HOME IN THREE DAYS. DO NOT WASH ormund hightower x wife!reader
synopsis: returning victorious from the battlefield, the lord of oldtown, ormund hightower, sends a most intricate request to his lady wife
warnings: mdni. spoilers for dance of the dragons, canon divergence, timeline that makes absolutely zero sense but it’s called fanfiction for a reason okay guys pls don’t come at me, oral (f receiving), mentions of war and death, ormund is lowkey a perv, piv, emotional sex, touch of breeding kink, religious motives
word count: 6.8k
a/n: honestly after writing this, all i have to say is enjoy 😭 (and thank you for all the ormund girlies for putting me onto this idea) there are two direct quotes from george martin so ofc all credits go to him 4 that
You are seated in your solar when the letter arrives.
The messenger carrying the sealed parchment bows his head low before placing it into your hands.
“A message, my lady, from your Lord husband.” He declares, the heavy wool doublet covering his frame bearing the flame sigil of your house.
You offer a brief nod of dismissal. He retreats in silence, leaving you with a handful of your highborn companions and servants in the sunlit chamber. You can feel the weight of their wandering eyes and curious gazes trying to discern what exactly your husband has sent. They long to catch a glimpse of the ink, doubtless to trade it for gossip later over their embroidery.
“That will be all for today, thank you.” Your eyes turn to the perfumed women in their vibrant, colorful silks. Your tone leaves no room for argument, and truth be told, none would dare disobey the lady of the castle.
You can see the light dim behind their eyes, their spirits deflating at being dismissed and denied a glimpse into your private marital affairs. Yet, they all rise quietly, murmuring the proper courtesies and offering to remain at your service. You thank them, as politeness dictates.
Finally, the heavy oak doors thump shut behind them as the last of the ladies files out. Only then does the tension in your shoulders ease, the careful, rigid posture you were taught to maintain since childhood melting away. The remaining household servants are as silent as stone, and they know better than to sneak glances at the parchment. Not that most of them possess the letters to read it anyway.
You shift quietly, settling into the silken cushions where you have sat for hours. Your ringed fingers make short, careful work of breaking the green wax seal; the parchment parts with a soft, crisp tear.
Yet, before you even unfold the missive, it is the scent that finds you first. It is the unmistakable, intimately familiar fragrance of your husband’s scented water—the blend he carries with him everywhere.
In the early days of your marriage, you had often made his habit a point of jest, teasing him for clutching an incense filled thurbil like some prissy lady of the court. But through years of shared bed and counsel, you had come to accept it as an essential part of him; your husband simply possessed a rare appetite for the finer things. For sweetness, mostly. In time, you had even learned to love it, for it spoke so entirely of his presence.
Safe to say, the parchment is utterly drenched in it.
You feel an involuntary quickening in your blood—a sudden warmth spreading through your belly at the sheer intimacy of the vapor. He knew precisely what he was doing, all but bathing the very pages he intended for your eyes.
A breathless laugh nearly escapes you, imagining Ormund clad in heavy steel, quill in hand amidst the dirt of the commander’s pavilion, deliberately dousing the sheet with his essences while soldiers marched and shouted just beyond the canvas.
“Always so mindful,” you murmur to the empty air, for the servants remain as silent as stone and would scarce understand the jest regardless.
Your eyes skim over the lines, a familiar sense of comfort washing over you at the sight of your husband’s heavy script. You fail to stifle the smile that softens your lips.
Much of it is the usual talk of how dreary and dull the campaign has proven. He makes mention of the Queen, his cousin Alicent, his other cousin Gwayne, and Ser Criston Cole, the Lord Commander whose host they are soon to join. He writes, too, of the battle at Tumbleton that is likely to follow.
At that, your heart squeezes painfully in your chest. Ormund is one of the finest soldiers and commanders in the realm, but he is a mortal man still; his flesh can bleed, and his bones can break. And after all it is only natural for a wife to fear for her husband.
Naturally, he complains bitterly of the camp—the wretched stench of unwashed men, muck, and horseflesh that hangs thick over the pavilions. In his words it is utterly unbearable.
He speaks of his squire, prince Daeron as well. Noting that he can spy the nervousness in his young nephew, though both the boy and Tessarion stand ready for battle.
Ready to take the Iron Throne itself, should Prince Aemond fall and the burden descend to them—since word has reached the camp that Aemond has proclaimed himself Protector of the Realm. You care little and less for who sits upon the Aegon's seat, you only pray for your husband to return to your arms in one piece.
And then, at the very end, he closes the letter with something that steals the breath straight from your lungs.
Home in three days. Do not wash.
A sudden heat flushes your cheeks a deep crimson.
He is so terribly sure of himself, so entirely confident that no harm will find him, that Tumbleton will be won, and that he will ride back to Oldtown safe and whole. It is so undeniably Ormund.
You bite your lip, the warmth in your belly turning to a dull ache, knowing all too well that a safe return is a promise no man can truly make while the Dance rages on.
At the end of the parchment, he had signed his initials in a bold, dark hand: OH
You softly traced the ink with the tip of your finger, as if the stroke of his quill could somehow bridge the leagues between you. Yet as the moment of sentiment passed, you quickly folded the sheet, pressing it tight within your fist.
Rising from your seat, you paced over to the hearth. It made your heart ache to tear the missive into fragments, but you cast the pieces into the embers nonetheless.
You watched as the parchment caught flame, curling and turning to gray ash, even as your husband’s familiar fragrance still hung heavy upon your tongue. Alas, you knew the scent of water could never compare to the musk of his skin, or the steady thrum of his heart pulsing beneath your fingertips.
A sudden, dark thought pricked your mind—a fleeting wonder if those ashes were the last pieces of him you would ever hold should he fall in the Reach—but you fiercely willed the shadow away.
No, your Ormund would return to you. Or he would die trying.
You inhaled sharply, steadying yourself. The letter had to be destroyed. Its contents were far too scandalous for any prying septa or maester to accidentally stumble upon.
Clasping your hands behind your back, you turned your gaze to one of the remaining maids. “I shall be having no need of the bath after supper today.” you declared.
The woman’s eyes sought yours, a flicker of confusion crossing her face at the unusual command, yet she quickly lowered her head. “As my lady commands it.”
“Very well.”
And with that, you turned your back on the hearth and set off toward the quiet sanctuary of your bedchambers.
It is perhaps, the first day that is the easiest.
You go about your usual duties, overseeing the keep and holding audience with the lesser lords in your husband’s stead. You seek out the sept nestled within the great stone walls of the Hightower, lighting tallow candles and praying to the Mother for your husband’s safe return.
Your hours pass largely uneventful. No fresh ravens from King’s Landing or the battlefield arrive to disturb the peace.
The realm is still in great peril, locked in the throes of a bloody succession, yet you are among those rare, fortunate few whose daily lives do not yet feel the cruel shift of war. Your husband’s absence is the only true sign that the world is bleeding.
It is only when twilight deepens into night, and the hour for your evening bath approaches, that you must dismiss your handmaidens once again.
“But, my lady,” one of the elder women frowns, her hands clasped nervously over her apron. “I mean no insolence, but… you have foregone the hot waters since yesterday morn—”
You cut her off with a look as sharp as Valyrian steel, and she freezes instantly.
“I should find it most pleasant if you did not question my choices,” you say, your voice clipped as you force a veneer of stiff politeness over the reprimand. “Thank you.” You offer a single, final nod.
“Of course, my lady.” A sudden heat flushes her cheeks in embarrassment at her own boldness. “Forgive my insolence.” She mutters.
You hum in cold acknowledgment before bidding her lay out your linen shift so you might change for the night.
Thankfully, none of the others dare question you further, leaving you to slide into the great, empty bed in silence.
On the second day, the irritation truly begins to fester.
It is not even the scent of your own sweat or the slight, muskier heat of your skin that unsettles you most, but rather the heavy, lingering glances from both the highborn ladies and the serving girls. The lords fail to notice, of course. Men are blind to the subtle shifts of the solar. But women... women possess a hound’s nose for such things.
“Forgive my curiosity, my lady,” one of your companions ventures during the mandatory hour of afternoon wine and needlework, her spine stiff and a sharp, a calculating glint in her eyes. “But are you... quite well? Has some sudden ague or illness been troubling you these past few days?”
A few of the younger girls stifle titters behind their silk handkerchiefs, while a seasoned lady snorts softly at the sheer boldness of the question.”
“Nothing has troubled me,” you reply coldly, your gaze sweeping over the circle like winter frost. “And I confess I do not fathom what should prompt such a thought.”
“Of course not, my lady. Forgive me.” she murmurs quickly, dipping her chin and retreating back into the safety of the embroidery circle.
Yet, the silence does not last. Once their heads are bent back over their frames, the murmurs begin—whispers that your wits have been murked by the absence of your lord, or that you have simply grown neglectful of your proper duties as wife now that his eye is far from Oldtown.
One or two even dare breathe the word slothful. But they are only whispers, drifting like smoke through the high stone arches.
You owe them no accounting of your lord’s desires. So you let them whisper.
But without a doubt, it is the third day—the very day your lord husband is expected to ride through the gates—that proves the worst.
It is not the ever-growing musk of your unwashed skin that irks you most, but rather the heavy black raven that arrives with the morning mists, bearing tidings of a grim victory at Tumbleton.
The greens have triumphed, or so the parchment claims. In a twist of monumental treachery, the Dragonseeds—Rhaenyra’s own dragonriders—had turned their fires upon her own host.
Yet, despite the grand declarations of victory, the remaining lines are stripped of any joy.
The sack of the town has been anything but a noble affair. It has been an exercise in absolute butchery. Houses put to the torch, infants slain, and women—even holy septas and silent sisters were not spared— being subjected to the brutal whims of a victorious, drunken army. It is a horror to even contemplate, let alone witness.
You feel a sharp pang of selfishness when your eyes skip past the carnage, desperately searching for a single name. When you find it, confirming that your lord husband lives, unwounded, and is already riding hard for Oldtown with a vanguard of his personal household guard, a ragged sob of relief escapes your throat.
The Dance is far from ended, and the realm will continue to bleed. But the battlefield would have to wait. There are plenty of hungry lords and capable men who can take your husband's place in the mud, if only for a night.
By the time night falls, your husband has still not arrived in Oldtown.
No news has reached the gates, and no scouts have brought sign of his riding party.
Your entire day has been spent pacing the drafty halls of the Hightower, seeking out any task to keep your mind from fracturing with anticipation.
You have seen to it that the entire household is in order, the stones scrubbed clean, and every tapestried hall set aright. You have ordered a plentiful feast prepared to greet his vanguard. You even went so far as to take up your needlework, in a desperate attempt to stave off the madness of the wait.
Alas, the effort ended miserably; shaky fingers and an unsteady mind are poor tools for fine embroidery. Sitting with your highborn companions proved more tedious still, and you dismissed them scarce a quarter of an hour into tea-time.
The whole of the castle is charged with a heavy, restless air, every servant and man at arms waiting on a knife's edge for the return of their Lord.
Your nails are bitten down to the quick, and you have endlessly twisted the rings upon your fingers. When the handmaidens arrive for the evening, they practically beg to prepare the bath.
“But the Lord Ormund—” one of them ventures, her voice hesitant.
“Do you suggest you know the needs of mine own husband better than myself?” Your patience is utterly frayed, and you can no longer keep the sharp edge of your tongue from snapping like a whip.
“My lady.” she murmurs, bowing her head in hasty obedience before scurrying away.
“And take away this boar meat. Leave the arbor gold,” you command, and the remaining servants quickly clear the table.
You turn to the household guards standing post at your door—the men in steel who have trailed you through your duties all day. “Leave the chambers. Let no one inside. You are to enter only to notify me when my Lord husband is at the gates.”
The man in the iron half-helm nods, drawing the thick oak doors shut. The heavy latch falls into place, leaving you alone in the awful, suffocating silence. Waiting.
What must have been minutes felt like hours. Time takes on a strange, twisted shape when one is locked in such nervous anticipation. Yet, the sands in the glass trickle down regardless.
Left with nothing but the loud thrumming of your own thoughts, you tried to lose yourself in a leather-bound history, though you managed scarce a few pages before the letters swam before your eyes.
You smoothed the heavy furs and linens upon the high bed perhaps a dozen times.
You combed out your hair, adjusted the laces of your linen evening shift, and even debated opening the door to ask the guardsmen if they had forgotten your command. But you checked yourself, knowing such frantic fretting would be incredibly unbecoming of the Lady of the Hightower.
And still, in that agonizing stillness, the unmistakable musk of your own unwashed flesh caught up with you. It was no longer a mere unpleasant odor. It was a heavy, ripe scent that hung thick in the small hours of the night.
For a fleeting second, you debated calling the servants back to prepare a hasty basin of hot water before Ormund arrived.
But his written instructions had been absolutely clear. Home in three days. Do not wash. He had kept his part of the covenant; three days had passed and he was riding back to you, whole and alive. It remained only for you to hold up your end of the bargain.
You sought the sanctuary of the castle sept once more, then retreated back to your chambers, the chill air of the drafty stone corridors offering a strange, cooling comfort against your sticky, stale skin.
By then, the hour of the owl had long since passed, and still there was no sign of your husband.
You wanted to wait for him—desperately so. You wished him to find you awake and waiting, so that you might see with your own eyes that the Stranger's steel had spared him.
But exhaustion and the tumultuous toll of the day’s anxiety were fast catching up to you. All that frantic pacing, coupled with a belly empty from a lack of appetite, had sapped the last of your strength. With every blink, your eyelids grew heavier and heavier, like lead.
You tried splashing your face with cool water from the basin and flung wide the shutters to let in the midnight breeze, but even the salt and tar air of Oldtown drifting up from the harbor did little to rouse you.
Defeated by weariness, (alas reluctantly) you finally laid your head atop the silken pillows, burying the heavy scent of your unwashed skin into the linen sheets, which your maids had surely doused with an extra measure of rosewater.
You were drifting in that liminal, strange place where one is not entirely awake yet no longer asleep when you heard it—the distinct, muffled grunt of a guardsman greeting his lord, and the heavy creak of oak hinges before the thick door closed once more with a dull thud.
You just barely managed to stir, shifting clumsily beneath the furs to sit up and rub the sleep from your tired eyes.
The chamber was drowned in half-darkness. Most of the candles you had lit hours ago had long since guttered out; only a handful remained ablaze, casting a scarce, flickering amber light across the stone walls.
Even through the gloom of the late hour, you could make out the great shadow of his figure moving about the room, his movements weary but urgent as he unbuckled and discarded the heavy sword-belt from his hips. The Valyrian longsword of his house Vigilance, which he cherished so deeply, fell to the ground with a dull thud.
“Ormund?” you breathe. The name is both a prayer and a question.
A desperate thing you need to hear spoken aloud to believe. You need to know that it is truly him standing there before you, alive in the flesh, at the foot of that shared bed which has stood cold for far too long.
Your vision is still blurred with sleep, but the moments that follow unfold with such fierce intensity that you know you will remember them for the rest of your days.
In two long, hurried strides, he collapses onto the silken sheets atop you.
Once again, it is his scent that finds you first.
Except this time, it is no spiced water or pleasant courtly incense, all of that is buried beneath an overwhelming stench of dirt, stale sweat, and the unmistakable, coppery tang of blood. Whose… you pray to the Gods, is anyone’s but Ormund’s.
Your hands scramble for leverage, finding the damp nape of his neck and gripping him so fiercely that it must bruise. The skin there is slick—either with the sweat of the road or from some futile, hurried attempt to wash away the field of battle before reaching your chambers.
Perhaps it is both. But you care little and less. He is your husband. Your Ormund, here in the flesh, breathing and alive, smelling of what all men smell of when they have looked upon the face of death and survived.
A sudden rush of tears gathers in your lashes, and a ragged sob threatens to tear from your throat at the pure, blinding elation of his presence.
Narrowly escaping the butchery of Tumbleton and witnessing thousands of men yield up their lives has awakened something primal within him. You can feel it in his shallow, ragged breaths, and in the way his calloused hands grip the bare skin of your arms, even through the heavy layers of your linen shift.
His touch will surely leave marks—blooming into dark blues and purples on the morrow—but you do not care. You would let him carve a place for himself inside your very ribcage if he wished it.
You feel that same desperation as he buries his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling the heavy, ripe musk of your unwashed skin like a drowning man catching his last taste of air.
“Ormund.” You speak his name again, clearer this time, the certainty finally settling into your bones. He is here. With you.
You card your fingers through his tangled hair, which hangs damp and messy with sweat, pulling him closer still—impossibly close, until there is not an inch of air between your bodies.
He is heavy, his armor-stiffened frame nearly crushing you into the bedding, but you do not mind. If the ceiling were to collapse upon you now, you would die content.
“I prayed...” you murmur against the rough stubble of his cheek. His eyes remain closed, his lips silent; he says nothing, needing these few stolen moments of quietude to wash the horror from his mind. “I prayed every morrow and every twilight to the Seven, begging them to return you to my arms,” you confess, your voice shaking with the weight of the tears you can no longer hold back.
A half-choked laugh escapes him at your words, a brief flash of delight breaking through his exhaustion at the knowledge that you kept him in your prayers, that you had spoken to the Seven with his face in your mind.
Gentle Mother, font of mercy, save our sons from war, we pray, stay the swords and stay the arrows, let them know a better day. Gentle Mother, strength of women, help our daughters through this fray, soothe the wrath and tame the fury, teach us all a kinder way.
He nearly groans at the thought, the holy words a stark contrast to the butchery he has just left.
Instead, he buries his face lower, pressing his lips straight against your collarbone. He inhales the deep, unmistakable scent of your skin—the salt of your sweat, the rich, built-up musk of three days without the basin. To a highborn court, it might seem uncouth, but to him, it is simply, purely woman. And woman means alive and real.
To breathe you in is to know he has escaped the cold clutches of the Stranger and found sanctuary in the arms of the one he loves.
What is honor compared to a woman’s love? What is duty against the feel of a newborn son in your arms... or the memory of a brother’s smile? Wind and words. Wind and words. We are only human, and the gods have fashioned us for love. That is our great glory, and our great tragedy.
In this singular, breathless moment, Ormund feels the truth of those words more fiercely than ever before.
He has won his share of victories, commanded hosts, and broken lances in grand tourneys, but none of it compares to this. Nothing in the Seven Kingdoms or the lands beyond could make him feel more entirely alive than the strain of narrowly escaping the slaughter, riding his stallion hard through the night even as his thighs ached and his sore muscles screamed at him, begging him to simply stop, to yield to the weariness. But he could not. He would not.
Not when you were waiting for him in the Hightower, his lady wife, keeping your quiet vigil until he could return to the warmth of your shared bed. Your shared life.
“Husband,” you nudge his head with a gentle hand, attempting to draw him back only for his grip to tighten. “I have not...” Your cheeks flush a hot, sudden crimson. “I have not bathed,” you admit quietly, the confession tasting heavy on your tongue. “It is most unbecoming of a lady—”
For the first time that evening, he raises his head and pierces you with his gaze. Those familiar eyes, which you have looked upon a thousand times before, are lined with a solemn, bone-deep tiredness, frayed at the edges by war.
Yet, at the very same time, he looks utterly, fiercely alive, the sharp line of his nose and the strength of his jaw all too intimate.
“You received my letter.” He states, his voice gruff and thick with the dust of the road. His fingers do not cease their exploration, trailing over every inch of skin and linen they can find, before his hand bunches up the heavy fabric of your shift within his fist.
“I did.” You reply softly, your eyes dipping toward the sheets, but you feel the firm pressure of his thumb and forefinger catching your jaw, forcing your chin up into stillness.
“Look at me.” He commands. The words bear the weight of a lord, yet they sound far more desperate than any commander who has just tasted victory should ever sound.
You can see it takes everything within him to restrain from simply crashing his lips against your own. “I have ridden hard across the Reach to be here. I have escaped the cold clutches of the Stranger, I have left my men and my host behind, all to return to your side. To rest in your arms. And no one, not the septons, not you, dear wife, not even the Gods themselves will forbid me the luxury of gazing upon you or breathing you in.”
Before you can offer any further reason or protest, his calloused hands bunch the linen of your shift upward, pulling the fabric past your hips and exposing your bare skin to the chill air of the chamber.
Beads of perspiration still cling to your brow, and your fingers instinctively seek leverage, carding through his tangled auburn locks as he bends his weight down between your thighs.
“Husband—”
He groans at the title, his mouth pressing fiercely against the soft flesh of your inner thighs. He marks you with the heat of his lips, tasting, touching, and inhaling sharply as the ripe, unwashed musk of your intimacy and sudden arousal mingles in the heavy air.
“Gods be good,” he rough-whispers against your skin, just loud enough to pierce the quiet of the room. “No host, no King—not even the Seven themselves could have kept me from this. From you.”
He takes his time, deliberately savoring every stolen second, his tongue tracing the tender skin just on the cusp of your heat while he buries his face deep against you.
“I thought of you,” he murmurs, his breath hot against your thighs as he presses a trail of slow, heavy kisses upward. “I thought of you every single wretched hour upon the road. Amidst the reek of horseflesh, muck, and dying men. Amidst the blood of the field, and the fires of the dragons.”
The confession is a heavy, ragged thing, and your breath hitches sharply—not merely from the mounting pleasure, but from the raw weight of his words.
“I closed my eyes and thought only of your smile, your touch... the sweetness of your cunt.” As if to prove his point, he presses his face entirely into the soft folds of your womanhood, inhaling your deep, concentrated musk before his tongue flicks out with a sudden, devastating stroke.
An unrestrained cry escapes your lips, echoing off the high stone arches.
“Only you... my lady wife...” he mutters against your wetness, his tongue exploring you with a fierce, starved hunger. “I prayed to the Mother to keep you whole... prayed to the Father to make your womb fruitful and clean, so that my seed might finally take root within you.”
At his words, a sudden tremor ripples through your entire body, and your thighs instinctively clamp tight around his head as the heat begins to break over you.
“Ormund!” You cry his name, the sound laced with a desperate, breathless heat that echoes shamelessly through the quiet bedchamber.
The household guardsmen standing post beyond the thick oak doors will have surely to play the fool on the morrow, but you care little and less for the gossip of smallfolk.
You can think only of your husband—of the wet fire of his tongue between your thighs and the bruising grip of his fingers pinning your legs wide to keep you open to his hunger.
He works you apart with a starved intensity, making you unravel from the seams, pulling you apart thread by thread as the coil in your belly tightens to an agonizing point. Ormund had ever been skilled at bringing you to your peak with his mouth, but tonight the familiar rhythm is entirely transformed. Gone is the careful, courtly teasing of a lord in his solar; this is something primal. Fierce, and animalistic. Born from the mud and blood of the battlefield.
Seven forgive us, the thought flashes like a desperate prayer in the dim recesses of your mind.
