The heavy velvet flap of the pavilion did not just close; it violently shattered against the wooden stakes as Ormund kicked it shut, the heavy iron-shod heel of his riding boot punctuating his fury with a sound like a small thunderclap.

The air inside the tent was instantly suffocating. It was a sprawling, multi-roomed traveling structure built for the Lord of the Hightower, but the sheer, volatile volume of Ormund’s temper made the canvas walls feel as though they were closing in.

The atmosphere was thick with the scent of unwashed leather, crushed pine needles from the rugged trails, the smoky residue of tallow candles, and the pure, terrifying heat of a Hightower wrath.

Outside, the temporary war camps of the Reach’s vanguard were settling into a quiet, disciplined evening routine. Inside, Ormund was an absolute storm.

”You have the sense of a newborn calf,“ his voice boomed, deep and scraping from the back of his throat, vibrating the very marrow of her bones.

He had not even unbuttoned his heavy, wool-lined traveling doublet. The dark green velvet was stiff, reinforced with thick boiled leather across the broad span of his shoulders, making him look less like a husband and more like a merciless warlord ready to sentence a treasonous garrison to the gallows.

”The rocky banks of the Honeywine? Outside the perimeter of our scouts? In your condition? Do you take me for a fool, or do you simply hold your own life in utter contempt?“

Lying back against a mountain of rich, plush sable and fox furs on the low traveling cot, she did not even flinch. She was a grown woman, fully settled into the skin of her maturity and the formidable reality of her station. She knew exactly how to handle the legendary Hightower temper—not by shrinking, but by anchoring herself like the foundation of the High Tower itself.

Slowly, deliberately, she began to massage her swollen, aching feet. The pregnancy was still in its earlier stages—her belly bearing only a slight, soft swell that was easily hidden beneath the heavy folds of her fine wool skirts—but the sudden shift in her body’s balance had turned what she intended to be a brief, liberating stroll into a grueling, exhausting ordeal. Her ankles were puffy, her skin felt tight with discomfort, and a dull, throbbing ache radiated up her calves from the unaccustomed strain. She was still adjusting to the early, heavy fatigue of carrying his child, an exhaustion that left her breathless far too quickly.

When her foot had caught on a patch of uneven, loose slate near the riverbank, her breath had hitched. It had not been a fall, just a heavy, clumsy stumble that made her back ache fiercely.

But Ormund, who had been riding nearby inspecting the vanguard, had reacted as if a scorpion had struck her. He had dropped from his stallion, his face white with a stark, blinding terror that immediately solidified into raging fury. Before she could even utter a syllable of protest, he had unceremoniously hauled her over his massive shoulder, ignoring her furious demands for decorum. He marched her straight back through the center of the camp in front of half the Reach’s assembled nobility. She had spent the entire walk back swearing under her breath that she would strangle him in his sleep.

”Daeron, sweetling,“ she said, her voice smooth, cool, and entirely cutting through the heavy, masculine roar that filled the pavilion. She did not look at Ormund. Instead, she looked past the towering bulk of her husband toward the entrance of the tent.

Young Daeron Targaryen hovered there, his once pale, silver-gold hair now in the deep auburn of House Hightower. The boy’s hand was white-knuckled on the hilt of his training sword, his violet eyes wide with a genuine, anxious panic. He was a Prince, but he was also a boy fostered in Oldtown, and he had never seen his uncle’s wrath directed so fiercely at the woman who normally served as the calm, steady center of their world.

He looked ready to step between them, his young shoulders tense with a protective instinct he did not quite know how to execute.

She offered the boy a small, deeply reassuring smile, her gaze steady.

”Go find Sir Gwayne. Tell him your uncle requires a cold pitcher of ale to soothe his scorched throat. And remain at the campfires until the sun sets. The air in here is far too thick for a young Dragon.“

Daeron looked at Ormund’s rigid, towering back, then back to her. The absolute, unbothered maturity in her eyes, the sheer calmness she exuded while standing in the path of a storm, was the only thing that gave the young Dragon the courage to move.

Recognizing that his aunt was entirely in control of the situation, he bowed quickly and scrambled out of the pavilion, the heavy velvet flap falling shut behind him with a soft, final thud.

The moment the boy was gone, the fragile truce of public appearance shattered. She turned her sharp wit directly on the beast remaining.

”If you bellow any louder, Ormund, the High Septon will hear you all the way from the Starry Sept,“ she murmured, her voice dripping with a dry, tired sarcasm that she used as a shield against her own deep-seated anxieties. She unlaced the heavy, dust-covered leather of her walking shoe and let it drop to the floor.

”I went for a stroll. I am a grown woman, not a fragile piece of Myrish glass to be locked away in a cedar chest. I wanted fresh air. I wanted to feel the earth beneath my feet because your Maester’s strictly ordered diet of boiled fowl and bland porridge makes me feel as though I am chewing on old parchment. I am suffocating in this camp, Ormund, and I will not be caged.“

”Your feet are swollen to the bone!“ Ormund roared, taking a massive, heavy step toward the cot that made the floorboards beneath the rugs groan. The sheer size of him filled her entire vision—shoulders like an anvil, a chest broad enough to shield three men in his thick velvet tunic.

”You call it a stroll? You call it fresh air? You are carrying my child—the heir to Oldtown, the future of my house! The child is a fresh, delicate thing in your womb, and yet you think it wise to wander beyond the camp guards where a loose stone could send you crashing down? You could have collapsed. You could have bled. You could have–“

”I did not collapse!“ she countered sharply, her own temper finally igniting. She sat up abruptly, bracing her hands behind her on the thick furs, ignoring the sharp twinge of protest from her lower back. She tilted her chin up, meeting his furious, dark gaze with an unyielding fire of her own.

”I slipped! A minor, clumsy misstep because my body no longer feels entirely like my own. And instead of letting me rest, instead of offering me a hand like a husband, you hauled me over your shoulder like a prized stag and embarrassed me in front of our entire vanguard. You made a spectacle of your wife, Ormund.“

She took a sharp, ragged breath, her voice dropping into a deeper, more biting register.

”But we both know you are not truly furious at my fatigue. You are furious because you cannot command the rocks beneath my feet to bow to House Hightower. You are furious because my body, and the life beginning inside it, is the one thing your armies, your wealth, and your titles cannot completely control or guarantee the safety of.“

Ormund stopped dead in his tracks. His jaw clenched so hard that the heavy muscles in his cheek twitched violently.

Inside his chest, a sickening, agonizing knot of pure terror tightened. Her words cut through his anger like a Valyrian steel blade, striking the raw, bleeding nerve he tried so desperately to hide.

He was not just angry; he was terrified. He knew how fragile these early moons were, how easily a new life could slip away before it ever had a chance to take root truly. The birthing bed was a slaughterhouse for noblewomen, a battlefield where his sword, his shields, and his immense physical strength were entirely useless.

The thought of losing her—of his home turning cold, of the light in his life being extinguished while he stood by, helpless—was a nightmare that haunted his every waking hour. When he had seen her stumble on those rocks, his soul had left his body. His anger was the only armor he had to keep from falling to his knees and begging her to never leave his sight.

And yet, the absolute arrogance of her tongue, the complete lack of fear she displayed while staring down his worst wrath, was the very thing that made him worship her. She was his match in every sense—a formidable woman who refused to break. But right now, combined with that lingering, sickening terror, her defiance made something dangerous snap inside him.

The martial wrath did not fade; it ignited into something entirely different, a dark, possessive, and overwhelming heat.

”You think this is a game of wits?“ he growled, his voice dropping into a low, predatory octave that vibrated straight through the floorboards, losing its booming roar and gaining a quiet, terrifying intensity.

”You think I care about the vanguard? You think I care about titles?“

In three slow, deliberate strides, he crossed the remaining distance between them. The sheer, predatory gravity of his movement made her pulse hitch, a sudden, heavy throb of anticipation blooming deep between her thighs. But as his strong hands reached down to grab her waist, she did not shrink back into the furs. Her own frustration, her own need to push back against the suffocating walls of his hovering protection, boiled over.

Using his forward momentum and her own unyielding leverage, she wrapped her arms around his neck, fingers digging into the thick collar of his doublet, and pulled down with all her might. At the same moment, she shifted her weight with a sudden defiance that caught him entirely off guard.

With a low grunt of genuine surprise, the massive warlord stumbled slightly forward. She twisted her hips, leveraging his bulk against him, and pushed him back against the heavy cushions and furs of the cot. In a flash of stubborn rebellion, she dragged her body up, straddling his muscular thighs, pinning his legs beneath her own.

For a breathless, triumphant second, she was on top. She looked down at the Lord of Oldtown, her face flushed, her eyes blazing with a fierce, intoxicating glare of dominance. She braced her hands flat against his heavy, leather-trimmed doublet, feeling the rapid, powerful thudding of his heart beneath her palms.

”I am the Lady of the Hightower, Ormund,“ she gasped out, her chest heaving as she tried to maintain her authority over him.

”You will not cage me. You will not dictate where I walk, and you will never carry me like a beast of burden through your camp again–“

Ormund lay beneath her for a fraction of a second, his massive chest rising and falling beneath her hands. Then, his dark eyes flashed with a sudden, dangerous amusement that instantly melted into pure, suffocating dominance. A low, gravelly chuckle rumbled deep in his throat, a dark sound that vibrated right through his chest and into her palms.

”An admirable effort, my love,“ he whispered, his voice dripping with a raw, protective heat that made her core ache with sudden wetness.

”Truly. But you forget who commands this army. And you forget exactly who you belong to.“

Before she could even register the shift in his muscles, his calloused hands came up, gripping her hips like iron bands. The sheer, effortless power in his arms was staggering. With a single, terrifyingly easy surge of brute strength, Ormund completely reversed their positions. He did not just push her off; he twisted his heavy torso, lifting her entire body and rolling her over in a single, fluid motion.

The world spun for a breathless instant, and then she was flat on her back beneath him, her breath completely stolen by the sheer speed and weight of his movement.

He followed her down instantly, his broad frame safely but completely trapping her beneath him. The sheer physical contrast of their bodies was on absolute display; he was a mountain of muscle and dark velvet, completely enveloping her smaller, softer form.

Yet, even in his primal need to master her, his instincts ruled his movements. He was hyper-aware of the slight, tender swell of her lower belly. He positioned his thick, heavy thighs to flank hers perfectly, taking the brunt of his own weight, and threw his immense bulk onto his elbows, hovering over her so that he pinned her completely without placing any dangerous pressure on her stomach.

The containment was absolute, flawless, and terrifyingly beautiful. She was completely mastered, her brief rebellion utterly crushed beneath his weight.

Her sharp tongue opened to lash him again, to find some way to reclaim her defense, but Ormund was entirely done listening.

He slammed his mouth down over hers.

It was not a gentle kiss. It was a total conquest—a deep, bruising, utterly possessive claim that completely smothered her breath, cutting off her voice before she could form a single word. His tongue parted her lips with a rough, commanding urgency, drinking in the quiet, helpless gasp of shock she let out.

For a woman who valued the deep, intense intimacy of a kiss above all else, the sheer, crushing force of his mouth was intoxicating. It drove out every coherent thought from her mind, replacing her anger with a desperate, clawing hunger.

She tried to turn her head, an instinctual reaction to find a pocket of air, but Ormund’s large hand moved to her jaw. His thick fingers locked her face in place with unyielding firmness, forcing her to take every single ounce of his desperate, terrified passion. He kissed her as if he were trying to possess her soul, as if he could force his own breath into her lungs to keep her safe forever. He kissed her until the air in her chest burned, until her hands stopped pushing against his broad shoulders and instead tangled frantically into the dark, thick hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him down, begging for the very weight that threatened to consume her.

When he finally pulled his lips away by a fraction of an inch, the silence of the pavilion was broken only by their ragged, desperate breathing. Her lips were dark, flushed, swollen, and slick with their shared saliva, parted in a frantic gasp for air.

”You belong to me,“ Ormund snarled against her damp skin, his hot breath sweeping over her burning face. He shifted his bulk slightly, his hand sliding down the front of her gown to rip open the delicate linen laces of her chemise with a rough, impatient jerk. He dragged the fabric down, exposing the slope of her shoulder and the elegant curve of her neck.

”Every breath in your lungs. Every step your feet take on the earth. You do not risk what is mine, do you hear me? You do not terrify me like that again.“

Before she could form an answer, his mouth dropped down to the sensitive juncture where her neck met her shoulder. He did not merely kiss her skin; his teeth grazed the flushed flesh, biting down with a sharp, possessive pressure that bordered on painful.

She cried out, her voice a sharp, breathy gasp. A direct spike of intense, white-hot pleasure darted from the bite straight down to her core, making her lower stomach tighten with a fierce, throbbing ache. His teeth sunk deeper for a second, leaving a dark, immediate mark on her skin—a visceral, burning brand that would remain for days, a reminder of who owned her.

”Let the camp see it tomorrow,“ Ormund muttered against the fresh wound, his voice a dark, rough purr that vibrated against her collarbone.

”Let my knights and the lords of the Reach see exactly what happens when my wife decides to wander beyond my sight. Let them know you are claimed.“

His large hand slid further lower, moving over the rounded swelling of her breasts. His fingers tightly cupping and squeezing the sensitive, aching flesh through the torn linen, completely overwrought by the lush fullness that came with her early pregnancy.

He bunched the ruined fabric in his fist, pulling it down roughly until her breasts were completely bared to the warm, candlelit air of the tent. They were heavy, their nipples tight and hyper-sensitive from the child growing within her.

Ormund let out a low, guttural groan at the sight, his large, rough thumb dragging heavily across one tight peak. She arched off the furs with a sharp, breathless gasp, her hands gripping his velvet sleeves for anchor.

The sheer overstimulation of his rough hands on her aching chest was dizzying. He pinched the swollen bud between his calloused fingers, rolling it firmly, sending a ruthless wave of heat straight down into the heavy, weeping pulse between her thighs. She whimpered, her hips rolling instinctively against his heavy thigh, completely undone by the harsh friction.

