NyaNya

"you are too hard on yourself, my princess," nana softly argued. "everyone knows that prince valarr will become king one day, so it is not just about the crown. everyone truly loves you, from the small to the great. to be your husband is a true blessing from the gods."

and it was not flattery. you were the only daughter of prince baelor, the precious jewel of the castle. everyone spoiled you: from the king himself to the simple knights.

the only one in your branch of the family who inherited the classic targaryen look — hair that shined like silver and violet eyes — you combined this beauty with perfect manners and a gentle soul. it was simply impossible not to love you.

that was why, when you told your father that your heart was silent and there was no one you would marry by your own will, prince baelor decided to hold a great tourney. the winner got the greatest prize — your hand.

"and what if some old man wins?" you asked, as you pressed your lips together. you looked at her with fake disgust, but fun sparks danced in your eyes. "i do not think my patience is enough to wait for his natural death."

the maid laughed as she fixed the last pin.

"i am sure prince baelor has everything under control. your father is too wise and mature to let such a thing happen."

"father worries about me too much."

when she finished with the dress, nana carefully fixed your curls. she took a step back and looked at you with clear love. "i never saw anyone more beautiful than you, princess. you were charming as a child, but now… no one in these lands has a chance against your beauty."

a red blush touched your cheeks and you looked away shyly, not knowing where to go from such honest praise. this woman was with you since you were in swaddling clothes, she practically raised you and became a second mother and the most loyal friend.

"you are too generous with compliments," you said quietly.

you smoothed the dress once more, checking it, and said so low it was like you spoke to the heavens.

"i hope the gods send me a reliable husband. one who protects me and stays loyal. one who i can answer the same way."

you did not say love on purpose. there was only one man in your life who you loved with all your heart — and you were sure he would never be your husband.

the tourney field was noisy and bright: tents of noble houses stood everywhere, and flags waved in the wind above them. the air filled with the smells of roasted meat, dust, and grass heated by the sun.

you walked over the flattened grass and felt hundreds of looks on you. the dancers smiled kindly at you, and young lords and knights, when they saw you approach, gave dramatic bows and shouted compliments after you. you only shook your head with a forgiving smile and headed to the stands, where your brother already sat in the shade.

valarr watched the lords on the field closely, but as soon as you came near, his look warmed instantly. he looked over you with love and smiled gently. "it seems the number of participants will double or even triple today," valarr said, as he nodded at the crowd of knights. "spare the poor men, little sister, do not make them go to their death even more willingly."

you rolled your eyes dramatically as you sat down next to him. "it is not my fault that men are stupid enough to risk their lives for a woman they do not really know."

he raised an eyebrow merrily and, he could not stop himself, jokingly pinched your cheek. "a lady does not speak this way."

you caught his hand with a giggle and easily pushed it away.

he became silent and watched you for a moment, and then his tone became unusually serious. "special guests arrived today," he said quietly.

"who can be so special?" you asked, and your eyebrows rose in surprise.

valarr hesitated, as if he thought about whether he should tell the truth right now. he even opened his mouth to say something, but then he changed his mind. "you'll see soon."

however, soon your indifference changed into a dull anxiety. you could not look at it.

there was so much blood on the grass that a bitter lump rose in your throat. the whistle of blades cut the air, and the screams of the excited crowd mixed with the painful moans of the wounded.

men maimed each other for a ghost of a chance to one day touch the throne and get a sweet body in their bed.

of course, you saw tourneys before. but those were for glory, for fun, or to protect honor. and this? this looked like hell.

another knight fell to the grass, the blade of his rival went deep into his thigh. he moaned and screamed as he admitted defeat, but the winner had no time to enjoy his triumph — a sharp, loud sound of a bell cut the air. a cloud of dust rose over the field, and a cavalcade of riders appeared.

you froze when the flag of your own house flashed among the banners. your heart skipped a beat, and nausea rose in your throat.

the herald, whose voice spread over the quiet crowd, announced:

“welcome! the second son of the king, brother of prince baelor — prince maekar targaryen and his sons!”

this could not be true.

they did not step into your castle for many years. why did they show up now, at the very beginning, when only low-born knights and lords from poor houses fought on the field?

you turned your head sharply to valarr. his jaw was tight, and his look was fixed on the guests. he already stood up with father, as he prepared to meet the kin.

and then you noticed him.

aerion sat on his horse just as confident and easy as before. a familiar arrogant smirk played on his face, and his look showed such disdain, as if no one around deserved even a bit of his attention.

your heart pounded so hard that it became painful to breathe.

you did not see him for several years, and in this time he changed. the youth's softness disappeared and gave place to predatory, sharp features of the face.

he became broader in the shoulders, larger and more powerful — the result of grueling training that he, as you remembered, never missed. something dangerous, masculine, and scary appeared in his look. only his hair stayed the same — silver and always messy.

a memory hit you in the gut like a sharp blade.

you stood between his open legs while he sat on the edge of the bed, still hot after another fight with his father. you softly brushed his tangled locks and tried to calm his anger with your touches.

"do not be so angry with him," you whispered. "he just worries about his son."

he always came to your chambers right away, no matter what happened — a fight with his father, a bad day, or to brag that he beat daeron in training once again.

"and what happens if i go to a real tourney like a real man?" he growled, as he put his fingers in his hair again and destroyed your work. "dragons fear nothing!"

you hit his hand lightly and grumbled. "hey, i just brushed them! do not dare to ruin it."

he just rolled his eyes and snorted that he "is not a bloody cat to be brushed," but he obediently moved his hand and let you brush them when they become too messy. only you.

the sharp roar of the crowd pulled you from your memory and brought you back to cruel reality.

you knew your duty: you had to stand up, go down after your father, and let your cousins press a respectful kiss on your palm.

the thought of his lips touching your skin made you feel sick.

aerion's look wandered feverishly over the stands. he searched for someone until his eyes met yours. he looked at you for a long time, even from far away, you saw how he studied your face, focused on every feature, then moved from your hair to your dress.

for a short moment, something flashed in his pupils that you could not solve even up close, but the mask of indifference returned instantly. his lips curved into a predatory, triumphant smirk, and dangerous sparks shined in his eyes.

he was so familiar and at the same time a total stranger.

you looked at each other, separated by space and unspoken tension, until you broke the contact first and raised your chin.

you turned your head, gave a short nod to your father and brother, and turned around. you headed deep into the castle with your head held high, and you felt how his gaze literally burned your back.

you would never shed another tear because of him again.

you just started to take off your heavy gold bracelets when a knight entered the rooms. he bowed his head and told you that your father waited for you. you gave a quiet sigh and nodded: you could not hide from the inevitable.

you understood well that he wanted to discuss your behavior — how you left the stands in such a way, without even greeting your own blood.

but, to be honest, you did not care. father never knew how to be truly angry with you. you were his treasure, his favorite, and the most you risked was a soft rebuke for being too rude.

however, you simply could not do it any other way.

not when he was on the field.

even a passing shadow of his name in your thoughts caused such sharp pain, as if a hundred hot needles stabbed your heart at once.

aerion targaryen.

your cousin and only childhood friend, the man who once patiently taught you how to grip a knife handle and shoot a bow.

your first, most honest and only love.

and he was also the one who broke your heart into pieces, trampled it, and then calmly walked over the sharp shards without even looking back.

he became the man who clearly showed you what a naive and lovelorn fool you were, as you blindly believed his promises.

you outgrew these feelings long ago. the pain still lived somewhere deep inside, as a reminder, but not a trace remained of that bright, pure devotion. love burned and left only the bitter dust of hate in the very moment when he betrayed you.

behind your back stayed endless sleepless nights, full of tears and a silent question: what did you do to deserve such treatment? how did it happen that you meant nothing to him? but those tears hardened you, made you stronger and colder.

if aerion hoped to see the same little girl with an open heart and endless love — he was deeply mistaken.

you held your head high as you looked at your reflection for the last time. the dress of deep dark-red color wrapped around your legs in heavy folds, and the jewels on the bodice shimmered with every breath. your hair — a complex, thick braid that the maid worked on since dawn — still stayed perfect, and only a couple of silver strands broke loose near your face.

you were the first granddaughter of the great king, a princess of house targaryen and the favorite of all the people, and you did not plan to let anyone think you were less than you were.

when you left the chambers, you gave the knight at the door a quick, soft smile and followed the familiar halls to your father.

you knew every turn of this castle, every tapestry on the wall, but when you turned into the gallery that led to the rooms of the prince, your step slowed down against your will.

there, leaning against a stone pillar, stood the one you did not expect to meet so soon.

aerion.

his posture carried that same unbearable confidence and greatness you remembered since childhood.

his look slowly slid over you, as he carefully studied every detail of your image, and then a light smirk appeared on his face. "hello, cousin."

you did not even look at him, continuing to walk, intending to pass by. you had neither the time nor the desire to take part in his games.

however, as you came level with him, he suddenly leaned forward, trying to catch your hand. his fingers almost touched your skin, but you reacted instantly, calmly and quickly pulling your hand away.

“do not touch me.”

aerion stared at your face for a while, then, with his usual smirk, he pulled his hand away.

“you would not even greet me? how rude.”

"i have no time for you," you cut him off as you tried to walk past.

“that is exactly why you were rushing to your father?” he huffed, not falling behind a single step. "it is good to know that knights today are so easy to bribe."

this made you stop for a moment, and you turned around and looked at him with disdain. "it seems this is the only thing you are truly good at."

aerion slowly closed the distance between you. he loomed over you and leaned to your very ear, so you felt the heat of his breath. "you did not mind any of this, when we were children."

you slowly raised your look to him and smiled a bright smile with mockery. "what luck that we are not children anymore."

he became silent, just watching you. his look became heavy and greedy — it seemed he could not get enough of your emotions and your face, which he saw for the first time in so many years of separation.

"you did not change at all," he said quietly, as if he reached some inner conclusion.

"praise the gods that i cannot say the same about you."

you turned around and were already about to go back to your room when his voice, full of poison, made you flinch again.

"how is your little knight? is he still a crybaby, who is not able to do anything except hide behind his mother's cunt?"

you only rolled your eyes, as you remembered how he was always jealous of tristan when you were little. he said back then that tristan looked at you with more than friendly eyes and that he would kill him if he even tried to touch you.

it seemed this did not leave him even after three years.

"you do not even ask why i am here?"

you ignored him and walked further down the hall. you already imagined how you would take off this heavy dress and finally sink into your nightgown, as you washed away this whole day.

"i am in the tourney."

this made you freeze in place.

"you are lying," you breathed out, without turning around. your voice shook a little, but you quickly pulled yourself together. "father would never allow you to take a part."

you felt him come closer — so close that you felt the heat from him against your back. the air between you seemed to fill with electricity.

"he already did," he answered quietly right above your ear.

you turned around sharply. aerion stood too close, and now, face to face, you saw everything that the distance hid: small scratches on his forehead, a fresh wound on his cheek, and an old scar across his eyebrow. it was all so painfully familiar, as if these long years of separation did not pass at all. for a moment it seemed to you that the same boy stood before you, who once whispered promises to you and covered your face with kisses.

but you knew the truth. and this truth was much more bitter than your memories.

you narrowed your eyes and looked down at him, despite the difference in height.

"you think you are the best, do you not? you think every thing is a game that you must try?"

it seemed some memories hit him too, as he watched you and did not take his eyes off yours. his lips curved into a smirk as usual, but something shook deep in his pupils.

"i do not understand what you mean, cousin."

"you know well why this tourney was held," you hissed.

"i know. that is why i am here and i intend to succeed."

the absurdity of it all was so great that you could not stand it and gave a short, angry laugh. “and you do not even consider that you might die just because you grew bored?”

now this made him laugh — openly, merrily, with that same unbearable mockery that was always his armor.

“i will not die. i know that, because i will not allow any of those wretches to come even a step closer to you, let alone touch you.”

“i will never marry you.”

“you will,” he said, slowly closing the distance as your back met the wall. “you will, if i win this tournament.”

he leaned in even closer, until your noses almost touched, and a dangerous, victorious fire lit up in his eyes.

“and i will win, my little dragon.”

part 2 is in process! ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 𖾕𖾝꙼ᩚ𛲕𖾟 masterlists.

Living with Joel meant getting used to the long nights. Patrols were just a part of his life, something he’d insist on doing no matter how many people told him to slow down. You understood why. Jackson needed people like him. Still, understanding it didn’t stop the worry that crept into your chest every single time he left. The house felt far too quiet without him. You sat curled up on the couch, a blanket draped over your legs as the TV hummed softly in the background. A glass of wine rested comfortably in your hand, and you took small, absent minded sips while your eyes remained fixed on the front door more often than the screen. Every creak outside made your heart skip, only for disappointment to settle in when it wasn’t him. Eventually, your gaze wandered to the clock across the room.

9:34 p.m.

Your brows knit together. He should’ve been home by now. You exhaled quietly, chewing at the inside of your cheek as your imagination began filling your head with every possible scenario, none of them good. “Come on, Joel…” you whispered to the empty house.

A couple more hours slipped by.

You couldn’t just sit around anymore, so you wandered into the kitchen and started making a pot of stew for when Joel got home. It gave you something to do with your hands, something to keep yourself from going insane. The broth simmered quietly while you chopped up a few vegetables, stirring the pot every now and then. Every few minutes, though, you’d stop what you were doing and glance over at your phone sitting on the counter.

Still nothing.

You picked it up for what had to be the tenth time that night, hoping there’d finally be a message waiting for you. There wasn’t. You frowned, typing out another text before immediately turning your phone off again. “Joel, where are you?” A sigh slipped past your lips as you rubbed your forehead. “This man is gonna kill me someday…” Normally, you wouldn’t panic if he was running a little late. Patrols didn’t always go as planned. But Joel wasn’t the type to leave you wondering if he could help it. Even if it was just a quick “Be home soon,” he’d usually find a way to let you know. The longer the silence dragged on, the harder it became to convince yourself everything was fine. You stirred the stew again, though your mind was miles away, and found yourself glancing toward the front window every time you heard the wind. Thats when you heard the front door open and a grunt. finally your man came home safe, you walked out of the kitchen rushing to him. "joel! you didn't reply to any of my messages! i was worried sick!!" you said to him upset before standing a few feet away from him, he looked up at you putting his bag down before stepping in front of you. "what? so you dont have anything to say!? joel i was worrying about you the whole time and-" before you could finish your sentence joel pulled you in for a warm kiss. your anger and worried faded away instantly feelings his warm lips against yours. his beard scratched against your skin beautifully. as he pulled away you couldnt help but let out a small whine before resting your head against his chest. "i missed you alot.. your always gone.." joel kissing your forehead, "i know babygirl.. shits been gettin outta' hand. but i still love you" he said pulling you closer. you inhaled his scent before leaning your head up pressing a soft kiss to his jaw. "i made some stew.. and i also got some malt liquor.. i was thinking we can have a glass hehe!" joel chucked pulling away slapping your ass playfully. "y'do that baby.. ima take a shower" he said as he began to walk away. you went back to the kitchen, grabbing 2 bowls as you filled the bowls up with stew.

