mirrorball

“I miss the sweet taste of your nectar. I miss the smell off your cunt after you peak. The smell of your sweet cunt in the morning when I wake you with my tongue. The taste of you after a day in the hot sun of the reach where I have forbidden you to wash and the musk of your cunt overwhelms my senses. The taste and scent of you when I drop to my knees and bury myself between the soft plush of your thighs. I miss you my sweet wife, I miss your face, your voice and most of all your sweet scent.”

Ormund was never a sentimental man, never did he care for the idea of carrying objects meant to symbolise meaning or memory of a loved one. That was until he took you to wife, and suddenly the idea of keeping something to remind him of you filled him with complete and utter lust. And he supposed love but the mere thought of you made his blood pump and his cock grow hard.

You rarely parted from one another but when you did Ormund made sure to leave a part of him with you, whether a babe in your belly or some extravagant gift that had the envy of all the ladies of your court. And you always made sure to give your husband ample gifts in return. Weather a miniature of your naked form. Letters full of each and every thing you desired to do to him and he to you upon his return in excruciating detail. And he loved each gift you gave him, but his favourite kind was when you gifted him your small clothes.

The first time he had asked you had been hesitant. Not over the action of sending your small clothes, no Ormund often stole yours, whenever he would drop to his knees and burying himself under your skirts to lap at your cunt, your panties always ended up in the pockets of his doublet, where he would reach for them as the day went on sniffing them when the stresses of the day got to him.

But the idea of sending them, of them being intercepted or the men of the camp seeing your panties in your husbands hand as he sniffed them? That had made you hesitant. But ormund already kept a vile of your perfume to sniff when he felt like it, panties where not much different. At least that’s what he reassured.

So you had sent them, and he had sent them back you ruined and covered in his cum. The fabric torn from the endless rutting of his cock against the delicate fabric.

He had done that after three days apart. And now with this godsforksane war he had been parted from you for three moons. Three moons of lust filled letters, three moons of you depicting the most sinful of words on paper that would no doubt get your both exiled from old town and excommunicated from worshiping of the seven. Three moons before Ormund snapped and his requests grew into pure filith.

Panties where before you would wear them for perhaps an hour before rolling them in your letter to him and sending it away. Now ormund grew depraved in his requests.

Asking you not to bath for days, wearing the same pair of underwear each day before sending it to him. Begging you to touch yourself and coat your panties in your silk before gifting them to him. And you complied, even when your maids whispered about your lack of hygiene and the growing amount of underwear missing in your draws.

You cared not, not when your husband would detail exactly what your underwear was used for.

My dear wife,

I must thank you for the small clothes you gift me, for the it has allowed me to dream once more of you and to know what the musk of your cunt smells like.

The sweet aroma of your cunt fills me with undying lust my sweet wife. Dreams of you riding my face fill my slumber, as I lick and feast upon the delicious aroma of your small clothes. My hand fisting my cock as I imagine you riding my face with recklass abandon, my tounge fucking your cunt with a passion no man has ever known. I cum each night with your panties wrapped around my cock, wishing it was your cunt, wishing I was fucking into you and not the mattress if my tent. Each night when I sniff your panties, the husk of your cunt lingering even days after their arrival, each night I feast upon them with more hunger than a starved man.

I crave you and your cunt, I crave to sleep by your side, where my cock can rest and soften within your warmth. To fill you with my cock every moment of every day. I wish for you to ride my cock as I work through the endless paperwork that no doubt awaits me upon my return. I wish to stuff your mouth with my cock and fuck your full of my cum. I wish for you to ride my cock with your small clothes stuffed into my mouth, were all I can feel and taste is you.

I need you my sweet wife, I crave the very air your breath. I crave your cunt, your taste I crave you. Fucking my fist each night hardly compares to the warmth of your cunt. To the feel of your lips in my mouth, and your small clothes hardly replace the want that pumps from my heart down to my cock.

I write this with love and leave you the knowledge that I fuck my fist with your newest panties wrapped around my cock as I write this, staining them with my cum.

Though my love, my sweet wife, this shall be the last pair of panties you should need to send to me, the last time I wait days to smell the aroma of your cunt, to know that you wear the very panties I will demand to smell and taste upon my arrival.

I shall be home by weeks end, do not wash.

Yours, Ormund

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fill me then, darling,” you commanded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“sleep wife,” he still sounded distant and so you lifted up onto your elbows. He was stood away from you, facing the low fire. You both liked keeping it cooler in here, each having a more reasonable explanation for the maids but you knew in your soul that it was a joint preference because it allowed you both to feel comfortable embracing one another while sleeping. An excuse almost.

“Ormund?” Your brows lifted and when he did not offer up some intelligent and well timed remark to your worried tone you tossed back the blankets right away and walked to where he stood. “Something happened?” You blinked the sleep from your eyes. His hand coming up to settle against your jaw as you persuade your questions.

“is Daeron alright?” Your husband’s cousin had been living at the Hightower for longer than you have and so he has always been here, always been a person you were meant to look after and help Ormund guide.

“War has extended to the reach.” He finally told you. Voice composed and unworried but the look he’d had moments ago starring at the flames made you certain he had needed to collect his composure for some time before informing you of what had been in the raven he received from kings landing mere hours ago.

“She will relent, King Aegon sits the throne.” You rationalize as the hand at your jaw rubs a bit more insistently.

“she will, once the hightower army marched to aid Aegon’s forces.”

Your eyes widen and nose wrinkles. Any wife would be emotional at this news, and any woman in your condition would be distraught.

“no tears.” He warned and your jaw trembled harder as you blinked rapidly. Trying to stop them.

“Ormund…” your hands covered your stomach. You were hardly showing, nobody knew but him, the maesters, the septon and your ladies who dressed and bathed you. Others likely suspected from gossip but, it was early, nothing had been made public yet.

“You can remain here, let Gwayne lead your men! Your place is here at the Hightower.” It felt less silly to say he belonged here than that he belonged with you.

“Gwayne must deal with whatever savage army has been built up under the Targaryens rule. He has his hands full. And it is well and truly time that Daeron comes to learn of how men handle themselves at war. I will lead my army.”

One of his hands dropped from your jaw to your stomach and his large hand spread over the small bump. It wasn’t much more than tightened skin that puffed out, really all of you just seemed swollen and plump at this stage.

“I cannot-“

”you will go on,” he gave you no alternative as his arms pulled you in. “You’ll wake, go to the stary sept and then Break your fast. You will cling to your faith and your books and remain here in my absence. It will be you that they look to for faith, strength and civility.”

He’d never verbalized that much faith in you and for a moment you wondered if he truly had all that or if he simply needed you to believe you had that strength within yourself.

“I will miss you…”

“my love,” he hummed and pulled your jaw up so he could press a kiss to your lips. “Seven know I will miss you, miss our home and our life here every moment of the day.” That was true. He detested being on the road, away from his routines and normal items.

“I must go to the sept-“ you said shifting away from his chest some. They septas would all be there praying throughout the night for the soldiers and their journey. You should join them.

“Your energy is better spent here.” Ormund said before you had been able to pull your robe on. “Lay down.” He directed. You paused for a long moment looking from him to your bed. The bed you two shared.

“your duty lies here tonight.” He approached slowly, taking some time to undo his vest as he came up behind you. “My duty is here until morning.”

When the sun rises he would serve the realm, serve his men, serve the hightowers cause. Tonight he served you.

“I-“ your hand rubbed against your stomach, it was a nervous tick you’d already taken up, one he found adorable, one he had warned you close to a dozen times that you did publicly and likely looked quite odd to whoever was in their company.

“Wife, lay down.” He murmured in your ear and you slowly turned after nodding and crawled back into bed, settling on your side and laying on your side. “Unlace your gown.” He directed and your fingers quickly worked the laces open which made your sleeves fall low off your shoulders.

“You think me so cruel that I would not give you something to remember before I leave?” He raised a brow, shirtless, as he sat down.

“I know it is not owed to me…” you breathed out, heat already filling your stomach. You’d been quite needy the last moon, Ormund said it must be your body just being unsure what was happening to it with the babe thickening within you.

You’d been perverse and greedy and laying together after the sun set had not even been enough to satisfy you. Shamefully you’d taken his pillow between your legs and rocked your hips back and forth until you’d made a mess of the linen. He’d caught you trying to wash the fabric in secret and been able to recognize the aroma right away.

You had not found pleasure sense. Almost…painfully close many many times but Ormund would not let you tip over the cliff. He pulled you back every time to reign in whatever feral need had taken out your urges.

“I may find release tonight?” He saw how you perked up at that.

“I’ve not said that much.” He corrected. “Simply that I will not leave with my wife forgetting how I complete her.”

“yes m’lord.” You swallowed that burning want down and shift a bit closer. “Thank you.” You whisper settling your head between his bicep and chest as you did most nights. His long arm swooping around the outside of you and he pulled your nightgowns hem up to your waist.

“I expect you will behave while I am away.”

“I don’t wish to discuss that.” You turned your face into his chest.

“We must-“ he kissed your forhead and his fingers eased over your mound. He was pratically hairless, it was his preference but you remained untouched, he wanted you in your natural form, how the gods had designed you. So his fingers swirled up the curls at the apex of your thighs and he pressed further which urged your knees up and open. “I’ve expectations of you my love.”

Your lashed fluttered and the moment his calloused finger tapped over your clit you whimpered.

“who does this part of you belong to?”

“It’s yours-“ you pant hips rising already and so his heavy leg weighed them down some. “I am not to touch that spot.” You finish and he grins.

“good girl,” his nose nuzzles into the space behind your ear and he inhales the soapy aroma left over from your bath earlier. “So you’ll wait for me to return for it to be played with?” He murmured and with nodded weakly hips squirming to try and get more.

“yes-yesyes I’ll wait. I swear to the gods.” you groaned when he began to properly circle the nerve. Your hand fisting the bedsheets below you and you let out soft mewing noises.

“swear it to me.”

Your eyes opened and you looked up from his side to his face. He was taking all of you in while he expertly worker you up. The wet sound of his fingers moving against your folds filling the room.

“I swear it to you husband.” Your voice was gravely serious. “I’ll not touch myself in your absence Ormund.” Pleasure, your pleasure was something only he should give you. Something he controlled. That was how it should be, that was how you both wished it to be.