He is not merely pleasuring you; he is quite literally drinking you in, drenching his face in the ripe, unwashed scent of your climax and indulging in every slick, heavy stroke.
Your vision begins to swim, the amber candlelight blurring into streaks of gold as he drives you ruthlessly toward the edge.
“Come for me, sweet wife...” his voice buzzes low against your skin, and you feel as though your entire body has been set ablaze. “Let me taste you... bury me in your scent...”
His words, matched with the fierce, unyielding work of his mouth, finally topple you over the edge. You break with a ragged cry of his name, your fingers knotting tight in his hair as you instinctively grind your weight against his face.
He does not stop. Continuing his relentless strokes even as the climax ripples through you and you ride out the peak of your release. The firm muscle of his tongue drives through your sensitive walls, your juices slicking his cheeks and spilling onto the linen sheets beneath.
Your thighs tremble so fiercely you are certain your legs will no longer bear you. At last, after what feels an age, he comes up for air, though he keeps his face pressed close against the soft mound of your womanhood.
The damp hairs there are heavy with the rich, concentrated musk of your arousal, and you feel the hot expansion of his chest as he breathes it deeply into his lungs.
“Always so good for me...” he murmurs, pressing a final, lingering kiss against your skin while you are still reeling, your pulse hammering in your ears.
Through the faint buzzing in your head, you fail to notice him reach for a square of clean linen discarded by the bedside. You only realize his intent when you feel the cloth pressing against your center. You hiss softly at the contact, your flesh still far too tender from the peak of your release.
“Ormund?” Your eyebrows furrow in the gloom. “What are you—”
“Shh, let me,” he hushes you, his voice thick, and your wits are far too scattered to offer any true protest, nor do you truly wish to do so.
You feel the slow, deliberate swipe of the linen through your folds. You think at first he means to clean you, but as he pulls the cloth away and brings it directly to his nose, the truth settles into your mind.
He is gathering the very essence of your release, letting the fabric drink it deep so that he might preserve it—a token of your flesh to carry with him into the mud and smoke of the next campaign. A soft moan escapes you at the sheer, desperate intimacy of the act.
Yet, you have little time to dwell upon it as his hands are already framing your waist, urging the linen shift up and over your head, before he turns to frantically strip away his own heavy doublet. You lend your shaking hands to the task, helping him loosen the laces until the wool drops somewhere to the floor.
Your bare breasts are caught in the amber glow of the candlelight, and you watch Ormund's gaze fix upon your perked nipples. Reaching out, you catch his calloused hand and guide it to your flesh. He takes the weight of you, squeezing and caressing the soft curve with a starved sort of reverence.
Alas, his patience has reached its end. The heavy, rigid evidence of his hunger presses hard against his breeches, and he makes hasty work of the laces, cursing softly under his breath as he discards the last of his garments into the shadows.
He takes his manhood into his palm, giving it two firm strokes before lining himself up with your entrance. You bite your lip, your body slick and more than ready to welcome the familiar, heavy stretch of him filling you up.
“Tonight,” he murmurs, his words catching you off guard in the dark. “If the gods should grant me, as their humble servant, a reward for serving the Realm and the true King... I pray it be the planting of a son inside your womb.”
His hand reaches up, his calloused thumb gently brushing a stray lock of hair from your damp forehead. “Do you understand, sweet wife?” he whispers, leaning down upon his elbows, his weight pressing you into the bedding as he kisses the corner of your lips. “That you will grow round and swell with child... so that the next time the war calls me away, you will ever have a piece of me with you.”
Before you can muster a breath to reply, he drives forward, pushing deep inside and bottoming out with a barely suppressed groan. A sharp cry escapes you at the sheer, sudden width of him stretching your sensitive walls.
He gives you no time to adjust to the intrusion, mercilessly beginning to pound into you, the cords and tendons in his neck straining with the sheer force of his movements.
Your head is thrown back against the pillows, and he chases your mouth with his own, sealing your lips in a desperate, hungry kiss—a fierce clash of teeth and skin. In his starved frenzy, you are certain he would eat you alive if he could, losing himself entirely within your flesh to wash away the memory of the sword.
“Please, Ormund!” you cry his name for what feels the thousandth time that evening. Your nails claw at his bare skin, gripping his back in a desperate attempt to pull him closer still, and this time it is you who buries your face against him, inhaling the sharp, earthy musk of his sweat-slicked skin. “I need you to—”
“Hush, sweet girl, I know...”
He slows his frantic thrusts for a brief moment, focusing his strength to set a steadier pace, finding a deeper, more deliberate rhythm. With every long, unyielding push, he ensures you feel every single inch of him.
The old endearing term brings a sudden flock of memories rushing back to you—sweet, distant memories of the days when he was still courting you in the high gardens of Oldtown.
“I know...” he whispers hoarsely against the column of your throat, and your thighs lock tight around his hips, anchoring him to you.
“Give me your seed, husband,” you manage to gasp against his ear, the ragged shakiness of your voice betraying the depth of your undoing. “Please, by the gods—I need you, I need it inside me—”
He groans fiercely at your words, at the sheer intoxication of being buried deep within your warmth after weeks of staring into the dark abyss of death.
He feels the sudden, heavy quickening in his blood, signaling that his release is near. He is a man of formidable stamina, possessed of a soldier’s hard-bitten body, but tonight he is reduced to a mere mortal. Acutely aware of the frailty of his flesh and the preciousness of this life.
He manages only a few more messy, desperate thrusts before you feel the sudden, hot pulsing of his release spilling deep inside you, the thick ropes of his seed coating your inner walls.
You wrap your arms and legs even tighter around him as the phantom touch of his climax triggers your own second peak of the night, your body shuddering in perfect unison as you hold him fast, willing him never to let you go
When you part at last, you are both a tangled mess of limbs, reluctantly breaking your interlocked lips to catch your breath. Ormund rests his heavy head onto the pillow beside you—his rightful place—and does not hesitate for a single beat before pulling you securely into his side.
Your soft breasts press flush against the hard, unyielding plates of his chest as he idly cards his fingers through your tangled hair.
For a long while, you remain wrapped in silence, the quiet of the chamber filled only with your heavy, ragged breaths, the musk of your passion and shared lust thick in the air. You glance up, noting the faint smile that softens his tired eyes.
Finally, it is you who speaks first, breaking the serene calm of your shared silence. “Never, ever even dare to leave me again.” You push yourself up slightly, cupping the rough stubble of his cheek with your palm.
He presses his face into your hand, planting a heavy kiss there. “You know I cannot promise such a thing, sweet wife,” he replies solemnly. “Duty...”
“Your duty,” you begin shakily, your voice thick with emotion, “is to be by your wife’s side. Here in Oldtown.” You finish the thought, tilting your chin slightly.
A huff of quiet, weary laughter escapes him at your words.
“You think I jest—”
“No, my sweet wife, it is not you I laugh upon. It is simply...” He pulls you back down against his bare chest, his embrace iron-tight. “It is simply that duty is no simple matter. My family needs me, needs us. The realm and the King—”
You know he speaks the truth. You know he is bound by an unbridled sense of holy purpose and devotion that is utterly unbreakable, with his love for you coming second only to the honor of his house. At times it angers you, but a part of your heart understands that it is a thing so deeply ingrained into Ormund's bones that he cannot help it.
“Who will defend honor, hm? Righteousness, justice—” he reasons softly.
You sigh, the fight draining from you. “All I wish...” you begin, all your barriers and defenses melting away from your gaze, leaving your rawest emotions laid bare before him. “All I mean to say is... I wish it did not have to be you.”
He smiles at that—one of those easy, confident smiles that are so entirely him, making your chest squeeze with a painful fondness. The green silk of the pillows beneath your head suddenly feels as soft as a cloud, and you let out a long breath, settling back into the quiet.
“I know... sweet girl... I know...” That is all he offers, knowing too well that he cannot give you the false comfort of a lie.
After a few moments, you feel his calloused hand trail down from the curve of your hip to where the slick evidence of your coupling still lies fresh. He plunges a finger between the folds of your center, gathering the mixed cream of your releases. At the sudden intrusion, your hips instinctively buck against his hand.
He beams at the movement, a flash of white teeth in the gloom. “Always so jumpy for me…”
You can feel the battle-worn stiffness and the lingering shadow of death finally washing out of the room as he brings his hand back up to his lips, not hesitating for a moment before pressing his fingers into his mouth to taste you.
“You are utterly depraved.” You manage to whisper, watching him lazily lick the pads of his fingers.
He ignores the reprimand, choosing instead to anchor you even closer into the warmth of his chest.
“We will bathe on the morrow, together,” he promises, his voice dropping into a sleepy rumble. “Oh... and remind me, sweet wife, to order a thousand squares of linen from the merchants, so that every last one of them might be drenched in your scent.”
“Ormund.” You let out a breathy laugh at the sheer absurdity of the idea, but as you gaze into his dark eyes, you realize he is entirely serious.
“This way... I shall carry a piece of you with me into the field. Everywhere. Always.” he reasons, pressing one last, lingering kiss into the crown of your head. Finally, his heavy hand moves lower, his palm flattening out to trace the soft skin of your belly. “And you of me.” he whispers against your ear.
summary. rumors of the bond between you and your twin-brother daeron begin to swirl amongst oldtown, your uncle, ormund, does not appreciate it one bit and decides to confront you about it
word count. 7.1k
warnings. mdni, dead dove do not eat, targtower reader, dub-con, ormund is a hypocrite, oral (f receiving), set pre-dance, english is not my first language!
a/n. family tree by ethel cain. go listen to it!
highly inspired by this post.
The bone comb slides through your hair, smooth as silk.
In the polished silver of the looking glass, the long strands caught the morning light filtering through the high arched windows, gleaming a pale, shimmering silver-white. Around you, your handmaidens fluttered like a flock of nervous sparrows, whispering their soft awes and marveling at the plain view of your Valyrian ancestry.
You had been in Oldtown for almost as long as you could remember yourself.
The Red Keep of King’s Landing was nothing but a collection of half-faded memories. The faces of your lady mother, Queen Alicent, and your other siblings—Aegon, Helaena, and Aemond—were remembered only in fleeting glimpses, through a sort of thick and hazy mist. You knew they all much resembled yourself in looks, with the same pale eyes and silver-gold locks.
But they were distant princes and princesses of a court you barely knew.
The only other person who resembled you so closely, but one whom you knew all too well and held dear to your heart, was your twin brother, Daeron.
The maesters at the Citadel loved to recount the tale of your quickening to the young acolytes. It was said that when he came wailing into the world from Alicent’s blood-slicked womb, the Grand Maester had no idea there was another.
The old man had wiped his brow, thinking the labor done, and only when he saw the Queen’s birthing was still taking place, her screams echoing through the chamber anew, did he realize a second babe lay within.
Alas, you were no less welcome, appreciated, or celebrated than your brother.
So when the time came for Daeron to be sent south to the Honeywine to serve as a squire for your mother’s family, the Hightowers, it had been decided that it would be best if you went along too.
That is how, for most of your life, even as a princess of the Crown, you have called Oldtown your home, raised amidst the scent of salt, tar, and the tolling of the bells from the Starry Sept.
“It is so beautiful, my princess,” Miriam spoke softly, her voice hushed with the reverence usually reserved for the Mother’s altar. She gently carded the bejeweled golden comb through the long strands of your hair. “Like pale moonlight on the water, or the morning mists on the morrow…”
Through the silvered mirror, you could see her eyes wide in awe, and you could feel the extreme caution of her touch. Her fingers did their work ever so gently—not daring to snag a single knot or cause the slightest pain to the princess.
“Thank you, Miriam,” you replied with a gentle, practiced smile. You were much used to being showered in compliments by the household, and equally used to replying to them with the appropriate courtly courtesy.
“Which dress, princess?” another of your maids, Cathy, chirped up. The other girls helped her hold up two different garments, their faces eager for your choice.
Your eyes followed the trail of the first; a gorgeous, sweeping gown made of quality red silk from the Free Cities, flowing like fresh-spilled blood and intricately embroidered with black thread along the bodice.
The other was a gown of Hightower green, fashioned from the softest Myrish wool, its collar carefully decorated with seven-pointed stars stitched in silver thread.
It was a silent, but obviously heavy choice—the colors of your father’s house against the colors of your mother’s kin.
Before you could make your choice or offer a reply, two rapid, thudding knocks sounded on the door. Before any of your maids could bid entrance, the heavy oak thing was creaking violently on its iron hinges, banging hard against the dressed stone wall as it all but flew open.
The girls around you instinctively flocked closer to one another, forming a kind of protective half-circle with their bodies, their eyes cast down toward the rushes on the floor. One of the household servants entered first, his eyes fixed stiffly ahead of him, not daring to spare any of the women the slightest glance.
“The Lord Hightower, my princess,” he announced, his voice tight with formality.
Before you could catch your footing, find a robe, or even question what was happening, your uncle was already stepping foot inside your private chambers.
You were wearing nothing but your thin linen shift, and the maids seemed to notice your state of undress as they nervously began jittering their fingers, shifting from foot to foot.
Ormund stepped into your room as he stepped into any other room in the city—like he owned the very stones beneath his boots (because in truth he did).
He was wearing a simple but finely cut doublet of dark green velvet, the color he preferred frequenting the most, slashed with silver satin. His sharp grey gaze swept across the flock of trembling girls once before settling entirely on you.
“Uncle—” you began, straightening your back and lifting your chin, attempting to summon the dignity of a Crown princess while clad only in your night-smock. Miriam took a hasty step backward from your side.
“Leave us.” he commanded the maids, his voice a low, resonant baritone that left absolutely no room for disobedience.
You could see almost all of them squirming under the cold scrutiny of his gaze. His tall, broad-shouldered frame and strong, unyielding jawline inspired absolute reverence and fear in many a young maiden in Oldtown. Alas, you were not just one of many; you were blood of the dragon.
Your jaw tightened quietly. “Your princess commands you to stay.” you firmly countered, your voice ringing clear against the stone walls.
The girls seemed paralyzed. Entirely confused, frozen in place, caught in a web of divided loyalties. They looked between their princess and their Lord, not entirely certain whose orders they should be following.
You thought Ormund’s eyes would flash with fury at the defiance, but instead, what you found on his face was a dark amusement. A sly, mocking grin threatened to spread across his features at your antics.
“Your Lord commands you to leave us at once.” he repeated. His voice carried a tone of absolute authority, carrying no hint of the amusement that danced in his eyes.
At the sheer severity of his command, the girls finally broke. They scampered out of the door one by one like frightened mice, nodding their heads in hurried acknowledgment and leaving you alone with your uncle.
A sharp sense of quiet betrayal began to unfurl within your chest.
These are my girls, you thought bitterly. They should be loyal to me. They should be listening to my commands, not his.
The only comfort, the only thing you would look upon later with a touch of gratitude, was Miriam.
Just before stepping foot through the heavy oak door, the girl looked back, her ashamed eyes searching yours for an answer, a silent plea for forgiveness. You nodded ever so slightly, letting her know she was dismissed, and the girl quickly took her leave. At least someone in this castle still recognized your royal authority.
The door creaked shut behind them as a household guard pulled it closed from the hallway, and the servant stepped outside, leaving a heavy silence in the room.
You turned your back on your uncle, returning to your vanity.
It was a magnificent piece imported from Lannisport, a gorgeous bone-white wood crafted with intricate star designs and inlaid with mother-of-pearl.
It had been a gift for your fifth nameday, and you had been in love with it ever since, even if for the first five years it had been far too grand for a child to use.
Your fingers picked up the bone brush Miriam had dropped and continued the work; alas, your movements were far less gentle and much more forceful than the maid's. You yanked the bristles through your silver-white hair, your eyes fiercely refusing to meet Ormund’s in the reflection.
Once again, you could hear him shuffle his boots against the rushes, and a soft air of laughter escaped him at your stubborn antics.
“Is this how you greet the Lord of Oldtown?” he began, stepping closer to where you sat in front of your vanity, his shadow falling over your shoulder. You still refused to meet his gaze or give him the satisfaction of an answer.
“Have I not raised you with better manners, niece? A princess of the crown should know how to behave appropriately in front of Great Lords. Hm, tell me, what would your lady mother say to this?”
“I would not know, my Lord,” you countered through gritted teeth, venom dripping from every syllable. “I have not exactly been privy to my lady mother’s thoughts or her presence. After all, I was raised here in Oldtown.”
His thick eyebrows shot up in mock surprise. “Yet still… she is the Queen… and you her daughter, a princess of the royal blood.”
“A toothless princess, or so it would seem,” you muttered bitterly. “When not even my own handmaidens seem to follow my commands.”
Ormund let out a low chuckle, a sound that rumbled deep within his chest. He stepped directly behind you, placing a firm, calloused hand upon your bare shoulder, his fingers slowly caressing the pale skin.
A sudden prickle of goosebumps rose along your flesh at the unbidden contact. He leaned down, tilting his head until his lips pressed against the delicate, pale shell of your ear. His warm breath fanned over your skin, sending a cold shiver down your spine.
You watched it all through the silvered glass of the vanity—his sharp, predatory gaze watching you like a deer through the reflection.
“Ormund.” you began, your knuckles turning white as you clutched the bone hairbrush tighter.
“Uncle.” he corrected softly, his voice a low, commanding murmur against your skin.
He shifted his lips down to the crook of your neck, pressing a firm, lingering kiss into the hollow there.
“What are you—” You tensed, attempting to wrench yourself around to break free from his suffocating proximity, but his hands on your shoulders kept you firmly locked in place.
“Is it true that Tessarion has mated with Starfyre?” he questioned suddenly, as if to catch you off guard, an accusatory glint entering his grey eyes as he spoke of your magnificent beast.
Starfyre had been your very own hatchling, born from a precious clutch laid by Dreamfyre herself. He was a breathtaking vision, clad in shimmering silver-white scales that caught the light like polished armor, with wings that glittered like crushed diamonds when he took to the sky.
Though he was already considerably larger than Tessarion, Starfyre carried himself with a fierce, regal majesty— his long, serpentine neck beautifully akin to Prince Daemon’s dread mount, the Blood Wyrm, Caraxes.
“What—” Your brows furrowed in sheer bewilderment. “What? Yes, it is true… they are dragons, Uncle. They nested together in the outer pits—what did you expect them to do?”
He shushed you quietly, raising a sharp finger to cut off any word or attempt to speak. Not that you had any defense to offer… nor any way to justify the ways of your beast. Dragons were creatures born of fire and blood, and you possessed no true, godlike power over them, despite the grand illusions of Targaryen superiority that the smallfolk and highborn alike reverently believed in.
“The most concerning of… rumors have reached my ears, sweet niece… and this unfortunate discovery has only sharpened them.” He announced, straightening his spine, before reaching down and taking a single lock of your snow-white hair between his thick, calloused fingers and slowly coiling it around his digit like a pale ribbon.
“Rumors…” You parroted, attempting to turn your head to face him. But his heavy hand tightened upon your shoulders, staying your movement. His fingers dug painfully into the soft flesh beneath your thin linen shift, but you bit down the wince threatening to escape you. You swallowed hard instead, forcing your voice to remain level. “Words are wind, uncle.”
“Words are wind. Indeed.” he hummed in acknowledgement, his eyes remaining locked onto the strand of pale hair wrapped around his finger. “Alas— even the foulest wind carries a scent. And the most rumors have at least a crumb of truth buried within them. Or would you care to differ?”
“I—I do not know what you mean.” You stammered. A cold sweat began to break across your brow then, even as goosebumps rose along your arms.
It was a queer, conflicting sensation—the dragon blood in your veins made your core feel flush and hot with ancestral fire, yet Ormund's unexpected intrusion left you shivering with an icy dread.
“Oh, stop playing the fool!” He snapped at last and the suddenness of it made you physically recoil from his touch. His voice boomed against the high, vaulted stone ceiling of the chamber like a heavy war drum. It was a sound thick with agitation, sharp and aggressive.
“Ormund—” You pushed yourself to your feet, standing up to face him. Your voice shook—far shakier than a princess of the blood royal should ever sound—and you hated yourself for the weakness of it.
You needed to be strong. You needed the iron will of your house. Your lady mother, Queen Alicent, would never waver or tremble before a man's anger, you thought.
“You will stay silent and listen to me.” Ormund jabbed a thick thumb toward his own chest, his gesture sharp, almost manic. The raw authority in his command left you with little choice but to obey.
Your knees felt weak, and you sank back down with a dull thud onto your wooden stool.
He closed his eyes for a brief moment, drawing in a long, slow breath as if mentally gathering his patience before exhaling it into the quiet room. When he spoke again, his voice came out far steadier, though the quiet malice in it sent a renewed chill down your spine.
“Oldtown is the seat of the Faith, niece, as all the folk in the Seven Kingdom know. It is no place for unholy and sinful people.” He began, his tone unyielding. “The mere fact that you carry the blood of the dragon does not exempt you from the laws of gods and men, nor does it shield you from the judgment of the Seven. Not you nor your brother.”
What in the names of the gods was he talking about? Your mind raced. Desperately searching for meaning, but you could simply not fathom his intent. Still… you had learned your lesson well enough this morning; you knew better than to speak back and stoke his fury.
“You think the eyes of the Hightower do not see?” He finally spat, a look of pure disgust twisting his features. “You think I and everyone else in this castle do not see how you and Daeron look at each other? How you touch one another?”
At those words, you felt your heart drop like a stone into a well.
Daeron was your twin. He was your other half, the right part of your own soul. He understood you as no lord, lady, or maester ever could. You had shared a womb; you had been cradled together in the same nursery. It was only natural that you felt entirely comfortable in his presence. That you laughed at his jests and relished the warmth of his embrace. He was your brother, by the grace of the Seven.
“He is my brother.” You stated, standing your ground. You were proud of the sudden firmness and steadiness that returned to your voice.
Finally, the blood of the dragon was answering, and you were gaining back your footing.
“Your brother, yes…” Ormund spoke the words with a soft, mocking sneer. “And the lot of you—my royal cousin’s kin—have notoriously queer customs indeed. The abominations of Old Valyria may fly about free in King’s Landing, but Oldtown and the Faith do not tolerate such queerness.”
A bitter, breathless laugh escaped your lips before you could stop yourself. “You are out of your mind, uncle.” Through the silver looking glass, you watched as another dark storm of fury began to coil behind his eyes at the audacity.
“Out of my mind, she says.” Ormund sneered, a strange, ugly twist curling his lips. Before you could gather your senses or summon your dragon-pride, his hand shot forward. His fingers clamped around your forearm like an iron manacle, gripping the flesh so fiercely that a sharp gasp of pain caught in your throat. By sheer, unyielding strength, he dragged you to your feet, jerking you forward until you stood scarce an inch from his chest.
“Yet it is you, and your whore of a half-sister with her bastards, and your rogue of an uncle who bring abomination into the realm.” He hissed, his breath hot against your face. “And my own cousin is no better… wedding her two children to one another like beasts in a paddock.”