Joel came back a few minutes later, his hair still damp from the shower, an old gray T-shirt clinging to his broad shoulders. The familiar scent of soap mixed with cedar drifted through the kitchen as he walked over. “Smells good in here,” he muttered, pulling out the chair across from you.“Told you it’d be ready.” You slid the steaming bowl toward him before sitting down with your own. Joel scooped up a spoonful of stew, blowing on it before taking a bite. “Damn,” he mumbled around the food. “Think this might be your best one yet.” You grinned, trying not to look too proud of yourself. "So that’s a compliment?" “S’pose it is.” You laughed, reaching for the bottle of liquor and topping off both glasses. Joel raised his toward you. "To makin’ it home.” You clinked your glass against his. "To you actually answering your messages next time.” He snorted into his drink. “Can’t promise that Doll.” “Joel.” you whined “I’m kiddin’, baby.” You rolled your eyes, but the smile tugging at your lips gave you away. The two of you ate in comfortable silence for a while, occasionally stealing glances at one another. Every now and then your knees bumped beneath the table, neither of you bothering to move away. When the bowls were nearly empty, Joel leaned back in his chair with a satisfied sigh. “You keep feedin’ me like this…” he said, swirling the last sip in his glass, “…I’m fuckin you on the table.” you giggle shyly "joel.. stop that!" “I mean it.” His voice was quieter this time, more sincere. You reached across the table and took his rough hand in yours, tracing absentminded circles across his knuckles. “I just like having you home all to myself ya know.." Joel looked at you for a long moment, his expression softening “C’mere.” You stood and walked around the table. Before you could say anything, he gently wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you between his knees. “There she is,” he murmured with a tired smile. Your fingers brushed through the curls at the back of his neck as you leaned down, pressing a slow, gentle kiss against his lips. It wasn’t rushed or desperate just the quiet kind of kiss that said everything neither of you needed words for. When you pulled back, your foreheads rested together. "I missed you,” you whispered. Joel smiled, rubbing his thumb against your hip. “I know, babygirl.” He kissed your forehead this time, lingering there for a second before letting out a content sigh.

30 minutes later you and joel cuddled on the couch, You buried your face in the crook of his neck kissing and sucking the skin. he groaned before patting your butt affectionately. "Baby.. dont do that, continue and see what happens." you whined softly "but.." joel covered your mouth. "shh.. calm down.." you bit the inside of his hand gently, then thats when you felt his growing bulge against your ass. you whimpered a bit, your hands gripping his shoulders. joel reached down to touch your damp panties. "yeah.. you want it badly dont you baby..?" you nodded frantically "nuh uh baby.. words use your words for daddy" joel said rubbing your pussy through your damp panties. "y-yes daddy.. please.."

“He raped me.”

The words rang through Joel’s head ever since last week when he’d come to your rescue from David and his awful, cannibal clan. It was the first thing you’d told him when he found you stumbling out of the burning cabin in the snow, covered in blood that wasn’t yours.

He’d never forgive himself for letting them get their hands on you.

He wasn’t meant to get this close to you. You were just cargo from Marlene. Someone to tag along and deliver to the fireflies, if you’d ever find them, of course.

But then he’d found himself protecting you. Worrying when you strayed off on your own, despite the fact you were a 23 year old woman and very capable of taking care of yourself.

He felt.. fatherly to you. And that hurt. It hurt because he already has a little girl. Well — had.

If he hadn’t been so stupid and let himself get shot, none of this would have happened. You wouldn’t have had to go out hunting, and you wouldn’t have been deceived by David’s lie about the antibiotics he had, They wouldn’t have taken you, traumatised and raped you.

He felt cold to the bone as he tried to get to sleep on the hard floor of the old supermarket you were both camping out in for the night, and it had nothing to do with the winter weather.

Joel awoke abruptly when a he felt the weight of another person on top of him. Straddling his hips.

He hadn’t remembered falling asleep. The last thing he remembers from before he did was having his eyes fixed on you. You had your back facing him and with the way he could hear you breathing, he knew you were feigning sleep.

His instincts immediately kick in and he shot right up in a seating position. Well, tried to. This person had a good hold on him and was doing a good job at keeping him pinned down. Lying down.

He managed to look up at the face of this person through his struggling beneath them.

It was you.

“Baby, what — what are you doin’?” Joel asks in panic, completely shaken at the urgency in your face. The moon seeping through the windows casted enough light on your face for him to see the desperation etched into your features.

“Please,” you beg, your hands darting down to his belt and beginning to undo it. This immediately sets Joel into a panic, his hands fumbling with trying to remove yours from the area.

What were you doing? Where was this coming from? He didn’t want this. But as much as he had the ability to flip you over right now and get you off him — despite his still healing gun wound — he didn’t. How could he hurt you?

“Please what? Stop with my belt, kid. I don’t know what you want. Are you sick?” He demands, still keeping his voice low and as soft as he could. But that confusion and fear still seeped through.

“No,” there were tears spilling down your face now, your lip trembling as you fought the sobs that were undoubtedly begging to be let free.

You practically rip his belt from the loop in his trousers and tear down the zipper of his jeans, only a thin layer of underwear separating you from his cock.

But it wasn’t really his cock that you were craving.

No, it was something else. It was control. You wanted to feel like you were in control. Like you had the power. You wanted to feel his fear, despite it being Joel. Despite him being completely undeserving of this. You weren’t sure anyone was deserving of this.

“Hey, stop.” Joel’s voice cuts through your thoughts. It was firm yet still had an underlying tone of softness. You didn’t want that. You wanted him to be scared. “What’s wrong sweetheart? Talk to me.”

His voice is so fucking sweet. So understanding and open. You hated him for it.

“No! No, that’s not how it’s meant to be!” You exclaim, loud enough that Joel winces at the threat that the loud noise could pose. “You’re meant to be scared of — of me. Like I was of him, you.. you need to be scared of me.”

The utter need in you voice cracked something in Joel’s chest. He understood now. At least, he thinks he does.

He understands your need for power. Lord knows he’s felt the same thing, particularly after Sarah’s death. But he should put a stop to this. It wasn’t right, he couldn’t go along with it. He didn’t want to go along with it. But that would mean hurting you. And he wasn’t sure he had it in him to cause you any more humiliation or pain.

“I need it. Need to be the one hurting you. Please, Joel.” You took the stillness of him beneath you as your chance to quickly tug his underwear out of the way, pulling his cock free from his pants. He was soft, not even half hard yet still heavy in your palm.

“I know you do, but — fuck,” he hisses when you wrap your hand around him and squeeze hard enough to hurt. “Please don’t do this, sweetheart. I know you’re hurtin’ and we’re gonna get through it, but this isn’t the right way to go about it.”

And there’s genuine begging in his tone now. It brings a disgusting sense of pride swirling around your chest. That you were the one hurting him. You stare back at his face, his eyes watering and wide, his lips trembling slightly as he grappled with what words to say to convince you not to do this.

His face blends with David’s, the man that raped you. In your haze of panic and anger, you see Joel’s nose and mouth twist into those of David’s. Except now, David’s face is twisted in pain. Not yours and not Joel’s.

But despite all of that, despite the terror and wrongness Joel felt, he couldn’t help himself from twitching in your palm, from the blood rushing to his cock as he suddenly started to grow hard. It was just a reaction, that was all. It didn’t mean he was actually enjoying this.. right?

You angle a string of spit to fall from your lips and land on his dark pink tip and you use your hand to massage it in. You begin pumping him fast, roughly, watching Joel’s face twist in a mix of pain and something else.

A low moan escapes Joel’s parted lips and his head thumps back against the ground. You weren’t sure what he was feeling. Whether that moan was good or bad. You weren’t even sure which one you wanted it to be.

“Please stop..” Joel pleas quietly, his voice cracking and ashamed. “Don’t.. don’t want it.” And he didn’t want it. Did he? He wasn’t sure whether he was just telling you what you wanted to hear.

“Too bad. You’re a disgusting, old man. You’re practically begging to be treated like one.” You voice was cold yet it still shook as you spoke those words. Because you knew they were the words David spoke to you. Just changed around a little to fit Joel. Or David. You weren’t sure whether you were still pretending Joel was David.

“I.. you don’t know what this does to me, baby girl. You’re breakin’ my heart.” And you were — breaking his heart. He hated seeing you like this. You shouldn’t have to feel this way.

For a split second, you feel your composure — this persona slip. You feel a flicker of guilt and disgust with yourself. How could you keep doing this to him? This wasn’t the answer, this wasn’t.. right.

But you just couldn’t pull your hand away.

You begin to stroke Joel’s cock faster, tugging him roughly and expectantly. You needed him to cum, you just needed it over with. That was what David did with you and although you weren’t actually able to orgasm, you faked it enough for it to be believable and to his satisfaction.

But with Joel, you could already feel him twitching in your hand, his cock head pulsing and throbbing from your touch. You keep telling yourself it’s just a reaction, but with the noises Joel’s making, despite how much his expression tells you he hates it, you know that physically he is enjoying it.

“You did this to me,” you sob through clenched teeth, your face a mess of tears. “If you’d have just protected yourself instead of me, you wouldn’t have gotten shot in the first place. This.. this is y-your fault. You ruined me.” You voice cracks on the last word and Joel’s eyes meet yours, utter pain meeting you back. It devastated you completely.

And just then, joel climaxed in your hand, his cum coating your palm. You look between Joel’s face and your hand. There was a lot of cum, likely because of how long it’s been since anything sexual has happened for him. You were in a damn apocalypse after all.

You meet his eyes once again, and you see the complete humiliation and shame in his features. But there’s a look of relief there.

You didn’t allow yourself to dwell on that look for too long.

Once his dick is finished spurting the creamy liquid, you find yourself stunned, clarity hitting you and the realisation of what you’d just done setting in.

“I— god, I’m..” you stumble, your tongue feeling too large for your mouth. But Joel’s hands are there, wrapping around you as he sits up and scoots himself and you back until his back is against a wall. He pulls you down into his chest,

“Hey — I know, I know. Shhh,” you comforts, his voice still raspy and off kilter.

“I’m sorry, fuck, I’m sorry.” You sob softly, resting your cheek against his flannel clad heartbeat, your body shaking slightly.

What had you become?

thank you for reading this fic. this topic is something very personal for me and related to some past struggles. I would like to specify though that I have never done anything that the reader has done, like forcing myself on someone, but I have dealt with sexual assault trauma in the past before and I have a deep interest in exploring ways people cope with such things. This is a way I have explored it in a fictional, non existent world and I hope that for anyone who has experienced trauma like this, that you can relate to this on some level. If you are dealing with any of these struggles right now, I urge you to reach out to someone you love or a professional. This is not something to go through alone.

Maekar was floating in that peaceful half-awake, half-asleep realm that he wasn't blessed to feel often. Between work and his children, sleep used to be a rarity, but then you came into his life with the sweet smiles and polite words. His nephew, Valarr, was the one who introduced the two of you; you were a close friend of his and had a background in babysitting. Maekar wasn't too fond of the idea of a college student watching his children, but then you walked in with that pretty smile and smarts. 

His eyes were heavy-lidded as he lay sprawled out on his back, his body sinking comfortably into the expensive mattress. Only clad in a pair of black briefs that clung lowly on his hips, showing off his happy trail, God, you had such a strong urge to tug them off. You could tell by his slow, heavy breaths that he was so close to falling asleep. 

You stood in the bathroom doorway, admiring how handsome he looked under the soft glow of the bedside lamp. How could you not want to go and bother him when he looked that good?

As soon as he felt the mattress dip under your weight and the feeling of you crawling up between his legs, your hands moving up his legs with your movements, he let out a dramatic groan. You roll your eyes playfully and move to straddle his lap, his warmth spreading to you. 

“No, don’t,” he groaned sleepily in protest as he felt you press against him, already knowing that your sticks would keep him up. His body betrayed his protest, his hands instinctively moving to rest on your bare thighs, his thumbs gently caressing your warm skin. 

“M’not even doing anything.” You purr, giving him a faux innocent smile when he looks up at you with his half-lidded eyes; he clearly doesn’t believe you. You slowly leaned down, moving your hands to rest on the side of his shoulders to keep yourself from completely falling onto him. 

You felt his breath hitch as you placed a feather-light kiss on his shoulder, before leaving a trail of soft kisses across his chest and up his neck, leaving goosebumps across his skin in your wake. Your lips twitched up into a smirk as you felt his body react to your touch. You place a soft kiss on his forehead before moving down to his cheeks and then the tip of his nose. You smirked and whispered, “I’m so hungry I could eat you….wait fuck I did the trend wrong.” 

He felt a sense of confusion at your words and the mention of a trend; he never did understand the ‘silly’ videos you and his daughters showed him. ‘What the fuck am I looking at?’ was a common response. His hands squeezed your shirt as he sighed tiredly, “Doll, please, I need to sleep.” 

You pout playfully and move off his lap to flop down on your side next to him, holding your head up with your hand so you can look down at him. You bit your bottom lip absentmindedly as you admired his side profile, his defined nose, the faint scars across his face that you loved to place soft kisses on, and his maintained beard, which you loved to run your fingers through. 

The warm glow that reflected on him disappeared as he reached to turn off the lamp—a tired groan leaving his lips at the movement—but it was quickly replaced by the deflection of the moonlight that slipped through the curtains to his floor-to-ceiling one-way windows. 

Maekar let out a mixed sigh of relief and tiredness as he rested his head back on the pillow, closing his eyes once again as he tried to relax and fall asleep now that you were by his side and the room was silent and peaceful. But you, of course, had impeccable timing, breaking the silence after a couple of minutes. 

Your voice was soft and airy as you mused over it, “Would you love me if I were a cow?” 

Maekar turned his head to look at you, his face ridden with tiredness and his eyebrows furrowed in deep confusion and slight worry at your absurd question. Was this another one of those ridiculous trends? If he remembered correctly, Daella had asked Daeron the same thing, but if she was a worm. It had ended with a crying Daella and Daeron, who was ducking from Aegon's blocks she was throwing at him. And maekar with a headache. 

Maekar grunted, “Is this a trick question? That feels rude—“ 

“Omg wow, calling me rude now?” You gasped dramatically as you brought one of your hands up to rest on your chest, shaking your head in faux disappointment and hurt. He rolled his eyes and gave you an unimpressed look, making you bite your lip to hold in your giggles at how cute and grumpy he looked. 

He stretched one of his arms behind his head while his other hand rested on his stomach as he tried to blink the sleep away, already knowing that there was no use in trying to fall asleep until you got the talkativeness out of you. He’d go along with it…just for you. 

