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summary : your husband had his peculiar passions. for all his piety, for all the hours spent in prayer beneath the Sept, there were indulgences he kept close to his heart... collecting your scent might well have been his favorite sin.
warnings : mdni, smut... really filthy
a/n : a bit ashamed of this one oop -- (also sorry if he seems a little OOC 😭 once again, we know next to nothing abt him in the books, and even less in the show for now ( as I write, only episode 1 aired out) at some point i'm basically working with a name, a family tree, and vibes, so a lot of it comes down to interpretation)
THE NIGHT SERVED AS HIS CONFESSOR, AND YOUR BED HIS ABSOLUTION.
Yet tears were for holy men... and, folly though it sounded, Ormund Hightower was a husband before he was ever a penitent.
True or not, he still knelt at the altars of the Starry Sept whenever duty and time allowed. His prayers were measured and humble, his hands clasped just so, his voice carrying the proper weight of contrition. He lit candles to the Mother, the Maiden, and the Crone alike, made his offerings on holy days, and listened patiently whilst septons spoke of virtue, duty, and the burdens the gods laid upon noble men.
Yet for all his devotion, Ormund possessed another passion besides prayer : he had a nose for perfumes.
Not merely an appreciation, but a keen, almost indecent sense for them, the way a hound might scent blood in the dark.
He could name the oils in any lady's hair from three paces, pick apart the florals and the musks and the rare eastern extracts : the smokebark from Qohor, the jasmine of Myr, the crushed petals of the winter rose. And yours, he'd told you once on your wedding night, after he'd spent two hours just pressing his face to the hollow of your throat, breathing you in — yours was the only scent that ever made his cock ache.
In company, when you teased him for it — which part, my lord? which part of me smells sweetest? — he'd play the gallant. Your hair, he'd say, lifting a strand between his fingers, letting the candlelight catch it. Or your wrist. The ladies would coo, your sisters would blush, the old men would nod and call him a devoted husband and you a beloved wife.
But when the door closed.
When the servants had taken the wine cups and the rushes had been swept and the candles burned low in their holders, and you stood before the basin in nothing but your thin linen shift, washing the powder and the perfume of the Great Hall from your skin — then he would tell you the truth.
You asked again, and you always asked, in the intimate dark of your bedchamber when the fire had dwindled to embers and you could feel the weight of his gaze on your back like a hand. Which part, husband?
His mouth would find your neck, wet and hot, his tongue dragging salt and skin and the faint trace of rosewater you'd dabbed there.
Your cunt, he'd murmur against your pulse, teeth scraping. When I'm hungry. He'd pause, breathing you in. Your neck, when I want to leave a mark. Your tongue, when I want to taste how sinful you can be when the gods aren't watching.
He was a man obsessed with perfumes, your husband. But his favorite had always been yours, yes, that particular musk of you, the scent that lingered in the sheets when you'd risen, that clung to the pillows he'd press his face into while you were away at the sept or at market.
That night, he stood at the basin longer than usual.
He watched you through the rippled reflection in the water before he plunged his face in, scrubbing the day's dust and the Great Hall's smoke from his skin. The candlelight caught the water trickling down his bare chest, the dark hair that matted his sternum, the hard muscle of his shoulders. Your husband slept bare every night, had done since your wedding, claiming your linens were too soft for wool and that anyway, he liked the feel of your thighs against his skin.
But tonight he wasn't watching you wash. He was watching you pray.
You were on your knees at the foot of the bed, hands clasped before you, head bowed. The shift you wore was good linen, near translucent in the firelight, falling to your calves and hiding nothing. The outline of your body — the dip of your waist, the curve of your hips, the shape of your cunt pressed against your thighs — all of it visible, all of it offered.
Your lips moved in silent devotion. Seven blessings. Seven thanks. The prayer for a husband's safe return, the one for a fruitful womb, the one your mother had taught you for forgiving a man his sins.
He didn't deserve forgiveness tonight.
When you finished, you made the sign of the seven-pointed star and slipped beneath the furs, settling onto your side, back to him. You hummed — that soft, contented sound you made when the sheets were clean and the bed was warm and you could feel him climbing in behind you.
Goodnight, my lord, you murmured.
He pressed his chest to your back. Skin to linen. The heat of him, still damp from the basin, seeping through the thin fabric. His cock was already half-hard against the curve of your ass, and you didn't flinch.
Goodnight, my love.
His mouth found your neck. A kiss, soft at first, then wetter, slower, his teeth grazing the tendon that ran from your ear to your shoulder. His palm spread flat on your belly, fingers splayed, just resting.
You didn't move.
Instead you pushed back into him. A slow, deliberate arch of your spine, pushing your ass against his cock, your back bowing until your shoulders pressed his chest and your hips cradled him. Your eyes were still closed. A faint smirk touched your lips.
He groaned. The sound was rough, dragged from somewhere deep, and he bit your earlobe for it.
Minx.
His hand slipped, down from your belly, across the linen, gathering the hem of your shift and pulling it up your thighs. Slow. Deliberate. The fabric whispered against your skin, bunching around your hips, leaving you bare from the waist down.
His fingers found the thatch of dark hair between your legs. He touched it first — just touched, just felt the coarse curls against his calloused fingertips. Then he tugged. Gentle pulls, wrapping strands around his fingers, tugging just enough to make your hips shift, to make you press back against him harder.
Nothing, he breathed into your ear. No smallclothes. No shift beneath the shift. You came to bed bare for me.
You said nothing. Your hand reached back, found the nape of his neck, fingers tangling in the damp hair at his skull.
