𝙟𝙖𝙮.𝙣𝙚𝙩

⋆ 21 ⋆ capricorn ⋆ she/her EMH enthusiast, multifandom advocate

[ishouldsleepbuticant]

A random thought but just imagine a modern!reader in the Hotd world. And she's seeing someone get beheaded. Disturbed for obvious reasons but for them its totally fine.

Modern!reader: they don't deserve to get beheaded!!

Them: my word is the law, and they dare question it.

Modern!reader: jesus fucking christ dude

Them: what is a jesus fucking christ dude?

[reveluvjay]

In my head I pictured Rhaenyra and it was very funny

[pearlessance]

She's My Collar

pairing: ormund hightower x fem!targaryen!reader

summary: Ormund Hightower has been the guiding hand pushing you forward all your life. Teaching, shaping, and disciplining whenever necessary. His affections are unconventional and at times even violent, yet you cannot help but want his teeth in your heart anyway.

warnings: +18 mdni, explicit content, age gap, size difference, otk spanking, toxic relationship dynamics, reader is rhaenyra's daughter but has lived in oldtown for most of her life, power imbalances, could be said that reader is being groomed but she (like the writer) very much wants this evil man all on her own, light angst, mentions of canon typical violence, punishment, kneeling, begging, praise, sexual tension, clit stimulation, pillow humping, talk of maidenhood/virtue, bd/sm dynamics, ormund licks your tears, dry humping, oral sex f!receiving, possessive behavior, cruel devotion, discussion of marriage, jealousy, repressed feelings, body worship, virginity loss, dirty talk, face grabbing, scenting? girl idk, rough sex, multiple orgasm, creampie, collaring, lightly edited, images are purely for aesthetic purposes, reader has no physical description!

wc: 9.2k

note: if a single person asks for a part two………i may be….persuaded……..

[masterlist][AO3]

He's never liked you, that much was obvious in his stare alone.

You'd been sent to Oldtown with your cousin Daeron at your grandfather's request. Viserys had wanted it to be a sign of a united family. It had been done in a time of peace with pure intentions.

How would they have known of Ormund's hatred for Valyrian blood? How would they have known that a single look upon your face would have the man's jaw clenching and his hands curling?

For what it's worth, you truly believe he tried in the beginning. Tried not to allow his prejudice to cloud his judgment of you. But it was always there, like a curse held at the back of his throat. Too large to swallow, too cruel to speak.

He loved your cousin and treated Daeron as if he were born of his own blood. But though you were often found in the same trouble, Ormund's display of discipline was always a bit different when directed at you.

Not only a raised voice but a physical punishment, too.

A rough hand on the back of your neck. A lashing across your knuckles. Fingers curled tight around your jaw.

You'd let yourself believe that things would change when you became a woman grown. It is one thing to discipline a girl with the intent of guidance, but it is another thing to strike a lady.

The solution was to discipline in private.

Once, you'd gotten caught stealing wine from the kitchens in the dead of night. And when Ormund had been told of your transgression, he'd come to your bedchamber alone. Sat on the side of your mattress, fingers gentle as they stroked your cheek.

He shook you awake, and pretended at patience while you rubbed away the drunken stupor from your eyes.

And then he'd explain, "I am hard on you because I care. Because I see the potential beneath all your corruption. I understand it is not your fault you have such atrocity in your blood. I am only teaching you to overcome it. And you have much yet to learn, sweetling."

This is the first time Ormund takes you over his knee.

His palm lands sharp and hard across your bottom, five good times for each and every cup you'd stolen. He makes you count, and does not comment on the tears as they brim at the corners of your eyes.

The first time is the worst, because you hadn't expect it.

But by the tenth time it stops being a surprise and starts to become an expectation.

The routine is always the same. The sun will set, and he will slink into your chambers. Sometimes he doesn't even speak. He will simply stare down at you where you lay, head tilted, eyes dark, and you'll whisper apologies in the flickering candlelight.

He is meaner, you come to notice, when he is encumbered by duty. His strikes are harder and there are more of them. Sometimes he will spend hours in a day listening to petitions or dispersing soldiers or politicking with lords who come to him with future propositions.

On these nights, Ormund will groan low in his throat when you twist in his grasp, your legs flailing as you run from the impact of his tingling palm. But he will always wait for you to compose yourself, and then he'll lift his own leg over yours to bracket you in place, all before striking you again.

It is only after several months of this routine of discipline that you begin to wonder if it is less for your sake and more for his.

On one particular night, you're on strike eight out of ten, the number gritted through your teeth as you speak it aloud. Your breath comes fast and labored in your chest, lungs burning as you greedily drink up oxygen. Your muscles tire of pulling tight in anticipation only to melt in relief as the pain disperses across your skin.

It is later than usual, and you'd spent the day on horseback, and you're so exhausted that you fold your hands over one another and lay your head atop them. Face turned, you steal a glance up at Ormund to find his lips parted and his shoulders relaxed.

Posture far different than it had been when he'd closed your chamber door behind him.

You force your eyes to stay open as he hits you again, observing the look on his face.

Troublesome and argumentative woman you are, you're smart enough to recognize solace when you see it.

"Nine," you say, though it is more of a whisper than a fully spoken word.

Ormund notices.

His eyes find yours, gaze heavy and intense, as if he were seeing something inside of you that he could not put a name to if he tried.

This time, when his palm comes down against your cheek, it is hard enough that the sound echoes against the stone walls.

Your eyes squeeze shut and your ears ring and you can hear and feel and sense nothing but the heat of him beneath you and the pain he elicits. Breathing does not come easily. Each inhale is short and labored and choking.

"Count," Ormund says, the word low and demanding, the way he so often is.

You cannot catch your breath.

"Count, girl," he repeats. "Or we will begin again."

A spark of fear ignites in your chest, because you could not endure another ten lashes. Not like this, not knowing this is not even about the cruel words you'd spoken to your septa but rather for his own selfish respite.

"Ten!" The word is rushed. "Ten, ten, ten—!"

His hand smooths over your spine, as if to heal the ache he himself inflicted. "Very good," he whispers, shushing your cries. "You did so well."

The following morning, your flesh stings and bruises have already begun to form, but all you can think of is the way his praise had made your heart sing inside the cage of your ribs. The words echo in your mind, a mantra, a song, a poem.

The feeling is only because it is so rare to hear such things from his mouth, you tell yourself. It is not for desire. You could not desire a man like Ormund, could you? Who'd shaped you into the woman you are. Who saw such corruption in you and had spent the better half of your life trying to root it out.

But no matter how hard you try, you cannot shake the look you'd seen on his face. Like he'd enjoyed it.

And because you are stubborn and far too curious, you conduct an experiment to disprove your theory.

For weeks, you try very hard to be good. You go to your lessons without complaint, you listen to your septas, you pray to the seven and deny yourself excess in all forms.

You speak kindly. You cling tight to poise. You cast your eyes away when a man speaks to you and bow graciously instead of arguing or challenging a direction, no matter how stupid it may be.

You are perfect.

It is the longest you have gone without punishment in all your life.

But the stretch of time only lasts so long. And you wake late one night to find Ormund standing at your bedside, hovering.

Staring, with that same look he's leveled at you for years—not disgust, but something more complex. Something hotter. Searing.

You lift yourself up on an elbow and ask timidly, "Did I do something wrong?"

His jaw feathers as he clenches his teeth. "No."

Somehow, his answer is worse than if he had found a reason to punish you. Because this meant you were right, that his discipline was not only for you. It meant there was something else beneath it all.

It meant that this perverse craving in your chest that you have tried to fight off was not only yours. It was shared.

"If I've not done anything wrong, then what are you—?"

"Get up." He lifts his hand, motioning for you to remove yourself from the comfort of you linens, finally breaking the intensity of his stare.

And because you have been trained to heed his every beck and call, you do exactly as he says.

He sits at the edge of your bed, the way he always does. And you stand in front of him awaiting instruction, the way you always do.

Your heart feels suddenly too large, pushing against your bones.

He is supposed to say, kneel. He is supposed to say, over my knee. He is supposed to say, do you know what you've done?

Ormund does not.

Instead, he says, "Take off your gown."

You blink in surprise, unsure if perhaps this is a test. Maybe he's temping you, goading for a reason. Trying to get you to reveal yourself, to sacrifice your modesty so that he might prove you are just as wicked as he believes you to be.

"What?"

"Your gown," he says again, voice firmer now. "Take it off. Do not make me repeat myself."

You can hear the blood rushing in your ears and feel suddenly frozen. Afraid to move, afraid to say one thing when he truly means for you to do another, and—

Ormund stands suddenly and his hands are on you. Big and rough and mean, tearing the lace fabric over your chest so hard it leaves indents against your shoulder blades. Your nightclothes are thin and give so easily beneath his violence.

You do not stop him. You don't even try.

You don't want to.

Before you can fully process what's happening, you're standing completely bare before him, white fabric pooled at your feet. Your nipples harden beneath the night's cool air and your heart hammers in your ribcage.

He is not shameful in his assessment of you. His eyes are greedy and roaming, leaving no part of you untouched, starting at the curve of your throat and the the swell of your breasts, and eventually lower down to your navel and the space between your legs.

Ormund stares, and his lips part on a hollow sigh. His hand comes up to cup his jaw, squeezing hard, trying to rub the tension away.

You want so badly to hear the thoughts in his mind but know better than to ask.

Does he think you're beautiful? Does he like the shape of your body? Does he enjoy the softness of your skin, or the scent of honeysuckle oils at your pulse point? Are you womanly enough for him?

Does he want you? Does he think of you, the way you have him? Do you appear in his dreams, too?

He clears his throat, the sound masculine and powerful, startling you out of your reverie. And then he sits back down on the edge of your bed and says, "Kneel."

You do.

"Over my knee."

This instruction, too, you follow.

Warmth blooms low in your belly at the texture of his leather breeches against the top of your bare thighs.

He doesn't ask if you're aware of your transgressions, because there are none.

Ormund sets one hand on the small of your back, and the other comes to rest against the globe of your arse. His hands are calloused. Rough. Hardened from the weight of a sword.

And above all, they are…delightful. Delicious. "How—" you swallow thickly. "How many?"

His hands are gentle as they stroke your skin. Feather light and mistakenly devoted. Ormund leans forward, lips a breadth away from your ear as he answers, "As many as I'd like."

And then his hand comes down sharply, the sound of skin against skin a piercing echo.

A whine leaves you, and it takes a moment to gather yourself enough to choke out, "One."

He hits you again, and again, and again—and each time those delicate touches in between last just a bit longer. As if he is able to find peace in your punishment, granting him the gift of softness.

Everything feels hot. Your skin, your hands, the place between your legs. It throbs and aches and grows stickier by the minute.

You think he must see it. He must. Each strike has your spine arching, exposing you even more, the number more of a moan on your lips than a cry.

It is around number six that you begin to feel him harden beneath you.

The swell of his cock presses against your belly, right beside your navel. Growing larger with each loud echo.

He does not mention it, and neither do you. But your head feels fuzzy with the truth of it.

Ormund settles around strike fifteen. You are certain it will be painful to sit tomorrow, but you can't find yourself in it to care when he traces delicate patterns over your warmed flesh with the tips of his cool fingers.

The praise comes after some time, when your muscles relax in his hold, when you stop expecting one more strike to befall you.

"You always look so beautiful in the aftermath," he mutters. and you feel yourself smiling, despite your better impulses. "Pretty, obedient little girl."

His hands knead at your sore skin, squeezing the pillowy flesh and spreading you open. You look up to see him staring at your most intimate place, likely seeing the wetness that's gathered.

He then does one more thing you don't expect.

With only the pad of his thumb, Ormund slides his finger through your slit.

The touch is firm and so unforeseen that it sends a jolt straight to your heart. You let out a true cry this time, but not of pain.

Of pleasure.

You're so sensitive that your muscles clench at the contact, so lost in the feeling that you hardly hear the low groan that rumbles through his chest.

And then he's pushing you off of his lap onto your bed, and standing to his feet. He does not even spare you a parting glance over his shoulder as he says, "Enough for today."

You do not see him again for some time.

In fact, Ormund leaves Oldtown entirely the next morning and he takes Daeron with him. It is only from your septa's that you learn they've set on a quest to deliver goods to the Citadel.

Usually Ormund will mention as much to you over supper with your cousin, and you cannot help thinking the reason for his sudden and unannounced absence is due to what transpired between you the night before.

And to yourself only, you admit his absence has made you yearn for him.

You cannot quiet the thoughts in your mind each night, the longing for him, the hope that he will simply appear at your bedside with a heavy hand and that familiar stare.

But he never does, and left to your own devices with thoughts of his touch invading your every thought, it is not long before you try desperately to abate the need yourself.

In fact, you form a new routine of your own.

It starts as desperate rocking against nothing, but you learn rather quickly just how much better it feels with your linens wedged tight between your legs as you do.

The bulk of the fabric presses deliciously against your center, and each roll of your hips has your vision turning black around the edges. You can think only of Ormund—your mentor, your disciplinarian, the hand that shaped you.

You think of the force behind his strikes and of his low groans and of his sweet, sweet praise. You think of the darkness in his eyes and of his strong jaw and the way the muscles in his shoulders flex when he moves.

Even his gait makes your belly squeeze tight in desire—the surety in his steps, his confident posture and the way he towers over you. Always so big and hulking and intimidating.

Sleep only comes to you each night after you reach the peak of bliss. After a fog clouds your mind and your vision goes all starry.

You think if Ormund were to see the things you'd been up to in his absence, you don't believe fifteen strikes would be nearly enough.

He would tell you it is a sin to indulge lustful fantasies in this way. That your pleasure is reserved for your husband, meant to be given at his discretion.

But you've never been a perfect listener nor a rule follower. If there is anything in your life you are certain of, it is that.

You allow yourself to freely walk about the tower in his absence, too. The rookery and the kitchens, plucking fruit or cheese from nearby trays and sending ravens to your cousin Helaena in the Red Keep.

You visit the stables to pet the horses and even make friends with a bastard boy who'd recently come to Oldtown from Casterly Rock.

When Ormund does finally return, you're there to greet him in the great hall with a flicker of delight in your chest.

He looks the same as when he'd left. Strong, masculine, confident. His skin is maybe a bit more sun-kissed than before, and his normally polished leather boots are caked in mud.

Yet still, you cannot help but smile when you see him. You'd worn your most beautiful dress, a gown of emerald velvet and white lace, low cut with a jeweled bodice. He'd complimented you on it once, several moons ago, and it has been your favorite ever since.

When he comes to stand in front of you in greeting, you bow low. "My lord," you say. "I am grateful for your return."

His eyes stay glued to yours when you rise, his pert mouth turned up at the corners. "I am grateful to be back," he says, taking your hand in his and bringing your knuckles to his lips.

Ormund's kiss is chaste, but it feels anything but. The simple touch of his hand has your belly flipping and your face heating.

He does not linger long, though you wish he would. But there is much to tend to in the keep, things that have simply been awaiting his return.

The cooks prepare a feast that night. A massive spread for both Ormund and the knights that traveled with him.

Ormund sits at the head of the table and Daeron sits to his right. You are placed on the other side of your cousin, who spends most of the night recounting tales of the Citadel to you. Of the towering stacks of books and the tomes bigger than his head.

He tells you in a whispered tone just how old the Grand Maester truly looks. "Ancient," he explains. "With tufts of graying hair and eyes that no longer see."

You laugh and giggle together about it, indulging your childish whims that always manifest whenever you are near him.

Daeron tells you, too, about the ambush they'd suffered from raiders who's been lying in wait off the King's Road.

"Uncle Ormund nearly died from a stab wound," he whispers, and it makes your heart give a sudden lurch. "He fought bravely. Slashed the raider clean in two, if you'd believe it."

This makes you mirth fall. You have never considered his loss before this moment. Ormund has always been there, a steady presence in your life.