“I’d take you to the farm land, get that white fencing you like, and put a big umbrella because I know you hate being in the sun for too long, you get all bratty,” Maekar mumbled tiredly, not even sure why he was even entertaining the topic, but it was entertaining you, so he did what he must. He watched as a big smile spread across your face. 

”That is like one of the most romantic things you have ever said to me.” You cooed with a big smile as you moved one of your hands to grab his that rested on his stomach, interlocking your fingers with his warm ones, squeezing softly. 

You leaned in to place a kiss on his lips, an annoyed huff leaving him when you pulled away before your lips could touch. Your eyes widened, and you quickly asked, “You wouldn’t let anyone else milk me, right?” 

Maekar nearly choked on his spit in shock at the absurd question, exclaiming in disbelief, “Darling, what?” 

“You heard me.” You poked at his chest a few times, making him raise his eyebrow. Both of you must be delirious because what was happening? He grabbed your hand before you could poke him again, pulling you so you were fully lying down, head on his shoulder, as he moved his arm from behind his head. He mumbled tiredly into your hair, “Enough of this, please.” 

You pout but nonetheless listen to him, watching as he let out a small sigh and closed his eyes, his body relaxing as you placed a few kisses on his jaw. You blink a few times, not liking how sleepiness had crept up on you now that you were in his warm hold. You hum and move around a little to get more comfortable, tilting your head on his shoulder so you can still admire him. 

“You’re getting tired,” Maekar whispered after a couple of minutes of silence. It was more of a statement than a question. Fluttering his eyes open, watching as you slowly blinked and nuzzled the side of your face against his shoulder, he could see and feel how your body was relaxing against his.

You hid your face in your shoulder as you yawned, your voice muffled, “No, I’m not.” 

“Liar” 

“My pants aren’t on fire,” you feign innocence with a smile as you tilt your head to look up at him. Maeker rolled his eyes at your sassy response, wrapping his arm around you tighter so you were fully pressed against him, your legs intertwined. 

His eyes fell to your bare legs before giving you a pointed look, “You’re not wearing any.”

“Oops, you caught me,” a sarcastic smile decorating your lips, soon followed by a small laugh. The corner of Maekar’s lips twitched up into the faintest smile at the sound of your laugh and silliness, the bed squeaking as he moved to lie on his side, adjusting so he could hold you more comfortably. He brought his hand up to fix your slightly messy hair from moving around, resting his hand on the back of your head as he leaned in.

He kissed your cheek, your temple, then your neck, then your nose as if he was trying to memorize every inch of you before he pressed a tender kiss to your waiting lips. You bring your hand up to cup his warm cheek, melting into the kiss. He slowly pulled away and placed a long and soft kiss on your forehead before you nuzzled your face into his neck, the sleepiness finally getting to you. 

Maekar hummed lowly and closed his eyes, stroking your back softly, knowing that it would help make you fall asleep. His lips twitched up in amusement as he thought back on the silly things you asked him. You truly did bring something special into his life. Making him feel things he never thought he’d feel again.

He whispered sleepily in your ear, “I wouldn’t let anyone else milk you.” 

“Promise?” You asked quietly, a sleepy smile on your lips, happy that he went along with your silly antics. Maekar grunted tiredly as he squeezed you, mumbling into your hair, “Promise.”

You smile and finally allow yourself to fall asleep, knowing that the morning will come soon, along with the sounds of footsteps and sleepy children. Maekar’s warmth and soft touch lull you into a sweet sleep. 

┊࿐ ❛❛ continue on to my…. 𝙗𝙖𝙗𝙮𝙨𝙞𝙩𝙩𝙚𝙧! 𝙢𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩 & 𝙢𝙖𝙞𝙣 𝙢𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩

Ი𐑼 GUYS SOFT MAEKAR 😵‍💫😵‍💫 i actually need him so bad , the amount of edits that i have of him are actually insane and i keep rewatching them , i need to make a playlist for him !! this is short but sweet , i really hope you guys enjoyed this. please please let me know your thoughts , it helps me stay motivated. reblogs and comments are always appreciated <3

۶ৎ taglist is open

In all the years you had lived in Oldtown, never once had Ormund deviated from this morning ritual. You remember the first time you had seen it. You had been a small child then, prone to wandering from your own chambers in the middle of the night into this one, back when it had belonged to the late Lady Hightower as much as it did her husband. She had always been kind to you. Like a true mother, when your own was so far away. 

Whenever sleep would not come, or the young Hightower boys had filled your head with tales of monsters lurking beneath the floor, you would creep from your bed and patter barefoot down the stone passage. You would ease open the heavy, creaking door and stand silently at the foot of the canopied bed until Lady Hightower stirred. She would always lift the blankets for you. From his side of the bed, Ormund would grumble some half-hearted objection about indulgence and the necessity of teaching you independence, but Lady Hightower paid him little mind. She would draw you into the warmth between them and promise that no monster in Oldtown would dare pass through their chamber door.

Even after she died, you did not cease coming.

It hurt, at first. To lie in the bed where she had once held you, the space now empty without her. Ormund never objected to your staying. Though he remained stoic and stony throughout his own grief, perhaps there was comfort for him, too, in not being left to sleep alone. When you wept silently into her old pillow, he would smooth your hair back from your face and say nothing. 

The habit endured long after your tears had dried and the black mourning clothes had been packed away. Some nights, you would attempt an honest effort at remaining in your own chambers, only to find yourself once again padding down the candlelit passage towards his. 

Ormund never turned you away. Now it was his hand that lifted the blankets for you to crawl beneath. Now it was his arm that pulled you in, wrapped around your waist in the night, his face that pressed into your hair, his body whose warmth you sought beneath the covers. 

The servants of the Hightower knew that your own chambers were little more than a formality, so seldom occupied that dust gathered upon the bed. You slept in your cousin Ormund’s chambers, you bathed there, you dressed there. Nearly every trace of your daily life had migrated into his rooms, until there was little left in your own to suggest they had ever belonged to you. 

It was only natural. After Lady Hightower’s death, the keeping of the household had fallen into your hands. It was you who approved the servants’ schedules, arranged the seating at feasts, and received the wives and daughters of visiting noble houses. Some might have found it strange that Ormund’s ward should occupy so much of his late wife’s place while remaining neither wed nor formally mistress of his household. Stranger still, perhaps, that if anyone entered Lord Ormund’s chambers before the sunrise, they would find him curled around his ward– Queen Alicent’s youngest daughter– his body arranged in the shape a husband’s would make.

If they did find it strange, no one within Oldtown had the courage to remark upon it. 

“You’re awake.”

You propped yourself up on your elbows to watch as Ormund closed the prayer book and rose from the altar. 

“Yes,” you answered as he crossed the chamber to the washstand. He dipped his hands into the porcelain basin and brought the water to his face. “I heard you praying.”

Ormund hummed as he dried himself with the folded linen cloth laid fresh each morning beside the ewer. “It would serve you well to join me in morning prayer.”

You ducked your head. “Yes, my lord.”

“I think only of your soul. One burdened by the sins of your…Targaryen…forefathers should labor all the more harder to absolve herself of them.”

“Yes, my lord.”

You waited for him to chide you further, or launch into one of his soliloquies on how faithfulness did not sleep merely because the sun had yet to rise. Ormund did none of that. 

Instead, he made his way to the bed and lowered himself onto the edge beside you, his weight dipping the mattress. Ormund lifted one hand to cup your cheek and ran his thumb gently beneath your eye. You nuzzled into his touch without a thought. 

“We will have visitors from the Reach in the Hightower later today. In particular, Lord Godric Ashford will call upon me this morning in my solar,” he said, as casually as if he were discussing the day’s weather. 

Your brows rose. You knew that several noble houses from across the Reach were expected at the Hightower in the coming days for discussions of taxes, grain, and the season’s feasts. Hosting them was hardly unusual. Nor was it unusual for one of their unmarried sons to request a private audience with your guardian. “Lord Robert’s son?”

“Yes, unfortunately,” Ormund mused, seemingly more occupied with gently stroking his thumb back and forth over your cheekbone. “I assume he intends to ask for your hand in marriage.”

Your stomach twisted in a mixture of dread and excitement. Lowering your eyes, you worried at a stray thread in the coverlet. “Do you…do you think he might be suitable?”

The thumb on your cheek stopped. Ormund’s face tightened slightly, as though some rancid smell had entered the room. “That, my dear, remains to be seen.”

He stood from the bed, and you instantly missed the warmth of his touch. You watched him cross to the wardrobe and pull open the carved doors, retrieving his clothes for the day. 

“But you will still hear him, yes?” 

“That is what I have agreed to,” Ormund answered with obvious reluctance, stepping into his breeches. “And I suppose I must keep my word. I will hear his presentation, just as I have heard the others before him.”

He slipped his arms into the doublet, turning to you as he began buttoning it. “You will not concern yourself with the meeting. You were entrusted to me for good reason. Namely, my rectitude and discernment in such matters. You would not want to be betrothed to some ignorant oaf, would you?”

“No, my lord.”

“And you know that I have only your best interests at heart, including the question of what sort of man you should be given to. Correct?”

“Yes, my lord.”

Ormund smiled affectionately. “Good girl.”

Your heart squeezed at the praise. It had always been that way with Ormund, desperately seeking any type of reassurance that you were saved. That you were obedient. That you were wanted. That you were good. 

The sound of light footsteps and swishing skirts echoed under the chamber’s door. Your servants, no doubt, waiting to be beckoned in by the Lord Hightower to serve upon his ward. 

Ormund made his way back over to you, but this time stayed standing, looking down upon you. “You will attend the sept this morning. When Lord Ashford has finished his proposition, you will come to me in the solar. This evening, we will receive our guests for supper in the Great Hall.”

You bowed your head obediently, just as he taught you. “Yes, my lord.”

Ormund turned to the door as if he meant to call the servants in, and then paused. He slowly turned back to you, his blue eyes swimming with a feeling you had become quite familiar with. Determination, and something weightier under it. Something you had never been able to name, but knew intimately. 

“It is the seventh day,” he stated, his voice low. You knew that. You knew by now not to recognize the day by name, but by its count. “You will come straight to this chamber after supper. Bathe first.” 

Silently, you nodded. His face twisted in disapproval. “Your words, please.”

“Y-yes, my lord.”

He exhaled, a small measure of satisfaction returning to his face. “Good. Very good.” 

Ormund laid one hand over yours where it rested atop the coverlet, looking suddenly very serious. “And do tell your women never use to that horrid citrus oil on you again like they did last week. It taints you.”

“I will.” 

He squeezed your hand in appreciation, then straightened himself and turned towards the door. “You may enter.”

The door opened at once, like your women had been waiting. They filed into the chamber with lowered eyes, none appearing surprised to find you sitting in Lord Ormund’s bed. He did not bother to look at them, his gaze fixed on you as he spoke. 

“See that she is properly dressed to receive visitors.”

The girls spoke in unison, eyes still fixed on the ground. “Yes, Lord Hightower.”

Ormund nodded at you once. An unspoken acknowledgement passed between the two of you. The seventh day. What the night would hold. Then he departed, leaving the chamber door open behind him. 

Your women moved quickly and efficiently, drawing back the blankets and settling a robe over your shoulders as they began the familiar work of preparing you for the day. There was no time to dally. Before long, your hair had been pinned, your gown laced tightly in Hightower green, and your throat and wrists adorned with jewels Ormund had gifted you on namedays and holy days.

One of the girls uncorked the vial of citrus oil and reached for your neck. You grabbed her hand, stopping her. 

“Lord Ormund,” was all you had to say. 

She bowed her head in immediate understanding and exchanged it for another perfumed oil he had shipped from Lys for you. 

Soon, you looked as a proper Hightower woman ought to look. And by the next tolling of the bells, you had entered the sept of the Citadel.

The seven-walled chamber appeared much as it had when you first arrived in Oldtown– or, at least, as it had in your earliest memories once you had gone from a crawling babe to a waddling child. Damp clung to the stone floors. At the center stood an altar crowded with pools of hardened wax and burning candles, while bejeweled likenesses of the Seven watched from alcoves set into each wall. Your attendants lingered behind you like silent shadows as you moved through the sept, a veil drawn over your hair.

You walked as Ormund had always instructed you to walk: head bowed, hands clasped, each step quiet. The very picture of piety in a woman.

Stopping at the Maiden, you thought once more of the late Lady Hightower. You often served as her little companion to the sept on mornings like this, following closely behind as she knelt and prayed before each altar. You could feel the memory clearly: the whisper of her skirts against the stone, the warmth of her hand around your smaller one, the patient way she corrected your prayers when your childish tongue stumbled over the words. 

The truth was that you had no memories before ones such as these, ones of Oldtown. 

You were just a babe when your father, King Viserys, sent you south to be fostered among your Hightower kin. Ormund had always said that, for all the sins of your parents, they had at least possessed the wisdom to recognize Oldtown was where you belonged. 

The explanation for your immediate exile from King’s Landing had always been a convoluted one.

On some days, you had been sent away because court was dangerous. On others, because King’s Landing was steeped in pride and your father wished for you to be raised in the piety of your mother’s kin. Lady Hightower had longed for a daughter. Your health was fragile as a babe, Oldtown’s air was better for a delicate infant. Alicent had a difficult birth and needed time to rest. The reasons always shifted depending upon who offered them.

The clearest explanation, though it was the one that had always gone unspoken, was that you had simply not been wanted.

At first glance, there was nothing about you that suggested descent from Old Valyria. You possessed neither silver hair nor amethyst eyes. Beautiful, certainly, but not plainly Targaryen. You bore none of the unmistakable marks of your father’s house.

More importantly, you had no dragon.

Ormund refused to speak of that last matter. You did not know whether an egg had been placed in your cradle according to custom, whether it had failed to hatch, whether the hatchling had died, or whether no egg had ever been given to you at all. Whatever the circumstances, it seemed the Seven had determined that you were not to be a Targaryen, but a Hightower.

“A blessing,” Ormund often called it, standing behind you, watching intently as you brushed your hair in the evenings. “That your appearance was not marred by the stain of inbreeding. You should be grateful the gods favored you enough to preserve your beauty from such impurity.”

What he really meant was, “You should be grateful the gods gave you to me”. 

And you were. Your childhood in Oldtown had been a happy one. Ormund and Lady Hightower’s sons took to you as a true sister, including you in their games no matter how often you ran weeping to their mother after they shoved you into the mud. You received the finest education the Citadel’s maesters could provide and were thoroughly instructed in histories, languages, scripture, and the workings of court. Ormund instilled in you the virtues expected of a holy and pious woman. Lady Hightower taught you kindness. You wanted for nothing. You were cared for completely.

Being cared for, however, was not the same as being wanted.

