend these late hours coaxing the truth from his lips. You were not prepared for confession; not so soon, and not so easily.Β
βWhy?β you demand, half-breathless with tears. βWhy would you do such a thing?β
βBecause I did not wish to hurt you,β Ormund says, as if it were the most reasonable thing in the world. βYou wept for that man every night for the better part of a moonβs turn. I thought it might ease you, if youβd believed he didnβt care enough to write to you at all. I thought I was sparing you the grief of it.β
βThat was not yours to decide!β you shout, voice shaking beneath the weight of your girlish fury. βThose were my letters, Ormund! My husband's words! You had no rightββ
βNo right?!β he thunders through an emotionless laugh, ocean eyes flickering with madness in an instant. βYou are my prisoner! Or have you so quickly forgotten, given how generously Iβve treated you?β
You flinch back as he rounds the desk, though you cannot seem to leave the spot ahead of him as he inches towards you like a predator to prey.
βYouβre lucky youβre standing here at all. Any other Targaryen beast would be in chains, but youβ¦β he continues, prowling another step closer. βI let you share my tent, my table, my bed. And I did it gladly because I came to love you despite theβ taint in your blood.β
You peer up at him through teary eyes when he towers finally in front of you β brows raised, eyes hardened, jaw clenched tight.
βButβ¦ you are still my prisoner,β he reminds you evenly. βYou have been since the day you arrived at my camp. So I have every right to decide which letters enter your hands and which ones do not.βΒ
Each word strikes you like a physical blow β worse, somehow, than the searing one the hedgeknight had dealt you, which has caused an unnatural cracking of your jaw ever since. Maybe because these cruel, cruel words come from the same mouth that has kissed you, pleasured you.
βPrisoner?β you repeat tearily, features screwed in disbelief. βYou say you love me and yet you call me beast in the very same breath. Whβ¦ What am I meant to make of that?β
Ormundβs face falters finally at the sight of your tears, clinging to your lower lashes and glimmering gold in the candlelight. A soft crack splits down the unforgiving marble of him as he shakes his head down at you.Β
βDonβt look at me like that,β he says and turns away.
βLike what?β you spit at the back of him.
βLike I've wounded you,β he snaps, long coat fanning slightly at his waist when he turns to face you again, now several paces away. βWhere was your Gwayne when you hadnβt eaten in five days, and I fed you bread from mine own hand? Tell me that.βΒ
Your mouth parts, but nothing comes out.
βWhere was your dutiful husband when that hedgeknight had you pinned in the dirt with your skirts torn to your thighs?β Ormund continues, palms splayed at his sides for effect. βBecause I did not see him riding to your rescue as I had. I did not see him holding you through the nights you woke screaming. That was meβ Only meβ And yet you still stand here and weep over a handful of mindless letters, as if that erases the whole of what I've done for you.βΒ
Your chin jerks back as you flinch hard at his words, at the weight of them, which you can feel heavying your chest until every new breath feels impossible. Ormunds goes silent for a moment; the shadow of his clenched jaw comes and goes as he grits his teeth. His fists open and close at his sides until they finally relax, when the anger within drains into mourning.
βIβm sorry,β he mutters suddenly, boots padding along the cobbles as he closes the distance between you once more. βForgive me. Youβre right, Iβ I should not have kept them from you. I only meant to spare you, you understand that, right?β
His wide, gently calloused hands reach for your cheeks with a tenderness that feels maddeningly sincere compared to the vitriol heβd thrown at you moments ago. He lifts your chin and ducks his head into your eyeline when you do not meet his gaze. His blue eyes go round and wet with a boyish grief as hurt sears through his chest.
βI only want to keep you safe,β he whispers. βWhatever else Iβve done wrongβ that much has always been trueβ¦ You know this, donβt you?β
He peers down at you and waits on bated breath for a response. You say nothing just yet. Your trembling hands reach from the gold buttons of his coat. At first, he thinks you mean to push him away β you want nothing more, in fact, than to push him away and wrench yourself from his hands and return to your place in bed next to Gwayne.
You do not.
You just close your eyes, exhausted past the point of arguing any further. The threads of guilt and love and fury and anguish tangle together somewhere deep in your chest, until one is utterly indistinguishable from the others. The only thing you know now for certain is that the whole of your life can be categorized into two groups: those who have stayed and those who have gone.Β
Your own family had sailed across the Narrow Sea and left you behind without so much as a backwards glance; and Gwayne, gentle as he is, still rode off to serve a cause that mattered more to him than you.Β
Ormund is, perhaps, the only person in your life who has never once abandoned you. Whatever else he has done to you before now β however cruel or calculating or maddening he has since become β he has never once walked away from you. Not when you intended to starve yourself, not when you were pinned in the mud by your skirts, not when you woke up screaming on particularly brutal nights.
You hate how much it all matters to you, however fickle it may seem. You hate it, and you hate that cannot make yourself stop needing it all the same.
βI donβt know what to doβ¦β you confess in a broken voice, clutching him hard by the collar of his coat. His softened face is bleary behind the tears burning in your eyes. βI feel so guilty, Ormundβ I do not know for how long I can bear it. It sets heavy on my chest, all the time, and I cannot set it downββ
βThen let me carry it,β he tells you. His grip goes more solid when you attempt to turn away, thumbs pressing harder into your cheeks. βI can bear it well enough for the two of us, I swear itββ
The breath of his words fans across your chin when he ducks down to kiss you, hard and sudden and searing. He tastes of wine and mint leaves when the velvety pad of his tongue licks into your mouth without warning.Β
You sigh hard through your nose at the feeling of him and cling to the front of his coat as he walks you backward a few paces towards the desk. The edge of the wood catches hard against the backs of your thighs. Ormundβs hands dip from your face to your hips, balling the fabric of your gown until it rises up your legs.
βDid you take him into your bed tonight?β he pants rough against your mouth, with the tip of his broad nose nudging yours. βYour husband? Did you fuck him? Tell me.β
βNo,β you shake your head on an exhaled breath. Your fingers curl into his dark curls as his wet mouth drags along your neck, down to your exposed collarbone. βI only pleasured him with my hand. Nothing more.βΒ
Ormund nods swiftly, as though pleased by the admission. He peers up at you through his lashes as he kisses down your clothed chest. βAlways a giver, arenβt you?β he hums lowly, mouth quirking softly at the edges. βAllow me to return the favor, thenβ¦βΒ
He sinks to his knees, with your ivory skirt now pushed up to your thighs. You keep one hand splayed along the back of his knuckles and the other tangled in his curls as he kisses your cunt like he would your mouth. He moans when his tongue slots between your sticky folds, a muffled growl you can feel in the very pit of your stomach.
Ormund is not quite as measured with his mouth as Gwayne had been the evening before he left you. Heβs fast and sloppy and loud β you can hear his tongue as it flicks against you, his lips as they suckle your clit, his moans as your honey pools on his tongue.
You swallow down a moan before it can swell through the quiet room. It turns into a whimper in your throat instead. βOrmundββ you gasp quietly, tugging him hard by the hair as his tongue laps at your swollen clit.
His bleary eyes open to peer up the length of your body β your heavy head tilted to your chest, your gaze lidded and glassy with pleasure, your chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. βLet me have it,β he slurs against your pussy, and smiles to himself at the pretty sound you make for him in response. βThatβs itβ Let me have itβ¦βΒ
Your mouth presses into a tight line to choke back a moan when his mouth returns to your cunt, suckling the sensitive button between his lips and flicking his tongue against it simultaneously. You shudder against his mouth when you cum for him, whimpering when he buries his moans and muffled murmurs of praise against your drooling pussy.
You do as youβre told β you give it all to him, you let him bear it β while Gwayne sleeps off the remnants of war across the hall.
ix. GARDENS & GHOSTS
The gardens of Tumbleton are modest things compared to the grandeur of the Red Keep, though you struggle to remember it so vividly now. Here there are only a few neat rows of late-summer roses gone wild for want of a gardener, an overgrown path winding between shaggy hedges, and a slowly weeping fountain gone quiet and still. You spend Gwayneβs second evening at the foreign castle walking beneath a canopy of drooping wisteria, with your hands looped loosely through the crook of his arm and your dress skirts whispering against the stone with every languid step.
βIβd nearly forgotten what this was likeβ¦β Gwayne hums, studying the wilting roses with distracted interest. βWalking somewhere without waiting for an arrow to find me firstβ¦β
βDonβt worry, Ser Gwayneβ¦β you squint with a teasing lilt. βIβll keep you safe.β
And though Gwayne hasnβt so much as seen you hold a real sword in your hand, he flashes you a tight-lipped smile anyway. βOf that, dear wife, I have no doubtβ¦βΒ
You fall into an easy quiet thereafter; the ordinary rhythm of marriage, though it still feels a bit foreign to you now. He asks only about small things: if the summer storms had frightened you too badly, if the men at the Hightower camp treated you well, and if youβd truly meant what you said about that farm. You answer each in turn, grateful for the ease of it β or, at least, for the brief illusion that nothing had changed between you at all.
βAnd the encampment?β Gwayne asks then, flashing you a knowing look from the corner of his eye. βYouβd said precious little of it thus far. Surely, it wasnβt so unbearableβ Though Iβm sure my cousin likely wasnβt making it easy for you.β
βThere isnβt much to say,β you shrug with a feigned air of detachment, though the words come out a little quicker than you mean them to. You catch the faint furrow of confusion between his brows, and pretend to be more preoccupied by the wilting wisteria overhead instead. βIt wasβ¦ eventful. I suppose. In its own way.β
βEventful?β Gwayne repeats with an arched brow. An unsure laugh sputters from his chest a second later. βI canβt tell whether thatβs meant as a comfort or a warningβ¦β
βItβs nothing worth troubling over,β you tell him. βTruly.βΒ
Gwayneβs eyes flit down to where your wrists are curled lazily around his bicep. The dull nails of your right thumb and forefinger pick aimlessly at the already marred skin of your left. He stops instantly in place β he had sensed something amiss since you caught him in the yard, to be true, but he sees it more plainly in your being than he had the night before.
βDid something happen?β he blurts.
Your head whips to him, eyes widening in an innocuous look. βIβ¦ I donβt know what you mean?β
He swallows once and rephrases. βSomething happenedβ¦β he repeats, this time as a firmer statement. βAt the camp. Something youβre not telling me.βΒ
You exhale a slow and shaking breath, though it does little to loosen the tightness in your chest now. You find that, once cornered and with his pleading eyes searching your face, you cannot quite bring yourself to lie to him again.
