Omg can u write something about ormund x targreader who is soo similar to helaena (autistic diva )?
Birds of a feather
Ormund hightower x targ!reader
wc: 1433
It was too hot in King's Landing.
The summer heat fell on the Red Keep like a great beast, warming the stones to no avail. The maidservants had covered all the windows with dark sheets to keep the sun out, but that did little to alleviate the heat.
You wandered through the halls, sweating in your gown, the fabric clinging to your skin. The silk had seemed like a reasonable choice this morning - light and airy, perfect for the heat - but now it was insufferable against your skin.
The gardens had been worse. Numerous courtiers flocked to the courtyard to escape the heat inside, instead sitting in the shade of the trees, fanning themselves. You had sought solitude from the court, only to find the court had done the same thing.
You'd turned back inside almost immediately.
The halls of the Red Keep were marginally quieter.
though the heat followed you regardless of where you went, settling into the stone and radiating back at you from every surface. Your gown clung to the back of your neck. Somewhere nearby a group of ladies were laughing at something, and the sound scraped against the inside of your skull.
You pressed yourself into a narrow alcove between two tapestries and tried to remember how to be still.
Birds, you thought, squeezing your eyes shut. Think about birds.
The kingfisher. Small, bright-colored, with a third eyelid that allowed them to see underwater. There were few birds in -
Footsteps in the hall interrupted your thoughts. Heavy, with the heel scuffing against the stones briefly.
You knew those footsteps already. Three weeks of marriage taught you that much.
Ormund rounded the corner, startled to find you in the alcove. He didn't say anything at first, his eyes sweeping over you with the same swift assessment you assumed he gave on the battlefield. A better soldier than a lord, perhaps.
"Princess." His voice was even and unassuming. You were grateful for that, at least.
"I needed air." The words tumbled out, and you were painfully aware how meek you sounded. "The gardens were full."
Ormund's lips twitched. "I know. I tried the gardens first." He lifted his hand towards you, and only then did you notice that he was holding a glass of water. "I thought you might be thirsty."
You looked at the cup, then him. Your initial instinct was to refuse it, to say I'm fine, but your mouth was dry and it was too damn hot.
You bowed your head in thanks as you took the glass. You didn't entirely trust him yet - Ormund was a revered military commander, a looming presence in any room he was in, but the gesture was kind, and you were thirsty.
Ormund leaned against the opposite wall, drinking from his own cup, looking down the corridor as though he had nowhere particular to be. The laughing ladies had moved on.
"I hate the summer," he grumbled. "King's Landing sucks in all the heat. Oldtown is different - the sea air comes in off the harbor and moves through the streets." A pause. "You'd like it, I think."
You weren't sure if that was an observation or a promise. Your silence didn't seem to trouble him, though, so that was something.
Ormund continued on, not looking at you directly. "There's a passage on the east side of the Hightower," he said, still not quite looking at you directly. "Higher up. The stones hold less heat by evening." He finished his water and straightened. "There's a window at the end of it. You can hear the swifts from there — they nest in the towers. I noticed you watching them in the gardens here."
You look at him properly then, violet eyes widening. He said it plainly, almost offhandedly, as if it were a simple fact of life. No performance of sensitivity. Just - I noticed. Here's what I did with it.
It was so unlike what you were used to, you weren't sure how to react.
"Common swifts," you finally said, your voice a bit louder now. "They eat and sleep in the air. Only land to nest."
"Is that so?"
"Most people find it strange." You shrug, looking down at your shoes.
"Most people find a lot of things strange that aren't." Ormund looked at you now, his current expression far warmer than what you'd seen from him before.
You looked at him for a long moment. This rough-edged, plain-spoken man you'd been handed to three weeks ago. He wasn't what you would have chosen, and perhaps he wouldn't have chosen you, but Ormund had come looking for you. He'd brought you water, mentioned the birds, and hadn't asked you a single question you didn't want to answer.
You step out of the alcove, a small smile stretching across your face. He was a full head taller than you, broad enough that he blocked out the light from the corridor sconce behind him, and yet somehow the space between you felt less threatening than it had a few minutes ago.
"I'd like to see the swifts with you," you said.
Something in his expression shifted. You could have sworn Ormund almost smiled, but it was replaced by his usual stoicism. Instead, he extended his elbow toward you, a silent offering in the dim corridor.
You looked at it for a moment: at the solid line of his arm, the worn fabric of his doublet.
Then, carefully, you tucked your hand into the crook of his elbow.
