the curves of your lips rewrite history

Across the hall, you are a vision of practiced innocence.

You stand near Aemond Targaryen, speaking to him as though the world has neatly arranged itself into polite conversation and harmless courtesy. Your posture is composed, your voice soft enough to be lost in the music when you choose for it to be.

And yet your eyes betray you.

You look up at Aemond through fluttering lashes, slow, deliberate, almost angelic in their timing and then you smile, the kind of smile that suggests you are listening closely, but perhaps thinking of something else entirely.

Aemond’s expression remains unreadable, as ever, but he tilts his head slightly toward you as you speak, acknowledging your words with that precise, measured attention he gives to everything. His focus is steady, almost unsettling in its calmness.

Across the hall, Ormund’s grip tightens imperceptibly around his goblet.

He sees it all.

The tilt of your head, the soft curve of your mouth, the way you angle yourself just slightly toward the prince, as if the rest of the feast has faded into something unimportant.

A lord beside Ormund continues speaking, unaware that he is talking to a man who is no longer listening.

Ormund’s gaze does not leave you.

It sharpens instead.

When your eyes flick back toward him for the briefest moment, as if you can feel the weight of his attention even from across the hall, you meet something far less patient than before.

Only the quiet promise in his stare:

I am still watching.

And when you turn back to Aemond, smiling once more as if nothing has changed, Ormund finally exhales, slow, controlled, and dangerously restrained, like a man deciding exactly how much mercy he intends to grant you later.

You had been insufferably smug all evening, offering him knowing smiles from across the table, brushing your fingers against his sleeve whenever you passed, then pretending complete innocence whenever his gaze sharpened.

By the time the feast wanes, he catches your wrist with quiet confidence, drawing you just close enough that only you can hear him.

“You are either remarkably fearless,” Ormund murmurs at your side, his smile pleasant enough to fool the hall, “or spectacularly determined to test the patience of the man you're meant to marry. Tell me, sweetling, which is it?” His gaze slides to yours, sharp with warning. “Keep provoking me through this feast, and I may have to remind you that wit is best wielded with caution... especially against a Hightower who is just as capable of giving it back.”

But Ormund does not stop there.

“I am a faithful man. I am a patient man,” he murmurs, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “But my little sweetling, you are temptation made flesh. So do not test my restraint further, lest I decide to remind you precisely why you are my betrothed.”

His thumb brushes lightly across your knuckles, possessive without causing a scene.

“You delight in making me jealous,” he says, amusement and warning woven together. “At a feast, of all places. You tilt your head, smile that innocent smile, and somehow expect me to believe you do not know exactly what you are doing.”

A quiet chuckle escapes him, though there is a dangerous warmth behind it.

“Very well, enjoy your victory while the musicians still play.” His eyes meet yours, unwavering. “You delight in testing my patience as you shall have all of my attention and I suspect you will discover that provoking a Hightower is a game best played with care.”

Then, with effortless composure, Ormund releases your hand, returns to the feast as though nothing had happened, and leaves you wondering whether you have won the exchange at all.

“He seems quite protective over you,” Aemond murmurs quietly beside you, “makes a man want to work harder.”

And that's when you make the mistake, one simple, single mistake that makes Ormund Hightower forget every fucking oath he has ever made.

You laugh, throw your head back and fucking blush, “He is to be my husband, Your Grace, I would think any man would be protective.”

The hall doesn’t seem to notice the shift at first, music still spilling from the musicians’ corner, laughter still skating across polished stone, but something changes anyway, subtle as a blade turning in light.

Ormund hears you and that’s the mistake.

Your words land clean and careless, dressed in innocence, wrapped in that soft little laugh as you tilt your head back, a blush still warm on your cheeks as though you’ve said nothing more dangerous than a passing compliment.

For a heartbeat, Ormund doesn’t move.

Not because he hasn’t heard you, but because he has, too clearly and the goblet in his hand stills mid-air. The laughter in his chest dies before it ever becomes sound. And whatever oath he has been carefully, painfully living under, courtesy, restraint, duty, reason fractures in a way that is almost silent.

His gaze finds you across the hall like it’s been pulled there by force rather than choice.

Possessive in a way that has nothing to do with courtly expectation and everything to do with the fact that you are smiling like that, like you don’t know what you’re doing to him.

The court goes on breathing around him, oblivious, but Ormund Hightower doesn’t, because in that moment, the idea of “any man being protective” stops being a polite sentiment and becomes an insult he suddenly cannot tolerate.

His jaw tightens once, controlled. Once more, less controlled.

And when he finally sets his goblet down, it is not gentle.

Across the hall, his attention never leaves you and this time, it isn’t restraint holding him there.

Ormund moves with the intention of a man bordering on making a decision he knows he'll soon regret. “Your Grace,” he murmurs as he bows his head towards Prince Aemond, “I hope my bethroted hasn't been dull company but it appears she has indulged in too much wine so if you'll excuse us, I'll bid you a good night.”