Just the thought of it—of losing him, it does not sit well in your gut. Though hated by him as you are, you could not imagine...you could not imagine.

Ormund does not speak to you, but you can feel his stare. Heavy and warm on the side of your face. You wonder silently if he'd missed you as you have him.

Had he been thinking of that night, too? Of how it had felt to be bared before him? Of the heat you saw in his gaze?

Had he thought of you with a blade pressed to his belly? Had it truly gotten that close?

Ormund makes a toast to his men near the end of supper. To their valiant efforts that contributed greatly to the trade and to their protection.

Your maidens ready you for bed that night and spend a little longer scrubbing you clean at your request. They dress you in white silk and by the time they leave, the fire in the hearth has dwindled to cinders. The excitement in your chest is a roaring flame, however.

But, Ormund does not come to you.

You toss and turn restlessly, hoping to hear the creak of your chamber door or footsteps on the stone just outside.

Yet, there is nothing. The night is still, as it has been for the last several weeks.

You lie there with a longing in your chest, an ache between your legs, and your head filled with a thousand questions.

The setting sun has long since given way to the moon by the time you leave your bed.

Ormund's chambers are on the other side of the Hightower, but you are more and more certain with every step you take.

Ser Roy of Oldtown stands guard outside his door, the way he does most nights. He bows low when he sees you, eyes cast away from the too thin fabric of your gown. "My lady."

"I wish to speak to him," you say, trying to muster the strength to keep your voice from wavering.

"He did request not to be disturbed lest there was an emergency," the knight tells you.

"I don't care," is your simple response, because it is true. "Please, ser, step aside so that I might—"

Ormund's door opens, the heavy weight of it daunting.

He looks at you and stares. Hard and knowing.

Your breath gives way at the precision attention, all the jumbled thoughts in your mind untangling like a pulled thread before promptly vanishing. There is…something new behind his ire for you. Something you might call intrigue, if you didn't know any better.

Ormund does not take his eyes off of you as he speaks. "Find something to busy yourself, Ser Roy," he says, eyes searching your face now, flickering from your nose to your cheeks and then to your mouth. "And do not come back," he adds to the knight.

Roy nods stiffly and doesn't argue. He, too, knows better.

The clang of his armor disappears down the corridor, and before long it is just you and the man who haunts your insides. Heart and head alike.

He smiles down at you. A true smile. Small, but real, and it weathers your resolve in an instant. Because it's a kindness he does not give freely or often, but he is here now, giving it to you—who you'd thought he'd hated.

But this doesn't feel like hatred to you in the slightest.

It's heavier. Sharper. Sweeter.

In the end, it is you who breaks the spell, pushing past him and into his chambers. You recall all your cousin had said about the journey to the Citadel. How blades had been drawn and blood had been spilled and the thought of it makes your eyes sting.

Ormund closes the chamber door behind you, but you face away from him. Staring into the crackling flames in the hearth, trying and failing to fight the tears that brim in your eyes. "Daeron told me there was an…altercation on the King's Road," you say. "He speaks tales of blood and death. Is this true?"

His heavy footfalls sound in your ears. Ormund nears you, yet you still do not turn to look at him. "It is," he answers simply. "These are dark times, as you well know. Darker yet to come."

The idea of it—of war, of famine, of the rot and loss that he speaks of, it makes you terrified. You've seen men die before, in jousts or tourneys, even on the way here to Oldtown. But thinking of Ormund in the middle of it all?

Finally, you turn to face him. He is closer than you'd expected. Only a single step away, focus narrowing as he sees the tears in your eyes. "You could have died."

"But I did not." His head tilts curiously. "Where do you place your ire?"

"In you!" You should not yell. You know this, and yet the venom in your mouth refuses to be washed out. "It is from someone else that I'd had to learn you'd been attacked on the way to the Citadel. From another I'd learned you'd taken a wound that very nearly could have put you in the grave. And even those details I'd had to overhear from one of your men when it should have come from you!"

He watches it unfold; your rage surfacing, all masks of poise absent. He does not stop you or speak a warning into existence, he only watches with curiosity on his face and something far more intense alongside it.

"I have longed for your return for weeks! You leave without a word and take my cousin with you, leaving me to sit all alone and wonder if perhaps I'd done something wrong or worse—disappointed you!" Your tears fall freely down your cheeks now, but you are far past the point of sparing yourself any embarrassment.

Ormund raises his hand to your face, cradling your head in his palm. His thumb strokes gently across your cheek, swiping your tears away. "Is it for me that you weep, sweetling?"

Yes, you want to say. Yes, of course it is. He is everything to you and has always been. "Do you have any idea how I would have mourned you?"

His eyes soften, and it soothes something inside of you to see it. Ormund leans forward slowly, carefully so as not to frighten you.

And you stand there, frozen in the gentle hold of his hands, as he licks the tears from your cheeks. His tongue is warm and soothing against your ruddy skin, and it feel so intimate that it makes you shiver.

He then kisses your eyelids. The left first, followed by the right. "I cannot promise to tell you of each of my wounds," he says, voice softer than it's ever been before. "But I can promise to warn you before I leave the tower again. I thought you'd be glad to be rid of me after all I've done, in truth."

"Glad?" The thought does not register in your mind. "I could never be glad of your absence. I confess, I…I hate it."

"Is that right?" Ormund takes a step back, and you see him inhale a shaking breath as he does. "More than you hate me?"

You wish you could deny the words, but you cannot. You've hated him all your life—the man who'd always looked at you as if your very blood was wrong, who'd never hesitated to raise a hand to you, who'd been cruel and rigid. The man who denied you the softness you've always craved unless you'd earned it.

You do hate him.

But yes, you hate his absence more.

"There is another matter," he says, not giving you time to answer his question.

Perhaps because he did not care to hear the answer, or perhaps because he could not bear it.

"I am told you'd been quite disruptive while I was away," Ormund says. "That you'd stolen and spoken with a sharp tongue. All things I could forgive, considering the worst of your misdeeds."

Your brows furrow. "And what was the worst?"

"I have told you a hundred times to stay away from the stables," he explains. "So, imagine how unexpected it was to hear that you'd been spending far too much time with a boy who works in the very same stables I've warned you against."

Your stomach twists at the sharp tone of his voice. A stark contrast to the way he'd spoken to you only moments ago. "He does magic tricks," you say. "We were not being inappropriate."

"Magic," he spits. "Is that what you'd sell your virtue for? Your maidenhood? Worth nothing but a few tricks?"

"What? No! I—!"

"It does not matter if you truly did it," Ormund interrupts. "All that matters is the way it might seem to the passing eye. A whisper in one ear turns to truth in the mouth of another."

"But I didn't do anything! There was another, in the stables," you argue. "An old woman mucking out the stalls. Ask her, she can attest we were simply brushing the mares and—!"

"He did not touch you?"

"No, my lord. On the seven above, I swear it."

You see something rigid relax in him as you say the words aloud. His posture softens, his hands unfurl. Ormund wets his lips and says, "There is still the matter of precedent. I told you not to do something, and you went ahead and did it anyway. On this much we can agree, yes?"

"Yes," you echo.

He nods thoughtfully, steps closer to his four poster bed, and says, "Come."

You do not know quite why, exactly, you feel your heart slow as he says it. The word is rehearsed and familiar and puts you at ease in all the places you've felt wound tight for weeks now. You stand in front of him and await further instruction, and Ormund does not hesitate to give it.

"Remove your dress."

That spark of excitement returns. You obey wordlessly, unlacing the fabric just enough to pull the silk over your shoulders. It falls down your body like water and pools at your feet.

And then, finally, he says, "Kneel."

You do.

Ormund does not sit on the edge of his bed for several moments. He simply exists in the space you've created, drinking up the power he holds over you. He's still fully clothed, wearing a black tunic and leather breaches, towering over your naked body that awaits his instruction.

When he does finally sit, he speaks a word you have not practiced before but it invokes something primal in you all the same.

"Crawl."

You do.

Ormund's chest heaves as you keep your eyes firmly on his, closing the space on all fours. And when you're close enough that you're right between his spread knees, you lay your cheek against the inside of his thigh.

He squeezes his eyes closed, whispering under his breath, so quiet you'd have missed the curse on the tip of his tongue had you not been paying attention.

His throat bobs as he swallows and exhales slowly. When his eyes find you again, there is something akin to wonder in them. "Over my knee."

You assume the practiced position and find yourself slick between your legs before he's even touched you. But you know he sees it, too, when he squeezes your flesh and spreads you open wide enough to feel to cool air touch your cunt.

"Ten," he says lowly. "Because I can see now that you were only acting out in response to my lack of thought for your isolation."

Ormund does not give a warning. He never does. He simply raises his hand and brings it down sharply against the swell of your cheek. The impact is painful and soothing all at the same time, and though your breathing stutters you feel your chest loosening.

You count each and every one in perfect succession, skin growing raised and warm to the touch. You cannot be sure if his hand comes down harder each time or if perhaps you've just grown more and more sensitive.

By the sixth strike, you're throbbing. Your hips move of their own accord, desperate for something to be wedged between them. Your toes curl and your feet cross at the ankles, thighs squeezed together as you try to abate the need.

By the eighth strike, you can feel Ormund's cock pressing against your belly, hard as stone. You cannot bear to look at him, not like this. Because you think you might lose all sense of self if you do, might kneel and beg for him to touch you. To violate you.

"Nine," you hiss, fingers curling in his sheets. You can feel everything, everywhere, all at once. Not just his hand and the way he hits you but his other, pressed firmly to the small of your back to keep you in place. You can feel the leather beneath you and his breath as it fans across your spine. You can feel the cool air that drifts in through the open window pane and the warm lick of the fire across the room.

You can feel your blood in your veins, the air in your lungs, the holiness in your body.

"One more," Ormund says. "Breathe, girl."

You obey, sucking in a slow breath of air and letting it fill your belly.

He strikes you on the exhale, and this time his hand stays against your tingling skin.

"Ten," you whimper. It feels as though your bones melt in his hold. The tension in your muscles dissipates, fading to nothing.

Just one touch would be enough. The pressure has become a mountain inside of you and it's on the verge of collapse.

"Are you…enjoying this?"

You cannot lie. Not to him. "Yes," you answer breathlessly.

He hums, a sound at the back of his throat that you're not sure is because he's pleased with you or because he's appalled. You half expect him to strike your backside again.

He does not.

Instead, his hands drift slowly down the back of your thighs. And as his thumbs move, they slide through your slick and your spine arches back of its own volition.

"Oh—" You grit your teeth, trying to hold back the moan that threatens. But it feels so good, better than anything else.

He lifts one hand, and you expect it to hurt when he touches you again. Ormund instead curls his fingers inwards, spreads your knees, and strokes his knuckles through your syrupy folds.

This time there is no chance at holding back your sound of pleasure. It rips through you, deep and heady, goosebumps spreading across your skin.

"So sensitive," he muses, more to himself than words spoken to you. "You've always been such a sensitive girl."

You press yourself backwards, chasing the sensation of his hand. He gently strokes you again, soft enough you'd convince yourself it's a touch of love if you believed he were capable of such a thing.

His knuckles graze over your clit and what was once warmth in your belly now spreads like wildfire beneath your skin.

"Please," you whimper. "More, please. I'll be good, I'll be—I'll be so good, I promise."

"Of course you will be," he says. "You're my perfect girl."

The word clangs around in your emptied mind. Perfect.

Perfect, perfect, perfect—

Ormund smooths his hand over your cunt, the pressure and roughness of his touch dizzying. He then presses his thumb directly to your clit and you feel all the blood in your body rush to your center. "Do you know what you're asking of me?"

"Yes," you answer truthfully. "I want it to be you. I need it to be. No one else…" You swallow.

"Speak, sweetling," he encourages.

"No one else makes me feel like this," you admit, turning your head to look up at him.

And what you see is catastrophic to your aching heart. Because you've known Ormund all your life, but you've never seen him look like that.

Despaired, hopeless, a slave to the thoughts that plague him. There is such longing in his eyes that it makes your stomach flip. But beneath it all there is understanding—like he relates far too well to your words to ever deny them.

"I could ask for your hand," he mutters. "Though your mother will likely deny me for my allegiance to my cousin and my house."

"So take me." The words come unbidden, a treason in their own right. "Steal me away. Hold me captive, a prisoner of a war not yet waged."

Something dark and searing flares behind his eyes when you speak.

"I am yours," you admit, and you think it may just be the truest thing you have ever said. "The way I have always been."

Ormund growls low, a frustrated sound at the bottom of his chest. He leans forward and presses his forehead to the space between your shoulder blades. "You are, aren't you."

Not a question.

He sighs, breathing in the scent of your skin deep into his lungs to soothe himself.

You are unsure of what comes next, once the truth of your feelings for him has been laid out in the open.

It feels raw. Like your chest has been cut and your ribcage cracked so he might see your very insides.

What happens next is a kiss upon your shoulder.

Gentle. Devoted. Faithful.

There is a deep crease between his brows, and you can feel evidence of hesitation in his hands.

"You are troubled," you observe aloud. "Is it because of me?"

He winces as if you'd struck him. As if the words were far more painful than anything he's ever done to you. Ormund's jaw feathers, and he breathes in deeply before saying, "Of course not. You have never…"

He shakes his head, swallows, and tries again.

"Understand this; my feelings for you do not come from a righteous place. I should feed you, guide you, protect you, and do nothing else. You should not be here now. I should not want this. Or—or you."

"But you…do?" It sounds mousy as you ask it, said with an unsure tongue.

"I do," he admits in a hoarse whisper.

There is pain in his eyes as he says it. As if this feeling has been sitting in the depths of him for some time, and only now does he allow himself to succumb to it.

You move. You are uncertain and cautious as you do, but you will strength into your limbs anyway. Climbing into his lap, straddling his hips, winding your hands around his shoulders and tugging gently at the hair at his nape. "You don't have to take," you say, so close now you're breathing in his air. "Not if I give."

His stare is heavy and dark. Full of more longing and lust than you have ever seen exist in a man before.

You close the distance. Ormund freezes, unmoving as you press your lips to his experimentally. He tastes of smoke and cedar, of steel and blood, of safety and familiarity.

He tastes of home.

When you pull back, his chest heaves and his hands curl into the sheets. The thought crosses your mind that he is angry with you—furious, even.

But Ormund does not shout or raise a hand to strike you.

He grabs you by the back of the neck and crushes his mouth to yours. Less experimental and less nervous than you were.

Ormund kisses you like he's starving.

His lips move against yours, soft and wanting. And when his tongue slips between them, he moans into your mouth as he tastes the inside of it.

It is a battle of a different kind. He bites and sucks and licks, and you try to meet his fervor. You are just as desperate, but Ormund is untamed. A feral dog let off its leash.

Your center throbs and you whimper, rolling your hips on top of him to abate the feeling. He is still fully dressed while you sit naked in his bruising grip, and you suddenly want nothing more than to feel his bare skin beneath your fingertips.

When you tug at the buttons of his tunic, Ormund's hands find yours to assist your clumsy movements. He is much faster than you are, and tugs the garment over his head the moment he is able.

There, along the left side of his abdomen, is a jagged wound.

You pause to press your fingers tenderly to the angry, red skin. His muscles are strong and hard beneath your touch. Though the stitches are removed now and the wound is mostly healed, he still winces at the pressure of your fingertips.

Without thinking, you lean forward and press a soft kiss to the scarred skin.

Ormund melts beneath your affection. And then he brackets his arms around your waist and turns you both, laying you flat against the mattress. He kneels between your legs, seeming so large and intimidating from the new angle.

His hands find your face, feeling your skin. They move slowly over your bones, down your neck, over the swell of your breasts, your navel, your hips. As if he were trying to memorize this particular moment by sight and touch alone.

"I have thought of this more times than I could ever say," Ormund tells you. He settles low, hovering over your body, pressing his mouth to the hollow of your throat.