His fingers slid lower.
Through the hair, through the wet heat of you, parting the lips of your cunt with a slowness that bordered on cruel. He found your pearl — that tight, swollen nub hidden in its hood of flesh — and pinched it between his thumb and forefinger.
You gasped. A real sound, torn from you, your hips bucking into his hand.
He pressed his mouth to your ear, and he laughed — a low, dark sound that vibrated through his chest into your back.
Oh, the gods would weep to see you now, wife. So pious at the sept. So proper at the feast. And here, in the dark, you spread your legs for a finger and a whisper.
His thumb worked your pearl in slow circles, wet with your slick, while his middle finger traced the length of your slit. Up and down. Teasing the entrance, pressing just barely at the rim of you, then dragging back up to circle your pearl again.
You were soaked. Puffy and swollen and dripping for him, your slick coating his fingers, your thighs trembling where they pressed together around his hand.
He kept whispering.
You think the septon knows? When he gives you the seven blessings and you lower your eyes so demurely — you think he knows your cunt is this wet? That you knelt at the altar this morning with your thighs pressed tight to keep my seed from running down your leg?
Two fingers. He pushed them into you without warning, without prelude, just the sudden, slick slide of them burying to the knuckle in your heat.
You cried out. Not loud — bitten off, swallowed, your hand clapping over your own mouth as his fingers curled inside you.
His other hand clamped over yours, pulling it away, lacing his fingers through yours and pressing your palm flat to the mattress.
No, he said. I want to hear you.
He fucked you with his fingers. There was no other word for it — the wet, obscene squash of his hand moving between your thighs, the rhythm of it, the way he curled his fingers to find that spot inside you that made your vision white at the edges. Your hips moved with him, pushing back to meet every thrust, your mouth open against the pillow, your moans muffled into the feathers.
That's it. That's my wife. His voice was wrecked, ragged. You take my fingers so well, love. What will you take next?
The sound of it filled the quiet room. The wet slap of his hand, the rhythm of his breathing, the broken sounds you made beneath him. He fucked you with three fingers now, stretching you open, his thumb pressing hard on your pearl while his teeth found your shoulder and bit down — just enough to mark, just enough to make you gasp.
You taste like honey and sin, he murmured against the bite mark. And I am the hungriest man in the Reach.
The squash of his wet hand. The stutter of your breath. The way you whispered his name, broken and desperate, as he pushed you closer and closer to that edge.
Come for me, he said. Let the whole of the Hightower know what a sinful little wife I have.
And in the dark of your bedchamber, with the prayers still warm on your lips and his fingers buried deep inside you, you did.
He was not finished.
The thought came to you through the haze, through the aftershocks still pulsing through your thighs, through the wet sound of your own breathing as you lay there, limp and shattered, your cunt still clenching around nothing. You thought perhaps he would roll off, would press a kiss to your shoulder and settle against your back, would whisper some sweet nothing and fall asleep with his nose pressed to your hair.
But Ormund Hightower was not a man who took one meal and called himself fed.
He pulled his fingers from you slow — dragging along your inner walls, making you shudder at the loss. You heard him bring them to his mouth. Heard the wet and sinful sound of him sucking them clean, the low groan he made tasting you on his own skin.
Then he grabbed your hip and turned you.
The world spun, furs and linen and candlelight, and then you were on your back, your husband looming over you, his face dark with hunger. His dirty blonde hair hung damp across his brow, eyes black in the firelight, and mouth wet with you.
He kissed you. Oh, how he kissed you.
Not the chaste peck of a husband taking leave. Not the gentle press of a man being tender. This was a claiming — his tongue sliding into your mouth, thick and insistent, and you tasted yourself on him. Salty and musk and the copper of your own arousal. He kissed you until you couldn't breathe, until your chest heaved and your hands came up to push at his shoulders, and only then did he break it, mouths still close, breath mingling.
You taste even better on my tongue, he said. But I want your warmth.
He took off your shift, and then descended.
His mouth trailed down your chin, your throat, the hollow between your collarbones. He paused at your breasts — took a nipple between his teeth, bit just enough to make you arch, soothed it with his tongue while his hand found the other and pinched. Then lower. Over the soft swell of your belly, the jut of your hipbone, the place where your thighs began.
He settled between them.
Your hands found his hair before he'd even reached his destination — fingers tangling in the thick, dark curls, gripping hard. You bucked your hips toward his mouth, desperate, needy, the overstimulation from before still singing in your nerves.
He pinned you.
His hands clamped down on your hips, hard enough to bruise, pressing you flat into the mattress. You could not move, could not grind against his face, could not evenchase the friction you craved. You were held open, held still, held.
Patience, he murmured against your inner thigh. I'll have you when I'm ready.
His breath was hot on your cunt. You felt it — the warm exhalation against your soaked, swollen flesh — and your whole body trembled. You were raw from his fingers, sensitive to the point of pain, every nerve ending standing at attention and begging.
He licked you.
A single, long stroke, from the base of your slit to the tip of your pearl, his tongue flat and broad and wet. You cried out. Your hips strained against his grip, but he held you fast, and he did it again. And again. Each stroke slower than the last, savoring, tasting, groaning against your flesh until you felt the vibration through your whole body.
Gods, he breathed into you. I could die here. I would die happy, with your cunt on my tongue.
He ate you like a starving man.
His mouth devoured you — lips sucking your pearl, tongue fucking into your hole, his nose pressing against your clit with every movement. He groaned against you, the sound muffled by your flesh, and the vibration sent sparks up your spine. He pulled you impossibly closer, his hands gripping your hips and dragging you harder against his face, and you let him. You gave him everything. Your hands fisted in his hair, holding him there, and you rode his mouth with what little freedom he allowed you.