Any other man would have lost his head for such words. It was high treason, spoken aloud in the light of day, but here in the Hightower, Ormund was king in all but name. What defense did you have? Who would believe the word of a lonely princess over the Lord of Oldtown?
“She brings nothing but shame to the Seven and the name of House Hightower.” He spat.
You writhed against his grasp, trying to twist your arm free, but his hold only tightened, his fingers bruising the pale skin. “You are hurting me!” You cried out, squirming in his grip.
Ormund merely cocked his head to the side, rolling his eyes with a cold, mocking amusement, as if your protests were nothing more than the theatrics of a spoiled child.
“Come,” he said, pulling at you. But you dug your heels into the rushes, your body locking in place. He let out a dark, raspy snort. “Move your feet, niece, or by the Smith, you will make me drag you across the stone.”
You opened your mouth to scream, to protest, but he was already hauling you toward the far end of the chamber. Your bare feet stumbled clumsily over the floorboards, tangling together as his iron grip remained locked upon your forearm. He pushed you roughly into the secluded alcove of the solar, where the handmaidens had prepared your morning bath.
It was meant to be your sanctuary before the day's dressing, a quiet ritual interrupted by his brute intrusion.
The great tub was fashioned from fine, polished oak. Wide and deep, its rim decorated with simple, carved waves. When first poured, the water had been scalding hot—a heat that would leave any ordinary mortal blistered and weeping, but to the ancient blood of Old Valyria, it was a comfort.
Now, however, the thick blankets of steam had faded into the high ceiling. You swallowed hard, your throat dry, as he shoved you toward the lip of the tub, finally releasing his bruising hold on your arm.
“Undress.” He commanded.
Your head whipped around with sudden, fierce indignation. “What?” The word stumbled from your lips, breathless and broken.
Ormund sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, deeply displeased at having to repeat himself. “I said,” he began, his voice dropping into a dangerous, low register, “undress.”
He nodded toward the water, his grey eyes fixed on you as you stood frozen, refusing to comply. “You reek of dragon.” He spat. “I assume you went riding at first light?”
“Last evening.” You clarified, your teeth chattering slightly despite the heat of the room.
He hummed, a low, rumbling sound. “And you did not think to bathe afterward?”
“I did.” you said defensively.
“And yet you still smell of those… wretched beasts.” He spat the word beasts with a charring venom, as if the very thought of the dragons fouled his tongue. “Why must you be so difficult at every turn?”
With a heavy sigh, he whirled you around. Before you could leap away, his thick fingers caught the collar of your linen shift. With one brutal downward jerk, he pulled the sheer material down your arms. You reached towards the garment, desperately trying to catch the fabric, but his hands were too strong, his movements too practiced and unyielding.
You felt the linen slip from your body, pooling around your thighs and ankles in a breathless rush. The cool morning air hit the bare skin of your belly like a sudden winter storm. Instantly, you crossed your arms over your chest, curling inward in a desperate attempt to shield your nakedness from his searching eyes.
“No… no…” he whispered, his voice suddenly thick. He reached down, catching your wrists and pulling your arms away from your body by force. “You will not deny me this, sweet niece.”
You turned your head away in profound shame, your cheeks burning. Under the chill of the solar, the rosy points of your breasts hardened, and a fresh wave of goosebumps broke across your skin.
Ormund stepped closer, entering your space until the heavy green velvet of his doublet brushed against your bare flesh.
He brought a rough hand up to your face, his fingers cupping your chin with a firm, unescapable grip, forcing your head back up. You hated the treacherous instinct of your own body—how you naturally leaned into the warmth of his hand for a fleeting second—but you hated what came next even more. Through the coarse cloth of his breeches, you felt the rigid, swelling hardness of his manhood pressing aggressively into the soft flesh of your thigh.
“You must understand,” he whispered, his breath smelling faintly of sweet wine and incense as he leaned over you. “I do not blame you for what you cannot control. You cannot help it, poor child. This savageness… it is bred into your very bones. It is in the blood of the dragon. You are stained by it. Dirty. It is a disease.”
A hot liquid welled in your eye, spilling over your lashes. You felt stripped of all your royal dignity—embarrassed, ashamed, and consumed by a helpless, raging fury. Your teeth clenched so tightly your jaw ticked.
“But do not fret, sweet niece,” he murmured. He leaned down, pressing his lips to the wet track on your cheek, tasting the salt of your tear. “I will cure you of it. I will be your guiding light, and free you from this monstrous burden.” A slow, unsettling smile spread across his face.
“Now. Get into the water.” His voice was quiet now, almost gentle, yet it carried the absolute weight of a battlefield command. Once a general, always a general.
With no stones left to throw and no shields to raise, you had no choice but to comply.
Lifting one trembling leg and then the other over the rim of the wooden tub, you descended into the water. Most of the vapor had long since vanished, and the water had cooled to a dull, bearable warmth. As the ripples closed around your chest, you were only glad for the dark water, fore it did something to shield your naked form from his hungry, predatory gaze.
Ormund hummed in low contentment. For a single, fleeting moment, as he turned his back to you, your heart unclenched. A desperate, foolish hope flickered in your chest that he might finally leave you to your privacy.
He did not.
Instead, he marched with heavy, deliberate steps over to the cedar cabinet where your handmaidens stored the various scented waters, crushed herbs, and rare oils meant for the bath.
He pulled the drawer open with a forceful, impatient tug that made the wood groan. Instinctively, you drew your knees up to your chest, curling into a tight ball within the water, trying to minimize what he could see.
From the safety of the tub, you could only see his broad back and the dark chestnut curls of his hair as he bent his head over the drawer, examining the glass phials nestled inside.
“Which one shall it be…” you heard him murmur under his breath.
He lifted a slender glass tube to his nose, pulling the stopper to sniff the contents. A low hum of approval escaped him. “They received the new Lyseni order I made for you. Good.”
You sank deeper into the water, until it lapped just beneath your chin, wishing the oak tub would swallow you whole.
He rummaged through the collection for a few moments more. In the quiet clinking of glass, you almost found a strange, twisted peace inside the intimacy of the act. Then, his fingers closed around his prize.
“Aha.”
When he turned back around, he held a glass phial filled with a thick, pinkish-orange liquid that gleamed like a captured sunset in his large hand. He slammed the wooden drawer shut with his free hand, the sound echoing sharply against the stone walls.
“This will do perfectly.” he murmured.
As he walked back to the edge of the tub, you could see the dark dilation of his pupils, the tight clenching of his free fist at his side. You knew that look. This was not the first time he had looked at you so, nor was it the first time he had forced his way into your sacred spaces. Far from it.
You and Ormund had done things in the shadows of the Hightower that the Seven would make you repent for every single day for the rest of your lives. The septons would call it an abomination, a wicked stain upon your soul. Yet, staring up at him, a treacherous warmth began to bloom in your belly. You hated how much you wanted him in these quiet hours. You lusted for his touch, desired his strength, and craved the very danger he represented.
The worst part of it—the part you loathed most of all—was how quickly the guilt began to evaporate once the lust settled into your blood. The betraying slickness between your thighs had been there from the very moment his iron grip had clamped onto your forearm.
Let him think you are afraid, the dragon blood whispered inside you. You were far too proud, far too much a princess of the realm, to ever admit how much his rough handling truly pleased you.
“A special Lyseni bathing oil,” Ormund explained, kneeling down upon the heavy stone floor beside the wooden tub. Even on his knees, his towering frame loomed over you, leaving him almost a head taller than your sunken form in the bath. “It is exceptionally strong, but it leaves behind a pleasant, gentle aroma. Rosemary and sharp lemon—concocted from a special batch originally meant for a wealthy Magister’s wife.”
You merely hummed in quiet acknowledgment of his words, your eyes tracking his movements. With a sharp pop, he loosened the cork stopper with his teeth, tilting the glass phial so the oily, sunset-colored liquid began to drip lazily into the water around you.
The scent hit the air instantly, thick and intoxicating. The sharp, bright aroma of lemons mixed with the earthy, pine-like fragrance of the rosemary herbs, completely overtaking your senses.
Ormund closed his eyes, inhaling the rising steam deeply. The harsh lines of his brow finally unfurled in pure pleasure. “There now.” he whispered, his eyes opening to pin you with a heavy gaze. “This will rid you of that dreadful dragon stench.”
Your muscles gradually uncoiled as the sweet, sharp vapors of the Lyseni oil worked their way into your senses, eliciting a soft, involuntary sound of contentment from your throat.
Through hooded eyes, you saw a surge of possessive satisfaction cross Ormund’s dark gaze. He rolled the heavy velvet sleeves of his doublet up past his thick, hair-darkened forearms, reaching for a dry linen washcloth before dipping it into the scented water.
He wrung the cloth once with his thick, powerful fingers. You watched the warm water cascade down his digits, back into the tub in heavy droplets, hating how effortlessly your mind trailed to darker, more treasonous thoughts about those very hands.
Beneath the opaque, oil-slicked surface of the bath, your thighs squeezed together. You breathed a silent prayer of thanks for the dark water that shielded your body's betrayal from his sight; you knew precisely how smug he would be if he caught even a glimpse of the effect he still held over you.
He brought the wet linen to your skin, tracing your collarbones with a strange, quiet reverence. He began to scrub away the nonexistent dirt and the invisible scent of the dragon, working with a meticulous precision.
He handled you as though you were his most prized treasure—like a man polishing a sacred family heirloom, or the dark, rippled edges of Vigilance— the Valyrian steel greatsword of House Hightower.
The only other time you had ever witnessed your uncle display such haunting gentleness was when he cleaned that very blade.
You remembered the story Daeron had told you, fresh from the courtyard. Ormund had just taken a rebel lord's head, the steel dripping with crimson, and your twin brother had been too young, too trembling, to know how to properly wipe the Valyrian steel clean. Despite Daeron's high position as his squire, Ormund had not cursed him. Instead, he had taken the oil and the rag, showing the boy personally.
“A squire does not serve because the knight is incapable,” Ormund had told your twin that day, his voice steady over the dead man's blood. “He assists so the knight may look to the horizon, where the heavier duties lie.”
Now, those same hands traced the pale skin of your arms, sliding over your shoulders and down your back. Gently, silently, his knuckles nudged your knees apart, smoothing the cloth over your chest.
In the heavy, lemon-scented silence of the alcove, your mind drifted to forbidden shores.
You found yourself imagining a world where the two of you were wed in the Starry Sept, a world where you would legally become the Lady of Oldtown. You imagined your belly swelling with his highborn seed, envisioning a dozen children—some with the dark chestnut curls of the Hightowers, others with the striking silver-white hair of the dragon—running and shrieking through the echoing corridors of the castle.
But even as the thought bloomed, a bitter taste rose in your mouth. You knew it was nothing more than a fool's dream. An ugly, poisonous fruit that presented itself as sweet, only to choke you the moment you bit into its flesh.
Your lady mother, Queen Alicent, would sooner see Oldtown reduced to ash before allowing such a scandalous match. And Ormund, for all his dark lusts, would never disgrace his house or his standing in the eyes of the realm by taking his royal niece to wife.
And besides, the Lord of the Hightower already had three trueborn children of his own to secure his lineage.
With a low hum of approval, finally pleased with his work, Ormund tossed the sodden rag onto the floor. It hit the dark stone with a heavy, wet squelch, the spilled water staining the grey masonry an even deeper, bruised shade of black.
He leaned closer, his shadow completely consuming you.
His bare hand, still damp from the water, caressed your collarbone before trailing down, down, down…
His fingertips tracing the curve of your breast and the slope of your waist, until finally they settled over your sweet mound. Your breath hitched as he gripped your cunt. You hated how instinctively your hips arched into his palm, the bathwater sloshing softly against the wooden tub.
He began to trace his fingers along the sensitive folds of your cunt. He was teasing you—deliberately rolling the tender flesh between his fingertips, his thumb pinching and applying a slow, agonizing pressure to the bud of it.
“Do you let him touch you like this?” he whispered, his voice dropping into a dark, demanding register that made your heart hammer against your ribs. “Do you let him look at you, hm? Do you give him this right?”
You shook your head blindly, your silver hair dragging wetly across your shoulders.
“Words, niece,” he commanded softly, his grip tightening just enough to demand total submission. “I require words.”
“No.” you managed to choke out, the syllable catching in your throat.
“I need to hear it plain.” Ormund murmured, his eyes flashing with a savage, predatory glint as he watched the burning crimson rush to your cheeks. “Do you let Daeron into your bed? Into your cunt?”
The shame of it washed over you in a suffocating wave. To be pinned beneath his hold, naked and defenseless in the water, while he spoke the name of your twin brother—it felt entirely depraved, a twisted game born of the dark shadows in his mind.
Yet, beneath all the humiliation, that treacherous lust in your blood stirred, confusing your senses until the line between fury and desire blurred entirely.
“No—I do not let Daeron touch me,” you managed to whisper, a sharp gasp escaping your lips as the sheer intensity of his fingers working you apart overwhelmed you. “Only… only you.”
He laughed at that—a genuine, unrestrained bark of amusement leaving him, though the tension between you was anything but light. Pressing deeper, he joined two more fingers with the first, curling them inside your slick heat in a heavy, beckoning motion.
Your eyes fluttered shut, your thighs parting wider as your head thudded back against the rim of the wooden basin.
“Maybe you are not so unmanageable after all,” he hummed, his gaze tracking the rise and fall of your chest. “Spoiled, without a doubt. But not entirely beyond locking into place.”
Your chest tightened at his words, a strange, hollow warmth blooming inside you despite the insult. You bit your lip so hard the taste of copper threatened to burst forth, your knuckles turning white as your hand gripped the edge of the tub for dear life.
Ormund’s eyes flickered down to your straining fingers. With his free hand, he reached out, interlocking his thick, calloused digits with your own, anchoring you to him.
He brought your laced hands up to his lips, pressing a cold, lingering kiss onto the back of your hand, all while his gaze remained locked onto yours. He searched your violet eyes for any sign of true distress or displeasure. He found none.
For a time, the chamber held only the lewd squelching sounds of his fingers moving within you, slightly muffled by the water, the gentle sloshing of the bath, and occasionally your own heavy, breathless heavy sighs.
The damp white baby hairs clung to your forehead, slick with sweat and the rising mist of the bath, the bottom of your locks completely drenched.
Unable to bear the distance any longer, you leaned forward blindly, catching his lips with your own.
He groaned as your lips crashed with his own, his wine-laced breath mingling with your own. His free hand tangling into your silver locks tils your head, pulling you flush against the wood of the basin until you were facing him entirely within the cramped confines of the tub.
Your mouths clashed in a desperate rhythm as your tongue intruded past his mouth, beneath the water his fingers quickened. He moved faster, driving deeper as your inner walls constricted around his hand, your pleasure threatening to spill over the precipice.
Ormund always knew when you were reaching your peak. Your body grew restless, shifting against his touch and you became squirmy, your hand blindly clamping down on the wrist that wrought such havoc upon you.
“Yield to it, niece.” he whispered against your bruised lips, his voice a commanding growl that left no room for retreat. “Let me see it.”
With a breathless, unrestrained cry, you obeyed his command and let go, the world spinning away into a blinding haze of colors as he held you through the wave.
Only when the tremors finally subsided and he deemed the deed finished did he slowly withdraw his hand, leaving you to slump back weakly against the curved wood of the basin, completely undone.
Ormund rose to his feet, exhaling a heavy breath as his hands moved down to adjust the tight laces of his breeches. But before he could take a single step away from the water, three rapid, echoing knocks thudded against the heavy oak door.
He froze, a dark groan of frustration escaping him, as the blood in your veins instantly turned to ice.
If anyone were to find you in this scandalous compromise with the Lord of Oldtown, you would be absolutely doomed.
A princess of the Blood Royal caught in such a depraved state would bring ruin to the realm and shame to the High Tower. Yet, to your absolute horror, Ormund did not falter. He did not hide. Instead, he cleared his throat and called out to the door with a booming, careless command:
“Come in!”
“Ormund!” you hissed in a frantic, terrified whisper.
You scrambled to stand up in the oak tub, desperately looking around for a linen robe or a dry sheet to cover your nakedness, for there was no denying he was inside your private chambers.
But the bottom of the basin was slick with the Lyseni oils. Your foot slipped on the smooth wood, and you stumbled, your heart leaping into your throat as you barely caught yourself on the damp rim of the tub. The water sloshed dangerously against the sides.
Ormund marched with long, confident strides to the other end of the solar.
With a rough, heavy yank, he pulled the thick brocade privacy curtain shut, cutting off the alcove from the rest of the room. Thank the Gods, you thought, pressing your back against the wood. He was reckless, but he was not utterly insane.
You heard the heavy oak door creak open at that exact same moment, followed by the soft shuffle of boots upon the floor rushes. You caught your breath, freezing like a hunted doe, trying to keep the water completely still so it wouldn't make a single sound.
Your blood ran instantly cold when you heard the first word spoken from the solar.
“Uncle.” It was Daeron’s voice.
You all but shrank into the water, wishing you could disappear into the copper depths. Your naked form left you feeling utterly vulnerable, stripped of every ounce of your royal dignity.
“Nephew.” Ormund acknowledged curtly. You heard the heavy thud of his boots as he shifted closer to the doorway to block the boy's path.
Daeron cleared his throat. You could not see him through the heavy curtain, but you could picture him perfectly: clad in the deep green fabrics of your mother's house, the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen worked in silver thread upon his leather belt. His pale brows would be creaked in confusion, his young face puzzled as to why the Lord of Oldtown was standing in his sister’s private solar. Alone. The reality of it stung like a whip.
“I wish not to… intrude, my Lord,” Daeron said, his voice carrying the polite, practiced cadence of a well-bred squire. “But the Septon has been awaiting your presence at the Starry Sept for almost the entire morning.”
He had easily slipped into the dutiful role expected of him, and you hated how natural it sounded.
“Ah,” Ormund managed, his tone dripping with a feigned nonchalance, as if the holy matters of the city had completely slipped his mind. “Indeed. The hours slip away far too treacherously.”
“I kept him company in the courtyard and assured him that you had urgent, pressing matters of the estate to attend to.” Daeron explained, trying to look out for his master.
Ormund cut him off by placing a heavy hand upon the boy's shoulder.
It was a hand that was still completely drenched in the bathwater—slick with the sweet, musk-scented evidence of your recent release. You heard the distinct, wet slap of his palm against the fine velvet of Daeron's doublet.
The droplets clung to the fabric, immediately soaking into the cloth and staining his squire's garment with the very nectar Ormund had coaxed from your body only moments before.
You burned red with a sickening, paralyzing embarrassment. Gods, you thought, closing your eyes in agony. Your own twin brother was standing a mere few feet away, unwittingly bearing the scent of your sin upon his clothes.
“Thank you, Daeron,” Ormund said, and you could hear the smug, insufferable smirk in his voice. “You are a most dutiful squire. You will make a great knight one day, I am certain of it. You might even surpass your uncle Gwayne one day…”
You knew the Lord's arrogance wasn't born from a genuine desire to compliment the boy, but rather from the thrilling, twisted pleasure of the secret he held right behind the curtain.
“Uncle—is everything alright?” Daeron wondered aloud. You heard a slight shift in his footsteps, as if he were tilting his head to peer over Ormund’s broad shoulder, trying to catch sight of your vanity.
But Ormund kept him firmly locked in place, his grip unyielding. “Of course everything is alright, boy. Why would it not be?”
Ormund countered the question without an inch of doubt, lying straight through his teeth while his royal niece sat naked, shivering, and thoroughly ruined just on the other side of the silk hanging.
“Now, be a good squire and ride ahead to tell the Septon I am arriving.” Ormund patted the boy's cheek with an affectionate, patronizing hand, sending him off.
Daeron opened his mouth one last time, squinting a pale brow. His lips formed a shape as if to call out your name, wondering where his sister had vanished to on this morrow, but under the heavy gaze of his Lord, he relented.
“As you command, my Lord.”
The heavy oak door banged shut behind him, the latch clicking into place with a definitive thud.
An invisible weight lifted from your chest, and you finally managed to let your shoulders drop, exhaling a long, shaky breath that you had been holding for what felt like an eternity.
You stood up from the tub, the cooled water cascading down your pale thighs and clinging to your skin as Ormund drew back the privacy curtain.
He stepped into the alcove, his dark eyes sweeping over your dripping form one last time. His gaze was entirely silent, unreadable, and devoid of the warmth that had filled it moments before.
He gave you a single, curt nod of his head, turning on his heel without a word. The heavy door opened and closed once more, leaving you alone in the quiet solar—aching, profoundly confused, and shivering in the sudden cold.
It always hurts in that big, bright way, like a thousand sticks of dynamite blowing a tunnel open through a mountain, giving you a way to pass to the other side. Like whispering the same wish over and over again until your lips go numb and your voice goes hoarse, your plea still unheard after all these years.
Perhaps it would hurt less to desire if you could fill that hole every once in a while. If you could wet your tongue with the taste of satisfaction, of a want fulfilled, of the opportunity to say to someone, “Oh, look what I got” or “Look at what all my work has amounted to.”
That’s never been the case though, has it? Never been lucky enough for a wish to come true. You work like a dog for the barest scraps of what you know you’re worth (what you know and what every day seems less and less true).
Vacations that you never had enough money to take, jobs that never came to fruition, mistakes that couldn’t be undone, memories that you could never remake, friendships that grew apart or that never materialized altogether.
It’s not all doom and gloom. You have a good job and a decent network of friends and acquaintances, parties you attend on occasion and warm nights at home curled up in bed. You have a roof over your head. There's more than enough in your life to be grateful for.
But the wanting never goes away. That, you have in spades. That, you have in heaps and bounds. That multiplies itself tenfold.
And it happens that way with your heart too.
There’s a coffee shop down the street from your office with a decent amount of seating and an app to order your drink ahead of time, and every day at around two, you order your coffee ahead of time and walk over to pick it up, rain or shine.
It’s always busy to some degree when you walk in, a handful of people waiting by the counter and a short line at the register snaking around the merchandise display. The whirr of the coffee grinder hums in the background, just a touch louder than the music, always filling the café with the rich, pleasing scent of freshly ground coffee.
The same chairs are always filled by the same people. Plenty of them you’ve even grown to recognize over time—students bent over thick textbooks, elderly men creasing newspapers in ink-stained hands, and laptop screens glowing with blank Word documents, scarcely a sentence added in the time it took to order and finish their coffee.
You recognize most of the takeaway regulars as well.
They’re harder to remember at first. Quick to come and quick to go. Hard to commit their faces to memory. But some give you no choice—some boisterously loud or ostentatious in dress, eye-catching enough to hook you like a fish, drag your attention down river with them.
Then, to him.
He, like you, comes in every day around two for his afternoon coffee. He, unlike you, comes striding in full-chested, confidence nipping at his heels, no world-weariness weighing him down.