His lips follows the same path as his hands, peppering wet kisses over your skin and leaving goosebumps in his wake.

"Your taste, you scent, your sweetness—I have dreamt of it," he continues. His tongue circles your navel once before moving further down. And when he kisses your pubic bone, Ormund pauses. Looks up at you through dark lashes, his stare soft but still no less intense. "Is this where you ache, sweetling?"

The words feel filthy and depraved and so delicious that you whine. "Yes," you tell him, squirming. "Will you kiss me there?"

A malevolent smirk forms on his pretty mouth. "More," he answers.

And with no warning at all, Ormund licks a stripe through your heat, tongue flat and soft and so very wet.

It sends you reeling. The sensation, the sensitivity—him. "Oh, gods, I—"

He does it again, this time licking back down as well. Ormund moans low and the vibration of the sound spreads through you mercilessly. Again, and again, and again, his tongue laves through your apex. You feel yourself clench, muscles pulled taut.

Your spine bends off the mattress and your hands come to his head, fingers twisting in his soft curls, pulling his mouth impossibly closer.

When he takes your clit between his lips and sucks gently, your vision blurs. Everything else in the world fades to nothing, every sensation muted apart from the pleasure his warm mouth brings.

Ormund is relentless. He doesn't stop, even when you're writhing and gasping for air. His face flushes and you can feel his stare on you even when you can no longer keep your eyes open.

It's far better than linens between your legs, far more intense. It doesn't take long before you become a trembling mess, legs shaking around his head, heels digging into his spine as you scramble to find some sort of purchase.

And then it happens—a searing pleasure, ripping through you mercilessly. Light flashes behind your eyes and your spine arches and your fingers tighten in his hair.

He licks and sucks you through it, making those sweet, rumbling groans all the while, as if this is more for his pleasure than yours.

The bliss is blinding and fizzles out slowly, leaving remnants of euphoria behind. Only then does he settle, tongue slowing as it slides through your wet heat with less pressure now.

When he finally pulls his mouth away, his cheeks are flushed and his lips are glossy with your arousal. "Better," Ormund whispers. "Far better than I ever could have dreamed."

You can hardly react to his praise, too lost in the feeling he'd given you. "I did not know it could be like that," you admit, breathless. "That it could be so…"

"Perfect," he finishes for you. And you think, yes. He is perfect.

Maybe not in everything, but for you.

Ormund crawls over you until you are face to face once more. He is heavy on top of you, muscles thick and smothering in the best way. His length presses against your hip, so hard now you can feel the pulse of it.

He kisses your mouth but this time it's slower. Softer. The taste of you lingers on his tongue, sweet and intoxicating.

His hands cradle your face far gentler than another ever has. It is dizzying, the way he can bring such pain and still grant such ease.

You wriggle your arm beneath his abdomen, reaching for the metal of his belt buckle.

Ormund groans, but you feel the way his lips turn up just slightly against yours. "Greedy girl," you says, pulling away to nuzzle your cheek with the tip of his nose. "I have warned you against overindulgence endlessly."

He speaks true, but you have never listened to his warnings. Have always bent the rules until they break, have retained a sharp tongue and a love for all that might destroy you.

Including him, you suppose.

"Will you deny me, then?"

"No." Ormund shakes his head. "Never in all my life."

It eases something in you to hear the response. To know this is a sin you share, a mirrored reflection of one another.

He leans backwards, just enough to unbuckle his breeches and remove them. His cock is larger than you'd anticipated. Thick and veiny and flushed at the tip, hanging heavy between his legs and decorated with a thatch of dark, coarse hair at the base.

Ormund kneels in front of you, staring hard, watching you take all of him in for the first time.

He's beautiful, you think. Strong and powerful and profound. Your mouth waters at the sight of him, your brain going fuzzy again, carnal impulses beginning to take hold.

"I can be gentle," he says. "If that is what you need."

But it's not gentle you want. You want him—with all his sharpness, with all his anger. The totality of it; his heart, his soul, his body. If it hurts, you think it is meant to. "What I need," you whisper, "is you."

He watches you for a moment, eyes searching your face, trying to find hesitance that doesn't exist. And then he nods, leans forward to kiss your temple, and says, "You will tell me if it becomes too much."

You swear to him that you will.

Ormund takes his cock in his hand and slides the head of it through your center, coating his length in your wetness. Each stroke of him over your clit has you sighing, hips canting towards the sensation.

He lines himself up at your entrance, and your attention is so focused on his movements between your legs that it startles you when he uses the other to grab your face.

Ormund's fingers curl tightly around your jaw, forcing your head back, forcing you to look at him. "Eyes here," he says, voice firm.

And then, gently, he begins to push in.

The stretch of him burns, but it is not terrible. It simply aches, and you whimper a distorted version of his name but he does not stop. He keeps going until he's fully seated inside of you, so deep you swear you can feel him in your belly.

All the while, he keeps his big hand around your jaw, squeezing so tightly it momentarily distracts from the throbbing of your cunt.

Ormund touches his forehead to yours, breathing in your air. He says, "You are so fucking perfect."

And it makes you moan.

He starts to move, slowly at first. Pulling out of you tenderly just to slide right back in. A few strokes, encouraging your endurance. Sweet and soft and loving.

"Feels so—so full," you say, whimpers falling from your lips.

Ormund pulls out again, nearly all the way this time. He still forces you to look at him, and you can see the desperation enter his eyes mere moments before he slams his cock in deep.

There is nothing soft about it. Nothing sweet.

Your vision goes blurry and the air vanishes from your lungs as if it'd never existed there in the first place. The force of it aches so deliciously you feel pressure begin to form behind your eyes. "Oh god—!"

He does it again, pulling out almost completely before slamming back into you. "My perfect girl," he mutters against your lips. "Does it hurt?"

"Yes." Your hands find his shoulders, fingernails digging into the thick muscle .

"Do you wish for me to stop?"

That familiar warmth spreads someplace deeper than before. Not just your belly but in your womb. "No, please don't—don't stop."

Ormund turns your head just enough to press his own against the side of your cheek. He inhales the scent of your skin and a low growl reverberates in his chest.

Finally, blessedly, he picks up the pace. Hips grinding hard against yours, finding a rhythm that feels somehow both satisfying and violent. He breathes shallowly against your cheek, pressing kisses to your jaw that feel so tender in comparison to the way he fucks you.

And when he reaches between your bodies with his free hand to find you clit, you think you might die. It's too much, too sensitive. Your toes curl and your spine arches, pressing your breasts against his chest. The only word you seem to have held onto in your bliss is, "Please. Please, please—oh god, please."

"You beg so prettily," he says. "Almost like you were made for it. Made to kneel before me. Made to be mine."

The possessiveness in his tone alone has you teetering on the precipice of release. You'd given yourself freely to him, willingly—but Ormund still manages to take. Your innocence, your purity, your heart.

You're falling. Bliss blinds you, thighs trembling, nerve endings coiled and white-hot. His name falls from your mouth and Ormund kisses you hard to swallow up the sound.

"Yeah," he murmurs. "There you go, sweetling. Give it to me. My perfect girl."

He doesn't stop, even when tremors rock through your body. He keeps fucking his cock into you without remorse, fingers moving over your clit in tight circles, ratcheting your pleasure higher and higher until you feel like you might burst with it.

The pace of his hips falters, and then he's groaning low against the curve of your neck and laying wet, open-mouthed kisses against your pulse. With his cock buried inside of you, he fills you with his release, painting your insides all sticky and white.

Ormund gives a couple of slow thrusts, chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath, before gently pulling out of you and rolling to his side.

It is not you who reaches for comfort first.

His arm wraps around your waist, hauling you across the mattress and into his warm embrace.

You nestle beneath his arm, head resting against his shoulder. He is so large and the heat of his skin is so comforting. Familiar in some ways, despite this being the first time you've ever been so close.

That same warmth that emanates from him seeps through your bones and touches your fast-beating heart. A delighted giggle escapes you, and you can feel Ormund's mouth turn up into a smile against your forehead.

He tilts your chin up so you're facing him. "What is it that you find so amusing?"

You shake your head. "Nothing, just...I am—I am happy."

His smile softens into something heavier, but no less pleased. You don't believe you've ever seen him look this way. So vulnerable. Benevolent, even.

Silence settles for some time. And you would be content to stay here, skin tingling in the aftermath of bliss, safe in his arms. But there is something weighing on him, and you can feel it in the stiffness of his hands that stroke gently over your hip.

When you can stand his distance no longer, you ask, "Is there something wrong?"

He doesn't answer right away, which frays the edges of your comfort. But then he says delicately, "I have something for you. A gift."

"A gift?" You prop yourself up on an elbow. "From the Citadel?"

"No," Ormund answers. "I'd had it made for you some time before my journey. But I—it is not a…kindness, exactly. More a token of my own grotesque worship of you."

Your brows furrow in confusion. "What is it?"

Ormund untangles himself from the sheets, unkempt and messy now below you. He crosses the chamber to his wardrobe and pulls open a drawer.

It is hard to see from so far away, but you watch as he takes something hesitantly in his hand before returning to the bedside.

"I…I sometimes believe that I have been shackled to you by the gods themselves," he begins. "Fated to bend my own morals in response to my longing for you. I am but a wolf coiled around a lamb and there will never be anything else, not for me."

You don't understand. It makes a million questions form in your mind, none easily answered.

Ormund swallows thickly. "I am a slave to your affection," he says. It makes your chest pull tight. "I do not deserve your softness but I will never turn it away so long as you continue to give it."

He extends his hand in front of you, opening his palm to display the prettiest necklace you've ever seen. Made of glittering emerald stones and a silken black ribbon.

You reach out to touch it on instinct, and Ormund lets you take it from him. But as you do, witnessing the lack of length, realization dawns on you. "This heralds a collar," you say.

Ormund nods slowly. "I only wished for you to be…possessed by me, the way I have been possessed by you."

A response does not come easily.

There is a part of you that knows this is not the way of things. A man should love his lady. Should be kind and respectful. He should certainly not place a collar around her neck as if she is owned property or a family pet.

But there is…something else, too. A part of you where desire sparks at the thought of being so wholly his, of surrendering to whatever fate may befall you so long as it is done by his own hand. There is peace in it. And certainty.

"I'd told myself to get rid of it a thousand times, but there has always been a hope within me that perhaps one day you might return my wretched affections," he says. "It is yours. But if you are to wear it, you must do so willingly."

The decision feels heavy. Weighted.

But you do not need long to decide.

You hand the necklace back to Ormund, who takes it hesitantly from your grasp.

And then you turn, facing away from him but looking over your shoulder to ask, "Will you tie it for me?"

He smiles, and there is something deeply fragile in it. Almost boyish, as if this is the first time in all his life he has ever felt truly loved by another.

Ormund kisses the back of your neck and sets the ribbon in place around your throat.

And when he ties it, he pulls the ribbon tight.

dividers by @pixopix <3

[reveluvjay]

I'm qualifying this as Secretary 2

[reveluvjay]

I am cooking up the craziest valarr x reader x aerion like I didn't even know I had this in me. I feel like the Beyonce quote where she's like "I didn't have a pen and paper. I got to the mic, I'm like "oh, press record, ah ah ah, driver roll up the partition please" 😭😭😭

[asphodelink]

✮⋆ READ SLOWER, FOR I WOULD LIKE TO STAY A LITTLE LONGER

Summary: Your husband, Ormund, likes having you read him letters and petitions from other lords. But besides the contentment of hearing your voice, he also seeks other pleasures... 'multitasking', if you will. (AT! THE! SAME! DAMN! TIME!).

Warning: Straight up cockwarming, 18+, MDNI, p in v.

You were just about to turn the page of the book you were engrossed in when the heavy oak door swung open, and Ormund’s tall figure entered the room without delay.

You remained where you were, lying in your sheer nightgown, as your husband moved around, tossing a few sheets of paper onto the bed before hastily removing his doublet. His urgency bordered on desperation.

Ormund Hightower was a man of grace, the esteemed pillar of the Reach. Behind closed doors, however, that grace began to unravel. And you recognised that look instantly.

He craved warmth. He sought the solid comfort of his wife. He needs you.

Understanding better than to ask about the cause, you set the book aside and allowed him to adjust the skirts around your waist, positioning his body over yours. He unlaced his pants, allowing his thick cock to spring free. In an instant, he plunged deep into your wet, pulsing heat, accompanied by a shuddering exhale that caressed the shell of your ear.

Your walls stretched at the familiarity of his size, fingers pressing into the taut muscles of his shoulder. Yet, instead of moving his hips to seek release, Ormund remained still.

He slowly lowered himself onto you, nestling his face into the crease of your shoulder. A soft hum escaped him as he settled comfortably. "The petitions. Read them for me, please."

With one hand gently tousling his hair, you reached for the stack of letters beside you with the other. Holding the first page up, you began to scan the words for Ormund.

"Lord Redwyne addressed the shipping tariffs in the bay," you began. His body was fully relaxed now, given over entirely to the soothing sound of your voice.

It was an intoxicating feeling. While your voice carried on about the tedious bureaucracy of a Great House, your insides, on the other hand, were wrapped around the hardness of a man who had momentarily forgotten how to breathe.

When the letter brought up a dispute over wool shipments, you noticed a slight tightening in his core.

“Did he truly expect a rebate on the harbor fees?” Ormund’s voice vibrated low, a minuscule movement that sent a jolt of electricity coursing through your nerves.

“Hmm, he only said that the storms damaged three of his main vessels. Nothing beyond that,” you said, turning your face to catch a better glimpse of his handsome features. He offered no reply, only drawing closer and hiding his face in the crook of your neck, taking comfort in the familiar scent of your oils.

He nudged his hips upward to adjust his position slightly. A slow, grinding pressure that made your toes curl into the velvet upholstery. You could sense a rhythmic throb. The desire to rock on him was overwhelming, but you knew better than to rush him before he cleared his mind.

This was one of the reasons he constantly sought your company. He often expressed that the world demanded he embody the name ‘Hightower’ - to be rigid, cold, and unyielding. But here, in the embrace of the woman he loved, cocooned by your warmth, he was permitted to be soft.

The more you read the flowery prose and the fervent pleas for prestige, the more you felt him relax, shedding every burden of the day.

You turned to the next letter, a petition from a lesser house requesting a marriage alliance, as it mentioned. "This is quite tedious, my dear husband. Are you prepared for this?" you asked with a playful tone.

He responded with a low groan, weary of the endless petitions and demands that came with his role as the Lord of Oldtown. "Just read it. I enjoy the sound of your voice, especially when you're bored.”

As you giggled, the vibration rippled through you before reaching the place where your bodies were connected. Ormund let out a deep growl before nibbling on your neck, causing your breath to catch. “Stop moving,” he pleaded.

A soft moan escaped your lips as you began to feel a pulsating need in your pussy. You weren’t sure how much longer you could endure this. "The petition asks for a marriage alliance to be considered between—"

"Deny it," he interrupted, cutting you off mid-sentence.

“I haven’t read the rest. Let me finish,” you bit your lip to keep from laughing.

"I don't need to hear it to know the sheer absurdity these men are requesting. Utter nonsense." He shifted his weight once more, pinning you securely against him, allowing you to feel the soft brush of his chest hair against your skin. 

The heat between you had escalated to a feverish intensity, a shimmering warmth that made your head spin. You closed your eyes and let the parchment slip from your fingers, fluttering down like a fallen leaf.

Urging him to penetrate deeper, you wrapped your legs around his waist. The abrupt change in pressure caused him to let out a sharp hiss. Ormund froze, his muscles growing tense.

“All good?” you asked. Dampness pooled around your thighs.

“You’re too… mm— warm,” he choked out a reply. The way he clung to you indicated he never wanted to escape the sensation.

But Ormund remained still, teetering on the brink of something, unwilling to break the spell. You knew he craved the tension to build, the slow burn of warmth to ignite into a raging fire.

