clytemnestra girl im so sorry your other kids were losers who didn’t understand the bigger picture. because what the fuck do you mean your husband killed your daughter (their sister) and brought home a random slave girl about your daughter’s age and just tells everyone that she’s going to be his sex slave now? and they’re mad at you for absolutely whooping his ass? hell no. agamemmnon must’ve lost his fig eating mind if he thought there wouldn’t be consequences for that shit
summary you joined the running man, knowing damn well that the hunter responsible for eliminating you once was the same person who used to whispers sweet nothings to your ear and promised you the world.
warnings 18+. smut. penis in vagina sex. unprotected sex. fingering. angst. lovers to exes. lovers to enemies. doggy style. choking. hair pulling. english is not my first language
author's note definitely not the f1 content u guys were waiting from me but i saw running man and i couldn't stop thinking about this idea 👀
masterlist
you’ve known it was him since the very first broadcast.
that six-foot-five of a towering masked silhouette with lethal, effortless control striding through the chaos like he owns the world. moving with that same deliberate grace that used to make your stomach twist in a different way.
evan mccone.
the man who used to wake you up with soft kisses on your bare shoulder. who whispered “i love you” like it was the easiest truth in the world. who promised forever on a ratty couch in a one-bedroom apartment that smelled like takeout and sex.
that same man whom you watched as he erased himself from your life by bending to dan killian’s offer on live tv.
you told yourself it was a sick joke. you waited for him to come home.
weeks.
months.
nothing.
no explanation.
no goodbye.
just the sudden flood of network propaganda introducing their new star hunter, the enigmatic leader with the grey tactical mask, aviators, and that long dark coat.
as he became the network’s masked god, you were fired. rent was three months overdue, fridge empty. it was the kind of desperation that made a billion new dollar prize sounded like salvation.
even if it meant you would have to survive for 30 days by dodging the man who once knew every inch of your body.
you didn’t care that he was hunting people for sport now. you didn't care that you were now one of those people. you needed the money badly enough to run straight into his game.
it had been eight days.
the other two runners were already gone. one taken out by a civilian tip, the other by a hunter drone strike. you were the last one standing and the world was eating it up.
you knew why you were still alive.
you caught the way he redirected the pack with a tilt of his head when they got too close to your trail. how he let civilian tips on your location went cold before action. he was dragging this out. still protecting you despite everything. and it pissed you off more than anything else.
you slipped through the rain-drenched alleys of the old industrial district, heading for the shitty walk-up apartment you had claimed as a temporary hole. peeling paint, busted locks, no heat. but it was off the grid, no cameras.
you checked over your shoulder out of habit, spotting a shadow that had been following you since two blocks ago.
tall figure in a dark jacket, cap pulled low. no mask tonight. he didn't even try to hide anymore.
you clenched the knife in your pocket harder.
you reached the door, key scraping in the lock before you stepped inside. just as you were closing it, a hand slid between the space, stopping the door from slamming shut. he shoved himself inside before you could react, kicking it closed behind him.
you took out the knife in your pocket, aiming at his throat. “get the fuck out.”
evan stood there, cap thrown without care, jacket zipped down. rain dripped from him onto the cracked floor. his stubbles were thicker, grey eyes dark with faint scars decorating his face from whatever hell he went through after accepting that hunter contract.
he didn't reach for a weapon, just stared.
“i knew you were fucking following me,” you hissed, digging the knife deeper until a thin line of blood beads against his skin, pushing him against the wall.
he didn't flinch, hands raised slightly in mock surrender with that cool nonchalance you hated even when you loved him.
“smart girl. you always did have good instincts.”
“shut the fuck up.” you shove him harder against the wall, but he was stronger. always was.
he moved faster than you remember, catching your wrist, twisting it just enough to force the knife out from your fingers without snapping bone. it hit the floor with a clatter. you kneed him in the thigh, knuckle aiming for his jaw but he caught your arm, spinning you until your back hits the wall with a thud that knocked the breath from your lungs. he pinned your wrists above your head with one hand, the other braced beside your face.
up close, he looked older. the exhaustion in his eyes he was trying to hide behind that mask he wears for the world.
“get off of me, you fucking bastard,” you thrashed, struggling against his grip. your body remembered him too well. the heat, the weight and it betrayed you with a traitorous spark low in your belly.