He didn't say anything. Ormund turned and led you down the corridor, your hand light on his arm. For the first time all day, you weren't thinking about the heat, or the noise, or the chaos of too many people around you.
The east passage was narrower than the main corridors, and cooler, just as he'd said. You felt it first on your forearms, then the back of your neck. Without thinking, you exhaled slowly.
Ormund stopped at the window at the end of the passage and stepped aside to let you see.
The city spread below in the evening light, all amber and fading gold, and above the towers - circling, diving, cutting sharp arcs against the darkening sky - the swifts moved in the dozens.
"Oh," you said softly, your attention divided.
A small falcon sat perfectly still against the stone, its rust-red tail fanned slightly, watching the city below with an imperious calm that suggested it had no interest whatsoever in the swifts wheeling overhead.
"Kestrel," you said. "A female. You can tell by the brown barring on the wings. The males have grey heads." You leaned forward slightly, forgetting yourself entirely. "She's hunting. She'll hover before she drops. They follow the trails mice leave in the grass."
"How?"
"Heat. Essentially." You glance back at Ormund. His skin was painted gold from the sun, his eyes warm, and only then did you notice that he was watching you - not the bird.
You looked away again quickly. "It sounds strange, I know."
"You said the same thing about the swifts," Ormund replied. "And I didn't think that was strange, either."
The kestrel shifted on the ledge, tilting her head. Then, without warning, she dropped down, plummeting straight down before pulling up sharply, wings snapping open, rising again with empty talons.
Unsuccessful. The kestrel landed on the balustrade and resumed her watch with no apparent concern.
"She'll try again," you said. "They're patient."
"Good quality in a hunter." Ormund had moved to stand beside you at the window now, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him against the cooling evening air. He was looking at the kestrel properly, you noticed. Actually looking.
Above her, the swifts continued their endless circle, filling the air as the city below went about its evening, indifferent to the small falcon on the ledge and the two people watching her from above.
"What's that one?" Ormund asked, nodding toward a dark shape gliding low over the rooftops.
You followed his gaze. "A black kite. See how the tail forks — like a notch cut into it. They follow the fishing boats in Oldtown, I'm told."
"They do," he said, with the mild certainty of a man confirming something from memory. "Along the harbor. I never knew what they were called."
You looked at him again, and this time you didn't look away quickly.
"Now you do," you said.
The corner of his mouth shifted. Not quite a smile, but close enough that you filed it away carefully, the way you filed away the markings of a bird you wanted to remember.
---
Sorry if this seemed so rushed!! I love this request sm, usually when I get targ!reader I don't like to assume whose child they are so it's up to whoever reads it.
a/n : a full one-shot is being brainstormed right now. i love when reader and remmick both love eachother very much while being hella toxic in the process 🧘🏾♀️
warnings mdni 18+ : mutual obsession, unhealthy relationships, toxic dynamics, dubiously romantic, jealousy as foreplay, manipulation as a love language, emotional codependency, territorial behavior, power imbalance, violence disguised as intimacy, unspoken ownership, marking (biting, scratching, bruising), stalking, oral (m! & f! receiving), creampie, crying during sex, overstimulation, rough sex, bloodplay, somnophilia, exhibitionism, lovers who would kill for each other
he’s possessive. you’re obsessive. and that’s what makes it work.
♱ sfw
⋆ he talks about you like you’re already dead—his, buried, long gone from the world. “ain’t no one else gonna want you after me.”
⋆ you go through his shit when he’s asleep. letters, journals, his dirty clothes. he knows. he leaves them out on purpose. sometimes he stashes a note inside—“hope you find what you’re lookin for, sweetheart.”
⋆ jealousy is foreplay. remmick looks better angry. tighter jaw, tighter grip. “what’d they say to you?” he asks. you lie on purpose.
⋆ you test him on purpose—flirting with strangers, going silent for hours—just to see if he’ll snap. the way his voice drops? worth every lie.
⋆ you refuse to let anyone else touch his blood. if he’s bleeding, it’s your right. you clean it with your bare hands, rub it between your fingers like oil.
⋆ he watches you sleep just to reassure himself you’re still breathing—still here, still tied to him, still ruined in all the ways he wants.
⋆ he likes when you cling. likes when you stare. likes when you obsess. it tells him you’re already too far gone to run.
⋆ sometimes he stares at your throat and imagines sinking his teeth in slow—pulling your heartbeat right into his mouth. he won’t kill you. but he likes knowing he could.