So you decided to make the first move. Reaching up, you threaded your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, drawing his head closer for a kiss. His lips were infused with salt and yearning. His tongue danced with yours before he softly whispered your name into your mouth.

The room seemed to constrict until all that remained was the aroma of oils and the sound of tongue sliding against tongue. Then slowly, he began to move.

“I can't remain still any longer,” Ormund said. His eyes were heavy-lidded and dark, a blend of fatigue and desire.

“Fill me then, darling,” you commanded.

He needed no further instruction. Ormund lunged forward, pumping in and out, in and out, completely losing the composure of Lord Hightower. The way he thrust into you revealed a desperation born of hours of pent-up desire; his movements were raw and unrefined.

You matched him stroke for stroke, bodies colliding with a wet slap that echoed in the quiet of the room. It was like a war drum.

His name flowed from your lips sweetly like honey, “Ormund, Ormund, Ormund.”

The climax that arrived felt like a cascading wave. You sensed him shudder intensely, his whole body trembling with the force of his release. His cock twitched as he spilled his seed inside you, while you let out a long, broken sob of relief. Ormund held you close, tightening his grip and drawing out every last bit of tension from his body.

After some time, he turned to face you, smiling as he brushed a stray lock of hair from your forehead and showering your damp skin with kisses. His now-soft member remained deep inside you, showing no signs of withdrawing soon.

As your own breathing began to calm, your gaze wandered to the letters strewn across the bed. There were still many that required his attention and decision. "We missed a few. There’s one from the Citadel though."

Ormund let out a rumbling groan and sank back down. Resting his cheek against your chest, he closed his eyes, content to remain enveloped in your warmth until the sun set and the world called its lord back once more.

"Read to me, my darling," he murmured, his voice trailing off as he almost drifted into sleep. "Let me hear your voice."

You reached down to retrieve the crumpled papers and began to read again. Your voice flowed softly in the room, a gentle counterpoint to the raw act that had just happened. Tales of tariffs, Citadel appointments, and the everyday disputes of men filled the silence as you continued, creating a world of words around you both - a cocoon of stories and skin.

Ormund stirred slightly, an instinctive movement that reminded you he was still there, still connected, still yours.

As the candles burned low and darkness enveloped the room, you kissed his shoulder and leaned back into the velvet, gazing up at the ceiling while listening to the distant chime of the tower bell.

The world continued to spin; the politics of the Seven Kingdoms persisted. But in this room, time had come to a standstill.

All that existed was the scent of your skin, the feel of silk, and the enduring, golden warmth of a man who feared that the heat might dissipate if he released his hold on his wife, even for a moment.

Tag requests: @lexie983 @fandomtrela @kiem16 @xcrybaby555x 🤍

Gif by @notgaybuckybarnes 🤍

[reveluvjay]

*click* *buzz*

[reveluvjay]

Just found out my favorite Maekar Targaryen fic has been deleted and the author took down her ao3, tiktok, and tumblr account OH I'M SICK

I'll never recover from this.

[kokoluwie]

𐙚 The Puppy Interview!

[reveluvjay]

My man my man my man

[pluvial-lake]

the type of man who specifically goes for mentally ill, broke girls with daddy issues.

[reveluvjay]

YAY THATS ME!

[n3ptoonz]

i fear the people yearn for a plug!dex full length (only if you’re down ofc <3)

like that would feed generationsssss

Sigh... 😩

,Wʜᴀᴛ Gᴏᴇs Uᴘ Mᴜsᴛ Cᴏᴍᴇ Dᴏᴡɴ’

Cheers to 1300+!! LOVE Y'ALL!

Pairing: Plug!Dex/F!reader

Fandom: Daredevil: Born Again (?) - AU

Summary: Drug dealer x goody two shoes. What could go wrong?

Warnings: Smut, Angst; Explicit, this story follows the posts I've been making with some changes, READER IS IN HER 30s, reader has an older brother, I made Dex much more of an asshole here for realism, Dex calls reader "sweetheart, mama, baby, pretty girl, and good girl", flashbacks, car sx, pussy pronouns, dirty talk, then more smut at the end; make up sx, reader cries, kidnapping, reference to violence, brief gun play, creampie, this mfer is your downfall, BARELY PROOFREAD AND IM SO SERIOUS

Yeah this bitch prob has so many typos. Apologies in advance cause I'm too stubborn to have a beta reader💀 BTW GUYS I need feedback! Lmk if the bit I kept repeating was overdone (the I know parts, you'll see it)

Word count: 7.6k+ DAMNNNN😭😭😭😭

"What?!"

You groaned as you shuffled your work pants on in a hurry. Your shirt and shoes to follow, only to remember you forgot your socks. Your boss, Kassidy, called you in to bartend last minute since someone randomly quit today. Today was your only day off all week!

"I know it's sudden but we need you here, girl. You know how it is," she said. Sounding like she was reading a script.

"Don't think I do," you muttered under your breath and ended the call. The doorbell rung as you rushed to the bathroom to brush your teeth. Your older brother, Derrick, called out from his room.

"Hey, get the door for me!"

"Get your own door!" You shouted back and flipped on the dim flickering light. You really gotta talk to your landlord about that.

"Just get the fucking door!"

"No!"

He shouted your name and you groaned dramatically with toothpaste suds in your mouth, spitting it out then made your way to the front door, toothbrush still in hand. You opened it with haste, but stopped in your tracks. The guy that was standing there looked to his right and locked eyes with you. The neutral expression he had kind of shifted into a smug one as you notice his eyes lowering.

Your brow raised then you look down to see your uniform shirt was very much unbuttoned, your cleavage was on display and bra was peaking out. You covered your chest with a disgusted look and walked off.

"Derrick ! Your weed friend is here!"

Derrick stopped whatever he was doing with a look of panic and sped walked past the bathroom you went back to. When he went to greet Dex--you knew his name was Dex, you just wanted to be extra--Derrick went to dap him up and let him in.

"'Weed friend'?"

Your brother rolled his eyes as you ran past him to get to the kitchen. Dex made himself at home and plopped down on the couch like he owned the place.

"Ignore her. I thought you weren't coming until later?"

"Got my shit done early, thought I'd swing by early to kick it. That a crime?"

Derrick didn't want to make it abundantly obvious that he was trying to make sure you and Dex never crossed paths but Dex just had** to go off script.

"Nah, nah, just...warn me next time."

You slung your work bag over your shoulder and bolted towards the door with an apple--something like it was straight out of an anime. Dex watched your every move until you disappeared. You could feel it but chose to ignore it. Chalked it up to thinking you're weird or overall just being nosy.

Luckily your shift was just five hours and you got home at 11 but you weren't in the best mood because your hair got really frizzy from the beaming heat.

You walked in and didn't process that the lights were still on until you got hit with a cloud of weed smoke. Spotting Dex laid up on the couch and puffing O's in the air after taking a hit. When he heard the door shut he looked over. That same smug look on his face appearing from earlier.

"Love the hair."

You could kill a man right now.

"What? I'm being serious."

"Where's Derrick?"

You slid your work bag off your shoulder like it weighed a hundred pounds.

"D went out for some errands."

"At 11 p.m?"

"He's a big boy, he'll be okay. He'll be back in like 30 minutes."

You nod and pick the bag up again as you head to your room. It was rare that you ever crossed paths with Dex. He came over often but you were usually out with your friends or at work. How convenient.

Convenient as in Derrick set it up that way. It's been that way for the past fifteen years.

"You could at least open a window," you called out.

"And let out the antidote?"

He suppressed a laugh as he heard you react, not quite in favor of the song reference and how fast he said it.

"You did not just quote Travis Scott."

"Kinda did," he said, a little too proud, taking another hit. "There's still time to join the dark side."

"Hell no. I enjoy having a working immune system."

"Ah, that's for rookies."

You walked back out in much more casual attire, hair less frizzy, and went to the kitchen to heat up your leftovers. But when you opened the fridge, the three slices of yesterday's pizza in a ziplock bag were nowhere to be found. Your blood almost turned cold. You've been thinking about that pizza since Kassidy called.

You look up and over to Dex like you were in a horror movie. Except you'd be the killer.

"Dex."

"Uh huh."

"Where's my pizza?"

"Oh, shit. That was you?"

You slammed the fridge door.

"My fault."

You startled him a little with how fast you got to the couch. He quickly sat up and held his hands up.

"Damn, girl, I'm just fuckin' with you! I hid it in the microwave."

"Why... would you hide it in the first place?"

"D said you'd beat my ass if I ate your food. Wanted to see if he was bluffing."

You stare at him blankly then go back to find the pizza still in the bag in the microwave. With a sigh you grabbed a plate and tossed them back in.

Dex got up to walk over and lean on the doorway. Arms folded, biceps slightly visible through his baggy shirt but that's not important.

"Surprised you don't have munchkins."

His brow raised before he laughed. "Munchies, sweetheart."

"Please do not call me that."

"Well, what should I call you?"

"My name, maybe?"

The microwave dinged and you took the plate out, making no move to get out the kitchen. Not yet at least.

He said your name but it wasn't normal...you think. His voice softened and got deeper just a little. Little enough to think you might be delusional.

"Now that's a pretty name."

Your heart definitely did not flutter a little there.

"Okay, actually, you shouldn't be calling me anything anyway."

"And why is that?"

"I shouldn't be talking to you."

"Says who?"

"Derrick."

He said a lot more than that.

Dex scoffed and turned away from you to lean more on the doorway. "Oh, word?"

You nodded with a thin lipped smile. "Word."

He hummed softly to himself when you responded. It sounded unnatural coming out of your mouth. "It's cute when you say it."

"Can you not do that?"

Your eyes meet again. "Do what?"

"Flirt with me? It's weird."

"I'm not flirting with you."

Liar!

"I was stating the obvious."

You rolled your eyes, finally taking a bite of food and planned on going back to your room and eating so you can catch up on your show. But when you walked past him he spoke up again.

"Had fun at work?"

You stop and turn slowly to him.

"...what?"

"I said," he repeated slower. "Did you have fun at work?"

What a ridiculous question. And yet, in the blink of an eye, an hour passes.

You're both on the couch, just laughing your asses off over some crazy stories of his that are completely unbelievable. Some of with included Derrick. You're clutching your stomach from how funny he is when the door slams shut.

Both your heads turn and the room fills with silence. You rolled your eyes at him when he walked over.

"I'll see you tomorrow, bro."

He stood there with his hands in his pockets. Staring Dex down as if they weren't best friends.

"Damn, it's like that?" Dex said as he stood up.

"Getting late, man," he insisted and gestured for him to leave. "Catch you later."

Dex put his hands up and glanced at you one time just because he knew it would irritate your brother. When he grabbed his hoodie and slipped it on you lowered your eyes upon getting flashed by his abs for half a second. The door closed behind him and there was silence again.

"... don't make it weird," you muttered.

"I told you to stay away from him."

"You shouldn't have let him stay over while you were out."

"You couldn't have just did your shit and stayed in your room?"

"Oh my god," you exasperated. "I'm not 18 anymore! I'm not some helpless impressionable kid who hasn't an ounce of discernment."

He rubbed his temples like you were giving him a headache. It was the other way around!

"He's... just don't do that again."

"What is so bad about a guy you consider your best friend? If he was so dangerous, why let him stay here, alone, in the house?"

"Because I can!"

You scoffed and stood up. "You're starting to sound like him."

Derrick sighed heavily. "Don't say that."

"Don't act like him and I won't say it."

"I'm not him," he says firmly. "You're being dramatic."

"Me? You don't want me around your drug dealing best friend because, what, you think I'll catch feelings?"

He didn't respond. That was enough for you to get offended.

"Wow..."

"Listen-"

"No, you listen. I'm 32 years old now. Not 15. You have absolutely nothing to worry about. Alright?"

He crossed his arms. Still silent. You had a point.

"...alright."

"Alright. And I actually know how to function while sober, so."

He rolled his eyes as you went back to the kitchen to rinse off your plate. "Whatever. I did you a huge favor keeping my shitty mistakes from effecting you."

"I know. Love you, brother!"

You came out and held out your hand to initiate your handshake. Afterwards you put your hand on his shoulder to bring him down to your height.

"I am still a grown ass woman and you will treat me as such."

He playfully swatted your hand away before pushing you towards your room.

"Yeah, yeah. Good night."

You're busy wiping glasses behind the counter since it was usually slower at the bar in the middle of the week. Your coworker, Asha, which you could honestly call a close friend by now, finally clocked in and appeared at your side with a bright smile.

"You are wiping the hell out of that cup."

You snapped out of your thoughts and smiled back when you saw her, nudging her when her comment registered in your head.

"Gives me something to do before Kass tells me I'm not doing my job again."

She laughed and started rearranging the liquor bottles behind you--her version of cleaning--while stealing glances at your face.

"Did you get your eight hours?"

"What do you mean?"

"It looks like you didn't get much sleep. Said with love."

You playfully rolled your eyes. "Maybe that's just my face."

She looked past you for a moment with a confused look.

"Uh...either I'm crazy or there's a fine ass man staring at you, front of house."

"What?" You turned and followed her eyes. It was impossible to miss the man that definitely stood out amongst the rest of the customers. You put the cup you were mindlessly cleaning down and slowly made your way towards him. Asha watched with a keen eye, completely disregarding the bottles she was organizing.

"What you acting shy for?" He called out once you got close enough. "C'mere."

You couldn't help but laugh at how absurd it was to see Dex, of all people, at your job...the day after your brother freaked out for even sitting in the same room with him.

"Dex?"

He smiled at you and met you in the middle with open arms. So we're on hugging status now...okay...?

"What's up, mama?"

Mama?!

You were already in his arms before you could even question it. When he let go, you could just hear Asha asking a million and one questions the second you got back to work.

"I thought I told you to quit the nicknames."

"You said don't call you 'sweetheart.'"

"Alright, well I'm telling you don't call me anything that isn't my name. What are you doing here anyway?"

"Damn, girl, you ain't happy to see me?"

"I didn't say that!"

"Wowwww, that's, like, really fucked up."

"Dex," you feigned exasperation.

"Maybe I just wanted to grab a drink."

"At my job. The place I haven't even told you I work at."

"D told me."

You gave him a look.

"...He mentioned it in passing."

"Right."

"For real, though, I just wanted to surprise you."

"You know my brother would have your head if he found out you pulled up to my place of work, right?"

Dex had a laugh. A genuine laugh.

"He can certainly try."

Your brows furrowed. Whatever that means.

"I'm gonna get back to work. It was good seeing ya."

You turn and start to walk back when he called out again. This habit was seriously starting to get annoying!

"What time you get off?"

You stopped in your tracks. Then made eye contact again.

"You're serious?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"I don't..." you scratched your head. "Are we, like... friends now?"

"Shit, I thought we were."

You didn't have words for that. The tension was broken once Asha called out your name in a hushed panic so you'd turn back around and see Kassidy about to survey the floor.

"Shit, uh, I really gotta go. We can't hang out. It'd be weird. Sorry."

He watched you scurry back to the bar, practically tripping over yourself trying to grab an already clean glass and wiping the rim with the small towel hanging from your apron.

"Girlllll," she whispered as she peeped him standing there, looking like he had something else to say but chose to leave it alone and left. "Who the fuck was that?"

"My brother's friend," you whispered back and began stacking the glasses to make it look like you were actually working. "I don't know why he came. He'd have a hissy fit if he somehow got word that he came to my job and I didn't immediately tell him off."

"Oo, he want you."

You scoffed. "Ew."

"Don't play. You know he fine as hell."

"He's my brother's best friend."

"And??"

"One, that'd be really weird if his best friend was into me. Two, that also means I'd be the complete opposite of his type anyway. I'm sure the women he gravitates towards don't look like... this."

"Like...?"

"Boring."

"You are not boring."

"You haven't seen me outside of work. You know why? Cause I'm boring!"