”Ormund… please,“ she whispered, her composure entirely shattered, her voice cracking with raw, trembling need. She was entirely at his mercy, her body screaming for fulfillment.

”You are too heavy… I cannot breathe… please…“

”Good,“ he growled, his dark eyes burning down into hers with a fierce, ungodly devotion as his hand moved back up to grab her jaw, tilting her head back.

”Do not breathe. Do not think of the shore, or the diet, or the camp. Only think of me. Only feel what I give you.“

He locked his mouth over hers a second time, renewing the prolonged, suffocating kiss, sealing her desperate whimpers behind his teeth. He starved her of air deliberately, using the restriction of breath to heighten every single sensation running through her nerve endings.

At the exact same moment, his large hand slid beneath the heavy layers of her skirts, pushing through the fine linen and silk until his fingers found the soaked, burning heat between her thighs.

She was already dripping, her body completely betraying her anger, slick and scalding hot.

Ormund let out a dark, approving rumble deep in his chest against her lips as his fingers sank into her wetness. He drove two fingers deep inside her, the thickness of them stretching her engorged walls, filling her so completely that she let out a muffled sob into his mouth.

But he gave her no time to adjust. His thumb found her hyper-sensitive bundle of nerves, burying itself against the swollen bead. He did not tease her, did not offer a gentle prelude; he ground his thumb against her center with a relentless, heavy, rhythmic friction that perfectly matched the brutal, deep, wet strokes of his tongue inside her mouth.

She was completely, utterly trapped. She was unable to move her head away from his locking grip; she was unable to move her hips away from the brutal pleasure of his hand. The sheer restriction of breath from his unbroken, crushing kiss, combined with the explosive, wet heat of his fingers stretching her inside and his thumb ruthlessly punishing her clitoris, turned the pavilion into a blur of pure sensory madness.

Her mind emptied of everything but the burning friction. Her inner muscles clamped down frantically around his fingers, convulsing in tight, desperate, weeping waves as the relentless overstimulation pushed her to the absolute brink of her sanity. She was flying apart, her controlled mind shattered by the primal force of his mastery.

Her eyes rolled back behind closed lids. Her fingers dug into the thick furs beneath her until the fabric tore, her legs trembling violently where they were pinned wide by the immovable weight of his heavy thighs. She tried to scream his name, tried to beg him to stop or to hurry—she was unsure which—but the sound was swallowed entirely by his bruising lips, muffled into a desperate, choked moan that vibrated deep in his own throat.

The prolonged kiss continued, deep and unbroken, holding her right at the precipice of an unbearable peak. The lack of air, the deep fullness of his fingers, and the heavy, unyielding rhythm of his thumb created a perfect storm of overstimulation. Her body could not hold it back any longer.

The climax hit her like a monstrous wave crashing against the stone cliffs of Oldtown. Her body violently convulsed, her internal walls locking down in a tight, crushing spasm around his fingers. She shattered fiercely beneath his massive weight, entirely undone, her hips bucking helplessly against his hand as a brilliant, blinding release claimed her senses. She came hard, her body weeping against his fingers, her muffled cries of pure ecstasy echoing inside his locked mouth.

Ormund held her through the entire shattering wave. He did not lessen the pressure of his thumb, dragging her through every single throbbing ripple of her orgasm, keeping his lips locked tightly to hers until her violent trembling slowly subsided into soft, ragged breaths.

Slowly, mercifully, he pulled his mouth away. A long, thin silver thread of saliva connected their lips in the dim candlelight. A dark, intensely victorious smirk played on his lips as he looked down at her dazed expression, her chest heaving heavily against his broad, velvet-clad chest, her eyes half-closed and unfocused.

The terror that had gripped his heart all evening was gone, replaced by a profound, worshipful calm. Her body was safe, she was here beneath him, and she was entirely his. His thumb gently wiped a stray tear of pure overstimulation from her flushed cheek, his touch suddenly shifting into the deeply tender, reverent care that always followed his fury. He looked down at the woman who ruled his heart, his chest swelling with an all-consuming devotion.

”Next time,“ Ormund whispered, his voice low, gravelly, and fiercely protective as his massive hand came to rest reverently over the slight, warm swell of her belly, his thumb tracing the new life they had made together, ”I will carry you the entire way. You will not take a single step.“

A chestnut tree spread its branches with a sense of dignity. The tree looked proud, full of color. Among the lush greenery, reminiscent of your future husband's house colors, lush white flowers peeked through, resembling candles. A sweet, almost honeyed aroma filled the morning air. Looking at the plant, you could not help but think how this garden reminded you of Ormund himself. He carried the same unshakable calm, the same majesty, with an air as if it meant laughably little. Lord Hightower wore a heavy velvet cloak in a deep emerald color. His body seemed tense almost all the time, as if he held an entire sky on his broad shoulders. In this, he reminded you of the crown of a majestic tree.

You awkwardly touched the cold silver of your earrings, adjusting them periodically, not because they sat unevenly, but because you wanted some way to calm yourself. The trinket was a recent gift from your betrothed. They were heavy, the lobes of your ears felt the pressure, like a promise that being the wife of the head of such a house would not be simple. The earrings swayed slightly and settled against your neck, kissing your skin with the points of their rays. Two little stars with seven points and pearls set in the middle. This generous gesture from Ormund had become a nagging thought for you. You wanted to be worthy of it, and that extended far beyond just the earrings. You wanted to wear seven pointed stars in your ears with the same honor with which he carried his faith. You wanted to be part of his world, steeped in beeswax and quiet, devoted prayers.

You were the middle daughter in your family, and perhaps because of that, you did not receive the same attention as your older sister. This applied not only to your parents but also to your septa. You did not want to blame that good woman for not instilling in you the necessary love for faith. But as far back as you could remember, you recalled fingers pricked by a needle more than hands folded in prayer. You felt somewhat detached from this world. You had never been particularly religious, and before, you had never even thought about it. But now, walking shoulder to shoulder with your future husband, Ormund Hightower himself, you could not help but ask yourself many questions about your previous life.

The head of House Hightower noticed how your expression had changed. He glanced at you from the corner of his eye, as your head was covered in a white cloth like a dove's wing. Ormund could not help but admire you involuntarily. You looked so innocent and pure, like an angel descending from the heavens directly into his arms. The curve of your cheek was softly outlined, and the fabric clung to your beautiful face. Your gaze was captivatingly hidden beneath the shadow of your lashes. You could not have imagined that your image radiated so much temptation. You were a mystery covered in a patterned veil.

"You've grown quiet. Has something happened? Is it because of the wedding? Have you changed your mind?" Ormund chuckled quietly. You guessed he was trying to tease you sweetly, but his shameless nature pierced through this armor of sweetness very successfully.

You shook your head with a slight smile. This marriage was desired by both of you. It was almost surprising. When you were a very young maiden, you had already resigned yourself to an arranged marriage, because that fate had befallen many of your friends and acquaintances. Some of them married so young, and their husbands were much older, that you were involuntarily grateful to the gods each time for the love you shared with Ormund.

"I wouldn't refuse. Too much has already been done. It would be a shame if all the flowers prepared for the wedding went to waste."

The irony that slipped into your voice gave Ormund a slight thrill. Those rare moments when you teased him while still looking like such a pious lady made him weak. All good and proper thoughts left his head. Lord Hightower turned his head away, pretending that a neatly trimmed bush was occupying his attention. He did not allow himself to cross the boundaries of propriety, for later he would never forgive himself. Such sweet lies, convincing himself that he was not waiting for the wedding night as much as a starving man waits for food.

"But something is bothering you, isn't it?" Ormund rasped quietly, his voice hoarse from pent up emotion.

"I would like everything to go perfectly. I don't want to do something that will later become a constant reminder of my ignorance regarding religion."

"Ignorance is too strong a word, and I would say unworthy of you."

"Lord Hightower, you don't understand. I don't even know how to pray properly," you whispered with some desperation. These words had slipped from your lips, and you regretted not being able to hold them back. Your cheeks warmed with a blush that spread across your skin.

The man stopped and looked at you intently. Something predatory flickered in his spring like eyes. He smiled with the corners of his lips. You blinked in confusion. Shouldn't he be outraged? Did this not truly make you ignorant? But Ormund simply extended his hand to you silently. In this gesture, there was barely a hint of authority. You obediently reached for him. Something was pulling your body, tugging at the strings, forcing you to obey.

His hand covered yours, and it felt pleasantly right. His fingers were long and elegant, like swords forged by a skilled master, clinging to your fingers with a sense of ownership. Ormund still tried to hide the fact that you belonged to him no less than Oldtown. In his "my betrothed," there was a rough love. No one doubted that the marriage would take place, because it was the will of Lord Hightower.

"It's pleasant to be the first at something, hmm?" he purred quite ambiguously. You were slightly less innocent than he imagined, so you caught his hint. The upcoming wedding night troubled you no less.

You nearly gasped when you saw where you had ended up. You had walked through these gardens before, but you had never wandered into this spot. Before you stood a white marble gazebo with a dome of green stained glass and silver swirls that reminded you of ripples on seawater. There were seven columns, unsurprisingly, each representing a familiar figure. The silhouettes of the Seven bathed in golden sunlight, and their smiles at this time of day looked blessing and kind. The work was so masterful that you could make out every fold in their garments and every wrinkle on the faces of the statues. In the center of the gazebo stood an altar, a massive square polished at the edges, made of the same white marble but with graphite veins.

You froze, overcome with reverence. You could not believe that your future husband had brought you to such a sacred place. For you, this meant the same as opening his soul. Ormund gently urged you forward, or rather pulled you along, slowly ascending the low steps.

"This is not the sept, but I tried to make it a little like one. There is a little less strictness here and more freedom." Ormund nodded at the ivy that wrapped around the railings with its green tenacious paws.

"I think for a first time, it will do perfectly." His voice became deeper and quieter, as if he was afraid to disturb the peace of the Seven.

Lord Hightower's knees touched the cold floor. The cushion remained peacefully lying beside his feet. It was clear that he had never performed a prayer with anyone before. You pressed your hands to your chest. Unease gripped your entire spirit. The faces of the Seven could not set you up for confession, nor could Ormund who spoke so gently. His hair caught the light, glowing with copper threads, sparkling almost like amber.

"Come here, my lady. There is nothing to be afraid of." He insisted softly. Your cheeks warmed again. A bad, unrighteous feeling made the pit of your stomach clench into a tight knot.

How intimate it was to see the man who would belong to you kneeling before you. Ormund seemed ready to pray not to the gods, but to you alone. It would cost you nothing to step closer and run your hand through his thick hair. It would cost him nothing to leave a kiss on your stomach and travel lower.

You swayed and quickly sank onto the cushion he offered, afraid that he might hear your bold fantasies. Or were you already sharing one fantasy between the two of you as spouses?

"This might seem humiliating, but it is a posture of humility. Pride is a terrible vice, and how else are we to atone for it if not before the gods?" he whispered softly, like a gentle breeze against your trembling back.

His fingers picked up a thin wax candle, fingers that could easily break it in half, but they held it with the tenderness of a lover. He lit his candle. The flame danced smoothly, swaying from side to side. The glow of the lit candle played in your eyes. Ormund held his breath almost imperceptibly. A protective feeling spread through his chest. One of your locks slipped from under your headscarf and fell onto your soft cheek.

He cleared his throat hastily, realizing he had been caught openly devouring you with his eyes. Ormund offered you the candle so you could light your own, but he could not let go of your fingers. He squeezed your flesh with hidden passion. Desire clouded his mind. Would the Seven approve of him imagining biting your lower lip to push his tongue into your sweet mouth?

The marble face of the Mother now looked stern, and perhaps she was saving you from some foolishness right before your wedding, because Ormund pulled back, trying to straighten up. You watched the dance of your candles' flames standing close to each other. Two thin wax pillars desired each other no less than you and Lord Hightower.

"Place your palms together, warm them, feel the blood in you, that you are alive, and that it is thanks to the Seven, my lady." Ormund sighed quietly. He closed his eyes with extraordinary submission. With each new word, a composure awakened in him. He only occasionally glanced at you, checking how much you were giving yourself to the prayer or to his gentle commands.

"You can pray aloud. That is usually how it is done in the sept. That way you feel your involvement, and also that you are not alone, how faith fills you, making you the strongest person in the world. But you can also pray silently. That is your conversation with the gods. They will hear you because you are their daughter."

Lord Hightower whispered something completely unintelligible, but so tender that it made an indescribable impression on you. Your heart trembled, afraid of bursting. You were not praying. You were looking at your future husband without blinking. He was so devoted, so removed from the whole world, and the Seven, how beautiful he was! You forgot how to breathe. You wanted to immediately confess to the gods for all your sins, especially for the sin that had soaked into the skirt of your dress. Sometimes nature conquered any morality.

"Are you still worried about the upcoming wedding?" he suddenly asked, lazily opening only one eye like a cat. "You are not praying, dear."

"I am praying silently! And yes, I am worried, because I want everything to follow the strict traditions of your house." You began playing with your earrings again to occupy your trembling hands.

His blue eyes watched your nervous fingers. He was curious to feel your pulse, not just to run the pad of his thumb over your thin skin, but to warm your wrist with his lips, to trace the beating vein with the tip of his tongue.

"Everything will be as my wife wishes." Ormund swallowed. "And I appreciate that, my lady, your devotion. I swore to the Seven that my wife would lack nothing, that I would be everything to her that she desires."

You lowered your head so he would not see the wide smile that had appeared on your face. His words warmed you like strong Dornish wine.

Ormund approached without asking, lifting your chin with his fingers and kissed not your forehead or cheek, but your lips. His lips pressed against yours hotly and tenderly, his tongue tracing the outline of your upper lip, and you timidly allowed him to deepen the kiss with a shameless sigh. All you could do was part your lips a little more, letting your betrothed kiss you with pressure. His tongue slid against your inexperienced one. He was teaching you again, but this time there was no trace of anything as pure as prayer. Ormund's teeth grazed your soft lips, gently biting them and kissing them as if immediately comforting you, apologizing. Your moisture trickled down the inside of your thighs, which you pressed together to keep it from spilling onto the silk cushion.