You frown, lips parting in quiet protest as you glance between the two men. Heat still lingers in your cheeks from the wine, but your mind is far clearer than Ormund seems willing to believe.

“I have had two cups,” you say, smoothing an imaginary crease from your skirts with exaggerated dignity. “Hardly enough to render me incapable of conversation.”

Your eyes lift to Ormund's, narrowing just enough for him to recognize the familiar spark of mischief that always seems to find him.

“You make me sound as though I am moments away from climbing onto the banquet table to sing for the court.”

A faint murmur of amusement ripples from those close enough to overhear.

You fold your hands sweetly before you, all innocence despite the challenge gleaming in your gaze.

“If you simply wished to steal me away, my lord,” you murmur, smiling with infuriating softness, “you needn't blame the wine. I would have followed you regardless.”

The words are gentle, almost affectionate but you know exactly what you've done.

You've exposed him.

Not to ridicule, but to everyone with eyes enough to see that Ormund Hightower was not rescuing an inebriated betrothed.

He was claiming what was his.

“I intend to make you scream my name, later, my sweetling.” Ormund’s voice was a low, vibrating rumble that seemed to echo in the very marrow of your bones as he guides you away from the hall.

Ormund didn't wait for a response. His hand clamped firmly around your wrist, his grip possessive and unyielding as he steered you away from the lingering eyes of the court. The transition from the bright, echoing expanse of the hall to the dim, narrow corridor was abrupt, mirroring the sudden shift in his energy. He wasn't just walking you, he was claiming you, his stride long and purposeful, pulling you along with an intensity that left you breathless.

The moment the heavy oak doors of your chambers swung shut, the silence of the room was shattered. Ormund didn't waste a second. He slammed the door closed with a resounding thud and shoved you back against the wood. The impact wasn't violent, but it was commanding, pinning you between the hard surface of the door and the heat of his massive frame.

He loomed over you, his presence suffocating in the best way possible. His eyes, dark and hungry, searched your face, tracing the flush on your cheeks and the frantic beat of the pulse in your throat. He leaned in, his breath hot against your ear, that low rumble returning as he spoke, his voice now a dangerous growl.

“You've spent the entire evening playing a game, sweetling,” he murmured, his lips grazing your skin, sending shivers racing down your spine. “Testing my patience. Pushing me to the very edge.”

One of his hands slid from the door to your throat, not squeezing, but cupping your neck with a firm, dominant pressure that forced you to tilt your head back. His thumb traced the line of your jaw, while his other hand descended, gripping your hip and hauling you flush against him. You could feel the hard, thick ridge of his cock pressing through his trousers, straining against the fabric, demanding entrance.

“The teasing ends now,” he groaned, his voice thick with desire. He crashed his lips onto yours in a bruising, hungry kiss, his tongue forcing its way inside to claim your mouth with an aggressive passion. It wasn't a request, it was a takeover.

He tasted of wine and raw longing, his kiss mirroring the intensity of his grip as he sought to devour you right there against the door, but knowing you deserved better, Ormund guided you further into the room, devouring every gasp that tumbled from your lips.

The patience he had worn like a cloak for so long finally snapped, replaced by a raw, hungry desperation.

“You are fucking mine,” Ormund murmured as he pushed you down unto the bed, fingers bunching up the skirts of your dress as he sank to his knees, his eyes never left yours, burning with a possessive fire that promised both devotion and total ruin.

He didn't waste another second as his large hands gripped your thighs, his fingers digging into your skin to hoist your hips upward, spreading you wide and exposing your dripping heat to the cool air.

He let out a sharp, guttural groan at the sight of your swollen folds, glistening and ready for him.

“My sweet, beautiful temptation,” he murmured against your skin, his hot breath sending shivers racing up your spine as he pulled aside your smallclothes, and then, he lunged. His tongue lashed out, a thick, muscular muscle that found your clit with unerring precision. He didn't start gently, he flicked his tongue upward in a rapid, rhythmic motion, sucking the sensitive nub deep into his mouth.

The sensation was an electric shock, forcing a loud, jagged moan from your throat as your back arched off the surface beneath you. “Fuck, Ormund!”

Ormund was relentless. He used his tongue to part your lips, diving deep inside you, licking your walls with long, sweeping strokes that mimicked the motion of a cock. He slurped at your juices, drinking you in as if you were the only thing keeping him alive. Every time you tried to pull away from the intensity, his grip tightened on your thighs, pinning you in place so he could continue his assault.

He shifted his focus, swirling his tongue around your clit in tight, agonizingly perfect circles before suddenly sucking it hard, creating a vacuum that sent waves of white-hot pleasure crashing through your pelvis. You began to shake, your fingers clawing at his shoulders, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps.

“Yes, break for me,” he growled, his voice muffled against your pussy. “Come undone for your husband.”