“not until you tell me why you’re really here,” he asked quietly, voice low and rough like it hadn’t been used for anything but orders in years. “why the hell did you join the show?”
you laughed, bitter and sharp. “why the fuck do you think, evan? i’m broke, you fucking asshole. money. survival. same reason you sold your soul to become their masked fucking poster boy.”
his fingers tightened around your wrists. “i took that contract for us. enough money to get you out of this dying country. new names, new life. i was gonna come back for you.”
“you ghosted me. cut me off like i was nothing. then went on tv wearing that mask, murdering people. and now when i’m in your way, you’re going easy on me? taking out the others first? don’t pretend that that's mercy. you just don’t want to pull the trigger yourself.”
something flashed in his eyes. anger? regret? you couldn't tell.
“you think i want you dead?” he asked, sounded more offended about that than you practically calling him a coward.
“you left me to rot. actions speaks louder.”
“i was trying to save you, goddamn it!” he snapped, voice taking on a higher octave. his eyes were wild, all that famous composure shattered.
“i couldn’t give the order. i redirected every sweep. i told them you weren’t worth the resources yet.”
“i don't need your help or your fucking guilt, evan. you knew i can survive this on my own, with or without you. you made your bed, fucking lie in it.”
the air between you crackled, thick with old emotions and something darker. you hated him. you hated how your body arched toward him without permission, how his proximity still set you on fire.
“you broke us,” you whispered fiercely. “you left me to rot in this hellhole. after everything that you promised me.”
“i know. i fucking know. and i hate myself for it every day.”
another pause. you exhaled deeply, exhausted. exhausted from running, hiding, from holding all these feelings bottled inside you for years and letting it all out to him didn't even make you feel any better.
“just kill me.” you sighed. “i’m tired. finish the job. do what they paid you for.”
he stared at you, chest heaving. the silence stretches, electric and violent.
then his mouth crashed into yours.
it wasn't gentle. it was teeth and anger and two years of pent-up everything. you moaned before biting his lip hard enough to taste blood, and he growled into your mouth, releasing your wrists only to grip your hips and grinded against you. your hands fisted in his jacket, yanking him closer even as you cursed him in between kisses.
“fuck you,” you gasped against his lips, nails scraping down his neck.
“yeah,” he muttered, hands sliding under your shirt, rough palms dragging over your skin like he was reclaiming what was his. “keep telling yourself that.”
his free hand dropped between your legs, cupping you roughly through your jeans. you hated how your hips rolled into his palm on instinct.
“look at you,” he murmured against your ear, fingers pressing the seam against your clit. “hate my guts, but dripping the second i touch you.”
you tried to knee him but he wedged his thigh between yours, pinning you harder. he shoved your pants and underwear down enough then shoved a finger inside your soaked heat without warning.
“jesus, listen to that,” he groaned, pumping slow and deep, curling just right. “so fucking wet you’re dripping down my hand. you hate me that much, huh?”
“shut the fuck up,” you gasped, even as your walls fluttered around his finger. “i hate you so fucking much—”
he added a second finger, stretching you, thumb grinding your clit in a ruthless motion.
“then why are you about to come all over my hand?” he demanded, pumping his fingers harder, faster. “why does this pussy still weep every time you see me chasing you?”
“because you ruined me— fuck—”
you sobbed, nails clawing his shoulders, hips grinding shamelessly as you slowly tried to reach your peak.
he chuckled against your ear. “you really tried to move on, huh? but this pretty pussy never forgot who it belongs to.”
“evan—” you gasped, hips chasing his hand.
“that’s it,” he cooed, voice velvet-rough. “come for me, baby. show me how much you missed this.”
you shattered. hard, violent, clenching around his fingers as pleasure ripped through you. he didn't stop. he pumped into you through it until you were shaking and oversensitive
only then did he pull his hand free, bringing his glistening fingers to your mouth.
“clean them.”
you bit him instead. he laughed, low and dark, shoving them past your teeth anyway. you moaned, swirling your tongue as you tasted yourself on his digits as he forced you to suck.
“good girl,” he praised and your pussy clenched around nothing. “still know how to take what i give you.”
you slapped him across the face.
hard.
enough to snap his head sideways.
he turns back slowly, cheek red, eyes blazing. “do that again and i’ll choke you while i fuck you raw.”
your pussy throbbed.