Hard not to notice him. Of course you notice him. He takes up space like a living sun, all bright smiles and radiant energy, handsome in the way that, when men are, they draw people in like moths. You feel no better than a moth sometimes, particularly in his presence.
Tea-coloured eyes. What you notice at first is that there’s a beautiful man waiting for his coffee next to you, a tall man with the sculpted physique of an athlete, all long limbs and broad shoulders tapering into a lean frame, and what you notice next are those tea-coloured eyes, honeying under the sun.
You stare so long that you only realize how dry your eyes have gone when the door swings shut behind him.
It’s no wonder then, that you latch onto his presence like so, a little flutter in your chest on your way to the coffee shop every time after that first time, hoping that you’ll cross paths again.
And you do. Cross paths again, that is. Only a few times those first couple of weeks, and then seemingly all the time, the two of you always in at the same time.
That isn’t unusual. There are plenty of other familiar faces picking up their afternoon coffees at the same time as you, people that you recognize at the mobile ordering station and laptop stickers that you’ve come to memorize, the same people sitting at the same seats. People like routine; you’re no different. Neither is he.
It comes over you like an ague, a desperate, eager thing, quiet enough at first when you’ve only seen him in bits and pieces, not studied him at length yet, but it—
It grows.
It grows like a vine in your chest, weaving around your heart and squeezing until you can feel it with every beat.
You don’t entirely blame yourself. How could you? You swear you’ve never seen anyone even half as good-looking as him—broad-shouldered and lean, perfect smile, perfect teeth. Haircut always fresh, his edges neat. He squints with the force of his smile, always effusive with his gratitude and praise, so earnest in his kindness that it makes your teeth ache.
He’s objectively a handsome man. Perhaps the handsomest man you’ve ever seen. What else could you do but go a bit crazy?
Want may not be a strong enough word for what you’re experiencing. It’s more of a torsion of the soul. A desperate, yearning ache that both releases and constricts when he walks into the café to order his coffee.
You don’t know what to do with yourself when he doesn’t show up at the same time as you. Your schedules are so in sync that you’ve grown to expect him, fattened and spoiled by the timeliness of his presence. But he doesn’t owe it to you to show up, and there are days when he doesn’t, held up for some reason, or maybe simply not in the mood for a coffee.
You practically drag your feet on the walk back to the office, a sorry sight. Pathetically despondent. You hardly know what to do with yourself the rest of the afternoon, oscillating between dejection and self-reproach. It’s pathetic that the mere absence of your crush would reduce you to such a state, hardly able to concentrate on your work because the stranger that you’ve become infatuated with wasn’t at the coffee shop where you see him for a total of twenty seconds every other day.
Forgive yourself though. Nothing you’ve ever wanted has come without pain.
What you don’t expect is for him to finally notice you.
It happens on a day when you cross paths rather than arriving at the same time, him leaving the coffee shop as you’re about to enter. Your heart skips a beat when you look up and see him staring down at you, both of you taken by surprise when you go to pull the door open and he’s already pushing on the other side.
“Traffic jam,” he laughs when you both lean left and then right at the same time, trying to let the other go around. “Here, I’ve got you.”
He extends an arm to hold the door wide open and angles his body to let you pass through. You thank him as you pass, your heart pounding against your ribs. His gaze follows you as you step inside, and you nearly jump when his voice calls a farewell after you, leaving through the same door.
You stand near the doorway for far too long, other customers coming in and going around you, cutting you annoyed looks on their way to the cash. Your drink must already be waiting for you on the counter and still you can’t move. It takes someone actually stumbling into you to jolt you back into the present.
That wasn’t part of the plan. It’s thrilling, initially, a rush so overwhelming, so kaleidoscopic, that you ride it all the way back to the office and all the way home, replaying the memory again and again in your head until even you start to tire of belabouring it.
And still you roll around in bed that night thinking about it, heart racing even hours after your short little conversation, picturing it over again in your mind—the crinkle of the corners of his eyes, the smile nearly pulling across his face, all white teeth and soft, supple lips.
The only problem is—
Now he knows who you are.
You don’t expect him to remember you after such a quick encounter. He’s not the one that’s been pining these past few weeks. He’s not the one that’s been beating himself up for crushing on a stranger.
But he does remember you. And not only does he remember you, but he looks for you the next time he’s in.
It’s one of those days when you get there first, coffee already ordered and paid for by the time he walks in, in dark trousers and a quarter-zip today, and filling them both out nicely, the sweater clinging to the muscles of his arms. You expect him to head straight for the cash like he normally does, blessedly and lamentably unaware of your presence.
Instead, your breath hitches when his eyes drift across the café and settle on you, a spark of recognition glinting in them.
His gaze immobilizes you, stronger than any paralytic. It’s what holds you in place as he approaches, the distance between you halved in an instant, and then fully collapsed, the gorgeous man in front of you doing what Zeno’s Achilles never could.
“Hey stranger, no dance today, huh?” he asks, clearly addressing you.
You don’t know what to say. This is your worst case scenario, your category five emergency. In the weeks you’ve spent crushing on him from afar, you hadn’t considered the possibility of him ever noticing you in return.
“Sorry?” you croak.
He gestures with his thumb towards the door. “From the other day, remember?”
You don’t know how you’ll make it through this interaction without making a fool of yourself. “Right. Haha. I guess the dance floor’s closed today.”
You could throw up on the spot. Of all the abysmal conversation rejoinders there have ever been in the history of humanity, the one you just offered must rank comfortably near the top.
For whatever reason though, whether divine intervention or something more dastardly, he chuckles, amused. He seems to like talking to you. Seems to like you even. That only becomes clearer when he approaches you the next day, and then the day after that, and then every day when you stop by at two p.m. for your afternoon coffee, your coffees now handed out together by the barista, as if you had ordered them that way.
The small talk alone almost makes you consider switching to a different coffee shop. It’s too much pressure. You feel sick with anxiety at the thought of him figuring you out.
And he will figure you out. You haven’t exactly played it subtle.
Then he gets your number. Somehow. And your name too, pried so easily from you that you don’t even notice, like freeing a pearl from a clam; barely a flick of his wrist and you offer it up without a second thought, embarrassingly malleable.
You get his too. Kyle Garrick. He spells it for you as he watches you save his number into your phone from over your shoulder, so close to you that your fingers fumble with the keypad, mistyping it almost four times before getting it right.
Kyle doesn’t seem to care that you can barely seem to string together a sentence in front of him. If anything, it seems to endear him to you.
His attraction makes itself apparent in tender words and a new penchant for touch, a hand always reaching out for you.
At first, it’s nothing more than the casual brush of his fingers against yours as he picks up your coffee from the bar and passes it to you, no different than a handshake or a high five. Ostensibly perfunctory. But that too changes over time. A fleeting touch becomes a hand at the small of your back as he guides you to a table for a quick chat before heading back to work, fingers squeezing your shoulder when he laughs at a joke you didn’t realize you made, and quick hugs that grow a little longer each time.
Maybe. Or maybe you’re imagining it.
“So when are you gonna let me take you out for real?”
That snaps you out of the daydream, reality crashing down with such force that it leaves your ears ringing. His words leave you dumbfounded, gaping up at him in that stupid way that you can’t seem to suppress.
“For real?” you repeat.
“On a date,” Kyle clarifies, as if the word alone weren’t enough to wreck you.
“Oh.”
You tell him yes because the word no evaporates from your vocabulary. By the time it returns, he’s already gone, disappearing into the world (likely an office building around the corner from yours, but it might as well be Timbuktu).
This isn’t what was supposed to happen. You were supposed to pine in agony until you died.
It’s everything you ever wanted, and yet, you couldn’t want it less in the moment, terrified for some reason that you can’t quite articulate. You count down the days with growing apprehension, jitters giving way to a full-body sweat.
You’ll break it off at a later date. That thought comforts you to a point. At some point, there will be a moment for you to bail entirely.
The problem is the longer you say nothing, the harder it is to say anything at all. Already guilt stays your tongue when all you want to do is tell him that you can’t do this anymore. You need to leave—go anywhere else, run home and lock the door behind you, never go back to the coffee shop again.
But there’s a text in your phone telling you the time and place, and every time you look at it, it leaves you feeling off-kilter. Sea legs without leaving dry land.
What is it about you that you feel the need to run as soon as you get too close? What about this isn’t what you want? Do you even know what you want?
Of course you know what you want. You want love and affection.
But having is not wanting. Wanting is safe. It’s the having that’s dangerous.
You contemplate cancelling on him about a dozen times until suddenly it’s too late, the man in question standing in the lobby of your building to pick you up. He must know someone in the building because he’s deep in conversation when you spot him, his head turning to meet yours at the same time, as if even in conversation, he wouldn’t allow himself to be distracted enough to miss you. Your heart squeezes when he wraps it up in the same breath, crossing the lobby to meet you.
Dinner is a restaurant in a different part of town, one you’ve seldom spent time in before, trendy in the way that would unnerve you were it not for the abrupt realization that to everyone else, this is simply a familiar part of town.
To some, the restaurant must be familiar as well. There might even be regulars. To you however, the small, dimly lit room with the booths on one side and the chairs lining the bar at the other, an eclectic assortment of framed photos and decorative porcelain plates on the wall beside you, is lovely, uncharted territory.
Over dinner, Kyle peppers you with question after question until your head spins, each answer that leaves your lips betraying some nervous tendency towards clandestinity. You have to keep some things to yourself. You have to keep some things private.
You have to shut your mouth before you—
“A long time,” you reply without thinking, the whole world blowing open when you admit it. You hadn't even consciously registered the question before answering. When was your last date?
Kyle doesn’t seem phased by it though, warm smile somehow warmer than the blood boiling under your skin. “I must be one lucky man then.”
He sweet talks you into agreeing to a drink after dinner, probably sensing the nervous animal in you, the fear about to take flight.
You assume he means a drink at a bar until you’re standing in the kitchen of your apartment, Kyle standing behind the island with a bottle of wine in one hand, uncorking it with practiced ease. When it pops out, you flinch.
What a strange thing, to lose time like that. You lose it again after he pours you both a glass, coming to on the couch with his arm around your shoulders, pinned between him and the side of the couch.
He turned the television on, you notice distantly, staring at it through your glass, red wine sloshing from side to side. It’s not a program either of you would care to pay much attention to, possibly by design.
“Do you have, um…any plans tomorrow?” you ask, swallowing when he drags his fingers over the bare skin of your upper arm.
“Nope,” he answers, playing with the sleeve of your shirt now.
You can hear it coming from a mile away. He makes it too obvious with his fingers trailing over your skin and the heat of his gaze searing into the side of your face.
The sky outside your window is black, the moon only a sliver of its usual brilliance, but your living room is bright, turning the window into a mirror reflecting the two of you, the picture of a couple in repose.
You watch his reflection lean over yours in the window, his lips grazing your double’s ears, your breath catching when his touch yours as well. “If I give you an inch, you’re going to run a mile, aren’t you?” he murmurs.
There’s a lump in your throat when you swallow. “No,” you lie.
He must see right through you though. Must see the creature inside you about to succumb to its instincts.
He must be good at chess, you think to yourself, staring down at him with a stupid look on your face as he lowers himself to lie flat on the bed between your legs, spreading your thighs wide enough to wedge his shoulders between them. Any game of strategy.
If you never give your opponent a moment to breathe, they can’t gather themselves enough to retreat.
That thought crumbles to dust when he makes you watch him lick the first stripe up the seam of your pussy, crudely spreading your lips with his tongue. Nothing more substantial materializes after that.
He eats pussy like he hasn’t had enough to eat. Lips and tongue and hollowed cheeks when he sucks your clit into his mouth and your back nearly arches right off the bed, twisted into such a complex shape that you almost don’t know how to unravel yourself. Fingers grasping at his head, his ears; rasping over the coils of his hair, fingers committing the texture to memory.
Your thighs tremble and squeeze, pried open again and again every time you try to shut him out. The muscles in his arms barely even bulge with the effort it takes to keep your thighs spread.
You are wound up in ways that would be a challenge to anyone, but Kyle doesn’t seem to care. He just holds you down and forces you to come on his tongue, rolling it over your clit until you actually start crying. Big, belting caterwauls. His poor baby, he croons.
When have you been someone’s ‘poor baby’? Someone’s darling, sweetheart, honey, that’s it, I’ve got you, that felt good, didn’t it? God, you’re so pretty, I can’t believe you let me—
He flicks his tongue over your sensitive clit and you yelp, reaching down to slide your hand between his mouth and your swollen sex only for him to lace your fingers together and pull your hand to the side and lick it again.
“It’s still sensitive,” you complain, and he lifts a brow, unmoved by your bellyaching.
“So what, you got twitchy little orgasm legs, that means I’m not allowed to lick your pussy anymore?”
“No,” you hiss, embarrassment warming the blood already pooled under your cheeks.
Warm hands rest on either side of your face as he eases his cock in for the first time, holding your gaze in place as sinks in to the root. All you can do is squeeze your eyes shut.
They don’t stay shut for long. He pries them open without words, without touch, every ounce of his ardor poured into you and lifting your own to the surface.
Sweat drips from his forehead onto yours. The sweat makes his hands slip up and down your face with the force of his thrusts, fingers tugging on your lips and pulling them apart, sliding over your gums and teeth.
“You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” Kyle pants, sweat dripping off his forehead and onto yours, eyes darker than you’ve ever seen them, glassy and feverish.
“Don’t—don’t say that,” you gasp.
He dips his head down to press his forehead against yours. “You can’t tell me that. You can’t tell me what to do.”
Whatever this is, it’s nothing like anything you’ve experienced before. Proper lovemaking. Real kisses with passion, with fervor, with delight; the messiness contained between you, in the sweat rolling down your back and soaking into the sheets, the saliva dripping from his mouth into yours, the squelch of his shaft splitting you over and over, never giving you a second to catch your breath.
Coming a second, no, third time is painful, like a thing wrested unwillingly from you, and you fall back on the bed windburned. Kyle follows you down, hips bucking into yours faster and faster, his own end nearly on his heels.
He comes with a grunt, without warning; a sudden surge of heat and warmth, his fingers biting into your cheeks where he holds your face in his hands, his lip curling up into a snarl that you swear you can almost hear, and—
You expect it to be over after that. For him to roll out of bed and pull on his pants, maybe give you a courtesy kiss for a job well done before leaving you to stew in the mire of another rejection, the small win eclipsed by the enormity of losing him.
What you don’t expect is for him to lay down beside you and pull you into him. Kyle laughs softly when he notices your stiffness, jostling you slightly in an attempt to coax you into relaxing.
“That’s right, baby,” he chuckles a touch breathlessly, pressing a kiss to the bridge of your nose before relaxing back down. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Coffee the next day is different than usual. Early for one, the sun still a syrupy morning gold, not yet the starchy afternoon white, and in a different location than usual, the coffee machine on your kitchen counter hissing through its second cup of the day.
Kyle maneuvers around your apartment too naturally, a stark contrast to the way you scurry from the bedroom to the bathroom like a stowaway. He’s entirely at home in your space though, helping himself to coffee and breakfast, only glancing at you for permission, the slightest cock of his head and arch of his brow, and you fold under the pressure instantly.
When you try to skirt around him, he wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you into his side, the touch of his lips against your chest shocking you still, electrical impulses still skittering under your skin.
“I can feel your heart racing,” Kyle teases, caramel-smooth voice sending a low vibration through your chest.
And why shouldn’t he? Your heart is racing after all. “I’m nervous.”
“I know you are, baby,” he murmurs. “This is hard for you, isn’t it?”
It is. A few too many years on your own have turned you to stone, the slightest touch almost too much to handle. You’ve long learned to expect anything you touch to shock you.
“Want me to make this easier on you?” he asks gently. You’re not sure what he means by that, but you have an inkling.
And wouldn’t it be nice to not have to worry? To not have to second guess what you really want or what you should do?
You nod.
“Okay, honey. Then you don’t have to do it. No telling me to go away. I’ve got it from here.”
When Kyle takes your phone from your hand, you don’t stop him, even typing in your password for him when he turns it towards you, watching over his shoulder as he shares your location with his phone.
You exhale shakily, the tightness in your shoulders easing. There he goes with that oyster shucker again, opening you up.
So be it. What use is there in protecting something that’s already his?
also bruce wayne is not above drugging you so he can eat you out in peace. he makes you hold out your tongue so he can put the pill on it and holds a glass of water up to your mouth, then feels around your mouth to make sure you swallowed. then he leaves you for the night to go on patrol and when he gets home loses himself between your thighs. he has to remind himself sometimes that there are good things in this world, and laying between the soft plush of your legs with your juices on his tongue while you whine and whimper so sweetly in your sleep is about as close to heaven as he’s ever gotten.
𝐏𝐀𝐒 𝐃𝐄 𝐃𝐄𝐔𝐗
Yandere Ballet Teacher Suguru x Reader
⟡ AN: this is based on an ask from @delulustateofmind. please keep in mind that i did ballet for two years as a child and then dropped out bc i got bored so if there are inaccuracies im sorry.
⟡ TW: NON CON/DUB CON, teacher/student relationship, implied older man/younger woman, inappropriate touching, isolating, bullying (?), threatening loss of career, suguru being suguru
You were eight years old the first time you watched Suguru perform.
You didn't care much about ballet before that, in fact you hadn't even wanted to go when your parents told you about it. But the moment Suguru stepped foot on the stage, a light flipped in you. He was a force of nature, something ethereal leaping around the stage. Your eyes never left him. The flex of his muscles, the sweat on his brow, all were tattooed to your psyche, imprinted in your soul.
When he took his bow, the crowd stood and cheered. He shouldn’t have been able to see you in the sea of people, he should have been preoccupied with the flowers and praise, but by some miracle his eyes managed to catch yours.
And when they did, he smiled.
It was the first time in your life you ever felt starstruck.
You begged your parents to sign you up for ballet lessons that night. Ever since, ballet has been your life.
The second time you saw Suguru dance, you were eighteen.
You’d achieved your dream of dancing at the same academy he went to, and because of that, you were able to get tickets from an instructor to his last performance as the company's principal dancer. It was a once in a lifetime performance. He danced with such emotion, sheer passion dripping from his pores. Each leap and jump pricked your eyes with tears. He was gorgeous. A star exploding just before its death.
When your instructor offered to introduce you to him afterwards you nearly threw up.
You met him in his dressing room, sat with him as he removed his stage makeup. He was warmer then you expected him to be. Down to earth, gentle, but no less intimidating. He asked you about dance and what you were planning on doing with your career. When you meekly told him you were planning on becoming a ballerina for the company, his lips curled up.
“I suppose I’ll be seeing you around then.” he said.
The third time you saw Suguru dance, you were nineteen, and this time you were dancing with him.
It was announced a few months after his retirement that he would start teaching at the academy and that he was looking to take on a talented student as his protege. Dozens of students signed up for an audition slot, girls and boys who were leagues ahead of you in technique and skill, who had better genetics and better connections, people you could never in your wildest dreams hope to beat.
Still, you signed up. He was your idol, after all.
The first round of auditions were nerve wracking. Ten minutes on the barre, ten minutes of floorwork surrounded by nearly fifty other dancers who were more flexible, prettier and stronger than you. To make it worse, Suguru walked up and down the rows, checking your form and tapping people's shoulders so they knew he’d seen enough. You waited with bated breath for his dismissal, gnawing a cut into your lip, but to your shock, it never came.
The second round of auditions were two days later.
You waited outside the auditorium for nearly two hours, watching as people came out and started whispering to their friends, your stomach curling into knots at every grin or confident quip. There shouldn’t have been any reason to worry. You were prepared not to get it, you knew the likelihood of him keeping you in the room for more then thirty seconds were slim to none, and you’d practiced the combination plenty. None of that was enough to keep your heart from pounding.
When it was your turn to dance you couldn’t look at Suguru. If you did, you thought you might vomit. Instead, you focused on your footing, your angles, anything but the man who you’d idolized for ten years staring at you ten feet away. You could feel yourself getting sloppy, cramping up and stumbling out of turns. Nonetheless, you kept dancing. Marking the counts in your head, trying to keep yourself from trembling.
At least until he told you to stop halfway through.
It was a disaster. A nightmare. Immediately you felt your eyes start to water, breath getting caught in your throat. You didn’t expect him to keep you long, but you thought at least you’d be able to finish the combination. Were you really that much of a failure? You blew your one shot at dancing for your idol
You felt a hand on your waist.
“Breathe,” he said, his voice low, gentle. You felt his hand slide down your thigh, lifting it upwards towards your head. “You’re flexible,” he mused, pushing your leg back down, “and I suspect your turns will be good too once you’ve calmed down.”
A bead of sweat trickles down your nape as he steps backwards, air still caught in your lungs. You couldn’t think, or breathe, or speak.
But when Suguru told you to do the combination over, eyes flickering with interest, your body couldn’t help but obey.
This time, you took his instruction, making sure to keep your breath steady, your mind focused. He circled you, looking you up and down as you slowly became more comfortable, falling into the music, becoming less stiff. Occasionally, he’d call out a correction - lift your chest, arch your back, keep your eyes forward. You’d quickly adjust yourself. He’d smile and purr “Good girl.”
Once you’d finished and the music stopped, there was silence. Only your soft pants and the thump of your pulse filled your ears. Until, you heard clapping.
Suguru walked over and placed a hand on your shoulder. “You can tell the others outside to leave now.” he said, eyes gleaming, “I’ve found what I was looking for.”
—
Two years have passed since then, and you’re still intimidated by Suguru.
It’s difficult not to be, especially now that you’re so close to him. Five times a week at exactly four o’clock the two of you meet in a studio, and he won’t release you a second before nine. Every second of that time is precious, he’s told you, it’s a second closer to you taking his place as the principal dancer.
He works you like a horse. Demanding impossibly long turns, bigger leaps, stretching and bending you so deep you feel your bones might snap. Every movement is repeated at least four times before he’s satisfied, and even then, he’s insistent that there’s more room for improvement, that you’re just scratching the surface. He’ll demand you do it from the top, ignoring the way your face falls, only watching with a scrutinizing eye as you return to the start. It feels impossible to please him sometimes. You’ve never felt as exhausted as you do after your lessons with him.
You thought the academy had harsh rules, but they’re nothing in comparison to Suguru’s. There’s the normal ballet school rules of course; hair must be up in a bun, no makeup, pink ballet tights and leotard, no asking for toilet breaks ect, but he’s also particular about your personal life. He makes you track when you sleep and what you eat in a journal and bring it to him each lesson to approve, a rule he made after you pulled an all-nighter one day and nearly fell asleep on him, just to ensure you're “practicing good habits.” You find yourself holding your breath everytime he looks over it, you can only exhale once he’s handed it back to you and told you to go warm up. Then, there’s the rules about people. He advised you, in a manner that made it understood that it was not actually a suggestion, to stay away from other dancers. It’s better for you not to get caught up in the cattiness of it all. More than that, however, you’re to stay away from boys.