One by one, the boys grew into men. They departed to serve in other courts, took wives, and established households of their own. You remained behind. After Lady Hightower’s death, the question of where you belonged began to trouble you even more. 

You searched everywhere for some reflection of yourself. In histories and poems. In portraits, tapestries, and family trees. You studied every face and name, hoping one might reveal why you had been born in the first place. 

Though Ormund preferred that you remain ignorant to the fact, you knew you were a Targaryen.

He contradicted himself often in that regard. He insisted that you were a Hightower whenever you longed for King’s Landing, yet invoked the sins of your Valyrian predecessors whenever you displeased him. As a child, the inconsistency had deeply confused you. Now, though, you knew better to question it. 

The histories did not speak of Targaryens as aliens deserving only shame. On the contrary, they praised them. Aegon the Conqueror had crossed the Narrow Sea and conquered Westeros, his lineage sitting upon the Iron Throne from then until the end of time. They had bound themselves to mighty beasts that would bow to no other riders. Why should you not wish to be one of them? Why should you be ashamed?

Perhaps that was why, during one of your rare visits to King’s Landing, you became determined to find some way of securing your place within your own bloodline. Ormund had permitted you, after much begging on your part and great reluctance on his, to attend the wedding of your brother Aegon to your sister Helaena. You had still been young enough to think yourself a girl, though womanhood waited only just around the corner, and through that haze of youth the wedding had seemed beautiful.

Now, of course, memory revealed what you had been too young to recognize then: the discomfort across Helaena’s face, the uninterested ambivalence with which Aegon accepted the ceremony, the celebration disguising a union neither seemed to really desire. But that morning, surrounded by jewels and music and flowers, by feasts and speeches proclaiming the strength of their union, you had understood only one thing.

If your appearance could not prove you a Targaryen, perhaps marriage could.

When you returned to Oldtown, full of courtly notions and girlish fancy, you announced to Ormund that you would marry your brother Aemond– who had scarcely looked your way throughout the entire visit. Ormund had been seated behind the desk in his solar, writing upon a sheet of parchment. At your declaration, the quill froze between his fingers.

With deliberate care, he set the quill aside and lifted his eyes to you with a dreadful stillness. “You will do no such thing.”

Your smile slowly faded. “But…Aegon married Helaena. That is what Targaryens do.”

Ormund rose suddenly from behind the desk, his chair scraping harshly across the stone floor. You remembered how the sound had frightened you.

“The Targaryens– your father’s family– are incestuous barbarians,” he had declared. “Their minds are so corrupted by generations of inbreeding that they no longer possess the sense to recognize depravity. Your mother whored herself to a Targaryen. I will not give you to your own brother. I will not allow you to repeat her sins and bring further shame upon the Hightower name.”

By then, he had crossed the solar and taken your chin firmly in his hand, his fingers dimpling the skin of your cheeks. You had begun to cry, though you could not tell whether it was from fear, shame, or the sudden loneliness of knowing you might never truly belong anywhere.

“But then I could live with Father and Mother,” you whispered, tears slipping down your cheeks. “I could go home.”

Ormund bent until his face was close to yours, his breath hot against your skin. His grip tightened beneath your chin. “This is your home.”

The memory faded as you reached for a candle from the basket beneath the Maiden’s altar. You held its wick to one of the burning flames and watched a bead of wax gather at the tip before slipping towards your fingers.

Aemond had been the first man Ormund refused you. He had not been the last.

Among Ormund’s duties as your guardian was the arrangement of your eventual betrothal. Ormund approached that responsibility as he approached all others: with severe discretion, particular judgment, and standards so high that no man alive seemed capable of meeting them.

There had never been a shortage of suitors. You were young, unmarried, and beautiful– and whatever Ormund might say of your father’s house, the hand of a Targaryen princess remained a prize few sensible men would dismiss. 

As you grew older, the procession became a lengthy one.

The first man to formally inquire after you had been Ser Joldwin Mormont. You remembered him quite clearly. He had been nearer Ormund’s age than your own, tall and broad as most Northmen seemed to be, with a rough face that was not altogether unpleasant. He was steady in temperament and remained remarkably calm beneath Ormund’s inquisitions. He had even brought you a gift: a beautiful velvet cloak trimmed in bear fur. You had thought he resembled the carved likenesses of the Warrior found in the sept. He would make a good husband, you had decided.

Ormund had not agreed.

He had no shortage of qualms. Men of the North were ignorant, uncivilized, and hardly better than an illiterate barbarian dragging around a club in Ormund’s opinion. Bear Island was remote, bitterly cold, and impoverished. Worst of all, the Mormonts possessed a peculiar habit of treating their women as though they were equals. 

It was not a place, he decided, where you belonged.

Ormund had declared Joldwin entirely unsuitable, and forced you to toss the beautiful cloak into the fireplace of the Great Hall. He said it smelt of bear shit.  

After that, the list of suitors started to blend together. 

There was a Martell, handsome enough to make you blush with warm brown eyes, who winked at you across the hall. Ormund reacted as though the man had attempted to bed you in the middle of the Hightower. The Dornish were lecherous and tried to “fuck anything that walked”, he told you. 

There was a young Rowan who stuttered frequently and spoke so softly that you had to lean closer to hear him. Ormund dismissed him as weak and unfit for a wife. 

A ruddy-cheeked and quite cheerful Redwyne heir sent you summerwine and a song composed in praise of your beauty. Ormund called him frivolous.

One man lived too far from Oldtown. Another lived so near that Ormund questioned whether he sought your hand only to gain influence within the city. One possessed too many ambitions. Another had none. One was too young to govern you properly, while another was so old that Ormund expressed outrage at the very notion of subjecting you to him.

There was always some defect. Too proud. Too timid. Too wealthy. Too poor. Too worldly. Too sheltered. Too handsome. Too plain. 

Ormund’s standards contradicted one another so thoroughly that, had all his preferences been gathered together, the perfect husband would have needed to be commanding without controlling you, gentle without indulging you, wealthy without greed, devout without presumption, and situated near enough that you might never truly leave the Hightower.

Such a man had yet to present himself.

Perhaps, you thought as you placed your candle down before the Maiden’s altar and bowed your head, Lord Godric Ashford would be different. Perhaps today would finally be the day Ormund found a suitable match for you. Perhaps today was the day you would understand what fate had intended for your life. Perhaps you would finally be chosen.

You set your candle upon the Maiden’s altar and prayed for love, for a fruitful marriage, and for a husband who chose you with a pure heart. You tried to imagine such a life with Godric, though you did not yet know his face. 

You hoped he was strong, like Ormund. Tall, like Ormund. Handsome, like Ormund. 

You hoped that he might be enough like Ormund to earn his approval. You hoped, without really understanding why, that he was like Ormund. 

By the time you returned to the Hightower, Lord Ashford had already been shown into Ormund’s solar and begun his proposition. 

Ormund had never permitted you to be present for such conversations, of course. Serious matters, he insisted, were to be muddled by girlish sentiment. Over the years, you had therefore found other ways to learn what decisions were being made about your future without you. Some time ago, you had discovered a narrow passage running behind the rear wall of Ormund’s solar– an old servants’ entrance, long forgotten, its doorway boarded over and concealed behind a heavy tapestry.

And so, upon returning to the Hightower, you dismissed your ladies with the excuse that you wished to pray alone in your chambers (surely the gods would forgive the lie, given the good reason for it). Once they had gone, you slipped behind the tapestry and crept down the cobwebbed corridor until you reached the boarded door. Pressing your ear to the weathered planks, you heard the low murmur of men’s voices.

“...and I would never seek to separate her from Oldtown, Lord Hightower,” an unfamiliar voice spoke. You leaned closer. It was firm but polite, young but not imprudent. Lord Godric Ashford. He sounded kind. “I understand the princess is quite close with you, and I would ensure she could visit the Hightower as often as she wished. Family is of the utmost importance to me.”

You heard Ormund’s chair squeak. You could imagine he had leaned back in it, hands clasped in front of him, assessing Lord Ashford as he did all things brought before his judgement. “That seems to me an indulgence. She would be your wife, would she not? You would not want her with you in Ashford?”

“Of course, my lord. But I would not be so cruel as to forbid her from visiting the man that raised her. My own mother was a Caswell, and she visited my grandsire at Bitterbridge at every turning of the season.”

“And if she wished to visit more often than you considered appropriate?”

There was a brief pause. “I would speak with her, as husband and wife should.”

“Hmm. And if speaking did not bring her around to your judgement?”

There was another lull, longer this time, before Lord Godric gave an uneasy chuckle. “Well, I would hope my wife did not need to be disciplined as a child would.”

“Hopes are not the same as reality,” Ormund replied easily. “Particularly where Targaryen blood is concerned. They are a willful and proud people. Very resistant to correction.” 

“I-I have heard no such things of the princess, my lord.”

“No? Then what have you heard of her?”

“Every account has described her as the very image of what a noblewoman ought to be: beautiful, gracious, and demure. I’ve been told she is quite pious, as well.”

A thoughtful silence settled over the solar. You wished desperately you could see Ormund’s face. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet. 

“She is.”

Your heart swelled and instinctively, you pressed yourself closer to the boards. You were a good girl. 

“But do not mistake her nurture for nature, Lord Godric. She did not arrive in Oldtown so.”

“My lord, I did not mean to suggest–”

“Every virtue you have heard praised in her was cultivated beneath my hand. Her modesty, her devotion. The weeds of Targaryen pride had to be pulled, one by one. A garden does not become handsome just because a flower has good intentions. It becomes handsome because a gardener has the discipline to attend to it every single day and cut away what ought not grow.”

Lord Godric hesitated in his answer. “And…you believe a husband must continue that work? Pull the weeds from her?”

“I believe,” Ormund answered slowly, “that any man who means to take her from me must be capable of preserving what I have made.”

What he had made. 

You drew a shaky breath, your fingernails pressing into the weathered boards.

Perhaps it was true. Ormund had spent years teaching you the faults of your father’s house. They were blasphemous, unnatural. Incestuous and violent. An abomination before the Seven. His lessons were so ingrained within you that even the faintest reminder of your Valyrian blood could fill you with shame.

You had not chosen that blood. You had not asked to be born into it. You had only ever wanted to be good. And if Targaryens were innately wicked, perhaps you truly did owe everything virtuous within you to Ormund.

As a child, you had often wondered what sort of creature you might have become without his guidance. If he were true, which he often was, you would be a terrible creature malformed by sin. The thought frightened you still. But another more terrible one followed suit: without his guidance, you would not have had him.

No arms around your waist in the night. No hand smoothing your hair. No voice telling you what was right, what was wrong, what was safe. A life without Ormund. You tried to imagine it and found only emptiness. Would such a life truly be worth living?

And yet…you wanted to be chosen.

Your own mother and father had decided they had no need of you in King’s Landing, though they kept their other children close. You had been sent to Oldtown, where you doubted Ormund and Lady Hightower had been given much choice in whether they would receive you. No one had ever truly chosen you.

That was what made the suitors difficult to dismiss. They came before Ormund willingly, they asked for your hand because they wanted you. You liked that more than you wished to admit. 

And though the thought of leaving Ormund filled your stomach with dread, it had become increasingly difficult not to resent him for refusing every man who tried to choose you.

“I believe I have heard all I need,” Ormund said suddenly, his voice decisive. Your heart faltered. You knew what that meant. 

“...My lord?” You could hear Godric shift closer to the desk. “I hope I have not caused offense of any sort. I only meant that, should the princess become my wife, I would do all within my power to–”

“I said I have heard enough.” Something heavy was placed on the desk with a thud. A wine cup, presumably.

You wanted desperately for Godric to protest. You wanted him to declare his love to you, though he had never once seen your face. You wanted him to insist that perhaps the choice of whom you married ought to belong, at least in part, to you. You wanted him to accuse Ormund of cruelty for denying you the right to a husband.

The last thought filled you with immediate shame. You whispered a hurried prayer under your breath to the Father, begging forgiveness for having judged the man who had only ever sought to protect you.

Godric did none of that. Instead, he simply uttered with cool restraint, “As you will, Lord Hightower.”

A chair scraped across the floor and heavy footsteps crossed the solar, followed by the opening and closing of its main door. You withdrew from the boarded door slowly, blinking as tears began to brim at your eyes.

Usually, disappointment was all you felt when another suitor was refused. A dull ache in your heart followed by the acceptance that Ormund must have seen some defect you had overlooked. He knew the nature of men and the dangers of the world in ways you did not.

This time felt…different.

Godric had spoken respectfully. He had promised not to sever you from Oldtown. He had regarded your devotion and gentleness, and when Ormund questioned whether he could govern you, Godric had not boasted of cruelty or correction. His only failure had been suggesting that you ought to be treated as a wife rather than a child.

By the time you emerged from behind the tapestry, Lord Ashford was gone. The corridor stood empty, save for the guard outside the solar, offering no glimpse of the man who had come to ask for your hand and been dismissed before you could even see his face.

Ormund had instructed you to come to him once the proposition concluded. Usually, you obeyed quickly. Now, though, you lingered outside the solar door with your hand raised to knock, struggling to understand the feelings swimming in your mind. Confusion, disappointment. And something dangerously close to anger.

You knocked anyways.

“You may enter,” Ormund called. 

You opened the door and stepped inside, carefully pulling it shut behind you. Ormund had moved from the desk to the window and stood peering down at the city below. The shutters had been opened. He turned at the sound of the door closing, looked you over once, and– apparently finding no objections with your appearance– gestured towards the carved chairs near his desk. 

“Sit.”

You did. 

Ormund remained beside the window and drew a long breath through his nose. His face tightened with mild disgust. “Lord Ashford seems, from his smell, to possess a great fondness for horses.”

You sniffed discreetly. There was nothing in the air besides parchment and the dried florals Ormund preferred to keep throughout his rooms. “Perhaps he rode in this morning.”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps the men of Ashford prefer to sleep in stables.” Ormund reached into the pocket of his breeches and withdrew the ornate pomander he carried. He held it beneath his nose and inhaled deeply. Only once he appeared satisfied that every trace of Lord Ashford had been driven from his nostrils did he return it to his pocket. Then he turned to you, settling against the window ledge with his hands clasped before him. “You attended the sept this morning?”

You stared down at your hands, folded in your lap. “Yes, my lord.”

“And for whom did you light a candle for today?”

You chewed on your lower lip. “The Maiden.”

Ormund nodded in consideration, crossing his arms over his chest. “And why did you choose the Maiden today?”

“I…I wanted to pray for your meeting with Lord Ashford to go well.”

“You prayed for Lord Ashford?”

Your palms had begun to feel sweaty. “Y-yes, my lord.”

“You prayed to marry him?"

“...yes, my lord.”

The muscle under Ormund’s eye twitched. He pushed himself away from the window and approached you slowly. Rounding the corner of the desk, he stopped beside your chair. Then, tugging at the fabric of his breeches over his thighs, he lowered himself until he was kneeling at eye level with you. You kept your gaze fixed on your lap. 