βThere was aβ¦ a man," you start unsteadily, eyes fixed on the overgrown hedge behind his shoulder rather than his face. βA hedgeknight. I was out gathering berries, and heβ He asked me about a letter. The one you left me. And when I wouldn'tβ He tried toββ
βHe tried to what?" Gwayne presses when you trail off, ducking his auburn head into your eyeline when you avert your gaze. His voice is low and careful, but you can hear the tension straining beneath it already.Β
βHe grabbed for itβ¦ And I struck him, without thinking, and he struck me backβ¦β Your fingers lift absently to your cheek, brushing the ghost of a bruise with your finger, long since healed but not yet forgotten. Your gaze goes glassy and unfocused with the recollection of the memory β the smell of the berries, the taste of the blood, the feeling of the wet earth beneath you. The rest of the words come out in choppy and nonsensical. βAnd I fellβ and my skirtsβ I think he meant tooβ I donβt know truly, but Iβ I could not stop himββ
βGodsβ¦β Gwayne huffs, as if the breath had been punched out of him entirely. His pale, handsome features screw together in horror as his pale eyes glitter with anger at himself. βI shouldβve been thereβ¦ I never shouldβve left you.β
βOrmund killed him,β you add quickly and watch a complicated look flicker behind Gwayneβs eyes at the name. βBefore he couldβ¦β
Gwayne nods when you trail off, signaling that you need not go on any further. βI am glad for that, at least,β he says, though there is a strain in his voice that suggests something other than gladness. His palms reach for your hands then, preventing you from picking at the skin there. βI am glad my cousin was there for you. Truly. I was a fool leaving you behind. I shouldβve stayed, I shouldβveββΒ
You shake your head in protest of his apologies. βNoββ
βI shouldβve been thereββ
βDonβt,β you tell him, though the word spills broken from your mouth when you jerk your hands free from his. The sudden loss of his touch leaves your fingers strangely cold. βDonβt apologize. I do not deserve it.β
βDeserve it?β Gwayne echoes with lowered brows. βWhat do you mean, deserve it?β
βYour kindness,β you sniffle. βI donβt deserve it.β
Gwayne blinks owlishly at you, and feels a strange searing in his chest when you flinch back from him as he tries to step closer. βWhy are you saying this?βΒ
βI haveβ I have sinned.β Your breath catches hard on a sob. Your wet eyes try and fail to meet his gaze. βI have betrayed you.β
Gwayne tenses at once. His face goes still and solemn; the warmth heβd had for you moments ago drains slowly from his features now. βWhat do you mean?β he wonders lowly.
βWithβ With Ormundβ Weβ I,β you attempt to speak through hitched breaths, though you cannot seem to get any of the words out. βI cannot express to youβ how unspeakably lonely I have beenββ
βLonely?β he repeats, spits back at you like venom. βDo you think I was not lonely?β
βYou at least had a war to fight!β you argue tearily. βI was taken prisoner, in case youβve forgotten.β
βAnd do you think I would not have rather been home?β Gwayne shouts. βWith you, instead of watching my men die in a field over a war I never wanted any part of?β
βYouβre the one who left!β you exclaim when he turns away from you, already retreating down the gravel path before he can lose his composure completely. βIf you stayed, we couldβve been together! And none of this wouldβve happened! You act like someone was dragging you by your boots to go fight a useless war!β
Gwayne stops at that, a few paces ahead. His shoulders are rigid beneath his borrowed doublet when he turns to you again, though not enough to face you fully. Only his profile is visible to you now, with his auburn hair falling over his brow and his emotionless grin hinting at the corner of his mouth.
βI did notβ¦ want this marriageβ¦β he confesses in calculated murmurs. βNot at first, anyway. That much Iβll admit, butβ¦ From the moment I wed you, it never once crossed my mind to seek comfort elsewhere.β
βGwayne, Iββ
βI meant my vows,β he tells you and turns, finally, to face you fully. You found no trace of fury in his face now, only a pained sort of look that turns his pale eyes a glassier shade of blue. βI have always meant them.β
βI didn't know if you were alive!β you agonize through a sob. βDonβt you understand that? Months, Gwayne β months without a single word! Not knowing whether you were breathing or rotting in some unmarked grave! And I couldn't even write to you to ask, because Ormund told me it wasn't safe. He said the letters might be intercepted, might lead Rhaenyra's army straight to you, and I could not risk thatββ
βOrmund told you that?β Gwayne interjects, voice gone dull and cold. βThat your letters werenβtβ safe to send?β
βYes,β you nod. βHe said thatββ
βAnd mine?β Gwayne presses with a slow step closer. βI presume he kept mine from you as well. Thatβs why you never got them, isnβt it? Because of him?β
You go quiet, unsure of how to answer β like thereβs some joke here somewhere you have not yet been let in on. But, to Gwayne, your silence is answer enough. He exhales a long, shuddering breath through his nose.
βOrmund and I used to play a game,β he tells you suddenly, with a humorless smile ghosting across his mouth. βRun the tower, we called itβ a footrace to the top beacon. And I let him win. Every time. Because he could not bear to lose even the smallest thing.β
Your eyes widen slightly, as you remember Daeronβs warning in the castle window β his anxious, hardly intelligible ramble. βItβs a dangerous thing to be the prize heβs decided heβs won,β the boy had told you. You hadnβt understood what he meant by that until now.
Gwayneβs features screw with a withheld fury, one that Ormund wouldβve already unleashed on you tenfold by now if the roles were reversed.
βHe was a thin-skinned twat even then. I thought it harmless, at the time. I never imaginedβ¦β he trails off, clicking his tongue against his teeth when he turns to you again. He shakes his head as his mouth twitches into a sympathetic sort of smile. βIf you think Ormund loves you, dear wife, I assure you, he does not. He simply decided that you were another game worth winning.β
He does not wait for your response. He turns on his heel, and when he walks away this time, he does not stop.Β
His feet carry him down the overgrown path, through the winding unfamiliar castle, and straight towards Ormundβs solar β without him ever fully registering any of it; not until he swings open the heavy oak door, at least, and is met instantly with the humidity of an incensed bath. He nearly chokes on the musky oils sitting heavily in the air.
βLeave us,β Gwayne orders Daeron in lieu of a real greeting. The boyβs eyes widen in shock at the sudden intrusion from where he stands obediently off to the side, robe in hand. His gaze flits to Ormundβs on instinct, who gives him a curt nod of approval without looking up, before scurrying out of the room.
The older man sits submerged to the chest in a steaming copper tub. A wooden tray sits balanced across the rim, with his inkpot and parchment laid before him. His quill scratches against the paper in swift strokes until Gwayne unsheathes his long sword with a sharp hiss. The older man tenses when the steel kisses the soft skin of his throat.
βYou will explain yourself,β Gwayne says, peering down at the man from the bridge of his nose. βOr, by the gods, I will open your throat right here in this tub.βΒ
Ormund does not so much as flinch when he sets his quill back into its inkpot. He tilts his chin just slightly to look up at the man and feels the faint pressure of the blade against his adamβs apple. Amusement flickers in his blue eyes.
βShe told you, then,β he hums β not quite a question but not entirely a statement either. βI did wonder how long that might take.β
βShe told me everything,β Gwayne bites out through clenched teeth. βThe lettersβ mine to hers; hers to me. Months of lies, cousin, you called protection.β
βYes. I protected her," Ormund nods without reservation. βMore than you ever did, seeing as you were hundreds of leagues away and all. I fed her when she attempted to starve herself grieving you. I killed a man who meant to rape her in a berry patch while you were off playing at war like a childββ
Gwayne tenses at the accusation buried in his words. The edge of the blade presses harder to Ormundβs throat, but still, he does not waver.
βI gave her a place to sleep when the storms came, and warmth when the nights grew cold, and company when she felt no one else in the entire realm cared whether she lived or died,β the man lilts evenly. His voice does not rise and his stare does not yield, not even with the cold steel resting steadily against his pulse. βSo, please, spare me the outrage, cousin. I only gave her what she asked forβ freely, and often, and more enthusiastically than you can imagine.β
Gwayneβs whole body goes rigid. A mixture of fury and humiliation prickles red-hot at his pale skin. His knuckles turn white around the hilt of his sword, but the blade does not move an inch.
βWell, go on, then,β Ormund tilts his head, eyes glimmering with amusement. βFinish it, if you mean to. Open my throat here, in my own bath, and weβll see who she weeps for. You or me.β
Silence fills the empty solar. Gwayne grits his teeth and wills his hand to move; to either strike the man down or turn away entirely. He cannot seem to do either.Β
Ormund lifts a lazy hand to swipe the blade away without a word. He rises slowly from the bath a second later. Rivulets of water glisten as they rush down his lean body and trickle audibly when they hit the surface again. He stands before his cousin, unabashedly bare, and reaches for the linen cloth draped over the edge of the tub.Β
βFor what itβs worth, cousin,β he says, swiping the nettle across his toned, golden skin. βI never intended to make an enemy of you. And I rather think, whatever she may tell you now to spare your pride, that sheβd choose to stay exactly where she is, if given the choice.β
Gwayne opens his mouth to argue.
βDaeron!β Ormund calls out before he can.Β
The door creaks slowly open a second later. The younger boy reappears with an obvious hesitance, refusing to meet either of their eyes as he rushes to his uncleβs side. He settles the emerald fabric over the older manβs broad shoulders, and Ormund slides his arms through the long sleeves. He ties the sash with slow hands and with an expression that looks almost sympathetic.
βBest wash up soon, cousin,β he grins. βItβs nearly time for supper.β
x. STEEL & SUPPER
Supper that evening is a small and wretched thing; four places set at a round table dragged in from some lesser hall to make the arrangement feel less tribunal. Itβs close enough that you can feel the heat of both men suffocating either side of you, along with the cold, watchful silence of Daeron across the way; young enough to shift awkwardly in his seat at the tense silence, but old enough still to understand exactly what such silence truly means.
No one speaks a word of the hard truth of it out loud. Neither of you needs to β the whole of your sin sits at the table like an uninvited guest, souring the wine in every cup and thickening the air until you can scarcely draw a single breath around it.
βSoβ¦β Ormund says first to break the silence. He talks beneath the soft scraping of his knife against the porcelain as he cuts into his meat. βSer Criston fights on, and yet you alone have returned to usβ¦ Why is that, I wonder?β
Gwayne turns slowly to glare at the man with dull, blue eyes, already too annoyed for idle blather. βBecause fighting on is madness,β he answers distantly.
Ormund scoffs with a wad of food in his cheek. He smiles as he swallows it down, angling his head in the young princeβs direction. βDo you think me mad, boy?β
Daeronβs eyes shoot up from his plate. His spine straightens instinctively at his uncleβs sudden attention. βNo, sire,β he answers quickly.
Ormund nods, pleased, and then turns slowly to you. A fondness flickers in his pale gaze behind the challenge in his eyes. βAnd you, myββ He catches himself half a breath too late; my love, heβd nearly said, though you cannot tell if it was an intentional attempt to rile his already aggrieved cousin. βMy ladyβ¦ Do you think me mad?β
Your brows bounce in response, though your gaze never lifts from your lap as your nails work relentlessly at the already torn skin of your thumb. βI donβt think you want me to answer thatββ
You freeze in place when Ormundβs wide hand reaches suddenly to splay his calloused palm over the back of your knuckles. Your head whips in his direction. You struggle to tell if the action is heedless or entirely uncaring, as Gwayne sits close enough to watch the exchange on the other side of you. The man inhales sharply through his nose and straightens his spine as he reaches for his goblet, trying hard to pretend he hadnβt noticed it at all.
βWhy do you insist on ruining yourself this way?β Ormund wonders lowly, as his thumb rubs soothingly over your marred one.
βSeems to be a common affliction as of late,β you answer distantly and draw your hands from beneath his touch. βMessing with things we ought to leave well enough aloneβ¦β
βYou are awareββ Gwayne says gruffly as he swallows down his bitter wine, setting down his chalice with a bit more force than likely necessary. ββThat while youβre all in here playing happy families, thereβs a dragon sitting on the hill above us? And five more not thirty leagues away?β
βWhy do you think we came here, cousin?β Ormund scoffs and waves his concern away with a lazy flick of his knife. βRhaenyra will not burn her own subjects. She is a woman, after all. Squeamish, by nature.β
A short laugh spills suddenly from your lips. βSqueamish?β you echo. βSays the man who requires a milk bath twice daily, lest he make it everyone elseβs burden to bear?β
The jab earns a proud smile from Gwayne that he tries hopelessly to bite back, and a small grin from Daeron that he conceals behind the rim of his goblet. Ormund swallows hard through the embarrassment strangling his throat, angled jaw clenching as he grits his teeth.