You moaned pitifully, and that became something sobering for him. He did not pull away immediately. Ormund kissed you again, but tenderly this last time, unhurriedly sealing your swollen lips together. A wet thread stretched between your mouths, not allowing you to part so soon.

"The gods are merciful, as you can see, my lady." Lord Hightower whispered with eyes darkened and gleaming with arousal. "For I asked them for this."

You still could not calm your heart and your ragged breath, let alone the ache of your pussy craving sin.

Ormund did not look so agitated, or he hid it well. He meditatively dipped a sprig of hyssop into a bowl of water. With his brows furrowed in concentration, he ran the plant across your heated forehead. Water dripped onto your skin, but could not cool it.

Something vaguely told you that it would be different in the sept, certainly without that beastly kiss between prayer and aspersion, but your future husband looked as if he had done everything exactly as the rules you had so sweetly insisted upon required.

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B = Body part ✧ *:･ﾟ(their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Ormund’s favorite body part of himself is his chest, shoulders, and arms. His frame is broad and strong with defined musculature from his training; he doesn’t wear armor and a great sword for no reason, he is a seasoned warrior and everyone can see that. Which is something he is proud of.

Ormund’s favorite body part on you is your stomach. While Ormund is fond of the rest of your frame, he is specially fond of your stomach because of the connection it provides him. He’ll often lay his head on your stomach for comfort, and often grab at it and apply pressure towards your womb when taking you.

The stomach is a vulnerable area, which is the main reason he finds it so intimate. Because of this, he makes sure to appreciate your trust in him when you share your body with him. Often swatting your hands away if you try and cover yourself in front of him.

“Do you mean to insult me? Do not hide yourself from me, Lady Hightower.”

C = Cum ✧ *:･ﾟ(anything to do with cum, basically)

Ormund—of course—likes to cum inside in hopes of making more heirs and to maintain his faithful duties as a lord husband… but in the moment where it’s just you and him, and he feels the warm pressure building in his lower abdomen to his peak, he wants nothing more than to see his release land upon you and cover your body. Your face, chest, and backside are his favorite places but his main goal is for it to just land somewhere on you.

His fascination with it grows the more you allow him to indulge in the act; finding himself enjoying rubbing the white, sticky substance into your sweat glistened skin, wanting it to become a part of you. After he cums upon your breasts or stomach, he’ll take your hands and guide you to massage it onto yourself, watching in admiration as you listen to him so dutifully.

“Do you feel that, how you make feel?”

D = Dirty secret ✧ *:･ﾟ (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Ormund has been interested in you for far longer than he lets on. When you first met him it truly seemed like fate itself caused your paths to cross. In reality, it is Ormund that wanted your lives to intertwine with one another.

He will never speak of the politics that went into the creation of your marriage nor the unsavory things he did to keep the union favorable in your eyes and the eyes of your house.

To his delight though, you will fondly recount how he seemed to brighten your future. How you were doomed in the past to marry a different Lord with distasteful rumors against him until his sudden and untimely death. How you felt so uncertain of who would take his place until Ormund entered your life soon after.

No, you will never know the lengths he took to have you.

“We were just meant for one another, weren’t we. As if the gods themselves placed us together.”

E = Experience ✧ *:･ﾟ(how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

This one I find myself struggling with. While he would obviously have experience if you were his second wife—his first wife giving him three children—I do not know if he’s the type that would kept his oath of chastity until marriage.

That being said, I actually believe his body count would remain rather low. I could see Ormund making a young fling become his first wife and making you his second wife because you rekindle a long-forgotten want for passion after his time at war.

If Ormund is interested in you, he would be the type to initiate improper and sexual activities during the time he courts you, fulfilling his corruption fantasies as he convinces you to sin with him. Afterwards, he would use your impropriety to his advantage in getting you to officially accept his marriage proposal.

“We have already consummated in the eyes of the Seven, from Maiden to Mother, you are mine.”

F = Favorite position ✧ *:･ﾟ(this goes without saying)

Ormund will never be able to decide if he likes fucking you on your back or on your stomach more.

Both positions allow him to bend you underneath him to his liking…which means you get manhandled and flipped around a lot.

He does enjoy seeing your face though, and often grasps at your jaw to make you look at him while he completely ruins you.

“How does it feel, wife? That I can take you so easily?”

G = Goofy ✧ *:･ﾟ(are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Ormund is hard to read. He will put on a confident, goofy persona one moment but turn intense and serious in the next. The change in mood is both equally exhilarating as it is terrifying, for he expects you to understand when this switch happens and to follow his lead.

“And what is it that you find so humorous, wife?”

H = Hair ✧ *:･ﾟ(how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Ormund takes extreme care in his appearance (self-care king); using his lordly amenities in a far greater amount than the other lords among Westeros. Ormund has a special interest in scents, lotions, and oils—more on that later—and often buys them imported from Dorne and Essos. Just being in his proximity you can smell the mixture of perfumes radiating off of him.

Additionally, Ormund keeps himself well groomed in all areas. He doesn’t grow much hair on other than on his arms and legs, but he has a slight patch of hair on his chest which he is fond of.

In the lower regions, he maintains his hair by trimming down the light brown curls to a manageable length, not wanting it to get in the way activities on the battlefield nor bedroom.

“What? Do not tell me you are surprised?”

I = Intimacy ✧ *:･ﾟ (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Ormund is incredibly intimate. So much so that it can become too intense, like playing with fire.

He wants to worship you, devour you, and he wants to feel the same in return. The intensity feels almost ritualistic and carnal, as if he’s trying to somehow merge you both into one. And it’s in those moments, in candlelight and silk, where you truly feel his obsession towards you.

While he can be mean, controlling, and somewhat self-serving, he remains attentive and affectionate, never allowing room for insecurity to grow.

“You’re here with me, and you understand what that means.”

J = Jack off ✧ *:･ﾟ(masturbation headcanon)

I do not believe this man touches himself without an audience, aka you. Once the thought of jacking off enters his mind, he immediately thinks of you and where you are next.

If you’re not around or if he’s away from Oldtown, he will abstain from it, but if you’re around, best believe he’s calling for you.

When he’s really in the mood for it he’ll order you to kneel in front of him and watch. Giving himself long, slow strokes as he looks down at you. Sometimes it will end with him telling you to help with your mouth, and other times, he’ll tell you to undress slowly and start touching yourself as well.

Jacking off is supposed to be a quick release for most but not for Ormund, who makes an event out of it.

“You’ll be a good girl for me, correct? So get on your knees.”

K = Kink ✧ *:･ﾟ (one or more of their kinks)

It may be obvious to all of us what I am about to write. Ormund for sure has a scent kink. When he greets you, he brings you in close enough to inhale the scent of your neck or your hair, always disguised as kiss to your temple or shoulder.

He is often unsure of what he wants the most, for you to smell like him or for him to smell like you. Although you are clearly claimed in marriage, the thought of other lords smelling his distinctive fragrance on you while you converse makes his pants tighten at their recognition or uncomfortability.

He’ll steals items from you to carry with him for the smell; ribbons that have been discarded from your hair, jewelry that has been previously placed on your wrist and neck, your handkerchief or his favorite, a piece of your undergarments. It’s usually a cut or torn piece of silk or lace from one you wore during your most recent endeavors. If he is leaving for a longer time, he will take an entire silk chemise of yours that you’ve worn to sleep to keep in his cot.

Ormund is a total brat that is usually dominant. He loves making you upset, pushing and pulling on your boundaries until tears form in your eyes or you try and fight him for control. His favorite part is when you try to correct him, when you become bossy in your frustration with his antics because he loves not listening to you. The lack of physical control you have against him giving him a high that nothing else can replicate.

Ormund also has a thing for mirrors, and while, of course, he loves looking at you and seeing the way you unfold beneath him in various positions. He definitely loves looking at himself (man whore).

Ormund looks nice, and he makes sure of it, putting more effort into his appearance than any other man in Westeros—something he doesn’t forget to remind you. He cannot help but appreciate how is muscles tense and glow in the candlelight, glistening in sweat as he pounds into you, your whimpers and moans encouraging him.

Ormund definitely has an appreciation for the male figure, and I believe it to be on the same level as he does for women. And going even further, since we’re on the thought; I think Ormund is attracted to both women and men alike.

And because of society and faith, he may or may not have experienced men in the way he has women. If he did, I see it happening in the past with one of his soldiers. Anyways, mirrors help him in his curiosity and might serve as a nice reminder.

“Do you see how I take you so well? No one else can do what I can.”

L = Location ✧ *:･ﾟ (favorite places to do the do)

Sex usually occurs in his Lord Study over a desk of paperwork, scripture, and maps; or in your shared chambers, on any surface of your chambers.

Ormund is Lord of Oldtown, a responsibility he cannot step away from often. However, that doesn’t stop him from summoning you to his study after council meetings or errands.

He has a habit to compare you to a siren or nymph while his hands reach into your garments, even though he was the one who called for you; Kissing softly into your skin and mumbling how you so easily seduce him into depravity.

“Is this what you want? For anyone—everyone—to hear what you make me do to you?”

M = Motivation ✧ *:･ﾟ (what turns them on, gets them going)

The wind, the temperature, the sound of the waves hitting against Oldtown. Boredom is his main motivation, honestly. Ormund thinks of you during the times he finally gets the chance to let out a breath and think about anything else other than his duties.

And in thinking about you, he quickly starts to crave the affection you provide him. The way you feel against him, your voice in his ears, the way you smell in that perfume he told you to put on for him. And as quick as you entered his mind, he’s wanting you.

“Have someone fetch Lady Hightower for me. Now.”

N = No ✧ *:･ﾟ(something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Ormund hates the idea of sharing with his entire being. The thought alone of another man (or woman) looking upon you the same way he does can bring him into a fury.

So no jokes, no flirting, and no showing of your undivided attention towards any other lord and lady of the court; his jealously is far too great for that.

"You are mine. What do you not understand about that?"

O = Oral ✧ *:･ﾟ(preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Ormund likes his head between your legs for really two reasons: (1) because it shows how close he wants to be with you and, (2) the smell of you.

Ormund is a messy eater too. You feel everything, his tongue, his lips, his nose; he does not hesitate in giving full attention to your sex while his strong hands grip your thighs open, and he won’t stop until you’re fully dripping in a mixture of his spit and your own pleasure.

Ormund will also expect the same treatment in return, always being physically gentle even if his words remain sharp. He’ll order you to lick him clean, to place him in your mouth. The girth of his cock is almost dangerous as it passes your lips and glides over your tongue, and he knows it. So he’ll make sure to cup your face and head lovingly as he guides himself into your tight throat softly.

He always makes the prettiest moans when you do this for him too.

“Just like that, my little wife.”

P = Pace ✧ *:･ﾟ(are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

As mentioned above, Ormund is unpredictable. Just as fast as his moods can change, so will his pace.

Ormund uses the pacing of his thrusts as another method of demonstrating his control over you. He will start off by thrusting himself into you in one deep stroke, pounding into your sweet spot with no remorse or time left to adjust, and just as you start to see stars, he will completely change. The brutal thrusts turning soft and languid, as if he’s suddenly savoring the feeling of you stretching around him, leaving your legs shaking as you have to chase your own confused pleasure through his chaos.

“What’s the matter with you? I know you’re not giving up on me?”

Q = Quickie ✧ *:･ﾟ(their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Ormund would only partake in quickies if you really enjoyed them. He always finds the idea enticingly sweet until he the moment he partakes in it.

The quick nature frustrates him beyond end and it always makes him want more when he knows he cannot, and it usually worsens his attitude until he can spend proper time with you.

“You know I don’t have time for this, wife.”

R = Risk ✧ *:･ﾟ(are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Ormund is not a risk taker in the traditional sense since you very rarely have sex outside of your private quarters.

That being said, Ormund will and does take emotional risks. He’ll mentally push you to your limits in bed, experiment with his tone and the mix of praise and degradation he uses.

He’s absolutely obsessed with seeing how far you’ll go for him if he asked you too; Ormund knows you’ll jump for him, but his next question is how high.

“What? Have I gone too far this time? You know you love it.”

S = Stamina ✧ *:･ﾟ(how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Ormund has greater stamina than most men his age. Sex with Ormund can go for one to three rounds, and depending on the position or activity, can last anywhere from 10 to 30 minutes each round.

"Do you know what you do to me?"

T = Toys ✧ *:･ﾟ(do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Remember when I said there would be more on the oils, lotions, and scents? Oh yeah, this is it.

Ormund doesn’t use toys, and I am not sure if he even knows about toys or let alone knows where to source them, but his practices of using oils and lotions do transfer over to the bedroom.

He loves to massage your skin with oil in firelight to see it glow, to caress your breasts and hips freely, the slipperiness of the oil adding to the sensation. He'll trace the curves of your body until he meets the swell of your breasts, swirling his thumbs around your nipples as he kisses you deeply. The feel and smell of it is erotic, making Ormund’s head grow fuzzy and his cock ache in anticipation.

When it comes to ribbons and rope, he is the type to prefer using his body to keep you from moving. On him however, he may indulge you if you have the desire to tie him up, only if you do it in front of a mirror though.

"Is this what you want from me, sweet girl?"

U = Unfair ✧ *:･ﾟ(how much they like to tease)

Ormund loves to tease you but absolutely hates when you tease him back. He can only handle so much before he for sure gets pissy with you (he's a bitch). It sours his mood, and you often have to find ways "make it up" to him for him to return to normal.

This would be difficult to deal with if you weren't so fond of him, and often, you find yourself having to hold back how amused you are with his antics in worry that he'll take more offense.

If you play your cards right this may sometimes lead to more submissive Ormund. If you tell him to relax and let you take care of him, to let him give you a chance to earn his forgiveness. He'll let you, but don't think he'll remain docile for long.

“You know I hate when you do that. Perhaps you can do something more useful—hm?”

