ΛΛ³Β·Λ Φ΄ΦΆΦΈ β β± π‘πππ£ππ - she/her - 20s. multi-fandom writer. certified fangirl. crybaby march pisces. lover of sinister women and men old enough to be my father. horror enthusiast. vampire girl. tommy miller sun, pope cody moon, lyonel baratheon rising.
this blog contains suggestive and sexual content, minors and ageless blogs dni! you are responsible for your own consumption.
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this is anon who sent in that ormund fantasizes about fucking targ reader in front of a crowd post. i was lowkey clenching my ass cheeks when i sent it hoping it wasnβt too much and would upset you im so glad/relieved u liked it + can i be π¦’ anon
omg this is so crazy cause baby one thing about me!!! when it comes to The Characterβ’οΈ absolutely nothing is too much
do u think ormund fantasizes about fucking targ!reader in front of an audience so they cal all see the way he cleanses targ!reader of their valyrian impurity with every thrust. bc i do!
jack abbot who is just so fuckingΒ big β§βΛβΉ
jack abbot who does the hand comparison thing and thinks it's real cute when you get all shy and squirmy when he folds his knuckles over the tips of your fingers. jack abbot who jokingly rests his arm on top of your head and laughs when you swat him away and huff about it. jack abbot who sees the way you get quiet afterwards because he's pressed that special button in your brain that makes your mind go blank, all those smart thoughts of yours replaced with carnal desire instead.
jack abbot who triesΒ reallyΒ fucking hard to indulge you every time you climb up in his lap and try to ride him, acting all confident as you sink down onto his thick cock and start to roll your hips. he puts his wide hands on your waist to try and guide you, to set the rough rhythm he knows you like best.Β
jack abbot who encourages you the whole time with a gentle voice, saying, "there you go, angel. doing so good for me. takin' it all, huh? yeah, that's it."
he lets you do your best, his hand quickly becoming more than than simply guidance as he maneuvers you himself, a pretty little doll for him to use.
you'll try to get yourself off for hours if he'd let you, but he never does. he only indulges you up until your moans turn to whimpers and then to straight upΒ whines. cause jack knows you'll never be able to give yourself what you need. he's just tooΒ bigΒ for you. so deep inside, filling you up so full that you can't move fast enough, never able to make it feel as good as he can.
but it's okay, because that's what he's here for. he smiles up at you all sweet like and ask, "you getting tired, pretty girl?"
and the moment you nod he's turning you over, hand splayed wide on the small of your back to keep his length fully inside you. jack situates himself so he's right between your spread legs, his hips grinding against yours. he lays his whole body weight on top of you, making you feel all warm and small and smothered in the very best ways.
jack abbot whoΒ laughsΒ when he wraps those big, strong biceps around your head and smushes you between them, delighting in the excited little squeal you give in response. he fucks you just like that, holding you in his embrace, so close he can feel your heart beating fast against his sternum.Β
his belly is soft, pressing into yours as he ruts his cock into your syrupy heat. you can feel and smell and see nothing but him, engulfed in all his safety. the graying curls at the base of his cock grow slick with your arousal, providing just enough friction against your clit that it only takes minutes before your walls clench around him.
jack abbot who talks you through it each and every time. who presses tender kisses against your cheeks and nose and forehead and whispers, "yeah, that feel good, baby? there you go. that's better, hm? just needed a little help. s'okay. i've got you. feel how deep i am? squeezin' me so tight."Β
he pumps you full of cum and stays inside of you until his cock softens in the mess he's made, giving a last few slow, deep strokes before he finally pulls out.
jack abbot who holds you in his arms and smiles to himself when you lay your head on his chest and start snoring a few short minutes later, sleepy and sated and satisfied.
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cw: smut | 18+, x fem!reader, daddy & sweetheart prob used too much.
the second jack came home for his nap before shift, clad in only his camo print cargos and a black t shirt that stretched deliciously across his arms, his chest and his belly. you are on him.
crashing your lips against his in fever, your hands pawing at his pecs. βwell good afternoon to you too babyβ he chuckles into the kiss as he drops his shoulder letting his camo sack fall at the front door. βyou look sβ good daddy mβsorryβ you whine out against his mouth as his large arms wrap around your torso. βthank you babyβ he hums.
βmissed you so much sweetheart you were asleep when i leftβ groaning as he holds you tighter to his body while you lick into his mouth.
lifting you off the floor a tad heβs walking the two of you over to the couch, falling back with a small hmpf from the pain in his injured shoulder before pulling you to straddle his lap. βmissed you more, are you sureee you havveeee to work tonightβ you whine, dragging your words as your nails run up the back of his neck through his silver curls.
βyup still gotta work, sorry sweetheartβ he smiles against your lips when you huff. βsβ okay baby daddy has some time before thenβ he coos, rubbing a hand down your back as you pull away from the kiss finally.
your spit slick swollen lips form a pout. βnuh-uh donβt gimme that, pouty girls donβt get daddyβs cockβ he tsks watching as your quickly wipe the facial expression away, βsorry daddyβ you grumble out.