βWellβ¦ If I didnβt know any better, Iβd think you were taking up the usurperβs cause.β
βIβm not taking up anyoneβs cause,β you mutter. βI just want to go home.β
βOh?β Ormund hums with a feigned air of curiosity, though you do not miss the bite in his words as he wonders aloud, βAnd where is that precisely? Kingβs Landing? Oldtown?β
βWell, itβs certainly not hereββ
βNo,β he agrees instantly, warmth freezing over in an instant. βBut when the usurperβs host comes here, we will fight on our own terms, on our own groundβ turning Kingβs Landing against that overweening cunt, little by little, bite by biteβ¦ And when we expose her as weak and unsuited to rule, the great houses will flock to our side, and then, my lady, we can all go home.β
βHave any yet come?β Gwayne wonders knowingly. βGreat houses, I mean.β
Ormundβs gaze snaps in his direction. βThe patient hunter gets the kill, cousin,β he says through gritted teeth. βIβd have thought youβd learned that much by now.β
βOnly one of us at this table has actually been hunted, if youβll recallβ¦β
βYes, you have endured much,β Ormund huffs and returns to his boar. βThough Iβm sure you find some solace along the roadβ¦ with whores, perhaps, or yourβ¦ brothers in armsβ¦β
The insinuation sits heavily in the quiet, thicker than smoke and choking the three of you accordingly. Gwayneβs jaw tightens hard enough to make the muscle flex. Whatever retort had been rising in his throat at that moment is killed instantly by the sudden creaking of the heavy door across the room. Bold Jon enters, flanked by a couple of punier squires.Β
βMy lord,β the older knight announces. βHouse Baratheon has sent an envoy. They mean to bend the knee to House Hightower.β
Ormund is aglow in an instant. The sourness of the previous moment rolls off of his broad shoulders as a newfound satisfaction kindles behind his blue eyes. βLet the Stormlands lead the wayβ¦β he mutters to himself, mouth curling into a grin. βHighgarden will have no choice but to followβ¦βΒ
He flashes you a proud and knowing look as he rises from his seat. βAlright. Stand up,β he says and begins to round the small table. When no one follows him quick enough, he snaps, βStand up! All of you.β
You rise at once, abandoning your plates as you follow him to the front of the dining table. The three of you fall into line beside the high lord, who stands just ahead to greet the incoming knights Ser Jon ushers in. The knights are caked in dirt from the long road; their yellow cloaks are crusted thick with mud, and their boots track dark prints across the fine pale stone beneath them. They smell like earth and sweat, hardly noticeable to you, though you spot Ormundβs shoulders tensing instantly when the stench hits him.
βLord Ormund Hightower,β Roxton announces formally. βBeacon of the South, Defender of the Citadel, and Voice of Oldtown.β
βWell met, Ser Ormund," the head of the envoy greets with a polite nod, arms propped along the pommel of his longsword. βI come on behalf of Lord Borros Baratheon, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands.β
βMmβ¦β Ormund hums, ringed fingers fidgeting at his sides as he attempts to swallow through the invisible hand strangling him. βYou are quite welcome, Serβ¦?β
βSer Arrion Baratheon. Cousin to Lord Borros.β
You freeze at once. A newfound fear settles ice-cold in your veins. Your eyes squint as you study the strangerβs bearded face more closely β his curls, his eyes, his nose, his mouth. You find that he looks nothing like the Ser Arrion you had once met, at a tourney some several moons back; the one where you first laid eyes on Ser Gwayne Hightower.
The man himself tenses at your elbow. His jaw clenches tight with knowing as he turns slowly to flash you a single, silent glance. You communicate without words. His folded hands fall casually beside the sheathed sword at his hip; yours cross behind your back, as you reach blindly for the fruit knife idling somewhere beside the plates of supper.
βI most regret presenting ourselves to you in this state,β the stranger continues.Β
Your jaw clenches tight in frustration as your fingers miss the handle in several agonizing attempts. You slide it closer with the very tip of your middle finger, slowly so as not to draw attention, before your fingers close finally around the hilt. You grip the blade to your back, palm going clammy around the grip.
βThe road was long and filthy, but I thought it best to speak to you immediately.β
βWe are honored to receive you,β Ormund assures him, entirely unaware. βAnd what word does Lord Borros send?β
βHouse Baratheon offers its banners in alliance with House Hightower,β the envoy says. βI have been charged to swear fealty on Lord Borros' behalf.β
βWell,β Ormund grins. βYour lord has made a wise choiceββ
βSer Arrion?β you call at once, stepping forward and drifting instinctively in front of Daeron with your arm still tight around your back. The boyβs eyes widen when he catches sight of the blade behind you. Your smile remains as artificially sweet as ever, despite the way your heart hammers hard against your ribs. βYou do remember me, donβt you?β
The manβs heavy brows furrow as confusion flickers across his bearded face. He musters a similarly fake grin. βI donβt believe Iβve had the pleasure, my ladyββ
The hesitant answer is confirmation enough. Gwayne unsheaths his sword in a blink and slices the imposter across the neck before he can finish his sentence. His throat splits wide open, bright crimson blood gushing out instantly. You feel it splattering across your cheek as the man falls limp to the ground in front of you.
The dining hall erupts into chaos in a blink. The shouting of Baratheon imposters and Hightower knights fills the room at once. One lunges towards you, trying to get to Daeron, you figure, though heβs met with the small blade clutched in your trembling grip before he can.Β
You drive the knife into the first soft place you can find β his eye, you think, and then the side of his neck, before he crumples to the floor screaming.
βNo!β Ormundβs voice shouts over the ringing of colliding blades, flashing a fiery look at Ser Jon. βStop them, you fool!β
Daeron steps quickly in front of the older knight. βNo!β he says to the man, small as he is, but standing his ground regardless.
βThese are assassins!β Gwayne shouts over the clash of steel, kicking one knight down before striking him across the skull. βSent for Daeronβ and probably you!β
A pair of thick hands close hard around your wrist, cold and calloused and unforgiving. It yanks a memory from some buried place in your mind β spilled berries, wet earth, pooled blood in the mouth. You do not know whether or not he intends to strike you, or if he truly does, or if he only means to stop you. You only feel a girlish fury clawing its way from your throat as a buzzing adrenaline prickles at your burning skin.Β
The bloody knife in your fist cuts him clean across the face β his throat, his jaw, his cheek, his eye, his temple. He stumbles back against the wall, bloodied and unrecognizable, but still you do not stop. Your blade follows him as he sinks to the ground in a gurgling, limp ball. His blood splashes warm across your face, clinging sticky to your fingers, but you still do not stop.
βEnough, enoughβ¦β you hear a voice say from behind you, muffled through the ringing in your ears. You feel a warmth press against your side and a gentle hand curl around your wrist. Gwayneβs voice follows more clearly in your ear, βHeβs deadβ¦ Itβs over now...β
The adrenaline seems to ebb from your veins at once, with a raw sob sputtered from your mouth. The knife slips from your limp fingers, clattering audibly to the bloodied cobbles below. You feel something warm trickling across your forehead and reach to wipe it with the back of your hand; blood smears wet across your brow in its place.
Across the wrecked hall, Ormund hunches over the back of his chair on the other side of the table. His face has gone pale-white; made more ashen, perhaps, behind the drops of vivid crimson splattered across his face. The thick copper stench of it settles in the back of his throat, along with the sweat and mud and death and shit hanging in the air.
βHowββ he chokes hoarsely out. βHow did you knowβ These men were false?β
βI was nearly betrothed to Lord Borrosβ son once,β you hear yourself answer, though the words sound a bit distant, like theyβre coming from someone elseβs mouth. βI met his cousinβ¦ Lord Arrionβ¦Β at a tourney in Kingβs Landing years agoβ¦ I gave him my favor that dayββ
βRight before I cut him down,β Gwayne adds through panted breaths, with a distant satisfaction in his voice at the memory. βThe real Ser Arrion Baratheon has hair of light chestnut, stands near a foot taller and is, as it happens, far more comely."
Ormund makes a low, strangled sound in the back of his throat. βI will cleave the bitchβ From crown to cuntββ he manages between heaving breaths ββShe will die wishing she never dared to... dared toβ¦βΒ
His body seizes as he retches β once, then twice β before doubling over the table and vomiting his supper along the plates ahead of him.
Gwayne watches on with a grim sort of amusement. βBest wash up now, cousin,β he hums in jest, as drily as Ormund had to him earlier that day.Β
His amused smile fades when he catches you swaying in the corner of his eye.
The room seems to tilt on its axis under your feet. The cobbles sway softly beneath you, as if you were standing on water instead of stone. You reach blindly for the back of the nearest chair to steady yourself; you watch your fingers curl around the embellished wood, though you cannot feel it under your palms. Daeronβs quick hand catches you beneath the elbow in a small attempt to steady you.
βMy lady?β he mutters softly, beneath Gwayneβs firmer, βAre you hurt?βΒ
Your mouth parts, but it takes a moment for the words to come out. They fall from your tongue in strange slurs that sound nothing like your voice. βMy backβ¦β You trail off before choking on a whimper. It is not pain you feel, not completely, but rather a cold numbness blossoming wide along the left side of your spine.
Ormund perks instantly, swiping a hand along his chin and fighting off his own dizziness when he watches Gwayne close the distance between you. His long, pale fingers skim carefully along your shoulders as he examines the back of you. They settle finally just above the thin tear in your bodice, where the fabric of your borrowed dress starts to bloom a darker crimson from the blood spreading from underneath it β from where a soldierβs blade mustβve kissed you in the chaos.
βGodsβ¦β you hear Gwayne breathe just behind you. βYouβre bleedingβ Someone call the maester!βΒ
Your knees buckle underneath you as the strength spills from your body like sand through your fingers. Two sets of hands keep you upright; one smaller and trembling, the other wider and far more steady. They guide you into the seat before you can collapse. You watch Gwayne kneel into your vision with his palms resting firmly on your knees. The world continues swaying all around you.
βLet me see it,β Ormund says through panted breaths, gripping the tableβs edge as he attempts to walk to you despite his own weakening state. Heβs still pale and sheening with sweat from the blood clinging to his skin and nostrils.
βYou can barely stand yourself,β Gwayne scolds drily. βShe is my wifeβ I am more than capable of tending to her.βΒ
Ormund attempts to laugh, though the chuckle comes out wearier than he means to. βAre you?β the older man manages to choke out. βBecause you surely havenβt cared about tending to her while you were off playing at warββ
βEnoughβ¦β The word comes out slurred and hoarse from your mouth. The men fall silent at once. Their heads whip in your direction with matching expressions of concern that wouldβve felt almost comical in any other moment.
The pain has started to sharpen now beneath the somewhat pleasant numbness. A hot, insistent throb begins to settle in its wake, searing through you like fire.
Your first instinct is to reach for Gwayne, but the guilt of what youβd done to him weighs on your hands like cement β what right do you have, you think, to reach for him now with bloodied hands, after months of reaching for another?Β
And then you think inevitably of Ormund and the particular safety youβve always found in his hands, after heβs already seen you blood-soaked and broken and ugly from war, and never once flinched away at any of it. And then you think of the burned letters and the lies, and then of Gwayneβs departure with only a sliver of parchment left in his wake.Β
You reach, in the end, for neither of them.