V = Volume ✧ *:･ﾟ(how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

I just know this man loves to hear the sound of his own voice; talking, jesting, moaning, groaning.

He wants to hear you too. Ormund will encourage you to be vocal as well, either as a result of your own pleasure or in telling him what more you need, and he’s so mean about it.

If you don’t use the vulgarity he is looking for or you speak too softly, he will genuinely not do what you asked, or do the complete opposite as punishment.

Want him to go harder? He will go slower. Want him to drive in deeper? He’ll pull out enough so just the tip is dipping into your center.

He’s a man of patience, he’ll make sure that you beg for what you truly want eventually.

“What was that, wife? I can’t seem to hear you.”

W = Wild card ✧ *:･ﾟ(a random headcanon for the character)

This man bathes everyday, sometimes twice a day. He enjoys warm baths enriched in scented oils and fragrant botanicals (rip Ormund you would have loved bath bombs). It is an expense that most laugh at, but Ormund cannot go without it or risk irritability.

He is a man of ritual, finding comfort in the mundane, he will go about his day in the same schedule as the last. Praying and bathing falling into his daily life as much as you do.

"You'll join me, won't you?"

X = X-ray ✧ *:･ﾟ(let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

As mentioned before he is well groomed, and he also smells good. With a blend of perfume and musk, his cock is quite heavy and girthy; the feeling of it stretching into you being its best attribute.

When you first laid eyes upon it, Ormund’s mind was reeling in satisfaction at your shocked and embarrassed face.

“Does it scare you, my little wife? Don’t worry, any pain will soon grow to pleasure you have never felt before.”

Y = Yearning ✧ *:･ﾟ(how high is their sex drive?)

Ormund’s sex drive is pretty active in his older age, keeping yours and his needs well satisfied. Any time alone with him ends up relatively sexual, he just can’t help it.

But… Ormund can sometimes lose interest after initiating because his mind drifts elsewhere, plagued either by his lordly, fatherly, or commander duties. In those rare times, he’d rather hold you and speak about your day spent away from one another.

“I’m sorry love, my mind seems to be elsewhere…”

Z = Zzz ✧ *:･ﾟ(how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

When you finish your activities in your shared chambers and it is nighttime or Ormund has the time, he falls asleep quite quickly after adjusting himself comfortably around you; savoring the peace of the moment.

More often than not though, Ormund must leave you to go and complete another task on his long list for the day.

After laying beside you for as long as he can spare, he will rise and give you a kiss to your temple or a caress to your hip before leaving begrudgingly.

“Until next, Lady Hightower.”

****************************************************

oh boy, this was a long one… so many letters in the alphabet.

im scared for episode 4 yall.

You still remembered the day they brought your Daeron to Oldtown, a little wriggling thing, a toddler wrapped up in a blanket, his tufts of white hair poking from his swaddle. You were young then too, or rather, younger than you were now. You had not yet been betrothed to Ormund, though it was imminent and you and your family were already residing in Oldtown with this expectation. Even then you had been enamoured by the little thing, doting over him, holding him at any given opportunity, caressing his hair and making silly faces, allowing him to chase after you and chasing him in return as he stumbled about on his stodgy little legs, only just learning how to use them. 

You had felt such a kinship with the little one, both new to such a strange place, both meant to fit yourselves into such surroundings, something akin to family but also not. You had known without knowing that you cared a great amount for the babe, and wished to be betrothed to Ormund not only because you were falling in love with him, but because you wished to remain close to Daeron as well. It seemed that the Seven had granted you such a wish, for within a fortnight of this dream coming into words in your mind, you were not only betrothed, but married as well. 

Ormund cherished you beyond measure. He was singular among men, to be sure, with his own idiosyncrasies just as every other person that served to make everyone alike and unique at the same time. You had gathered all this in your time knowing him. For instance, the lovely scents he purchased for you as presents, spending time explaining the intricacies of each, the deeper notes and the lighter ones too, things you could not quite comprehend yourself but nodded in ascent to nonetheless. He told you that he abhorred bad smells but loved good ones more than any other person, and though this had seemed a little odd to you at first, you had come to accept it with relish for it meant you lived lavishly with baths and scents and washed clothes galore. 

Another thing you had noted during your courtship and betrothal, was how intelligent he was. There was always a plan up his sleeve, denoted only by a shine in his eye, a light smirk that he wore when no one looked or when some new idea seemed to flit into his brain. Once, he had smirked at you from across the gardens when he had been caught in conversation and saw you standing by your lonesome, trying not to look as lonely as you felt. You had told him only a few days prior that some of the ladies were not partial to your company, that they preferred to ice you out than welcome you in, that much of your joy now came in the company of his father’s new little ward and the boy’s nursemaids. 

You had smiled at him, raising your eyebrow at the mischievous look, but not a moment later, you had watched one of the ladies who was often rude to you suddenly get yanked back just as a servant hurried from his place, both of them colliding with each other like some manic puppet show. As both servant and lady attempted to right themselves and move, an entire tablecloth, covered in plates and goblets, wines and treats, came rushing with them, sprawling all over the floor in an embarrassing display that had the woman shrieking and turning red at the neck and face. 

You had stood shaking with laughter, eyes wide with shock, hands pressed to your mouth to stifle the noises. Someone had somehow tied the lady’s dress to the servants smock, and thus tied the table cloth in there too, creating this large hubbub that had the entire court in attendance laughing. Ormund had found his way to you by then, rocking back onto his heels and humming quietly as he surveyed the scene before leaning in close to you and saying, “hm, I do wonder who has been causing such mischief.” From that moment on, he had won your heart, and you gave it happily, without contest. 

He was not solely this nobleman now, this widowed Lord with a serious face and a serious voice when he wished, a man older than you, a man who you had known only at a distance. Now he was someone who had shown he cared for you, someone who smiled in your presence, who had shown you that you were worth something elaborate, that your joy was worth action. 

And so it came to pass that you were wed, that Ormund Hightower took a second wife and made the bells of Oldtown ring, and that for a little while, despite all the troubles in Kingslanding and Dragonstone, all the troubles with the royals and their dragons, the two of you (three with Daeron) had made a home and found peace. 

Though you had your own children with Ormund over the coming years, you considered Daeron your first. Upon becoming his wife, you truly took charge of the boy. He might have been Hobert and then Ormund’s ward, but you would not let the child go unmothered. You knew yourself to be privileged in having a loving mother of your own, thanked the Seven for it everyday, and so you led from this example. 

Each day you took meals with him, and though he could not speak for the first year or so, you took much joy in his babbles and infant-musings. You helped spoon mush into his mouth, wiped his chubby little cheeks, and simply watched him grow. You took over duties other noblewomen would not do, bathing the boy and dressing him yourself, combing his hair and sitting with the maester as he began conducting the boy’s lessons. You did the same for your own children later of course, gave each this same love and care, but you always remembered Daeron as your first. 

In the early years, you were careful. You did not refer to yourself as his mother, did not call him your son directly, did not do anything that might infringe upon the Queen Regent despite the distance between you and Kingslanding. You did not wish for word to get back to her that someone was attempting to usurp her rightful place as the boy’s mother. You were sure that she must be filled with grief every day at the absence of her child, sure she felt it in her bones as you did at the thought of Daeron going away. 

But eventually, when he turned three and then four, when he slipped and accidentally called you mama as he cried and wailed in his bed, seeking comfort only from you from nightmares and bruises, you let the treasonous thought build. You may not have carried him in your womb, but he was your son. 

The boy went to Kingslanding only once during his time as ward in Oldtown, when he was just past his tenth nameday. Both Ormund and Gwayne were required there for some meeting with the King, perhaps to reaffirm allegiances or some other courtly requirement you were not privy to, and they decided to bring Daeron with them. It would not be a very long trip, they would not stay in Kingslanding longer than necessary, but the boy should see his mother and other family members at least once after so many years.

You had been reluctant to let him go, but you had of course relented, knowing the truth of the matter. Ormund had kissed you long and slow as he said his goodbyes, nudging your nose with his and whispering daring promises in your ear before stepping back so Daeron could monopolise your time in the last moments before departure. 

The boy had clung tightly to your skirts, pressing his face to his legs and shaking his head in disagreement every time you told him how lovely it would be, what an adventure he was embarking on. He continued to insist that you travel with them, that you must not send him off in this way. You could only get on your knees and hug him tightly, wiping your tears quickly behind his back as he mumbled that he would miss you too much. 

“I will miss you as well, my little dragon,” you whispered to him, kissing his little cheeks but smiling nonetheless. “I promise, you will enjoy the journey with your uncles, and you will have a marvelous time in the Keep with your mother and your brothers and sister. It will be splendid, and when you return, you can tell me all about it. You must go, if only so you might come back.” 

He finally relented then, swiping roughly at his own tears and pressing a kiss to your cheek before walking back to Ormund and grasping his hand. 

When your boys had returned a fortnight later, both had been just as ecstatic to see you as you had been to see them. Daeron clung tightly to your legs as you kissed Ormund, wrapped them both up in your arms before leading them back in after their long and weary travels. 

You thought about that moment when you had to say goodbye to them once more, this time with more fear and uncertainty. When the orders had finally come in, the war finally touched you all in your blissful little corner of the world, you had felt sick with dread. Your boys were going away again, but this time there was no guarantee that they would return. 

You cried every evening from the moment the raven had arrived until Ormund and Daeron stood at the door, their horses saddled and swords at their belts. Though you had attempted to hide your tears from them, both were experts at reading your face, at knowing how you worried, and both took their turns comforting you. 

“You will remain careful,” you ordered, swiping at your eyes as you held tightly to Daeron’s hands. The boy attempted a smile, nodding his head firmly and pursing his lips. “And you will always listen to your uncle, because though he loves to test my patience, he will keep you safe.” Ormund smirked behind Daeron, and the boy laughed, nodding vehemently as he squeezed your hands in return. You looked him over once more, at his lovely wavy hair that he kept loosely tied back and the green doublet he wore. He had grown so tall… You felt the tears touch your eyes again but you blinked quickly. 

“And you must eat well! You are a growing boy and tough times lay ahead. You will need all your strength.” Again Daeron let loose a chuckle, a softer, waterier, sound this time. 

“Yes, muna, yes,” he attempted exasperation but he smiled too much for it to be sincere. “I will do as you say.” 

“Good,” you sighed, nodding once before wrapping him up in your arms and hugging him tight. You pressed a kiss to his forehead, running your hand through his hair and petting him once more. 

“I promise to come back muna,” he mumbled against the side of your head, and you wept a little more at how small his words sounded. “I promise.” You nodded once more, and he pressed a kiss to your cheek before pulling away. He stood straight in front of you, nodded once, then turned around and walked away to his horse, head bowed low as he swiped at his tears. 

Ormund patted him on the shoulder once as the boy passed him, then he took Daeron’s place in front of you. He reached up and cupped your cheek, running his thumb along your cheekbone and simply taking in your features. Though he was almost certain that he would return to you, sure that he could win this war for his Seven forsaken nephews and then return to the bliss he had found with you, he did not want to take any chances with your memory. 

He wiped a fresh tear from your cheek, but another followed it as your face crumpled even more. Your lower lip wobbled as quick breaths left your nose, and he brought you in close, pressed your face to his chest as you began to cry. 

“Sh, sh, sh,” he gently hushed, frowning to himself as he bent his head to press kisses to the top of yours as you sobbed against him. “Do not cry. I do not wish our goodbye to be only sorrowful.” 

You nodded though your tears remained strong, your hands clenching in his doublet as you kept him close. It took a moment, but your sobs eventually quelled in your chest and you pulled back to look into his eyes. He smiled a little, attempting encouragement, but you could only swallow and nod and keep your lips pursed together to stop the sobbing. 

“It will all be alright, my darling,” he comforted, more confident than anyone else, you were sure. “You won’t have the chance to miss me,” he added, a touch cocky this time, and you just huffed, now fighting off a smile. 

You smoothed a hand over his doublet, hoping your tearstains would dry quickly, then looked up into his eyes once more as he cupped your cheeks in his big hands once more. 

“Take care of yourself, for me, please,” you told him, voice waterlogged. “No stupid plans, no unnecessary risks.” 

“It is war, my darling, only those things will ensure victory,” he raised an eyebrow at you, but you only swatted at his chest in return, chewing on your lip before looking back up at him. 

“And take care of him too. You are his father in all but name,” you added, and this time Ormund nodded a little more gravely. 

“I promise you shall have both of us returned,” he murmured, then leaned down and pressed a lingering kiss to your mouth. 

You attempted to smile, and did not point out that though he said both would be returned, he did not say that both would be returned alive. 

Each day after dragged far too slowly. You became spiked with worry at every raven, at every bit of news that returned to you. Much of it actually spoke of how bored both Daeron and Ormund felt. The travel was slow and dreary, and they were continuously waiting on orders to march, whether it be in the direction of Harrenhal or Kingslanding or whatever forsaken place the Greens desired to send them. 

Daeron wrote to you of Tessarion, of how despite it all, he cherished the flights on dragonback he got to have with her. Ormund wrote of how much he missed you, how it stank wherever they went, how he could only dream of being back in your arms, back in your bed, his rightful place. 

You were glad to know that at the very least, you could still keep in contact with them, that each raven brought another piece of them back to you, another piece of you to keep. 

Unfortunately, it was not only good news. You heard of Rook’s Rest, of Aegon’s near demise and the loss of two beautiful creatures. You heard of the Battle of the Gullet, of Rhaenyra’s heir felled in his prime and the waste that was laid to the ships in the aftermath, the wrath and fury that was sure to be unleashed on the lot of you. 

And then everything seemed to collapse much quicker. Suddenly Kingslanding had been surrendered, and despite your distance, a spike of fear shot through you. What would be your fate? What would they do to your Ormund? To your Daeron? You trembled with it, nights you spent awake, burning through candles only to sit there and worry. You hugged your children tight each evening, kissing their heads and promising them that nothing would happen to them. Though you felt like a liar promising them mercy. 