Ormund — His name came out broken, keening.
He answered by pressing his thumb to your pearl — hard, rubbing tight circles while his tongue speared into you, fucking you open, drinking everything you gave him.
You were close again too soon. Too fast. The pleasure was almost pain, the overstimulation building like a fever, and you tried to push his head away. You couldn't. Your hands pulled at his curls but he didn't stop, didn't slow, his thumb pressing harder, his tongue deeper.
Please — please, husband, I cannot —
He did not stop.
Your orgasm crashed over you like a wave, like a wall falling, like the whole of the Hightower crumbling to dust. You screamed. You saw white — a blinding, total whiteness that blotted out the room, the candles, the man between your thighs. Your cunt clenched and spasmed, flooding his mouth, and he groaned against you and kept licking, kept sucking, drawing it out until you were sobbing, until you were pushing at his shoulders with what little strength you had left.
Only then did he lift his head.
His face was slick with you. His chin gleamed in the candlelight, his lips wet, his eyes dark and satisfied. He did not wipe his mouth. He simply looked at you broken and panting beneath him, your thighs trembling, your cunt still fluttering) and he smiled.
But he was not finished.
Ormund reached to the bedside table. His hand moved with practiced ease, finding a small vial of cut crystal, the kind that usually held perfumes and rare oils. He uncorked it with his teeth.
And while your cunt still wept with your peak, he gathered it.
His fingers slid into you again — gentle this time, coaxing, milking your orgasm as it ebbed. You watched through half-lidded eyes as he held the vial beneath you, watched as your own wetness trickled down his fingers and into the crystal. Drop by drop. The vial filled with your slick, pale and thick in the candlelight, and he watched it with the same reverence he gave the seven-pointed star.
When the vial was full, he corked it. Set it back on the bedside table. Returned his gaze to you.
You opened your mouth — to tease him, perhaps. To ask if he meant to wear your scent to court tomorrow, or if he planned to anoint himself before the septon. You were used to his strange ways with perfume, his collections of oils and essences, his obsession with the way things smelled.
But before the words could form, he took you.
His breeches disappeared, and with a single, swift motion — his hand on your hip, the blunt head of his cock pressing at your entrance, and then he was inside you. All of him. In one stroke, burying to the hilt, filling you completely.
Your breath left you in a rush. Your back arched off the bed. His name was a prayer, a curse, a sob.
He began to move.
No more talking, he growled, his forehead pressed to yours, his hips driving into you with desperate, hungry strokes. No more games. I want to feel you come on my cock. I want to feel you milk me dry.
So he fucked you.
Crude as it sound, there was no other word. He fucked you with the same hunger he'd eaten you with, with the same devotion he prayed with, with the same obsession he collected his perfumes. His hips slammed into yours, the wet sound of your bodies meeting filled the room, and you wrapped your legs around his waist and held on.
Come for me, he demanded. Again. Now.
And you did. Because you could not help it. Because he owned every part of you, because your body answered his before your mind could catch up, because the sight of him above you (sweating, desperate, beautiful) undid something deep in your chest.
You shattered around him.
He followed a heartbeat later, his groan low and guttural, his hips stuttering as he emptied himself into you. Hot and thick, filling you, marking you from the inside.
He collapsed on top of you, his full weight pressing you into the mattress, his face buried in your neck. He breathed you in, a long, shuddering inhale, and you felt his lips press a kiss to your pulse.
You smell like sin, he murmured against your skin. Like heaven and sin and everything I should not want.
His hand found the vial on the bedside table. He held it up to the candlelight, watching your slick catch the glow.
And I want to keep every drop.
He settled behind you like a man coming home.
The shift of the furs, the creak of the bedframe, the warmth of his chest pressing against your back. His arm slid beneath your head, making a pillow of his bicep, and he pulled the covers up over both of you — silk and the heavy quilt your mother had stitched for your wedding. He tucked it beneath your chin with a tenderness that seemed impossible from the man who'd just fucked you into the mattress.
His mouth found your neck. Small kisses, pecks really, soft as moth wings, trailing from your ear down to your shoulder. You felt him smile against your skin.
You were still catching your breath. Still floating in that warm, liquid haze that followed his claiming, your limbs heavy, your cunt sore and satisfied, the ghost of his cock and fingers still stretching you. You felt his softening length pressed against the curve of your ass, wet and spent, and you pushed back into him instinctively.
His hand found your breast. It always did. Every night, without fail, whether he'd taken you or not, his palm would cup your flesh, his thumb would find your nipple, and he would hold you like that until sleep took him. You'd come to expect it, to need it, the weight of his hand a comfort you couldn't name.
But his other hand did not go to your waist.
It slipped lower. Over the curve of your hip, across the soft skin of your belly, down through the coarse hair between your thighs. You were too tired to open your eyes, too spent to question, but you felt his fingers find your entrance — slick and swollen and still leaking his seed.
He pushed inside you.
Two fingers. Slow and gentle, a soft intrusion that made you sigh rather than gasp. He buried them to the knuckle, and then he stilled.
To keep your scent on me by morning, he murmured against your hair. So I can take you with me when I rise.
You hummed. A sound of agreement, or surrender, or simple exhaustion. Your hand found his where it cupped your breast, and you held him there, your fingers intertwined with his.
You were already gone. Already drifting into that deep, dreamless sleep that only a well-fucked wife could find. Your breathing evened, your body relaxed fully against his, your cunt clenching occasionally around his fingers in reflexive, dreaming pulses.