βDaeron,β you call instead to the boy hovering beside you. You turn your swimmy gaze to his wide and frightened ones. Your voice is unnaturally thick in your throat as you ask him, βCanβ Can you help me up to my chambers, please?β Β
The boy blinks and forgets to look to his uncle for approval first as he nods. βO-Of course, my lady,β he stammers and loops your arm carefully over his shoulder. βLean on meβ¦βΒ
You do not look back at either man behind you as Daeron eases you from the chair and guides you slowly towards the door; but you do feel both of their eyes following you like twin points of heat searing through your dress, just like the soldierβs blade had. Neither Gwayne nor Ormund says a single word; the hollow sound of your fading footsteps fills the silence as you go.Β
The two of them are left standing alone together, amid the bloody wreckage of the unfamiliar hall, staring at the space where youβd once been.
to those of you who made it this far, thank you, i love you, and i'm sorry lol more to come soon!
All my works (except some requests) are published on AO3
Summary:Β More partying, more miscommunication, more guilt, more angst
Word count: 2.1k
Warnings: MDNI, NSFW, smut, explicit, age difference, no physical description of the reader, mentions of female genitalia, AFAB reader, she/her pronouns used, angst, yearning, mentions of scars and self-harm (razors), sexual assault (groping), descriptions of violence, blood, mentions of murder, eventually: vaginal fingering, oral, rough sex, p in v, unprotected sex, dirty talk, proofread once, no beta
Notes:Β Please read the tags/warnings. You are responsible for the content you read.
You stopped drinking and limited going out to once, maybe twice a week, and explained it away by saying you needed to focus, prepare for the upcoming classes and labs. Youβd flash a warm but a little tired smile to John every time you came down the stairs to refill your water bottle or needed a little break.Β
Heβd ask you about what you were reading, and youβd explain, slowly at first and then would go into it more and more, until youβd realise you were passionately yapping for a good half an hour. Then, red in the face, youβd mumble an apology and go back to your little nook.
John told you countless times not to apologise. He loved listening to you talk about anything, even if you werenβt as passionate or animated when speaking. Sure, it was because he was interested in your life, but it was also because he kept getting bouts of paranoia that you werenβt sleeping the other night when he was so desperately pressing himself against you. And if you indeed werenβt sleeping at the time he thought you were, it would mean that you heard him, heard his embarrassing confession.
Worse, you had heard him and didnβt do anything about it. You heard him and still didnβt choose him. And to John, that thought was devastating. So he kept telling himself that you didnβt hear him, and the fact that youβd still lean into him when walking, still sometimes hold his hand, even if those moments now lasted longer, even if you were now completely sober, were accidental. A habit, closeness youβd share with all your friends. And John would happily be your friend.
When you went out again, John wasnβt fazed. His eyes were, as always, glued to you, making sure nobody harassed you, even though everyone already knew about your bodyguard. Sometimes, people would refer to him as your boyfriend; Johnβs heart fluttered awkwardly, remembering how youβd never correct them. He could feel the flush creeping up his neck as he watched you dance - with time, heβd allow himself to spend more and more time observing you than watching your surroundings, gauging that the threat had long gone by now.
So when you stumbled across the floor, barely holding it together, giggling like crazy, and obviously drunk out of your mind, your arms immediately clinging to his neck, something in John broke. He was feeling so incredibly stupid, believing that what your friend brought you earlier was just a bottle of water, but he obviously should have known better, dealing with a spoiled bitch like you. John knew exactly when the last time was he felt such pain, and he promised himself heβd never relive that moment again.Β
Swallowing his pride and ignoring whatever you were trying to tell him, he picked you up, seething. By the time you reached your apartment, you couldnβt even stand by yourself, let alone walk, and the only thing you were capable of saying was his name.Β
Waking up hours later, you were lying face down on the bed. It was obviously late, sunlight peeking through the blinds. You were confused and disoriented, sweaty and still in your clubbing outfit, except your shoes were carefully placed next to your nightstand. But your skirt was ruffled all the way up, and your whole body ached.
βJohn?β you tried softly, your voice betraying how scared and confused you were. You heard a movement, even though John didnβt answer.
You knew he was here because you could smell him smoking. Carefully, you wiggled out of bed, drowsy and unbalanced. βJohn?!β
βJohn, what happened? Please, John!β you were struggling down the stairs, both hands gripping the railing, tears further smudging your make-up.Β
You slipped on the second-to-last step, falling hard on your knees. Your whole body was shaking in those deep, breathless sobs, as your eyes desperately searched for John.
In an instant, he was right beside you, his hands instinctively drawing you in as your own found their way around his neck. You were still shaking, and the throbbing headache was making it impossible for you to keep your eyes open. Desperate to feel safe, you climbed in Johnβs lap, pressing your forehead to the side of his face.
βPlease, John,β you pressed an unnerving kiss to his cheek, βtell me you didnβt leave me with anyone yesterday, please. Not even for a restroom, or, or, or a smoke break, anything.βΒ
βNo,β his voice was quiet, perhaps even a little unsure, βof course not.β
John couldnβt make any sense of what was happening - you were terrified, clinging onto him as your life depended on it.
The kisses continued too, and John felt so guilty for enjoying your touch when you were in such a dishevelled state. His heart was beating hard, a creeping wave of panic washing over him: how was he to protect you from your emotions? How was he to shield you from something he couldnβt beat up?
Slowly, it started to dawn on him, in a horrifying realisation. It made sense now, your odd behaviour in the club, and that fight you had after getting home.
βPlease,β you sobbed into his neck, and he could feel it all, the tears and your trembling breath.
John felt sick. If he thought yesterday broke him, today shattered him into a million tiny pieces. He had never felt so numb in his life before, so paralysed and scared. He finally managed to get control of his arms, squeezing them harder around you, causing a terrifying sob to escape your mouth. He wanted to comfort you, but you sounded like a trapped animal in its last moments, as you bawled and whined, and there was nothing John could do to fix it.Β
βItβs fine if it was you,β you whimpered out in one quick breath, your voice breaking, as you pushed your face harder into the crook of his neck, pushing your body harder into his.
Itβs fine if it was you, it rang in his ears on repeat, and John could feel his whole body starting to shake and twitch. Itβs fine if it was you, he could feel bile rising as he listened to your quiet sobs, pleas really, that itβs fine if it was him. It suddenly hit him, that you were comforting him. You were comforting him.
John grabbed your face, pulling away so he could look at you.
βNo,β his thumbs wiped at your tears. Heβd never felt so disgusted with himself before. βNo,β he repeated, louder, fighting his own tears, silently begging for you to just look at him. If youβd only look at him, youβd know. Surely, youβd know. You must know.
βNothing happened. Iβve never left you alone. I promise.β His accent slipped completely, a weird mix of something southern and something else you couldnβt place; his voice strained so hard it almost broke.
Despite knowing you should feel relieved, you started sobbing again, leaning into John, his arms holding you close again. He still felt numb, cursing himself for not realising immediately what was happening. Instead, he let his feelings for you take over, allowing his wounded ego to guide him and override his instincts.Β
βThe last thing I remember is walking over to you,β you whispered into his shoulder, βand I tried telling you that somethingβs wrong, that I feel weird. And then I woke up,β another press of your lips to the hot, flushed skin of his jaw, your fingers gently tangling in his hair.
βI said horrible things to you,β Johnβs voice sounded strangely robotic, βwhen we got home. I called you names.β
βI probably deserved it. I probably said something to provoke you again,β your breathing calmed somewhat, and although the big, fat tears kept rolling down your cheeks and you kept sniffling, Johnβs strong arms wrapping around you, holding you so possessively, had a pacifying effect on your psyche.
βDonβt say that! Do not say that, please,β his voice ended in a husky whisper, and for the first time ever, John openly returned your affections, pressing his face against yours, his hand coming up high to cup your face.Β
βDid you call me a bitch?β you tried to joke, but your throat strained to produce a chuckle.
βA spoiled one. And a slut. I alsoβ¦β his voice trailed off, the tips of his fingers trembling against the skin of your neck.
βNever, please. Promise me,β you pressed your face into his neck again, βpromise me youβll never leave me.βΒ
βItβs okay,β you cooed through tears, eyes closing, your lips twisting into a pout, βitβs fine if you hurt me.β
βNo! What the fuck? Iβd rather blow my brains out than lay my hands on you again,β Johnβs grip on you tightened, despair and pain strewn in his voice.
βNo!β you shrieked before John even got an opportunity to properly finish his sentence, as you agonisingly pressed yourself against him even more, like you wanted to disappear into him, peppering his face with kisses.
John nodded, feeling guilty again for enjoying the sensation of your lips touching right there under his ear, and a little behind, your warm breath sending shivers through his spine. He would never leave you. If you still wanted him after all of this, that is.
You still asked to go to the hospital. Not that you didnβt trust John, but there was something in the way he was looking at you that you couldnβt decode. And you wouldnβt blame him for lying to you, especially when you were in such a desperate, panicked state.
βNo activity whatsoever for the past month,β the gynaecologist in the ER mumbled, and you finally breathed a sigh of relief. They also took your blood for analysis, but warned you that the drug used might not be detected. You just nodded along, your head still splitting as you popped some prescribed painkillers, a dull ache pulsing through your whole body.
None of your friends called to check up on you; rather, you called them, and even though some of them experienced the same, they never even asked you how you were feeling. Sure, you had John, but at least a modicum of fake concern would be nice.Β
βGoodnight, John,β you said, wanting to press a conscious, sober kiss to his cheek, but losing your courage in the last second, awkwardly swaying on your tiptoes. βThank you for protecting me,β you quickly looked away, but slightly brushed his hand with your fingers.
John nodded, looking away as well. It should be so easy: extend his hand and catch yours, bring it back to his face. He wanted another kiss so badly that his teeth hurt, just a quick, absentminded press of your lips to his cheek.Β
He knew he didnβt deserve it, any of it. Not your touch, not your kisses, not even your attention. He didnβt deserve you looking at him, thinking of him. The events of the previous night kept replaying in his head. You needed him, depended on him even, and he took all his frustration out on you, spilling his vitriol, showing his disgusting, murky colours.Β
You were so good to him, so kind, and he let his insecurity and feelings of inferiority take over. He just needed to be patient, just for a couple of moments, when he already failed at being vigilant.Β Β
And it wasnβt true, he thought, tossing and turning, what you said earlier. You didnβt say anything to provoke his verbal roughness yesterday, you didnβt say anything at all. Desperately, you were trying to hold his hand and keep your eyes open as he raged all the way home, manhandling you basically, and then unleashing an avalanche of poison, mistaking the pleading in your gaze forβ¦ Making fun of him.
Because he felt so beneath you.Β
And now you screamed, a sound that had him immediately on his feet, rushing up the stairs. He knew there was no intruder, no threat, but there was such an instinct to help you, protect you, be there for you.Β
Shivering in the corner and hugging your knees, you asked him not to hurt you, to take money and leave.Β
John stared at you, your bed between you two, watching you flinch every time he moved, until he finally started thinking, turning on the string lights above your bed.Β
βItβs me,β he tried again, βIβm here, for, for you.β His delivery was clumsy, but honest.Β
βJohn?β a wave of relief broke over your face, and you shot up, crawling over the bed to hug him, your pink bunny in hand.Β
He allowed himself to hug you back, tight.Β
βItβs just a dream, I promise.β
And now he was lying next to you on the bed, your bed, listening to your deep breaths as you fell back to sleep. Exactly like he wanted, you were curled up next to him, on your pretty bed that smelled like fresh roses, your fingers slightly extended towards him.Β
John watched you sleep countless times before, and never hated it more.
All my works (except some requests) are published on AO3
Summary:Β More partying, more miscommunication, more guilt, more angst
Word count: 2.1k
Warnings: MDNI, NSFW, smut, explicit, age difference, no physical description of the reader, mentions of female genitalia, AFAB reader, she/her pronouns used, angst, yearning, mentions of scars and self-harm (razors), sexual assault (groping), descriptions of violence, blood, mentions of murder, eventually: vaginal fingering, oral, rough sex, p in v, unprotected sex, dirty talk, proofread once, no beta
Notes:Β Please read the tags/warnings. You are responsible for the content you read.