The truly devastating news arrived swiftly though. Daemon had come to the army on dragonback, had demanded Ormund pledge his allegiance to Rhaenyra so they might all return home unscathed. At first you were joyful at hearing that he had accepted, were proud of him for heeding your warnings and not fighting unnecessary battles. He had made a promise, he must return home to you, and he was doing it. 

But of course, it had not ended there. Daemon required Daeron. The boy would be taken to Kingslanding, an order. And… and Ormund had given him up easily. 

Your hands trembled as you read the words, as you sat on the end of your bed, the fading light of the sun at the windows. You felt like that light, slowly dimming, disappearing. You read it again and again, until the parchment crumpled in your hands and the words blurred and turned splotchy from your tears. You sat there sniffling and shaking, then rocking back and forth and wailing, engulfed in a fiery pain. 

Your boy, your boy had been taken away, surely to his death. They would not let him live. Though he was innocent, they would not let him live lest he grow and challenge their fragile reign. You felt sick with it. You vomited into the chamberpot, heaving and sobbing. You curled up on the floor, eyes clenched tight, a mess of skirts. 

The maids came to speak to you, your ladies attempted to comfort you, but you could only wail. Your boy, your son, had been taken from you. In the days between, you could not sleep. You cried and cried, saw his little face smiling at you, his little eyes and little nose, saw the way he had been when he was a babe and the way he was when you last saw him, smiling and all grown. You only slept when your body could not wring any more pain from you. 

You did not leave your chambers, ate so little, and could only imagine the horrors he would face. Perhaps they would be kind to him before they ultimately took his head. You hoped he was being brave, but the thought of him shaking with fear, the thought of him with tears in his eyes only made you crumble more. You wanted him happy, you wanted him here, safe, with you. You wanted your happy family returned to you. This stupid war, that stupid throne, it had stolen the only thing you had ever wanted… you were consumed with rage only to begin crying once more. You hoped he would at least have a glimpse of his mother before the end. You hoped Alicent would give him the love you could not in his final moments.

In the days before Ormund returned, you were manic at times, writing and sending ravens to Kingslanding, begging Rhaenyra to spare him, begging her for clemency for the boy you had raised as your own. If only she would live up to her title as merciful, if only she would heed a mother’s love, the kind she herself had felt. She knew of the pain of losing a son, surely she would not subject you to it if you only told her… 

The horns announced Ormund’s return, the horns and then the sound of hooves beating on the ground. Though you had somehow been risen from your bed and dressed that morning,  you had not had the will to go down and greet your husband. You had sat at the little table in your chambers and felt your heart rush in your chest, your eyes watering once more, your hands shaking. 

Ormund had entered without ceremony, throwing the door open to find you. He was shiny with sweat, a full day’s riding coating him with dust. His boots were still dirty, his clothes rumpled, and his hair was unusually mussed. He must have jumped straight from the horse and run up to you. 

You lifted your head up to look at him, blinking slowly, then quickly as your face crumpled and you began to cry. You stood, moving to him as he moved to you. He reached his hands out to you, his face shifting into shock then a frown, but you shoved his hands away. You cried out in pain, hit at his chest, unloaded all the heartache that you had been forced to sit with since the raven had arrived. 

“How could you?!” You wailed, struggling against him when he attempted to wrap you up in his arms. You pummelled at him once more, shaking your head as your tears dripped from the end of your nose and jaw. “How could YOU?! You promised that both of you would return, both of you!” 

“I know, I know, my darling,” he spoke quietly, placatingly, but the fight had not left you yet, and you shoved at his chest hard enough for him to step back a little. He continued watching you with that sad expression, the corners of his mouth turned down, but it only made you cry further. 

“He is my son,” you gasped, eyes wide open now, red limned, smeared with your tears. He stared right into them as you clenched your hands into fists and clutched them tight to your chest. “He is my son,” you whimpered, curling in on yourself as Ormund stepped forward once more. He wrapped you up tight this time, pressing your face to his chest and pressing his chin to the top of your head. He shushed you quietly, mumbled “I know, my dear, I know”, and caressed your back. “He is my son,” you whispered, your lips sticking together, your throat tight, everything inside you tight with pain and then loosening with despair. 

You stayed tucked against Ormund a while, just listening to him soothing you, feeling the press of his lips to your head and the smooth motion of his broad palm along your back. He waited until your sobs turned to whimpers and then from whispers to shaking breaths. He only pulled back when your trembling ceased, and then he cupped your face firmly, swiping his thumbs along your cheekbones and ensuring that you looked up into his face. 

He wore something akin to determination on his face, something that confused you, something that was touched by anger but not despair, something unexpected. It was almost that look he had when concocting one of his plans, but it felt far more… dangerous. 

“I know you are upset by the news, I know you believe that Daeron has been whisked away to Kingslanding but-” a knock at the door interrupted him, but he only clenched his jaw and called back, “one moment”, not looking away from your face. The firm grip he kept on your face shook it lightly as he ensured you kept your gaze on him. Your own face had become contorted into a frown, something between confusion and fear and uncertainty. “There are larger plans at work. Hope is not lost simply because Kingslanding has been taken. No, it will not be so easy.” For a moment you wondered if he was even speaking to you, his eyes going far away. You trembled in his hands once more, and he returned to you. He smiled a little, caressed your face once more, then leaned down and pressed a chaste kiss to your mouth. “I bring you a surprise present.” 

Then Ormund turned back to the door and called for whoever had been knocking to come in. The door opened, and your eyes immediately darted to the mop of Hightower red hair that entered. You wondered if the surprise was Gwayne but no, the boy was not tall enough to be Gwayne, and his hair was far too long, and… 

You gasped. Loud and sharp, hands pressing to your mouth as the tears welled once more. The boy smirked a little, huffing a little laugh as Ormund did. Your husband moved to stand behind you, gently kneading at your shoulders as he leaned down to whisper by your ear, “your son does look a proper Hightower, does he not?” 

You felt manic. You laughed, loud and unrestrained, gasped and laughed at the same time, sobbed and gasped and laughed and made an indistinguishable noise all at once as Daeron stepped further into the room and held his arms out to you. 

“Do not cry so, muna,” he chastised, but allowed you to rush to him, to pull him into your arms and sob into his hair. 

“My boy, my darling boy,” you cried, kissing his forehead and simply hugging him tight. You pulled back, caressed his hair and his cheeks, running your thumbs over his cheekbones and his jaw, beaming so brightly your face hurt. 

You were suddenly light in your bones. The sorrows you had clutched so tightly suddenly lifted like birds into the sky, disappearing from you. You felt exhausted, elated, desperate to cry and desperate to scream. He was alive, and he was here. Your little family was back together again. 

You pulled back once more, kissing his forehead then gently picking up bits of his hair and examining them between your finger tips. 

“Oh, your hair,” you cried in faux-despair. “What have you done to your beautiful, beautiful, hair?” 

Daeron just laughed, shaking his head at you as he lightly swatted at your hand before gripping it tightly in his own. 

“Do not be so dramatic, muna, it will grow back to what it was.” He rolled his eyes and you pinched his cheek, laughing freely. Ormund wrapped his arms around your waist from behind, tugging you into his chest and resting the side of his head against yours as you both looked at your son. “It was necessary,” Daeorn added, rather gravely, and you felt a little sobered in your joy. You could never be too comfortable. The war was not over, you were not safe. But for this moment, you wished to enjoy it. If only for this moment. 

“It’s alright,” you sighed, reaching out and pinching his cheek with another smile, “you look dashing with it, hm?” You teased, “just like your uncles.” And at that Ormund laughed heartily as Daeron rolled his eyes. 

That same evening, after you had all indulged in a small feast and sent yourselves to your own beds, you pressed yourself tight to Ormund, kissed his face and beamed down at him. 

“Thank you,” you whispered, eyes shining like stars as he smiled at you in return. 

“I made a promise to you, darling,” he returned quietly, caressing your bare arms and back. “I would not go back on it.” You kissed him again, then snuggled back into his arms. 

“I was so scared,” you admitted, pressing your face to his chest. “I was sick with grief.” He pressed a light kiss to your hair as he settled down next to you, all the candles now blown out and only the faint glow of the fire lighting your faces. 

“It is not over yet, my love,” he murmured to you. “This trickery will not stand for long, and we must make our move so as to not lose this valuable time we have gained.” 

“I understand,” you told him, nodding gravely, but you only pressed yourself to him further. 

You woke up to the faint smell of weed and whiskey and that damn cologne of his that clung to the sheets like a bad habit. The sheets, of course, were his, scratchy, should’ve been burned sometime after 1984, but you weren’t exactly in the position to complain. Especially not when Soldier Boy was draped across you like a smug, snoring furnace.

You shifted, groaning softly. Cramps twisted in your stomach like a knife, and the ache in your lower back reminded you of what the day was about to be: hell. Bloody, hormonal hell.

And of course, as if summoned by the suffering itself, Ben cracked an eye open. “Shit”, he muttered, voice still thick from sleep. “You makin’ that noise all night, sweetheart, or just savin’ it for when I’m tryin’ to sleep?”.

You rolled your eyes, nudging him off your hip. “Sorry I’m not silent and dead like your exes”.

He grinned a wicked, shit-eating grin that always spelled trouble. “Oh, so you do admit it… You’re bleedin’, huh?”, he asked, sitting up and raking a hand through his mess of hair. “Could smell it last night. Thought maybe you’d just killed someone in my bed. Would’ve been hot”.

You grabbed a pillow and lobbed it at him. “Asshole”.

“Guilty”, he said proudly, catching it mid-air and tossing it aside. “You know, back in the ‘80s, girls didn’t get all weepy on their periods. They just popped a Quaalude and fucking danced it off”.

“Yeah, and back in the ‘80s you still thought Russia was winning the war”, you muttered, curling into a ball. That got a bark of laughter from him.

“Ah fuck, I love it when you’re a little shit”, he said, reaching over and yanking the blanket off you. “Look at you. All curled up, cranky, hormonal. Like a puppy someone kicked”.

You glared at him. “Keep talking and I’ll kick you”.

“Ooh. Fiery. You sure you don’t wanna cry about it first?”, he teased, leaning in just close enough that his breath warmed your cheek. “Come on, doll. Where’s the part where you get all misty-eyed and ask me to rub your back while you sob over some video on your phone?”.

You shoved him again, and he caught your wrist mid-push, his grip firm but warm. Something in his expression softened for a second, just a flicker. “You hurting?”, he asked, quieter this time.

You hesitated. “…Yeah. A little”.

He let your hand go and flopped back onto the bed, throwing an arm behind his head. “Well, shit. Guess I gotta be nice now”, he muttered. “Go ahead. Snuggle up, break my ribs with your heat pad, cry about cats or whatever”.

You stared at him. “You done mocking me?”.

“Sweetheart”, he smirked, “mocking you is my cardio. You’re like a little walking PSA for why women shouldn’t be in combat. All moody, bleeding, curled up like a busted-up MRE. Cute, but useless”.

You shot him a look sharp enough to cut glass. “Wow. Misogyny before breakfast. How very on brand”.

“Please”, he scoffed. “It’s not misogyny if it’s true. Hell, if you were in Payback back in the day, I’d have had to carry you around like a baby in one of those pussy-like kangaroo pouches”.

You opened your mouth to snap back, but before you could, he reached over and hooked a hand under your thigh, yanking you toward him so you were practically sprawled across his lap.

“Hey!”, you protested.

“What? I’m bein’ sweet”, he said, feigning innocence while his thumb rubbed slow, lazy circles just above your knee. “Figure I’ll keep you close before you waddle off and start nesting or whatever the hell it is you ladies do on your time of the month”.

You tried to wriggle out of his grip, but his hand was firm on your thigh, rough palm sliding higher with lazy confidence. “Don’t start”, you warned, glaring at him. “Not while I’m like this”.

“Like what?”, he asked as his fingers ghosted just below the hem of your sleep shorts. “Warm? Whiny? Bleedin’ like you got knifed in a bar fight?”.

You shot him a warning look. “Ben…”.

That grin. That filthy, knowing grin that had no business looking good at 7 a.m. “What? I’m just sayin’, sweetheart — I’ve seen worse. Hell, I’ve been worse”. He leaned in, his voice dropping low against your ear. "Honey, I’ve had brains and guts on me. Little uterus juice ain’t exactly my breaking point".

You groaned, pressing a hand to your face. “That’s disgusting”.

He laughed. “I’ve had my dick shot half to hell and still fucked after. Little period gore’s not exactly a mood killer".

“Ben, no”.

“Ben, yes”, he smirked, dragging your leg higher over his thigh until your core was pressed to the thick line of muscle. “Come on. You’re soft, warm, cranky — it’s kinda hot”.

You stared at him like he’d lost his damn mind. “It’s not hot. It’s gross. I’m literally bleeding. It’s not sexy, Ben”.

He tilted his head, genuinely confused. “Why? You think I haven’t been with a girl on her period before? Shit, back in the seventies, girls didn’t even tell you, you just figured it out halfway through”.

“That’s vile”.

“That’s history, doll”, he said proudly, brushing his nose along your jaw. “And I got no issue gettin’ a little red on my dick. Call it patriotism”.

You snorted. “Oh my god”.

He grinned, the bastard. “Look, I’m not sayin’ we go full Slip ‘n Slide, but don’t act like you don’t want it. You get all moody and touchy when you’re like this. Sensitive… Hot”.

“I’m bloated and irritated and my uterus is actively trying to kill me”.

Ben’s hand moved up, brushing gently under your tank top, warm and surprisingly tender against your skin. “Yeah, and you’re still the prettiest fuckin’ thing I’ve laid eyes on since disco died”.

Your breath hitched. Damn him. Damn his hands, his mouth, and that voice.

“You’re seriously trying to get in my pants right now?”, you asked, voice half incredulous, half breathless.

He looked down at you, so damnn calm. “I’m tryin’ to make my girl feel better. Problem?”.

You hesitated. He smirked like he already had you beat. “That’s what I thought. Let me take care of you, baby. Ain’t scared of a little mess”.