⋆ he thinks about locking you inside for a week—just so he can “break the fever” of you wanting to leave.
⋆ you know his schedule better than he does. you know the exact minute he lies about where he’s been.
⋆ you keep something of his in your purse at all times. a cigarette butt. a bloodstained cloth. a button from one of his shirts he didn’t realize you tore off.
⋆ when he sleeps, you touch his face like you’re memorizing it before a crime. you don’t blink. you barely breathe. you’re drunk on him.
⋆ you both have a talent for making each other cry. sometimes out of anger. sometimes out of overstimulation. sometimes because you both like the way the other looks when they’re breaking.
⋆ he hates when you cry—but only because he wants to be the reason you stop, not the reason you started. so he kisses your jaw and calls you selfish through gritted teeth.
♱ nsfw
⋆ you leave scratches down his back and smile when he hisses. you do it to mark—to claim, to make him remember you when he fucks his fist instead of you.
⋆ you trace the veins on his cock with your tongue just to watch him twitch. you do it before he wakes up. sometimes you do it when he’s pretending to sleep.
⋆ his favorite thing is dragging his teeth down your chest and not biting you. not yet. just enough to make your whole body shake, his tongue leaving saliva trails as he laps at your pulse and smirks.
⋆ after sex, he doesn’t let you move. he cages you in with his body weight, breath warm on your neck. he never lets you clean up after either. he spreads it over your thighs, pushes it back in with his fingers, says “keep it warm for me.”
⋆ you say “i love you” when he’s deep inside. not sweetly. like a threat. like a curse. like you’d kill him if he didn’t say it back.
⋆ you love when he fucks you angry. not rough—angry. hips snapping hard enough to bruise bone, hand wrapped around your throat, teeth dragging over your pulse because he’s this close to biting down. you cry, you shake, you taunt him to go harder.
⋆ you purposely get loud around other people—moaning too sweet, gasping too broken—just to hear him growl “shut your damn mouth” before shoving his fingers between your lips and fucking you harder to silence you.
⋆ when he goes down on you, you grab his hair and force his face deeper. he gets harder from the pressure. he moans into you.
⋆ sometimes you tell him “don’t finish inside” just to watch him ignore you and push in deeper, groaning like it’s instinct. you moan louder on purpose. “yeah—give it to me. fill me again.”
⋆ you use your tongue on his fangs. just to watch his whole body tremble. it drives him insane. he grabs your hair, half‑shoving you away so he doesn’t lose control. you kiss him anyway.
gif credits ♡
tags (if you have filled out the taglist form but you aren't tagged, the blog is not showing up ! try refilling it out) : @scannainscanrula @madkingcrowley @skankhvnt42 @bleedingsunlight @theabhartachsbride @cherryxhaze @ceobuggy @iceemochaa @avidreader73 @valvalvalval-val @nlnny @croccy-hoes @h3r3t1c @mysticvi @sonnensche1n @saaficat0311-blog @heyylolitaheyy
(cracks knuckles) Since I don't see anyone else doing it, I guess I'm gonna have to be the one to talk about the historical context of Jasper's backstory.
Things we know about Jasper:
- In the 1920's, he was a mortal living in La Paz, Bolivia.
- He describes himself as a 'boy' and that the mixed human-vampire coven led by Mergu was his 'family'.
- He was 'away from home' the night Vesel killed his coven, and subsequently 'ran' on foot from Bolivia to Central America, then to Texas.
- Grew up an orphan in Texas. Says he had 'nothing'.
- Finds a vampire to turn him when he's approximately in his sixties.
- At some point, he finds out that Vesel was the one who killed his coven, and that he bribed a Talamasca agent to do it. Presumably after this, he starts his obsessive mission to destroy the Talamasca.
NOW IT IS HISTORICAL FUN INFORMATION TIME
So what can we infer about Jasper from the historical context of his backstory?
- Born roughly between 1905 - 1914. This means he's over a hundred years old as of Talamasca, but still pretty young by vampire standards.
(Jasper's baby pictures, probably)
Fun Fact: He almost definitely lived through the sinking of the Titanic. Not ON the Titanic, but y'know. Around then. But fuck it if you wanna put baby Jasper on the Titanic, go for it.
"(Mergu) was heading up a coven in La Paz..."