You stopped drinking and limited going out to once, maybe twice a week, and explained it away by saying you needed to focus, prepare for the upcoming classes and labs. Youβd flash a warm but a little tired smile to John every time you came down the stairs to refill your water bottle or needed a little break.Β
Heβd ask you about what you were reading, and youβd explain, slowly at first and then would go into it more and more, until youβd realise you were passionately yapping for a good half an hour. Then, red in the face, youβd mumble an apology and go back to your little nook.
John told you countless times not to apologise. He loved listening to you talk about anything, even if you werenβt as passionate or animated when speaking. Sure, it was because he was interested in your life, but it was also because he kept getting bouts of paranoia that you werenβt sleeping the other night when he was so desperately pressing himself against you. And if you indeed werenβt sleeping at the time he thought you were, it would mean that you heard him, heard his embarrassing confession.
Worse, you had heard him and didnβt do anything about it. You heard him and still didnβt choose him. And to John, that thought was devastating. So he kept telling himself that you didnβt hear him, and the fact that youβd still lean into him when walking, still sometimes hold his hand, even if those moments now lasted longer, even if you were now completely sober, were accidental. A habit, closeness youβd share with all your friends. And John would happily be your friend.
When you went out again, John wasnβt fazed. His eyes were, as always, glued to you, making sure nobody harassed you, even though everyone already knew about your bodyguard. Sometimes, people would refer to him as your boyfriend; Johnβs heart fluttered awkwardly, remembering how youβd never correct them. He could feel the flush creeping up his neck as he watched you dance - with time, heβd allow himself to spend more and more time observing you than watching your surroundings, gauging that the threat had long gone by now.
So when you stumbled across the floor, barely holding it together, giggling like crazy, and obviously drunk out of your mind, your arms immediately clinging to his neck, something in John broke. He was feeling so incredibly stupid, believing that what your friend brought you earlier was just a bottle of water, but he obviously should have known better, dealing with a spoiled bitch like you. John knew exactly when the last time was he felt such pain, and he promised himself heβd never relive that moment again.Β
Swallowing his pride and ignoring whatever you were trying to tell him, he picked you up, seething. By the time you reached your apartment, you couldnβt even stand by yourself, let alone walk, and the only thing you were capable of saying was his name.Β
Waking up hours later, you were lying face down on the bed. It was obviously late, sunlight peeking through the blinds. You were confused and disoriented, sweaty and still in your clubbing outfit, except your shoes were carefully placed next to your nightstand. But your skirt was ruffled all the way up, and your whole body ached.
βJohn?β you tried softly, your voice betraying how scared and confused you were. You heard a movement, even though John didnβt answer.
You knew he was here because you could smell him smoking. Carefully, you wiggled out of bed, drowsy and unbalanced. βJohn?!β
βJohn, what happened? Please, John!β you were struggling down the stairs, both hands gripping the railing, tears further smudging your make-up.Β
You slipped on the second-to-last step, falling hard on your knees. Your whole body was shaking in those deep, breathless sobs, as your eyes desperately searched for John.
In an instant, he was right beside you, his hands instinctively drawing you in as your own found their way around his neck. You were still shaking, and the throbbing headache was making it impossible for you to keep your eyes open. Desperate to feel safe, you climbed in Johnβs lap, pressing your forehead to the side of his face.
βPlease, John,β you pressed an unnerving kiss to his cheek, βtell me you didnβt leave me with anyone yesterday, please. Not even for a restroom, or, or, or a smoke break, anything.βΒ
βNo,β his voice was quiet, perhaps even a little unsure, βof course not.β
John couldnβt make any sense of what was happening - you were terrified, clinging onto him as your life depended on it.
The kisses continued too, and John felt so guilty for enjoying your touch when you were in such a dishevelled state. His heart was beating hard, a creeping wave of panic washing over him: how was he to protect you from your emotions? How was he to shield you from something he couldnβt beat up?
Slowly, it started to dawn on him, in a horrifying realisation. It made sense now, your odd behaviour in the club, and that fight you had after getting home.
βPlease,β you sobbed into his neck, and he could feel it all, the tears and your trembling breath.
John felt sick. If he thought yesterday broke him, today shattered him into a million tiny pieces. He had never felt so numb in his life before, so paralysed and scared. He finally managed to get control of his arms, squeezing them harder around you, causing a terrifying sob to escape your mouth. He wanted to comfort you, but you sounded like a trapped animal in its last moments, as you bawled and whined, and there was nothing John could do to fix it.Β
βItβs fine if it was you,β you whimpered out in one quick breath, your voice breaking, as you pushed your face harder into the crook of his neck, pushing your body harder into his.
Itβs fine if it was you, it rang in his ears on repeat, and John could feel his whole body starting to shake and twitch. Itβs fine if it was you, he could feel bile rising as he listened to your quiet sobs, pleas really, that itβs fine if it was him. It suddenly hit him, that you were comforting him. You were comforting him.
John grabbed your face, pulling away so he could look at you.
βNo,β his thumbs wiped at your tears. Heβd never felt so disgusted with himself before. βNo,β he repeated, louder, fighting his own tears, silently begging for you to just look at him. If youβd only look at him, youβd know. Surely, youβd know. You must know.
βNothing happened. Iβve never left you alone. I promise.β His accent slipped completely, a weird mix of something southern and something else you couldnβt place; his voice strained so hard it almost broke.
Despite knowing you should feel relieved, you started sobbing again, leaning into John, his arms holding you close again. He still felt numb, cursing himself for not realising immediately what was happening. Instead, he let his feelings for you take over, allowing his wounded ego to guide him and override his instincts.Β
βThe last thing I remember is walking over to you,β you whispered into his shoulder, βand I tried telling you that somethingβs wrong, that I feel weird. And then I woke up,β another press of your lips to the hot, flushed skin of his jaw, your fingers gently tangling in his hair.
βI said horrible things to you,β Johnβs voice sounded strangely robotic, βwhen we got home. I called you names.β
βI probably deserved it. I probably said something to provoke you again,β your breathing calmed somewhat, and although the big, fat tears kept rolling down your cheeks and you kept sniffling, Johnβs strong arms wrapping around you, holding you so possessively, had a pacifying effect on your psyche.
βDonβt say that! Do not say that, please,β his voice ended in a husky whisper, and for the first time ever, John openly returned your affections, pressing his face against yours, his hand coming up high to cup your face.Β
βDid you call me a bitch?β you tried to joke, but your throat strained to produce a chuckle.
βA spoiled one. And a slut. I alsoβ¦β his voice trailed off, the tips of his fingers trembling against the skin of your neck.
βNever, please. Promise me,β you pressed your face into his neck again, βpromise me youβll never leave me.βΒ
βItβs okay,β you cooed through tears, eyes closing, your lips twisting into a pout, βitβs fine if you hurt me.β
βNo! What the fuck? Iβd rather blow my brains out than lay my hands on you again,β Johnβs grip on you tightened, despair and pain strewn in his voice.
βNo!β you shrieked before John even got an opportunity to properly finish his sentence, as you agonisingly pressed yourself against him even more, like you wanted to disappear into him, peppering his face with kisses.
John nodded, feeling guilty again for enjoying the sensation of your lips touching right there under his ear, and a little behind, your warm breath sending shivers through his spine. He would never leave you. If you still wanted him after all of this, that is.
You still asked to go to the hospital. Not that you didnβt trust John, but there was something in the way he was looking at you that you couldnβt decode. And you wouldnβt blame him for lying to you, especially when you were in such a desperate, panicked state.
βNo activity whatsoever for the past month,β the gynaecologist in the ER mumbled, and you finally breathed a sigh of relief. They also took your blood for analysis, but warned you that the drug used might not be detected. You just nodded along, your head still splitting as you popped some prescribed painkillers, a dull ache pulsing through your whole body.
None of your friends called to check up on you; rather, you called them, and even though some of them experienced the same, they never even asked you how you were feeling. Sure, you had John, but at least a modicum of fake concern would be nice.Β
βGoodnight, John,β you said, wanting to press a conscious, sober kiss to his cheek, but losing your courage in the last second, awkwardly swaying on your tiptoes. βThank you for protecting me,β you quickly looked away, but slightly brushed his hand with your fingers.
John nodded, looking away as well. It should be so easy: extend his hand and catch yours, bring it back to his face. He wanted another kiss so badly that his teeth hurt, just a quick, absentminded press of your lips to his cheek.Β
He knew he didnβt deserve it, any of it. Not your touch, not your kisses, not even your attention. He didnβt deserve you looking at him, thinking of him. The events of the previous night kept replaying in his head. You needed him, depended on him even, and he took all his frustration out on you, spilling his vitriol, showing his disgusting, murky colours.Β
You were so good to him, so kind, and he let his insecurity and feelings of inferiority take over. He just needed to be patient, just for a couple of moments, when he already failed at being vigilant.Β Β
And it wasnβt true, he thought, tossing and turning, what you said earlier. You didnβt say anything to provoke his verbal roughness yesterday, you didnβt say anything at all. Desperately, you were trying to hold his hand and keep your eyes open as he raged all the way home, manhandling you basically, and then unleashing an avalanche of poison, mistaking the pleading in your gaze forβ¦ Making fun of him.
Because he felt so beneath you.Β
And now you screamed, a sound that had him immediately on his feet, rushing up the stairs. He knew there was no intruder, no threat, but there was such an instinct to help you, protect you, be there for you.Β
Shivering in the corner and hugging your knees, you asked him not to hurt you, to take money and leave.Β
John stared at you, your bed between you two, watching you flinch every time he moved, until he finally started thinking, turning on the string lights above your bed.Β
βItβs me,β he tried again, βIβm here, for, for you.β His delivery was clumsy, but honest.Β
βJohn?β a wave of relief broke over your face, and you shot up, crawling over the bed to hug him, your pink bunny in hand.Β
He allowed himself to hug you back, tight.Β
βItβs just a dream, I promise.β
And now he was lying next to you on the bed, your bed, listening to your deep breaths as you fell back to sleep. Exactly like he wanted, you were curled up next to him, on your pretty bed that smelled like fresh roses, your fingers slightly extended towards him.Β
John watched you sleep countless times before, and never hated it more.
Warnings: MDNI, NSFW, smut, explicit, no physical description of the reader, mentions of female genitalia, AFAB reader, she/her pronouns used, p in v, oral (m receiving), cockwoarming, unprotected sex, creampie, dirty talk, porn without plot, plot what plot, first draft yolo, no beta, not proofread
You knocked on the door three times. It was 23:18. All of your teammates were long gone, either partying or relaxing at home; your Friday nights have, however, turned into something quite different.
βCome in,β Mike shouted from the office, watching you enter, a slight smirk on his lips. Immediately, he focused back on his screen and his papers, making notes about practices and tactics and what else.
You didnβt really pay attention, tossing your backpack on the sofa that was to the side of his desk before facing him again. You bit your lip before sliding to your knees and then all fours, slowly crawling towards him; Mike still pretended to ignore you.
When you got closer, he moved a little so you could kneel between his legs, your hands gliding up his thighs, cupping his straining cock. Slowly, so slowly, you push his shorts down, freeing it; its head is red and leaking, the cock itself heavy and warm in your hand as you wrap it around the shaft, just to tease Mike a little.