You swallowed hard, cursing the way your body responded despite your brain screaming this was ridiculous. “Fine”, you muttered. “But no jokes. No war metaphors. No calling it ‘shark week’”.

He leaned in, lips brushing your ear with a low growl of a promise. “No jokes”, he murmured, his voice hot and honey-thick. “Just you, me, and a bed that’s gonna need burnin’ after”.

Before you could fire off another protest, Ben’s hand pressed flat to your shoulder, pushing you gently but firmly onto your back. “Ben—”.

“Shh”, he drawled, settling between your legs, sitting back on his heels like he had all the time in the world. His hands gripped your thighs through the thin fabric of your shorts, thumbs stroking lazily against your skin. “Shit, I missed this view. Pretty little thing laid out just for me”.

You narrowed your eyes. “I’m not ‘laid out’—”.

“Yeah, you are”, he smirked, leaning in just enough for his breath to tickle your skin before he sat back again. “And you’re lucky I’m in a generous mood”.

With a slow, deliberate tug, he hooked his fingers in the waistband of your shorts and underwear, dragging them down over your hips. The movement was unhurried, almost reverent, until the fabric slid past the tops of your thighs and your bare skin met the cooler air.

His eyes flicked down, and that wolfish grin of his spread wide. “Well”, he said, tilting his head like he was admiring a battlefield. “There’s my girl. Bleedin’ for me”.

You groaned, covering your face with your hands. “You’re disgusting”.

“Yeah”, he agreed shamelessly, tossing your clothes aside. “And you’re warm. Fuck, I love that about you humans. All that heat on the inside. Supes don’t got it the same — cold, sterile, like screwin’ a fucking refrigerator. But you…”. He ran one big, calloused hand up your thigh, slow as a match burn. “You’re all soft and alive and hot in here. Can feel it in my bones when I’m inside you”.

Your cheeks burned, and you hated that his words made something low in your stomach tighten despite the cramps. “Maybe we shoul-”.

“What?”. His thumb brushed over the tender inside of your thigh, and his gaze was fixed between your legs. “C'mon now. It’s just you. My girl. My mess”. He leaned forward, palms braced on either side of your hips, lowering himself enough that the heat of him pressed against you. “And I’m gonna enjoy every damn second of it”.

You could feel him, hard, thick, pressing against your inner thigh like he’d been waiting days for this.

Ben reached down, wrapped a firm hand around himself, and pressed the head of his cock down with his thumb, guiding it with that casual, practiced control that made your breath hitch.

“Look at that”, he murmured, eyes dragging down between your thighs like he was admiring a loaded weapon. “Standin’ at attention so goddamn perfect".

You clenched around nothing, cursing him in your head and yourself for the way your body responded to his voice alone.

“Gonna slide in nice and slow”, he muttered, almost to himself, his hips shifting forward, the thick head of him nudging where you needed him most. “Feel every inch of you stretch around me”.

Your breath caught as he pushed in just a little, not enough to satisfy, just enough to tease. His jaw flexed.

“Fuck, you’re hot”, he groaned, eyes half-lidded. “Like a goddamn furnace in there. I swear, it’s not even fair".

You turned your face away, too flustered to meet his gaze, but he caught your chin in his hand and turned you back to face him. “Uh-uh. Eyes on me, sugarplum”, he said, voice low. “I want you to feel every fuckin’ inch. Want you to remember who does this to you, who makes you forget the pain and all that shit. It’s me… Say it”.

Your lips parted, the words stuck in your throat, half from shame, half from how deep the need clawed inside you.

He pushed in another inch, slowly, relentlessly, and you gasped. “Who is it, baby?”, he whispered against your ear, voice suddenly softer. “Who makes you feel like this?”.

“…You”, you breathed, almost involuntarily.

“Damn right”, he growled, and with one hard roll of his hips, he sank in deeper, not all the way, just enough to make your back arch and your fingers curl into the sheets. “Now relax. I’m not stoppin’ ‘til you forget what you were even cryin’ about”.

Ben eased back, and you caught the way his eyes flicked down between you, that smug grin stretching slow across his face.

“Now ain’t that some wholesome American shit”, he drawled, his voice thick with amusement. “White sheets, blue fuckin’ veins, and red all over the place. Damn near deserves a national anthem, sweetheart”.

You groaned, covering your face with your hands. “Ben…”.

“What? You’re makin’ me festive”, he smirked. “Feels like I should be salutin’ right now“.

Before you could come up with a proper insult, Ben’s smirk deepened and his hands locked hard on your hips. “C’mere, doll”.

You barely had time to gasp before he drove back in with one rough, uncalculated thrust, too deep, too fast. The breath ripped out of you, your hands flying to his chest in reflex. “Ben!”. The sound came out sharper than you meant, pain flaring low in your stomach.

He froze, eyes narrowing instantly. “Shit”. His grip loosened, but he didn’t pull out, his expression shifting from cocky to something dangerously close to sheepish. “Too much?”.

You glared at him through the sting. “You think?”.

He blew out a breath, muttering under it, “Damn it… ". He eased his weight off you, hands gentler now as they rubbed over your hips in slow circles. “Got carried away”.

You gave him a look that said You always get carried away.

“Hey”, he said, softer now, searching your face. “Talk to me. You good, or you want me to stop?”.

The cocky mask hadn’t dropped entirely, this was still Soldier Boy, after all, but there was a tightness in his jaw, like he was forcing himself to hold back.

“Hurts”, you admitted, your voice smaller than you meant it to be.

“Alright”, he murmured, brushing his thumb over your hip bone. “We go slow. My bad”. Then, a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth again. “Still, you took damn near all of me in one go. Not bad for someone who’s supposedly delicate”.

You swatted weakly at his shoulder. “Benjamin—”.

“Yeah, yeah”, he said, bending to press his mouth against your temple. “Easy now. I’ll make it worth it”.

His hands adjusted their grip on your hips, not to pull or control this time, but to keep you steady. He moved slowly, painfully slowly for him, watching your face for the smallest flinch. It was almost… adorable. And painfully Ben. Always overcompensating.

“You’re gonna burn a hole in me if you keep staring like that”, you said softly, trying to take the edge off.

“Not takin’ chances”, he muttered without looking away.

You reached up and brushed your fingers over the rough stubble on his jaw. “I’m okay, Ben. Just a bit sensitive right now. You’re good”.

His eyes flicked up to yours briefly, searching, like he didn’t entirely believe you. “Yeah?”.

“Yeah”, you assured, a small smile tugging at your lips. “You’re being… weirdly careful. Kinda sweet, actually. Don’t tell anyone, though. Wouldn’t want to ruin your reputation”.

That earned the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, but he didn’t drop the focus. “Just… tell me if it’s too much”.

“I will”, you promised, letting your hand trail to the back of his neck, feeling the tension there.

He gave a slow nod, then eased forward again, still watching you like a hawk, less the cocky supe now, more the man who, despite himself, didn’t want to break what was his.

It struck you then… the last time he’d been this careful was months ago, the night he took your virginity. Back then, his hands had been steady but unsure, his mouth still mouthing off between moments of surprising gentleness. You’d almost thought you imagined it afterward, that tenderness, because it hadn’t shown up again.

Until now.

Seeing it again, feeling it, did something to you.

Ben wasn’t the kind of man to hold back for anyone. He was all sharp edges, bad habits and a mouth that got him into more trouble than even he could shoot his way out of. But right now, those edges were softened, his hands warm and grounding instead of demanding, his eyes scanning your face like he was taking inventory of every breath, every twitch, every flicker of discomfort.

It made your chest ache in a way you hadn’t been prepared for.

You’d fallen for him before, in pieces. In the smirk that made you want to punch him, in the way he carried himself like the world still owed him a parade, in the heat of his presence when he wanted something. But this? This was different. This was rare. And it was yours.

Your throat tightened, and you reached up, curling your fingers into the hair at the back of his head. He glanced down at you, that mission-focus still in his eyes. “What?”, he asked.

“Nothing”, you said, shaking your head with a small smile. “Just… don’t stop”.

Something flickered in his expression, not quite a smile, but close, before he leaned in, brushing his mouth over your temple, and kept moving slow. Every shift of his body was deliberate and measured, like he was proving he could be careful when it mattered.

And you realized, right there, that this man — this brash, infuriating, larger-than-life man — had just made you fall for him all over again.

Every slow movement, every careful shift of his weight, every look he gave you like you were something worth guarding, it built higher and hotter than you expected. It wasn’t just your body reacting; it was everything else, too. The months of brashness, the constant teasing, all balanced now by this one rare, steady tenderness.

It was too much. Your breath caught, your fingers tightening in his hair. “Ben—”.

He looked down at you, still moving with that same deliberate control, but his eyes sharpened at your tone. “You there, doll?”.

You nodded, not trusting your voice, the heat cresting all at once, sudden and overwhelming. It rolled through you in seconds, your whole body tensing and shuddering beneath him.

The sound that tore out of you was almost a sob, sharp, unsteady, too honest to hold back. You felt yourself shaking, every nerve lit up at once, and when you opened your eyes again, his were already locked on yours. They widened, just a fraction, like you’d done something he hadn’t prepared for. That unguarded flicker, surprise, maybe even a little awe, was enough to knock the air out of both of you.

His breath hitched, the careful rhythm faltering as his grip on your hips tightened. “Ah, shit…”, he muttered, voice rough, like he’d just realized too late that you were pulling him over the edge with you. His whole body tensed above you, his weight sinking into you as he let go. The sharp inhale he took was ragged, almost matching your own.

He stayed there, braced but close, his forehead dipping to rest against yours. His breathing was uneven and his chest was rising and falling against you.

“…Didn’t see that comin’”, he admitted after a beat, his voice low and unsteady in a way you’d never heard before. You smiled faintly, still catching your breath. “Me neither”.

He didn’t move right away. Usually, Ben was quick to roll off, crack a joke, or wander off like nothing happened, but not this time. His weight stayed over you, his forehead still pressed to yours like he was catching his breath and… maybe not ready to let go yet.

You felt the slow thud of his heartbeat against your chest, the warmth of him sinking into you. His hand slid from your hip to your side, resting there like it belonged.

“You’re heavy”, you murmured, though you made no move to push him off.

“Deal with it”, he muttered, the words automatic, but the edge was gone from his voice.

You smiled, your fingers drifting up into his hair, brushing it back from his face. “You’re… different”, you murmured, your fingertips tracing through his hair.

His eyes stayed half-lidded, watching you. “Don’t get used to it”, he said, but there was no bite in the words.

You shifted under him slightly, realizing something. “Huh”.

“What?”, he asked.

“No cramps anymore”, you whispered, almost surprised.

That cocky grin started to tug at his mouth again. “So what you’re sayin’ is… I’m better than painkillers”.

You rolled your eyes but leaned up anyway, brushing your lips against his in a soft kiss. It lingered, slow and unhurried, before you pulled back just enough to see the faint smirk still playing on his face. “Guess you’ve got your uses”, you teased.

“Guess?”, he echoed, feigning offense. “Baby, I just cured your uterus. That’s Nobel Prize material”.

You laughed, shoving at his shoulder lightly. “Yeah, I’ll put in the nomination tomorrow”.

He finally rolled to the side, pulling you with him so you ended up tucked against his chest. His arm stayed draped around you. “Good”, he murmured into your hair. “Means I don’t have to go far for my next miracle”.

-

Later that day, Hughie was halfway through a sandwich, when Ben strolled in, looking smug in that I-just-got-away-with-something kind of way. Butcher was at the table cleaning a gun, already narrowing his eyes. “What’s with the shit-eating grin, grandpa?”.

Ben dropped into the chair across from them, leaning back with his arms spread. “Just came from my girl. She’s on the rag—”

“For fuck´s sake”, Butcher muttered. “Here we fuckin’ go”.

Hughie froze mid-bite. “Uh… do we really need to hear—”.

"Yes, you do”, Ben shot back, pointing at him like a drill sergeant. “This is educational. Girl’s laid up in bed, cramps kickin’ her ass, barely able to move. So I step in, handle business like a gentleman, and suddenly?”. He snapped his fingers. “Fuckin´ miracle recovery”.

Hughie blinked. “I’m scared to ask what ‘handle business’ means”.

Ben grinned. “Kid, you ever been inside a woman when she’s runnin’ that hot? Feels like your dick just got drafted”.

“Alright, that’s enough”, Butcher snapped, jamming the cleaning rag through the barrel of his gun hard enough to nearly bend the rod.

“No, no, hear me out”, Ben went on, waving a hand. “Humans already run warm, right? But when they’re on their period?”. He pointed like he was explaining combat strategy. “Whole different operation. Like somebody lit a goddamn furnace in there”.

Hughie dropped his sandwich onto the table, looking like he was rethinking all his life choices. “I am begging you to stop talking”.

Butcher shot Ben a look full of exhaustion. “You done traumatizing the children?”.

Ben leaned back in his chair, smug as hell. “Just wanted you assholes to know you’re in the presence of a fucking healer”.

Butcher rolled his eyes. “More like a filthy old perv”.