“You will eagerly await my return then,” his fingers pushed down suddenly into your warm swollen core and his thumb dragged up and down against your sensitive pearl. “Do not let your prayers grow to depraved my love.” He warned. But his voice was warmer now, softer, reassured now that you had sworn to him that you would remain his sweet wife in his absence.

“I need to feel you…” you whisper turning yourself against his side. “Please-please I wish you to remeber me properly.” You pawed a bit at his stomach, the toned muscles warm and you wanted your hand to sink lower. His hand pulled up for your legs and the wet fingers trailed up your back pulling the slip over your head. He took in your bare image, the slight bulge of your lower belly, the swollen skin of your breast and your nipples which had begun to grow a darker hue already.

He could admit that this physical denial of your peak had gone on so long that he felt somewhat deprived as well.

You sat up at his hesitation and leaned over him, kissing his lips tenderly at first and then gently slipping your tongue between his lips when his parted. “Let me honor you.” Your soft lips melted to his and you felt his hand settled heavy against your bottom, cupping you there. “Please-“ he bit at your lip slightly and released his hold on your hair, allowing you the freedom to kiss down his bare chest, to drag your tongue against his toned abdomen and you smiled up at him when you kissed the mole under his belly button. Savoring that moment and that spot while your hands worked his breeches open and pushed them down his legs.

“gods I shall miss this-“ your tongue darted out to lick the pearly pre that came out of the slit in his tip. “You swear to return?” You asked mouth kissing down his shaft.

“how could one n-not,” he moaned and his hand grabbed ahold of your hair. “I must come back to tend to you.” He breathed looking down to watch as you wet the entirety of his cock and even sucked like a heathen at his heavy stones. You would never get enough of him. Ever.

“Seven hells-“ he swore and your eyes got deeper because you knew that meant he was growing more and more aroused, more worked up and less restrained. “Up, now.” He demanded pulling at you until you were sat at his hips with his tip just barely pressing into you.

“ugh-you feel so big.” You groan hand on his chest to stabilize yourself.

“You’ve blessed, gods, so tight.” He hissed at the feeling, eyes closing for a moment as he thrusted up toward you and probed himself half into you. “Sit-good, just like that. I know you want all of me.” He coached as you did just that. Fingers grasping at his flesh and you clenched from above him as his tip poked at your sentive cervix.

“ahh” escape your parted lips. It was from relief as much as it was from pleasure. Things just felt right with him spreading you open and his pulse throbbing inside of you.

He shifted both your hands to his shoulders and looped an arm over the small of your back to press you forward and keep you down. He did not need you getting wild and riding him like a feverish whore. He simply wanted your weight above him. Your scent covering him. Your warmth radiating down.

“ngh! Yes-yes that feels good Husband…” you whimper into his neck, kissing softly there. Careful to leave no marks even if you wished to give him something to remember you by.

Ormunds brow wrinkled and he held you firmer to him. Hips snapping up as he filled you over and over with this throbbing length, hitting as deep as he could. Feeling your body tense and melt against him drove him mad. His hand shifting down to squeeze at your arse and drag you down to meet his impact each time.

“Fuck!” You swore and that earned your bottom a swat. That language had no place in your mouth. “Forgive me-“ you bit out and held to him tighter while your stomach tensed and toes curled. “I feel it…I feel what you’re doing to me.” You whisper almost frantic in his ear. You were quickly approaching your peak and you were both frightened and excited by it. “Please let me…please Ormund.” You begged him and he rutted hard against you when the pleading began.

“you need this? Have you learned restrain? Learned what happens when a wife does not behave?” He questioned, voice fighting to sound stern as his own pleasure compounded within him. You were squeezing the life out of his cock and he could feel the familiar fluttering within you that told him you truly were about to lose controls

You kissed him, hard, lips rough against his and your hand found his hair pulling him into you more as you started to shake.

“yes! Yes I understand m’lord, I understand now. Please! Please I’ve behaved, I shall continue to b-behave.” You made your case, she’s half rolled back as you fought the feeling off as long as you could.

Just before letting go became completly out of your control he kissed you back. Pet you locks away from your sweat forhead and gave you his blessing.

“cum for me wife.” He demanded, voice strained as he himself reached his peak and spilled warm white seed within your walls. The sound you made was so ecstatic and unrestrained that he needed to hold your face into his neck as you let go around him. Your own release gushing around the base of his shaft as you tremble against him. Panting and whimpering and stuttering out thanks to him for some time before finally you went mostly limp and only could blink against his warm chest.

“I love you.” He spoke first. “You did so well showing me that diligence.” He was genuinely proud of you for holding off as long as you did. It stroked his pride as well that you trusted his judgment and obeyed whatever his rulings were.

“it’s never felt like that.” You whispered sleepy eyes raising up to look at him. “Thank you, for giving me that.” His ring felt cold against your cheek and it made you shiver and hide against him more.

He thought you fell asleep because that long had passed without a shift or sound until he felt your swallow the lump in your throat.

“I am scared for morning to come.”

“I know.” His hand brushed your hair down again and he closed his own eyes easing his head into the pillow. “But we must have faith, just as the gods have faith in us.”

The oil slicks your body, turning your skin soft and luminous under the flickering candlelight of your private solar in Oldtown. You run your hands along your arms, feeling the luxurious glide, and a quiet smile curves your lips. Ormund has been away all day in council, buried in matters of the Hightower and the realm, but you know he will come to you soon. He always does.

The door creaks open sooner than expected. You glance up through the haze of steam and see him, your husband, tall and broad-shouldered in his fine doublet, his dark hair catching the light. Ormund Hightower, Lord of the Hightower, stops dead in the threshold, his sharp eyes widening as the scent hits him fully.

“My love,” he breathes, voice already roughening. He closes the door behind him with deliberate care, but his gaze devours you, tracing the curve of your shoulders, the way the pomade makes the water shimmer on your breasts, the subtle flush rising on your cheeks. “What... what is that?”

You tilt your head innocently, though heat pools low in your belly at the hunger in his expression. “A gift from Dorne, husband. Do you like it?”

He steps closer, shedding his cloak without thought. The scent wraps around him like invisible chains, and you watch his chest rise and fall faster. Devoted as he is—always gentle in public, fierce and attentive in private—something primal stirs in him now. His hands clench at his sides as if fighting the urge to reach for you immediately.

“Like it?” Ormund's voice drops to a growl. He kneels beside the tub, one large hand dipping into the water to trail along your thigh, the oil making his touch glide like silk.

“Gods, woman... you smell like sin and summer itself. It's driving me mad.” His fingers press firmer, possessive, pulling a soft gasp from your lips. “I can barely think. All I want is to bury myself in you, taste every inch coated in this... this torment.”

You laugh softly, reaching up to cup his jaw, drawing him closer until his forehead rests against yours. The steam curls between you, thick with that exotic fragrance. “Then don't think, my lord. Take what is yours.”

Ormund's control snaps with a low groan. He captures your mouth in a deep, claiming kiss, his devoted hands sliding into the water to lift you effortlessly against him, water sloshing over the tub's edge. The pomade's scent intensifies with every movement, fueling the fire in his eyes as he carries you toward the bed, dripping and glistening, ready to lose himself completely in the wife who knows exactly how to unravel him.

You laugh breathlessly as Ormund lifts you from the tub without a moment's hesitation, strong arms cradling your slick, oil-slicked body against his chest.

Water cascades down your skin, soaking through his fine doublet and leaving dark patches on the fabric, but he doesn't care. His eyes are dark with lust, the exotic scent of the Dornish pomade clinging to you like a drug that has him utterly addicted.

“My wife,” he murmurs hoarsely, carrying you across the chamber as if you weigh nothing. Droplets trail behind you on the stone floor, but his gaze never leaves your face, your breasts, the way the oil makes every curve of your body gleam invitingly.

He lays you down on the large bed with surprising gentleness for a man so consumed, but the moment your back hits the soft furs and silks, his patience evaporates.

Ormund drops to his knees at the edge of the bed, hands gripping your thighs and spreading them wide. “That scent... Seven Hells, it's everywhere.” He leans in, inhaling deeply against your inner thigh, lips brushing your wet skin.

Then his mouth is on you, hot, hungry, and relentless.

You arch off the bed with a sharp cry as his tongue drags slowly through your folds, savoring the mix of your arousal and the sweet, spiced pomade. He doesn't tease; he devours. His devoted mouth seals around your clit, sucking and licking with a fervor that makes your toes curl. One of his hands slides up your body to cup your breast, thumb circling your nipple, while the other holds your hip steady, fingers digging in possessively.

“Mmm,” he groans against you, the vibration sending sparks through your core. “So sweet. So wet for me.” His tongue plunges inside you, lapping deeply, then returns to your sensitive bundle of nerves, flicking and circling with expert precision honed from years of learning exactly what makes you unravel. The scent drives him wild, each breath he takes only makes him more insatiable, his groans growing louder as he eats you out like a starving man at a feast.

Your fingers thread through his hair, gripping tight as pleasure builds fast and overwhelming. “Ormund— gods...” Your hips buck against his face, but he holds you firmly, refusing to let you escape the intensity. He looks up at you briefly, eyes burning with love and raw desire, his chin glistening with your juices, before diving back in with renewed hunger.

He doesn't stop until your thighs are trembling around his head and your moans echo through the solar, pushing you closer and closer to the edge with every devoted stroke of his tongue.

Your body tightens like a bowstring, thighs clamping around his head as the pleasure crashes over you.

Ormund’s tongue never falters, relentless, worshipful, lapping and sucking until you come undone with a shattered cry. Waves of ecstasy rip through you, your hips grinding against his mouth as you soak his tongue and chin. He moans deeply into your core, drinking every drop like it’s the finest vintage in Westeros, his devoted hands stroking your trembling thighs until the last shudder fades.

Before you can catch your breath, he rises, flipping you onto your stomach with effortless strength. Your cheek presses into the cool silks, ass raised invitingly, skin still glistening with oil and water.

You hear the frantic rip of fabric, Ormund tearing at his own clothes, doublet buttons scattering across the floor, breeches shoved down in a frenzy. The pious Lord of Oldtown, ever faithful to the Seven and to you, growls low in his throat as he fists his thick, aching cock.