Finally, your tongue greedily darts out, and you lick it all the way from the tip to the base and back again, listening to Mikeβs deepened breathing, his hips ever so slightly bucking forward towards your lips. You open your mouth, and as always, itβs a stretch against your lips; Mike allows you to coat it completely with your spit, unable to stop his cock twitching against the roof of your mouth.
You strain to take it in completely, steadying yourself against his thighs, but still gagging, your eyes getting all watery, lips puffy. You look up to Mike, but heβs still playing his silly game, and you try to smile, but your mouth is so stretched around his cock that your tired muscles canβt move at all. Instead, you swallow it again, his tip this time hitting the back of your throat before you gag again, an unmistakable gush pooling so wetly inside your panties.
βUp,β Mike groaned, watching you happily obey.
You pulled off your panties under your dress, and Mike hastily grabbed them, pushing them in his pocket; his other hand was splayed around your waist, guiding you into his lap. Usually, heβd have you straddle him, but today, he wanted you with your back pressed against his chest as he slumped in the chair, having you sit prettily with his cock inside your cunt.
With both hands now, he even lifted you a bit, helping you get comfortable, before slowly sinking you onto his cock. The stretch was delicious, and you moaned in anticipation and pleasure as his cock glided into you; a restrained moan escaped Mikeβs throat as he pressed his lips to the back of your neck, waiting for you to settle.
Then, his hand fell back around your waist, the other one returning to the pen, scribbling something. You could never tell how long he wanted you like this before ultimately breaking; heβd often smack your ass if you were squirming too much, but even that would be a challenge now, his legs keeping you in place. You could feel his cock throbbing inside you and twitching occasionally, and you kept swallowing your moans and whimpers as Mike continued to work.
Unconsciously, your cunt clenched around him, and you could hear Mike draw in a sharp breath, his long fingers grabbing at your waist, pressing in hard, before he smacked you on your pussy; the sensation was so unexpected your head fell back to his shoulder and your back arched, the warmth inside your womb taking over and your hips buckling just a little.
βPlease, Coach,β you begged, your hands holding onto his forearms like you were holding for dear life.
βPlease, what?β he whispered against your ear. βUse your words, angel.β
βFuck me, Mike, fill me, do whatever you want,β your nails dug deep into his skin as you tried so hard not to move. βUse me, please. I need to, f-fuck, I need to feel you.β
You could feel his cock twitching again, making you whimper.
βNeedy little brat,β Mike groaned teasingly, his mouth falling to your neck, his hand grabbing greedily at your tits, massaging them obsessively. He was still holding himself back somewhat, not fucking you with the intensity and fervor he wanted, his mind completely overwhelmed by the pretty words falling from your lips.
He was so close already, like a green boy with a first crush, like this was the first time he ever buried his cock in a cunt, but he couldnβt help it anymore, feeling you flutter and clench around him, whimpering his name. He tried thrusting up just a bit, but he embarassingly spilt inside you long before whatever he was doing could be called βfucking.β
βIβm sorry, angel,β he breathed out. βI promise to make up for it a little later tonight.β
If you like my writing, all interactions are greatly appreciated-`β‘Β΄-
When the maester accidentally gives Prince Maekar Targaryen something that most certainly does not ease his headache, Maekar finds himself instead with one other problem. He burns.
ππππππππ; sexual content, possessive behaviour, rough sex, maekar goes absolutely feral on you, explicit sexual content, p in v, fingering, maekar absolutely dominates you, this is pure filth, minors dni.
The maester had pressed the small vial into Prince Maekarβs hand early that morning with a respectful bow and a few murmured words about easing the headache that had lingered since the previous nightβs long council. Maekar had taken it without thought, swallowed the bitter liquid in one go, and headed straight for the training yard.
The sun was already climbing and the clash of steel felt good in his hands and at first the draught seemed to do its work.
The dull pressure behind his eyes faded. He moved through his drills with sharp precision, sweat soaking his tunic, muscles warming in that familiar, satisfying way.
But as the morning wore on, a different kind of heat began to build.
It started low in his gut, a restless warmth that spread through his veins like slow fire. By the time he sheathed his sword and made his way back to his chambers to wash and change, the warmth had turned into something far more insistent.
His cock thickened without warning, swelling and lengthening until it pressed heavily against the front of his breeches. He frowned and adjusted himself, but the touch only made it worse.
The ache settled deep in his balls, heavy and tight. By the time he stripped for a quick wash, he was fully hard, the shaft flushed and already leaking at the tip. He tried to ignore it while he dressed, choosing the supple leather breeches he favored for court.
It was a mistake.
The material hugged every inch of him, and as his cock strained harder, the confinement became exquisite torment.
The broad head caught against the lacing with every step. Precum beaded steadily and soaked into the fabric until a damp patch formed against his thigh. He gritted his teeth and forced himself toward his solar, telling himself it would pass.
It did not.
By midday the need had grown unbearable. Maekar dismissed his squire with a curt word and locked the door of his private solar behind him. He stood there for a long moment, one hand braced against the heavy oak, breathing hard.
This was beneath him.
He was a prince of the blood, a warrior who had led men into battle, not some green boy who could not control his own body. Yet his cock throbbed insistently, the leather of his breeches now visibly damp where the head pressed against it.
Every beat of his heart sent another pulse of heat through the thick length. He could not go to the feast like this. He could not sit beside you, his wife, and pretend composure while his mind supplied image after filthy image of what he wanted to do to you.
With a low curse he unlaced his breeches and freed himself. His cock sprang out heavy and flushed, the head dark and shiny with precum that dripped in a steady string onto the floor.
Veins stood out thick along the shaft. His balls were drawn up tight and aching. He wrapped his hand around the base, squeezing once, and hissed at the sensation.
The touch was almost painful in its intensity.
He stroked upward in one rough pull, thumb dragging over the leaking slit, spreading the slickness down the length. A groan tore from his throat.
He tried to keep his mind on duty, on the letters that still needed answering, on the training schedule for the new recruits. But every stroke pulled his thoughts back to you. Your voice, soft and even as you spoke to him at meals. The way your hips moved when you walked.
The soft sounds you made when he was inside you. He imagined bending you over the desk in this very solar, rucking up your skirts, and driving into your cunt in hard, punishing thrusts while you clutched at the wood and cried out his name.
He imagined filling you so full of his seed that it leaked down your thighs for hours afterward, marking you as his in the most primal way.
His hand moved faster, rougher. The wet sound of skin on skin filled the quiet room. He braced his other hand on the desk, hips jerking forward to meet each stroke. Precum flowed freely now, making everything slick and hot. He could feel the tension coiling tighter and tighter at the base of his spine. His balls drew up even further. He was close, so close, and the need was overwhelming.
βFuck,β he growled under his breath. His strokes grew erratic, almost desperate. βWife. My wife.β
The orgasm hit him hard. His cock jerked in his fist and thick ropes of seed spilled across the wooden floor in heavy pulses. He kept stroking through it, milking every drop, your name still on his lips in a rough, broken groan. For one brief moment relief flickered through him, warm and sharp.
It lasted only seconds.
The heat did not fade. If anything it roared back stronger, hotter, more insistent than before. His cock remained thick and heavy in his hand, only half softened, still twitching with aftershocks.
The ache in his balls doubled.
Fresh need surged through him so fiercely that his knees nearly buckled. He stared down at himself in disbelief, at the mess on the floor and the way his shaft was already filling again, hardening once more as if he had not just spent.
The potion, whatever the maester had given him by mistake, had turned a simple release into fuel for the fire.
His mind flooded with even more vivid images of you. Of taking you. Of ruining you. Of claiming you so thoroughly that you would feel him for days.
Maekar let out a low, frustrated snarl and cleaned himself with a cloth from the basin. His hands shook slightly as he laced himself back into the confining leather.
The pressure was worse now.
Every step would be torment, his cock felt enormous, trapped and leaking again almost immediately. He was riled beyond reason, restless, on edge in a way he had never experienced.
Discipline had always been his strength. Today it felt like a fraying thread.
He forced himself through the afternoon duties anyway. He reviewed reports. He spoke with his captains. He tried to focus on anything but the constant, throbbing ache between his legs and the way his thoughts kept circling back to you.
By the time he bathed and dressed for the feast, the need had grown into something almost feral.
His cock strained against the leather with every movement, the head catching and rubbing until he was gritting his teeth against the sensation.
He was leaking steadily now, the front of his smallclothes soaked.
The failed attempt at relief had only made him more desperate, more possessive, more determined to get you alone and take what his body was screaming for.
The great hall was bright with candlelight and alive with sound when he arrived. Roasted meats and spiced wine scented the air.
Music drifted from the gallery above. Nobles filled the lower tables, laughing and calling to one another. You were already seated at the high table, and when he took his place beside you, you turned with that calm, lovely expression and spoke in your quiet voice.
βThe roast swan is particularly good tonight. The cook used those spices from the Summer Isles you favor.β
Maekar managed a short nod. His cock was now a thick, throbbing bar trapped along his thigh, the leather stretched so tight across the swollen flesh that every small shift sent sparks of sensation through him.
He could feel the steady leak of fluid making everything slick inside his smallclothes. Under the table he reached for you, but instead of taking your hand his palm settled on your thigh, fingers spreading wide and gripping hard. The silk of your gown was warm from your skin. He squeezed, feeling the soft give of flesh beneath, and did not let go.
You continued speaking in that same even tone, as if the world were perfectly ordinary. You mentioned a letter that had arrived from Dorne, the new tapestry being hung in the queenβs solar, the way the Pentoshi singerβs voice carried so clearly through the hall.
Your words were soft and pleasant, meant only for him.
Each one sent another pulse of need straight to his groin.
He imagined silencing that sweet voice with his cock, pushing between your lips until your eyes watered, or better still, flipping up your skirts right there and driving into your cunt while the court dined on unaware.
The failed release in his solar had left him even more riled, the images in his head sharper, more urgent. He wanted to ruin you. He wanted to make you take every inch and every drop until you were shaking and marked and his.
He leaned close, lips brushing the shell of your ear. βKeep using that voice and I will not answer for what I do to you before the night is done.β
Your eyes flicked to him, a flicker of awareness there now, but you kept your tone steady as you reached for your goblet. βThe singer is quite talented. Do you think the queen will request another song before the dancing begins?β
Maekarβs fingers dug deeper into your thigh. His cock jerked hard in its prison, another thick bead of precum soaking through the leather. He was riled beyond reason, restless, shifting constantly in his seat as he tried to find relief that would not come.
The head of his shaft felt raw from the constant friction. His balls ached with the need to empty again, even though he had already spent once that day.
He could smell you beside him, that warm skin and faint floral oil you used, and it made his mouth water and his cock throb harder. He wanted to drop to his knees under the table, push your thighs apart, and lick you until you shook and came on his tongue.
Then he wanted to flip you over and take you from behind, hard and deep, while you were still fluttering from your release.
The courses came and went. Servants moved around them with platters and pitchers.
Maekar ate almost nothing.
He drank more wine than was wise, hoping it might blunt the relentless throb between his legs, but the alcohol only made the heat spread faster through his blood. His cock felt enormous, straining so fiercely that the laces bit into the swollen flesh. He shifted again and again, trying to ease the pressure, but nothing helped.
Every time you spoke, every time your shoulder brushed his or your hand moved near his, he imagined those hands wrapped around his shaft, stroking him, or your mouth stretched wide while he held your head and fucked your throat in steady thrusts.
The memory of cumming earlier with your name on his lips only made the current need sharper. It had not helped. It had made everything worse.
When a servant leaned in too close to refill his cup and accidentally brushed his arm, Maekar snapped a sharp word that made the man flinch and nearly spill the wine.