The Maiden herself might blush to hear such thoughts, and even the Stranger would raise an eyebrow, if the tales were true. Yet what were gods and their judgments beside the comfort and joy your husband brought you? Let the septons mutter of sin. Let them wag their fingers and speak of virtue. The Seven might forgive you...
Warnings: mentions of death and funerals,edited but not really lol. 1.9k words
Fear tastes like unripe raspberries and Kentucky bluegrass. It feels like razorblades in your lungs, each breath a threat, like the next gasp will be the one that slices you open. Your thighs ache and you're sure your feet are bleeding under all the mud that cakes them. You don't know how long you've been running, adrenaline makes time blur in a funny way— makes a second feel like forever and forever feel like a blink.
Your foot catches on a soft patch of grass, toes tangling on roots. The bull behind you bellows like something pulled straight from hell, rage and warning wrapped in its call. You don't linger, can't with death on your heels and your ankle twists painfully as you force yourself to run faster. Your mind is a mess of memories, of missed opportunities and regrets.
You should have spent more time with your family. You think of them; of the barbecues— burnt hotdogs and lively laughter. The shuffle of cards when it got dark, smoke curling in the air as Hennessy kept them warm.
You should have kissed Ben Quinn in the tenth grade. The bottle landed on you. He had been willing.
You should have moved to Oregon with that plastic surgeon, he had promised to keep you pretty as long as you promised to be his.
Your mind spins, focusing on everything and nothing all at once. You should've listened to Amy, should've spent your day off in bed instead of playing savior to your best friend. You're gonna die. Bull horn through your chest, your head crushed under a half ton of hooves like a watermelon on a hydraulic press. You wonder if the Surgeon would come to your funeral, let his last act of love be reconstructing your face into something recognizable. Something prettier than before that'd make your mama and aunties cry and Ben Quinn regret never kissing you.
Then your thoughts shudder, a simple statement forming in your mind. ‘You can't let this farm take another person from Amy.’ The accident had already taken her husband, taken him only a few months before the birth of their first child, and had nearly taken Amy in the grief that followed. Then there were the insurance agents, state investigators, and god, the real estate agents— the farm had nearly crumbled from the weight of it. But, with the help from friends, family, and the gofundme made in Teddy's honor, Amy was able to rebuild the farm, to tear down those gas tanks, and get the land serviced. Amy was just starting to be a person again. You couldn't die on her now.
“Hey!” Someone yells, their voice as panicked as you feel. Your head clears just enough to realize you've been running towards a fence, a rail fence that only comes up to about your chest. A man is on the other side of it, his hands waving frantically above his head, his face twisted in fear and you can make out his watery eyes darting to you and then the monster behind you. You push yourself to run faster, your ankle screaming in protest. You feel like you can feel the hot breath of the bull on your neck. You're sure you're crying, sobbing, spit and snot running down your face. The fence is closer now and you can see the man clearer now, his wide eyes are blue, his face flushing and then somehow paling repeatedly, his hair is brown, curled at his neck and he's shouting—
“Jump the fence!”
You don't think—you just do as you're told. Your knees bend, and you leap, your feet ding against the metal of the fence, and for several heart-pounding seconds, you're floating. The bull rears before it can crash into the fence, hooves stamping as it turns and kicks at the air, frustrated it didn't get the chance to gore you before dashing off back from where it came. You don't see this, of course, because in the leap over the fence, your elbow met the face of the random man, your knees half dug into his gut as you dry heave and he groans in pain. You manage to pull yourself off of him, rolling to the side and curling into a near fetal position in the grass, whimpering with your eyes shut tight.
“Are you–” He shifts, groaning. He sits up, one hand on his nose, his voice slightly muffled as he leans to look at you. “Are you okay?”
How do you even answer that when you just saw your life flash before your eyes? When you saw your death and it was bull shaped? You offer the man another whimper, which makes him grunt in response. There's more shifting, then he presses a cool hand against the side of your neck. When you flinch in response, he draws his hand back quickly, “Do you know where you are?”
The question makes you open your eyes, squinting slightly as the sun threatens to blind you. The man sees this— he's managed to shift himself in front of you— and he moves until he's blocking the sun completely. You blink twice, taking a ragged breath, “I almost died.”
His lips thin, but he doesn't agree nor disagree. His blue eyes dart across your figure, assessing. His gaze lingers on your feet, your swollen ankle, a knot in his brow forming. “Remember that word, okay? Almost. You almost died, but you just outran a full-grown bull. Not a lot of people can do that.”
It pulls a laugh out of you. It sounds slightly hysterical, but it feels like it's enough to slow your heart. You push yourself up to a sitting position with shaking hands, the man backing up just enough to allow you to do so, but his hands twitch at his sides like he wants to help you. “Fuck.” You say, “Amy– Amy is gonna kill me, I'm going to kill her. I told her to keep the animals locked up when I'm here!”
The man blinks, “You know Amy?”
Your head jerks to him, your mouth opening, closing, then opening again. “Duh. Why else would I be here–?” There's a look forming on the man's face, his lips pinching together and his eyebrows rising as if to say; ‘well…’ The anger that blooms in your chest is quick, sharp— you try to push yourself up to stand but you start to stumble, hissing both in pain and in annoyance when the man stands just as fast to steady you with a panicked noise, a hand on your forearm.
“You– you really shouldn't be standing right now, I think you have a twisted ankle or worse–” He starts, but you're already snatching your arm back.