“You wish to leave Oldtown so badly,” he said softly, so quietly it was barely a whisper, “that you would pray to marry a man who you have never met?”

“M-my lord, I did not–”

“Look at me.”

Trembling, you raised your gaze to meet his. Ormund’s face had gone still, though the blue of his eyes had turned icy. Your stomach lurched. 

“I have risked much to raise you,” Ormund began, leaning in closer to you. “I have shielded you from those at court who question why King Viserys cast his youngest daughter out of King’s Landing. I have protected you from men who would use your blood and name for their own advancement. I have purged you of the evils of Valyria and shaped you into a proper woman. And now, now you hate me enough that would you leave my bed for a stranger?”

Heat burned at your cheeks, hearing Ormund speak like that. Like your shared bed was something…you could not finish the thought. “No, Ormund, please, I don’t–”

“You hate me enough that you would question my judgement?” he pressed, voice lowering to a gravelly hum. “You believe you know better than I? That I am ignorant?”

Hot tears had begun to spill over, wetting your lashes and blurring your vision. “I don’t, my lord, I don’t know b-better than you, I only wanted–”

“Tell me, then.” Ormund seized your face in one hand, his rings digging into your cheeks as he forced your chin upward. “Tell me that you do not wish to leave me.”

“I-I do not wish to leave you, my lord,” you choked, sobbing fully now. 

“Tell me that no man could care for you as I have.”

“No man could c-care for me as you have!”

His hand tightened enough around your chin that your cheeks squished together. His face, though, had shifted, a diseased softness bleeding into it. “Now, you must tell me what you have forgotten to say.”

Shame and something hotter burned low in your gut. He always made you say the words like this. When you had no option but to force the truth out of you. 

“I…” your breath shuddered. “I love you.”

Ormund’s grip refused to loosen. “Again, please.”

The words caught in your throat, scraping like sand. “I love you, Ormund.”

Finally, his face eased, and so did his hold. 

“There,” he murmured, sickeningly tender as he wiped his thumb across your cheek, catching one of your stray tears. “Was that so difficult to say?”

You shook your head quickly. You did not trust your voice. 

Seemingly satisfied, Ormund rose from where he was crouched, dusting off his breeches. The matter was finished. He returned to his desk, lowering himself in his chair, no trace of the man who had just seconds ago demanded the sick truth of your devotion. You remained frozen, unable to move, cheeks wet and burning. You suddenly were conscious of how horrible you must look, swollen eyes and shaking hands. 

Ormund glanced up from his papers. “You will go and ready yourself for the evening’s feast now.”

Numb, you stared at him. He raised one brow in question. Ormund did not like to repeat himself. 

“Y-yes, my lord,” you stuttered. 

“Wear the blue silk. The one with the square neckline,” he dipped his quill into the ink, already moved on from the excitement and back to his usual self. He glanced up once more, eyes moving across your face. “And…have the women repair your face. It would be quite unbecoming to our guests to see you have upset yourself.”

You were thoroughly humiliated. “Yes, my lord.”

Legs shaking slightly, you rose and smoothed your skirts. 

“And, one more thing,” Ormund spoke, though he continued reading the parchment he held. “You will not speak with Lord Ashford this evening.”

You paused. Was this a trap? “Would it…would it not appear discourteous if I refused to–”

“The matter has already been decided, my girl. You have no need to encourage him further.”

“I…I understand.” You bowed, trying not to trip over your still unsteady feet, and then turned towards the door. You had just put your hand on the latch when Ormund spoke again.

“Have you forgotten something?”

You paused, and then looked back in the solar. Ormund had finally lifted his eyes from the parchment and was leaning back in his seat. He tapped one finger against his cheek. 

Your cheeks grew hotter, though you had done this hundreds of times before. Thousands, perhaps. You crossed the solar to where Ormund sat, his expression completely neutral. Heart beating in your throat, you bent carefully and pressed your lips briefly to his cheek. He caught your wrist before you could retreat.

“Once more, properly this time,” he commanded.

You swallowed and kissed him again, lingering this time until you felt the faint scrape of where he had shaved that morning and breathed in the familiar fragrance of his pomander.

Ormund released his grip on you, mouth curled in a smile. “Good girl. You may go now.”

You bowed, lower this time, and left the solar with the warm and humiliating feeling you had become accustomed to now living in the very place Ormund had hollowed out inside you over years and years. 

As you walked down the halls of Hightower, face lowered so any passerbys would not catch a glimpse of your reddened cheeks and puffy eyes, you wondered why you felt the way you did. 

Lord Ashford would be at the feast that evening, and though Ormund had forbidden you from speaking to him, you knew that you would search for him among the gathered faces. For what, you could not say. To prove something, perhaps. But what, exactly?

That Ormund was right? Or that he was wrong? 

And afterward…no matter the excitement from the day, you had not forgotten Ormund’s reminder that morning. 

“It is the seventh day.”

You dreaded the fact, but not for the ritual that awaited you, but rather the shameful fact it made you excited. 

It seemed this was to be a day of contradictions.

You wanted Lord Ashford to see you, and you hoped he never appeared so that you might obey Ormund without temptation. You wanted Ormund to loosen his hold upon you, and you wanted him to swear that he would never allow you to belong to anyone else.

How could both desires live in the same body? The same heart? You did not know.

You knew only that, by the end of the night, Ormund would decide which desire you were permitted to keep.

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He’s tall, broad, graying, and stern. His dark brown eyes apprise every counselor in front of him as the group gathers on the camp’s front lawn two weeks before opening day. He goes over the rules and expectations of all staff members. You pay attention even though it’s the same old drill: no fucking around during working hours, make sure the campers are safe at all times, please report injuries and have them sent to the nurses station, et cetera. You could recite the rules by heart.

Only one thing has you concerned.

You raise your hand to speak. Joel glances over at you but continues talking, stressing the importance of keeping away from drugs and alcohol during the next two weeks, especially once the campers come on opening day. You know all that. Still, you wait with your hand raised until Joel sighs, giving you time to speak.

“What happened to Frankie?”

Joel tries really hard not to roll his eyes. “Francisco Morales won’t be here to help us set up. He’ll be here on the camp’s opening day.” He snorts, arms crossed as he eyes you up and down. “What, is he your boyfriend or somethin’?”

“No..” you reply, unable to stop the embarrassment from creeping up your spine. Of course you and Frankie hadn’t set any firm definitions about what you are, but the past two years you’ve spent here have also been spent by fucking him in the woods during early morning hikes, blowing him in the storage shed, and sneaking him into your cabin to have him go down on you all night.

You have his number, but there’s been no answer when you’ve called before driving up to the campsite. You wonder what’s keeping him from being here.

Piper, the girl you’ve hated since you’ve been counselors together these past few years, shoots a smug look your way as the meeting is adjourned, and she walks off with Joel’s arm around her waist. She glances over her shoulder at you, giving you the finger.

She’s just jealous because Frankie chose you over her two years ago. She hasn’t let you alone in peace since.

Joel is a hard task master. At dawn he has the counselors up and jogging through the trail in the woods and chopping firewood before breakfast. Swim safety is in the afternoon when the heat is at its worst, the air humid with the scent of sunblock and stagnant lake water. At the very least you’re given some time to lay out in the sun afterward, drying off on the warm boards of the dock.

Back at the cabins only two people are unaccounted for – Piper and Joel. The other counselors make crude guesses as to where they are and what they’re doing. You’re elected to go and find them before it gets dark. Piper has dinner duty and Maya refuses to do all the cooking alone.

Slipping on your jean shorts, your towel slung over your shoulders to catch the water droplets from your still-damp hair, you set out in search of Joel and Piper.

The sun is just starting to set when you find them in a thick copse of trees near the edge of the forest, Piper pressed against a tree as Joel’s fingering her, his hand down the front of her red bikini bottom as he plunges inside her, head bent close to her ear, muttering dirty things. You stop, half-hidden by the trees as you watch them, your own pussy growing wet just bearing witness. You know you should turn and leave, forget you ever saw this, just tell the others that Piper and Joel are coming back soon.

But you’re frozen to the spot, watching them in the secrecy of the woods, your own hand ghosting over your clothed clit, imagining what Joel’s thick, rough fingers must feel like.

There’s a sharp snap of a twig that echoes in the air, causing Piper and Joel to quickly part. You’re already hurrying down the path, shame and lust heating your cheeks.

Everyone is split up in pairs, the counselor bunks only small enough to house two comfortably, and unfortunately Joel assigns you and Piper together. You tell yourself it’ll just be a couple months and most days will be too busy for you to have to deal with her very much.

Piper grabs the top bunk before you have a chance to claim it. But once you’re settled in the bottom, she makes you switch back after she finds a spiderweb too close to the ceiling.

But even your nights can’t be peaceful. Joel sneaks in after lights out, and you have to endure the soft giggles and moans coming from the bunk below you. The entire bed frame rocks with Joel’s thrusts as he fucks your bunkmate.

Great, just great.

They make no effort to hide whatever’s going on between them. His hand is permanently on her ass, barely clothed in the camp counselor uniform shorts, his entire paw covering her ass cheek. The others don’t notice or don’t care, too caught up in their own romantic entanglements.

It only makes you miss Frankie more. Out here in the woods you have no way of contacting him except through the main office line, but Joel stands right in front of anyone who wants to call home, dials the number on the rotary phone, and waits with arms crossed as the call is made. Nobody does personal calls while he’s in charge.

You try to keep yourself busy with helping get the camp ready. The grass near the cabins is maintained, repairs are made to the buildings themselves (which Joel oversees, and you can’t help but to check him out a little while he’s fixing the sign above the infirmary – he looks too good with a hammer), checking that the generators are working properly, and that the electrical system and water pressure are good.

There’s so much to do that by the time you climb up into your bunk you fall asleep as soon as your head hits the pillow.

The only thing that could possibly wake you is Joel fucking Piper in the bunk below yours.

Joel’s grunts and groans, paired with Piper’s moaning and gasping, keep you awake. You lose count of how many rounds they go, the entire bed bunk frame shaking with their movements. And at one point you can’t help it as your fingers travel beneath your sleep shorts, finding your wet pussy and tracing your slit. Two fingers fit inside you easily as you lift your legs to get comfortable. Closing your eyes you start fucking yourself on your hand, imagining Joel’s fingers inside of you instead of yours.

You’re trying desperately to keep your whimpering to a minimum but you doubt they’ll hear you over their own sounds. Your fingers match the pace of Joel’s thrusts, though you imagine his cock is a lot bigger than your two fingers combined. And the way he’s been fucking Piper for almost an hour solidifies the fact that his stamina is good.

Your fingers glide over your clit, circling and swiping, your hips arching up as you chase the friction you so desperately need for your release as you listen to Piper’s moans and Joel’s increasing grunts. Eyes squeezed tight you plunge your fingers as deep as you can, timing it just right with Piper’s final, momentous scream. You try to keep as quiet as possible as your release coats your hand, clit throbbing, legs quaking.

Joel corners you after breakfast the next morning, barring you from following the others to the field where a soccer match was planned. Instead he drags you to the boat shed. You hate it there. It’s dusty and cramped and there are cobwebs in the corners.

“What’s wrong?” you ask, your heart in your throat as Joel peers down at you, something unreadable in his deep brown eyes.

“What’s wrong?” he mimics you. “You think I don’t know you were gettin’ yourself off to me and Piper last night?”

The blood drains from your face, leaving you cold. “Wh-what?”

“Stop actin’ innocent. You weren’t exactly quiet. Piper was laughin’ at you, sayin’ you’re a lonely little virgin.”

“I’m not a virgin,” you tell him tersely.

“Really?” Joel’s voice is full of derision. “Prove it.”

The blood drains from your face. “H-how?”

“You’re a smart girl. You know how.” But just to be mean he explains it in detail. “How about you bend over–” he slaps the hull of a nearby canoe and puts his hand on your lower back, pressuring you towards it. “--pull those pretty little short-shorts down and let me check for myself.”

“You’re not serious,” you sputter.

“You afraid or somethin’?” he smirks.

You’re not afraid per se. But you’re definitely wet enough so that he’ll tease you if he finds out. “Of course not,” you stand up to him boldly.

He looks amused by this, and the way he cups his bulge in his own shorts shows he’s more than a little turned on. Your eyes drop down to where his thick cock is hardening under the skin-tight fabric.

With determination in your eyes, you’re certain of yourself when you reach up and grab Joel by the nape of his neck, kissing him. His eyes go wide at the initial shock of surprise, but then they close, a deep and satisfied growl in his chest as he kisses you back, his tongue slipping past your lips. Your gasp turns into a soft moan as his large paw on your lower back presses you closer to him, rubbing his hard-on against you.

“I bet this pussy’s already soaked,” he mutters, finally breaking from the kiss to nip at your neck. “But first..” he pulls away, a devilish look in his eye. “Lift up that shirt, honey, and lemme see those pretty titties.”

You scoff despite the fact that you are indeed soaked, but you’re already this far in. You might as well go all the way. You lift up your shirt, your white lacy bra on full display. Joel’s big meaty hands pull down the cups, palming your tits with his rough bare hands, bouncing them in his palms. “Look at these.. you gonna lemme suck ‘em?”

Fuck. This isn’t going how you expected but you can’t complain. You nod and he immediately pulls you close, picking you up and pinning you against the canoe as he takes your nipple in his mouth, groaning, using his free hand to pinch your other nipple. “So sweet,” he groans, releasing off you with a wet pop before sucking on the other.

“Joel!” you gasp, a fresh wave of wetness seeping through your underwear.

“Don’t worry, I’m gettin’ there,” he mumbles, helping you shimmy out of your shorts and pressing you forward against the boat. He lands a quick spank across your ass cheek, chuckling at the way your flesh jiggles and the sound of your yelp. Then he spreads your cheeks wide. “Look at that.. pretty as the mornin’ dew..” He kneels down and laps at your honey, making you moan. Almost too late you catch yourself, muffling your own sounds with your palm.

His large, rough hand trails down your spine, keeping you in place as the thick head of his cock slides through your folds, collecting your wetness and teasing you as he slides between your cheeks. You mewl in protest as he chuckles. “Maybe you’re right, maybe you’re not a virgin. Not the way you’re actin’ so greedy for my cock. Well darlin’, take it..”

He eases into you, using shallow thrusts and you can’t help but exhale, the rush of breath leaving you in surprise before he angles you down, sliding in to the hilt. “You’re full of me now,” he grunts out, holding steady to your hips. “God damn, tighter than a nun’s asshole.”

Your walls flutter around him with each stroke, your hands bracing you against the smooth wood of the upturned canoe. You whimper in time with each smooth thrust. Each time Joel bottoms out you feel it deep in your belly, probably deeper than anyone’s ever gone.