“They’ll only distract you from what’s most important.” he’d told you, “You want to be the best, don’t you?”
He’s never made it clear what would happen if you broke one of his rules, but you haven’t found the courage to figure it out. Suguru is, to put it bluntly, terrifying. It’s difficult not to notice the way his arms flex as he stretches you out, the thick veins protruding from the skin, or the strength in his legs as he lifts you, holding you up as though you’re little more than a pillow. Beyond being a once in a lifetime performer, Suguru is a powerhouse physically.
It’s not that you think he’d ever hurt you, but the one time you ever did speak about a boy to him (a dance partner in one of your classes) your stretches that day were particularly painful.
Even so, Suguru, for all his austerity, is a good teacher. You’ve become one of the best ballerinas in the company under his guidance. And though he may be rigid while you’re on the dance floor, he’s gentle in the cool down. He sits you down and takes off your shoes, carefully massaging the soles as he holds water up to your mouth, thanking you for your hard work, ensuring you know he’s proud. He’s confusing like that. Jekyll and Hyde. But maybe that's what makes his praise so addicting. Why you blush so hard when he tells you “good girl.”
Maybe it’s why, even when his touches started to become a little too intimate, you didn’t say anything. The hand on your thigh was just a friendly gesture, the lingering touches on your breasts were accidents. Suguru didn’t mean it that way, surely.
And the kisses on your forehead, those were simple, platonic gestures. He meant nothing by them. Even when he started kissing your hands and cheeks, you gave him the benefit of the doubt.
You tried to focus on the dancing, to remind yourself that Suguru has only ever done right by you. Embrace it, you told yourself, isn’t this what you’ve always wanted? For him to notice you?
When it turned into kissing on the lips you couldn’t deny it anymore.
You weren’t sure how to react the first time it happened. One minute he was pulling off your shoes, talking to you about how proud he is of you, how important you are to him, the next his eye were glinting, resting dangerously on your lips as he leaned in. You couldn’t move. You couldn’t breathe. Briefly, you thought to scream, then to push him away from you, or maybe you should ask him why? But when he pulled away, you were paralyzed.
“That’s good, Y/N.” he sighed, going back in for another, entwining his fingers in yours as his tongue breached your lips. A painful lump grew in your throat as it sunk in what was happening. By the time he pulled away again, tears were spilling down your cheeks.
Suguru smiled softly at you, thumbing away the beads. “Shhh, you’re alright.” he promised, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you into his chest. Thick fingers ran through your hair as you sobbed into his shoulder, clinging onto his shirt for stability. “Don’t be scared, it’s just me.”
You couldn’t pull a coherent thought from the storm whirling through your mind, nor were you stupid enough to think you could pull your already exhausted body out of his arms. You best you could manage was a half choked, “You’ll get in trouble.”
Sugurus' chest rumbled against you. “No, not if you don’t tell anyone.” he said, before pulling away so he could look you in the eye. “Swan Lake auditions are coming up, remember? You know I think you’d make a lovely Odette.”
Your heart sank to your stomach. He was right. And without him to vouch for you, there’s no way in hell you’d ever get the part, or any other part for that matter. Suguru has been the companies darling for over a decade, it would look terrible for them if it came out that one of their dancers did this to their student. They wouldn’t believe you over him if you told them, and even if they did, you’re sure they’d do anything to make sure you shut up about it.
Without Suguru, your career would be over.
And it was because of that, that you kept returning, even though your heart sank every time you walked into the studio. It’s why you stayed quiet as Suguru groped and touched you as he stretched you, why you didn’t argue when he made you drop to your knees and suck him off for not taking his corrections, why you let him finger and edge you into a dripping mess to “teach you discipline.” And when it was time to leave, you’d kiss him tenderly as a thank you for the lesson just like he asked, because you were a good girl.
Suguru only became more insatiable from there. During swan lake rehearsals he’d keep you late and fuck you in your dressing room as he gave you notes, holding your hips steady and arching your back, just like in the studio. If you talked to other dancers he’d quickly usher you away, keeping a firm hand on your lower back just to cement the message that you belonged to him.
Male co stars annoyed Suguru the most. You learned to be careful around them after he caught you laughing at one of the princes’ jokes and spanked your ass red like a child.
Rumors started swirling of your and Suguru’s relationship. You could hear what the other dancers called you behind your back - whore, skank, suck-up. The general consensus was that you didn’t deserve what you had, that you only got parts because you were sucking Suguru’s dick.
And the worst part was that they were right. You never would have made it this far had Suguru not decided you’d make a nice sex toy. Everything, your technique, your strength, your acting, your grace, you owe all of it to him. It’s only because of him that you have what you have.
You find yourself falling into his arms more often than you’d like, crying about how they all hate you. He’s quick to offer you comforting words peppered in between sweet kisses, reassurance that you’re a very talented dancer and promises that they’re just jealous of you. You loathe how you sink into him, how you let him cradle your face and wipe your tears. It’s only a momentary reprieve, soon overshadowed by shame and self hatred, but at this point, he’s the only reprieve you have.
In a way, that makes you his, doesn’t it?
When you’re twenty four, you attend the company's annual gala and it is announced that you will be the company's new primary dancer, and though the applause is loud, no one is smiling.
No one except Suguru, sitting in the same seat you did the first time you saw him dance.
Old English - Compound Word - Literal Translation "Soul-Blood"
You were the fourth born into a well known, properly bred, wolf shifter family. The lineage can be traced back to the world's richest and most elite families in North America. You were destined to be another valuable Omega to the family name, a lucrative trade item to grow the political and genetic alliances between packs.
But there was a problem. You never shifted. Never presented. It was thought you were just a late bloomer, but when eighteen came and passed with nothing, you became the family shame.
They attempt to hide you away so that the world will forget about you. Letting the short attention spans of tabloids send all memory of you into the ether, so they could quietly ship you off to live with other 'unables' and regular humans. The world of Shifters is cutthroat. If you didn't fit in the pack, you couldn't be part of the pack. And if you weren't part of the pack, you were a weak link, which your family would have none of.
All is going according to your family's cover up plan until the four Alphas of the legendary 141 pack arrive. They were meant to find the appeal of your younger Omega sister and older twin Betas. But when they cross the threshold of your family's estate, the only scent they can sense is yours.
For you see, you are no broken Omega.
You're a rare, thought to be extinct, prize. An Omega whose change can only be triggered by true Mates. The 141 have been searching for you for years, ignoring those who laughed at them for chasing a myth. You may be the key to continuing their lines and strengthening the shifters who have been in decline for decades.
And they'll do anything to have you.
Masterlist
Original idea here and AO3 for tags here.
Chapter 1 - Anginn
Noun - Neutral Gender - Meaning: Beginning
Chapter 2 - Giefu
Noun - Feminine - Meaning: Gift
Chapter 3 - æðel
Noun - Masculine - Meaning: ancestral land or estate
Chapter 4 - Wrecca
Noun - Masculine - Meaning: wanderer, an exile, an outcast
Chapter 5 - Bræne
Adjective - Neutral Gender - Meaning: burning, consumed by fire
Chapter 6 - Sǣgen
Noun - Feminine - Meaning: a spoken history or story, oral tradition
Chapter 7 - Gedréfednes
Noun - Feminine - Meaning: trouble, disturbance, affliction
Chapter 8 - Socn
Noun - Feminine - Meaning: search, inquiry, attack
Chapter 9 - Cnǽwe
Adjective - Neutral Gender - Meaning: conscious, aware
serial killer / detective ghoap x forensic pathologist reader
cw: noncon and dubcon. somnophilia. free use. graphic descriptions of corpses. abduction. suffocation. reader is a sick little freak. things involving teeth. heavy smut. 18+ mdni
Detective MacTavish gets too close to the forensic pathologist on his cases. Too bad he already belongs to somebody else.
part 1
part 2
part 3
or [read on ao3]
extras
playlist
moodboard
pinterest board
reminder to please heed the tags! this one is dark
✿ your husband is brought to your chambers drunk, but not in the way you are used to (or, a sex pollen fic with our beloved dragon dreamer)
✿ 18+
✿ wc: 4.6k
✿ cw: fem!reader + wife!reader, no y/n, reader is not physically described, sex pollen, SMUT, oral (f!receiving), unprotected piv, multiple orgasms, premature ejaculation, coming untouched, sex on da floorrr, cum-eating, finger-sucking, overstimulation, praise !!, pet names (my heart, sweet boy, etc), sub-ish!daeron, fluff, daeron is so in love with you, strong language
You enjoy your nights in Summerhall much better than your nights in the Red Keep.
There’s a certain sort of tranquility that lingers around you as you recline in your chaise, perched beneath one of the many latticed windows that overlook the rolling countryside. The sky is an inky black beyond the glass, and a storm brews on the horizon, the smell of rain seeping through a crack in the frame.
You read your novel surrounded by the silence of your chambers, save for the crackling of the fire across the room, the light rustling of parchment as you flip through the pages, and the occasional drip of wax from your chamberstick into the steel pan at its base.
But as you begin a new chapter, your peace is shattered by a great commotion outside your door. You jump a little in your seat as a chorus of voices fills the halls, and it takes you mere seconds to cross your chambers and pull open the door to investigate. In the hall, you find two kingsguard, their armour gleaming beneath the thrown light of overhead torches, hauling your husband across the stones. Your mouth drops open, listening to the clamour that falls from Daeron’s mouth as he’s pulled down the hall like a petulant child.
“She will scold me, don’t you understand? I–I will be punished. You ca–can’t let—”
The kingsguard spots you in the doorway, dumping the prince unceremoniously at your feet. One of them offers you a polite, but sorry smile, whilst the other gestures to the kneeling prince with a wave of his hand.
“He is claiming he is ill,” the guard says quietly.
Your husband is yet to look up. His blond hair falls across his face like tattered curtains, and his entire body shudders as he kneels before you. You can hear the ragged panting falling from his lips, and you can’t help the small flicker of guilt that passes through you.
“He says he consumed something,” the other guard adds on, noting the pity in your eyes. He has a small, slightly humoured smile on his face. “A prince should not accept uncorked wines from strangers.”
With that, you nod curtly and dismiss the guards with a mumbling thank you. You stare down at your husband, who sways a little where he’s hunched. You don’t know what to say to him. So you back away, the material of your chemise fluttering around your knees as you move.
The movement finally draws Daeron’s eyes, and he snaps his head up to look at you. When you lock eyes, now several feet separating the two of you, he lets out a pained moan. It catches you off guard, and you freeze where you stand, your frame illuminated by the roaring fire beside you. Daeron grips the doorframe as he hoists himself to his feet, his legs shaking. His cheeks are flushed a brilliant red, and his eyes water, filled with tears.
“My heart,” he says, syllables strung around a broken whine. “P–Please do not be mad. I did not mean—I did not intend for this to happen.”
“You are drunk,” you reply plainly, crossing your arms over your chest. In response, Daeron whines, stumbling into the room and slamming the door shut with an uncoordinated kick. He loses his balance and leans back against the door. You scoff, looking him up and down, taking in his dishevelled and obviously inebriated state. “You told me you were riding into the village.”
“I was,” Daeron huffs, running a hand through his locks, brushing them away from his eyes. “But I took—I drank something.”
“Clearly,” you bit out, and the venom in your tone makes him whimper.
And then fall to his knees.
Your eyes grow wide, lips parting. “Daeron—?”
“A wine. No, a potion,” Daeron corrected, tongue darting out to wet his dry lips. “She s–said it would make me feel good.”
You frown, taking a subconscious step forward. “Who?”
Daeron whines as he watches you draw nearer, eyes raking down your body. Swollen pupils drag down the curves of your chest and where the fabric of your chemise flutters softly against your waist and tummy. His breath hitches when his eyes settles on your obscured pelvis, his mind running wild, his knowing of what lies beneath driving him to shut his eyes and let out another high-pitched sound.
“The woman,” he replies, breathless as his eyes remain closed. When he opens them, he finds your face, and you’ve taken another step closer. “A witch.”
“A witch?” You echo, sceptical.
“Yes,” Daeron sobs, arms reaching up now. He takes two handfuls of your hips, fingers digging into the covered flesh of your arse. You let out a squeak, and your husband pulls you to him, burying his face against your covered mound. He speaks against the fabric, voice muffled. “She said it would m–make me feel good. But I’m hurting, my heart, I’m h–hurting.”
He nuzzles against your mound, and you let out another squeak-like sound, one of your hands shooting down to fist his hair. He groans loudly as you pull him away, only to see a wet patch on the thin white material from where he had been trying to mouth at you. For a moment, you peer down at him curiously. He meets your gaze, and the fire you see in his eyes makes something swoop low in your belly.
“Where are you hurting?” You ask him softly, scratching at his scalp.
The blush on his cheeks deepens, and with surprising strength, he pulls your hips back to him once more. He presses a kiss to the curve of your lower belly, then to the top of your mound, his eyelashes fluttering as he attempts to keep his eyes open and on you.
“Need you,” he says simply, not answering your question. The hands gripping your hips shift, and he finds the hem of your chemise. Dragging his palms along your knees, and then your thighs, he slowly starts to lift the material, eyes flicking down to your pelvis again. “Need her.”
Before he can push your chemise up any higher, you take a step back. A loud, distressed moan falls from between his lips, and he falls forward onto his hands and knees. He pants like a dog, raising his head to stare up at you as his knees and palms kiss the worn Myrish carpet sitting across the stone.
Your chemise settles back around your knees again. “You need to see a maester.”
He groans. “No, no, no, please, my sweet girl, please don’t s–send me away. Please, I’ll be good, I just need—I just need you, please.”
You bite your lip, assessing, one last time, for any real illness that may be consuming him. But you see nothing. He appears drunk, but his eyes are watery not cloudy, and he speaks to you through desperate stutters not inebriated slurring. As you watch him, he sits back on his haunches, his hands flying to the hem of his tunic. He doesn’t even bother unbuttoning the garment, instead simply ripping it over his head to reveal his flushed chest and sweat-slick abdomen. You realised then that his cock was almost splitting the seam of his trousers, straining taut against the stiff material.
You breathe in, then out, steadying yourself. He waits patiently in the burning silence of the room. Sitting there like a puppy.
“Okay,” you say finally, delighting in the way excitement sparks in his eyes. “Okay, Daeron, you can come here.”
You step to the side and settle down in one of the chairs sitting before the fireplace. Daeron groans, relieved, before crawling across the floor to settle himself between your legs. You part your knees as his palms find the soft skin of your thighs, pushing the soft cotton of your chemise upwards until it bundles at your hips.
He lets out a pleased, almost wistful sigh while you take your chemise and pull it over your head, dropping it down the side of the chair. Daeron hooks his hands beneath your knees and pulls you forward a bit, and you grip the arms of the chair as your arse slides against the cushioning.
“Thank you,” he whispers, licking the side of your knee. Not a kiss, a lick. You squirm, caught by surprise, as he licks a flat stripe up the inside of your thigh. The sensitive skin there is ticklish, and you can’t stop the way your muscles tense up. But he continues: sliding his tongue along your bare skin until his lips press to the thin fabric of your smallclothes. He hums, visibly delighted. “Here she is…”
Daeron lifts your legs and hooks the back of your knees over his shoulders as he pushes himself forward, planting his mouth firmly against your clothed core. He inhales deeply as his lips part, his tongue pressing to the split of your cunt as one of your hands finds his hair again. His arms hug around your thighs, his biceps tacky with sweat as he kisses across the gusset of your smallclothes, holding you at an angle so he can drag his tongue up and down.
Small sounds of pleasure leave your throat as you gently rock against him, head tossed against the backrest of the chair. You idly stroke your fingers through his hair, massaging at the nape, and you feel him purr against you: a soft, content growl from the back of his throat as he pushes the tip of his tongue against the covered bud of your clit before attempting to suck it into his mouth.
You sigh out, scratching shallow lines down the warm skin at the back of his neck. “Daeron, take them off.”
He pulls away from you straight away and does what he’s told. His lips are glistening and puffy, the tip of his nose red and his eyes shining with tears as he hooks two fingers into the band of your smallclothes. You use the armrests to lift yourself, helping him pull the item over the curve of your arse, down your thighs, and away from your ankles.
“There’s my pretty girl,” Daeron mutters as he repositions your legs back over his shoulders once more.
He kneads the fat of your thighs, shifting his head to take a gentle bite. You shudder against him, a low sound passing through your lips as you slip your hand back into his hair. He kisses over the indents of his teeth, then angles inwards. He licks straight between the split of your pussy, hole to clit, and you suck in a breath.
He hums. “The prettiest girl in the whole realm. All for me…”
“Daeron,” you moan, and he finally places his mouth on you.
His lips and tongue burn hot against you as he licks between your folds, his tongue quick to swipe downward and across your hole. You feel him collect the slick pooling there, and his eyes shoot up to find yours. He mumbles something into you as his tongue pushes in, but you catch him before he can get too far.
You pull him out by the roots of his hair. “Speak properly.”
“Love it when you’re this wet,” he whispers, pink lips glistening with your slick. “Love it when I make y–you wet like this.”
You bite your lip to suppress a moan, smiling around the pressure of your teeth as you push him back between your legs. He groans happily, lips drawing the pearl of your clit into his mouth in a lazy drawl, suckling gently as he squeezes the meat of your thighs. You hum, a satisfying weight forming in the base of your spine, weighing down the pit of your tummy.
Stroking his hair, you recline on the chair as he takes what he needs. His tongue moves quickly once he releases your clit from his mouth with an audible pop. The sound makes you whine into the quiet of your chambers, and you stare up at the high ceiling as his tongue drags down through your folds before curling straight into your hole. You keen then, your husband splitting you open, tongue shifting deep as his nose ruts against your clit. Heart hammering in your chest, you tilt your head down to watch him, the hand you have in his hair tightening as he whimpers against you.
“Feels so good,” you whisper, the syllables nearly vanishing amongst the hissing of the fireplace. It throws out a pleasant heat that warms the bare skin of your chest. “Daeron, sweet boy, m’so close.”
He releases a loud, broken moan against you, his eyes lifting to watch the pleasure fissure across your face. His eyelids flutter, his chest heaving, his panting loud as he flicks his tongue against you. It’s a burning-hot desire in the depths of his soul: he wants to see you release above him, wants you to come on his tongue and sear the image deep into his retina. Too many times he has left you for princely duties, and too many times he has fisted his cock raw to such visions.
“Need it,” he’s slurring into you, but you can’t hear it. “Need it.”
The vibrations of his drunken rambling have you cresting the edge of pleasure like a ship across a wave. Your ringed fingers pull tight at the roots of his blond hair as you anchor him to your core, your thighs tightening against his ears as your release surges, peaks, then spills. Your legs shudder as you come around his tongue, the pressure in your spine releasing a flood of tremors through your body as he licks you through it. Chants of his name fall from your lips, and it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard.
Daeron pulls away from you, a thick strand of saliva connecting his bottom lip with your pussy. His mouth and chin is slick with you, and he takes a moment to stare at where your hole flutters and drools in the absence of his tongue. It makes him pout, brows furrowing as he leans forward to press a warm—too warm—kiss to your swollen clit.
“S’alright, my sweet girl, I’m here,” he mutters against you, before he’s pressing a line of kisses down the seam of your pussy and back to your hole. His eyes flutter shut, dizzy with need, as his tongue finds you again, and the sensation has you yanking on his hair. You moan around a gasp as you pull him from you, his lips parted, his eyes black under the expansion of his pupils.
Daeron swallows, eyes flitting over the features of your face. You smile down at him as you remove your legs from his shoulders. You take your fingers out of his hair too, before angling your leg down to nudge your foot against the laces at the front of his trousers.
“Take them off,” you tell him, the ball of your foot brushing over the heavy tent at the front.
That makes him groan lowly, and you remove your foot as his fumbling fingers find the laces, tugging them impatiently. As he does this, he shifts forward to kiss your knee, spreading your slick from his chin to the skin there.
“I love you more than anything,” he says as his trousers loosen.
He pulls away and quickly gets to his feet so he can tug his trousers down. You watch him from your seat in the chair, naked body warmed by the fireplace. Daeron kicks his trousers away, and then undoes his breeches. When the white material falls, you can’t help but moan at his hard cock bobbing free—and you notice the cum already leaking from the tip, smeared down his shaft and glistening on the soft skin.
You spare a glance at his discarded breeches, the front of the material damp with spend. You bite your lip, hiding your grin. He’s spilled in his trousers from putting his mouth on you. He catches your expression and moans softly, his brows drawing together, a blazing blush creeping up his neck. His ears are red too.
“M’sorry,” he murmurs, slinking back to his knees. One of his hands shifts to grasp the base of his cock. “M’sorry, my heart, I didn’t mean to—”
You pick yourself up from the chair and sink to the floor with him. The worn carpet beneath you provides an ample landing site as you close the gap between the two of you.
Your husband’s mouth is warm and sticky against yours. His tongue wastes no time in pushing past your lips with each move of his mouth, and his free hand finds the back of your neck. Your arms wind around his neck as the two of you kiss beneath the orange glow of the steadily dying fire.
You shuffle forward, feeling the wet tip of his cock slide against the skin near your navel. Daeron shudders against you, rocking his hips to chase the feeling, his cock rubbing along the softness of your tummy as your tongues meet again and again. One trembling hand holds the base of his cock, guiding the movements with tiny little jerks of his hand, and you feel him sighing into your mouth as pre-cum smears across the skin that covers your womb.
“Need her,” Daeron whispers into your mouth as your nails scrape across the strong span of his shoulders. You whimper as he gently nudges your legs apart with his strong thigh, the head of his cock trailing down your mound. “Need you, sweet girl. Need it s–so bad, I—”
You plant one last warm kiss to his lips to shut him up, before you retreat backwards onto the carpet beneath you. He watches you carefully, eyes following the bounce of your tits as you fall back onto your hands, beckoning him with a tilt of your chin.
“Yes, yes, yes,” your husband drags out, practically throwing himself over top of you. He settles between your bent, parted legs, and he fists himself as he angles his hips, pushing the head of his cock against your pussy. He groans when it makes contact, skin-on-skin, fiery hot. He rocks his hips, sliding the length through your folds. “Ah, f–fuck, fuck, oh my gods, sweet girl, oh—”
You lift your legs and wrap them around his hips. The sudden movement snaps him out of whatever stupor he’d sunk himself into, and he allows a taut grunt to slip between his teeth. He drags his cock back down until he can press it to your hole.
“Here we go,” he mumbles, more to himself than you. The head of his cock is sucked in, and your legs tighten around his hips, urging him to shift closer. Daeron’s head lifts, watching bliss consume your pretty features. The sight has his cock jerking, barely an inch inside you, a sticky sort of pleasure trekking down his spine. It makes him shudder, eyes snapping back down to where your pussy takes him. “That’s it, open up for me.”