“Forgive me, my love,” he rasps, voice wrecked with need, “but this scent has me possessed.”

A sharp smack lands on your arse, the sound cracking through the chamber. You gasp at the sting, heat blooming across your skin where his palm connected.

He groans at the sight, your flesh jiggling, the red imprint of his hand marking you, then does it again, harder, before gripping your hips and lining himself up.

He does not hesitate.

With one powerful thrust, he buries himself to the hilt inside your slick heat. The stretch is exquisite, his thick length filling you completely as he snarls in pleasure. “Fuck— so tight, so perfect…” He sets a brutal pace immediately, hips snapping forward, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing with every deep stroke.

Ormund fucks you into the mattress like a man driven mad. Each thrust is possessive, claiming, his pious restraint shattered by the intoxicating Dornish pomade still rising from your skin. One hand fists in your hair, the other braces beside your head as he leans over you, chest pressed to your back, lips at your ear.

“You’re mine,” he growls, pounding harder, deeper, the bed creaking beneath you. “My wife. My everything.” His hips slap loudly against your reddened arse, the angle hitting that perfect spot inside you again and again. He reaches beneath you to rub your swollen clit in tight circles, determined to pull another climax from your already sensitive body.

The room fills with your mingled moans, the heady scent, and the obscene sound of him taking you so thoroughly. He fucks you without mercy, lost in the pleasure, until stars burst behind your eyes once more and you clench around him like a vice. Only then does he follow with a broken roar, spilling deep inside you in hot, pulsing ropes, his body shuddering against yours as he claims you completely.

Even in his release, his arms wrap around you protectively, lips pressing tender kisses to your shoulder, devoted even when he’s fucking you into sweet oblivion.

You lie there panting, body still trembling from the force of your shared release, his seed warm and leaking between your thighs. But Ormund is far from finished. The Dornish pomade clings to your skin like an aphrodisiac haze, and he inhales sharply, eyes fluttering half-closed as another wave of raw hunger overtakes him.

With a low, possessive growl, he flips you onto your back once more, spreading your legs wide around his hips. His cock, still hard and slick with your combined pleasure, presses against your entrance.

He sinks into you slowly this time, inch by deliberate inch, stretching you open again with a deep, satisfied groan that vibrates against your chest.

“Gods… you feel like heaven,” he whispers, voice rough and reverent. Fully seated inside you, he pauses, savoring the tight, wet heat, his forehead resting against yours. Then he begins to move, long, slow, rolling thrusts that drag against every sensitive spot within you.

His mouth finds yours in a deep, devouring kiss, tongue tangling with yours as he fucks you with unhurried intensity. He trails hot, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw, your neck, sucking gently at the pulse point there before moving lower to lave at your breasts. His lips close around one nipple, tongue flicking as he groans against your skin, the vibration sending fresh sparks through you.

Every thrust is deep and purposeful, his hips grinding against yours at the end of each stroke, pressing against your clit. One of his hands cradles the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair, while the other roams, squeezing your breast, sliding down to grip your arse, pulling you even closer so he can bury himself as deep as possible.

“You’re mine,” he murmurs against your collarbone, kissing and nipping at your oil-slicked skin. “Every sigh, every tremble… all mine.” His pace remains slow but relentless, building the pleasure gradually until you’re writhing beneath him, nails digging into his broad back.

The scent of the pomade swirls around you both with every movement, keeping him achingly hard, keeping his devotion twisted into something primal and insatiable. He kisses you again, slower, deeper, as he fucks you into a blissful haze, bodies pressed together, hearts pounding in sync, lost in each other for as long as the night allows.

You melt beneath him as Ormund’s rhythm stays slow and tender, each deep thrust measured and loving. Sweat glistens on his skin now, tracing down the strong lines of his chest and back, making his body slide slickly against yours. The heat between you is overwhelming, but he holds you close, one arm wrapped beneath your shoulders while his other hand gently cups your face.

“My beautiful wife,” he murmurs hotly against your ear, voice low and husky with affection. “You undo me… every time.” His lips brush the shell of your ear, then trail soft kisses along your jaw. “I love you more than the stars in the sky, more than the Hightower itself.”

He rolls his hips in a languid circle, pressing deep and grinding against that perfect spot inside you, drawing a soft whimper from your lips. His breath hitches as your walls flutter around him, but he keeps the pace gentle, savoring every moment. Sweat beads on his brow and drips onto your chest, mingling with the shimmering oil still coating your skin.

“You feel so good wrapped around me,” he whispers, nuzzling into your neck, inhaling that maddening Dornish scent that still clings to you. “So warm… so perfect. I could stay buried inside you forever.” His words are punctuated by slow, deep strokes, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in with aching tenderness.

He kisses you deeply again, tongue stroking yours in time with his movements, then pulls back just enough to look into your eyes. “You are my heart, my home. My everything.” Another slow thrust, his thumb brushing tenderly over your cheek as he watches your face with pure devotion. “Come for me again, my love. Let me feel you.”

His free hand slips between your bodies, fingers finding your clit and circling with gentle pressure as he continues making tender love to you, sweat-slick, scent-drenched, and utterly lost in the intimacy of the moment. The pleasure builds like a warm tide, his sweet murmurs and devoted touches guiding you closer and closer to the edge once more.

You cling to him as the pleasure crests once more, your body trembling beneath his as you come apart with a soft, breathy moan of his name. Ormund follows right after, burying himself deep with a low, loving groan, spilling inside you again as his arms tighten around you protectively.

For a long moment, the only sounds are your mingled breathing and the faint crackle of the hearth. He stays inside you as he gently collapses over you, careful not to crush you with his weight.

Then, with a tired but utterly content smile, he rolls onto his back and pulls you on top of him, your bodies still joined and sticky with sweat, oil, and love.

His large hand strokes soothing circles up and down your back while the other tucks a damp strand of hair behind your ear. The exotic scent of the pomade lingers sweetly in the air, softer now, like a warm embrace.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice warm with affection as he gazes up at you with those devoted violet eyes. “My fierce, beautiful wife… absolutely glowing.” He leans up to press a gentle kiss to your forehead, then the tip of your nose, making you giggle softly. “I think I’m going to have that pomade declared a danger to House Hightower. One more bath like that and I may never leave this bed again.”

You rest your cheek against his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart as his fingers trace lazy patterns on your skin. He chuckles quietly, the sound rumbling through you both, and wraps his arms more securely around you.

“I love you,” he whispers, pressing one last tender kiss to your temple. “More than anything in this world or the next. Stay right here with me, my heart. Let the rest of the world wait until morning.”

Maekar groaned, finally tearing himself from you. 

He only meant to give you a quick goodbye kiss, for the day that is, but you quickly turned one kiss into two into a passionate kiss that had Maekar humming against your mouth.

“One more,” you asked with puffy lips, your arms draped around his neck.

“Fine,” Maekar grunted before pulling you closer again, his tongue finding little resistance.

You didn’t have to touch him to know how painfully hard you were making him, Maekar’s huge hands splayed across your back, his fingertips pressing in, his head dipping lower…

“You’re going to be late, husband,” you smiled, pressing a quick peck to his lips.

This time, Maekar swallowed his groan.

Around dinner time, the door to your chambers opened without a knock, in a way you knew Maekar was entering. Still, you pretended to be deeply engrossed in the book you were reading, expecting Maekar to huff and puff a little before leading you to your bedchambers.

“Did you find that amusing?” his gruff voice loomed over you.

“Hm?” you feigned ignorance and innocence, though a tiny smirk gave you away. Looking up to Maekar through your lashes, you could tell he was in a particular mood, especially when he tossed his cape over the closest chair. 

“Undress,” he ordered, and if you thought you could tease him a little more, the tone of his voice left nothing up for discussion. 

Slowly, you stood, unlacing your dress without any sense of urgency, but Maekar waited for the whole Gods-forsaken morning. His lips crashed onto yours, all teeth and bite, his hands tugging, pulling, and breaking, a distinct sound of the fabric ripping filling the room. 

Soon, you were standing bare in front of your husband, his lips leaving a trail of bruises over the sensitive skin of your neck, his hands roaming your body. His hot breath was making you so wet, your hands finally cupping his cock through his breeches.

“Fuck,” Maekar finally grunted, his teeth gliding over your shoulder. He took a couple of steps back, slumping into a chair, taking in your figure. 

Your mouth watered at the sight of Maekar freeing his cock, and you immediately went to kneel.

“No,” he rasped, stroking himself. “Come here. Fuck yourself.”

He immediately hooked one arm around you as you straddled him, the other grabbing your ass; slowly, without any preparation, you lined up the tip of Maekar’s cock and, with a deep breath, slowly started to sink on it. 

It hurt, but you wanted it badly. 

Watching a red flush creep up Maekar’s neck and how he was so desperately swallowing all his moans made you feel so eager to please him, so with a painful yelp, you sat all the way down. 

Maekar’s hand flew to your neck to steady you as your whole body trembled, speared on his cock; he pulled you against himself, your hands bracing against his chest.

“Now you know how I felt the whole morning,” he spat out, but you knew your husband.

There was no bite in his words, and he even pressed a quick kiss to your temple. You rolled your hips slowly, feeling how Maekar’s cock throbbed inside you, and he finally let out a long groan, his head falling between your tits, licking and sucking.

You continued rolling your hips a little faster, listening to Maekar muffle his groans and moans on your tits, his teeth grazing your hardened, sensitive nipples. It unlocked something in you, being completely naked and him fully clothed, for reasons you could never understand.

Your legs were trembling already, but you were determined; you knew Maekar was going to punish you properly in the evening, take your time with you and keep you on edge for hours, denying you over and over again. It was a gift, your current time together, a loving treat before he’d unleash on you.

But now, his cock was spreading you, mixing a little pain with a lot of pleasure, your body nothing but a vessel for Maekar to relax into a little. Or a lot, you smirked to yourself, feeling ropes of cum already leaking out of you in the middle of his surprised orgasm.

“Fuck,” he muttered after his breathing returned to normal. “I need to change out of these fucking clothes.

“I have to go, my love,” Baelor whispered, still holding you close as you sat in his lap.