“Wish you could see how you’re soakin’ me,” Joel grunts, giving a few quick thrusts to let you hear the sound of your sloppy pussy. “How do you like it, darlin’? You want me to make a mess of you inside, or do you need me to pull out and shove this cock down your throat so you can swallow my load?”

“I-inside,” you pant. “I have an IUD.”

“That’s a relief,” Joel mutters, speeding up, one big hand wrapping around your front to tickle your clit. “C’mon, baby, need you to come on my cock before I bust inside you..”

He slows down just enough for you to work your way up to it, the heat building in your belly and your core, moaning at the way he lifts your hips to meet each thrust, sweat gathering at your temples. “Joel,” you whine, thinking of nothing but the way he’s fucking and filling and stretching your cunt. With an expertly angled thrust home you fall apart, moaning his name as you squeeze around him, and he picks up the pace, slamming into you until he swells inside you, his hot cum painting your walls. His cock is still twitching in the aftershocks when he finally releases his grip on your hips and pulls out of you. You quickly shove your underwear and shorts back on to catch his leavings already starting to leak out.

“Smart girl, bein’ on birth control,” Joel mutters, stuffing himself back into his own shorts. “I wish Piper was responsible like that.”

You school your features into nonchalance after you pull your shirt back down. There’s a little stab of guilt when you realize you’ve just fucked your bunkmate’s boyfriend.. even if she is a bitch. “What do you mean?” you ask innocently.

He reddens, as if he shouldn’t have spoken. “You’re sworn to secrecy, alright? Piper’s pregnant.”

“What?” Joel immediately clamps his hand over your mouth. He still smells like sex.

“Shut. Up,” he warns. “If I find out you told anyone else you’re packin’ your bags and goin’ home. Understand?”

You nod and whisper “Yes,” when he removes his hand. “It’s yours?”

He scoffs. “She says so. Still– not a peep. Got it?”

Piper becomes grumpy when Joel’s visits make an abrupt stop. But she’s no bitchier than usual, likely trying to get back into Joel’s good graces. Little does she know he’s only stopped coming to her because he’s taken up fucking you instead – in the storage shed, in the empty cots in the infirmary, the walk-in pantry in the kitchen. He maintains the position that he doesn’t like you very much while you’re in front of the others, sometimes giving you tasks you have to complete on your own – with the sole purpose of finding you to hook up.

The last night before the campers are due, everyone lets loose. Couples sneak off into the woods with sleeping bags and sinful intentions, some stay on the pier by the lake, drinking and laughing.

You’re the only one who’s made it to your bunk at an appropriate hour, wanting a full night’s rest before the big day. But your sleep is interrupted when Joel and Piper come in, slamming the door behind them, all over each other, kissing and giggling. With a silent groan you put your pillow over your head, already expecting to drown out the noises they’re about to make, which are going to keep you up all night.

They’re in the bottom bunk, a little quieter now that their mouths are busy. But soon there’s that familiar rocking rhythm and the sound of Piper’s moans and squeals, coming to a crescendo. Once again Joel’s stamina is off the charts. You’re in the middle of pleasuring yourself, two fingers shoved as deep as you can go, when everything stops and you hear Joel murmuring. There’s a creak as he gets out of the bunk, and Piper giggles as he positions her facing away. Now Joel’s eye level with your bunk and you gasp as you come face to face with him. He winks at you.

“What do you think you’re doing?” you whisper as quietly as you can.

“She caught up with me. I couldn’t shake her,” he explains just as softly. “Don’t leave me hangin’, sweetheart. Bring that pretty pussy to my face.”

Without hesitating you lift up your nightdress, scooting to the edge of the bed, thighs spread around Joel’s face as he fucks into Piper – oblivious to everything going on – in the bottom bunk. He’s got his dick buried in her while he’s eating you out. You’ve never experienced anything hotter.

You hear Piper’s staccato cries as Joel pounds into her from behind, his own moans humming through your flesh, heightening your arousal, your clit standing at attention between Joel’s lips, his mustache tickling your soft skin. You already know you’re going to come when your legs start shaking, toes curling at the waves of pressure building up in your very core.

“Joel!” you try to whisper as softly as possible. “Joel!.. I’m gonna come!”

He only smacks harder into Piper, her own cries louder than yours. “Come for me,” he whispers back, the tip of his tongue giving one teasing swirl around your pearl before he dives back in. Your back arches off the bed, lightning shooting through your veins as your cunt pulses, drenching Joel’s mouth as you come. He groans, licking up every drop, watching you through his lashes. “Good girl,” he whispers, backing off when you become too sensitive, his lips warm on your inner thigh, stubble scratching at your soft skin as he pulls off of Piper, turning her around so she’s sucking him off.

You hear her moaning and sighing, gagging on his cock. Meanwhile Joel lazily fingers you, scissoring his digits inside your sloppy pussy, his eyes black and glossy while Piper deep-throats him. Your fingers card through his hair as you ignore the softening of your heart in seeing him so tame and vulnerable.

Your name is on his lips but he moans Piper just in the nick of time, his breaths growing unsteady as he comes close to the end, getting ready to bust in Piper’s mouth. You take his head in your cupped hands. “Come, Joel.. give her what she wants,” you whisper. He groans, his thrusts getting sloppy as he fucks his girlfriend’s throat, stilling at last, his features tensing then relaxing as Piper gasps softly, swallowing his thick load.

The next day Joel treats you the same as he always has. Everyone’s minds are on the Opening Day festivities ahead, even if some of the counselors look like they’ve only had a couple hours’ sleep. You’re bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, not just because of last night, but because you’re genuinely excited for summer camp to officially begin.

The campers hurry out of the stuffy buses and onto the rolling green grass, toting duffel bags, wearing the gold and blue camp tees and ball caps, eager for their summer to begin. Everyone is assigned to a counselor, and as soon as your group is ready you start to lead them to their cabin. You have a full day ahead: a quick icebreaker so everyone can become acquainted, a scavenger hunt that will enable the kids to work as a team, then a game of capture the flag, then lunch. You have your day cut out for you, and in the back of your mind you wonder if you’ll cross paths with Joel again..

Your thoughts are interrupted by someone shouting back at the buses. All the counselors turn to look, surprise written on their faces as they find one more latecomer to Camp Happy Trail.

Frankie Morales, adjusting the Standard Oil cap on his head, dark curls already sticking to the sweat on his neck, hurries off the last bus. His royal blue camp tee clings to his torso like sin, accentuating his broad frame. You’re speechless when he reaches you, putting his arms around you and lifting you off the ground before landing a big kiss on your lips. The campers are grossed out, giggling and making faces.

When he pulls away, cupping your face in his hands, you can feel everyone’s eyes on you, just as shocked as you are to see him finally arrive. “I missed you, babe,” he says, planting one more kiss on your forehead. “So what have I missed?”

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Daeron's expression turns sympathetic as he sees your mood sour, prompting you to step closer, one hand moving to brush his cheek as you speak, your tone hushed but warm. "Don't give me that look," you scold, but it contradicts the softness of your touch and tone. "There's nothing to worry about." Your thumb smooths over his cheekbone, motherly and reassuring, as you always do when he's putting others' emotions onto his own young shoulders. "Ormund will know what to make of it."

"As always."

Both of you perk up at the familiar voice, watching as your husband enters the tent through the flaps, one eyebrow raised as he assesses the scene, eyes narrowing at the sight of your hand cradling Daeron's cheek, jaw clenching minutely. "Such matters are not for wives," he shoots you a look, "or squires," his voice dips to a firmer tone as he glances at Daeron, "to worry about." Ormund closes the flap behind him before continuing, seeking privacy. "Or talk behind their hands like gossiping mongrels where I cannot hear."

You feel Daeron tense beneath your hand, and your thumb brushes his cheek to soothe, huffing as you hold your husband's gaze. "The boy was just relaying information to me, which I am grateful for." Daeron relaxes under your touch, which makes you hum, sneaking him a small smile before turning your gaze back to Ormund. "As any squire would."

"He is my squire."

"I borrowed him," you counter, lifting your chin, not backing down.

"You cannot borrow someone's squire. It is unheard of."

"And yet you are hearing about it now. Novelties are common during wartime, are they not?"

The corner of Ormund's lips twitches for one moment at your audacity before he scoffs, eyes narrowed as he holds your gaze enough to let you know this will not be the end of this conversation. It sends a shiver down your spine.

"So they say," he responds, stepping closer, motioning with one hand towards the flap of the tent. "Go see what that beast of yours is doing, won't you? There are matters I must discuss with Lady Hightower." Ormund's tone is firm, brooking no argument as he waits for Daeron to obey, the young boy nodding curtly, before turning to do the same to you, albeit a touch more reverent.

"My lord, my lady."

You smile, thumb tracing his cheek once more before he moves, letting your hand fall to your side, watching as he makes haste towards the tent's exit.

The silence he leaves behind is thick for a heartbeat, two, before it is broken by your husband's voice. "You coddle him incessantly," he reprimands, face scrunching in distaste, as if such a thing offended him personally. "Petting him like a cat and cooing at him as if he were but a babe."

Being a touch theatrical has always been one of your husband's most endearing traits, and one of his most daunting, as you sometimes remind him, to his annoyance. You will never admit that poking at that certain flaw of his tickles you greatly, just as it does now.

"He is young," you combat, "and this is his first ever war. A gentle touch would do him well."

"Too gentle of a touch will soften him overmuch and he will not be fit to fight alongside me, as is his duty," your husband counters, tone resolute as he takes slow, measured steps towards you, eyes narrowed, jaw clenched. "You know this."

And you did. The importance of coming out victorious was paramount to your husband, his house, and his cause. Seating the rightful heir on the Iron Throne was the one thing that mattered most, and Ormund was hellbent on seeing it through to the end, by any means necessary.

"I am aware," your tone softens, sighing as you reach for him, hand touching his cheek as you did Daeron, but the difference was stark in the way you offered your affection, thumbing at the cut of his cheekbone with intent, leaning in until your breaths mingled. Ormund frowned, knowing you were trying to appease him, but didn't pull away, instead leaning into your touch, tilting his head into the cradle of your palm, eyes boring into yours. “But someone has to soften the rigour you instill in him, husband, for he shall not be cruel, but just, even in times of war.”

“Being just is not enough,” he protests again, and you can feel his jaw tighten beneath your hand, which you try to soothe with soft swipes of your thumb along the bone, a touch that he welcomes, despite the turmoil in his gaze. “If one needs to be heartless, then the Gods have willed it so.”

Your brows pinch together, the urge to try and make your husband see reason slowly curdling into something acrid. “Since when have the Gods willed a young boy to cruelty, Ormund?” Your tone is no longer soft nor warm, sharpening at the mere thought of Daeron being made into something he was not meant to be. “Is this what the Seven Pointed Star had taught us all these years?”

Ormund’s eyes widen for a fraction, the use of his name in such a cadence from you and the sting of your words halting his breath. He knew how fiercely protective you were of the boy, like a lioness with its cub, even if not yours by womb. Now it was his turn to try and bring back the sweetness in your tone, for he shall never admit it, but having his wife cross with him was a fate he did not particularly enjoy.

“My love,” he murmured, and tried not to react when he saw your expression pinch even more at the fond moniker. “Sometimes, in the midst of war, we cannot abide by all that The Faith has taught us, no matter how much we wish to grace the Gods with our deeds.” Ormund took a breath, trying not to get irritated when your pretty face didn’t soften an inch. “And that boy is fated to sit The Iron Throne, for his blood is pure, and not savage, and his teachings are proper, and not the stuff of legends long past.”

Sit the Iron Throne.

You took a step back, recoiling from your husband as if burned, the warmth of your touch no longer on his cheek as you whispered, mortified. “Sit the Iron Throne?”

Such plans were news to you, for Aemond was to be the rightful heir now that Aegon was gone. But it seems your husband’s ideals reached further than you could’ve ever conjured up yourself. Was it because Aemond was to be sent to Harrenhal? Did your husband believe Rhaenyra’s forces would slay Vhagar and thus leave the throne with no one to occupy it?

“No,” you said, resolute, fingers starting to tremble as you curled them into fists at your side. “I will not have my boy thrown into that den of vipers that we’ve tried so hard to keep him safe from.”

Ormund’s chest rattled with the deep breath he took, as if preparing himself for the onslaught of your dissatisfaction to come. “He is not—”

“Don’t you dare!” Your tone was sharp as steel, voice rising, all pretence gone now that your husband had braved to utter those words to you, knowing how much they would chip at your tender heart. “You know just as well as I that Daeron is more mine than anyone else’s. I have raised him since he was a babe—”

“And you have done so valiantly, my dear, but—” Ormund tries to soothe, but the bitter taste in your mouth from his words is more pungent than anything he could say to save himself from your wrath.

“Do not patronise me so!”

Your chest is heaving, and you feel those damnable pinpricks behind your eyes, moisture dampening your lash line, tears slowly forming, as if already feeling the grief of losing one of the things you cherish most. “King’s Landing is a wretched place, devoid of honour and swarming with enemies, and you want to send our—”

Our son.

But you stop, chin wobbling, not daring to say such a thing now, knowing it will do no good, and only make your husband protest further.

The sweetest boy, who hid his chubby little face into your skirts and clung to them when nightmares came at night, is now sentenced to a life you know he does not wish for. You can already feel your stomach churning with trepidation just at the thought, your gaze unwavering despite the tears brimming in your eyes to shoot daggers at your husband, who stays unmoving before you, looking equal parts irritated and unsure of how to proceed in the face of such strong emotions.

“I cannot, Ormund,” you whisper, voice breaking around the edges. “I shall not let you make a scheme of my boy just to fuel your own ambitions.”

You expect your husband to protest, to scream and rage and rip the very tent you’re in apart in his hands, but he does none of those things. Instead, he watches you, as calculated as he’s ever been, as if devising a plan to turn your sorrow into something for his own gain, or so you think.

What you do not anticipate is for Ormund to sigh, long and suffering, before walking towards you, lessening the distance between your bodies until his sword hilt bumps against your hip. “Do you believe that I am doing this solely for my own gain, my love?”

And you want to argue that, yes, you are certain of such things, for your husband was never one to not think of himself or his family first and foremost. But you don’t get to verbalise that, Ormund’s voice, softer than before, carrying that tone which could melt the marrow of your bones in mere seconds, but now, your impending grief is too great, your sorrow hardening you too much for such mellowness so quick.

“I do it for us,” he says, tilting his head to the side, bringing your faces closer, noses almost brushing. “For our legacy. For the future of House Hightower, which is now in ruins given the death of Otto and the usurpation of the King.”

You wish to protest, but your husband does not let you, sensing the argument on the tip of your tongue before it forms, a habit he picked up after more than a decade by your side, knowing you inside and out.