“I'm fine.” You snap, ignoring how your body aches in rebuttal. You stand straight, leaning more on one leg than the other, nausea rolling in your stomach as you bring your arm to quickly wipe at the already drying mess that's your face. You pat your pockets, and thank god, you still have your phone. You shoot the man a steely look that has him taking a step back in surprise. Quicker than you should, you pull your phone from your pocket and snap a photo of his face, flash, and all.
“Hey—?”
You ignore him and unlock your phone with your face ID, sending the photo to Amy. You send, ‘???’ For good measure.
The man shifts in front of you, his face now red, and he looks vaguely uncomfortable. “Um–?”
Amy reacts to the photo with a laughing emoji. The dots appear, then disappear, and then appear again. ‘lol, thats Dennis! y is this photo so close up???’
Your eyes snap back to the man— to Dennis, shifting restlessly, his thumbs hooked on the loops of his jeans. Your brows furrow in disbelief, “You're Dennis?”
It makes him jump, “Uh, yeah?”
“The doctor?” You continue, voice pitched in disbelief.
Dennis frowns, his head tilting. “Last time I checked, yeah.”
You huff, baffled. “Okay, okay.” Your phone buzzes in your hand, your ringtone loud, and you answer it fast, the anger that was ebbing away bubbling back up at the sight of Amy's smiling face. “Amy.”
Her smile falters, hazel eyes taking you in and then widening in shock, maybe fear. “Are you okay?”
“No.” You snap, voice reedy. Your ankle throbs again like it's agreeing with you. “Amy, I was just chased by a fucking cow! You promised me you'd lock them up when I'm here!”
Her face has fully dropped, her cheeks flushing a bright red. She shifts, the phone moving lower as she switches hands. You see a flash of the baby pressed against her side as she shakily pushes hair from her face with her free hand. “I did– I thought I did–”
Dennis coughs, you look at him and he winces. “So, that may have been me–”
“What?”
He rushes to continue, “In my defense! I didn't even know you were out there! Amy called me and asked if I could check in the animals if I had the time and–”
Amy makes a noise through the phone, “Dennis.”
“Literally, no one is ever here when I'm here!” He says, leaning close to the phone so Amy can see him. For a moment, you think that he might take it from you, and your fingers tighten around the device, but Dennis doesn't try to do that. He only leans closer like your personal space is his. “You know I always let the animals roam while I'm here, Amy. I didn't know.”
Amy blows a breath, taking a moment to gather her thoughts. “Right, okay. So maybe I fucked up–” Your mouth opens to agree, to say ‘no, duh.’ But Amy continues, “I'm sorry guys, I should have told you both about the other being there.” She's not looking at you anymore but at Dennis. He's still in your space, close enough you can feel his body heat against your back. “Is she okay? Are you okay? Your nose looks…”
“I'm fine.” Dennis answers. He waves a dismissive hand, but then his eyes dart to you in concern. “Her on the other hand… twisted ankle, maybe. I thought she was in shock for a second, but it's clear she's not.”
You blink, offended. Should you be offended? You tilt the phone away from Dennis, shaking your head. “I'm– I'm fine. It's definitely twisted, not broken. I know how to take care of it.”
Amy says your name in that disappointed mom tone she's managed to master over the last six months. “You should let Dennis look at it. He literally works in an ER. He does that for a living, and he's right there.”
You make a face, and Amy makes it right back at you. “Fine. But only because it saves me from like an eight grand bill.”
That makes the both of them smile, though Dennis’ smile fades quickly with a wince, a finger raising to prod at his nose. When you look at him again, his hand drops and he gives you a crooked smile, “Not broken, just sore.”
Amy's eyes seem to shine, “Alright, call me if anything happens, okay? The spare key is in the same spot as always. Bye, have fun!”
The call clicks off, leaving you staring blankly at Amy's profile picture. What was fun about any of this? Did the fact that you nearly died go in one ear and out the next? You know she's been a little different since the accident but Jesus. You turn your phone off and shove the device back into your pocket, turning to fully face Dennis and pretending not to see how his body jerks into motion as if to catch you when your leg nearly gives out from your own weight.
Your eyes meet his, a frown on your lips. “Alright, let's go.”
Summary: You take a little control of your situation to get one up on your captor
Pairing: dark!Paul Atreides x Fremen!reader (black-coded)
Warnings: hmm other than smut? I dont think there are any actually
A/n: just realized that this series was now caught up and I could post the chapter I had already written but needed to get events that happened before it straight first. Anyhoo! Welcome back to me putting Paul’s emotions through a play doh crazy hair stylist kit 😘 no minors, no half-ass fanfic supporters
Your return to the imperial palace included a checkup with healers and then promptly after, an audition for a new handmaiden. It appeared that Paul had one of them pay dearly for your escape-turned-kidnapping.
This was an unnecessary trial. You didn’t want the handmaiden that hadn’t been killed, much less a new one. Idly, you watched them perform their skills. None of it mattered. One of them stood out to you, however.
“You,” you pointed at the red-head with large golden-brown eyes. “I pick you. Everyone else, leave.”
“I’m honored, my lady—.”
You cut her off immediately, in no mood for the pretense. “I singled you out because either you’re incompetent or purposely pretending to be so.”
She bowed deferentially. “Warrior, I apologize. I am no actress. I am here to beseech your aid. You can help our rebellion.”
“Rebellion against whom?”
“The false emperor on the throne.”
Oh. Well, wasn’t that something? Ultimately, you sighed as you settled back in your seat. Bored. You waved along a hand. “Go on, I suppose. Make your pitch. I’m listening.”