“You’re always in the meetings, My Prince,” you protested, your nails lightly scratching the skin at his nape, just as you knew would drive him wild. “I never see you anymore.”

You pulled him into a deep, tender, intimate kiss, feeling the pressure in his breeches against your thigh. Baelor’s hands tightened around you, and a breathless moan escaped your lips, going directly to the Crown Prince’s cock.

And then you pulled away, watching his differently coloured eyes go all glassy and unfocused, his hands falling to your ass, gripping it, but letting go when you stood up.

He watched you depart his solar, trying to remind himself that duty called, but wanting nothing else but to follow you back to your shared chambers.

It wasn’t that late when Baelor finally made his way to you, at least not by Baelor’s standards. He could barely pay attention during the meeting, his mind constantly drifting to you, to that kiss, your body pressed against his. 

He found you asleep, a book splayed over your chest, one hand still atop it; you dozed off in the middle of a chapter. Baelor gently removed it, making sure to slide a bookmark inside, before carefully putting it aside. 

You wore nothing but his favourite shift, a dark red silk that was transparent in certain light — the one you wore on your wedding night. 

With a new sense of urgency, Baelor undressed, sliding under the covers next to you. He has missed you and your warmth, his cock stirring to full hardness when a first sleepy moan escaped your lips.

“Baelor?” you whispered, your heavy-lidded eyes meeting his glassy ones. 

Usually, Baelor would be patient, controlled, measured. But those kisses you shared before his meeting reminded him how much he loved to let go, lose himself in you.

“You’ve been teasing me the whole day,” Baelor whispered back, his lips capturing yours as his fingers slid over your breasts, pinching your nipple through the flimsy fabric.

You just moaned in reply, one of your hands tangling in his hair, the other one sliding back to his nape, your nails dragging over the skin; Baelor sighed in your mouth, pressing his tongue deeper, climbing on top of you. You could feel his cock already, hard, hot, and leaking, before his fingers found their way lower, exploring your heat. 

Not for long, as when he was satisfied that you could take him without too much preparation, Baelor impatiently bunched up your shift, his muscular thighs forcing yours wider apart, exposing you fully to him. He tried, Gods know he tried, to give you enough time to get used to the stretch, but when your cunt started to greedily swallow him, Baelor had to admit he was just a man.

He sheathed himself fully, drawing an audible moan out of you, selfishly chasing his own pleasure. He knew now exactly how you liked it the most, which spots to hit and how hard, and how slowly to drag himself out before feverishly fucking back into you. None of it mattered now, as Baelor kept fucking you into the mattress.

You loved it. 

So much so that your moans and whines became louder than the slapping of the skin on skin, your nails lodged firmly into the skin of Baelor’s back, trying to bring him as close as possible, feel his warmth and his sweat. When your back arched off the bed into him, and you started babbling his name, Baelor’s lips finally turned into a satisfied smirk. 

He would never admit it, but he loved getting back at you.

You couldn’t help yourself tease but Lyonel a little before every meeting, just kissing him for a moment too long, or wearing his favourite perfumes and oils.

“You little minx,” Lyonel would breathe out every time, willing himself to leave and tear himself from you.

Today, however, you were feeling particularly naughty, standing on your tiptoes, tangling your hand in Lyonel’s curls, your tongue swirling around his.

“My Lord,” an embarrassed young servant tried again, not looking at you two, his cheeks and ears burning.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Lyonel muttered, physically moving away from you, until you cupped his cock, that was.

You could feel it harden under your hand, confines of Lyonel’s breeches still secluding it somewhat.

He practically jumped away from you, his mouth falling open.

“Wife, how dare you start this before my meeting?” there was a certain level of dramatics in his voice, almost as if he was personally offended that you were going to leave him high and dry.

But you just winked at him, pressing a rather chaste kiss to his cheek, and ushered him out of the solar.

You were pretty proud of yourself, occasionally chuckling to yourself as you continued to read your book, waiting for Lyonel to return. It would be some time, you guessed, as this meeting was important, although you didn’t bother too much to find out why.

Imagine your surprise then, when Lyonel returned to the solar with pressing urgency.

“Done already?” you frowned, wondering who and what offended him now.

“No, no,” Lyonel mumbled, walking to you, unlacing his breeches. “We’re taking a short break.” He led you behind his desk as you laughed.

“Take it off,” his head indicated to your dress.

“Lyonel, here?” it was your turn for fake dramatics, especially as Lyonel already had you in his solar, multiple times.

“Take it off, or I’ll take it off,” his voice was impatient and so, so needy. 

He pulled his breeches down a little, just enough to free his cock, before sitting down. You watched him stroke his cock, flushed with blood already, looking painfully hard. 

“Were you this hard this whole time?” you teased, slowly unlacing our dress, trying to give Lyonel a show. 

“Hurry the fuck up,” Lyonel barked, getting seriously impatient.

You didn’t listen, because when did you? So Lyonel took matters into his own hands, turning you around with a surprised shriek from you, and bending you over the table.

“You need it that badly, husband?” you listened as he bunched up your dress and your shift, his cock already sliding between your folds, coating it in your slick.

With a sharp thrust, he sheathed himself completely inside you, causing you to fall further forward on the table as a painful yelp tore from your lips.

No matter how hard or how often Lyonel fucked you, it always took some time to get used to the merciless stretch of his cock.

But this time, Lyonel wouldn’t grace you that time, irritated and a little angry you spurred him on in the first place, chasing his own pleasure.

“Fuck, fuck,” he moaned out, his hands pulling your hips to meet his thrusts, the cold of his rings burning into your skin. 

“I needed this,” Lyonel grunted as he continued to plunge into you, “I needed you.”

His babbling always sent such pleasurable jolts through you, sometimes even more than his cock. But you liked it, when he took, when he used you, when he was so desperate to fuck you, he adjourned his meeting. 

You listened, with a smirk on your face, as Lyonel’s breathing became erratic, a tell-tale sign he was close. He gripped your hips even harder, stilling inside you before spilling his seed. 

“I’m not done with you yet,” he whispered, slapping your ass before quickly lacing himself back up and returning to his meeting.

If you like my writing, all interactions are greatly appreciated-`♡´-

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-

cassie doesn't know if you're avoiding her or you're simply just being assigned to work with other people but it's been almost a week and you've barely talked to each other. she barely sees you anymore as if you're both running in a hectare land.

and to be honest, cassie misses you. your replies to her messages have been distant and cold and cassie can't tell if you're just tired or mad or simply don't want to talk to her. it's driving her insane.

cassie finally sees an opportunity to talk to you when she saw you enter the lounge to take a quick break.

"hey." she takes the seat across from you. "you've been busy."

"triage is packed," is your only answer.

she looks at you for a moment, contemplating. "did i do something wrong?"

that makes you look up to her. "what?"

"you're avoiding me. you're being cold and distant."

"i'm not. i'm just busy, cassie."

"too busy for me now?"

you take a deep breath, tucking your behind your ear. "we're working."

"not right now."

"we're still at work."

"what did i do? just tell me. so i can try and fix it."

"cassie, you did nothing wrong."

"then why are you avoiding me?"

"it's not about you, okay?" you let out a shaky breath. "it's not you."

"then you're the problem? what's going on?"

you're quiet for a moment, eyes drifting to your shaky hands. "i've been trying to be okay with you going out with brian," you say. "and i'm happy for you. i-i am. i can be. i'm just..."

cassie is frozen in her seat, listening to your stammers. what are you saying? are you...?

"i'm trying to be a good friend, cassie. and i know i haven't been lately but it's just so hard."

"y/n -"

"i'm in love with you," you blurt out, almost close to tears. "and i know you don't feel the same way. i don't want to ruin what we have so i'm just trying to move on and get past these feelings."

move on.

you want to move on?

from her?

"so i'm sorry," you continue. "i just need a little space."

Saturday arrives like a soft bell chime you can almost hear before it happens.

You’ve got the apartment half-lit, curtains pulled back just enough to let in honeyed afternoon sun. There’s a faint stack of snacks on the coffee table, a questionable amount of blankets piled like you’re preparing for emotional weather, and the TV already paused on the opening menu of Doctor Who, glowing patiently like it knows it’s about to be emotionally overused.

You hear the knock.

Not loud. Never loud with him. Two beats, careful, like he’s asking permission from the door itself.

You pad over barefoot, smoothing your hands down your dress out of habit more than necessity. The fabric is light purple, soft as early twilight. It fits you neatly at the top before easing outward into something airy and floaty that shifts when you walk, like it can’t decide whether it wants to stay still or drift.

You open the door, and there he is.

Spencer looks like he always does when he’s trying to be normal and failing in the most quiet, devastating way possible. Button-up slightly rumpled from sitting on the train. Messenger bag slung over one shoulder. Hair already doing whatever it wants, curling forward like it has opinions about gravity.

His mouth opens.

Nothing comes out.

It’s subtle at first, the way his expression shifts, like a thought trips over itself inside his head and refuses to stand back up. His eyes flick up to your face, hold there for a respectful second too long, then betray him almost immediately by dropping, catching on you in a way he clearly did not intend.

You tilt your head slightly. “Hey.”

That seems to reboot him, but only halfway.

“Hi,” he says, too quickly. Then, like he’s correcting a mistake only he can hear, “Hello. Hi. I mean. Hi.”

There’s a beat where he looks like he’s considering reassembling the sentence in his hands.

You lean lightly against the doorframe, watching him with growing amusement. “You’re doing great.”

“I am,” he agrees immediately, then stops. Swallows. Adjusts his grip on his bag strap like it has suddenly become very interesting. “I’m doing… normal levels of greeting.”

“Normal levels,” you repeat.

“Yes.”

Another pause.

His gaze flickers again, just for a fraction of a second, before he catches himself and snaps it back to your face so fast it almost looks like a reflex. His ears have gone a little pink already, which is never a good sign for his composure.

You step back and open the door wider. “Come in before you short-circuit on my porch.”

“I’m not short-circuiting,” he says, immediately proving the opposite by stepping inside and nearly forgetting how to move his own limbs.

You don’t comment on it right away.

Because the thing about Spencer is that he always thinks he’s being subtle. Like his attention is something he can fold neatly into his lap and hide under polite conversation. But you’re starting to learn the language of him anyway, the small tells that give him away before he realizes he’s been read.