“Ascending Daeron to the throne will grant us power beyond our imagination, and allow the boy to live in a world of his own making.” The words are just and sound, but they do not go through you; the image of your sweet Daeron sitting upon that blasted throne full of swords and lies is too heavy on your heart.

“He will be in grave danger,” you croak, tears brimming along your lash line, slowly slipping down warm cheeks. “People will seek to harm him, to demand favours he’s not ready to offer, to—”

“And I will be in his shadow, making sure none of that comes to fruition,” Ormund says, tone brooking no argument, his gaze holding yours, willing you to see the seriousness of the matter. “If anyone dares to conspire against our boy, I will have their heads before they can draw their next breath. You have my word, sweet wife.”

Our boy.

You draw in a trembling, wet breath, your husband’s words breaking your heart and putting it back together in one fell swoop, a quiet, choked sob parting your lips as you try to utter a word back, anything to dismantle Ormund’s words, but you cannot.

“Oh, my love,” he coos, and it does not sound as condescending as it should’ve, as Ormund would pity those around him who show weakness. No, not with you. He wouldn’t dare make a spectacle of your tender, caring heart, which has grounded him many a time in his darkest, most turbulent moments. “Come here, sweetheart. Do not weep so.”

And you, powerless to resist, take the small step which is needed to bridge the distance between you, allowing your husband to cradle you in his arms, holding you as gently as one would a flower, but firm enough to make it known he wishes not to let go anytime soon.

One of his broad palms settles along your back, slowly smoothing down from the small of your back to the nape of your neck, the other anchored to the back of your head, coaxing you to rest your face along his throat. “Shh, shh, sweetling,” he whispers, turning his head to brush the words against your temple before pressing a soft, lingering kiss against your brow. “I will never let anything befall you or the boy. You know that with certainty.”

You do.

Gods, you do, but the fear that gripped your heart like a vice at the thought of such a grand plan was more powerful than reason and proof. Ormund had always gone above and beyond to ensure you and Daeron were safe at all times, even when he was away, instructing guards to follow you around like shadows and sit unmoving at your doors while you slumbered.

“I-i know, but the peril that awaits him if—”

Another kiss brushing your skin halted your incoming spiral, the feeling of your husband’s warm, rough lips against your temple melting you further into the safe strength of his arms, a haven in itself as you feared for what was to come. “The peril shall not exist. Our boy will have me, you, and more men-at-arms that I can count to keep him away from harm. In that, you must trust. In me, also.”

Your arms, which have hesitated until now, moved to grip at the back of your husband’s tunic as you embraced him tightly, needing a rock to cling to, nuzzling your face into his throat, dampening his skin with your tears as you sobbed quietly. “I trust in you more than life itself,” you croaked, and felt the pleased hum your words elicited from Ormund, as if the thought of you confiding in him so wholeheartedly brought him immense satisfaction. “But not that place, those people, that damned chair.”

“And you are right to do so, my love,” he approved, slowly putting weight from one foot to another, guiding your bodies into a gentle sway from side to side, meant to soothe you further. “Gods know everything the Targaryens touch is defiled beyond words. But we shall change that. Make it our own. A place where we and the boy can build a world fit for us alone.”

It sounded too good to be true, like a fairytale the septas would whisper to babes as they grew older, but the determined tone of your husband’s voice made you want to cling to this fantasy as well.

“Just us and our boy?” You murmured, fingers curling tighter into Ormund’s tunic, as if you could etch the very hope of such notions into his very bones.

“Yes, my sweet,” he whispered, brushing another lingering kiss to your temple, eyes fluttering shut as he held you close, still swaying. “Just us and our boy.”

Your father had been coming home with a haggard face for weeks. The bills were piling up, the rent was late again, and he only repeated in a low voice: “Beau says there’s no budget for raises this year.” But you knew there had to be something you could do. That’s why you were there, wearing the simple black dress that hugged your curves just enough not to look desperate… but enough to be noticed.

The secretary looked at you with pity and told you that you could go in. The door to Beau’s office was ajar.

“Come in,” his deep voice said before you even knocked.

You entered and Beau was sitting behind the desk, with the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his forearms and his cowboy hat hanging on the coat rack.

He looked up and his green eyes narrowed slightly when he recognized you.

“Well… Jones’s daughter.” He leaned back in his chair, watching you with that mix of curiosity and authority that defined him. “Everything okay at home?”

You closed the door behind you, and the click sounded louder than you expected.

“Not exactly, Sheriff.”

Beau frowned but didn’t interrupt, so you approached the desk, trying to keep your voice steady.

“My dad… he’s been working overtime for months. He can barely make ends meet. I know it’s not your personal responsibility, but…” You swallowed hard. “He respects you a lot. And I… I just want to ask you to reconsider the raise, even if it’s small. He’s exhausted, Sheriff. And I can’t stand seeing him like this.”

Beau looked at you in silence for a few seconds that felt eternal. His fingers drummed once on the wood before he spoke.

“I understand your concern. I really do, but the budget is what it is and I can’t make exceptions just because someone needs it more than others. It wouldn’t be fair.”

The disappointment hit you hard. You lowered your gaze for a second, feeling your cheeks heat up. When you looked at him again, you decided to play your second card, the one you had planned as a last resort.

You took one more step closer to the desk, letting your fingers brush the wooden surface.

“And what if I’m not asking for an exception out of pity?” Your voice dropped a tone. “What if I’m asking for… something more personal?”

Beau’s eyes changed. They were no longer just those of the understanding boss. Now there was something darker, more alert. He straightened slowly in his chair, looking you up and down without hiding it.

“Careful what you’re offering, darling,” he murmured, almost as a warning. “I’m not the kind of man who takes advantage of a desperate girl.”

“I’m not desperate,” you lied halfway, placing your hands on the edge of the desk and leaning forward enough for the neckline of your dress to reveal more than was decent. “I’m just willing to do whatever it takes for my family.”

The silence that followed was thick. Beau held your gaze, and for a moment you thought he was going to throw you out of his office. Instead, he stood up slowly, walked around the desk, and stopped just a step away from you.

He was taller than you remembered, more imposing.

“So… you’re willing to do whatever it takes?” he repeated, his voice lower and rougher.

You nodded, feeling the heat rise up your neck.

Beau raised a hand and brushed your jaw with the back of his fingers. The contact was light, but it ran through you like electricity.

“Then lock the door,” he said, almost in a whisper. “And come here.”

You obeyed with slightly trembling fingers. The click of the lock sounded final. When you turned around, Beau had his arms crossed over his broad chest, looking at you with those green eyes that seemed to read every intention.

“Good. Now speak clearly, darling. Because I don’t like misunderstandings. What exactly are you offering?”

You swallowed hard and decided not to look away.

“I’m offering… whatever is necessary for my dad to get that raise. I know it’s not fair. I know this puts me in a complicated position, but I’m willing.”

Beau let out a low, almost incredulous laugh and ran a hand over his jaw.

“Fuck…” he muttered. “Do you know how many years older I am than you? Do you know I’m your father’s boss? This isn’t just ‘complicated,’ this is a big problem.”

“I also know you’ve been looking at me more than necessary every time I go pick him up from work,” you replied, taking a step toward him. “And that today you didn’t throw me out the moment I walked in.”

Beau narrowed his eyes. The corner of his mouth curved slightly, but his expression remained serious.

“You’re brave, I’ll give you that. But bravery and stupidity sometimes look too much alike. What if I say no? Are you going to walk out of here crying and tell your dad his boss is a son of a bitch?”

“No,” you said, taking another step closer. “I’m going to stay here and ask you why you don’t want to take what I’m offering. Or are you afraid you’ll like it too much?”

The air between the two of you grew heavy. Beau uncrossed his arms and looked you up and down, lingering on the neckline of your dress, the curve of your hips, the way your lips parted.

“You’re dangerous,” he said finally, his voice hoarse. “And the worst part is you know it. Tell me one thing… Would you really do this for your father? Or is there a part of you that wants this anyway?”

You felt your cheeks burn, but you didn’t back down.

“Both,” you admitted. “I want to help my dad… and yes, I want to know what it feels like to have all your attention on me.”

Beau closed the last remaining distance. Now he was so close that his chest almost brushed against yours. He raised a hand and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear with deliberate slowness.

“All my attention?” he repeated, lowering his voice to a deep murmur. “If I give you all my attention, darling, you won’t be able to walk straight out of this office. Are you sure that’s what you want to negotiate?”

Your breathing became shorter. You could feel the heat radiating from his body.

“I’m sure,” you whispered. “Please, Beau…”

Using his first name seemed to affect him. His pupils dilated and his hand moved down to your waist, squeezing just enough for you to feel his strength.

“Say it again,” he ordered softly.

“Beau…” you said, almost breathless. “Please.”

He tilted his head, his lips barely brushing the edge of your ear.

“Good girl. Now tell me exactly what you’re willing to do to get your dad that raise. I want to hear it from your mouth.”

You took a breath.

“I want… I’ll do whatever it takes for you to give my dad that raise.”

Beau smiled slowly, almost cruelly. His fingers tightened on your waist.

“Pretty words… but it’s not enough.”

You felt a liquid heat sliding down your belly.

“Please…” you whispered.

“No. Be clearer, on your knees and begging.”

You bit your lip, shame and excitement mixing together. Slowly you lowered yourself until you were kneeling in front of him. Beau sat back in his leather chair, spreading his legs with authority and looking down at you as if you were the most interesting thing in the world.

“That’s how I like seeing you,” he murmured. “Now tell me what you want.”

“I want to suck your cock, Beau… Please. Let me taste you, I’ll make it worth it. Please…”

He calmly unbuckled his belt and lowered the zipper. He pulled out his already hard, thick cock, stroking it slowly in front of your face.

“Good girl. Open your mouth.”

You had barely wrapped your lips around the head when someone knocked on the door.

“Sheriff Arlen,” a male voice called from the hallway. “Got a minute? It’s about the Miller case.”

Your heart stopped. You tried to pull back, but Beau’s large hand settled on the back of your neck, holding you exactly where you were.

“Easy,” he whispered. “Don’t make a sound.”

Then he raised his voice, perfectly calm:

“Come in, Jenkins. I’m finishing up some paperwork.”

The door opened. From under the desk you could only see the deputy’s legs and the edge of the table. Beau gently pushed his hips forward, pushing more of his cock into your hot mouth while speaking with total normality.

“What’s going on with the Millers?” he asked, as if he didn’t have his employee’s daughter kneeling and sucking him off.

You tried to stay quiet, but it was almost impossible. Your tongue licked the underside of his shaft as you took him deeper, careful not to make the wet sounds too obvious. Beau was thick and hot in your mouth, pulsing against your tongue.

Jenkins began explaining something about evidence and schedules, but you could barely concentrate. Beau kept one hand in your hair, guiding you slowly, fucking your mouth with short, controlled movements while answering in a firm voice:

“I understand… Yes, go over that with the morning team. I don’t want any mistakes this time.”

Every time he responded, he pushed a little deeper, brushing the back of your throat. Your eyes watered, but you kept sucking with more eagerness, turned on by the risk.

“Perfect, Jenkins. That’s all for now,” Beau said finally, his voice a little rougher than usual. “Close the door on your way out.”

The door closed. As soon as the sound of footsteps faded, Beau let out a low growl and grabbed your hair harder.

“Fuck… you’ve got such a good mouth,” he groaned, no longer needing to pretend. “Keep going, darling. Don’t stop and if you’re really good… maybe I’ll sign that raise before the day is over.”

You moaned around him, vibrating against his shaft, and that seemed to drive him wild. He pushed deeper, hitting the back of your throat while holding you firmly. Your eyes teared up, but you didn’t stop.

You wanted more. You wanted everything.

Suddenly, Beau stood up from the chair, pulled his cock out of your mouth with a wet sound, and lifted you as if you weighed nothing. He sat you on the edge of the desk, spreading your legs roughly and pushing your dress up to your waist.

“I need to fuck you,” he said urgently, kissing your neck and biting gently. “Now.”

You nodded without thinking, desperate. Beau positioned himself between your thighs, rubbed the thick head of his cock against your soaked pussy, and thrust into you in one deep movement.

“Ahh… shit,” you gasped, digging your nails into his shoulders.

He let out a throaty moan and started fucking you hard, making the desk move. Every thrust was deep and possessive. He kissed you hungrily, biting your lower lip while his hips slammed against yours.

“So tight…” he growled against your mouth. “I knew you’d feel this good.”

You came first, trembling and clenching around him as you tried to muffle your moans against his neck. Beau followed shortly after, burying himself to the hilt and cumming inside you with a long, low groan, filling you completely.

After several minutes, Beau pulled out of you, turned you around easily, and bent you over the desk. Your chest pressed against the cool wood while he pushed your dress up to your waist.

He entered you again from behind with one strong thrust, pulling a louder moan from you.

“Like that… let me hear you,” he growled, grabbing your hair gently as he fucked you deeper.

His hips slapped against your ass in a steady, delicious rhythm. One of his hands moved down to your clit and began rubbing it in circles, making your legs shake.

“Beau… please…” you gasped.

He fucked you hard like that for a while, then suddenly paused. One of his hands spread your ass as his thumb brushed over your tightest hole.

“Someday I’m going to take you right here too,” he growled against your ear. “I’m going to fuck this tight little ass until you can’t think straight.”

Breathless and overwhelmed with lust, you nodded.

“Yes…” you whispered.

Beau groaned in approval and fucked you even harder.

You didn’t last long like that, clenching hard around him as an intense orgasm ran through you. Beau kept moving, prolonging your pleasure, until he turned you around again and lifted you into his arms.

He carried you to the couch against the wall, sat down, and placed you on top of him, straddling his lap. He entered you again, this time looking into your eyes while you controlled the pace. His large hands roamed your back, your waist, and your breasts over the dress.

“Move, darling… I want to watch you,” he murmured.

You rocked against him, rising and falling, feeling him fill you completely in this position. Beau kissed your neck, gently bit your nipples through the fabric, and grabbed your ass, guiding your movements.

“Again…” he whispered against your lips, thrusting his hips up to meet you. “I want you to come one more time.”

“Beau… I can’t…” you gasped, exhausted and sensitive.

“Yes you can, baby,” he kissed you tenderly but continued fucking you with a firm rhythm. “Look at me. Let me feel you. Come with me…”

He kissed you nonstop, swallowing your moans as you moved on top of him. The pleasure rose again, stronger than before. You came for the third time, moaning against his mouth while he held you tight. Beau followed shortly after, cumming deep inside you with a throaty groan.

You both stayed wrapped in each other’s arms, breathing heavily, your head resting on his shoulder.

After a while, Beau stroked your back tenderly and kissed your temple.

“I’m going to sign that raise for your dad,” he whispered. “Tomorrow.”

You smiled against his neck.

“Thank you, Beau…”

He stayed quiet for a few seconds, as if debating with himself.