Ben just grinned wider. “Call it what you want, pal. I call it service to my country”.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think. It’s one of my all-time favorites🥰)

-

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Most of Ben’s dirty secrets aren’t exactly… secret. He’s tried to fuck you in front of the team multiple times, he always tells you to moan his name loud enough that they’ll hear, and if he can get away with it he’ll make you walk around with his cum dripping out of your cunt. He proudly declared that you gave him your panties to keep, and tell you like it’s romantic that he only jerks off to the thought of you now. If anything, the deepest secret he holds is that he does find it romantic. That he’s capable of that now, with you, and he wants nothing more than to just… be near you. Without sex. To love and touch you like some boring, normal pussy. Maybe a little sex. He’ll probably be able to talk you into it.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Body count rivaling Genghis Khan. He got around in his day, and it’s taught him to know every body almost like he knows his own. You have to give him a rule, that he’s not allowed to say that he did this position with Princess Diana, because you don’t really want to hear it. You just want to see him do the position. He rolls his eyes and calls you a brat, and you smile and say he loves it, and damn him, he does. He loves that he got all that experience, too. Real easy for you to benefit, from all that hard work.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Ben can brag about his past and throw around your panties all he wants, you always get to know the truth. That at the end of it, he’s just a romantic old man who wants to do missionary. He likes being fully wrapped around you, likes how easy it is to manhandle you, like how your eyes roll back and your nails dig into his bicep as you get the air fucked straight out of you. He likes that he can kiss you, open-mouthed and sloppy, and that he can push your knees to your chest and turn it into a mating press, giving him easy access to your swollen, sensitive clit. You only tease him about it a little. The sex is too good to do anything else.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

He’s more serious with you, than he ever was with anyone else. Especially at the start, when this was something that mattered, and he’d never had that, and for the first time in a hundred years there was a fist in his gut that was trying to hold onto something. That clenched hard enough to make him sick, that made him paranoid and tense, because what if he lost you. He fucked you like it was a job. Like that would prove his dedication to this, to you, without him having to say it. Over time, he relaxed. Jokes get cracked, and the teasing gets insatiable, and you can’t go a day without something suggestive that makes you laugh, then moan as his hand presses between your thighs.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Ben didn’t bother grooming until you. His actions and face and body spoke for themselves. Whatever was going on down there was what you got, and you’d better be fucking happy with it. And you were. You are. But he saw you taking care of your bush and got curious what the fuck you were doing, and you explained that it was still hair, it needed to be washed, and now he does that for you, then makes you clean him. He gets cocky, his hand in your hair as you lean down, and doesn’t bother to stop himself from getting hard while you touch him. It usually ends with you pressed against shower tiles. You never complain about that either.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

He’ll deny it to the ends of the earth and over God’s ballsack, but he’s more romantic than you would’ve ever guessed. Once he learns what that strange, warm feeling he got when he looked at you was, he’s committed to it. It’s annoying, but nice, and he really fucking loves nice things. Just like he loves you. And there’s nothing better than whispering that against your skin, or fucking you nice and slow and loving until you’re sobbing, then making you admit that you love him back.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

If it was a sport, he’d take gold. And silver, and bronze. If someone were to take a blacklight to his bedroom it would look like a crime scene, especially before you got together. He doesn’t deny himself, ever, and that meant stomping away at seemingly random points during the day, just to jerk himself off and moan your name to the walls. Once he did it in a Chili’s bathroom, just because you smiled at him. Not his best moment, but real far from his fucking worst. And you deserve to be worshipped like that, enough that he can’t even control himself. He counts it as romantic, and you never admit it, but you kind of think it is too.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Ben walks a fine line between an exhibitionist and overly possessive. He marks your neck up with hickies and parades you around like his most prized thing, but gets narrow eyed and rigid when people watch for too long. He wants you to scream his name loud enough for everyone to hear, but clenches his jaw at the idea of fucking where someone might actually walk in and see you naked. He records a video of you and puts it in a safe. Fucks you in a bathroom with the door locked, puts you in his shirt and nothing else, but barks at anyone who’s gaze lingers on your legs. You’re his to worship and adore, not some other nosy fucking pussy’s.

He’s only a fucking man. A man who wants things he won’t talk about, like kids and a simple fucking life. If he could he’d knock you up for the rest of your fucking lives, keep your tits swollen and belly round with his kid. Making them is the fun part, breeding you like you’re begging for it—and you are—and then a few times after to make sure it sticks. Then you get all glowy and gorgeous, beaming and fucking Ben’s. Everyone knows it, from that swell of your stomach, and you get so horny you give him a run for his damn money. Perfect.

Pet names are cute, but detached before you. Doll for most women, sweetheart if he’s trying to piss them off, and not much else. But you, you get kid and darling and babydoll and pretty girl falling from his lips without thought. And then there’s the shit you call him. Benjamin when he’s in trouble—which is fucking hot—and Benny when you’re extra fucking needy. If you’re desperate enough he gets sir, and if he fucks you just right, he can pull a daddy from your swollen lips. You flush and get embarrassed and deny it later, but he knows what he fucking heard. And he’s going to get you to say it again.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

As much as Ben loves the bed, or the shower, or the table or the counter or the floor or the dresser, there’s something about the wall and the couch that make him feral. If he’s got you against the wall, he can pin you with your hands over your head and his arm cradling you against him, and he gets to make your whole body bounce with every thrust. Maybe he can even drag you off the wall, and just fuck you standing in the center of the room, his arms the only thing keeping you up right. On the other side of that is the couch. Bending you over it and smacking your ass, pushing you down until you’re limp and dangling forward, stupid moans falling from your lips as he fucks you dumb and pretty. Completely at his mercy, and happy about it.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

It would be quicker to list the things that don’t get him going. Sometimes it’s the way you said a word, a look you gaze him, the way you squeezed his hands or glared at him all hot, and now he needs to be inside of you or he’s going to go fucking insane. Once you screamed about a spider, he killed it, and suddenly you were being fucked into the sofa. More times than you can count he just wants to. No foreplay or real motivation besides seeing you, and deciding you really needed a good fuck.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

He makes the list clear, when you get together. He’s tried damn near everything, and he won’t be pissing, shitting, or getting cucked. You can get on top, but he’s in control. You can try and tie him up, but he’s just going to break out of it and fuck you like you deserve. Giving up control isn’t really something he knows how to do, let alone tolerate after Russia. He spent too long in a box, and he’s not fucking letting anyone get one over on him again. You tell him that’s shell-shock. He rolls his eyes and tells you to hire a shrink about it. You do, because you’re the only one who can get away with it. You might be able to get away with anything, around him. He likes finding out.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Of course he prefers fucking receiving, he told you once. Getting a girl with nice lips and a warm mouth around him, fucking her face until she’s choking and still begging for more, nothing fucking better. Of course, your mouth is another story. Almost brings him to his fucking knees, when you get going. He’s broken the kitchen counter three times, to the point that you just leave it wrecked and tell him to grab there. And then he gets between your legs, and works out how all those men he thought were pussies could get off on just this. Tastes like fucking Heaven, gets you gushing and screaming and squirming for him, opens you up like nothing fucking else. You get caught in his beard and he refuses to wash it out. You cum on his face and he rolls on his back, pinning you down until your body gives out and you fold over him like a toy, trembling with the pleasure he’s devoured out of you.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

There aren’t many ways Ben doesn’t like it, but slow and rough is always going to take the cake. Pulling almost all the way out of you before slamming back in, watching your eyes roll back and hearing that perfect little whine. You milk his cock whenever he drives against your g-spot and beg him to go faster, but he holds the pace. Not like there’s much you can do about it, limp and mindless under him. Eventually he’ll take mercy and start to fuck you like you’ve earned, the brutal pace turning into micro thrusts when he falls over the edge with a groan.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

You have to limit him. There are too many times where he’s pulled you into a closet or dragged you off to bed with guests over, just to pull one more out of your greedy little pussy. And you know you’re always going to let him, even when he shouldn’t. Three a day, you tell him, but that quickly becomes four, then five, then six, and then you give up all together. It’s as if he gets energy fucking you. It’s almost scientifically amazing, and it feels like fucking heaven, so there are worse quirks for a boyfriend to have.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

There isn’t something Ben hasn’t done. If risks are being taken, it’s you, trusting him when he says he’s got some shit you’ll like. You believe him—he’s good at knowing about that, and it would scare you how good he was if it wasn’t deeply helpful—and trust him, because he’s your Ben. He’d never hurt you. One time, you do try to suggest something he might not have done, and he laughs in your face and calls you cute. He’s been slinging cock like a gun before your grandparents were alive. You tell him he’s never allowed to say slinging cock again.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Once, you made a bet with him that you could take it until he was out. It was one of the best and worst choices of your life. He came about thirty times, you came so much you stopped counting—and can’t even remember what number made you give up—and it only ended because Ben started to get worried that you would go into sex hibernation. You told him that wasn’t a thing, and tried to tease him that he was just out. He’d been rock hard when he stopped. You have a feeling that he could’ve done that all over again ten times and still be ready for round one thousand, but he let you have the win. It’s the only kind you have, in the sheets.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

At first, he’s offended by the idea that a fucking robot could get you off better than he could. He still is a little offended. If you use your vibrator, he also gets a shot at it, to remind you which is better at knowing you and your body. But then you show him remote control vibrators, and he turns into a monster. He shoves it into your hand and orders you to put it in, and when you laugh you end up pinned to the mattress and kissed everywhere while he slides it in himself. Ben becomes obsessed with it. Making you glare at him while your thighs shake, smelling your arousal, knowing that you’re probably going to climb him like a fucking tree the second you’re alone. Maybe before, if he does this shit right.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Ben has a talent. A gift, even, and it’s going to ruin your fucking life. He thinks of working you up like a sport, trying to you right up to the edge of screaming before he pulls you into his lap and makes you fall apart with a single, light touch. It’s even more fun then, because you’re sensitive after you cum. And that’s just how Ben fucking likes you. Wet and needy and sensitive, all his to ruin however he likes. You thank him after, and he feels about a million feet fucking tall.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

He doesn’t see any point in trying to keep quiet. Sex is meant to be loud and raw. Skin slapping on skin, hands grabbing and moans being forced out of your throat for him to swallow. He dirty talks you loud enough for it to be heard through the walls, and groans you name loud enough to be heard from space. He’s proud of it. The way you get all turned on by his moaning, then adorably embarrassed when the team tells you they could hear .

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Ben really fucking loves cock warming. Sitting you on his lap for no reason at all, burying himself in your hot little cunt, and just keeping you there until he’s had his fill. You get so fucking whiny and gorgeous, calling him names when he won’t move and then pleading and sweet talking him when that shit doesn’t work. He gets drunk on it, how you flutter and pulse around his rock hard cock, looking at him with those glossy eyes and whimpering his name. Sometimes he shoves a book into your hands and makes you read it, because you’re always trying to get him to fucking read. When you’re gasping for air and leaking down his thighs, he’ll give in and fuck you. Then, the next week, he’ll do it all fucking over again.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Horsecock. World ending. Tree trunk thick and uncut. Next question.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Of Ben’s many experiments on your body, one of your favorite quickly grows to be somnophilia, simply because he’s a fucking dog. You know he has self control, and he’ll never make you do anything you don’t want to, but he gets twitchy when he’s been pent up too long. And for Ben, too long is about twelve hours. You could give him a whole night before you went on a work trip, and he’d spam call you until you landed and picked up, demanding that you come back now. He’d spend the rest of his life fucking you, if he was allowed. Sometimes he tries to talk you into that, and you flush, because you’d be more “up for it” than you want to admit.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Ben doesn’t sleep much, after Russia. Been asleep too fucking long, he grunts, and you don’t push. But you notice—like you always do—that the rule doesn’t really apply to you. You wake up in the middle of the night, still where you passed out. Held against his chest like a child’s blanket, cradled like a baby bird, both of you bare as the day you were born and completely at peace. His lips brushing your brow and breathing steady. It’s beautiful to see. Almost sacred. You brush the hair from his eyes and kiss his nose. His eyes flutter sometimes, and you just stare at each other in the dark. You press your chin to his chest, and his mouth twitches into something like a smile. You both fall back asleep, and don’t speak of it in the morning. But—just like always—it will happen again.

✦Soldier Boy Masterlist - Main Masterlist - read on aO3✦

✦Author's Note: i need him in a way that's concerning to feminism✦

“Dex, stop, please, I can’t do this right now,” There’s an edge to your voice, frustration painfully evident as you move to turn away your boyfriend. Was he that still? You honestly weren’t sure anymore.

“Y/N, please,” he sounds desperate, eyes wide with panic, breathing laboured as he continues to try and station himself in front of you. He’d spent the better part of the hour explaining that he was, in fact, the masked killer Bullseye.

He’d been tucked into your living room chair, palms pressed flat to his knees as he explained, in detail, what his second life was like. You’d stood there, arms crossed, body rigid, as you mulled over what your boyfriend had told you.

So not only had he hid a secret identity from you, but he was also, essentially, a villain.

Great.

And the worst part? It made so much god damn sense. How had you not seen it? Were you really that fucking blind? Or had you hoped, prayed, that you’d finally been dating a good, decent man?

You knew that Dex had killed, yes-he was in the FBI, of course he’d had to. But killing out of necessity was very different than a criminal paying you because they put a hit on someone. The late nights, irregular bruising and body aches made so much more sense now. Yes, some part of you figured he was doing vigilante work but this wasn’t vigilant work.

It was straight up immoral.

Dex had tried to keep this a secret. He hadn’t wanted to, but this had been so good. He had been so good. He liked this relationship, had fallen in love with you, and was happy. Coming home to you had proven to be as adjustment he looked forward to. It had made him feel…normal. He didn’t have to pretend around you: he had his outbursts, his moments of panic, felt the need to keep things organized and in their place, and you were always so kind about it. He’d been put in his place by you, of course, but he’d been trying. He wanted this, needed this, needed you. But the look on your face now left him feeling scared, terrified even. Fear rose like bile in his throat and he felt his heart beating frantically in his chest, like a caged bird beneath the confines of his ribs.

The wretched, angry animal in him was clawing at his insides, begging to be set free.

She can’t do this to me. She can’t leave.

You’d been standing with your arms crossed the entire time he’d been talking to you, and god he’d been trying so hard not to shake or sweat but the hardened look on your face was making it difficult not to. And now you wanted space? Time to think? So you didn’t understand him like you’d said you did. If you’d actually understood him, knew him, cared about him, then this would make sense. You’d be understanding.

Why weren’t you understanding?!

Sweat had gathered on Dex’s temples and he swallowed loudly, palms facing you, terrified you were suddenly scared of him after realizing what he was capable of.

“Please, just-” The panic was evident in his usually calm, level voice. “Let’s just sit and talk. If you let me explain-”

“Benjamin,” Your voice is curt, short and nearly halts him in his tracks. “We have been talking. That’s what this was. You explained yourself and I asked for space.”