Gods, he's already speaking like he's already yours and the promise of marriage, spoken in the heat of the moment, only fueled the fire. He increased the pace, his tongue vibrating against your clit while his fingers slid inside you, stretching you open and pumping in sync with his mouth. The friction was overwhelming. You felt the tension coil tight in your gut, a pressure building that demanded release.

“You are mine, my sweetling, and by the gods I will make sure everyone knows just exactly who is fucking his tongue into your tight little cunt.”

Just as you reached the precipice, Ormund looked up at you, his face smeared with your cream, a predatory smirk on his lips. “Remember this feeling, my love. Because once I have you as my wife, I will spend every night making sure you cannot walk. I will fuck you until you forget your own name.”

With one final, powerful suction on your clit and a deep thrust of his fingers, he pushed you over the edge. You screamed, your internal muscles clamping down hard around his fingers as a violent orgasm ripped through you. You shuddered uncontrollably, your vision blurring as you came in great, pulsing waves, completely undone beneath the tongue of the man who had finally run out of patience.

As the aftershocks of your orgasm continued to ripple through your thighs, leaving you breathless and trembling, you looked up at Ormund. His eyes were dark, blown wide with a hunger that bordered on desperation. He was hovering over you, his chest heaving, the scent of musk and arousal radiating off him in waves.

Driven by a sudden, primal urge to taste him, you reached down and gripped his thick, throbbing cock, through his breeches, “Fuck, what the fuck are you doing?”

You cocked your head, still breathless, “Isn't it obvious, sweet boy? I wish to make you rethink every decision you have ever made,” you murmured as you tugged, Ormund letting out a sharp, guttural gasp as you guided the head of his length to your lips. You didn't hesitate, swirling your tongue around the leaking tip before sliding your mouth over him, sucking him deep into your throat.

Ormund froze for a split second, his fingers digging into the mattress beside your head. A loud, strangled moan ripped from his throat as you worked him, your cheeks hollowing as you sucked the head of his cock with a greedy intensity. The sensation of your warm, wet mouth was almost too much for him to bear.

"Fuck... fuck!" he swore, his voice a raw, jagged rasp. His fingers twisted deeper into your hair, not to pull you away, but to pin you there, his hips twitching in frantic, involuntary jerks. "Gods, you little tease... you're trying to kill me, aren't you?"

But you didn't stop. You sank lower, taking his shaft to the root, nose brushing the coarse curls at his groin. Your throat stretched around the fat head, muscles rippling as you swallowed him whole.

Your tongue lapped at the underside, tracing the thick vein that pulsed against your palate, while your cheeks hollowed with each deliberate, wet suck. You pulled back just enough to let his cock pop free, glistening and slick with your saliva, then plunged down again, faster, harder, taking him deeper than before.

A broken groan tore from his chest. His thighs tensed, the muscles cording under his trousers as he fought to hold still. His grip in your hair tightened to the point of pain, but you welcomed it, let the sting anchor you as you worked his length, your jaw aching, your throat burning with the need to please.

He bucked.

A wild, unguarded thrust that buried himself to the hilt. His balls drew up tight against your chin, and you felt the first hot spasm rocket through his cock. A thick, salty flood erupted straight down your throat, pulse after pulse of heavy, creamy cum, each one painting your tongue and coating your gullet.

You swallowed greedily, throat working in rhythmic gulps, never breaking the seal of your lips around his base. His hips ground against your face, grinding out every last drop while you milked him dry, your fingers digging into his thighs to steady him.

When the last tremor faded, he slumped back against the wall, chest heaving, his cock softening but still held captive in your mouth. You lapped at the sensitive head, cleaning him with tender strokes, until he finally eased his grip, stroking your hair with a trembling hand.

He suddenly pulled back, breathless and shaking, his cock glistening with saliva and pre-cum. He looked down at you, his expression a volatile mix of absolute devotion and raw, animalistic lust.

But Ormund was a man of discipline and tradition, and the weight of his devotion to you acted as a tether. He wanted this to be perfect. He wanted the sanctity of the wedding night to be the moment he truly claimed you, marking you as his in every sense of the word.

“I want to fuck you so bad I can taste it,” he groaned, leaning down to press a hard, bruising kiss to your lips, his voice dropping to a low, possessive growl. “I want to stretch you open, fill you to the brim, and hear you scream my name while I drive myself into your gut. But I'm going to wait. I'm going to do this right.”

He shifted, his hard length brushing against your soaking wet pussy, teasing the entrance but refusing to enter. He looked into your eyes, his gaze burning.

“A fucking week, just one more week and when the doors are closed and the vows are spoken, I am going to fuck you proper. I'm going to spend hours breaking you down, exploring every inch of you, and making sure you know exactly who you belong to. You won't be able to walk for a week when I'm finished with you.”

He gave your clit one last, teasing flick with his finger, leaving you aching and desperate for the very thing he was denying you until the ceremony. “Gods, please, Ormund.”