Finally, he let out a soft sigh and looked you directly in the eyes, with a vulnerability you didn’t expect to see in him.

“There’s something you need to know…” he said softly. “Your dad was going to get that raise anyway. I had already approved it two weeks ago. I was just waiting for the right moment to tell him.”

You blinked, confused.

“What…? Then… why…?”

Beau smiled shyly, almost embarrassed, and gently brushed a strand of hair from your face.

“Because I’ve wanted you for a long time, ever since the first time I saw you come to pick him up from work. You always seemed incredible to me… strong and beautiful. But I never dared to say anything. You’re the daughter of one of my best employees and much younger. I thought it was inappropriate.”

Your heart flipped. You looked at him, unable to fully believe it.

“Beau…”

“When you walked into my office today willing to do anything for your dad…” he continued, his voice rough but soft, “I almost died. I didn’t want you to lower yourself for something I was already going to give, but I also didn’t want to let you go. That’s why I asked you to stay.”

You stayed silent, processing his words. Then you smiled, feeling a warm glow in your chest, and kissed him slowly.

“So… all of this wasn’t just for the favor?” you asked against his lips.

“No,” he answered, returning the kiss with tenderness. “This was because I’ve wanted to have you like this for a long time, and now that I have you… I don’t want to let you go.”

You hugged him tighter, feeling his warmth surround you.

“I want to keep seeing you too, Beau,” you whispered.

He smiled against your mouth, happy and relieved, and kissed you once more, slow and deep, as if he had all the time in the world.

It’s only fifteen days into the summer holiday and Aerion knows that you are going to be a problem.

Which… shouldn’t bother him. Doesn’t bother him. He is Aerion Targaryen, his whole thing—the marketable thing, the specific, bone–deep identifier—is that he’s a chaos, and a defaulter, that one rotten apple that’ll eventually eat everything else in the barrel. A problem—such as you were—prim and proper and pretty in a disturbingly poised way should be the least of all his other troubles. Adding to the fact that he has at least a hundred other problems beating into his brain.

Adding into the fact that you have been a problem for the last ten summers of his life.

It doesn’t bother him.

At all.

—-----------------------

You were laughing with Valarr.

It was seven in the morning and Aerion had successfully sneaked inside the Manor—Summerhall’s walls are terribly susceptible to his maneuvers—when he heard it. You were wearing your nightdress, which was the first thing that he noticed. The soft, silken, silver thing was sneaking out of the red shawl you had wrapped around you as you walked with his cousin along the freshly planted rose bush in the garden of his summer-home. The shawl hung carelessly, just an inch over the swell of your backside—and Aerion would later say that it was the weed he’d smoked the night before—the cheap, badly rolled stuff, that made his head dizzy and feet stop—and the sight of it made him angry out of all things. Livid. 

It was his summer-home and his sanctuary from the rest of the fucked-up world and he should be well-within his right to not find an intruder loitering around its ground during the only time of the year he’s allowed to be a trouble-kid and not a generational warning. It’s specific. It’s the yearly tragedy. Time around his mother’s death anniversary when his father’s leash gets thinner and his attention gets more tender and Aerion has only a thin window of opportunity to get drunk and trash on everyone around him without any real consequences. Two months of summer is considered, by his father Maeker, as an acceptable period of mourning. Aerion doesn’t really care to understand why, but he prefers this time, this particular thickness in Summerhall’s air in these months, likes the way his father’s violet eye lingers, like the way Egg finds excuses to brush up with him, likes the effortless cruelty that everyone gives a hall pass to.

So yeah.

His time. His house.

Where you were basically trespassing. And he hated it, hated the way the morning light refracted off your body and the way your open hair seemed to absorb the sunlight rather than reflect it. It was darker in the shade as you walked with Valarr, hands behind his back, and Aerion was telling himself that he’d leave as soon as you saw him and he’d have the opportunity to say something crude. 

But then you laughed.

He froze, his anger froze—mid-rising, mid-thought. The fire washed over with an icy shield as if it wasn't there to begin with.

The sound—bright and strong, as clear and sharp as the sunlight—rang through him. It was uninhibited. Loud. Louder than he knows you allow yourself to laugh. Not a streak of poise in it. He could hear the breath stuck in your chest and the vibration when it finally rang out of your throat and the tiny, helpless giggle you made when you couldn’t stop. Valarr said something else and you breathed through your nose and made a sound, a half cry, made his knees buckle. He waited, like an orphaned child, for you to look back, to see him, to scoff or smirk at him. He wanted to say something cruel again, something about your unrelenting crush on his cousin, something about the gap in your teeth. Something that would make that composure in you break and the world would make sense again. He could imagine your face, as clear as a picture, even with your back to him.

But you didn’t turn, and he didn’t get to settle the itch in his skin. Your laughter vibrated off the hedge bush and the grass and the wall he just climbed through and everything and everything and it was everything. For one unbridled moment it was everything. 

Then Aerion felt his throat tighten. He wheeled back and walked away, his back to you and Valarr, his hands tightened around the beer can he’d snatched from Daeron’s hand an hour ago. The walk to his room took forever, he didn’t breathe until he snapped his door shut, refusing to let another thought, the only thought plague his brain. Because if he thought about it, for even a second, the truth was clearer and uglier than it had ever, ever been.

It’s dangerously simple. You laughed and it made his head stop ringing.

ahahahhh another story!! on top of all those unfinished ones!! but this one’s almost all-the-way written. there’s more of FMC in the next part, also. Smut.

lemme know if you like it!

more of my akotsk stories

even in the midst of war there are marriage proposals to be made so ormund shouldn't be surprised when there are offers for your hand, ones with an army to back him too. he doesn't tell you, mainly burns the letters and every time you bring up marriage to him, he tells you that these matters don't concern you. which confuses you because that was your main purpose growing up, to be a pious woman, quiet and obedient. to ready yourself for future marriage prospects because what honorable man would want a savage targaryen. and he wanted you to marry someone honorable, someone good enough to marry a hightower and now he doesn't even seem at all open to discussing it.

jealousy runs deep into ormund's veins, every letter and every mention of marriage upon your lips has him seething. he tries to keep it contained, to keep it a bay but the sex with you becomes rougher, pushing you into positions that have you trapped underneath him, no way to get out and his whole body weight on top of you. no matter how much you beg or cry that it's too much, he'll keep going until he's satisfied. part of him wants to ask you, what man could treat you like this? could ever begin to satisfy the needs of a targaryen like yourself? you need to be sedated and he's the only one truly capable to do it.

being separated from you isn't something ormund is used to, and knowing that you're not truly his, and there is always that possibility that you could be taken from him, it unnerves him. coming back from fighting, bruised and battered, he doesn't fully have the energy to fuck you how he wants. he likes it when you're all dosed up on the tea and you'll just use his body the way you need. he likes watching you, bouncing on him and breasts in his face. he loves teasing your nipples and your cunt with his fingers as you ride him. but most importantly, when you're exhausted too, he loves cockwarming you and clinging onto you in the bed. his mouth pressed to your pulse point, arm tucked around your waist and a leg over you, all while his cock is still deep inside of you, keeping his seed trapped there.

usually ormund is the first to wake up, already preparing for the day and being dressed by the maids. however, on days like this the exhaustion has got to him, and he's content sleeping with you tucked underneath him. only you do wake, the maids coming in with prepared foods and drinks and your tea. a tea that you find awful to taste, and before ormund is awake you pour it out the window. and when ormund stirs, and grumbles about the bed being cold, you crawl in beside him, letting him praise you for being a good girl and drinking your tea already.

the first time you deny him, ormund stares at you in disbelief. he can't fathom it, and when you tell him you feel fine, even after him desperately trying to convince you otherwise, ormund will force a smile on his face and nod his head.

your tricks only last so long and it's not till ormund is bringing the tea himself, just to be sure you're drinking it, does he realise what you're up to. you think you've caught him out, think that you've won his game and he'll marry you off and let you leave. but that's when the truth comes out, what sort of man would want you now? now that he has ruined you? now that he has bedded you? your virtue is gone and the whole camp knows that you've been sharing his bed. your reputation is destroyed. you could be carrying his child as you speak and no man would want to father some other man's bastard. wouldn't it be just easier to stay here, to worry for nothing or no one, to need nothing. he'd keep you warm and fed, all you'd have to do is bed him.

the actual horror when you realise the man that raised you, who you thought cared for you as his own, wants to keep you as his mistress, his pet. and yet all you can do is lie down on the bed, legs spread for him to take you again.

gwayne is separated from you because of his duties and the war, which he takes seriously. he doesn't enjoy it but he knows you'll be at home waiting for him like the dutiful wife he trained you to be. distance makes the heart grow fonder, well for him it does.

the first time he comes home to you, it's peaceful and sort of romantic. he'll push you down onto your shared bed and be placed between your thighs for what feels like hours, licking hungrily at your folds until your legs are trembling in his hold and you're gushing on his face. then he'll finally slide his cock into you, when you're crying from how overstimulated he made you and how sensitive you are.

but then night falls, he's been taken by duties of his household and when he returns to your chambers, he's less than happy. he doesn't frown, just stands over you in the bed with the coldest expression and tells you to bend over. he spanks your ass until it's red and your clawing at the sheets, crying out in confusion and then he shoves his cock deep inside of you with no prep at all. it's after, when you're shaking in the bed next to him, head buried into his chest, that he tells you what he heard from the others and you have to explain yourself.

every time he leaves you dread his return, every miss step, every encounter, every time you leave your chambers. he returns so calm and sweet, so attentive to you, only to switch on you later. you can never predict it and it makes you scared for his next departure.

Your parents have always been close friends, and it forces you to spend time together again and again. You steal his breath every time, appearing in teasing outfits. He convinces himself he's a gentleman, but he can't stop his wandering gaze. Valarr genuinely wants to shake you, grab you by the shoulders and rattle some sense into you, appealing to your reason.You seep into his thoughts slowly, like poison.

That your parents were friends never made the two of you friends, but you had your own opinion on the matter. You cooed sweetly that you needed his friendly verdict. Your fingers clung to Valarr's wrist, so you could feel the wild rhythm of his pulse. Excitement enveloped you both, but you wanted more. You wanted to stoke the fire between you. You playfully pushed him, making him fall into the velvet armchair in your room. "I can't choose a dress, will you help?" Your voice was deep, sensual. Valarr exhaled loudly, with a groan. Your silhouette was visible through the paper screen. You took your time, pretending the clasp of your dress had treacherously jammed. Your lips stretched into the widest, almost wicked smile. The light fell directly on your figure, and you bent down deeply as you let a piece of luxurious fabric fall with a feigned sigh. His fingers gripped the armrests of the chair, seeming as if the bones would crack under the pressure. Valarr stood up impulsively, but stopped halfway. He left without saying a single word.

You sat in the car patiently, with an air of complete superiority, knowing he would rush to open your door like a madman. You jumped out of the car, grabbing Valarr's tense shoulders. Your voice was weak, like the wings of a wounded bird. Something protective awakened in the Targaryen. He wrapped his arm around your waist for a few moments. His palm pressed against your lower back, forcing you to press closer to Valarr. You both took perverse pleasure in stolen closeness. One of his eyes seemed completely black, his pupils feverishly dilated. You hastily hoped that this big fish was already on the hook, but Valarr was already gallantly apologizing and asking if you were alright. He glanced at your shoes. Elegant pumps with a low heel. You couldn't have tripped on flat ground.

Valarr felt a burning shame for how undisciplined you made him. More than anything, he wanted to say to your face that you were a spoiled little daddy's girl. You don't care about anyone's feelings. You live for your own pleasure, and your pleasure costs a lot. You shamelessly complained to him about your ex-boyfriends, harshly listing all their faults. Valarr listened impassively, trying to concentrate on work, shuffling papers, but you wouldn't stop. You crossed every conceivable boundary. The Targaryen rubbed the bridge of his nose tiredly. His upbringing wouldn't allow him to throw you out. But it wasn't just about upbringing. Your annoying persona was addictive. His mismatched eyes tore away from the monotonous text and slid to the curve of your lips. Shutting you up would be perfect. Valarr hastily dismissed the thought. He was sure he would just become another checkmark on your list.

Valarr started smoking more often, and you were the reason. His fingers instinctively reached into his jacket pocket for that ill-fated pack of cigarettes, already crumpled from all the accumulated frustration. He inhaled the acrid smoke with wild greed. Nicotine couldn't banish your image from his thoughts. You tormented him, you made him feel like a dirty hypocrite. You called him a gentleman with a tender smile as you casually adjusted his tie. Valarr could no longer call himself that, not anymore, not next to you. He wrote you a message in the dead of night but never sent it. His phone buzzed with a new text he typed hastily, but the letters disappeared from the glowing screen just as quickly. The bed creaked as Valarr collapsed onto it hopelessly. His imagination painted you beside him, your hair on his white pillow, your body driving him mad beneath him. He smoked in the bedroom. He used to consider that vulgar. He used to consider your smiles vulgar, but why was he now waiting for you to drop some trifle right in front of him? Valarr bit his lips painfully, remembering the edge of your panties peeking out from under your trousers when you were looking for a lost earring. The fabric clung to your backside in the most tempting way. Your search ended in nothing good. The golden trinket remained abandoned, and the poor Targaryen was forced to hide his arousal for a long time, crossing his legs.

You were the devil incarnate, and Valarr dreamed of you whimpering beneath him, your eyes filling with tears, you pitifully begging him to stop, but he wouldn't. He wanted you to experience the same torture he felt in your presence. He wanted to fuck you so badly, to watch your legs tremble, to watch the pretense disappear from your pretty face. In his fantasies, you moaned his name hoarsely, as if none of those bastards you meowed about between sips of coffee existed. Valarr wanted to be your only one, not a victim, not someone you would ruthlessly cross off the list, shaking your head and saying "not the one."

He left you a velvet box with a mysterious expression. "You lost your earring." Valarr shrugged. Your eyes lit up greedily, and what you saw stunned you to your core. You squealed in amazement, no longer remembering if you were invoking God or Valarr's name. On the cushion sparkled diamond earrings, shimmering like morning dew, nothing like the ones you were looking for. The shock of such a fabulously and indecently expensive gift didn't fade. You thought about throwing yourself at him, covering his cheek with grateful kisses, but you felt frozen. He smirked, looking at you from under his brow, the corner of his lips lifted in a feline smile. He had done what you'd been after. So why were you so confused? Valarr said it was nothing and waved it off. Your bewilderment was enough for him. He seemed to have reached the real you, unraveling all the pearl threads.

That night, he would write to you. "One more accident of yours and I'll go crazy. It cost me a lot not to write you that I've wanted you for a thousand nights. So I'll ask you something else. Let's have dinner?"

You sighed with a smile, and in your thoughts you said, "of all the boys, he was a gentleman."

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