He regretted it at once and pulled you closer with the hand still gripping your thigh, as if your nearness could somehow anchor the fire raging inside him.
You glanced at him again, that same quiet concern in your eyes.
βYou seem very tense tonight, my prince. Shall I send for the maester to have another look at your head?β
He turned toward you, voice a low, rough growl meant for your ears alone. βThe maester can rot. Whatever he gave me has my cock hard as iron and leaking like I am some desperate boy. I tried to find relief with my own hand earlier and it only made the need worse. All I can think about is getting you alone, bending you over the nearest surface, and ruining this sweet cunt until you cannot walk without feeling me. Until my seed is running down your thighs and you smell of nothing but me for days.β
Your breath caught, just slightly, but you recovered and took a sip of wine as though he had merely agreed with your earlier remark about the singer. Your hand, however, slid over his under the table and pressed down firmly, a silent answer that sent another bolt of raw lust through him.
He lasted through the start of the dancing. Barely. When the musicians struck up a lively tune and couples began moving to the floor, Maekar stood. His cock was a constant, painful throb, the front of his breeches now visibly darkened if anyone cared to look. He took your hand without asking and led you from the hall with long, purposeful strides. Several lords called after him. He ignored them all.
In the corridor he moved quickly, pulling you along until he found a shadowed alcove behind a heavy curtain. The moment you were hidden he was on you. His mouth crashed down on yours, rough and demanding, tongue pushing deep as his hands tore at your gown with impatient fingers.
Fabric ripped, the sound was loud in the small space as your breasts spilled free and he palmed them hard, squeezing the soft flesh, pinching your nipples between thumb and forefinger until they tightened and you gasped into his mouth.
He broke the kiss only to drag his lips down your throat, biting hard enough to leave dark marks, sucking until blood rose to the surface beneath your skin.
βCould not wait another fucking minute,β he snarled against your neck. One hand dropped to his laces, freeing his cock with rough tugs. It sprang out heavy and flushed, the head dark and shiny with precum that dripped steadily onto the stone.
Veins stood out thick along the shaft. His balls were drawn up tight and aching.
He hiked your skirts roughly, bunching the silk high at your waist, and shoved two thick fingers between your legs. You were already wet and hot. He groaned at the slick feel of you coating his fingers and pushed them deeper, curling them once before pulling them free.
βGood. Already soaked for your husbandβs cock.β He did not waste time with more preparation. He lined the broad, leaking head of his cock up with your entrance and thrust in hard, burying himself to the root in one powerful stroke.
The stretch was intense.
He felt your walls clench around his thick girth, struggling to take him after the long hours of denial. He gave you no time to adjust as he pulled back and drove in again, setting a brutal, relentless pace from the first thrust. The wet sound of his cock slamming into your cunt filled the alcove. His hips snapped forward again and again, skin slapping against skin, each deep stroke jarring your body against the stone wall.
βFuck, yes. Take it. Take every inch of me.β His voice was ragged with lust and hours of pent-up need. One hand gripped your hip hard enough to bruise while the other fisted in your hair, pulling your head back sharply so he could bite at the junction of your neck and shoulder.
βThis is what you do to me. Tried to take the edge off with my own hand and it only made me want you more. Now you are going to take my cock until I decide you have had enough.β
He fucked you without mercy, the potion and the long day of torment making him almost savage.
Each thrust was deep and punishing, the broad head dragging over that sensitive spot inside you on every withdrawal before slamming back in to the hilt.
His free hand came down on your ass in a sharp slap, the crack of it loud in the small space. He did it again on the other cheek, harder, watching the skin bloom red beneath his palm.
βMine. This cunt belongs to me. Mine to use. Mine to fill until it overflows.β Another slap, then another, the sting making your walls tighten around him. He felt you flutter and clench and grinned against your throat, feral and satisfied. βYou like that. Like when I take what is mine. Like when I ruin you.β
Your body responded, walls pulsing around his thick cock as the first orgasm crashed through you.
He did not slow.
He fucked you straight through it, hips driving harder, the wet sounds growing louder as your release coated his shaft and dripped down your thighs.
When he finally came it was with a guttural roar, slamming deep and holding there as his cock jerked and pulsed, flooding you with thick, hot ropes of seed.
He kept thrusting through it, short, hard jerks of his hips, pushing his cum deeper inside you, making sure it stayed. It leaked out around his shaft anyway, running down your thighs in warm, messy rivulets that soaked into the bunched silk of your gown.
He stayed buried inside you for a long moment, breathing hard, forehead pressed to your shoulder. His cock twitched with aftershocks, still half hard thanks to whatever the maester had given him.
Slowly he pulled out, watching with dark satisfaction as his seed spilled from your well-fucked cunt in a steady stream.
He turned you around, lifted you easily into his arms, and carried you the rest of the way to your chambers without bothering to right your torn clothing.
Once inside, with the heavy door barred behind them, he laid you on the bed and stripped away what remained of your gown with impatient hands. His own clothes followed in quick movements. His cock, still slick with your combined fluids, stood ready again, flushed and heavy.
He climbed over you, spreading your legs wide with his knees, and thrust back in without preamble. This time he took you slower but no less roughly, each stroke measured and deep, grinding the base of his cock against your swollen pearl on every downstroke. He pinned your wrists above your head with one strong hand, the other gripping your jaw, forcing you to meet his burning violet eyes.
βLook at me while I ruin you properly, wife.β His voice was lower now, rough with spent lust and lingering fire. βI tried to find relief earlier and it only made this need worse. I am going to fill you again. And again. Until you cannot take any more. Until you smell like my seed and everyone who comes near you tomorrow knows exactly who you belong to.β
He released your wrists only to hook your legs over his shoulders, folding you nearly in half so he could drive even deeper. The new angle made every thrust hit that spot inside you with devastating accuracy.
He pounded into you with steady, powerful strokes, the bed creaking beneath the force of it. His hand slid between your bodies, thumb finding your swollen pearl and rubbing tight, relentless circles while he fucked you. βCome for me again. Now. I want to feel this cunt milk me while I fill you.β
When you came, clenching and fluttering hard around his thick cock, he followed quickly, burying himself as deep as he could go and pumping another heavy load into you.
This time he stayed inside afterward, rolling to his side and pulling you with him so your back was to his chest, his cock still nestled in your warmth.
One hand stroked down your side, over the marks and red prints he had left, soothing even as he remained possessive. He pressed a kiss to the back of your neck, softer now.
βThe maester is going to explain himself at first light,β he muttered against your hair, though there was no real anger left in him. Only deep satisfaction and the fierce, abiding devotion he felt for the woman in his arms. βWhatever he gave me tonight, it has made me want you more fiercely than I have in years. But I would have wanted you anyway.β
His hand slid down to cup your ass, squeezing gently over the heated skin where he had spanked you. βRest while you can. I am not finished with you yet.β
The night stretched long and heated. The fire the remedy had lit in his blood burned hot for hours more. He took you again sometime in the deep hours, slower but still intense, your bodies moving together in the dark with quiet, desperate sounds.
You had both drifted into uneasy sleep afterward, tangled together, his arm heavy across your waist.
It was near dawn when he stirred again.
You felt him wake behind you, his body pressing closer along your back. His skin was clammy against yours, hot and damp with sweat, and he was trembling.
A low, shaky breath left him as he nuzzled into the curve of your neck. One of his hands slid down your hip, then between your legs, fingers finding where you were still slick and sensitive from earlier. He made a broken sound, half groan and half apology.
βI am sorry,β he murmured against your shoulder, voice rough and thick with sleep and lingering need. βWifeβ¦ forgive me. I cannot stop. The fireβ¦ it will not let me rest.β
You felt the thick, hard length of him press against your entrance from behind. He was shaking as he pushed in, slow at first, then deeper, burying himself inside you with a trembling thrust. His arm tightened around your waist, pulling you back against him as he began to move. The strokes were not gentle. They were deep and urgent, his hips rocking forward with a desperation that made the bed creak softly. His free hand gripped your thigh, holding you open for him.
His skin burned and chilled at the same time against your back. You could feel the fine tremors running through his muscles, the way his breath hitched with every thrust. He pressed his face into your shoulder, teeth grazing the skin there before he bit down, not hard enough to break the skin but firm enough to leave another mark, a sharp sting that made you tighten around him. A muffled groan vibrated against your flesh.
βI want to hurt you,β he said, the words slipping out raw and unfiltered between shaky breaths. βI want to mark you. Make you feel this for days. I want to ruin you until you cannot think of anything but me inside you.β His voice cracked on the last word. He thrust harder, the apology coming again even as his body betrayed how much he meant it. βI am sorry. Gods, I am sorry. But I needβ¦ I need to hurt you like this. Need to feel you take it.β
His teeth sank into your shoulder once more as his hips snapped forward, the bite grounding him even as he lost control. One hand slid up to cup your breast, squeezing almost too tightly, while the other held your hip in a bruising grip. He fucked into you with short, powerful strokes from behind, his cock dragging along every sensitive inch inside you. The trembling in his body grew worse. He was shaking against you, clammy skin sliding over yours, his breath hot and uneven on your neck.
The sound of his teeth scraping against your skin was drowned out by the wet, rhythmic slap of his pelvis crashing against your ass. He wasn't just fucking you; he was trying to merge with you, his movements frantic and devoid of any gentleness. Every time his cock bottomed out, it felt like a physical assault on your insides, a blunt force that left you breathless and reeling.
βTell me you want it,β he growled, his voice a guttural rasp. He shifted his grip, his fingers digging deep into the soft flesh of your hip, leaving white marks that would surely turn purple by morning. He pulled back almost entirely, teasing the entrance of your pussy for a fraction of a second before slamming back in with a violent, bone-jarring thrust.
You let out a choked scream, your fingers clawing at the sheets, but he didn't let up. He leaned forward, his chest crushing you into the mattress, his weight pinning you down as he continued to hammer into you. The friction was intense, the heat between your bodies becoming suffocating. He reached around, his hand leaving your breast to wrap firmly around your throat, not enough to choke you, but enough to let you feel the absolute power he held over you in this moment.
βLook at me,β he commanded, though you were facedown. He forced your head to the side, his violet eyes dark and blown out with lust and a desperate, starving kind of need. βI'm ruining you, aren't I? I'm breaking you open.β
He accelerated the pace, the short, powerful strokes turning into a blur of raw motion. His cock felt thicker, harder, stretching your walls to their absolute limit. He began to bite again, not just your shoulder, but the nape of your neck and the slope of your shoulder blade, marking you with a territorial hunger.
The apology was gone now, replaced by a low, animalistic moan that vibrated through his chest and into your back. He was close, his muscles locking up, his entire frame vibrating with the effort of holding back just a few seconds longer to savor the feeling of you tightening around him.
βI'm going to fill you... I'm going to leave it all inside you,β he hissed, his grip on your throat tightening slightly, tongue licking at the sweat that accumulated on your neck.
βTake it,β he growled softly, the words half apology and half command. βTake what I give you. Even when I am like this. Especially when I am like this.β
Another bite, this one lower on your shoulder, followed by the wet heat of his tongue soothing the mark. His thrusts grew rougher, more erratic, the potionβs last embers driving him to claim you one final time before it released its hold.
You felt him reach his peak with a broken moan against your skin, his cock pulsing deep inside you as he spilled another heavy load, hips jerking through the release.
Maekar didn't give you a second to recover. The moment the last pulse of his orgasm faded, he gripped your hips and violently flipped you over, manhandling you onto your back with a force that knocked the wind out of you. You hit the mattress hard, your legs splayed wide, leaving you completely exposed and vulnerable beneath him.