You arch against the carpet as your husband shoves into you. No warning, no more slow and steady. The prince snaps his hips, and suddenly, he’s balls-deep inside you, stuffed tight to the hilt and moaning like a whore. You lock your ankles behind him, taking him deeper, mewling his name as his arms cage either side of your head, his face hovering above yours. His blond hair frames his wrecked face, and you watch in amazement as he groans. His cock twitches heavily inside of you, and then you feel it. He’s coming.
Again.
“Huh–huh, f–fuck, shit,” Daeron rambles around his dog-like pants as he spills inside of you, his abs shifting as his stomach tenses, balls drawing tight as a second orgasm spears through him. He screws his eyes shut, gasping as he empties himself, one-thrust in.
It makes you moan, one hand reaching up to swipe his hair from the side of his face so you can cup his cheek.
“You feeling good, sweet boy?” You ask him gently, thumb stroking the scar along his cheekbone.
His eyes snap open, and he whines. “Yeah, m’sorry. M’so sorry, sweet girl.”
You shake your head, hand finding the back of his neck now. You bring him down to kiss you, and he mewls desperately into your mouth as the two of you connect, your tits pushing against his sweaty chest. Your tongue finds his, and he rescinds control, allowing you to lick across his teeth until he stops panting. When you part, you squeeze your thighs around him, urging him on.
“One more then, Daeron,” you tell him, slowly shifting your hips, prompting him to move. “Be a good boy and give me one more.”
Daeron groans, and listens. He draws his hips back then slams forward. You moan when the tip of his cock punches right against a spongey spot inside you that has you keening, mind going blank. His pace is hurried, desperate, but his rhythm is drunken and rolling. His hips slide against yours, his cock rutting in and out as you meet his movements. Your back scrapes against the carpet as he surges above you, his breathing hitting him in hard grunts as his arms tremble.
You hold him tightly, feeling the rub of his cock against the tight walls of your pussy. A searing pleasure sparks low in your belly. Dull to begin with. But as your prince shifts above you, driving you against the carpet again and again, flushed skin glowing orange from the flickering flames adjacent, it starts to build. You call for him, and he coos down at you, brows drawing together as he nears his third release.
“I’m here, I’m here, my heart, y’doing so good,” he mutters, rolling his hips. His cock hits deep, and he struggles to speak around a whimper. “Doing so good. So good, sweet girl. Fuck, you’re perfect. All—all mine.”
You mewl your response, and Daeron bends down to kiss you. He keeps his rhythm as steady as he can as your mouths slot together. The movement of his lips is lazy, and before long, you’re simply pressing your parted mouths to one another, panting as your bodies join. His nose brushes against yours and he places a wet kiss to the corner of your mouth.
His cock pushes up towards the plug of your cervix, and you can’t help the strong current of electricity that thrums through your veins. Your body shakes, and a moan slips out of your mouth as your head falls back, your back arching further off of the carpet. Daeron takes the opportunity to suck a kiss to the base of your jaw, then another to the column of your throat. As you rock together, his teeth graze your skin. His pants brush past your ear as he licks the thin sheen of sweat from the apple of your cheek.
You huff, managing a small frown through the weight of your impending release. “Daeron.”
“M’sorry, m’sorry, I know,” he rambles, pulling himself upwards to hover above you.
His thrusts speed up, and you let out an animal-like yowl as he grinds against you. He sees your face flickering, the way your entire body racks with tremors as your legs draw tight around his hips. Your heels dig into the muscles of his arse, urging him closer, and your fingers trace bright red lines down his back.
He can’t help but moan your name. “Gods, I love you. I want you to come for me. Please, sweet girl, need to feel you come around me.”
You try your best to keep your eyes open as the fire dwindles beside you, but something even hotter blazes deep within your belly.
“M’coming,” you tell him, body stretched taut, burning hot like an ember. “Come with me.”
Daeron’s mouth drops open in a desperate, whiney plea of your name, his eyelids fluttering as he spills inside of you. Your words were like a lever, opening the floor beneath him. His third orgasm is even harsher than the first: it sears along his spine, forcing him to curl over, and his weight becomes too much, arms giving way until he’s practically lying on top of you. He continues to rut his hips, whimpering as he empties himself inside of you, cock jerking, and jerking still, as the wet walls of your cunt hold him in a vice.
The feeling of being filled sends you over the edge, your release pulling you under alongside him.
“Daeron—” You gasp out, body stiffening as you come. He buries his face into the crook of your neck, mouthing at your pulse as he continues to roll his hips against you. Your release has you shuddering, and your prince holds you through it as the world around you turns on its axis and stars burst vividly behind your drooping eyelids.
“Yes, yes, yes,” Daeron whispers into the damp skin of your neck, nuzzling your pulse. You give him a little moan from the back of your throat in response, and he presses one last kiss to your cheek before he gingerly lifts himself from you.
Lazily, you gaze at him as he rights himself and draws his eyes to where his cock splits you open. You bite your lip, muscles mellow as you watch him pull his cock from you with an oversensitive hiss. Cool air kisses you there, and a small gasp leaves you, his seed drooling from your hole, much to his amazement.
“Don’t waste, sweet girl,” he mutters to your pussy, hands slowly caressing your legs until he can hold the backs of your knees. He shuffles forward, pulling your pliant body to him, hoisting your legs up enough for him to comfortably bend and slide his tongue into you.
You seize up, a moan caught painfully in your throat.
Daeron moans loudly into your core as his tongue spreads you open. He licks his own seed from inside you, his nose rubbing against your puffy clit. The moan in your throat finally escapes, and you swear it hits the roof as you angle your chin to the ceiling. One unsteady hand drags down your body and finds his hair, but you don’t have the strength to tug. Instead, you hold him securely, blond strands soft between your fingers.
He fucks his tongue into you with his eyes closed. You realise then that, although he knows this will make you feel good, he’s not doing it for you. He’s doing it for himself.
A stuttered mewl leaves his throat and is muffled in your core. His tongue curls deep inside you, and you feel it wriggling, moving, searching. Overstimulation becomes a heavy weight in your abdomen, and you finally muster enough strength to wrench his face away from you. He manages to sneak one last flat lick against you before he finally concedes and rests his head against your thigh.
He places a kiss to the soft skin there as he looks up at you, eyes glistening, face wet.
You look down at him, the hand in his hair dragging down the side of his head to cup his cheek.
“D’you feel better?” You ask, your thumb finding the corner of his mouth. You push it to flatten against his lips, and he easily parts for you. You slip the digit inside, hooking over his teeth, running over the front of his tongue. He closes his mouth and sucks.
“Yeah,” he mumbles around your thumb, his tongue vibrating against the pad. He says your name, desperate and needy. Then his eyes close, and he hums, content. “I love you. More than anything.”
You smile at him, cooing in response, “I love you too, my prince.”
DESCRIPTION. under unfortunate circumstances, you’re called back to linkon to temporarily stay at your stepfather’s home- the one you’d jilted as soon as you were able- and the only way to comfort yourself is by saying it’s just for a little while. like the best of plans tend to, though, they fall apart. [art credit: @/chimmyming on twitter/X]
◁⠀❚❚⠀▷ NOW PLAYING: the heart wants what it wants - selena gomez
CONTENT. stepdad! sylus therefore step/pseudocest, eventual smut, nsfw, dubcon, slowburn, yandere undertones, all characters are 18+ (mc is presently 23; sylus is in early forties), possessive & yandere behaviors, age difference, daddy kink, unreliable narrator, drinking, non-evol au, modern au, lowkey enemies to lovers, lots of (sexual) tension, loss of virginity, emotional breakdowns, some angst, some fluff, a lil bit of everything; tags will be added as story progresses— but know the story is relatively triggering
SIDENOTE. dilf sylus til the day we die DILF LOVERS RISE. THIS ONES FOR YALL 🥂 pls heed the tags tho!! if this isnt for u- thats perfectly fine- but i wont tolerate disrespect to myself & my readers. anyways i really hope yall enjoy this one. ya girl was verrrry meticulous with it. do lemme know if u fw this style of content and series!! 💞💞 PS, i dunno how often updates will be but i will try :] nice comments/interactions fuel me tho lol so do with that what u will. the first part will be posted very soon
EPISODES
✦ part one: pilot
✦ part two: the death of peace of mind
✦ part three: love on the brain
✦ part four: haunted
✦ part five: if you were here tonight
✦ part six: dark red
Hey, everyone. So, to make a long story short, I got a horrible cold/flu after Christmas (literally on the 26th) and have been fighting against it during the weekend and all the way to now. Still fighting it. The symptoms have lessened now that the fckn meds finally started working after FIVE DAYS. I was coughing my lungs out during the weekend, my nose was fully clogged, I got a sore throat, probably even had a bit of a fever. So, I couldn't finish writing the next chapter. I couldn't write at all. I am so sorry. 😭 There will be no chapter until I get better and then a few weeks more.
HOWEVER!
I wanted to give you at least something of M&P in December as a little Christmas/New Years gift even if I couldn't write the chapter (seriously, why don't people wear masks when they're sick, also if anyone coughs or sneezes in your vicinity... run. RUN) so...
Have this as my gift to you. I hope you all have a happy New Year. Happy New Year! 🎆✨🩷
ANNOUNCEMENT: Spoilers for M&P ahead. And this is not the FIRST (you'll see) Reader & Doffy share. They are already together in this scene.
Merlot & Primroses
You were napping on the couch in the living room, having grown sleepy while reading one of the history books from the ship’s library. The book now rested on the coffee table, its pages closed. You felt someone shuffling up atop your lap, ruffling the black feathers of Rosi’s coat. Drowsily, you opened your eyes to check who it was. Baby 5 had hopped up onto the couch and was making herself comfortable on your lap, her eyes blinking sleepily.
You said nothing, merely put your hand on the small of the girl’s back, and pulled her close to you. Baby 5 rested her little head atop your chest, her small body curling into you. Within moments, her body relaxed, and she fell asleep on your lap. You closed your eyes again, kept your hand on Baby 5’s back so she doesn’t fall off you, and went back to sleep.
You didn’t know how much time passed, but you woke up when you heard the voices of the crew. They were back. You closed your eyes again, but soon you heard Doflamingo’s footsteps.
By the time you opened your eyes, Doflamingo was slouched over the couch, covering you in his massive shadow. His large hand settled on your upper thigh. It was that hot, warm touch that made you open your eyes.
Your breath caught in your throat. Doflamingo leaned his face down to you, his fingers reaching for your face. His thumb brushed your chin, then brushed your lower lip.
You held your breath.
Doflamingo was looking at you with that undecipherable, intense look. Then, his lips curved into a smile, and he leaned in, close. Until his parted, smiling lips were a breath from yours.
“Welcome ba -” you breathed.
Doflamingo closed the distance between you two, and kissed you. Slow and long, firm. His mouth curved in a satisfied smile. He was making sure there was no mistake to you about who was kissing you.
Doflamingo’s lips were hot and soft against yours, enveloping them, conquering and wanton. The surprised sound you made at the sudden contact parted your mouth. Before you knew it, Doflamingo’s large, broad tongue slipped inside your mouth. His long, large fingers laced through yours, entwining your hand with his broad one, engulfing your hands in their massive size. The heat in your face grew as rapidly as the heat of the kiss as you kept up with Doflamingo — as you kissed him back — your fingers squeezing into his tanned knuckles, his fingers squeezing around your thigh possessively. His thumb kept your face in place, unable to escape.
A moan slipped out of you, the heat coiling in your belly now. Doflamingo hummed in your mouth, long and pleased.
The large pink feathers of Doflamingo’s coat enveloped the small black feathers of your own, swallowing you up like the pirate himself.
The shuffling of Doflamingo’s large body atop your smaller frame, as well as the tickle of feathers, stirred Baby 5. She slipped her eyes open, and saw the pink and black feathers mixing together.
“(Y/N)-san?” Baby 5 asked sleepily.
You squeaked. You pushed against Doflamingo’s hand, moved your right leg, and shoved it into his hip for him to get off of you.
With an audible, very clear smack of his lips on yours, Doflamingo parted from your mouth, grinning. The massive, engulfing heat of his hand gripping your upper left thigh vanished, as did the powerful heat of his presence, and his sinful fingers.
“I’m home,” said Doflamingo, his deep voice making your toes clench. Not in fear.
Baby 5’s sleepy eyes burst open. Her small body leapt away from you, and toward Doflamingo. She hugged his red suit with a cheer of, “Young Master! Welcome back!”
“Fufufu!” Doflamingo pulled his hand around Baby 5, resting it on her back. “What were my girls up to, hm?”
My girls.
The word shouldn’t have made you blush. But it did. Heat in your chest, your collarbones, your neck, your face. Your cheeks were on fire.
Baby 5 happily started telling Doflamingo about you two’s day spent on the ship.
You, on the other hand, grabbed the nearest pillow and covered your face with it. You used it to muffle your scream of shame into it, while Doflamingo smiled devilishly, and Baby 5 blinked at you, confused.
synopsis: you've spent years being bullied by the pretty, white-haired princess the rest of your boarding school adores. who would have thought that whole time she was secretly crushing on you? or catfishing you?
pairing: yandere fem!gojo x loser!reader
wc: 7.1k
content: mdni, angst and smut mostly, DUBCON, fem!gojo referred to as toru, basically k-drama style bullying lmfao, catfishing, fem!toru roping suguru into her schemes to catfish reader, sending risque photos and videos, pining, obsession, stalking, isolation, fem!toru is down so bad it's FILTHY, betrayal, emotional hurt, reader lowk about to have a mental breakdown, fem!toru is delusional and in love, confessions, sorta blackmail, conflicting feelings, hotel room hookup, kissing, groping, fingering, degradation, fem!toru is GETTING her wife girlfriend
a/n: art by @/rezijellyfish !! this was a commission for my sweet angel @sadlittlecucumber !!
“Are you staring at my tits?”
You weren’t. Seriously. But when she was dramatically huffing and bouncing like that, your stare did flicker down for a fraction of a second and that was enough to secure a haughty scoff from your tormenter.
“God, do you ever stop checking me out?” Toru haughtily huffed at you, the edge of a freshly manicured nail scraping against your chin as she forced your head up. Careful not to let her fingers actually touch you, as if you had some disgusting disease she could touch if your skin brushed against yours. “My eyes are up here.”
Painfully blue. So intense they seemed to sear through you, shrink you down into something small enough for her to pick up and play with like a toy she enjoyed torturing.
Staring at you like you were something to devour.
From the very first day you started at this stupid all-girls school and had the misfortune of accidentally dropping one of your bags on her foot in the hallway while you moved into your dorm, she had decided you were the object of her animosity.
And despite how much time had passed, how many times you tried to clear the air and stay as fucking far as possible from her, she always seemed to find and remind you of just how much power she had here. Over you.
“I’m just trying to go back to my dorm,” you muttered, averting your stare as you stepped back, attempting to walk around her – and through the forming crowd of gossiping onlookers eager for some fresh rumor to sink their teeth into.
Toru would be happy to give it to them.
Tossing her soft, white hair over her shoulder, loose waves bouncing as she haughtily laughed and looked back at all the people surrounding the two of you. Any one of them ready and willing to support her when you were standing there practically as proof of what happened when you pissed her off.
“What? Sneak any shots up my skirt today to add to your perverted shrine?” She accused, your face flushing at the absurd insinuation.
Despite her frequent assertions otherwise, you were neither a lesbian nor hopelessly in love with her.
Her ego was just so huge, it was probably just inconceivable to her that someone could exist without wanting her.
But no matter how many times you swore you weren’t secretly obsessed with her and that there was no fucking shrine hidden in your closet or under your bed, she’d been saying the same shit long enough that no one believed you.
“Can you just leave me alone?” You frowned, forcing your way through the crowd to get past her as she called out some other teasing remark about you going to rub one out.
Loathing couldn’t quite suffice for just how much you couldn’t stand her.
Hate boiling and burning beneath your skin every time she hurled a new taunt your way, when she’d find you eating lunch in a single bathroom stall just to make your meals hell too, mocking you with glossy lips and a glittering smile while the rest of your class treated her like an angel even when her antics annoyed them.
And when the girl that could do no wrong wished the worst for you, well, it seemed the worst was all you got.
The rest of the student body had started treating you like shit too. Sneering and scolding you for staring, everyone convinced you had to be some sort of predator just because she said you liked girls.
People didn’t grin at you in the hallways.
Just glared.
Your room had been ransacked a few times, clothes tattered and wrecked with staff that didn’t care to scold them. Your lunches knocked out of your hand. Stupid notes stuck to your back during class.
There wasn’t a single person in this fucking place that wanted to be your friend.
But you guessed it didn’t matter.
You didn’t have that much longer left stuck here.
Graduation was coming up soon – and despite the hell boarding school had been, the scholarship you’d been granted to attend had set you up for a pretty nice looking future. One without Toru.
You locked the door to your room behind you, dropping your bag to the ground before collapsing onto your bed. Exhaling as your eyes shut, a migraine budding behind them from spending another day attempting to avoid her and failing miserably.
Rolling over to pluck your phone from your pocket, your mouth reflexively curled up into a smile at the name on the screen. The one bright light in the midst of this pit of misery filled with pretty girls who thought you were pining after them and tried to punish you for it.
All of them absolutely clueless that you were already taken.
By a man they would definitely be desperate to call theirs too.
You’d been seeing Satoshi for two years.
Sorta.
You hadn’t officially met him yet. Not when you started talking through a dating app. Back then, you’d been craving any company so much you had caved and downloaded a bunch. And you had lucked out to land an equally lonely person.
Your relationship had been fairly casual at first, late night conversations where you stayed up until your eyes were sore and you nearly fell asleep sitting up in half your classes. Things had picked up this past year, the photos that used to be half your face or whatever you were doing escalating to more…intimate images. His questions turned more personal too, picking apart your brain until he knew probably more about you than anyone you’d ever met before.
Sure, it wasn’t conventional. But he had sent plenty of his own questionable pictures and voice messages to quell any of your suspicions. He never asked for money either, instead showering you with attention and sending you expensive gifts (although everyone on your floor was convinced you were spending what little money you had sending them to yourself). He was wearing a uniform from an all-boys boarding school not all that far away in a lot of them – but between sports and classes and busy schedules, neither of you had been able to arrange a proper meet up.
Until this weekend.
Finally, you’d be able to do something other than giggle and grin at the photos of his pretty washboard abs and replay his thick, groggy good morning messages.
He made reservations at a fancy hotel nearby, promising that he’d be waiting for you there with the biggest bouquet he could buy and wearing his best outfit in blue, sending you sweet messages about how badly he was aching to be yours in person instead of just online.
Most people would think you made him up.
And honestly, at first, when you tried to dispel the rumors and whispers about you being a lesbian by protesting and bringing up that you literally had a boyfriend, but when he actually went to another school, no one would believe you.
Eventually, you gave up. Stopped seeing a point in swearing the truth when everyone else would always prefer the lie.
It gave them someone lower on the totem pole to push around.
Kept them safe from Toru’s reign of terror.
Why would they listen?
You told yourself that you were almost free. So fucking close to being out of her reach.
They could all worship at her feet and follow her around like the lost puppies they were. You weren’t going to be a loser lingering in her shadow forever. Not when you still had your support in Satoshi.
A new notification buzzed on your phone, breath catching in your throat in anticipation as you clicked on it too fast, before you could even read it.
You should’ve looked.
An unknown number and a nasty word stared back at you, your fingers automatically moving to block the number and delete it with a frown.
Immediately re-opening your messages with Satoshi as you sniffled a little, too exhausted to keep the swirling emotions inside you at bay as you sent a short message, biting your lip until you tasted the blood on your tongue.
Can you talk right now?
ε✿з
“Please, please, please, please-”
“God, do you ever shut up?” Suguru groaned, rubbing his temple while Toru thrusted the phone in his face.
“But I need your help,” she whined, pouting harder as he squinted at the messages.
“You said you’d tell your girlfriend last month,” he annoyingly reminded her, brows knitting together in irritation as he reluctantly took the phone anyway, readjusting on his bed after she unceremoniously burst into his room after getting a ride all the way to their rival boarding school. “Don’t particularly feel like doing this for two more years.”
God, what good was a best friend if they wouldn’t help in a time of need? Wasn’t he supposed to be a wingman?
“I’m telling her this weekend,” Toru frowned back, folding her arms across her chest as she glanced around his dorm room. It was honestly cleaner than hers, in shades of gray and green instead of the soft blue she was used to. Books actually neatly stacked on his desk instead of scattered haphazardly on every surface. “I wanna make it romantic. Like, book a hotel room and everything.”
Buy you flowers, maybe an expensive set of lingerie, have them scatter rose petals over the bed and leave champagne on the table. Book a couples massage and take you out to a fancy dinner? Sure, she’d probably have to apologize for being a bit of a bitch to you over the years, but once you saw how serious she was about being in a relationship with you, couldn’t you just let bygones by bygones?
Suguru arched one of those thin eyebrows, giving her one of those irksome looks that implied he didn’t think it was a good idea.
But he was a man.
What did they know?
“You think she’s going to take it well?” He tentatively asked, and she couldn’t help scoff.
“She likes Satoshi. Satoshi is me,” she simply said, gesturing with her hands as if it should be obvious. “Besides, shouldn’t she be grateful for my attention? Anyone would be.”
Suguru laughed, like it was a joke.
But she just scowled back at him, completely serious as she tried to get what he didn’t get about the whole thing.
Whoever got to be with her was the lucky one.
Toru was beyond beautiful. Wealthy. Wore the best clothes and went to all the best vacation spots every year. Who wouldn’t want to be hers?
It was just common sense.
She’d been worshipped from the day she was born. It wasn’t like she was expecting you to do the same. She just wanted you to see how fortunate you were to have her favor.
God, any girl would die to be in your shoes. Guys too, actually, beg for her attention and crawl on their knees for the tiniest slice of the attention she gave you.
Sure, maybe she wasn’t always good at getting it across verbally, but she couldn’t risk someone else sneaking in and stealing your attention! Besides, her mouth seemed to always speak for itself around you, never saying exactly what she intended to when all her brain could think of was the shape of your lips and how your uniform clung to your tits since she’d bribed the office to keep sending you the size down.
She could admit that she could be a little aggressive, but she just wanted you to finally fucking admit that you wanted her too. Not just play hard to get and avoid her all the damn time.
“She’s probably just going to complain about you,” Suguru warned her, jealousy flaring up in her chest as she ran her fingers through her hair.
What the hell did he know?
At least you were talking about her.
Toru would rather your thoughts revolve around her than to be nothing to you at all.
“She was definitely checking out my tits today,” she defensively argued, even though Suguru was still making an annoying face at her. So what if he didn’t believe her?
You had, hadn’t you? This wasn’t just totally in her head?