"Working hard, ladies?"

You both turned at the same time. Kassidy stood there with her clipboard and her fake smile.

"Working hard," you said.

"Very hard," Asha added. "Making everything as neat as possible before the rush, ma'am. All her idea."

You held back a laugh. Kassidy nodded with an impressed hum.

"Love to see it. Don't let me interrupt you. I know it's slow but I'm sure it'll pick up in an hour."

"Aye, aye," you saluted her as she walked away. The second Kassidy was out of earshot, Asha turned back to you with a grin.

"He wants you."

You groaned. "Stop."

"I'm just saying! You gotta hit that at least."

"What?!" You huffed in disbelief. "Are you crazy? And who even says that anymore? Perv."

You playfully shoved her shoulder and grabbed a small towel to start wiping down the bar. Before she could continue her "analysis," Kassidy reappeared.

"Hey," she got your attention from across the bar where two customers had finally sat down at a booth near the window. "Table three needs drink orders."

"On it," you left the bar with a glance over your shoulder at Asha winking at you all theatrically. You laughed it off and went to serve the waiting customers with a smile.

Later that shift; closing.

"Sooo," she said while stacking chairs on their respective tables.

"You have got to let it go," you replied while wiping down the other side of the bar. It was just you two since it was closing time. "I'm not getting involved with a guy like him."

"Ugh, translation: I hate fun," she pouted. "Nothing wrong with making stupid decisions every once in a while!"

"That's the thing, I don't have that luxury," you explained. "I don't get to be the sibling that fucks up. Always had to be the goody two shoes sister who actually completed high school and** college and rarely ever had a boyfriend and kept a decent/stable job that didn't include drugs. I'm the boring one in the family which is technically a good thing. I've accepted it a long time ago."

Asha paused stacking chairs to fully turn and look at you.

"Stop calling yourself that. You aren't boring."

"The life I live would say otherwise, but, I dunno, I mean It's not like I haven't thought about it every single day and almost every waking hour," you stopped cleaning and leaned on the counter for a moment to think. You haven't talked about this kind of thing with anyone, not even your close friends. "Sometimes I'd like to be able to make a dumb decision without a second thought. Like... sometimes I wish I wasn't known as the good girl. You know?"

Asha sighed and pursed her lips together. She didn't know what to say that would cheer you up or even comfort you. Then something told her to look to her right. A dry chuckle escaped before she could catch it.

"I think your wish might come true."

"What do you mean?"

She didn't say anything, waiting for you to follow her eyes again. When you looked over to the big window by the front door, you scoffed. No way.

"There's no way..." you muttered.

"I...will finish closing."

"What? No, I can't ask you to do that."

"It's a good thing you didn't ask!"

She came over and snatched the towel from you, pushing you towards the door.

"Wha- hey! I still need to change!"

"I'll bring your duffel!"

She pushed you out the door and waved at Dex with a big smile. He waved back and put his hand back in his pocket as she took off running towards the locker room.

"She seems nice."

"Dex," you began. You didn't even know how to feel right now. "You know you aren't supposed to be here."

"Yeah, I know."

"... do I even wanna ask why you're here?"

"I feel like you're itching to know."

"No, don't tell me...you're here for me."

"Well look at you, Miss She-lock Holmes."

You playfully groaned as if it physically hurt to hear him say that.

"I did not know Derrick had such corny friends."

"Comes with the territory."

Asha came back out and shoved the bag in your hands, whispering "Go get em girl" then ran back inside and locked it so you wouldn't even think about going back in.

"I'd like to give you a ride home."

"Derrick would slash your tires."

"Maybe," he shrugged and started walking. You made eye contact with Asha staring through the window and waved her off, following behind Dex begrudgingly.

At least you didn't have to take the bus...

You walked with him to the parking garage and he pointed to the big black jeep a few feet away. He even opened the passenger door for you.

...this is so strange...yet so nice...?

You hesitated for half a second, just long enough to wonder if this was real life or some bizarre dream, before climbing into the worn leather seat. The interior smelled faintly of a woodsy scent--obviously to cover the smell of weed--and...a really good smelling cologne. The kind that would make your head turn if he walked past you.

He arrived in 15 minutes. A hell of a lot faster than the bus, which is double the time. You got out and rounded the car with a quick wave.

"Uh, thanks. For real."

"No problem."

You stood there for a second.

"...you can go."

"Gotta make sure you get in safe."

"If Derrick sees you-"

"-he won't. Go. And good night."

You sighed and quickly made your way to the door, going inside without another glance. He pulled off; thank heavens Derrick was sleep by now. A big part of you hopes Dex doesn't make this a regular thing...but the other really small part wouldn't particularly mind the excuse to break out of this faux saint shell.

Whatever. This is likely a one time thing and you're still focused on saving up enough to finally move out. There wasn't time to think about-

-He took you home the rest of the week.

Friday came in a flash. This time when you got out the car after thanking him, he got out and leaned on the door since he had to park a little farther to avoid being seen. You waved goodbye, he waved back, and you took a few steps back. This Is the part where you keep walking...but you didn't.

"Fuck it," you muttered and went up to him to kiss him on the cheek. Giving him no time to react verbally as you walked away quickly, but you did feel him lean into it a little. He smiled to himself with a short chuckle and got back in his car after you nearly ran through your front door.

And then things just..started changing.

What would appear as little things to anybody else is a billboard of a difference for you.

"What the..."

Your other coworker, Danny, and Asha were staring at you like you had two heads when you came into work.

First of all, you were late. You're never late.

"Hey, girl...!" Asha said with her eyes on your collarbone.

"Hey, sorry guys, I overslept, totally on me."

"Right," Danny chimed in. "Is that alcohol I'm smelling?"

You smiled sheepishly. "Ah, yeah...sorry about that as well."

"Okay, uh, I ask this with all the love in my heart...what the fuck did you get up to last night?"

-

Last night; 10 p.m.

"Damn, girl, slow down," Dex said as you just finished your third hard cider beer. "It ain't going nowhere."

"This...I am celebrating," you slurred and latched onto his arm for support.

"And what exactly are you celebrating?"

"I am celebrating... being bad," you whispered. "No more mister nice guy."

"Yeah?"

His arms flew to your waist to keep you balanced, now being behind you. You gasped and turned in his hold despite his efforts to keep you from falling on your face.

"Tattoo!"

"What?"

"I'll get a tattoo! Like yours!"

"You are not getting a face or neck tat."

"I knowww I mean like right here," you pointed to your collarbone.

"Good spot. D won't even notice."

"He can get the hell on somewhere. I'm getting that tat."

"I'll take you right now."

-

"... got drunk and got a tattoo."

The two exchanged looks.

"And that's what made you oversleep?" Asha asked.

-

"Oo it look real pretty," he said as he looked at it under the streetlight next to his truck. "Almost as pretty as you."

You smiled, saying nothing else before grabbing his face and kissing him. Ahem. With tongue. He hummed in a pleasant surprise and pulled you closer. No seconds thoughts.

"Fuck! Oh, fuck," you whined. How he ended up balls deep inside you in the backseat is quite fucking blurry.

"I know, mama, I know it's big," he murmured in your ear with encouraging, guiding hands on your hips. "All for you. Shh, shh, listen how she talk back to me."

You quieted down to hear the obscene squelching coming from between your legs.

"Aw, she's beggin' for me. Weepin', baby. That's all mine. Say it."

"It's all yours," you barely managed to say. Hands gripping his shoulders.

"You damn right it's mine. Think you can cum for me when I tell you to?"

You nodded as it was impossible to speak anymore. He had the nerve to count how many bounces it took to bring you on the edge. Counting 13 before telling you to cum. And you did.

He pulled out and told you to catch it in your mouth. You did that too. When he finished, he pulled you up to peck your messy lips.

When you settled down a bit next to him, the alcohol started to wear off and you became more and more tired. But it just dawned on you.

Oh...shit. You just fucked your bother's best friend.

"You... will not tell him about anything that happened tonight," you said while lazily fixing your too-short skirt you barely get to wear out anymore. He laughed a little at the thought. Not that he would feel inclined to do so anyway. That was smile he wasn't trying to deal with. Not right now, at least.

He locked eyes with you, a sly smirk on his face as he did the zipped lips and throw away the key gesture.

"Secret's safe with me, pretty girl."

-

"...yes."

They exchanged looks again.

"Okay..." Danny said. "Just try not to do that again. Kass almost threw a fit earlier when she realized you were late."

"Won't happen again. I promise."

Three months to by like that.

You saved enough money to get your own apartment. You're finally free!

And you've gotten more tattoos. His god damn initials on your hip.

Your style has completely changed. Your coworkers and friends barely recognize you. All you wear is crop tops and low rise stylish jeans outside of work to show off now. You've started partying with Dex more and getting acquainted with his "friends."

First mistake.

There was that time he lost you at a house party and found you passing around a blunt, smiling and cuddling up a little too close with his homeboy. When you got home, he was pissed. So pissed he pulled his gun on you--drunk and high, by the way.

"What I tell you about getting too close with these fools?"

He said while pressing it under your chin. The Dex you "knew" vanished. Or maybe this was the real him. Who knows, you are cross faded to all hell right now.

Instead of cowering like you normally would've if this was months ago, you parted your lips while looking him in the eyes. Tilting the gun up to teach your mouth and started sucking on the tip of the gun. Just. The tip. He watched you with sick curiosity. Were you insane? Did you have a death wish?

The questions didn't seem to matter that much when he came up with the grand idea to fuck you from behind with the gun to the back of your head.

Then came the time, at another party, where you got into a really heated argument and you threatened to fuck his friends because he still wasn't claiming you as his girl.

Second mistake.

He proceeded to grab you by the arm and drag you outside to his circle of acquaintances, the last people he would ever call his friends, and offered you up for grabs. "Free game," as he called it. Letting them play with your hair and caress your face. Even did as much as turning you around and acting like he was going to pull down your pants. That's when you apologized profusely and hid behind him. He scoffed and dragged you back inside.

"Bet you won't say that shit again."

And still, you eventually got a tramp stamp. A bullseye.

You're not sure how you've been able to keep living a double life. Your brother is still convinced that you're the same person you were when you left. Definitely not now the girl who greens out almost every day after work. You could work a short morning shift and be high as fuck in the afternoon. It didn't matter.

And then came the final straw. Your biggest mistake was getting involved with one of his friends from his gang. The world Dex lives in, "getting involved" can and will mean something as simple as having one brief conversation with someone who owed bad people a lot of money and drugs.

You were kidnapped. But not without a fight.

Which did lead to you getting beaten. Pretty badly.

"The fuck?" Dex's friend muttered as he took a drag of his cigarette. "Yo, Bullseye. Check this shit out."

Dex took his phone. When his eyes landed on the photo of you, unconscious and tied to a chair, bruises and cuts all over you--which showed that you put up a good fight--and your face being held up to look at the camera, his chest felt like it was caving in. The following text said:

"Bricks or she dies."

It was referencing the bricks of coke Dex and his boys stashed from a house robbery gone wrong. Not his fault the other guys forgot to come collect!

"Ain't that yo girl?"

He stared at it for a few moments then sighed really heavily, locking eyes with everybody in the room.

"I'll handle it."

Two. Days. Later.

A hard slap woke you up. So hard it drew blood in your mouth.

"Mornin' sunshine."

You don't know how many days it's been but you could tell it's been more than 48 hours given that the guy in front of you's broken nose was slowly healing.

"I'm gonna ask again. All you gotta do is tell the truth and you walk free. Where. The fuck. Is the coke?"

You spit blood in his face.

"I've seen all your faces," you rasped. Voice still coming back from when you were screaming at them. "Like hell you'll let me walk"

He wiped his face with your shirt and stood up with a dry chuckle. Pulling his gun from his pants and cocking back the hammer as he pointed it between your eyes.

"You real loyal to your dealer. I'd say respect but that's just stupid as shit, and you don't seem like a stupid girl."

"I told you I don't know where the fucking coke is."

"Stop fuckin' lying."

He moved the gun under your chin so that you were forced to look at him. Bright fluorescent light stinging your eyes.

Then the lights flicker. Three times.

The leader of this group walked up and snatched him back away from you with a panicked look. He wasn't there when they took you but you could tell he was in charge.

"What the fuck are you doin'?!"

"Getting our shit back, what you think I'm doing?"

"Are you stupid?!" He exclaimed. "That's Bullseye's girl."

The other guy instantly goes pale. The room full of big guys with automatic rifles is quieter than before.

"How do you know...?"

"Travis told me about you bringing in a girl with a bullseye tramp stamp. And you brought her to our spot. Fuckin' moron."

The lights flicker again. You start chuckling and looking around the room to count how many guys were there.

"Fuck is so funny?" The moron asked.

"You are all...so fucked."

"Yeah? How would he know where we are? We're underground."

"She's right. We gotta go. Now."

"We have military grade guns."

"They have Bullseye."

Silence fell. A knock came to the door.

"Yo! They're on the way in! We gotta move!"

The leader ran his hand down his face as he went to open the door, gesturing for the others to follow. It opened and he instantly collapsed the ground. The others look up and see

"Bullseye!"

They raise their guns in haste, but it's too late. Three go down from his silencer pistol and with the rest, well, he just wanted to show off.

He tucked his gun away and found random objects nearby to break and send them flying into their necks. One guy managed to cut you free and get behind you, head-locked and a gun to your head. You grunted in pain but kept a brave face. A weak smile on your lips as you nodded. Without hesitation, Dex flicked a broken glass shard really hard at you and you turned your head at the very last moment. It had just grazed your ear when it landed right in the guys throat.

He was the last to drop. Your knees gave out as you held onto the chair but Dex was on you in a flash, picking you up and carrying you out bridal style. You fell limp against him. Head on his shoulder as he walked out and his boys come in to start taking their shit. Money, drugs, all of it.

He got to his car and carefully put you in the passenger with your seatbelt on this time (oh wow he must really care!) then he got in the drivers side and waited for them to come back out.

"So that's why they call you Bullseye," you murmured tiredly. He glanced at you, a sting of protectiveness and something else he couldn't quite place striking him in the spine as he swallowed his pride and held your hand, looking out to see if anybody could see him before pressing a kiss to your dried bloody knuckles.

He didn't say anything for the rest of the ride to his place.

As he took care of you for days, the past few months have been playing in loop in your head. You're not the same woman you were when you opened that door. Your body was covered in little tattoos that had no meaning. Hell, you had a fucking tramp stamp!

You drank, smoke, and fucked most days. Learned how to use a gun and properly wield a knife. It took one dumb decision and you just couldn't stop. It felt so good to just do stupid shit for once. Have a taste of the life your brother so desperately made sure you'd never have to live.

"I told you to leave my guys alone."

You looked down while Dex was gently cleaning a skin wound on your shin. Did he just say what you think he just said?

"Excuse me?"

"I said I told you to leave my guys alone. All you had to do was listen to me."

You sat there in silence.

"I was gone for almost three days, Dex," you said calmly. "I almost died. For something that had nothing to do with me. I assume you only found me because they sent you some kind of picture of me while I was unconscious and that** is what you have to say to me?"

Silence fell again. Then a huge argument erupted. All it took was him asking how many times he's had to remind you how dangerous this shit is and you went off. Despite how pissed he was it was still surprising to see you this angry. You're not even sure you've even seen yourself this angry.

Everything came tumbling down. It wasn't just him talking to you crazy but every single thing that's been bothering you. Everything he's done that you should've addressed but let it go because he "has it hard." It got so bad you stunned him into silence after breaking up with him and stormed out of his place despite having a slight limp.

It's been a week. He hasn't called. Texted. Shown up to your door and begged for you back. By the end of the week you felt like shit. How did you let this spin so out of control?

You stared at the contact on your phone with tears in the corner of your eyes. "Brother 🖕." You can almost hear him complaining about the emoji next to his contact again.

The line rang.