βitβs okay baby, cβmereβ he grabs at your cheeks, squishing your face to peck your lips softly. βgonna be my good girl?β he prompts, holding your face inches from his as your hands tug his tucked shirt out of his pants. you nod eagerly making the older man smirk, βthereβs my girlβ
jack lets you pull off his t-shirt, him yanking your sweat shorts off your legs before his hands returning to holding you on his lap. grabbing onto your hips and thumbs rubbing back and forth at your waist.
βyou know was wondering where this shirt wentβ he comments referring to you wearing an over sized band shirt of his. itβs your favorite to lounge around the house in, you liked being in jackβs colthes and smelling like him when heβs out. all you give him is a shy smile before his hands slink up your body pushing the shirt up to strip it off you.
his eyes catch on your bra, its a regular t-shirt bra but instead of a solid color itβs camouflage print thatβs cupping your tits.
βwell look at that sweetheart, we matchβ he teases as your hips rut your aching soaked pussy against the camo covered bulge in his cargos.
tmi: iβm wearing a camo print bra and thatβs why i thought of this. anyway i have a headache and i want jack abbot bad.
the pitt x animal kingdom crossover
|| jack abbot x reader || pope cody x reader ||
summary: your first day at PTMC as a transferred resident was stressful enough without your entire past coming to haunt you.
|| angst, crossover fic, baran al-hashimi'sfriend!reader, SR3!reader, exbf!pope cody, resident!reader, medical jargon, this follows the pitt s2 pretty closely (scenes, patients, medical jargon that I def get wrong) animal kingdom s6 spoilers!!!!!!, grief, memories, flashbacks, one could call this a soulmate au, back in the day they might say a whump fic, age gap implied but not specific, timelines are not canon, lil bit of manhandling and tough love, slightly spiritual in the end (ghosts, spirits, parallel universes) ||
a/n: all credit to this tik tok that made me cry on a monday morning and some inspo from this post // last flashback inspired by pope x angela s4e11 // thank you @pearlessance for your big beautiful brain and your unending support!!
a/n II: im serious guys if you haven't watched all of animal kingdom or havent had the internet spoil it for you like me, do not read :)
wc: 13.8k
You know, for what it's worth, your first day had started normal.
Chaotic, maybeβ but normal.
You had no reason to think it wouldn't go by like any other.
Your attending, Dr. Baran Al-Hashimi, was scheduled at a new hospital today. Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center on the Fourth of July of all days. And at seven in the morning, you'd barely gotten down your iced coffee before you were being ushered into Trauma One for a left thoracotomy on a patient with a knife wound.
You followed them into the trauma bay, everyone getting prepared with surgical gowns, blue gloves snapping, masks pulled up over noses, the metal tray beside the bed already crowded with clamps and packs of gauze. In the middle of the room, the patient was being bagged through an airway, a nurse continuing chest compressions as his skin was slicked with sterile prep procedure, people moving around him like a choreographed dance. You watched from the edge, waiting for Dr. Al-Hashimi's command to join them.
You were grateful to see a few familiar faces. Dr. Samira Mohan, for one, who was calling for a chest tube while one of the nurses cut through the rest of the patientβs shirt. Dr. Mel King was there too, though she hadn't joined for the case. Both of them great doctors who had trained at the VA with you a few years ago. Different in their approaches, but just as good under pressure.
You and Baran were tied at the hip. You knew her, and she knew you.
Which was partially why you were able to get the PD approval and would be spending the next three months following her around a very surly male attending's emergency department.
"Is the VA even a trauma center?"
You didn't like his tone.
You glanced over through your plastic surgical glasses. He was tall, older and bearded, his arms crossed over his chest, standing at the edge of the hospital bed trying not to take as much space as he did. Robby, you remembered. Dr. Robinavitch. One of the residentsβa blond-haired doctor named Whitakerβhad told you he would grow on you, that he really was a great attending.
You didn't doubt it. You'd known enough great doctors to also know they could still be complete assholes too. Even on their good days.
"We took walk-ins." you said curtly.
Baran tried to hide her smile. Robbyβs eyes moved to you, held there for a second, then he nodded.
"We had falls, major MVCs, GSWs." she added with a much more polite tone than you had managed.
You listened to Dr. Whitaker on your left, asking the medical students questions about the procedure, differentials. Things you knew the answers to, the words sitting right there on the tip of your tongue, but you bit them back.
Teaching hospital, you reminded yourself. More specifically, someone else's teaching hospital.
"Javadi, Whitaker, glove up." Robby said to your left.
"You too." Baran said beside you. "Start on internal compressions."
Robby looked over. "I'd rather myβ"
"βshe is capable." Baran cut in gently. "And a good listener."
She nodded at you, jerking her chin up. "Go on."
You obeyed, grabbing your gloves from the boxes on the wall, the latex snapping at your wrists. A nurse slid the white surgical covering over your shoulders and tied it behind your back, the paper stiff against your neck. Everything smelled like betadine, blood, and plastic tubing.