“I thought you’d given up on trying to sneak into my war room.”
“Well, what about if what I’m seeking is you?”
To say that Paul’s heart stopped was dramatic… but maybe not hyperbolic. You pulled him around on his ornate chair, a subtle throne.
“What are you up to?”
“Practicing humility. Deference. Have you not said time and time again that I should realize my place?” You lowered to your knees and he was sure his breathing stopped this time. “That it is under you?”
This wasn’t a dream. This wasn’t a vision. Paul wouldn’t do something so obviously stupid as pinch himself because the burning in his lungs from the carbon dioxide he’d yet to exhale was doing the trick to tell him this was real.
You were willingly on your knees in front of him. Hands smoothing down his thighs and he fought not to thrust up at the feeling. You removed his canvas shoes, kissed his ankles with a holy deference he hadn’t seen since he left Arrakis. Kissed his knees, gathered his hands in yours and kissed the palms of each.
It looked almost wrong on you. The loyal devotion, humble debasement. This may be real life, but this wasn’t real.
Paul secured a firm grip around your throat and you didn’t even fight him as he lifted you to a standing kneel. Your face was placid, as if you’d expected the doubt. Expected not to be believed. Your dark eyes looked up at him under thick lashes, and he swore he saw lust in them. Desire and heat. Fuck, he had no idea you were such an adept actress. How far would the act go?
Paul had always suspected he had only inherited his father’s faults. He idolized Leto, dedicated his youth to emulating him, the perfect model of what a duke— a man should be.
Like Leto before him, Paul’s heart would lead to his downfall.
Because you were acting suspicious. And Paul didn’t care.
Paul dragged you by the throat to his lips. And when your mouth moved with his, giving as well as taking, he decided he truly didn’t give a fuck. He licked into your mouth like a man starved, relished how your hands trailed up the arm he still gripped you with. You moaned and it threatened to wipe his mind clean.
Undoubtedly, you were hiding something. Whether it be a weapon or knowledge, it didn’t matter. In this moment whatever you’re plotting, whatever betrayal you’re setting up was secondary. Because you were touching him willingly. Kissing him willingly. He’ll accept whatever comes next to live in this moment.
And if your secret was on your person, he intended to divest you of clothes regardless.
His lips trailed messy, frenzied kisses over your neck, down your chest. His brow furrowed as he pressed his forehead there and panted as he clung to your back. Moaning, grunting, whining, fucking you through your pleasure like his sanity depended on it. Like you were his salvation. For a moment, he could believe he was enough for you.
Your cunt gripped around him, snug even when he hadn’t had to force his way in. Wet. So, so wet, slippery and louder than just the slapping of skin. It was a debauched sound and it drove Paul insane, his hips thrusting up over and over seeking the squelching depravity. The strategy table didn’t even creak under the weight and desperate force of your coupling.
He wanted to empty himself inside you. Wanted your sweet pussy to wring every drop from him. Wanted it dripping the excess of his seed.
“Muad’dib!” You panted as you gripped at his shoulders, your damp forehead furrowed in pleasure as you shuddered from another orgasm.
Just like in his dream. His vision. But that’s not at all what he wanted to hear anymore.
He shook his head sharply. “Paul. I am Paul to you if no one else.”
“Paul,” his name a delicious murmur on your lips, brushing against his throat. “Give it to me.”
How could he not?
As his load shot from him, depleting himself but filling you up, Paul had an idle thought. He’d be chasing this particular bliss for the rest of his life, never to fully capture it again.
He would succumb to whatever ploy this was, relishing as you desecrated his body and his will and his pride. It was the first time Paul realized in claiming you, he had been claimed right back; as much your belonging as you were his. He had to be sure no one could see how much hold you had over him, a much surer grip than the false authority he wielded over you. Because at any time he could be deposed; you could even find a way to complete the suicide you had attempted before. But he would always be a disciple to your desires.
And in the wake of his orgasm, Paul’s mind had never known such sweet silence.
Summary: the first victim of the poison was the discoverer herself
Pairing: reckless scientist/inventor!Reader x assistant!Laurie Laurence
A/n: inspired by a concept in the Immortal series by Alyson Noel but, imo, done better lol. The idea of turning the Fuck or Die trope on its head intrigued me, I cannot lie. Instead it’s Fuck or Live lol one of @flashfictionfridayofficial’s past prompts got the ball rolling for me. Explicit sexual fantasy and language ahead but no actual smut occurs
There was no way you could turn the lid any tighter on the sealed concoction in your grip. Yet you focused your eyes and your hands that continued to fruitlessly screw the metal top any more snugly.
It was clear that you were uncomfortable; embarrassed and silently refusing to meet your assistant’s gaze. You cleared your throat and addressed him clinically.
“I am very sorry for the position I put you in last you were here. I deeply apologize for the things I said to you and the way I touched you when I was under the effects of the… substance. I never should have used your DNA sample without your consent. I hope you can forgive my unprofessionalism and… and inappropriateness someday and we can work towards putting the messy business behind us.”
Laurie had scarcely had a thought that wasn’t overshadowed by you on your knees pawing at his trousers since that day. He doesn’t think he’ll be forgetting it for the rest of his life.
Sometimes, Laurie wishes he were a worse man. Though ‘sometimes’ is a stretch; the wish had first manifested the night in question but the frequency in which he rethinks that thought makes up for the recency.