"Long time no speak," his voice crackled on the other side. It's been a while since you've called him but you've been texting here and there. Just the sound of his voice "...Hello?"

"I fucked up," you said with a quiet, shaky voice. His smile instantly vanished.

"What?"

"You were right," you continued with a sniffle. "I fucked up really bad and I should've listened to you. I shouldn't have said you were acting like dad when you were just trying to look out for me. I'm so, so sorry..."

"Woah, woah, slow down. Right about what? What happened? Are you okay?"

"... right about Dex..."

Derrick put the phone down for a moment to take a deep breath then put it back up to his ear.

"Are you home?"

"Yeah."

"I'm coming over."

"You don't have to do that-"

"-like hell I don't."

You heard the sound of a chair moving and keys jingling before the call dropped. He was there in 25 minutes. The second you opened the door, you broke. It wasn't just relief from seeing him again but also seeing his reaction to this completely different version of you. The side you've hidden so well for months.

The door shut and you just cried your eyes out against his chest. He hugged you carefully to avoid worsening your physical pain.

"I'm so sorry," you sobbed. "I never meant for it to go so far."

Derrick didn't say anything. Not that he could anyway. He wasn't the comforting type and it wasn't often that you cried around him after you got to high school. Especially not like this. All he could do was shush you and keep holding you. Seemed like it was what you needed.

"I need you to tell me who did this to you," he said. "The bruises, I mean."

You pulled back just a little to look at him after wiping your tears. "You're not pissed at me?"

"Oh, I am," he admitted with a faint chuckle. "But that's the least of my concerns right now. You need to tell me who did this."

"They've already been dealt with," you said while wiping more of your tears. "Dex got them all. By himself."

Derrick scoffed and shook his head. "That so? Sonuvabitch didn't stop and think to call me."

"Yeah, we, uh...we got into a huge argument after, last week. I haven't heard from him since and that's kinda why I called you. Processing all this shit at once overwhelmed me so bad that I had to call you."

Derrick hummed to himself. "I'd be surprised if you did hear from him."

"Why?"

"Oh, you don't know?" You shook your head. "He went to prison."

"O-ohh...." was all you could say at first. Prison?! "When did he...?"

"Few days ago. RJ called me a few hours after they booked him. Eighteen months."

"Eighteen months...I don't even wanna know what he did."

"I wasn't gonna tell you anyway."

You laughed at that, calming down more as the conversation went on.

"Now you understand why I was on your ass?"

"I do. I said I was sorry."

"About twenty more times and I'll go easier on you."

You rolled your eyes before he pulled you back into a hug. This time you hugged him back.

"I really am sorry." You murmured.

'I heard you the first time' was on the tip of his tongue but he chose to let the moment stay at least a little wholesome.

"I know."

Eighteen months later.

It just turned midnight when five knocks come to your door. You quickly grabbed your piece from the kitchen drawer and quietly came to the front. Checking the peephole, you sighed heavily and put your gun away before opening the door.

First mistake.

He looked to his right and locked eyes with you. Unable to stop the little soft smirk that appeared on his face

"... what's up, mama?"

You were not happy.

"Why are you here? Actually, don't tell me. I don't care. Go."

"It's like that?"

"I left your ass. Remember? You need to go before I call Derrick."

"You ain't gonna do shit."

He pushed past you into your place knowing you wouldn't stop him. You closed the door behind him.

Second mistake.

"Wanna bet?"

"Think you can get to your phone before I can intervene?"

You narrowed your eyes. He started smiling.

"I've only been gone a year and some change, baby," he said as he walked towards you. You didn't back down though.

He liked the challenge.

"Don't fuckin' call me that."

"Or what?"

"Why are you here?"

"Unfinished business."

He got so close you instinctively backed up and hit the door.

"You really need to leave, Dex."

Yeah, very convincing there.

"Tell me to go, and I'll go," he shrugged and jutted his chin towards the door. Though a big part of you didn't believe him. "Just say the words, 'get out' and you'll never see me again."

You hesitated.

Last mistake.

He nodded and stood directly in front of you, leaning down just an inch from your face. "See, that's your problem," he said your name. Warm breath fanning against your lips. "You bluff. All you do is bluff. Because in your heart of hearts, you're too good. Too much of a good girl. You're not gonna tell me to leave and you damn sure ain't calling D."

He paused to watch you try not to squirm. Aw, how cute.

"Say you want me," he added. "Just get it out way."

Oh, how you always felt so small in his presence sometimes. This is a man you've shed real tears over. Sobbed in your brother's arms and even promised you wouldn't do this shit again.

But the high that was Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter was a high you've been chasing since you first locked eyes. He was right. Unfortunately.

"...I want you..."

"Say it again."

"Dex-"

"-say it again."

"I want you," you said louder like it hurt to utter such truth. He did that stupid side smile that always had you weak in the knees.

He didn't move immediately. He let that admission hang in the air so you'd really feel it. He knew he had you. He knew exactly which buttons to press to make you crumble in his cruel hands.

"I know."

Now he closed the distance with a kiss. Tongue first. You melted just like that. In that year and some change you were getting your shit together. Got a better job and everything. And here he comes undoing all the things you had to unlearn just from being around him.

A single tear shed down your cheek as you cupped his fave abs deepened the kiss yourself with a soft moan. Being away from him was the equivalent to withdrawal. Sure, you were** getting your shit together. Outside the house. But inside, you were losing it. No amount of leftover weed or alcohol amounted to the feeling of Dex's hands on your body. How he traced those tattoos while stroking it deep enough for you to see colors. The filthy things he whispered that you thought only existed in porn.

Dex was your downfall.

He laid you down on the big worn out couch Derrick gave you when you first moved in. Tugging your little shorts off in one swift motion. There wasn't time for the cute shit. This is a man fresh out of jail and he needed to be inside you. Like, now.

"Looks like she missed me, too," he said as slapped the tip against your folds to hear how wet you were. "Still weepin'."

You gasped and gripped the pillow behind your head when he thrusted forward with no warning. The pace was all but steady. This wasn't your typical reunion sex.

Or maybe, it was.

He pried your thighs apart so he could watch your face. You haven't even touched a man since Dex left. That was obvious.

Every push was a reminder of everything you tried to forget. The late night drives around town, the smell of his cologne mixed with weed and the thrill of being loved on by a man the world warned you about.

He leaned down next to your ear to get deeper. If such a thing was possible. You stifled a moan but that didn't last long.

"I should knock you up," he whispered. "Should nut in you and dip. Just so the world knows what I do to you. Maybe it'll piss D off enough to actually stand a chance against me."

You involuntarily clenched against him, he let out a husky laugh.

"You'd enjoy that, huh? Me spillin' all in you and going off the grid? Maybe you aren't the saint I thought you were."

"I'm- fuck," you wanted to say you were close but can't even get the words out. He didn't help by kissing along your neck.

"In or out. Gotta tell me now."

"In. Please, in!"

Dex let out a half laugh. He genuinely didn't expect you to want him to do it. Let alone say it that fast. And beg.

You cried out as your essence dripped down your ass. After a few more strokes, he came too. Pressing his hips against you and bottoming out so that you'd be taking every last drop. He hasn't creampied before. Always safe, never sorry. But how could he say no to you?

The next two minutes was just the room filled with heavy breathing. He has long since collapsed on top of you, still inside, your legs still wrapped around his waist. The guilt settled in again but it was overshadowed when he turned his head to mutter directly into your ear.

"I was just talking shit before," he said. "You ain't getting rid of me."

You exhaled and let your eyes close, not letting go of him anytime soon.

"I know."

-

dt: @carm8n @21st-century-daydreamer @holeinthemattress @l0serrrgrllll @hibiscus-whore @poindextersgirlforever @ladybvllseye @clementinebutnottheorange @lonelypony-m @reveluvjay @avidreader73 [lmk if you want your tag removed!]

[reveluvjay]

My favorite thing about this AU is that this is still very clearly Dex. Like so many AUs go in and change virtually everything about the character to make him fit whereas this one, he's still got his aim, he's still stalking, he's still unhinged. It doesn't sacrifice anything for the sake of the AU and I LOVE ITTTTTTT 😩😩😩😩

[batmanlovesnirvana]

ormund just walking around undiagnosed

[reveluvjay]

Like I've seen people on tiktok get diagnosed for less

[helaenasfavoritechicken]

He's a minor btw

[reveluvjay]

I don't get people sexualizing him. I'm very maternal towards him and we're only 4 years apart. Like he's very clearly a baby

[betty-not-boop]

Absolutely no one asked for this, but may the seven forgive me, i can't delay it any longer.

The dark!ormund hightower x lesser noble reader fic is happening.

[reveluvjay]

This is exactly what the fans wanna seeeee!!! 🥹🥹🥹🥹

[aleerak]

[reveluvjay]

[aemondssapphire]

Holy trinity of hairstylists in Westeros:

[reveluvjay]

DidbyDaeron, dyedbyormund, and Shitbysheepstealer 😭😭😭😭😭

[sedonasummer]

ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ | ᴏʀᴍᴜɴᴅ ʜɪɢʜᴛᴏᴡᴇʀ

─ pairing: Ormund Hightower x wife!reader ─ summary: you and your husband engage in some intense roleplay. ─ content: 18+ MDNI | shameless, filthy, nasty smut | no plot | p in v | degradation | rough sex | illusions of sex work | fluff at the end i guess | no character description ─ a/n: i cannot believe this is nearly 6k words… just horny on main fr. as always, thank you for reading. 🖤

The petitions had continued endlessly. Each one convinced their particular trouble outweighed the last. Ormund had sat through them all: a dispute over a millstream, a merchant guild demanding lower tariffs, a minor lordling whose son had impregnated a farmer's daughter and wanted the matter handled quietly. Governance. The word itself was leaden on his tongue.

He sank lower in the copper tub, letting the scalding water close over his chest, his shoulders, until it lapped at the hard line of his jaw. Steam curled from the surface in slow ribbons, fogging the stone walls, beading on the cool stones of the floor beyond the tub's rim. The heat found the knots between his shoulder blades and pressed into them, not quite enough, never quite enough. He let his head tip back against the rim and closed his eyes.

Behind the heavy linen curtain that divided the bathing space from the rest of the chamber, voices murmured. Yours, warm, threaded with amusement, and the lighter, quicker tones of two of your maids. A burst of laughter, hastily smothered. The rustle of fabric. More whispering. He caught the edge of a word that might have been shameless and another that sounded like he won't. He did not trouble himself with it. Whatever plot they hatched behind that curtain, it was not his concern. His concern, at this moment, was the slow unclenching of his jaw and the heat working through the ache in his back.

Then the chamber door clicked shut. The maids' footsteps retreated across the outer stone corridor, their giggling fading to nothing. Quiet settled over the room like a lid pressing down, save for the soft pad of your feet moving about, and the whisper of something being drawn from a hook.

"Come here," he called. His voice carried the rough, low grain of exhaustion. He shifted in the tub, water sloshing gently against the sides. "Let me gaze upon you before you sleep."

A pause. Then the curtain parted.

Ormund's mouth opened. No sound came.

You stood in the gap of parted linen, backlit by the candles on the far side of the room, and every detail of you hit him in sequence, each one landing harder than the last. The slip you wore, if it could be called that, was the scantest, most indecent scrap of silk he had ever laid eyes on. Sheer where it ought to have been solid, the fabric clung to your body like water, tracing the curve of your waist, the soft swell of your breasts, the small peaks of your nipples pressing against the gossamer as though the material simply was not there. It ended high on your thighs, high enough that the bare skin below the hem gleamed in the candlelight. Two threads of ribbon held the whole construction up over your shoulders, knotted at the front, thin as twine. A single breath would undo them. Your waist-length hair fell in heavy curls around your shoulders, and your eyes, warm, bright with mischief, held his.

He recovered enough to find his voice. "Come closer."

You crossed to him without hurry, settling on the edge of the tub, your hip pressing against the rim, and laid your hand against the side of his face. Your palm was warm and soft. He leaned into it. The stubble along his jaw rasped against your skin.

"I have missed you," he said.

You bent and kissed him, lingering there, your mouth moving against his with a gentleness that had no urgency in it.

"I have missed you more."

He reached out, his wet hand dripping, and caught the delicate hem of your slip between thumb and forefinger. He held it, examining it as though he did not understand what he was looking at. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth; the slow, crooked expression that surfaced only when something genuinely amused him.

"Why, I wonder, is your clothing budget so high, when it does not appear you wear any clothes?"

"Ormund." You rolled your eyes. "This is for you."

"Oh?"

"It's meant to excite a husband's loins." You said it plainly. "All the ladies have garments such as this."

He laughed. The sound came from somewhere deep in his chest, unused all day, and it loosened something in him. "When, precisely, did you acquire this?"

"Does it please you?"

He drew back to look at you again. The shift in angle let the candlelight catch the silk differently. The dip of your waist, the flare of your hips, the shadow between your thighs, all lay bare to him. His eyes moved over you slowly, cataloguing.

"You look as if you'd be at home at a pleasure house."

You gasped. Your hand snatched from his face, and you drew upright, mouth parting in affront.

He caught your hand before it could leave him entirely. His fingers closed around your wrist, firm, not rough, and he drew your knuckles to his mouth. His lips pressed against them, warm and damp from the bathwater, and he held them there a moment before speaking.

"I do not mean it unkindly," he said against your skin. "Only that you look as though you were made to confuse good men and lead them to ruin."

You held his gaze. The affront in your face cracked, crumbled, gave way to something else.

"Would you spend your coin on me?"

"I would give all the gold in my treasury," he said, his voice dropping, "for a night with you."

Something shifted in your smile. It turned sly, knowing, the warm playfulness draining from it only to be replaced by something more calculated. The two of you were no strangers to bedroom games, and though this had not initially been your intention, you saw no reason to change course.

You knelt beside the tub. The stone was cold against your bare knees, and the contrast with the heat rising from the water prickled along your skin. You folded your hands in your lap, straightened your back, and let your voice drop into something soft, submissive, and wicked.

"I have never seen you here before, my lord."

He caught on at once. The exhaustion in his face rearranged itself, and when he looked at you, the softness of a husband's gaze was gone, replaced by something cooler, more assessing; the gaze of a man who had paid for a service and intended to inspect the goods.

"You remember every man who passes through these doors?"

"No, but I would remember a man as handsome as you."

"I'm not here for flattery." He leaned back against the copper rim, and the water sluiced off his shoulders, running down the hard planes of his chest, catching the candlelight. He let you look. The muscles of his abdomen ridged beneath the water's surface, and the hair on his chest, darkened by the wet, lay flat against his skin. His arms rested along the edges of the tub.

"Why are you here, my lord?" You let your gaze trace the line of his arm where it rested on the tub's rim. "Does your wife not satisfy you as a husband deserves?"

His mouth curved. The stubble along his jaw caught the light. "My lady wife pleases me greatly."

"Then why," one finger extending to trace the thick vein that ran along his forearm, "would a contented man spend his coin on a woman such as me?"

Your fingertip moved slowly. The vein stood out against his skin and you followed it from the crease of his elbow to the ridge of bone at his wrist. His hand twitched. He did not pull away.

"Do you make your living sending men back to their wives?" he asked.

"I'm only curious, my lord." You could feel his pulse beating steady and strong beneath the thin skin.

He leaned toward you. The water shifted around him, lapping at the copper sides, the space between you closed until you could feel the heat coming off his skin, see the fine details of his face, the specks of pale green caught in the blue of his irises, visible only at this distance, like chips of sea-glass in deep water.

"Because my lady wife is a delicate creature. Gently born, gently bred." His eyes moved over you, taking in the way your kneeling position pressed your thighs together and made the hem ride up. "I would never do to her the things I'm going to do to you."

Something flickered across your face. Heat, delight, the sharp thrill of a challenge accepted. Your lips parted, your hand still resting on his wrist.

"Very well, my lord," Your voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried in the humid air, clear and steady. "Use me as you see fit."