The couch dips when he sits, all careful angles and nervous adjustments, like he’s negotiating peace treaties with cushions. You settle beside him with the easy confidence of someone who has already claimed this space a dozen times before.

The episode starts.

TARDIS glow. Theme music. The familiar whirl of escapism wrapping around the room like a spell.

Spencer exhales softly, tension loosening from his shoulders in a way that makes him look almost younger. Less like an FBI profiler and more like a man allowed, briefly, to exist without solving anything.

You shift closer without thinking.

It starts innocently.

Your legs stretch across the couch, dangling lazily over the cushions. Your back presses against Spencer's chest as you snuggle into him. He adjusts immediately, like it’s instinct, like your body near his is something his nervous system has already been trained to accommodate. One arm settles around your shoulder, careful but certain, pulling you in just enough that your weight rests comfortably against him.

The episode keeps playing, but you feel it before you see it.

That shift in the air behind you. Not movement exactly, more like attention becoming tangible. Like someone has turned a page too slowly and the silence between words has started to mean something.

Spencer’s arm is still around you. Still steady. Still careful in the way he always is when he thinks about touching you too much.

And yet.

There’s a pause in his breathing that doesn’t match the rhythm of the scene on the TV.

You don’t turn right away.

You just tilt your head a fraction, like you’re listening to the room instead of the show. “Spence.”

A beat.

“Yeah?” he answers too quickly.

That’s enough.

You glance up. And there it is.

He’s looking at you.

Not the TV. Not the snack table. Not anywhere defensible.

Just you.

For a second he doesn’t move at all, like he’s been caught mid-thought and forgot how to pretend otherwise. His eyes flicker when they meet yours properly, caught in the act of being unguarded.

Then his brain clearly returns to the scene all at once.

“Oh—” he starts.

It comes out small. Almost soundless. Like the word itself is embarrassed to be involved.

His cheeks bloom pink so fast it’s almost unfair, color rushing up beneath his skin in a way that gives him away completely. He tries to look away immediately, but it’s too late now, the moment already exposed between you like a page turned too far.

“I wasn’t—” he begins again.

Stops.

Swallows.

His hand, still resting around your shoulder, tightens just slightly like it forgot it was supposed to be relaxed. Not enough to pull you closer. Just enough that you notice.

“I’m not doing anything,” he says, which is objectively not an explanation but sounds like he needed to say it anyway.

You shift just enough to angle yourself toward him.

“Oh?” you murmur.

That single syllable does something catastrophic to him.

His gaze flicks away again, immediate and reflexive, like eye contact has become too loud. “I mean, I am doing things. Just… not the things you’re thinking I’m doing.”

“That’s very specific,” you say softly.

His cheeks are fully pink now.

You let the silence stretch just a little, like you’re testing how far it will go before he tries to fill it.

The TV hums on in the background, all blue light and distant alien drama, but it feels secondary now. Like the room has quietly rerouted itself around the two of you without asking permission.

You glance back at him, lips curving. “I thought this was your favorite show.”

Spencer blinks once.

Twice.

Then, a little too fast, “It is.”

There’s immediate conviction in it, but also something strained underneath, like he’s trying to hold the answer in place with both hands.

You hum, tilting your head against his shoulder slightly, settling in even more like you belong there. “Mm. Strange behavior for someone watching his favorite show.”

His throat works as he swallows.

“I’m watching it,” he says.

“You’re watching me.”

His gaze darts to the TV for half a second, as if checking whether it still exists. It does. Unfortunately for him, it is not helping.

“I’m doing both,” he insists, but it comes out softer now, less like an argument and more like a confession he didn’t plan to make.

You shift slightly so you can look up at him properly.

His arm around you tightens again, subtle enough that it could almost pass for unconscious. Almost.

“Both,” you repeat, slow and amused. “So the Doctor is saving the universe, and you’re… what? Multitasking emotionally?”

A faint huff of air leaves him that might be a laugh if it had more confidence behind it.

“I’m not emotionally multitasking,” he says. “That would imply I’m managing it well.”

You don’t answer him right away.

Because the look on his face is doing something quiet and dangerous to you too.

Spencer sits there like he’s holding himself very carefully in place, as if any sudden movement might tip the whole moment over. His arm is still around you, but now it feels less like comfort and more like containment. Like he’s forgotten where he’s supposed to stop and start.

His eyes flick to your mouth for half a second.

He catches himself immediately, of course. But you see it anyway.

That’s enough.

You lift a hand to his cheek first, slow enough that he has time to pull away if he wants to. He doesn’t. His breath catches instead, a small break in the careful rhythm he’s been maintaining all afternoon.

He looks at you like he’s bracing for a math problem that might change his life.

You kiss him.

It’s not rushed. Not theatrical. Just simple and certain, like you’ve finally decided to stop pretending there’s any other logical outcome for the way he’s been looking at you.

For a second, he doesn’t move at all.

Then he makes a sound under his breath that disappears into you before it can become anything fully formed, and suddenly he’s kissing you back like something in him has finally been allowed to exist without permission slips.

It’s Spencer in every detail: careful at first, almost hesitant, like he’s checking if this is still real.

Then it changes.

His hand shifts from your shoulder to the side of your neck, fingers curling gently there as if he’s learning your shape by memory instead of sight. The hesitation doesn’t vanish so much as dissolve into something warmer, something more certain.

The TV continues in the background, forgotten.

Time does not so much pass as it gives up.

When you finally pull back just slightly, it’s only enough to breathe.

Spencer’s eyes are half-lidded, unfocused in a way that makes him look undone. Like someone has quietly rearranged the air inside him and he hasn’t figured out where to put his thoughts yet.

You don’t let the distance last.

You shift.

It starts small, just repositioning your legs, but the intent changes everything. You move fully onto him, straddling his hips in a way that makes the entire world narrow down to the couch beneath you and the warmth of him under your hands.

Spencer goes still.

His hands hover for a fraction of a second at your waist like they’re asking questions without words.

“Is this—” he starts.

His voice is rougher now, threaded with something he hasn’t figured out how to regulate yet.

You lean in before he can finish the sentence and kiss him again.

That seems to answer it better than language ever could.

His hands finally settle.

Carefully. Like he’s choosing you on purpose.

One at your waist, steady. The other sliding up your back in a slow, cautious motion that makes your skin feel suddenly too aware of itself. He exhales into the kiss like he’s been holding it in for too long.

You pull back just enough to breathe again, forehead still hovering close to his.

The room feels warmer now. Not in a dramatic way, just subtly rearranged, like the air itself has decided to sit closer.

Spencer’s eyes open slowly.

And immediately, they drop.

It’s quick. Instinctive. Like gravity briefly forgets its manners.

Then he freezes as if he’s been caught committing a crime he didn’t realize was visible.

His throat bobs. His hands, still resting at your waist, go very still in a way that somehow feels louder than movement.

You don’t move right away. Just watch him for a second longer than strictly necessary.

“Spence,” you say softly.

His eyes snap up immediately.

Too fast. Too guilty.

“I wasn’t—” he starts.

Stops.

Swallows.

His grip at your waist tightens just a fraction, not pulling you in, just anchoring himself like he’s trying not to float away inside his own thoughts.

“I’m sorry,” he adds, quieter now.

You tilt your head, studying him like he’s a puzzle you already know the answer to. “You’ve been doing that all afternoon.”

You can see it. The way his brain tries to compute whether there is any version of reality where he hasn’t been entirely obvious.

“I have not been—” he begins, immediate reflex.

Then his gaze slips again.

Just for a second.

Down.

And that tiny lapse undoes the whole sentence.

You let out a slow breath, almost amused. “You have.”

His ears go pink again, softer this time but spreading quickly.

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” he says, and that’s the thing that always sits under everything with him. Not denial. Not ego. Just concern, threaded through every reaction like a nervous stitch.

You shift slightly closer, fingers sliding up to rest at his jaw.

“I’m not uncomfortable,” you say.

You feel it then.

The smallest shift of his fingers at your waist. A subtle tightening, like he’s grounding himself through touch because looking is getting harder to regulate.

He notices your expression immediately and stills again, as if he’s afraid even that small movement gave too much away.

You don’t let him retreat into politeness.

“Spence,” you murmur again. 

His eyes lift again, already softer now, already a little lost.

You wait until he’s actually looking at you.

“Just say it,” you say gently.

His breath catches.

For a second, he looks like he might actually obey. Like the words are right there, lined up behind his teeth, just waiting for permission to exist.

Instead, what comes out is smaller.

“…That dress is just…”

He trails off.

His gaze drops again, slower this time, less like a reflex and more like he forgot how not to look.

His fingers at your waist twitch again, betraying him completely.

He clears his throat, embarrassed at himself, and tries to recover, but it’s already gone. The sentence has dissolved.

You let the silence sit between you, warm and expectant.

When he speaks again, it’s barely above a whisper.

“I’m trying not to be obvious,” he admits.

His eyes finally lift back to yours, fully honest now in a way that makes something in your chest go quietly still.

“And I’m… not doing a very good job.”

“You don't say?”

Spencer looks at you like he’s trying to decide whether he’s misunderstood something fundamental about language.

His hands are still at your waist, warm and careful, like they’ve forgotten they’re allowed to exist anywhere else. His thumbs make a tiny, unconscious movement against your sides, then still again as if he’s caught himself thinking too loudly.

“I’m serious,” he says quietly.

“I know,” you answer, softer now. No teasing in it this time. Just certainty.

That seems to make things worse, in the way truth often does when someone has been bracing for correction.

His gaze drops again. Not greedy. Not reckless. Just helpless in its honesty. Like his eyes keep slipping out of his control.

You shift closer instead of giving him space to retreat into his head.

“You’re allowed to touch me.”

It lands differently than everything before it.

His entire body stills.

Not tense exactly. More like all his nervous movement has been paused mid-thought, hands frozen at your waist as if the concept needs time to render.

“I am,” he repeats, like he’s testing whether the sentence is real.

You nod once. “Yes.”

A beat.

His throat works as he swallows. “I just don’t want to assume anything.”

“I know,” you say again, and there’s something warm in it now, something that softens the edges of his restraint instead of pushing against it. “You don’t have to guess.”