If he were a worse man, he’d know what the lips that you purse now felt like ringing his cock. If he were a worse man, he’d have hooked your legs over the crooks of his elbows and fucked load after load of spend into you. He’d have licked you clean before returning you to your knees, pressing your bosom to the floor to have you that way as well. Would have felt the tip of himself kiss your cervix as he delivered his seed that you so desperately and gorgeously begged for.
However, he was raised properly and his subconscious had to quibble with that daily, hourly, moment-to-agonizing-moment. Respect and love had beaten out his lust but God knows the battle was fierce and bloody in his id.
Luckily, too, because as soon as he would have caved in with the first kiss, you would have died. When would you stop testing your discoveries on yourself first?
Rallying every traceable spec of guile he possessed, Laurie pressed a smile to his closed lips and inclined his head towards you. “Of course, Doctor. Water under the bridge.”
Summary: I get dirty thoughts about you. They get worse when I'm without you. Does that mean that I'm going to Hell? Or are you thinking them as well? — Dirty Thoughts by Chloe Adams
Pairing: Youth Pastor!Timothée Chalamet x black!reader
Warnings: blaaaaaasphemyyyyyy 🎶, light corruption kink? Sure. Let me know if I missed anything
A/n: this has been a long time coming (pun intended). Counting this as part of my Jackolanterns in July 2024 fics because thats when it was supposed to be finished and posted lolololol.
In walked one of the main temptations of his life. One Miss Y/n L/n.
You tiptoed into service one Sunday two months back and Timothée hadn’t known peace since. You had been shy and mouselike, voice barely loud enough to hear the twang of your Southern accent. But you really had begun to open up, all wide eyes and a sweet smile. Always donning an elegant hat that matched your Sunday best outfits to a tee.
The problem was you had a body that drew Timothée’s eyes like a magnet. No matter how modest or appropriate your outfits were, his gaze roved over every inch of you. And the days when the vee of your dress cut a little too far down or your pencil skirts hugged your hips too well, Timothée was questioning if he had the strength for this pious life.
Even now, he had to wonder if you were sent specifically to test him because how? How could anyone look so tempting in that lilac felt beret? The birdcage netting was doing nothing to obscure your pretty face. To dull the shine from your doe eyes looking up at him in a way that made him immediately commit it to memory. He’d turn the image over and over in his head in bed that night, surely, thinking about you looking up from toe to toe with him, from under him, from your knees–.
“Oh! Pastor Tim!”
He forced a friendly smile, forced the far-passed-friendly thoughts from his head. “Good evening. I don’t usually see you here on Fridays. And certainly not dressed so finely.”
That was a normal compliment right? He had never seen you outside of church but you did appear to be in your Sunday bests two days early; a fitted pink turtleneck hugging your torso and a feminine long skirt matching your hat swept your ankles as you approached him with heels pronouncing the curve of your calves. Not that he was looking overmuch. He was fine.
“Well, I always like dressing up entering the Lord’s house. I know they say to come as you are, but I think I look pretty good when I do come,” you finished the sentence with a cheeky little grin that made Timmy clear his throat, brain somewhere wading in the gutter as he tried to move past your accidental innuendo. Your grin fell. “Oh, no, was that wicked of me? Vanity certainly isn’t a virtue.” You bit your lip, the plumpness giving under your worrying incisors. “Should I attend church more plainly from now on, do you think?”
Timothée smiled and sighed at your innocence. You endeavored more than he had ever seen anyone to do right. To do everything by the Good Book. You hadn’t grown up with the religion and it was interesting to introduce a pervasive thing like Christianity to a person with no real familiarity with it. You were endearing in your faith.
“It’s okay to want to look nice. Start worrying about it when you’re so focused on perfecting your look that you miss the sermon.” He chuckled. “You’re doing fine, Y/n. The journey isn’t supposed to be without questioning and introspection, not even linear. There’s a lot to learn, but you have people who are more than willing to help you along.”
You breathed a sigh of relief, a sweet, grateful smile curving tinted lips. “I’m happy to hear you say that. Actually,” you stalled, looking around at the open sanctuary but no other souls in sight, “I… there’s been something I’ve been struggling with lately and…” You straightened your shoulders, looking determined. “I have a confession to make.”
But Timothée’s face immediately drained. For some reason, the intimacy of being in your confidence sounded like it could be a slippery slope for Timmy, particularly. The more you gave him, the more he’ll want, he just knew it.
“I’m, uh… I’m not that kind of pastor…”
Your eyes drooped at the corner like a pleading puppy.
“But I…well, I feel closest to you. More able to be… open.”
Dear God. He was being led right into temptation. But that wasn’t your fault, right? You were seeking help and guidance but didn’t realize all he could do was lead you astray in his current state. If he couldn’t get himself together in regards to you, he could spell ruin for you both. Dishonor. Shame.
Moreso when his attention slipped as you brought him into your confidence. Into your bosom. Figuratively. Metaphorically. And now his perverted attention was skating over the swell of ribbed knit over your chest. He didn’t see any lines to hint at a bra underneath. Were you not wearing one? Was it lace so thin he couldn’t even perceive it? His investigation continued because, of course, now he had to check if your nipples were visible beading up under the fabric to indicate whether—.
“— embarrassing but I’ve been having dirty thoughts about you.”
Timothée blinked rapidly, like his lashes fluttering could somehow fix his hearing. “I-I’m sorry, Y/n, I think I misheard you. What was that again?”
Your brows slanted, guilty and forlorn as you looked to him with innocent doe eyes. “No, I’m sorry! But it’s true and I can’t overcome it on my own, it seems! I can’t shake these dirty thoughts I have about you.”