He didn't wait for you to catch your breath, your eyes wide with desire. He surged forward, his hand snapping up to wrap firmly around your throat.
He didn't squeeze enough to cut off your air entirely, but the pressure was constant, a heavy reminder of his dominance that forced your chin up and your chest out. His eyes were still dark, blown out and predatory, his teeth bared in a feral snarl as he looked down at you.
βI told you I wanted to ruin you,β he rasped, his voice a low, dangerous vibration. βI'm not fucking finished.β
He positioned the head of his cock, still slick and swollen from his first release, against your soaking entrance and with one brutal, uncompromising shove, he slammed back inside you. The impact was jarring, his cock sliding through the pool of his own cum to bottom out deep against your cervix. You gasped, your back arching off the bed, but his grip on your throat tightened, pinning you down and forcing you to take every inch of him.
He began to fuck you with a renewed, aggressive energy, his hips snapping forward in a relentless rhythm. Each thrust was a heavy, wet thud, the sound of his pelvis crashing against yours echoing in the room. He wasn't looking for pleasure now; he was claiming you, driving himself into you as if he wanted to leave a permanent mark on your insides.
βTake it,β he commanded, his voice guttural. βTake all of it.β
He shifted his weight, pinning your wrists above your head with one hand while the other remained locked around your neck.
The position left you completely open, your pussy stretching and gripping him with every violent plunge. He began to pick up the pace, his movements becoming frantic and raw.
He leaned down, his teeth sinking into the sensitive skin of your collarbone, biting hard enough to draw a whimper of pain and pleasure from your lips.
The friction was agonizingly intense, the mixture of his cum and your own lubrication creating a loud, squelching sound with every stroke. He was hammering into you now, his cock hitting your depths with a force that made your entire body shake. He watched your face, savoring the way your eyes rolled back and your breath came in ragged, broken sobs, his expression one of pure, unadulterated hunger.
He stayed buried there afterward, still trembling, still holding you tight as if afraid you would slip away. The apologies came softer now, murmured into your hair between shaky kisses to the bite marks he had left.
βI am sorry, wife. For the bite. For the words. For needing you so fiercely it feels like it will tear me apart.β His hand stroked down your side, gentler now, though the tremor had not fully left him. βThe maester will answer for this. But youβ¦ you are everything. Even when I lose myself like this.β
The worst of the fire finally began to fade as the first pale light of dawn crept through the shutters.
Maekarβs eyes flew wide, the reverent haze shattering in an instant. Violet irises, still dark with the remnants of lust, locked onto the marks he had left, deep, angry crescents of teeth sunk into the curve of your shoulder, the mottled purple and red where his fingers had clamped like iron vices during the peak of his release. A raw, guttural sound tore from his throat.
βGods, woman, look at what I have done to you?β
The words were barely finished before he ripped himself from your body with violent suddenness.
The thick drag of his cock withdrawing punched a broken gasp from your lips, the sudden emptiness was jarring, followed by a hot, messy spill of his spend that leaked thickly down your thighs and onto the ruined sheets. He recoiled as though scalded, shoving himself upright and backward in one brutal motion, his broad, sweat-slicked chest heaving.
He stared down at you like a man who had just woken to find blood on his hands. One hand hovered in the air between you, fingers trembling, before he yanked it back and clenched it into a white-knuckled fist against his thigh.
The protective cage of his body was gone, now he knelt above you, silver-gold hair wild, the pale dawn light carving harsh lines across the sharp planes of his face and the corded muscle of his arms.
βFuck,β he rasped, voice hoarse and cracking. βIβ I used you like a beast. Like some half-mad dragon that doesnβt know its own strength.β His gaze raked over every mark, every bruise, every place his mouth and hands and teeth had claimed you through the long, brutal hours of the night. Shame and something darker, possessive, almost feral, warred openly in his expression.
He swallowed hard, throat working. For a heartbeat he looked like he might reach for you again, but he stopped himself short, muscles locked tight with the effort of restraint. The bed creaked under his shifting weight as he put another deliberate inch of distance between you.
βTell me,β he demanded, low and rough, eyes still wide and frantic. βTell me I didnβt break you. That I didnβt take more than you could give.β His voice dropped even further, almost pleading beneath the growl.
βBecause if I haveβ¦ if these marks are more than passionβs priceβ¦β He trailed off, jaw clenched so hard the muscle jumped, and for the first time since heβd dragged you into this bed, Maekar Targaryen looked truly afraid of what his own hunger had wrought. βI am going to fucking kill that fucking fool, oh Gods, my love.β
His hand lifted again, hovering over the worst of the bites on your shoulder without quite touching. The tremor in his fingers was visible. βSpeak, little one. Now. Before I lose what little control I have left.β
You were still breathless, lungs burning, body trembling from the sudden, brutal emptiness heβd left behind. His spend was leaking hot and thick down your thighs, your cunt still fluttering around nothing, sore and slick and used. The marks on your shoulder throbbed in time with your heartbeat, but the ache between your legs was deeper, sweeter.
You reached for him with one shaky hand, fingers brushing the tense muscle of his forearm before he could pull farther away.
βMaekar,β you rasped, voice hoarse from screaming his name through the night. βLook at me.β
His eyes were still wide, wild with guilt, but you held his gaze and gave him the truth, raw and unashamed.
βI liked it,β you whispered fiercely. βI liked it. Every mark. Every time you bit down and fucked me harder because you couldnβt stop yourself. Whatever that maester gave youβ¦β A shaky, breathless laugh escaped you. βIt made you so fucking sexy. Like you were burning from the inside out and the only thing that could put the fire out was me.β
You shifted on the ruined sheets, letting him see the mess heβd made of you, the glistening streaks on your inner thighs, the way your body still trembled with aftershocks, the vivid proof of his hunger painted across your skin.
βI wanted it,β you continued, softer now but no less certain. βI wanted you like that. Rough. Desperate. Like youβd die if you didnβt get deeper inside me. The way you growled my name when you cameβ¦ Gods, Maekar, Iβve never felt so wanted in my life.β
His breath hitched. The horror in his violet eyes cracked, something darker and hotter flooding in to replace it. His cock, still half-hard and glistening with your combined release, twitched visibly against his thigh.
You saw the moment the fear lost its battle with need. His hand finally closed the distance, fingers trembling as they traced the bite mark on your shoulder with something that was no longer just shame and guilt, but that it was possession, renewed and burning.
βSay it again,β he demanded, voice low and rough, almost broken. His thumb pressed into the deepest tooth mark, making you hiss. βTell me you wanted the beast. That you still want him.β
He leaned over you again, caging you in, but this time the tension in his body was different, coiled, hungry, barely leashed. The pale dawn light caught on the sweat still clinging to his chest, the faint tremor in his arms as he held himself above you.
βBecause if you keep talking like that, little oneβ¦β His gaze dropped to your mouth, then lower, to the way his spend continued to drip from your well-used cunt. βIβm not sure Iβll be able to keep myself from taking you again. Harder. Until every mark on you is fresh and you canβt walk without remembering exactly who put them there.β
His eyes were wide again, but not with fear this time, but with hunger and he was waiting for your answer like a man starving.
You reached up with trembling fingers and brushed a strand of silver-gold hair from his forehead, your voice soft and breathless in the quiet dawn.
βMaekarβ¦ can you go slow for me?β
For a heartbeat he simply stared at you, violet eyes wide and searching, as if he couldnβt quite believe you were still asking for him after everything. Then something in his expression cracked open, raw relief, aching tenderness, and a love so fierce it looked almost painful.
He nodded once, jaw tight. βAnything,β he rasped. βAnything you want, my heart.β
He lowered himself over you with deliberate care, one hand sliding beneath your head to cradle it while the other stroked gently down your side, avoiding the worst of the bruises. His cock, still slick with the evidence of his earlier frenzy, nudged against your entrance. He paused there, forehead resting against yours, breathing you in.
βIβve got you,β he whispered against your lips. βJust feel me.β
The first slow push was almost reverent. He sank into you inch by careful inch, letting you feel every thick ridge, every pulse of him as your body stretched around him again. The mess heβd left behind made the glide obscenely wet, but he moved like he was afraid to hurt you, deep, steady, and so achingly gentle that your eyes stung.
Maekar kissed you like a man worshipping at an altar. Soft at first, then deeper, his tongue stroking yours in time with the slow roll of his hips. Each thrust was measured, loving, pulling almost all the way out before sinking back in to the hilt, grinding there so you felt every inch of him claiming you anew.
βSo good for me,β he praised against your mouth, voice rough with emotion. βMy brave girl. Taking everything I gave you and still wanting me like this.β He kissed the bite mark on your shoulder with exquisite tenderness, tongue soothing over the indents his teeth had left. βThese marksβ¦ theyβre mine now. Because you wanted them. Because you wanted me.β
Another slow, deep thrust. He groaned quietly into your neck, the sound half-reverence, half-restraint. His hand found yours and laced your fingers together beside your head, squeezing gently as he rocked into you.
βI love you,β he breathed, the words slipping out raw and unguarded between kisses. βEven when the fire takes me. Even when I lose myself in you. Iβll spend the rest of my life making sure you feel how much.β
He kissed you again, slow, deep, and devastating, while his hips continued their unhurried rhythm, each thrust a promise, each roll of his body against yours an apology and a devotion all at once. The morning light painted both of you in soft gold as he loved you with everything he had left.
He felt it the moment your body began to tighten around him.
Maekarβs rhythm never quickened, but it deepened, each slow, deliberate thrust grinding against that perfect spot inside you with devastating precision. He watched your face the entire time, violet eyes dark and intent, drinking in every flutter of your lashes, every soft sound that escaped you.
βThatβs it,β he murmured, voice low and rough with love. βLet go for me, sweet girl. Iβve got you.β
His free hand slid between your bodies, fingers finding your swollen clit with gentle, circling pressure that matched the unhurried roll of his hips. He kissed you through it, deep, lingering kisses that stole your breath, then moved to the marks on your shoulder, pressing his lips there like a vow.
βYouβre so perfect like this,β he praised, the words hot against your skin. βTaking me so sweetly. Letting me love you the way you deserve.β Another slow, grinding thrust. βCome for me. I want to feel you fall apart around my cock. I want to feel how much you still want me.β
The combination unraveled you.
Your orgasm built like a slow, inevitable tide, deeper and more overwhelming than the frantic ones from before. Your back arched, thighs trembling around his waist as the pleasure crested. You clenched hard around him, pulsing in long, rhythmic waves that dragged a broken groan from his chest. He held you through it, never stopping the steady, loving rhythm, fucking you gently through every crest and aftershock while whispering your name like a prayer.
βBeautiful,β he breathed, forehead pressed to yours as you shook beneath him. βSo fucking beautiful when you come for me. Thatβs my girl. My brave, perfect girl.β
He kept moving through the last tremors, slow and deep, letting you ride out every last ripple while his arms cradled you close. Only when your body finally went soft and pliant beneath him did he allow himself to bury his face in your neck, hips stuttering once, twice, then stilling as he followed you over the edge with a low, reverent groan of your name.
Even in the afterglow, he didnβt pull away. He stayed buried inside you, kissing the tears of pleasure from your lashes, stroking your hair, murmuring soft praises against your skin while the first true light of morning crept across the bed.
He pulled you closer, wrapping himself around you protectively, his lips brushing the marks on your shoulder with something close to reverence.
βSleep,β he whispered, voice hoarse but steadier. βI have you. I will always have you.β
And for the first time since the remedy had taken hold, Prince Maekar Targaryen let the tension drain from his body, holding his wife close as the unnatural heat finally cooled, leaving only the deep, steady truth of what he felt for you beneath the stern and possessive surface.