Maybe you didn’t even realize you’d done it. Toru had been trying her hardest to get you to see that you were obviously a lesbian like her, that the two of you were clearly compatible.
“Uh-huh,” he mumbled, and she wanted to yank the pillow out from underneath his head and smother him with it.
“Are you going to call her or not?” She pouted, returning to the point as he slowly scrolled through the messages.
She imagined you back in your own bed, maybe biting your pretty lips until they were swollen, breaking the skin as you waited for a response. Would you let Toru lick the blood off if you knew it was her on the other end?
“For fifty bucks,” he exhaled, and she once again contemplated suffocating him.
But she was still shrugging down her purse, digging through its messy contents to pull out a hundred and toss it at him.
“You’re such a dick,” she derisively huffed, even though she had started this whole arrangement by promising to pay him a couple years ago. Begging him to let her use his photos to catfish you, and despite his initial moral protests that it was wrong, blah blah blah, he eventually caved in.
It wasn’t ever supposed to last this long.
She meant to tell you months ago. But there were always pesky little flies buzzing around every time she tried to talk to you at school, and she couldn’t get the correct words to leave her lips when everyone was always watching the two of you together.
God, even when she tried to talk to you in the bathroom when you ate your lunch in there alone, people still fucking followed her.
“You better pull your pants down a little and snap a pic if I’m paying you,” she hissed at her only actual friend, just for Suguru to roll his eyes at her again from his lazy position on the bed.
God, did she have to do everything herself?
She climbed on top, grabbing his slacks by the hips and wiggling it down as low as she could without revealing his disgusting dick. She didn't really understand what you could possibly find appealing about the obviously inferior gender, but maybe it was just because you didn't know better yet. Hadn't seen what her pretty tits looked like without her uniform covering them or properly experienced a woman’s touch.
“Are you serious-”
Toru ignored Suguru, tugging his shirt up too and snagging the phone back, carefully angling it to snap a photo that captured his dark happy trail, the defined muscles and ridges of his abs and hitting send.
It was almost instantly marked as seen.
She stared at the screen, willing your response, wishing for something in return and grinning wildly when you sent an image back.
Your uniform removed to reveal your gorgeous tits pressed together in a pretty white bra. Had you picked it out for her? Or well, Satoshi? Your face wasn’t in it, but she could imagine what expression you were making. How your lashes might flutter, how your bottom lip might push out.
Were you touching yourself?
“Do you still want me to call her or do you wanna go rub one out?” Suguru sarcastically asked, his voice thick with sleep from the nap she ‘rudely’ interrupted.
“Ask her to send a video of her doing that,” she demanded, holding the phone back out while he let out a low exhale, shutting his eyes like he hadn’t meant to sign up for that.
“Do I at least get to watch the video if she sends it?” He grumbled, and Toru glared back at him, folding her arms across her chest as she gritted her teeth.
“Fine,” she begrudgingly accepted.
It was only natural, she supposed. She spent almost every day bragging to him about how gorgeous you were, rambling about all the cute faces you made and funny things you’d said. Of course, he’d want to experience the little pieces of you Toru was generous enough to share.
He took the phone, hitting the call button as Toru gestured for him to put in on speaker while it rang. He did, and you only took a second to answer.
“Hi,” your soft voice breathed on the other end, and a jolt of excitement shot through Toru.
You sounded so adorable. She just wanted to take a bite. Sink her teeth into you so deep you’d be stuck with the bite marks for the rest of your life.
“Hey, pretty girl,” Suguru greeted, keeping a straight face while Toru suppressed actually giggling at the light sound of your pretty laughter through the phone.
“What are you doing?” You asked, all sweet and sincere.
“Just thinkin’ about you,” Suguru smoothly replied. Toru couldn’t help rolling her eyes at him, having a hard time believing any girl could actually be stupid enough to-
“Really?”
Nevermind.
This was exactly why you needed Toru. Sure, Suguru was her best friend, but moronic men like him would never be able to take care of you like she could!
“I liked that photo you sent me,” he murmured into the phone, pitching his voice down while Toru’s nails bit into her palm, imprinting half-circles into them as she heard your breathing hitch on the other end.
“Y-yeah?” You stuttered a little bit, as precious as always. A little awkward, too, but that was part of what made you so addicting. What made Toru so desperate to be the one you were stammering and stumbling over your words for. “I liked yours.”
“You wanna show me just how much?” Suguru spoke slowly, leaving the implication up in the air for you to jump to your own conclusion.
To decide just how badly you wanted to please Satoshi.
“You want another photo?” You asked after a moment, temptation teetering there. Toru was dying to touch you. Be there in your bed as she heard your sheets rustling underneath your body through the grainy line. Replaying all the pretty expressions you’d worn in the hall earlier, imagining how different the one you had on now was.
“I want more, angel,” Suguru replied, immediately reminding Toru that you still didn’t know you were hers yet, still enveloped in this boy version of her that she and Suguru fabricated. “Are you touching yourself for me?”
“Maybe,” you shyly said, close enough to a confession.
“Think you could record it for me, sweetheart?” He hummed, careful not to sound demanding, just issuing a little dare she knew you would take out of fear of disappointing him.
“If you really want me to,” you hesitantly replied, all light and airy. Barely needing to be nudged to agree to send a video of your breathy moans, one where your fingers would slip underneath your matching panties as you cried out after someone that never really existed.
“Good girl.”
You didn’t even ask him not to show anyone else.
Just blindly trusted him.
Would you still feel the same when you knew it was really her? Follow her lead and stay on her leash?
Sometimes, you sorta reminded Toru of a lost little lamb. One she had to shepherd back into place. It wasn’t like she was trying to put the crook around your neck, to pull you close, but she’d do what she had to just to have you.
ε✿з
Be there in five. Can’t wait for you to finally be mine.
“Can I help you, miss?” A hotel employee startled you, blinking hard a few times in surprise as you swallowed hard and shook your head.
“I’m, um, just waiting on someone,” you answered with a tight smile, grateful when they seemed to accept that answer, nodding politely and walking away as you rested against the wall rather than taking a seat on one of the stiff couches clustered together by coffee tables nearby.
You were too anxious to sit.
Nerves racing under your skin as you continuously checked the time, smoothing out the skirt you picked out and glancing down at the revealing shirt you’d chosen after he made a comment about how much he was looking forward to burying his face against your breasts.
But as minute five came and passed, you still hadn’t spotted a single sign of him.
You felt like an idiot, chewing on the inside of your cheek as you kept scanning the lobby for a glimpse of blue like he promised. Pulling up your phone to read and reread his latest message for comfort.
Fingers tapping the keyboard, typing out a message to ask if he was close only to delete it and try to reword it, wasting another few minutes struggling to come up with something not totally desperate to say only to come up empty.
A familiar giggle made your blood run cold.
In a single instant, your mood was spoiled, rotten, head snapping in trepidation as you saw the blue you were searching for at the receptionist’s desk. Just on the wrong person.
A tight blue dress clinging to the hips of your least favorite person, pushing her boobs up and riding high on her thighs as she turned towards you, eyes locking onto yours like she already knew you’d be here.
The receptionist passed her two keycards, and she had to readjust the huge bouquet of flowers in her hand to grab it before she started walking towards you, her tall heels clicking against the tiled lobby.
“Don’t you look adorable?” She smiled at you. Smiled. You were pretty sure your brain short-circuited. Overwhelmed by the fact a compliment had left her lips with not a hint of cruelty. Perhaps a sliver of condescension, but unless your stare was suddenly deceiving you (and you so badly wished it was) she actually appeared genuine.
“W-what are you-” You started stammering, heat rushing up to your face as she stepped even closer, looking down at you with amusement glittering in her pretty eyes as she pushed the flowers into your arms.
“I'm Satoshi, silly,” she hummed, her mouth curling up in a smirk that just screamed she was proud of her scheme.
“No, no,” you bluntly said, struggling to breathe when her words threatened to unravel years of a relationship you’d been clinging to, counting on to keep your sanity intact. “He called me. Sent me voice messages, photos-”
“I had to get my friend Suguru to help,” she admitted, fake sympathy in her practiced smile as she reached out and touched your cheek. Caressed it with her soft fingers while you stood there in too much shock to recoil. “But all the conversations were me, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart.
The word had never made you feel so fucking sick before.
Satoshi had called you that all the time. But he was apparently her, and the realization that all your raw vulnerabilities, all the times you poured your heart and soul out just for Toru to be on the receiving end. All those reassurances you’d hung onto, the pretty words you copied down into diaries and woven into your brain, they all belonged to her.
Betrayal burning through you as you tried to process the depth of their deception. How many layers to it were there? How much time had she spent just to keep up this charade? Pretending to be a fucking man to what?
Humiliate you even more than she did on a daily basis?
“Am I just a sick joke to you?” You asked, voice thick with hurt you couldn't hide anymore. She tormented you for years. What the hell else were you supposed to think?
“You're my girlfriend?” She retorted, tilting her head to the side as if she couldn't understand what you were confused about.
“You hate me,” you pointed out, mentally replaying every mean word out of her mouth from the day you met. All the times she accused you of wanting to have sex with her and basically being a lovesick loser.
“I like you,” she corrected you, and you got the distinct impression this wasn't exactly the reaction she'd been expecting from you.
And in the next thick pause, the silence where you stared at her with an open mouth, you realized that perhaps she'd been projecting.
That maybe the obsessed one had been her all along.
You stepped back, shaking your head as you heard yourself scoff.
“Do you just want me to say sorry?” Toru asked, her glittery lip gloss catching the light as she dramatically pouted. “I am, you know, I just get so excited when I see you, it’s hard to hold it in.”
You blinked.
Her eyes shifted down to your chest, openly ogling you as pink bloomed against her pretty cheeks, her fingers slipping back into your hair like you were a couple.
As if, in any universe, this could be considered normal.
You wanted to scream.
To storm off and slam the glass door behind you.
Go back to your room and cry into the pillow after you scrubbed every stupid photo and video you ever saved of Satoshi from your phone.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. You were supposed to graduate and get as far from Toru as possible, find a place with your boyfriend and start a new life where you could forget about the past few years you’d spent here.
“What did I do to ever deserve you doing this to me?” You breathed, a hot lump forming in your throat as you tried to hold back the sob that wanted to break out. Hyper aware of how hard you tried on your makeup this morning, how much time you’d spent picking out what to wear and how to style your hair, desperate to impress someone who apparently didn’t even exist.
The tears were welling up anyway, heavy in your lashes and collecting in the corners of your eyes as you felt the stares of people passing by. The whispering you’d gotten used to whenever you were around Toru.
Her face scrunched up, her annoyingly pretty mouth parting as she moved her hand to drag her thumb underneath your eyes. Wiping away your tears while she tilted her head to the side, loose waves bouncing in time with her huff, “Are you seriously crying?”
“You catfished me,” you said, hating how crushed you sounded. But you were. In a handful of seconds, she had decimated any ounce of your confidence you had left. Reduced you to rubble under her stupid red-bottomed heels and then rubbed it into the glossy tiles you were standing on. “You’ve been calling me a lesbian for years, but you-”
“That’s because you are one,” she said, perfectly plucked brows knitting together tightly as she took a small step closer. Almost enough for both your chests to touch, her eyes drifting back down for what felt like the twentieth time at your shirt. “I mean, I am too, was it not obvious?”
No, it absolutely wasn’t fucking obvious, but the way she said it was enough to make you freeze.
Honestly, if anything, you thought she was a little homophobic before this, but you didn’t know how she’d take that.
“Come on, you can just admit that you were crushing on me, you don’t have to keep-” You made some sound at her insane statement, pure disgust mixing with the scoff that escaped.
“I hate you,” you half-whispered. Loathing burning in those three short words as you tried to find the strength to move. But she didn’t flinch. Just pursed her lips together as she batted her soft, white lashes at you.
“You told Satoshi you loved him last night,” she so unhelpfully reminded you, speaking slowly as if she was giving you time to think between her words. “That means you love me.”
“I-”
You couldn’t even get out what you wanted to say when she started twirling a loose strand of your hair around one of her long fingers.
Was she actually trying to seduce you?
Her chest pressed against yours, not sparing so much as a glance to anyone else in the lobby despite how much attention she had to know she was drawing as you felt her tits through her thin dress rubbing against yours like you were playing the starring role in a cheap porno.
“Think about all those late nights we stayed up together,” she purred, looking down at you the same way she always did, and you wondered how you ever could have missed the hunger in them before.
Well, that wasn’t quite true. You’d seen it.
You just hadn’t realized what she was starving for.
“All those times we talked about our families and our lives and what we wanted to do with them. All the stuff we wanted to do together,” Toru hummed, her nose nearly brushing against yours now too. You were struggling to wrap your head around the idea of her being the one you spilled everything too. Fuck, how many times had you complained to her about her?
“I didn’t know-” You started, but she made a soft shushing sound that somehow shut you up.
“We can still do all of it,” she promised, like you had any interest in any of it now that you knew what a fool you’d been for putting your trust in someone you never actually knew. In her. “Me and you.”
You got the impression in your already flustered brain that she was trying to be romantic.
That this was all supposed to be some grand gesture to show you that her feelings were genuine.
But it just felt like fresh embarrassment.
Your heart slamming against your rib cage while your thoughts ran in the same panicked circles, falling apart in front of a room full of strangers.
It sort of felt like you were being proposed to in public. Forced to say yes to not seem like a total asshole when everyone else was probably convinced she was earnestly confessing to you.
And after years of being around her, you already had the experience to know the universe would always side with her.
“What do you expect me to say?” You finally spoke, flat-out dumbfounded as your voice trembled. Her treachery was already twisting into something else in your stomach, your body attempting to turn it into something flattering just so you could cope with it. The intoxicating scent of her perfume stuffing your nostrils and clouding your thinking as you struggled to sort out all the different emotions rattling around inside you.
The hurt and the heartache and the conflicting feelings of loss and longing for someone that wasn’t there. The scariest part was that some sliver of you was starting to consider Toru.
Starting to want her.
Acknowledging that you couldn’t actually have Satoshi, and coming to the conclusion that she was the closest fucking thing you had.
The thought itself was incredibly depressing.
“I love you, Toru?” She offered, doing her own impression of your voice.
“I don’t,” you argued, although you weren’t sure how convincing it actually came out when her proximity left your voice quivering.
“What? You only loved me as a boy then?” She grinded her sharp canines, not quite glaring, but clearly unhappy as her blue eyes bored into yours.
“How was I supposed to know my boyfriend was you?”
Other than the fact he was obviously too good to be true. A guy like that would never be interested in you. No, the only person who was, apparently, was your insane classmate who’d been pretending to be a man for two years just to get you to fall for her.
You almost wished this was simply blackmail. That she just wanted to hold your humiliation over your head.
This felt so much worse. So much ickier.
Especially when your body was beginning to betray your mind just with her touch, her scent, warping what your senses with her cruel fingers and soft skin.
“A girlfriend is way better than a boyfriend,” she huffed at you, rolling her eyes like you should already know that.
“You want to be my girlfriend?” You asked, meant to be rhetorical rather than serious. But her eyes lit up, lips lifting up into a blinding smile as she nodded.
“Duh.”
No. No. No.
This could not be-
“Let’s go check out our room,” she hummed, effortlessly changing the subject as she backed off only to grab your wrist. Throwing an annoyed look over her shoulder at all the passerbys who had not-so-subtly paused to watch whatever was happening between both of you. “So annoying how people are always obsessed with me.”
Too blind to see how much of a hypocrite she was being.
You were too stunned to stop her. Feet uselessly following after her as her pale fingertips dug deeper into your skin, dragging you around like you were just an accessory on her arm.
Feeling almost like you were floating along, trying to tell yourself that this was all just some fucked-up dream you’d wake up from before you got there.
But you didn’t.
Just standing there like an idiot when she was holding the keycard up to the door, glancing down to realize you were still holding the flowers in your other limp hand.
The saddest part was you were pretty sure no one else would give you anything as remotely nice as these.
“I wasn’t trying to ask you to be-” You tried one more time, but she was already opening the door and pulling you in.
“You know, you’re kinda being ungrateful,” she huffed, shutting the door with a heavy thud as she dropped her designer purse on the floor. You didn’t even think she knew how much it cost. Probably just purchased it without considering how many meals that much money could’ve bought someone else.
“I’m ungrateful?” You echoed, hurt coiling hot in your core as you stared in disbelief at her in front of you. You wanted it to be hurt, at least, forcing yourself to look away only to find rose petals all over the floor.
She reached around to start pulling down the zipper of her dress, stepping out of her heels without pausing before shimmying her clothes off.
Shit.
She wasn’t wearing a fucking shred underneath.
You weren’t a lesbian. At least, you were pretty sure you weren’t a lesbian. But something was fluttering inside you against your will at the subtle bounce of her breasts when she bent over to pick up a rose petal and pinch it between her fingers, pouting like she was disappointed by the color of them.
“I mean, you have me in front of you, and you’re not even appreciating it,” she complained.
“If you’re expecting me to beg for you-” you started, awkwardly turning to place the flowers on the closest table, but that only gave her the opportunity to move closer. To bridge the gap between you.
“I’m not,” she argued back, but the mischievous little grin on her face was enough to cast doubt. “But you will anyway.”
Your mouth fell open, and it felt like she had your heart in her fist, squeezing it to watch the blood slowly drip out.
“I’ve seen how pretty you look begging,” she murmured, and that heat simmering inside you just creeped higher, flooding your face as you realized what she meant. Remembered all those videos you’d sent her thinking Satoshi was seeing them. “Wanna hear it for myself.”
And before you could even deal with the notion that Toru had a plethora of videos of you masturbating stashed away, that she probably had fingered herself to you, she was kissing you.
She tasted like candy.
Sugary sweet gloss melting onto your lips as her mouth messily collided with yours. You froze for a few moments, but your lips started to kiss her back. Parting to let her tongue slip in as you were torn between telling her to stop and letting this continue.
What could you do?
What should you do?
If she sent those videos to anyone, your life would be fucking ruined. But you didn’t want to just be Toru’s pet, something she doted on in secret and embarrassed in public.
And at the same time, your body was reacting to hers almost instinctively, leaning forward instead of pulling away, despite your arms falling to your side, unsure if you could even touch her back.
Toru, on the other hand, was grabbing a handful of your ass – and one of your tits too. Groping and squeezing while her tongue explored your mouth like she owned it all.
Maybe if you gave into her now, if you let her have this, have you this once, you could still just leave anyway after graduation. Change your number when you changed cities, fuck, maybe changed countries if it meant getting away from the war she was waging between your head and heart.
“You’re such a bitch,” you breathed when she broke the kiss, knowing that if she kissed you again, you weren’t going to stop her either.
She laughed. At that, or maybe just at you.
And then she was grabbing your hips, twisting you around and guiding you back to the bed, pushing you down on it hard enough to knock the air from your chest.
“Don’t be a brat,” she pouted, pushing her glossy lips out as she easily rolled up your little skirt around your hips. Grinning at the sight of your lacy little panties, the pure white shade that came a little too close to her hair that she quickly pulled down around your thighs next.
“I’m not a-”
Your words died in your throat as she slipped a delicate finger inside your warmth before you could protest what exactly you were. No better than a bitch in heat when just an experimental circle had a broken gasp escaping your mouth.
She smiled at you again, pride and amusement shining like stars in her blue stare. You supposed she’d just found a new way to play with her favorite toy.
“You’re so cute,” she complimented, climbing on top of you, her knee nudging your thighs further apart as her other hand trailed underneath your shirt.
You swallowed hard. You knew you should say something else.
Tell her to fuck off.
But nothing came out.
All the words dried up as she dragged her finger even deeper inside you.
And then added another digit. Slowly getting to work stretching you open, feeling the way your walls started to squeeze down reflexively as she held your stare hostage.
“You wanna tell me just how much you don’t like me?” She condescendingly hummed, daring you to disagree with her.
“Do you hate me?” You asked instead, still struggling to wrap your head around the fact this was happening, no longer confident in something you had been certain of an hour ago. That somehow, you were proving her right. That just by being underneath her like this, with the taste of her candied lip gloss on your mouth and her fingers stuffing you full, you had become exactly what she said you were.
A loser in love with her.
You tried to tell yourself again that you weren’t.
“I’m literally, like, in love with you,” she pouted, a hint of a familiar whine in it like she was sick of saying the same thing in different ways. “What do I have to do to make you see that, hm, pretty?”
Probably erase the past few years from your memory, but you had a feeling she might engineer something like a car accident if it had the chance to cause retrograde amnesia – and force you to let her take care of you.
And then her thumb drifted over your clit, and you forgot what you were thinking anyway with the soft pressure she applied.
“Doesn’t it feel good?” She hummed, begging to rub careful circles over it, your body tensing as your chest tightened at the sensation. Your overheating core threatened to send shivers down your spine as her fingertips prodded deeper, faster.
“T-Toru-” You didn’t know what you were even trying to say, brows knitting together as sweat started to drip down your forehead, everything inside you quickly grew all fuzzy.
“You know, no one else could make you feel this good, sweetheart,” she said, teasing you as her thumb pressed that sensitive bud between your thighs like it was a goddamn button.
Activating an embarrassingly primal part of your brain as you felt the pleasure build closer towards a climax you couldn’t believe you might be having.
“No one else will ever know you like I do,” Toru continued, and you loathed that she might be correct. You told her everything. Every thought. Every secret. Every dream. You didn’t think you’d ever be able to trust anyone else like that again. “Love you like I do.”
You wanted to hate this as much as you hated her.
But her fingers were longer than yours, hitting spots you couldn't on your own as she slipped a third one in, swirling it around to tease you with that pretty, lilting laugh of hers.
“Look at you,” she cooed, still mocking you even when you were in her hotel bed. “Soaked on my fingers like a slut.”
You were.
Shaking and squirming as her fingers pumped in and out of you, whimpering weakly as she played you like a goddamn instrument. You knew you were going to cum.
Knew that she’d won.
Toru had made a mess of you. Unravelled you into a million little pieces that probably would never be put back together again.
“That’s it, my pretty little lamb,” she cooed, and you wished your head was a little clearer to understand what she giggled about next. Your thighs trembling when she finally crooked her fingers just right, her thumb dragging over your clit with the perfect amount of pressure to finally make you cum for her.
Your eyes drifting down to her bare body over you, her perfect tits, her flawless skin, the shape of her hips and thighs as her fingers worked in and out of you, her thumb working you through your orgasm as you broke.
Bent into something unrecognizable under her pressure, her presence, blinking as your brain basically stopped functioning when she filled it with just thoughts of her.