That does it.

You feel the shift before you see it. The smallest exhale breaking out of him, like something inside finally loosens just a fraction.

Still, he doesn’t move.

His hands stay exactly where they are, fingers slightly curled into the fabric at your waist, as if even this is already more than he’s sure he’s been granted.

So you take the decision away from him.

You reach down, sliding your fingers over the backs of his hands where they rest tensely against your ribs. You don’t ask again. You don’t give him the chance to overthink the geometry of the question.

You just pull.

His breath hitches in a way that sounds almost like a stopped note, a sharp intake of air that he doesn’t quite manage to swallow. You guide his hands upward, slow and deliberate, sliding them up your ribcage until his palms settle fully against your breasts.

For a second, Spencer doesn’t seem to breathe at all.

It’s like a system crash in real time. His eyes go wide, dark and unfocused, staring at you like you’ve just performed a magic trick that violates the laws of physics. His hands rest against your chest, heavy and warm through the light fabric of your dress, but he’s holding them so rigidly it’s like he’s terrified they might burn through the material.

“Is this—” His voice cracks, splintering on the word. He clears his throat, tries again, and it comes out thin and high. “Is this okay? I feel like I should be asking for a notarized statement of consent.”

"Jeez, Spencer, you'd think you'd take me having you touch my boobs would be enough consent," you tease.

Spencer lets out a sound that’s halfway between a huff of breath and a genuinely startled laugh, his eyes widening a fraction more.

“That is not—” He stops, his gaze darting from your face to his own hands and back again, color climbing up his neck so fast you can practically feel the heat radiating off him. “That is not the point. The point is statutory interpretation is much clearer than non-verbal cues, and I have a history of misinterpreting data sets that are… significantly less high-stakes than this.”

You smile, feeling the way his fingers are still curled slightly inward, hovering against you without actually applying pressure. He’s touching you, but he’s terrified of holding on.

You let out a quiet laugh, soft and breathless, and lean forward just enough to rest your forehead against his. “Yes, Spencer. This is okay.”

You feel the exhale leave him, shuddering and uneven, like a breath he’s been holding for weeks finally escaping.

“Okay,” he whispers, mostly to himself. “Okay. Good. This is… good.”

The word “good” has barely left his lips before his hands move.

It’s not calculated. It doesn’t feel like a decision his brain made and then communicated to his body. It feels like gravity. Like his hands have been wanting to do this for so long that the moment you gave them permission, they just… stopped fighting it.

He squeezes.

It isn't rough or greedy, though you can feel the potential for it trembling in his fingertips. It’s careful. Reverent, almost. His palms mold to the weight of you, thumbs brushing experimentally over the curve of your chest, and the sensation is so electric that your breath hitches audibly.

That sound seems to break something inside him.

His fingers curl in, just a fraction, testing the give of you against his hands. A low, broken sound escapes him—half a groan, half a sigh—and his eyes flutter shut like he’s trying to memorize the topography by touch alone.

“Oh,” he breathes out, like he’s just solved an equation he didn’t know he was working on.

He doesn’t stop. The squeeze turns into a slow, kneading motion, his palms heavy and warm through the fabric of your dress. He’s exploring, mapping the shape of you with a focus that borders on academic, but the feeling behind it is anything but clinical. His thumbs sweep over the swell of you, hesitating slightly when they graze the edge of your bra, then circling back like he’s found a favorite page in a book.

You rock forward involuntarily, your body chasing the friction before your brain catches up.

Spencer reacts like he’s been burned, but in the best possible way.

His hands stutter to a halt for a fraction of a second, palms pressing flat against you like he’s trying to anchor himself to the earth, and then his head falls back against the couch. His eyes are squeezed shut, his throat exposed, a long, vulnerable line of skin that makes your mouth go dry.

“You moved,” he chokes out. It sounds like an accusation, but his tone is ruined. It’s wrecked.

“I felt you do it,” you point out, amused breathless. You grind down again, slower this time, deliberate. “I’m supposed to move, Spencer.”

He makes a noise that is dangerously close to a whine, high in the back of his throat. His fingers twitch against you, no longer kneading, just pressing in like he’s trying to anchor himself to the only solid thing in the room.

“I know,” he gasps, his head tipping back even further, exposing the long, pale line of his throat. He looks like he’s in pain, but you know better. It’s too much sensation and not enough friction all at once. “I know you’re supposed to. I just— I wasn’t prepared for the kinetic energy transfer.”

You laugh again, but it’s breathless now, caught somewhere between amusement and the sudden, sharp heat that’s taken up residence in your own lungs. “You’re thinking about physics while you’re feeling me up?”

Spencer opens his eyes at that, blinking up at you like he’s surfacing from deep water. They’re dark, pupils blown so wide the iris is just a thin, burning ring of hazel.

“I’m always thinking,” he manages, but his voice is wrecked. It cracks in the middle, betraying him completely. He looks at his hands on you, then back up at your face, and the sheer adoration mixed with hunger on his expression makes your heart trip over itself. “It’s how I process. If I don’t categorize the input, I’m going to—” He cuts himself off, his breath hitching as his thumbs brush the underside of your breast again. “I’m going to lose it.”

You rock your hips down again, harder this time, watching the way his composure fractures like glass under a hammer.

“Then lose it,” you whisper.

You lean down, bracketing his face with your arms so he has nowhere else to look. His hair is a mess against the cushion, his lips red and swollen, and he looks at you like you’re the only gravitational constant in the universe.

It’s not a request. It’s a permission slip for a system failure.

Spencer stares up at you, his eyes wide and wet and unblinking, like he’s seeing the solution to a problem that’s been haunting him for months. His breath shudders out of him, a ragged, uneven exhale that fans against your cheek.

“You’re—” He starts, then stops, his voice cracking on the word. His hands flex against you, no longer careful, no longer testing the weight. They just hold. His fingers dig into the soft fabric of your dress, dragging over the curve of your chest with a desperation that makes your own head spin. “You’re dangerous.”

You smile, but it’s not sweet. It’s slow, knowing, a smile that acknowledges exactly what kind of power you have over him right now.

“You have no idea,” you murmur.

You reach up, hooking your fingers into the thin straps of your dress. You don’t look at him as you slide them down your shoulders—you keep your eyes locked on his, watching the dilation of his pupils until they almost swallow the color.

The fabric sighs as it slides down your arms, pooling at your waist.

Spencer doesn't blink. He physically cannot.

His eyes track the movement like it’s the most critical data stream he’s ever analyzed, dropping from your face to your shoulders, and then lower. The air between you feels suddenly oxygen-thin.

For a moment, the world is absolutely silent.

Spencer just stares.

It’s not a leer. It’s not even particularly sexual in the way you’re used to men looking. It’s captivated. His eyes roam over the lace, the shadow of skin beneath it, the way your chest rises and falls with your shortened breath. He looks like he’s trying to commit the image to memory with the same intensity he usually reserves for crime scene photos or quantum physics equations.

"Spence."

His name snaps him out of the trance, but his eyes don't lift. They stay glued to you, dark and reverent, like he’s forgotten how to look anywhere else.

"You can touch me," you say, your voice dropping to a whisper that feels like the only sound in the room.

For a second, you think he might actually argue.

His hands hover over your bare skin, trembling slightly, fingers curling into loose fists like he’s physically stopping himself from reaching out. He looks stricken, caught between the overwhelming urge to touch and the terrifying reality that he finally can.

"I don't want to..." He trails off, swallowing hard. He looks up at you finally, and his expression is so open it’s almost painful. "I don't want to ruin this. I don't want to be too much.”

You smile, soft around the edges, stripping away any lingering teasing until all that’s left is the truth. You lean in, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth, feeling the way his breath stutters against your lips.

“You’d never be too much for me,” you whisper against his skin. “I want exactly what you’re giving me, Spencer. Not less.”

He breathes. A sharp intake of breath through his nose, followed by a ragged exhale that sounds like a deflation. The tension that has been holding his shoulders rigid evaporates, replaced instantly by a kind of trembling intent.

His hands aren't hovering anymore.

They settle on you with a kind of desperate, aching gravity.

His palms are warm, slightly damp with nervous sweat, and they cup the weight of your lace-covered breasts like he’s handling something volatile. Precious. Unstable.

He doesn’t hesitate this time. The second his skin makes contact with the lace, something inside him just—unspools.

He squeezes, harder than before, no longer treating you like something that might shatter. A rough, broken sound tears out of his throat, halfway between a groan and a sigh, and his eyes flutter shut as his fingers dig into the soft fabric.

“God,” he breathes, the word sounding like it’s been dragged out of him. “You're... You're beautiful."

He says it like a discovery. Like he’s the first person to ever find land.

He dips his head then, not waiting for encouragement, not giving himself time to second-guess the trajectory. He presses his face against your chest, burying himself in the soft curve of you with a desperation that makes your breath catch.

His lips are hot against the lace, dragging over the sensitive skin beneath with an open-mouthed kiss that feels more like worship than foreplay.

You gasp, your fingers tangling automatically into his hair, holding him there as he mouthes at the fabric. He doesn't seem to care that there’s still a layer of lace between his mouth and your skin; if anything, the friction seems to undo him.

His hands are restless now, roaming the shape of you with a focus that makes your head spin. He squeezes the weight of you, thumbs sweeping over the lace just to feel the texture of it against your skin. He’s mapping you. Memorizing the give of you under his palms, the way your breath hitches when his thumb grazes a sensitive spot.

Then he nips.

It’s shocking.

Not enough to hurt, just a sharp, intentional pressure of his teeth against the sensitive curve of your breast, right through the lace. A spark of heat jolts through you, electric and sudden, and your hips jerk against his before you can stop them.

“Spencer,” you gasp, your fingers tightening in his hair, pulling just enough to make him groan.

The sound of his name on your lips seems to snap whatever remaining thread of control he’s been clinging to. He lifts his head just enough to look at you, his expression dazed, mouth wet and eyes completely blown. There is a desperation in his gaze that seeps right into your bones.

"Off," he says.

It comes out wrecked, barely a word at all. Just a harsh, expelled breath shaped by consonants. He sounds almost pained, his voice cracking on the single syllable like it’s costing him something just to say it.