Ormund gave you a crooked grin. The kind that crinkled the corner of one eye and bared the edge of his teeth. He planted one hand on the copper rim of the tub and carefully stood, water sluicing off him in sheets, running down the hard ridges of his stomach and the thick muscles of his thighs. His body was a map of old violence: a pale ridge across his ribs where a blade had caught him years ago, a raised mark along one shoulder, the silvery seam of an old stitch-job curling around his left forearm. Light brown hair dusted his chest, trailing down the center of his abdomen in a thin line that thickened below his navel. His cock hung heavy between his legs, already half-swollen, and as he stepped over the rim of the tub without reaching for a towel, water cascaded onto the stone floor in a wide splash that went utterly ignored.

He straightened to his full height and looked down at you, still dripping, still grinning. "Stop gaping and come here."

You took a step back. His grin widened.

"Don't be shy now," he purred, closing the distance. His hand closed around your wrist. Not rough, not gentle, just certain, and he drew you forward until your body met his. The wet heat of his skin soaked instantly through the sheer silk of your slip, plastering the fabric to your stomach, your breasts. "Touch me."

You raised your hands. Your fingers found the swell of his chest first, palms flat against the dense muscle as you trailed your hands down. You felt his abdomen tighten beneath your touch in a reflexive clench, tracing the ridges of his stomach, fingernails grazing through the trail of hair below his navel. One hand traced the hard cut of muscle at his hip, that sharp V-line that angled downward like an arrowhead pointing the way, and his cock twitched; thick and heavy and hard now, lifting away from his thigh. You looked up at him and found his gaze already on you. His eyes were dark, pupils blown so wide the blue had thinned to a narrow ring; the heat in them sent a warmth racing across your skin, prickling down your neck, between your breasts, pooling low in your belly. You looked back down.

He took your hand. Guided it. Wrapped your fingers around the shaft of him; hot, impossibly thick, the skin velvet-soft over iron hardness, and held you there. "There you go." He rolled his hips, a slow, controlled thrust into your grip, and the head of his cock pushed through the circle of your fist, slick with bathwater. You felt him pulse in your hand, a heartbeat made flesh.

"My lord, you cannot possibly mean to—"

Ormund's grin sharpened. A callback to your wedding night when you had teased him with that very phrase. "I assure you, I mean to give you all of it."

You stroked him again, slow, deliberate, your thumb dragging across the sensitive head. He hissed through his teeth, eyelids fluttering shut for one unguarded second. When his eyes opened again, the playfulness had burned away. What remained was something harder, hungrier, the look of a man done waiting.

"Get on the bed. Spread your legs."

You turned and walked. The stone floor was cold beneath your bare feet, water from his body marking a trail behind him as you crossed from the bathing area into the space where your bed stood. You could hear him behind you. Not rushing. He stalked after you the way a predator tracked something wounded, not running, because running implied the prey might escape, and you were going nowhere.

You reached the bed, grabbed the carved footboard, and scrambled up onto the mattress on your hands and knees, linens bunching under your knees. Then a large hand locked around your ankle. Iron grip. He yanked, and you slid backward across the sheets with a gasp, the silk of your slip riding up your thighs, your legs dangling off the edge of the bed. You rolled over. He stood between your knees, looking down at you.

"Take that off. I want to see what I'm paying for."

Your fingers trembled. You reached up to the thin straps of the slip, hooked them with your index fingers, and slid them down your shoulders. The fabric peeled away from your skin with the dampness of his bathwater still clinging to it, and the material pooled at your waist, baring your breasts to the cool air. Your nipples tightened instantly; partly the chill, mostly him. You shifted your hips, lifting yourself, and pulled the garment down your legs, past your knees, off entirely, letting it drop to the floor in a wet heap of silk. You lay back against the linens, hair fanning out around you in a wild dark halo, and looked up at him through the candlelit haze.

"Am I to your liking, my lord?"

"Yes," he said. "Very much."

He climbed onto the bed and moved over you, not straddling yet, just close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off his still-damp skin, close enough that the head of his cock brushed your thigh and left a wet smear. He braced himself on one arm above you and looked down, the corner of his mouth curled up.

"Do you touch yourself?"

The question hit you like a slap. Heat flooded your face, your neck, your chest, blooming down to your sternum. "I beg your pardon?!"

He chuckled. Low, dark, the sound rolling from deep in his chest. "Do not take that tone with me; you are not my wife."His voice dropped a register, quiet and hard, the voice he used when issuing commands. "Answer the question."

You swallowed. "Y-yes, my lord."

He raised an eyebrow. The interest in his eyes sharpened to a point, the blue nearly swallowed by black. "Show me."

You lay back against the linens. Your legs fell open slowly, first one knee tilting, then the other, your thighs parting in increments, your breath coming shallow and uneven. You had never done this before him. Your hands moved down your body, fingertips tracing the plane of your stomach, the curve of your hip, dipping lower. You found your core with two fingers and ran them down the length of your slit, feeling the shape of yourself, the softness of the outer folds and the slick heat between them. You drew your fingers back upward, circling your clit with the pad of your middle finger, and a breath escaped you at the contact, your stomach tensing.

You brought your fingers back down. Found your entrance. Found yourself wet, dripping, honestly, the arousal thick and slippery on your fingers. You pushed one finger inside, and a moan spilled out, soft and unguarded, as you began to move it slowly in and out, feeling the walls clench around the intrusion. You looked up.

Ormund was flushed; his hand was wrapped around his cock, stroking himself in long, slow pulls, his eyes locked on what you were doing between your legs. His head was flushed, dark, weeping a steady thread of clear fluid that his thumb smeared across the crown with each pass. His jaw was clenched so tight the muscle in his cheek jumped.

"That's it," he said. His voice was shaky. Cracked at the edges. "Add another."

You obeyed. Pushed a second finger in alongside the first, and the stretch made you gasp, your head tipping back against the linens. You picked up speed. Your fingers curled inside yourself, stroking the spongy front wall of your cunt, and the sounds you were making- soft, hitching moans, breathless little gasps- filled the chamber, mixing with the wet noise of your fingers working in and out of you. Your hips rolled against your own hand.

Ormund's breathing was ragged. "It's not enough, is it."

You shook your head. It wasn't. Your fingers were slim and delicate and could not reach the places inside you that ached to be filled. Could not stretch you the way you needed, could not pound into you with the weight and force that turned your bones to water. You needed his thick fingers, his thick cock, the mass of him bearing down on you to truly stretch you the way you liked.

"Use your words."

"No, my lord, I—" You pulled your fingers free, slick and glistening, and before you could say another word, he caught your wrist. Lifted your hand. Brought it to his face, inhaling deeply, his nose nearly touching your wet fingers. The sound he made was animal, a low groan in his chest. Then he took your fingers into his mouth. His tongue swept between them, lapping at the taste of you, curling around each digit, sucking the slick from your skin with a wet, obscene sound that made your thighs clench together. You gasped. Your free hand gripped the sheets.

He released your fingers with a slick pop and crawled over you. His large body caged you in. Arms on either side of your head, knees spreading your thighs wider, his cock hanging heavy and hot between you, the shaft dragging across your stomach as he settled his weight above you. The sheer size of him blotted out the candlelight. His shadow swallowed you.

He leaned down, his mouth beside your ear, his breath hot and damp against your temple. "I hope you are prepared, because I will not be gentle with you."

A jolt of electricity ran through you, starting at the base of your skull and crackling down your spine, through your belly, straight to your cunt. Wetness pooled between your legs, a fresh surge of slick that you felt drip onto the sheets. The thought of him using your body, taking what he wanted, made your thighs tremble. Your breath came in short, shallow pants.

"My body is yours, my lord."

He braced himself on one hand, and with the other he reached between you. You felt his fingers wrap around the shaft of his cock, felt the broad head of him drag through your silky folds, through the wetness, the heat, and the friction of it; even that light contact made your hips buck. You placed one hand on his shoulder, gripping the hard cap of muscle, and the other on his bicep, feeling the cords of muscle flex beneath your palm.

He pushed into you. The full length of him drove into you in a single, brutal thrust, and you cried out, a raw, ragged sound torn from somewhere deep in your chest. You had not prepared enough, your fingers too slender, too few, for the girth of him forcing you open around his cock. You felt every inch. The sting was sharp and bright, and you loved it; loved the ache of it.

He pressed his weight onto you. His strong arms gripped you tight, pulling you against him as he sank even deeper, and you clawed at his back, fingernails raking down the sweat-damp skin, leaving red lines across his shoulder blades. He held himself there, buried to the hilt, and you felt him throbbing. A pulse that matched the hammering of your own heart. His jaw was clenched, his breath coming in short, harsh bursts through his nose. He was adjusting to the feel of you.

"You're so tight for a whore," he said through gritted teeth, and the words vibrated against your throat.

You managed to find your voice. It came out breathless. "My mistress reserves me for only the most special clients."

He leaned back onto his knees, his cock still buried inside you to the root. The new angle shifted him against your front wall, and you bit your lip. "Is that so?" he asked, one eyebrow arched.

You rolled your hips. The friction dragged a sound from both of you simultaneously. "Yes," your voice had gone half-wrecked already, trembling at the edges. "Rich men usually have small cocks."

He tilted his head. His eyes narrowed. The blue had vanished entirely; only black remained, bottomless and bright with something dangerous. Then, slowly, a grin spread across his face, the kind that preceded ruin.

"I am going to enjoy this very much."

He pulled out. The drag of him was slow; you felt every ridge, every vein of his cock as it withdrew. The suction of your cunt gripping him, trying to hold him in, until only the head remained inside, the thick crown stretching your entrance. Then he slammed back in. One brutal, full-length thrust that drove the air from your lungs and punched a cry out of your throat that echoed off the stone walls.

He did it again. Pulled out to the tip. Drove back in. You felt him carving his way into you, reshaping you around him, the drag of every vein against your swollen walls as he withdrew only to plunge back in, each thrust so deep it felt as though he were reaching your throat. The wet, obscene sound of skin meeting skin filled the chamber; squelch, slap, squelch, the bed frame groaning beneath you, linens bunching and twisting under your back.

You bit your lip. Pressed your mouth shut, trying to muffle the sounds climbing out of your throat. He noticed.

"No. I pay for those sounds." His voice was rough. "Let me hear them."

He delivered another harsh thrust; deeper, harder, his hips cracking against yours, and the moan that ripped out of you was loud, uncontrolled, bouncing off the walls. Your back arched off the bed.

He picked up his pace. Thrust after thrust of him using your body for his pleasure, his hips driving forward in a relentless, battering rhythm that shoved you up the bed until your headboard rattled with each impact. You could hear yourself; wet, desperate, the sounds you were making beyond your control, moans and gasps and broken syllables that might have been his name.

"Harder," you begged, the word coming out a sob of want.

His hand found your throat. His fingers wrapped around the front of your neck; not squeezing the airway, but pressing, claiming. The weight of his palm against your pulse. Both your hands flew to his wrist, wrapping around the bone, just holding on. He slammed into you harder. Each thrust driving the breath from you, the sound from you, the thoughts from you.

He had never handled you like this. Never spoken to you this way. Each filthy word that dropped from his mouth, each degradation, each dark praise, traveled straight to your cunt like a physical touch, making you clench and drip around him.

"You dirty whore," he growled, his thumb pressed against the side of your neck, feeling your pulse hammer. "Getting off like this. Wanting to be fucked like this."

You could only moan. Heat overwhelmed heat. Your skin was burning where his body met yours. The coil of pleasure wound tight in your belly, a spring being compressed to its limit. You felt the hair at the base of his cock grinding against your clit with every thrust, the friction sending sparks up your spine, and it was so much, too much, the sensation layering and building until you could barely breathe—

Your orgasm hit you. Hard. Your whole body seized, clenching in violent, rhythmic spasms around his cock, your back arching off the bed, your nails digging into the thick muscle of his back hard enough to leave crescents. You came with a sound that was half-scream, half-sob, your thighs clamping around his hips, body shaking. He groaned above you, a deep, guttural sound, and you felt his rhythm falter for one stroke as your spasming cunt milked him.

He continued fucking into you through your orgasm. Each thrust prolonged the waves crashing through you, drawing them out, stretching the pleasure into something almost unbearable. You whimpered, oversensitive, your hands falling away from his back to grip the sheets, twisting the linen in fists. He rode you through the aftershocks, his pace still brutal, still relentless, until the pleasure edged toward pain.

Then he released your throat and stilled his hips. You blinked up at him, dazed, as he pulled out of you. The sudden emptiness was shocking. You were gaped open, fucked loose and swollen, slick with your own arousal, clenching around nothing. You opened your mouth to speak. He flipped you over. One hand on your hip, rolling you bodily across the rumpled sheets, and you found yourself on weak hands and weaker knees. Ormund's hands gripped your hips. The broad head of his cock pressed against your entrance, still slick with your orgasm, and you felt him lean over you, his chest against your back, his mouth near your ear.

"My turn," he said.

He pushed in, slower than before but still splitting you open, filling you so completely that there was no room for anything else. No air, no thought, just the overwhelming reality of being fucked.

He began to pound into you like an animal, snapping his hips forward with enough force to rock the heavy bed frame against the stone wall.

"Take it," he snarled, his voice unrecognizable.

He released one side only to snatch both of your wrists, yanking them behind your back, pinning them there, using the leverage to force your upper body down into the mattress. Your face was pressed against the linens, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps. The bed creaked and groaned under the assault, the wooden frame sounding as if it might splinter at any moment.

Your arms were useless, trapped in his grip, legs trembling violently, your muscles burning from the strain of maintaining the position on your hands and knees. Slowly, your knees gave out. Ormund let your wrists go as you collapsed, allowing you to fall flat against the mattress. He followed you down, covering your body with his while he continued to thrust into your prone form.

The angle change hit you deeper, rubbing against spots inside you that made your vision white out. He slowed his pace just fractionally, grinding into you instead of thrusting, torturing you with the depth.

"Are you going to peak again?" he rasped against your ear, his breath hot and ragged.

You let out a groan and nodded your face against the sheets. "Already?" he mocked, his voice dripping with dark amusement. "What kind of greedy whore finds her pleasure twice before a customer achieves his once?"

You could only babble, incoherent pleas falling from your lips, your mind shattered by the relentless stimulation. "Please... Ormund... I can't..."

He reached around your hip, his fingers finding your swollen, sensitive clit. He rubbed it roughly, in tight, fast circles, matching the tempo of his hips. You screamed his name as the second orgasm tore through you.

"Fuck!" Ormund roared.

He slammed into you one final time, burying himself to the hilt, and held himself there as his body seized, spilling inside you, his cock pulsing as he filled you with his seed. He groaned low in his throat, his eyes squeezed shut, every muscle in his body locked in a rictus of pleasure.

Then he pulled out slowly. The movement dragged a whimper from your lips. He shifted back, kneeling between your legs, and watched with fascination as his cum began to leak out of you. It was a thick, white trickle, running slowly down your thighs, mingling with the slick evidence of your own arousal. You looked thoroughly fucked, used, ruined in the best possible way.

Ormund threw his head back, his skin glistening with sweat in the dim light. "Fuck," he breathed, the word a prayer.

The energy in the room began to settle, giving way to a heavy, sated exhaustion. He collapsed onto the bed beside you, lying on his back and staring up at the ceiling as his heart rate slowly returned to normal.

After a moment, he turned onto his side. He reached out with a gentle hand, wiping the sweat-soaked baby hairs from your forehead and brow. His touch was tender now, a stark contrast to the moments before. You opened your eyes to look at him. They were glassy, unfocused, but filled with a deep, lingering warmth.

"Are you alright?" he asked. The game was over. The role shed, leaving only your doting husband.

You nodded, unable to find your voice just yet.

"I have never..." He started, then stopped, shaking his head as if unable to articulate the magnitude of what had just passed between you. He groaned as he sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. His body ached in the most satisfying way.