- Jasper's birth parents were probably either American or German, and most likely rich. About 12% of Bolivia's population was white in the 20's, and most of them were involved in the very, very lucrative tin mining industry. Bolivian tin mines in the 1920's were largely foreign-owned and foreign-managed, but worked by heavily abused native population (paisanos), whose conditions in the twenties were described as 'feudal'. (Interesting that mister medieval Mergu settled there?) There were more Germans than Americans in Bolivia in the twenties, but I personally lean towards him being from an American family for the sheer fact that he chose to walk all the way to Texas after his coven was killed.
(That said, it's also possible that the entire coven had pulled a Jim Jones and up and relocated to another country together when he was a kid. In that case, we're back to square one regarding his parentage. )
- Bolivia was pretty politically stable in the 1920's, and economically successful (at least for the upper classes) because of the tin industry, but there were several paisano uprisings and violent conflicts over worker rights throughout the decade. No idea how this would affect vampires.
- Jasper likely spoke Spanish as a first language (or was at least heavily English/Spanish bilingual as a kid).
"I walked from Bolivia to Texas..."
- I put him at about 15 MINIMUM when his coven was killed -- still young enough to be considered a 'boy', but old enough to be A) off on his own the night everyone died B) physically capable of making the trip from Bolivia to Texas alone.
- I looked it up yall, La Paz to Texas is over four-thousand miles, and would have involved crossing part of the Andes mountains, the Amazon Rainforest, and the Isthmus of Panama. This would have taken a solid year, if he was lucky. It's likely he would have had to find manual labor jobs and other unskilled work along the way.
Fun Fact: the Panama Canal would have been a new thing when he passed through, having just been completed in 1914.
"I had nothing... No home. No identity. Nothing. The world was fucked up."
(Uh, yeah dude -- It was the Great Depression. You ain't special.)
-- In 1917, the US passed pretty strict immigration laws, including one which banned children traveling without parents. Jasper says at one point that he had 'no identity', which makes me think he probably had to sneak across the border. Even if he was American, it's unlikely he would have the paperwork to prove it after a trip like that.
- Jasper would have arrived in the US just in time for the Great Depression AND the Dust Bowl, both of which hit Texas hard. He would have been a young man in his twenties by then, right when most of the oil, agricultural, and ranching jobs in Texas were drying up. He was likely dealing with extreme poverty and starvation (apparently in Texas specifically, eating armadillos became popular during the Depression).
Texas during the 1930's.
-- Jasper would also have been a young man in his 20's-30's right when the US entered WWII. Assuming he's living as a legal citizen by that point, that means he'd have been exactly the right age to be eligible for the draft. It's also not impossible that he spent some time in the army willingly, as a way to escape the poverty of the Depression, like a lot of young, unattached men did. I could go either way on this -- considering he was looking for vampires to turn him, it might have been a good way to get to Europe, but it's also pretty hard to become a vampire if you get shot by Nazis. I tend to think he stayed out of it, and was probably still undocumented (which means no draft) but the stigma on young, able-bodied men who didn't fight was a Whole Thing.
"I finally found the Dark Gift, after years of searching..."
- Based on his physical age and the loose bit of timeline we have, he was turned between 1965 - 1985. Considering he's pretty in-control of his powers, and active during the day as long as he stays out of the light, I put him more at the earlier end of that timeline. He's been a vampire long enough to grow into it.
- Another reason I think he was turned in the late 60's/early 70's is his hair. The length of his hair is very trendy for that time period, which I think this goes pretty well with the fact that he's apparently a ZZ Top fan.
... I guess we should all be glad he wasn't turned while rocking a 70's mustache.
The Terror really is the wildest fandom to be a part of, there's regular plot updates on a story that ended 150 years ago and sometimes that update is PEGLAR WAS CARRYING HIS OWN JOURNAL, I REPEAT, HENRY PEGLAR WAS CARRYING HIS OWN JOURNAL
again thinking about compering hand sizes with Dex... sucking on his fingers... him stretching his wrists... 💦💦💦
FUCK 😵💫😵💫 he flexes and twists his wrists on purpose, he spreads his fingers wide and cracks the joints just so he can watch you drool over them, and quite literally, like- it doesn't take more than a few minutes of "comparing" hands before you're grabbing at his wrist and greedily inching it towards your mouth, swallowing down both his ring and middle finger until they hit the back of your throat, moaning happily at how he applies the slightest pressure on your swiping tongue, watching with heated eyes as dex shudders viscerally in reponse, his face torn apart with awe as he solemnly looks on, his hips impulsively thrusting into the air like a horny teenager
jacobvanloon
discoholicmusic
vaporwave
izzy806
andulkaphoto
origamiaround
ellievsbear