"Please."

The addition is ragged, tacked onto the end like a prayer he forgot he was saying. His hands are still cupping you, thumbs dragging over the lace with a restless, repetitive motion, like he’s trying to soothe an itch he can’t scratch.

You nod immediately.

His hands leave you, leaving a sudden cool space against your skin that makes you shiver. But before you can miss the warmth, his long fingers are skating up your back, searching for the clasp.

He doesn’t fumble. You expected him to—Spencer fumbles with doorknobs and coffee cup sleeves—but his hands are steady on your spine. There is a terrifying precision in the way his index finger finds the hook, the way his thumb slides the metal eye free with a click that sounds loud in the quiet room.

The tension in the band gives way with a second and third soft click, and then the pressure against your back simply... vanishes.

You feel the lace loosen immediately, the support slipping away, but Spencer doesn’t pull it off you right away. He leaves his hands resting against your spine for a moment, his splayed fingers spanning the width of your back, grounding himself against the reality of what he’s about to do. He’s breathing hard, you can feel the expansion of his chest against yours, a rapid, unsteady rhythm that matches your own.

Then, slowly, so slowly it feels like time has stretched thin, he slides his hands forward. He drags his palms around your ribcage, following the line of your bra until he reaches the straps. With a gentle tug, he pulls them down your arms, peeling the fabric away until it joins your dress at your waist.

The air hits your skin, cooler than you expected, and the sensation makes you shiver. But the reaction is purely physical. Emotionally, you are burning.

His eyes are locked on your chest in pure, unadulterated awe, like he’s just walked into a library he’s spent his entire life dreaming about and realized he’s allowed to read the books.

For a moment, he does absolutely nothing but look.

He doesn’t reach out. He doesn’t lean in. He just stares, his eyes cataloging every inch of newly exposed skin like he’s trying to build a photographic memory in real-time. It’s the kind of attention that would usually make you feel self-conscious, the kind that feels like a spotlight, but coming from Spencer it just feels… heavy. Like being known without speaking.

"You're so pretty," he breathes, and it sounds like a confession.

It’s soft, barely audible over the blood rushing in your ears, but the reverence in it knocks the air out of your lungs. He doesn’t say it like he’s commenting on your appearance; he says it like he’s acknowledging a force of nature, something inevitable and beautiful that he is helpless to resist.

Before the echo of the words has even faded, his restraint dissolves completely.

Before you can process the compliment, his head dips.

He doesn’t ease into it. He doesn’t start with the slow, drag of lips you were expecting. He just surges forward, his mouth closing over your nipple with a desperation that borders on clumsy.

The contact is electric—hot and wet and sudden. A sharp gasp tears out of your throat, your back bowing instinctively, pushing you deeper into the heat of his mouth. It feels like he’s trying to consume you, like he’s been starving for this exact moment for months and finally remembered how to eat.

His other hand moves to your neglected breast almost on instinct, his palm molding to the curve with a kind of desperate, grateful pressure. He’s greedy with it, squeezing and releasing in a rhythm that matches the pull of his mouth, the circle of his tongue, like he can’t get enough of the way you fill his hands.

He’s mapping you by touch and taste simultaneously, and you can feel him trembling against you, vibrating with the sheer effort of holding himself back from completely falling apart.

You look down at him, your fingers tangling tight in his hair, and the sight nearly undoes you. His eyes are squeezed shut, his lashes fluttering against his cheeks, his brow furrowed in intense concentration. He looks lost in you, wrecked in the most beautiful way, like the entire world has narrowed down to the feeling of your skin under his hands and the taste of you on his tongue.

He doesn't stay there long. It seems he needs to ensure equity in his research, or perhaps he just needs to know if the other side tastes just as overwhelming. He pulls away with a wet, audible pop that sends a jolt straight down your spine, his breath panting hot against the damp skin he's left behind.

Before you can even miss the heat, he’s shifting, turning his face to capture your other breast. He treats this one with the same desperate reverence, his tongue swirling over the peak before he sucks it deep into the heat of his mouth.

Your body reacts instinctively, your hips grinding down against his, seeking friction to match the wet heat of his mouth. You expect his hand to follow the lead, to switch sides so he can touch and taste in tandem, maintaining the rhythm he’d established.

But his hand doesn't move up.

Instead, his long, clever fingers trace a distracted path down your ribs, his palm skating over the curve of your waist before slipping beneath the bunched fabric of your sundress.

The air feels cool against your skin for a split second before his hand makes contact, sliding over the heated expanse of your stomach. He maps the terrain of your body with single-minded focus, bypassing the tease of your hip to slide directly toward the apex of your thighs.

He pulls his mouth away from your nipple with a wet, ragged gasp, but he doesn't give you—or himself—a moment of stillness. His lips immediately find the soft swell of your breast again, pressing open-mouthed kisses against the sensitive skin, his breath hot and uneven.

"You're so... God, you're perfect," he mumbles, the words muffled against your skin. He sounds delirious.

His hand doesn't hesitate beneath the fabric of your dress. His fingers trace the edge of your underwear, just for a second, a fleeting tactile confirmation of what lies beneath, before he’s hooking his fingers into the lace and pulling it to the side.

The drag of the lace against your hip is sharp and fleeting, but the touch of his fingers following immediately after is searing. He doesn’t wait, doesn’t ask for permission again—he’s already past the point of being able to form coherent sentences. He simply slides his fingers through the slick heat of you, his touch exploratory but devastatingly sure.

"Oh," he breathes, the sound vibrating against your chest. "You're... you're wet."

It’s a statement of fact, delivered with the same wonder he’d use to identify a rare botanical species. He pauses there for a beat, his fingers coated in the evidence of how much you want him, seemingly stunned by the data.

“So that’s—” He swallows hard, his voice cracking on a dry throat. “That’s for me?”

“Yes,” you breathe, your head tipping back as his fingers slide through the wetness again, testing the slickness with a fascination that makes your toes curl. “It’s all for you, Spencer.”

He makes a sound that is purely involuntary—a choked-off groan that vibrates against your ribs. He can’t seem to decide where to put his hands. He wants to touch you everywhere, memorize every reaction, but his focus keeps snapping back to the heat between your legs.

He seems to accept the data, files it away under a header labeled Miraculous, and then his brain clearly short-circuits from the overload of sensory input. Because his hand moves, but his mouth doesn't abandon its post.

He slides two long fingers inside you, slow and deliberate and the sensation makes your vision white out at the edges. It’s a stretch, a burning pressure that feels exactly like relief, and he seems just as overwhelmed by it as you are. His other hand remains on your breast, kneading the soft flesh with a rhythmic, desperate squeeze, his palm dragging over your nipple in a way that makes you gasp.

“You feel—” He chokes on the word, his breath fanning hotly over your damp skin. He presses a messy, open-mouthed kiss to the side of your breast, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin just enough to make you shiver. “You feel incredible.”

He doesn’t give you time to adjust to the intrusion. He starts to move, curling his fingers in a slow, devastating arc that drags against your inner walls with terrifying precision. It’s practiced in theory, even if he’s shaking with nerves, his mind clearly cataloging the anatomy of your pleasure even as he loses himself in the reality of it.

"Spencer," you gasp, your hands tightening in his hair, pulling hard enough to make him hiss against your skin.

He takes the sound as encouragement. He shifts his weight, pressing the heel of his hand against your clit in a way that makes your hips buck off the couch, a desperate, involuntary motion that chases more friction.

He catches the rhythm of your hips immediately, his brain fast-tracking the mechanics of your pleasure even as he’s losing the battle for his own composure. The heel of his hand grinds down in slow, deliberate circles, matching the curl of his fingers inside you, and the dual sensation is so sharp, so perfect, that your nails dig involuntarily into his scalp.

“God, yes,” he breathes, the words damp and hot against your skin. He doesn’t lift his head; he’s too consumed. He presses his face into the valley between your breasts, nipping at the sensitive skin there, kissing the marks he leaves like he’s trying to soothe the sting even as he inflicts it. “You’re so tight, I can’t—I can’t believe how you feel.”

His other hand is still busy on your breast, kneading with a desperation that borders on worship. He drags his thumb over your nipple, catching the peak just as his fingers curl inside you again, hitting a spot that makes your whole body jerk.

"Wait," you gasp, the word scraping against your throat.

Spencer stops instantly. It’s not a gradual slowdown; it’s a full cessation of motion, like a puppet whose strings were cut. His fingers still inside you, his hand pauses its ruthless rhythm, and his mouth lifts from your skin, though he stays close enough that his breath fans hot and damp against your sternum.

He looks up at you, eyes wide and wild, blinking rapidly like he’s waking from a deep sleep. There’s a sheen of sweat on his upper lip, his hair is a complete wreck from your fingers, and his mouth is swollen and red. He looks dazed, dangerously undone, but mostly he looks terrified.

“Did I hurt you?” The question tumbles out in a rush, his voice cracking on the syllables. His hand twitches against you, like he wants to pull away but is paralyzed by the fear that moving might make it worse. “Oh god, I hurt you, didn’t I? I was moving too fast, I should have been more careful, I know the anatomy but I didn’t—”

“Spencer,” you cut in softly, trying to catch his frantic gaze. You reach up, smoothing a hand over his messy hair, your thumb brushing his temple. He leans into the touch immediately, his eyes fluttering shut for a split second before snapping back open to search your face for any sign of pain. “Spencer, breathe. You didn’t hurt me.”

"But if it wasn't pain..." He falters, his brow furrowing so deeply it looks like it hurts. He looks confused, genuinely baffled as to why you would call a halt to something that seemed to be going so well. "Did I do it wrong? I know the statistics on female pleasure are often exaggerated in media, and I thought I was hitting the anterior wall but I might have miscalculated the angle, and if the pressure was too much—"

You can't help it; a soft laugh bubbles up in your chest, spilling out before you can stop it.

Spencer blinks, the rambling cutting off mid-syllable. The confusion in his eyes shifts, melting into something softer, though no less intense.

"Sorry," you murmur, your thumb stroking his cheekbone, feeling the frantic pulse of his heart hammering against his ribs where your bodies press together. "I didn't want to come yet."

The silence that follows is absolute.