Dex felt like he was on the verge of a panic attack. The need to fold in on himself was beginning to chisel away at whatever was keeping him standing in front of you at this moment.

He could feel the tremor in his hands as he fought the urge to lunge forward and pull you into him. He couldn’t let you have space. Then you could leave him, decide it was better to be apart, and what if you didn’t want to see him again? What if you broke up with him? What was Dex supposed to do? Nonono, he needed you. He needed you.

Dex’ breathing was sharp, his heart in his throat as he moved to block your path again, his hands still out, palms facing you, showing he was safe.

I’m safe baby please.

I’m safe.

Safe.

Your face twisted and Dex could see your frustration with him quickly shifting into anger. He was overwhelming you, he knew that, but he couldn’t stop. This awful, awful ache in his gut made him feel like he was drowning and you hadn’t even left. What would he do if you did? What would he do if you said you needed space and actually took it?

He tried to keep himself from reaching for you, from touching you, from pulling you into him and making you listen and just fucking understand him.

He side stepped when you moved, planting himself back in your path.

“Dex-” A warning.

“Please, just-” He could hear how desperate he sounded, and maybe he should have cared but he couldn’t. “Don’t leave. Can we please talk? About this? Please?”

An exasperated sigh left you, and Dex watched your lip curl in a way it only did when you were reaching your limit.

“I know you said you needed space,” He rushed to explain himself, muscles tense as he prepared to physically stop you from moving away from him. “I just think we need to go over some things a little bit more.”

“Dex, did you lie to me?” It was curt, short, abrupt.

He froze, eyes boring into your own.

He swallowed.

“Yes, but-”

“That’s all I needed to hear,” You’d thrown your hands in the air, eyes rolling as you turned to move away from him again. “Please leave now. I just need some time to myself-”

Dex should have been embarrassed at his desperation. Honestly, he’d never even imagined he’d end up in a relationship let alone love someone the way he loved you.

He needed you.

You’d guided him. Hell, he’d even worn the mask exponentially less because he wanted to be around you so often. He wanted to be more like you, to love you, to protect you, to own you. You were his and only his.

So he did what any sane man would do: Benjamin Poindexter dropped to his knees and begged.

“Oh god,” it escaped you in a startled whisper.

“Please,” His voice was strained, brows drawn together as if it pained him to speak. His hands were on his thighs in front of him, flexing, as if he was forcing them to remain there. “I-I’ll do anything Y/N, just-just don’t leave.”

It was pathetic, he was pathetic. Begging on his knees in your apartment, pleading with you to just give him another chance.

His chest was heaving, sharp breaths escaping him as he gazed up at you. He looked wild and barely contained, and you could tell in that moment that even if you tried to make him leave, it was more than likely that he’d simply refuse. Or linger in the area. You hated how much you loved that about him.

“Benjamin,” It escaped you in a startled sigh, blinking rapidly as you gazed down at your boyfriend. You’d never seen him so distraught, so desperate.

It made your chest and pussy ache.

“Please,” His voice was hoarse. “I…I can’t do this without you.” Dex leaned forward on his knees, tentatively reaching towards you. “I’ll do whatever you ask me to. I’ll be good, I promise.”

Your hand came up to cover your mouth, lashes fluttering in surprise at how earnest he was being. You really had only wanted space…just-just some time to think. The realization that Dex was Bullseye was heavy. And, truthfully, you knew that this was manipulative. Dex could, absolutely, be manipulative. But he was also desperate and possessive. And honestly? Pathetic.

You loved that about him.

“Dex…” It was soft, the way you said it, and Dex moved to wrap his large, warm hands around your thigh, drawing you closer to him.

“Baby, please, I need you,” It was rushed, whiny, “I-I can fix it, just let me fix it.”

“Dex,” You started, eyes fluttering shut as you turned your face to look away from him, overwhelmed by his demonstration. “You can’t stop being yourself, and this is-”

He looked anguished. “I know I upset you, I know I lied and I promised I wouldn’t-” His hands were flexing around your leg, demanding, fingers almost bruising. “I fucked up. But I need you Y/N.”

Fuck.

You lifted your gaze to the ceiling for a moment, cursing yourself under your breath. Were you really going to cave? Fuck, it was so hard not to with him. He was so…Dex.

When you finally looked down at him again it almost made you catch your breath. His lips were parted, cheeks a soft hue of pink, brows drawn together and hair moussed. He was a wreck, begging on his knees for you, his hands wrapped around your leg. He’d moved closer so that your foot was resting between his knees now as he gazed up at you.

“Don’t make me leave,” His voice cracked as he spoke and you nearly wailed in frustration.

“Fine,” It was a soft murmur and you reached out to gently smooth his hair back from his forehead. “You can stay. Just…calm down, okay?”

Dex’ eyes fell shut, face immediately shifting into one of relief as he leaned into your touch.

“Thank you baby,” He managed, and when he gazed up at you, you nearly caught your breath. “I promise I’ll behave.”

He pulled you closer to him then, crowding around your leg as he began planting open mouthed kisses atop your thigh. You could feel his tongue and teeth dragging along the skin as you continued to rake your fingers through his hair.

“Thank you, thank you,” He kept whispering between kisses, hand hand smoothing up the back of your thigh as he drew you even closer to his body.

he is so tall, it's like second nature to dex to lean down a bit when he wants to focus his attention on you. when you mutter something, especially in public, he'll lean down into your space and hum softly, pretty head tilted to the side.

long eye contact in crowded rooms

he doesn't want to lose sight of you across the room. he'll look at you whether you're looking back or not. when you catch his eye the corner of his mouth might twitch for just a second, and he feeds on the way you stare just as intently back at him, ignoring the people or things around you/him.

messy makeouts

dex lives for messy makeouts with you. kissing you softly and with intention and it derailing into you pinned against something, both hands cupping his jaw as his hands roam. he doesn't even care if it leads to anything more or not, and doesn't make a move unless you do, but he's always painfully hard.

popcorn kisses

he loves your face. sometimes, when you're talking, he'll become so overwhelmed by the sight and sound of you he'll grab your face and kiss your face all over. his heart swells when you giggle and he'll kiss your face a few more times before giving you a rough kiss to your mouth.

carefully observing you when you're doing something

yeah okay we all know dex, do i even need to elaborate? it's one of his favorite things to do. he could watch you for hours, he could watch you watch paint dry. he loves to witness all the little way your face contorts when you focus, when you're frustrated.. the way you fidget, your favorite ways to fidget. he stores it all away in his mind for safekeeping.

rubbing their thumb on your hand while holding hands

dex likes to move his hands, he likes to fidget. when holding hands with you, it translates to rubbing soft circles on your skin. it comforts him, being able to gently squeeze your hand and feel your warm skin on his.

smiling as you do small things for them (tying their shoes, picking off lint, etc)

he loves when you pick a small piece of lint of his shirt mindlessly, as if you were almost unaware you did so until you see him smiling down at you. when you gently fix his hair and are slow to look back at him, making sure his hair looks just right.

standing close behind you

it's important to dex that everyone around you acknowledges that you are his, and his alone. he is so big and broad and warm it's impossible to not notice him standing so close behind you.

when they correct someone's perception of you or what you prefer "no she's allergic to that" / "her favorite color is green, not pink"

it irks dex when someone who claims to know you says something totally wrong. he keeps his anger in check, monotonal as he supplies the person with your actual favorite color, your proper pronouns. he also can't stand when someone is just so blatantly wrong about you. "what did you call her? hard to speak to? they're an introvert, and anyway i've always found them easy to speak with. you just don't know how to, i'd guess you're the harder one to converse with."

knees touching but not moving away

grrr ruff ruff.. he has to be touching you. it doesn't matter how. he will deliberately manspread to touch his large knee to your quaint one. it calms him.

scolding you but not stopping you

it's no secret dex is a brat tamer. he could easily get off on scolding you, making you pay, restraining you to stop you... but sometimes he likes to let you play, just a bit. you want to test your luck with him? okay, he'll scold and warn you but wants to see how far you'll really go.

lying for you

lies roll of his tongue for you easily. he doesn't even need an inkling of idea of why he needs to, he just simply does it. late for something and a friend is upset? 'they lost track of time studying for an important exam.' bruise(s) on your knee and embarrassed about it? 'slammed into the bedframe pretty hard, heard it from the living room.'

replying to you when you call their name with your name

his mouth curls upwards when you call for him. he'll call back to you with the same infliction and your own name on his lips while he makes his way towards where your sweet voice came from.

when they acknowledge it's wrong but they're too far in to stop

you were kneeling with a box of your things in his apartment. you didn't recognise a lot of it and looking at it was making the wound on your head throb like crazy.

it made you feel so off-put, you didn't know why. your stomach would twist and your mind would scream and it all went straight to stabbing you in the eyeballs.

"baby?" dex's voice came from the other room. the door opened and there he was. he looked worried, ready to chastise you again for forgetting the rule about doors. "why's the door closed?"

you turned, head on the bandage on your head in mind-numbing contemplation. "i forgot," you tried your best at looking apologetic.

closed doors weren't allowed when you were injured, apparently. sure, fine, that made sense. you had been getting dizzy really easily and sometimes vomiting, all side effects of whatever pills you were on and a traumatic brain injury.

yesterday, you had fallen on carpet. you were convinced he was going to chain you to the bed.

he didn't say any more about it, his gaze catching the box. "any luck?" he asked. his hand twitched at his side like he wanted to touch you, comfort you in your confusion. then, he did, still standing above you, his hand moved to press your head to his thigh as he rubbed your head, to comfort you. certainly, this action was for himself, obviously.

his fingers found your scalp, threaded through your hair. he began to rub firm circles, the kind of pressure that usually made you melt. you would assume. you wondered how different you were since the accident.

"nah," you sighed. you let it happen, you didn't hate it. you didn't know what you liked either. "i still don't recognize anything, it's all just... stuff."

"that's the amnesia," he said. "things don't feel familiar. it's disorienting. it's supposed to feel wrong."

you didn't respond, moving your head off his thigh to pick up a scarf that you grimaced at.

his hand didn't leave your head, he just moved with you. his thumb brushed the shell of your ear, tender and what you imagine to be loving. "brains are weird and you're still healing. give it time."

you went for jogs most days. if you didn't jog on a given day, you would still walk.

he liked going with you, even if you didn't know it. and didn't know him.

you didn't know him yet, not really.

you'd only crossed paths a few times, he was in FBI SWAT and you were a whole other team. most recently, you smiled at him once, when you were on his floor to meet with someone else. but that's not where it started, it was training. you were at quantico together.

he told himself he was just working up the nerve to speak to you, it had just been a few months of this. watching your routines.

he watched from just slightly down the street as you left your building. you always looked both ways before you started down the street. he would wait ten seconds before following you, at most, he was thirty yards behind you.

you turned onto 11th avenue. the light was red, you looked both ways, like you always did. but that delivery truck came out of nowhere.

he didn't even hear you scream, didn't hear a sound. he didn't know if that was just his body's reaction to seeing you hurt, or if it was the reality of what happened. silence.

blood pooling from the back of your skull, your hand twitched like it wanted to reach for it, but your eyes were fluttering shut. he didn't evne remember running towards you, shouting about calling 911. he almost was ready to pick you up and carry you himself, preparing to run you to the nearest hospital.

the emt almost didn't let him come with you. he thought of you, alone in the hospital. so he said he was your fiancé.

he didn't know why he said it. why didn't he say boyfriend? why not husband?

when you had been unconscious in the hospital, he had went to get a ring. he didn't know why. he didn't know you'd wake with amnesia. maybe he thought he would propose later, take this as a meet-cute opportunity more than anything else.

until they told him you didn't remember him, the man who brought you in, who everyone believed was your fiancé, then another plan formed in his mind.

when you woke up days later, he said he found it where the accident happened and slid it right onto your finger.

"dex... maybe i could sleep in your room tonight?" you had been sleeping in the guest room. for your comfort. you sounded so shy, unsure.

his thumb paused against your scalp and you felt it immediately. but then he started rubbing those slow circles again, steadier this time, grounding himself more than you.

“you wanna sleep in our room?” he repeated.

he was also correcting you about what he wanted to believe. or maybe it was more about what he wanted you to believe. and he was your only tether to the truth of your reality; you had forgotten everything else, and the only things that you knew about your life, your personality, your likes and dislikes, came from his lips.

his room? no. it was our room.

"we could just try it tonight, maybe? see how it goes?" your expression almost turned embarrassed as you looked up at him. "i keep waking up not knowing where i am. maybe i would just feel better if you were... beside me, i don't know."

he stared at you. he imagined you in his bed so many times it made him sick. so many scenarios ran through his head from before the accident, most of them making him stiff in his pants.

when he would watch you through your webcam through the laptop you forgot to close when you passed out, or through your bedroom window. he wondered what the weight of you against him would feel like, what the sound of your voice sounded like at 3 a.m., he wanted to know if you would curl up against his warmth, or turn away from it.

it wasn't crazy for him to think about this. he already knew your coffee order, your jogging routine, among the many other routines in your life he used to mould his around just to catch a glimpse of you.

"yeah," he breathed, a bit too fast. "yeah, of course."

that night, he tries to be perfect. he keeps his distance, careful not to overwhelm you like he hadn't been petting your head like a dog earlier.

the mattress is firmer than the guest room's. the pillows smell like his laundry detergent, like him. you wonder why, if this is your shared room, it doesn't smell you?

he lies down on his side, keeping space between you. "all good?"

you nod, staring at the ceiling, you try to relax, but you feel a prickle on the back of your neck. the same feeling you get when you're being watched in an empty room.

in the middle of the night, you wake up. you feel him, right behind you, his front pressed to your back, one arm draped heavily over your waist. he's breathing slow against your hair, but just a little off. is he pretending to sleep?

his arm feels less like an anchor and more like a lock. when you shift, his arm tightens out of some reflex. his body automatically locks up in panic when you pull away from him. just as quick as his grip tightened, he's relaxing again.