“do it,” you challenged, voice shaking with rage and want. “i dare you.”
he groaned, ripping your clothes then his own before he threw you on the bed, flipping you onto your stomach and yanked your hips up.
his hand wrapped around your throat instantly until your back met his chest. firm, possessive, cutting just enough air to make your pulse thundered. he took his cock, thick, flushed, already leaking and teased your slit.
“say it.” he demanded. “tell me how much this pussy wants to be ruined again.”
“i want it.” you replied almost immediately, already shaking. “please. fuck me.”
evan didn't waste any more time. he slammed into you in one slow, deep thrust, burying himself to the hilt.
“still so fucking tight,” he grunted, releasing your throat. your body went limp, collapsing onto the mattress as he fucked you.
“two years and no one else stretched this cunt right, did they?”
“don’t flatter yourself—”
he stopped to slap your ass hard, the crack echoing. “lie to me again, i dare you.”
another slap, harder. you moaned despite yourself, body jerking forward before he drove into you again.
he leaned over you, chest to your back, hand sliding down to fist your hair and bring you up as he pounded deeper.
“say you’re mine.” he whispered into your ear, hand sliding down to rub your clit in unrelenting circles.
“no—”
he pulled out almost completely, hand leaving your hair then slammed back in so hard the bedframe cracked against the wall. “say it.”
“fuck you—”
he stilled, buried to the hilt, and you nearly sobbed from the loss of friction.
“say it, or i’ll leave you like this.
“you wouldn’t—”
he started pulling out, slowly, and you whimper.
“evan, move. you bastard—”
“say it.”
you broke, voice cracking. “i’m yours— god— i’m still yours— please, fuck me—”
he groaned in victory, hand again around your throat to pull you back to his chest and fucked you with his other hand rubbing your clit like he was trying to split you apart.
“do it. come on my cock, baby. come on.”
and you did, walls spasming around him with a cry that was half-sob, half his name.
he followed seconds later, thrusting deep and spilling inside you with a guttural “mine— fuck— you're mine.”
you collapsed trembling, his weight heavy on your back. his hand stays loosely around your throat, thumb stroking your pulse like a claim.
he didn't pull away immediately. just stayed there, forehead pressed to your back, both of you panting in the dim light.
“this doesn’t change anything,” you whispered
“i know.”
he finally stepped back, zipping up. you straightened, pulling on what was left of your clothes, avoiding his eyes.
“tomorrow,” he said quietly, heading for the door. “stay off the main grids. head east.”
you just nodded. you didn't thank him. none of you said goodbye.
Ormund Hightower fucking his wife with holy purpose of siring a new heir because the first four kids his first wife gave him are simply not enough and he must show off the power of House Hightower and more babies will surely show the stability of his house.
Ormund Hightower who develops a breeding kink after seeing his wife swell beautifully with his child, her belly round, her breasts filling up with milk to nurse another of his heirs, skin glowing and radiant and that proud glim that appears in her eyes as she rubs her belly.
Ormund Hightower that doesn't stop fucking his wife throughout her pregnancy because her cunt is so deliciously swollen from carrying his babe that he gets even more addicted to it than he was before. Whenever he can he has her on her back or on her hands and knees, careful not to squish her stomach while rutting into her with vigor.
Ormund Hightower who becomes obsessed with his lady wife —spoiling her whenever he can with the softest silks, beautiful new ribbons and sweet, sweet perfume that only makes him want to spend more time with her.
Ormund Hightower finding out he adores the smell of her skin — something entirely hers mixed with the smell of the milk that leaks from her breasts the closer to the due date she is. He loves how she smells, he loves that he partly is the reason of why it's happening.
Ormund Hightower that cannot stop himself from nursing from her breast after the baby is born, latching onto her nipple and drinking the sweet like honey and so so delicious. He loves to lay with her in their bed, head on her chest as she cradle it. It's intimate and so sensual and he loves hearing her gasp and whine while his mouth is closed around her.
Ormund Hightower pretending he has no idea what is happening while maester is surprised that her milk still haven't dried up because their babe is fed by nursemaids so why would his lady wife still produce it?
Ormund Hightower that gets her with another babe as soon as she feels strong enough to bear another, making her swell with his babe again, while carrying a squealing, giggling infant on her hip — a sight that makes his heart swell and a smile to form on his face all by itself