You continued to just lay there on your stomach, thinking of what had passed. Your mind was a haze of pleasure, the boundaries between the fantasy and reality blurring.

Ormund stood and walked across the room, his movements slow and heavy. He returned a moment later with a warm, damp cloth. The first touch of it between your legs made you gasp. You were sensitive, swollen from the rough handling, and even the gentle pressure was intense.

"I'm sorry," he murmured. "Relax."

He wiped you so gently, cleaning away the mess of your coupling with a care that belied his earlier ferocity, taking his time, ensuring he was thorough. When he was done, he discarded the cloth onto the floor and pulled back the heavy duvet, gathering you into his arms as if you weighed nothing. You curled into his chest, burying your face in his neck.

"You were so perfect," he whispered into your hair, pressing a kiss to your temple.

You shifted, propping yourself up slightly on his chest to look at him. A shadow of doubt crossed your features, a vulnerability that hadn't been there during the game.

"Is that what you need to be happy?" you asked softly. "Have you been unsatisfied before in our marriage bed?"

Ormund looked at you, blue eyes serious. He reached up to stroke your cheek, his thumb brushing over your soft skin.

"I am very happy. More than I deserve."

He leaned in to kiss you, a slow, deep kiss that tasted of salt and lingering desire. He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours.

"If I made you feel as though— I am sorry."

You kissed him again, laying your head back on his chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat. The fear dissolved, replaced by a warm glow of security. You traced idle patterns on his chest, your mind drifting back to the thrill of the act.

"Next time," you murmured sleepily. "I am in control."

Ormund ran his hand down your back, soothing you. "Oh, really?" You could hear the smile in his voice. "What would you like to try?"

You smiled against his skin, a mischievous glint returning to your eyes. "Perhaps I can be a princess, and you can be a dark knight holding me for ransom."

Ormund laughed out loud, a deep sound that startled the quiet room. "You're going to fuck your way to freedom?" You smacked his chest, feigning outrage. "I will not tell you my desires if you are going to laugh!"

He caught your hand, interlacing your fingers, rolling you both over, shifting his weight so he was looking down at you. The playfulness in his expression softened into something warmer and infinitely devoted.

"I will be anything you want me to be," he said, his gaze holding yours captive. "Servant, king, beggar. Whatever you wish."

[reveluvjay]

Now I'm not saying there should be a part 2 where they're in confession.... However-

[sincerelybambii]

thinking about valarr being a munch... // valarr targaryen x fem!reader

this content includes: pussyeating, fingering, CONSENSUAL sex, oral sex (f receiving), honestly might be the most vanilla thing i will ever write lol, valarr is NEEDY and possessive.

Valarr who returns to your shared chambers after winning a joust. He is exhausted, and only wishes to bury his face in your sweet cunt. He only won by thinking of your scrunched up brows, and the delicious moans that left your mouth after all...

Valarr who finds you in a silk nightshift originating from Lys; the one that he had gifted you on the night of your wedding and most importantly: his favourite. It is in the colour red perfectly matching your skintone. You are laying there and waiting for him, nose deep in your book that you often read before bed.

Valarr wastes no time stripping off his armour, along with his undershirt. He does not bother with anything else, he had been deprived of you for far too long. Slowly, you move to place your book on the nightstand besides the dim candle.

Valarr gives you that look. The same look he gave you on your wedding night. Love, lust, hunger combined in one. The look like he had just revived dragons from their death. You do not waste your time either, giving him a teasing look, a smirk on your lips.

"Do not make me wait, my love. Please. I have been waiting for hours." He whispers loud enough for you to hear, approaching your figure. You adjust your position, placing your palms flat against the mattress and then moved to spread your legs.

Valarr, upon your permission practically throws himself on the bed and lifted your legs gently until they were up in the air. His mismatched eyes looked into yours as he leaned his head down, pressing soft kisses on your inner thighs.

"You are so gorgeous, my love. My wife. Mine." He spoke between kisses, slowly getting closer and closer to your slit. "This sweet pussy," He paused, his tongue lapping at your pussy before continuing to speak, "is mine. My wife. So pretty."

Your legs trembled as he dove deeper into your pussy, embracing your wetness. "Keep your legs up, pretty girl." He murmured into your cunt, his voice vibrating against your wet flesh making you throw your head back against the soft pillows with a loud moan. You let out a breathy exhale, trying to keep your legs up but it was practically impossible with how well he was devouring your cunt like it was his last meal.

Valarr who removes one of his hand from your thigh, moving his middle finger towards you. He slowly pushes in, giving you time to get used to it whilst he laps at your clit like a starved man.

You are no longer being quiet, but he does not seem to mind. In fact, Valarr enjoys the thought of everyone knowing you are his wife and his wife alone. Your feet are now placed flat on the mattress, your legs are spread as far as they could go without being too uncomfortable and your hands are grabbing onto his hair pushing his face deeper into your pussy.

He glances at your face; scrunched up in pleasure with your mouth open in a silent moan, rutting his hips into the mattress. He was hard, but your pleasure was something that mattered more to him.

Gently, Valarr moves his middle finger in and out of your pussy, curling his finger to reach your pleasurable point as his tongue latches onto your clit.

Your grip tightens on his hair, your legs clamping shut around his head. He does not pull away, he knows you are reaching your peak.

"Do not stop." You moan out. "Please, Valarr. I am going to come." Your back arches, lifting slightly from the mattress before then lowering back down.

"I was not planning to, my love." He murmurs out into your cunt once more, increasing the pace of his fingering focusing exactly on your spot. His tongue does not falter either, his hips rutting onto the mattress below your tangled bodies.

It does not take long until you come, your head thrown back as you let out what might be the most pornographic moan of your life. He graciously laps up your juices, looking into your figure with a lovefool stare.

Valarr's brows scrunch up before he let out a groan against your inner thigh and blew his load on the mattress.

"Fuck." He groaned out, pulling away slowly and looking at your exhausted figure. Your chest is moving up and down rapidly.

"Worry not, my dear. I will prepare us a bath and we may continue there."

a/n: this was supposed to be a blurb bye.

taglist: @baambiinaa

[reveluvjay]

My sweet unvaccinated boy

[sallymaywritings]

The feral need to tease Ormund until he loses his mind and pour all of his rage into rough sex with the reader.

[reveluvjay]

I don't ask for much 😩😩😩

[n3ptoonz]

,Rᴇᴘᴏʀᴛɪɴɢ Lɪᴠᴇ’

Pairing: Sam Wilson/Reporter!Wife!Reader

Fandom: MCU; TFATWS

Summary: You have to convince him to let you tell his story

Warnings: Smut; Explicit, fluff elements, teeny tiny argument, creampie with the intent to have kids, intimate sx, mating press, barely proofread

I hope this isn't whack 🧍🏾‍♀️ I drafted this wayyy back like last year and just finished the second half 💔

Dt: @i-loveyoubutyourenotmine

Word count: 2000

Sam has been sitting in front of that TV for hours, watching the news cover him relinquish the shield over and over again. Different headlines, different scripts; opinions. Some more brutal than others. He knows the world will never understand why he did it. After all this time, the past six months of just...contemplating the future of his career.

The events of the Infinity War sometimes still fresh in his mind. The nightmares he still gets on occasion. Waking up in a cold sweat just to turn and see that circle-shaped bag that held the symbol of Captain America in it. It quietly drove him nuts. To have such a heavy burden to carry, just like that. All for what? Nobody will understand why he turned it in. Whether they agreed for disagreed with his decision.

Well, not nobody.

As he finally shut the TV off and soothed his temples with a heavy sigh, the front door opened and in came you, his gorgeous reporter wife. After a long day of dwelling and overthinking, you are just what he needed for his stress to melt away.

"Hey, baby," he said with slightly tired eyes but a warm smile. You had a look on your face. That look. When you're about to propose an idea but you're unsure how to say it.

Earlier today, your boss mentioned that you were in talks of being one of four reporters in your office to get promoted and it required a juicy, real story. The thing is...Sam has made it abundantly clear that he wanted to keep work separate from your relationship. Translation: "don't go using me for a story." It wasn't like he didn't trust you, but it was very risky. Not including the fact of conflict of interest since you're literally married. Very privately.

So, in short, you're going to have to convince him to let you tell his story.

"...what are you thinking about?"

"Sam..." you began with a sheepish smile and approached the couch like it held a dangerous animal. "I want you to just hear me out, okay?"

His brow raised as you sat next to him and got comfortable. A tactic you usually did to keep his guard down when really it did the opposite the more you did it to ease him into whatever you were conjuring up.

"I always hear you out, unfortunately" he lightly joked. "But go on. I'm all ears."

"I was talking to Sylvia earlier and... she mentioned a potential promotion."

"Oh, boy."

"You don't even know what I'm gonna say!"

"You're going to need an exciting new story to pitch and you want my help."

"....Well...yeah, but-"

He stood up with a heavy sigh. "You know how I feel about you using me for a story."

"But I'm not using you! Sam, I really want to get your story out there. I would pick and choose my questions very carefully and stay away from your personal life as much as possible. You** know that."

He crossed his arms, which was a sign that a protective wall was coming up. It's not like he didn't trust you. That fat diamond on your finger wouldn't be there if he didn't but that didn't make this any easier. If anything it made it harder.

"It's not about the personal life thing," he said slowly, tone firm. "It's about people twisting my words. Taking them out of context and painting me as some kind of traitor to the country. Or a coward."

You stayed quiet for a moment.

"...is that what the news said?"

He exhaled through his nose. You were always quick at picking things up like that.

"I just… don’t wanna be put on display like some exhibit. I get it enough as is."

"I understand what you're saying. I really do, but do you really think the right thing to do is sulking when I'm not home, watching fake news and fake narratives and bullshit headlines all day while you stay silent and not even try to speak your truth?"

Woah. He wasn't expecting that.

He uncrossed his arms and sat on the arm of the couch, rubbing his thighs nervously. You scooted closer and wrapped your hand around his forearm.

"The people need to know," you added. "You've got more people riding for you than you think. With or without the shield, Sam Wilson is still Sam Wilson, you know?"

Everything you said was true and he knew it. Ever since you met you could see through his Mister Has-His-Shit-Together front. Another reason he tied the knot.

And there was those eyes you gave him. Man** it was real hard to say no to you.

"Plus, not to be that person but I am a highly trusted a revered source...I have a Pulitzer, babe."

"Okay, okay, I get it," he said, flipping his hands to lace his fingers with yours. "I'll do it."

You gasped and got up to hug him, almost knocking him off the couch. He hugged you back and stood while you straddled his waist, kissing his face.

"Hey, hey, on one condition."

You stopped and looked at him eagerly.

"Do you remember that conversation we had on our wedding night?"

Well that took a turn. Your head tilted.

"We...talked?" You half-joked. He said your name in a half-firm manner.

"I really don't remember. It was seven years ago including the blip."

"Right, well, when we agreed that when we felt the time was right...we would try for a baby."

You're stunned into silence.

"...Sam."

His expression softened into something more tender. Nervous, even. This wasn’t how he planned to bring it up, but the conversation had led here naturally and he's been thinking about it a lot ever since he turned in the shield.

"I know we never really talked about it again after that night," he added quietly. "But I've been thinking about it a lot lately and..I think we're ready. We've been together for so long and been through hell and back together. We can do this. Together."

You carefully got down and backed up just to look at him. A growing smile plastering across your face as you held up a fake microphone to your mouth.

"Reporting live from the Wilson household," you began while backing up further towards the steps. He started to follow while shaking his head but he couldn't hide his own smile at your antics. As many times as he's mentioned that journalists don't normally say 'reporting live', you always countered with 'Who got the Pulitzer?'. "I am here with..."

"Sam Wilson."

"And I am...not** Mrs. Wilson. For all intents and purposes, this interview will be conducted fairly and objectively, as all should be."

You got halfway up the stairs when you paused.

"Take one: rough draft."

You chuckled and ran up to your shared room. He laughed--like, really laughed, for the first time in weeks--and caught up quickly. You were already on the bed, sweater discarded and craning your finger towards you as soon as he was in your sights. He followed as if you were physically pulling him in. That wide grin never leaving his face.

This was going to be fun.

"So," you began, laid out on the bed in nothing but your panties. Sam kneeling as he kissed a hot trail up your body starting from your shins. You shuddered once he made it to your inner thighs and sucked hard enough on your skin to leave hickeys. "What do you want all those who oppose you hanging up the shield to know?"

It already wasn't like you to mix business with pleasure, leaving work problems at the door as soon as you stepped into the house, but this was just... something different. Something you were sharing with the love of your life. And it wouldn't be you without making things interesting in the bedroom.

Sam hummed as he kissed your stomach and pulled your panties down with such gentleness. His response, a murmur.

"That it's none of their damn business."

You rolled your eyes playfully, watching him discard his boxers with a subtle lip bite.

"I'm serious."

He hovered over you as he settled between your thighs. Planting a kiss to your lips and hooking your legs over his shoulders.

"So am I."

You gasped and gripped the sheets beneath you as he sheathed inside you. It's the same every time and yet because you don't get to see him often, it's like the first time all over again. He bottomed out and kissed your ankle with a little smile.

"Go on. Next question."

His movements were steady and grounded, just like he was. Even in the heat of the moment there was a sense of purpose to him, the way he looked at you made you feel like you were the only person in the entire world worth seeing. Worth giving his time to.

"Question two..." you continued. "How does it feel to just...be Sam? Not the Falcon... not the next Captain America... just a man?"

"Good question," he said as he put some pressure on your legs by leaning down a little more. Your followed grunt melting into an involuntary whimper. "I'd say it's not always easy, but it's not impossible. It's home. The only place I get to not be Falcon or possibly the next Captain America...is home. With my gorgeous, talented not-wife."

You were barely holding on. Half listening and half giving in. He increased the pace by a tad just to see your eyes flutter.

"Anything else?"

You let out a shaky, breathless laugh. Your head hitting the pillows as you tried to find your voice amidst the overwhelming sensation of him. But you were slowly losing yourself in him. You were losing yourself in each other. As much as you wanted to keep up with the bit, you had to let it go for the time being. Future you will understand, right?

"Not at the moment," you said. Unable to look away as he carefully leaned further and pressed your thighs to your chest. Oh, he was so big and deep, you were seeing stars.

"Rain check?"

You nodded quietly, eyes fluttering more and your eyebrows upturned.

He planted both hands on the sides of your head and drove it home. He didn't need to go any faster because he knew the deeper strokes were your favorite. It was a lot more intimate that way--he do humbly agrees. Your soft whines and moans spiked a chill up his spine. He couldn't get enough of you. Absence really does make the heart grow fonder.

Your back arched off the bed as your climax hit. It wasn't anything theatrical. A string of pleasurable sounds dripped from your lips while riding out your release. He came after with a shuddering groan. Arms almost giving out at how great you feel wrapped around him. That was already one thing. But to finally be able to pump you full of his legacy because he felt you were ready for children? This big of a leap in your relationship meant so much to him. With or without the shield, he was going to achieve his real dreams one way or another.

Sam pulled out slowly so his seed wouldn't immediately come pouring out. Just the sight of you like this had him ready to do it three more times in the same night.

He laid next to you, holding you close to his chest and rubbing your back. He kissed the top of your head and sat there in the quiet. Listening to your breathing slowly subside.

"... you think it'll be a coincidence for you to suddenly be pregnant after you publish your interview with me?"

You chuckled and angled your face so it'd be easier to breathe--those fat ass pecks he got.

"I... didn't think that far."

He sighed and laughed softly, caressing your lower back. So much for conflict of interest...

"Guess we better get that interview done as soon as possible."

You mumbled something under your breath, not loud enough for him to hear.

"That's tomorrow's problem."

[reveluvjay]

So happy nobody saw the absolutely DISGUSTING smirk that spread across my face as I read this