Spencer stares at you, his mouth slightly open, the frantic apology dying on his tongue. The sheer confusion on his face would be funny if he didn't look so completely floored.

You just smile, shaking your head gently at his disbelief, and drop your hands to his waistband.

It takes him a second to process the shift. His brain is still stuck back on the confession, trying to calculate the variables of why exactly stopping is a good thing when the outcome was so promising, but then your fingers are working at the button of his dress slacks, and his thought process whites out entirely.

His breath hitches—a sharp, jagged intake of air that sounds almost like a sob. His hands, which had been hovering uncertainly over your hips, snap down to grip your thighs, his fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.

"Is this—?" he starts, his voice pitching up high and tight, cracking on the question. He doesn't finish it. He can't. His eyes are glued to your hands, watching your fingers deftly slide the metal button through the loophole.

The sound of his zipper lowering in the quiet room is obscenely loud. It feels like a gunshot in the heavy atmosphere between you.

You tug the fabric of his slacks and boxers down just enough to free him, and the reaction is immediate. Spencer gasps, a full-body shudder racking his frame, his hips jerking up off the couch to help you, desperate to be rid of the barrier.

He’s hard—achingly, undeniably hard.

The sight of him, flushed and straining against his stomach, makes your mouth go dry. He feels heavy in your hand, hot to the touch, and when you wrap your fingers around the base, his entire body jerks like he’s been electrocuted.

"Ah—!" The sound is sharp, startled out of him. His head falls back, exposing the long, vulnerable line of his throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing violently as he swallows. "Okay. Okay, that’s—God.”

"Do you want to keep going?" you start to ask, your voice dropping to a whisper that feels too loud in the quiet room. "Or should we—"

"Yes."

The answer cuts you off before you can even finish the sentence. It’s immediate, desperate, breathed out on an exhale that sounds like he’s been holding his breath for a lifetime.

"Please," he tacks on, his eyes snapping open to find yours, wide and desperate and completely unguarded. "I need—please."

You smile, soft and reassured, and shift your hips. You line him up, the head of him nudging against your entrance, hot and insistent. The stretch is slow as you lower yourself down, inch by inch, taking your time to adjust to the sheer size of him.

Spencer makes a sound like he’s dying.

It’s a low, broken noise that starts in his chest and rattles its way up his throat, sounding for all the world like a prayer that’s gone horribly wrong. His head drops back against the couch cushions, his eyes squeezing shut so tightly his lashes tremble, his mouth falling open on a silent gasp that looks almost painful.

You go slow, torturously slow, sinking down until your hips meet his. The feeling is overwhelming—a thick, impossible fullness that makes your breath hitch and your thighs tremble. You can feel him everywhere, the heat of him searing you from the inside out, the way his body strains to stay still under yours.

"Oh god," he chokes out, his voice wrecked. His hands find your waist again, but instead of gripping you, they just hold on, his fingers pressing into your skin like he's trying to anchor himself to the earth. "You're... you're tight. I can't—Jesus, you feel like..."

He doesn't finish the sentence. He can't seem to find the words in the English language—or any of the other ones he knows—that adequately describe the feeling of being inside you. Instead, he just exhales, a long, shuddering breath that ruffles the hair falling near your face.

His grip on your waist tightens, not to steer you, but just to hold on. His thumbs press into your hip bones, his long fingers spanning nearly the entire width of your torso, and he looks at you like you are the only thing keeping him from floating away.

"You can move," he breathes, the permission falling from his lips like he’s granting you access to a restricted section of the library. "Please, you can move.”

You lift your hips experimentally, dragging yourself up his length before sinking back down, and the friction is enough to make you both gasp. Spencer’s fingers flex against your waist, his breath hitching in a rhythm that matches your movements.

And as soon as you start to find a steady pace, his attention snaps right back to where it’s been desperate to go all night.

His hands leave your waist, sliding up your torso with a reverent urgency that makes your skin prickle. He doesn't ask; he just reaches, cupping the weight of your breasts in his palms like he’s checking their density, confirming their reality. He squeezes, his fingers digging into the soft flesh with a pressure that borders on possessive, his thumbs sweeping over your nipples in time with the roll of your hips.

It’s like he’s trying to physically merge with them. He pushes them together, his palms pressing inward to create a deep, soft valley, and then he’s burying his face in it with a groan that sounds absolutely wrecked.

He breathes you in, his nose brushing against your sternum, his exhale hot and damp against your skin. He turns his head, rubbing his cheek against the curve of your breast like a cat claiming territory, his hair tickling your skin in the sweetest, most maddening way.

"Perfect," he mumbles, the word vibrating directly into your chest. "You're so—God, I can't believe I'm touching you. Who gave me the right?"

"I did," you gasp out, the rhythm of your hips making your voice shaky. You bury a hand in his hair, holding him close to you as you move. "You literally asked permission five minutes ago."

He lets out a huff of breath that might be a laugh, but it sounds more like a sob of relief. He presses a wet, open-mouthed kiss to the inner curve of your left breast, right over the hammering of your heart. "Best decision I ever made."

He seems to lose himself in the slide of skin against skin. He’s not just touching you anymore; he’s interacting with you, experimenting with what makes you gasp and what makes your internal muscles clamp down around him. When you grind down particularly hard, he whines low in his throat, his hands spasming against your ribs, and he ducks his head to capture a nipple in his mouth again.

He sucks hard, the sudden pull of his mouth sending a sharp jolt of pleasure that arcs all the way to your toes. It makes your rhythm stutter, a broken moan tearing from your throat as your walls flutter around him.

He groans at the reaction, the vibration humming against your sensitive skin. He’s completely lost to it now, any remaining semblance of his usual control shattered. He lifts his head just enough to switch sides again, but he doesn’t let go with his hands. Instead, he kneads the heavy weight of them, pushing them up and together, burying his face between them with a desperate, breathless sound.

"Spence," you gasp, your fingers tightening in his hair, tugging hard enough to make him hiss. He doesn't pull away; he just leans into the sting, his tongue flicking out to taste the salt-sweat gathering in the valley of your cleavage. "I'm gonna—fuck, I'm gonna come."

He doesn't stop. If anything, the confession acts like a detonator.

He pulls his face out from the valley of your breasts just enough to look up at you, his eyes dark, blown wide, and utterly frantic. He looks like a man watching a supernova, terrified and awestruck all at once.

“Yes,” he breathes, his voice cracking on a desperate whine. “Please, let me—let me feel it.”

The coil in your belly snaps, heat flooding your veins with a force that makes your vision blur. Your body seizes up, your back arching instinctively, pushing your chest further into his hands as the wave crashes over you.

You cry out his name, your voice breaking, and Spencer takes it like a revelation.

He doesn't stop moving, but he gentles the roll of his hips, guiding you through the aftershocks with a terrifyingly precise intuition. He watches your face with rapt attention, his eyes darting across your features like he’s trying to memorize the exact expression of your pleasure. The feeling of you pulsing around him drags a guttural sound from his throat, raw and unfiltered.

"God," he chokes out, his hands trembling against your ribs. "I can feel you... I can feel everything."

The sensation of you coming around him seems to be the final straw. His control, already hanging by a thread, evaporates. His hips snap up to meet yours, a sharp, involuntary thrust that punches a startled moan out of you, but he’s gone too far to stop it now.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I can't—" The apology is a fractured chant, breathless and desperate. His head falls forward, burying itself back against the soft sanctuary of your chest as his rhythm breaks apart completely. "You feel too good, I can't hold it—”

"It's okay," you breathe out, the words hitching in your throat as his movements turn sharp and erratic. Your hands find his hair again, tangling in the messy curls to hold him against you, grounding him as he starts to unravel. "Spence, let go. It's okay."

The permission seems to break the last dam.

He lets out a sound that is half-groan, half-sob, muffled completely against your skin. His hips snap up one last time, harder than before, and then he’s freezing, his entire body growing taut.

A moment later, he collapses.

The tension in his frame releases all at once, leaving him heavy and pliant against you. He shudders violently, a full-body reaction that feels like it’s rattling his bones, and you feel the pulse of him deep inside as he falls apart. He’s making low, broken sounds against your chest, frantic little noises of relief that taper off into wet, shaky breaths.

For a long time, the only sound in the room is the ragged harmony of your breathing. The air feels thick, charged with the static of what just happened, the smell of sex and warmth hanging between you.

Eventually, his breathing slows, the ragged gasps smoothing out into something deep and rhythmic, but he doesn’t move. If anything, he seems to be actively trying to merge his skeleton with yours.

He keeps his face tucked firmly against your chest, his nose pressing into the soft curve of your breast, his hair a wild halo of sweat-damp curls tickling your skin. Every so often, a small, involuntary shudder ripples through him, an aftershock of the intensity, and he tightens his arms around your waist like he’s afraid you might evaporate.

You can feel the frantic thud of his heart where his chest is pressed to yours—fast, too fast, like a bird trapped in a cage.

You run your fingers through his hair, the damp strands clinging to your fingertips, and scratch gently at his scalp. The simple touch seems to soothe him immediately; you feel the tension drain out of his shoulders, his muscles turning liquid against you. He sighs, a long, contented exhale that ruffles the skin over your heart, and presses a kiss there—lazily, without any of the earlier desperation, just a soft, reverent press of his lips.

"Spence?" you murmur, your voice raspy in the quiet.

"Mhm," he hums, the sound vibrating through your chest. He doesn't lift his head. If anything, he tries to burrow deeper, nuzzling into the softness of your breast like he's found the perfect pillow. "Don't talk yet. I'm rebooting."

You smile, your chest rising and falling with a quiet laugh that he feels instantly. You keep stroking his hair, letting your nails graze lightly against his scalp, feeling the way he leans into the touch like a starved plant leaning toward the sun. He feels heavy in your arms, a solid, warm weight that pins you to the couch in the most grounding way possible.

"Take your time," you whisper.

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

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

And yet your eyes betray you.

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

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

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

He sees it all.

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

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

Ormund’s gaze does not leave you.

It sharpens instead.

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

Only the quiet promise in his stare:

I am still watching.

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

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

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

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

But Ormund does not stop there.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ormund hears you and that’s the mistake.

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

For a heartbeat, Ormund doesn’t move.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You've exposed him.

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

He was claiming what was his.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He bucked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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