Watching numbly when she stood up and walked to her bag and back, white hair spilling over her shoulder as she tilted her head to the side to look at the phone in her hand, squinting at the screen as she angled it to capture where you were splayed out in the bleached white sheets.
warnings: 18+ minors/ageless/blank blogs dni, smut, tamsy (the warning is tamsy), no manga spoilers but possibly manga vibe spoilers (if that makes sense?), tamsy is a freak, pretty graphic depictions of choking/fantasies about choking, noncon/dubcon, tamsy is jerking off on the reg to the mental image of you and your choker, tokushin being used as god intended, minor blood kink but only as it relates to possessiveness, mentioned human trafficking, tamsy is really out here trying to trigger a ptsd episode, submissive!reader, sadist!tamsy bc duh, manipulative!tamsy bc duh, yandere!tamsy bc duh
notes: tumblr didn't like my original title for this so I had to settle for this less good title and I'm sad. ofc my first fic in over a year was never going to be easy.
words: 4k
minors, ageless, and blank blogs do not comment, like, or reblog
Chokers are so universally worn on the ground that they hardly warrant a second glance. Some people try to turn them into a true accessory by attaching charms. Others wear them as bracelets rather than around their necks. But no matter how people dress up or style their chokers, there’s nothing remarkable about them.
And yet, Tamsy finds himself unable to look away from yours. At first, he thinks it’s as simple as wanting to savor the sight of something wrapped around the elegant column of your throat. He’s spent countless hours imagining it’s one of Tokushin’s ropes circling your neck instead of the communicator. He’s spent just as many hours fisting his cock and imagining taking Tokushin’s rope once it’s around your neck and tightening it with his bare hands until your teary eyes roll back as you lose consciousness.
But for as much time as he spends fantasizing about your throat, his hands, and navy rope infused with Anima, he knows it’s something more than that.
So then, he thinks it's because he's the one who gave it to you when he found you, when he saved you, and recruited you for Team Eager. Just knowing that an object he gave you is constantly hanging around your neck, and that it carries his blood, is enough to make him hard — especially when he thinks about how your blood is imbued in the choker around his own neck.
He remembers that when he first cut his thumb to swipe his blood along your choker, it took monumental self-control to keep from shoving it past your closed lips and forcing you to drink his blood straight from the source — so that a piece of him would always be part of you. And when you hesitated to cut yourself for a brief moment, looking to him first for assurance, before nicking your finger and giving your blood to his choker, the urge to grab the digit and give it a harsh suck had been almost painful to suppress.
However, even his sick satisfaction with knowing that you never take off the choker, not even when sleeping or showering, isn’t enough to explain what has him so obsessed with the ubiquitous device.
The answer finally comes to him one day, months after his perverse fixation began, when you’re sitting innocently across from him and he’s daydreaming about stringing you up in Tokushin’s net and fucking you from behind, your bonds only tightening with every brutal thrust of his cock into your dripping and abused cunt. You’re complaining about the paperwork Semiu has been nagging you to complete, protesting that as a giver who rarely, if ever, sees combat, you’re ill-suited to filling out reports. You insist that it should be Team Eager’s leader — giving Tamsy a pointed look — that should have to complete them.
It’s as he gives you an indulgent smile and gently admonishes you — just enough affection and amusement in his voice to keep it from feeling like he’s lecturing you as he says that Semiu is just doing her job as the Cleaners’ receptionist — that he gets to the part in his fantasy where reality crashes down on him with all the strength of a trash beast.
Because in his head, he imagines slipping his fingers beneath the back of your choker and yanking on it hard enough to have your back arching in an unnatural angle, or as unnatural an angle as Tokushin’s iron restraints will allow. But then he realizes that you’re wearing your choker so tightly that he doubts his fingers would even fit between the thick cord and your fragile skin.
Where everyone else's chokers hang loosely around the base of their necks, roomy enough that they usually leave the hollow of the throat exposed, yours is snugly wrapped around the middle of your neck.
The revelation — because it truly is a revelation — goes straight to his cock, and he’s thankful for how the many layers of fabric that make up his baggy uniform, the table between you that hides his lap, and his unflappable nature all work in his favor.
In all of his many, many, many fantasies, never once has he imagined that having something tightly wound around your neck — whether it’s his hands, Tokushin’s ropes, his belt, his tie, the hose to his oxygen tank, a seatbelt in the backseat of one of the cars, even his own long, silky strands on more than one occasion — would actually be welcome.
There’s a small part of him that’s disappointed. Your tears, your choked pleas for him to stop, your nails biting into the backs of his hands, your fingers frantically trying to yank whatever’s around your neck loose, your gulping gasps when he withdraws his cock from your throat that last only as long as it takes for him to constrict your air supply again, and the look of betrayal in your shining eyes as the light fades from them have always been integral to every fantasy.
But the disappointment is quick to pass because while you clearly prefer having your choker snug, he thinks that if you were ever forced to confront it, you would be left lost and confused about what it might say about you. After all, when he found you, when he saved you, the first thing that you had done was to beg with tear-filled eyes for him to break the constricting metal collar that your captors had welded shut around your neck.
So his fantasies begin to take a slightly different shape. You’re still helpless beneath him. You’re still desperately trying to loosen the grip on your throat. You’re still crying and pleading and wasting what precious little breath you have to ask him why. But now there’s an added layer.
Because now, when he dreams of you helpless beneath him, your pussy is dripping with the sticky strands of your arousal. Now, when you desperately try to loosen the grip on your throat, your pussy clenches down around his cock in time with every squeeze of his hands. Now, when you’re crying and pleading and wasting what precious little breath you have to ask him why, it’s not why are you doing this to me, Tamsy, but instead why do you like it when he does this to you.
He knows it might break you to realize that the symbol of your captivity, when your worth was measured only in a monetary amount, is the same thing that makes you wet. And he hopes for it.
It’s easy to find you alone, wandering the halls of HQ late one night. It’s no secret that you’ve always kept odder hours. However, it’s not him who finds you but Tokushin, one of its threads silently trailing after you in the dark. The yarn is light enough that you don’t notice it as it slides up your body, closer and closer to your neck.
You remain so clueless, even as the thread reaches your choker, that Tamsy feels like it’s his duty as a fellow Cleaner to caution you about being more aware of your surroundings. But for now, he’ll reap the rewards of your ignorance as he uses Tokushin to pop open your choker and remove it from your person entirely.
He watches you from the other end of the hallway with a frown as you continue to walk away, Tokushin retreating towards him, the end of the string wrapped around your choker. You really should be paying better attention, even in the safety of HQ.
When it reaches him, he plucks your choker from Tokushin’s thread before it rewinds itself around the wooden spindle in his pocket. Anima drains from the object and it becomes a simple distaff once more.
The choker is warm between his fingers, still carrying your body heat after having been flush with your skin for so long, and Tamsy can’t help but rub it slowly against his cheek with a contented sigh. He could spend the rest of the night just savoring the feel of your choker, but you’re about to enter the stairwell and he doesn’t want to let you get too far.
He calls out your name and you come to an immediate stop, your foot hanging in midair above the first step down. You look back and when you see him walking towards you, you turn to face him fully, the curious frown on your lips quickly morphing into a cheerful smile.
“I didn’t realize you were back already. I thought the job was gonna take another day or two,” you greet him. “Did everything go all right?”
He smiles in return with a nod and an affirmative hum, but your attention is quickly drawn away from the topic of his assignment to the choker twirling around his index finger. Your eyebrows knit together in confusion. You instinctively bring a hand up to your neck, only for shock to light up your features when you realize that it’s your choker that Tamsy is twirling around his finger.
“You dropped this,” he needlessly points out, both the dark and your surprise providing him with enough cover to keep his gaze trained on your fingers as you rub the bare skin of your throat where your choker usually sits.
“Yeah, I guess it got loose. Thanks for grabbing it. It would have been so annoying if someone else found it first,” you reply, your nose wrinkling at the thought. “I’d never hear the end of how I’m constantly losing things.”
“It’s a good thing I’m around,” he offers, his tone benign. He gestures for you to come closer and a rush of satisfaction courses through him when you close the gap between you without a second thought. You hold out your hand to take the device from him, but he shakes his head and leans down to meet you. “Let me.”
Your eyes briefly widen in surprise, before hesitation creeps into your demeanor. You slightly curl in on yourself and your hand drops from your throat as you begin to play with your fingers, a clear sign of your nervousness.
“A-are you sure?” you ask, suddenly extremely conscious of how little space there is between you.
“Mhmm. This way I can make sure it’s on right,” he explains, entirely rational. He’s already opening it and raising the band before you can protest any further.
It’s a simple thing — all he has to do is loop it around your neck and snap it shut, maybe give it a gentle tug to ensure the clasp isn’t faulty. But he didn’t orchestrate this late-night run-in to be done with it all in a few quick seconds.
So, he leans even closer in and takes his time sliding the choker around the back of your neck. He skims his fingertips along your skin under the pretense of trying to guide the band to the exact spot where he knows you wear it. You’ve never had a very good poker face, and even if there weren’t only a few inches separating you, he would never miss the shiver that runs up your spine at the sensation.
“You know, I’ve noticed that you wear your choker a little tighter than most people,” he remarks absently as he fiddles with the ends.
He thinks if you weren’t so thrown off by the unexpected turn your night has taken — or if you weren’t so trusting of him — you might think it odd that someone with his skills in combat is taking so long to do what’s essentially an everyday task.
“Y-yeah, I guess…” you murmur, clearly distracted by the way his thumb sweeps a small line right up the center of your throat. “I haven’t really thought about it. It just…seems like that’s how it should fit.”
When he brings his face just a little closer to your neck, he can feel each one of your exhales on his temple. He’s sure you’re aware of it as well, considering how your breathing starts to quicken.
“It’s just a little surprising since you spent so long with something trapped around your neck,” he says. His tone is casual, like the observation just came to him and that he doesn’t think much of it. His words are punctuated by a soft click! as he snaps the choker closed, and the noise combined with the abrupt mention of your past has you freezing. “And they kept it tight, didn’t they? I can still see the scar here.”
“I d-don’t…it’s not…” you stumble over your words, unnerved by the reminder of your time in captivity and the collar that you had been forced to wear for so long that it left a permanent ring etched into your skin.
You can faintly recall how self-conscious you used to be of the scar when you first joined the Cleaners, and how it was only the scar that took up almost half of Tamsy’s face that eventually eased your anxiety. Because, while you don’t know the history of it, if he could wear a scar so prominently on his beautiful face without a care, then shouldn’t you be able to as well?
“Actually, I remember being surprised you took the choker to begin with. I thought I’d have to convince you to at least wear it on your wrist,” he muses with a soft huff of laughter. He continues to fiddle with the clasp, tightening it so slowly that you don’t even notice — like a frog jumping into warm water without realising the temperature is incrementally increasing.
He’s so close that he doesn’t only see you swallow, but the sound echoes in his ears. Your tongue peeks out as you lick your lips and he has to hold in his sigh of longing at the hint of pink, settling instead for relishing how your wet lips now shine in the moonlight filtering in through the windows.
What he wouldn’t give to see you drooling around his cock, your spit messily trailing past your chin and down your throat to coat Tokushin’s fibers, your saliva becoming another cherished part of his Vital Instrument.
“Y-you said it was important for me to wear it. That it connects us,” you finally reply, breathless from the position he has you in and the topic he’s brought up. He glances at you to see the slightly dazed way you’re staring at the ceiling, fully exposing your throat to him, too trusting to be aware of the danger he poses.
“That’s right,” he hums pleasantly. “It ties us together.”
With your gaze directed up and away from him, he allows his mask to slip for the briefest moment, his lips stretching into a wide, sadistic grin as he suddenly tightens your choker beyond how you normally wear it. Your reaction is instantaneous — you gasp, your body tenses, and your hand makes an aborted gesture to grab onto the front of his jacket, your senses half a second behind your reflexes, before it changes course and reaches up to the choker itself, only for him to bat your hand away.
“Tamsy! It’s too tight!” you protest, although it comes out as more of a wheeze, your chest rising and falling rapidly as panic begins to build. He’s never heard you say his name with such anguish and it sounds so beautiful, like a perfect melody.
His posture straightens as stands back up to his full height, looming over you in the dark, and when he sees the mixture of confusion, fear, and alarm on your face, it’s almost enough to make him groan and shove you to your knees — all that’s missing are streaks of his cum.
But it’s the desperation he sees in your eyes that will stay with him forever, the way you’re pleading with him because you know that he’s the only one who can provide you clemency. It’ll fuel every fantasy he has of you from that point on. Every time he imagines something wound around your throat or his cock pistoning in and out of your pussy or your knees forced wide open by Tokushin’s strings, it’ll be with the same desperation coloring your expression.
He turns pitying as he looks down on you. He’s released the choker — it’s tight enough that it stays in place without needing to be held — but his hands are still loosely hanging around your neck. He soothingly rubs small circles on your throat with his thumbs as he shushes you, like he’s trying to calm a spooked animal.
“Shhhhh, you’re fine. It’s just a little snug,” he consoles you, every word dripping with condescension as he makes light of your distress.
“Tamsy,” you beg, helpless to what you believe is his uncharacteristic cruelty, but he just shakes his head and gives you a look of sympathy.
“I can’t make it looser. It could just fall off again,” he explains, as if he’s telling a child why they need to take their foul-tasting medicine. He almost sounds pained, like it hurts him as much as the choker is hurting you. His thumbs haven’t ceased moving along your throat and he softly gives you another shush. “You’ll get used to it.”
It looks like you’re about to protest and tell him again that it’s too tight.
“Be good for me and take it, okay?” he breathes into what little space remains between you, and he’s surprised he doesn’t come on the spot with how quickly the fight drains from you at what appear to have been the magic words.
“These chokers are the only way you and I can stay constantly connected,” he murmurs as he watches how your breathing begins to calm, your tension easing with each rub of his thumbs. “So, you have to be good.”
You nod dumbly in his hold and he lets one of his thumbs trail just slightly down until it’s right above the center of your choker. He waits half a beat and then applies just enough pressure on the middle of your throat for it to be noticeable. He wonders if it’s going to set you off again, especially when your hand suddenly grabs his wrist, but rather than trying to push him away, you simply cling to him — like those pathetic little kittens hanging from branches in those lame motivational posters that turn up every so often in the trash.
While his expression remains sympathetic, as he takes in the way your lips have slightly parted, how your pupils have blown wide, and how your breathing is picking up again, only this time not from panic, he can hear the resounding cackle in his head as his internal self celebrates the realization of his fantasy.
He stays perfectly still, allowing himself another minute to savor the moment, before he loosens his hold on your neck, although he refrains from releasing you altogether. Instead, he returns to fiddling with the clasp of your choker, as if he’s checking one final time that it’s secure.
“Now, aren’t you gonna say thank you?” he gently teases you. However, the small, playful smile that tugs at the corner of his lip is belied by the flash of something darker in his eyes.
It takes you a moment to come back to yourself. Your eyelashes flutter as you blink and your tongue makes a second appearance that evening when it darts out again to wet your lips.
“T-thank you, Tamsy,” you say in a broken whisper, and he internally scoffs in disbelief over how good his luck is that not only does he have his hands around your throat, but you’re actually thanking him for it.
“Anything for my favorite teammate,” he assures you with a smile so genial that it has his eyes turning into two crescents. He slowly lets go of you entirely. But as he drops his hands back to his sides, it doesn’t escape him how your own hand is reluctant to release his wrist.
He takes a step back, putting a more appropriate amount of space between you, as the tense and heated aura hanging over you both slowly begins to dissipate. However, he can see how the awkwardness still continues to linger in your form, like you’re not sure what’s just happened or how to act.
“You really should get on a more regular sleeping schedule,” he gently chides, his tone laced with concern. “Don’t I owe you a trip into town soon? How am I supposed to take you if you’re going to sleep just as the day is starting?”
The nagging seems to reestablish the sense of normalcy you were desperately scrambling for because your features scrunch together unattractively. He watches with hawklike eyes as your hand absently reaches up to instinctively adjust your choker before you realize what you’re doing and drop it.
“You’re starting to sound like Delmon,” you grumble, your fingers toying with each other again to keep them busy, and he snorts with amusement. “Fine. I’m off to bed.”
You give him a half-hearted wave as you begin to head in the direction that you both came from. But just as you pass him, he says your name and loosely wraps his fingers around your wrist to stop you before you can make it much further. You look up at him curiously only to freeze, because while he’s still wearing the same smile that you’re so used to seeing from him, there’s now something about it that unsettles you.
You don’t know what it is or why you feel your skin breaking out in goosebumps, your hair standing on end. There’s nothing out of the ordinary about how he’s looking at you, but for some reason, you feel like you’re trapped in the threads of a spider’s web. What confuses you even more is the unexpected urge you feel to squeeze your thighs together.
“You look good with a collar,” he says, looking pointedly down at your choker.
Your mouth suddenly feels dry. Dread pools in your stomach. A small tremble appears in your fingers.
Not once have you ever thought of the choker you willingly wore — that keeps you connected to the people you’ve come to care so dearly about — as anything similar to the collar that tore your skin and chained you to your captors.
But is he right in referring to it as just another collar? You’re becoming increasingly aware of how tight the choker feels around your neck all over again.
“Tamsy…” you trail off, entirely helpless before him.
He simply smiles in return, as if his words hadn’t sent you spiraling, and lifts a hand back up to your neck, his baggy sleeve sliding down his forearm as he does. He manages to squeeze the tip of his left pinky — the only one he still has — beneath the band’s center, making you flinch harshly. With the finger he’s hooked around it, he gives it an unexpectedly harsh tug that has you tripping slightly towards him, before he releases you again. Your own hand comes up reflexively to rub your throat as you watch him with wide, teary eyes.
“All that’s missing is a little bell, so I always know where to find you,” he teases, but there’s something slightly darker in his tone that makes you think for a second he’s not joking. You forcefully shake your head and tell yourself to forget it because this is Tamsy. “Be good and get some sleep, okay?”
You can only nod dumbly in response as he gives you one last smile before walking away towards the stairs, where he soon disappears from your sight. You’re left alone in the dark and silent hall, confused, shaken, and with no one for company but the shame that creeps up on you as you notice how wet you are.
as what the title says, i want to share and talk about my favorite audios. will def make a part two.
note: check warnings before listening!
these are all M4F. the only requirement i have for these audios to be labeled as my “favorite” is if it made me orgasm, yes seriously.
so here we go:
1. “Deciding You Want More Than the Things He Buys You” by AugustInTheWinter
- this is a wealthy M x spoiled F audio where you are in a sugar baby-esque relationship with M.
- will forever be a favorite of mine, i come back to it again and again.
- the “why should we go to your bedroom? i’m not your fucking boyfriend, right?” line gets me WET every single time.
- this August boy… i swear… he is my favorite “cummer” in the history of 🌶️ audios, he sounds absolutely good when he finishes. pls pls listen to him.
TMI: i always picture Mike Faist in the Challengers movie with his voice… is that allowed… or…
(may you all also see the Vision)
2. “Your Wedding Night with the Enemy Prince” by AugustInTheWinter
- JESUS FUCKING CHRIST…
3. “The Cute Barista is actually… A Hard Dom?!” by UselessTimidity
- like the title, soft-boy turns out to be a hard dom; wolf in sheep’s clothing type of thing?
- the communication was absolutely beautiful, first time i got turned on by how he told her what he wanted. when i tell you my heart fluttered when this guy giggled during that part.
4. “Keeping the Bride’s Brother Out Of Trouble at the Wedding Reception” by AugustInTheWinter
- (guessed my favorite creator yet?)
- M is a slutty horndog and F is asked by the bride to make sure he doesn’t do anything, so F fucks M to distract him.
- made me love slutty Mswitch oh my god the power of August is unbelievable.
6. “You Are NOT Wearing That Out” by LateNightFeels_
- man i mean that “say goodbye to me and give me a kiss” alr did shit to me so.
- i love LateNightFeels_’s tease, borderline toxic, def has issues, bfe audios. a great guilty pleasure of mine TRULY.
7. “Your Obsessed BF Won’t Let You Break Up With Him” by LateNightFeels_
- again, please read tags before listening.
- this was my first listen of this creator and shit he got me immediately.
8. “Fucking You Was Not What I Came Here For” by Badjhur
- will always love the “you think you’re so special?” to “you’re the only one who can ruin me”-esque situations.
- the tongue clicking badjhur likes to do in his audios to get your attention never gets old.
- RIP man, i miss you greatly.
9. “Teaching Your Slutty Friend Some Respect” by AugustInTheWinter
- i was grinning the entire time.
- August (and GEDAudio) is your BFF if you like men whining.
10. “The Sergeant’s Diamond” by TheJarlintheUK
- a bridgerton inspired au
- this made me like british accents LMAO
- MY PROUDEST NUT YET
- the whole “The May Ball” collab is worth a listen. they all fucking ate with this one.
[ SERIES SYNOPSIS ] — it was obvious when this started, it was simply a mutual understanding between two horny college students, with very high libidos, and didn’t want any random stds that this was purely a sexual relationship only. and yet, both of you are unintentionally toeing the line between that and something else. [ Fratboy!Sukuna FWB Series ]
[ TAGS ] — MDNI. 18+ nsfw. contains explicit sexual themes and content. piv. angst. friends with benefits. hurt/comfort. hurt/no comfort. SLOW BURN. fluff. spit. ráw. rough. heavy spanking. degradation. dacryphilia. slight exhibitionisim. pda. soft sukuna. choso + yuuji r his younger brothers. every position. heavy creampies. violence. depression/anxiety. anger issues. squirting. cockwarming. alcohol. family death. family trauma. reader slightly oc. happy ending. tags will be updated as series continues.
✮ ch 1 || how it all started ✮ ch 2 || miss me already?
✮ ch 3 || call me ✮ ch 4 || two worlds
✮ ch 5 || coming soon ✮ ch 6 || tbd
✮ ch 7 || tbd ✮ ch 8 || tbd
✮ ch 9 || tbd ✮ ch 10 || tbd
✮ ch 11 || tbd ✮ ch 12 || tbd
✮ pt 1 — sukuna is starting to toe the line
✮ pt 2 — you’re desperate to prove this is just sex
✮ pt 3 — cockwarming him for the first time
✮ pt 4 — sukuna’s brothers visit unexpectedly
✮ pt 5 — pregnancy scare with sukuna
✮ pt 6 — sukuna has a stash of naked polaroids of you
✮ pt 7 — halloween special: scare actor!sukuna
✮ pt 8 — sukuna’s noticeable bulge at the gym
✮ pt 9 — high stakes no nut november edition
✮ pt 10 — holiday special: grinch!kuna naughty or nice
✮ pt 11 — tbd
✮ visuals ✮ bts lore ✮ music tag ♪ ✮ tiktok tag ✮
✮ pinterest board ✮ ask tag ✮ main masterlist ✮ ao3 ✮
[INFO] — parts vs chapters: the chapters are the actual series and connect. parts exist in the same universe, but as stand alone drabbles and will not be mentioned in the chapters. [ they can be read separately. ]
there is NO SERIES TAGLIST ✮ age should be visible on your blog — (art by @/to00fu, dividers by @/lariesographic )
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