So he hadn’t heard you wrong. He didn’t know whether to be happy or aghast. Not that he wasn’t flattered— hell, not that he didn’t reciprocate— but he just didn’t know how to properly handle this situation. You. You?! If your mind was winding down explicit paths even somewhat resembling when his eyes lingered on your cleavage in choir or fabricated scenarios alone amongst the pews, then God help you both.
Timothée couldn’t handle this conversation. He was nowhere near God’s strongest soldier but that was okay because he was strong enough to walk away in this moment and save you both from wrongdoing.
Unfortunately, what came out of his mouth was: “Tha—. You… I gotta go.”
You made a noise behind him, somewhere between a groan and a whimper. “I made you uncomfortable, didn’t I? Lordy, that was so stupid of me! I’m so sorry, I wanted help but I never should have put you in this position!”
“No, no! Y/n, of course you aren’t stupid!” Timothée assured, doubling back as he shushed you, his hands holding your shoulders. “Never feel ashamed or silly for seeking help. That’s why I’m here for you.” Oof. Too intimate. He cleared his throat as he dropped his hands from your shoulders— next to your vulnerable, tempting neck— and clasped them behind his back. He retreated a half-step as well, needing the distance but not wanting to act like you had the damn plague. “Why the church is here for you. The whole congregation really. Everyone, not just me.”
“Do… do you get dirty thoughts too?”
Timothée sputtered for a few seconds, completely unable to answer that question.
You sighed. “No need to break it to me gently, pastor. You can just say I’m going to Hell.”
“No! No, that’s not what I was gonna say at all! I… I was gonna say that..” he swallowed and straightened his shoulders, trying to look unaffected. “I-I too… have them. Occasionally.” If the occasion is any time you cross his mind or line of sight, that is. “It happens.”
“Even you, pastor?”
“Yes, even me,” Tim smiled, relaxing a bit at your wide-eyed astonishment. You were as cute as you were sexy. How did such a thing exist? God must have really sent you specifically to tempt him. He shrugged, going for more casual nonchalance and reassurance as he continued. “We’re all human.”
You smiled and ducked your head at his dumb little joke and he was happy to have diffused some of the tension.
“What kind of thoughts do you have?”
And the tension was back.
“What?” His voice broke like the horny teenager he felt like in your presence.
“Well, like… are they ever so bad you can’t stop them? So bad that you… you just have to… that you can’t stop from…”
…touching yourself…
It was like the words had been whispered right into his ear though your lips never formed the words. He shuddered and cleared his throat.
“N-nope. I pray. Um, I just pray about it until they go away a-and it works.”
God, he was a terrible liar. And what was worse, that little ashamed pinch returned to your eyebrows.
“Oh… I haven’t been as successful with my thoughts of you as that. Usually I…. fall victim to wicked temptation.”
Jesus. Fucking. Christ.
He couldn’t have stopped himself if he tried, and he really hadn’t. Not when you were sittin’ pretty in front of him admitting you touched that sweet little cunt to thoughts of him.
Timothée dove for your mouth and latched on, his hands cupping your soft cheeks.
This is beyond vile of him. The power imbalance alone was reprehensible. But he could feel the exact moment when the control shifted out of his hands and into yours.
He could barely wrap his mind around the both of you backing up into a wall, vacation bible school flyers crinkling and fluttering to the ground behind him as his back met the painted brick. All he could fathom was that he was making out with his crush, as adolescent as that sounded. Furiously making out. Helpless. Hungry. So very hungry. You slink over him, arms around snaked along the small of his back.
No thoughts, just feeling. Just action. Timothée’s hands came to your face. He thinks he meant to just caress your cheeks, cup your jaw, maybe. But desperately, they aimed for the back of your neck, for the soft hair at the nape. His hands went seeking, wanting to rumple your picture perfect self. Your hat tumbled off and to the floor and…
And you’ve got two dainty little horns curving out of your hair.
Timothée gaped in realization, brain stuttering as it made sluggish connections. Damn. No wonder. But instead of stating the obvious, he questioned the impossible. “H-how did you get on sacred ground?”
You snorted. “Oh yeah, I forgot you thought we couldn't come here. Don't you know this is where we do our best shopping?”
The perceived impossible, it would appear. Timothée swallowed, slipping away from you as he ran his hands through his own curls. His world, theology as he knew it, had been turned upside down.
“You lasted much longer than I thought. It made it so fun!” You giggled behind your hand.
Tim was so ashamed. The ultimate temptation, the biggest test of his piety, lost.
And what was much more shameful was that he still hadn’t left. If he was going to Hell, he wanted to thoroughly earn it.
And maybe you knew that. Maybe you could sense it, read his mind, hell, smell it on him. But when you pushed him down onto the first row pew— cushioned and comfy for the First Family— he didn’t fight it. He just braced for impact.
You crawled over him, straddled his strangely hard cock in his stupid khakis. Then you took the turtleneck off, knit cotton stretching and Timothée feasted his eyes on the breasts that had tormented him Sunday after Sunday. What business did God have building demons like this if He didn’t want His children to enjoy?
“You wanna know something?” You purred, running a manicured fingernail over his Adam’s apple. “I have been touching myself to thoughts of you. I’ve wanted to sink my teeth into you since the moment I saw you. So cute in these stupid button-up shirts and sweaters. You just look so fun to ruin. And you want it too, don’t you?”
A whimper turned into a pained, desperate groan as he lifted his hips to meet your grinding, “Ruin me.”
Stay with me. Share my food and fire. I would be delighted to share what little I have with you and would be greatly helped by your companionship. And you… you could read to me. Make this your home and I your friend.
Friend. Friend.