The other residents began moving around, making room for the other two that crowded the table. You stepped in close, your toe brushing someone else's as you found a place near the open chest.
"Well hello to you too." one of them said, a woman to your left, her eyes narrowed, but even with the surgical goggles and mask, you could've sworn you saw a smile.
You only looked at her, squeezing yourself past, your shoulder sliding against her chest accidentally.
"Take me to dinner first, would ya?" she teased.
"Yolanda Garcia has trouble expressing her feelings," you heard Dr. Robby say to Baran across the room.
"I sure will miss you, rabbit-bitch," she called a little too loudly in your ear to him.
You saw him and Baran step closer, the two of them side by side at the foot of the bed. Not together, exactly. More like two people standing on the same square of floor and refusing to give any of it up, leaning in and almost hitting heads as they tried to look at what was going on.
There was a lot of talking around you. Samira's phone kept going off, Garcia was opening the chest cavity, her gloved fingers moving quickly through blood and tissue, clearly an OR fellow with many, many hours on the table. Whitaker was trying to explain to the medical students what was going on, his voice steady enough, though you could hear him working to keep it that way.
"No tamponade, pretty dry in hereβ" Garcia said quickly, looking in. "Heart's empty. Somebody start cardiac massage."
"On it, excuse me." you said, a little more forcefully as you stepped into the space between Garcia and a nurse. There was a half-second where the room narrowed to the patientβs open chest and your own hands. You placed them carefully, exactly where they needed to be, fingers closing around the heart. It was smaller than people thought. Slick, warm, a living muscle that didn't care how many times you had practiced this in simulation. A life.
You began compressions.
One squeeze. Release. One squeeze. Release.
"Okay team, I thinkβ" Baran began, but Robby cut her off.
"Samira?" he called, "Next steps?"
Keep transfusing. Open the right chest. Find the source. Move before he runs out of time.
There would be a lot of blood.
The blood started pouring out, pouring and pouring. Thick and red under the lights, running off the drape, splashing down into the basin below and onto the floor. Your fingers kept moving around the heart. Squeeze. Release. Squeeze. Release. Your forearms began to burn beneath the gown.
"There's too much blood to suctionβ" Javadi said, panic rising in her voice.
Where was all of this blood coming from?
"Can't locate the sourceβ" Garcia murmured, looking into the chest cavity.
"We need to convert to a clamshell." you said, looking up at Baran, then to Robby.
He nodded, "Exactly."
"Trauma sheers." you called at the same time as Garcia.
"Jinx, now you owe me a drink with dinner." she teased.
Someone handed them over before you could even think of a retort, not that you had one. Your brain had narrowed to the heart in your hands. The life you held there, retaining it, forcing it to continue. The metal flashed in the light before Garcia took them, cutting through the chest, opening it wider. The room shifted around the decision, everyone making space for the next problem.
More talking around you, more hands moving, more suction. Someone called for more units of blood, a second MTP. You kept your hands where they were, the heart softening and filling by turns beneath your palms, never enough to make you comfortable.
"Still bleeding like a stuck pig!" Garcia called after clamping.
You did have one ideaβone thing you could do to stop this. Something that could buy the patient enough time to get upstairs. But you knew Baran wasn't exactly keen on risky procedures done because the room had gotten desperate. Better to rush to the OR in her mind. Better to control what could be controlled, to keep the steps precise, to not make a bad situation worse with a move that could tear the lung off its root if done wrong.
But Robby seemed to have the same thing in mind.
"Hilum flip. Rotate the lung one-eighty degrees."
"Like putting a kink in the garden hose." you whispered to yourself.
Everyone looked at him like he was insane, but you knew there was no time to waste.
"Gently. Very, very slow." he said, his eyes on you and nodding. "Whitaker, take over compressions."
Letting go of the heart when Whitaker's hand found yours, you reached for the lung, then looked up at Dr. Robby again.
You glanced at Baran too. Her eyes were wide behind her shield. "He could die if you rip his lung off the hilum." she said.
"I won't."
You sucked in a shaky breath, nodding, and then looked back at Robby.
You looked down andβ
βslowly, slowly, you turned the lung.
There were so many bloody gloved hands tucking and moving around you, Whitaker's breath heavy beside you where he'd taken the heart from your hand a moment ago. Your fingers adjusted by tiny degrees, careful around the slick weight of the organ, your wrists stiff with restraint. The room felt close behind your mask. You held your breath for a moment, feeling Dr. Robby's eyes on you. Dr. Al-Hashimi's too.
Then Javadi called, "Blood loss slowing down!"
The words moved through the room like someone had opened a door. You let out a long breath of relief.
"Okay, we fixed the leak. Now we need to refill." Robby said, standing straighter, relief dropping his shoulders too.
You pulled away from the patient, letting Garcia take your place again, Whitaker standing tall and glancing at you with an impressed gaze. You didn't look at him for long, eyes back to the patient, to the monitor, to the line of numbers that suddenly mattered more than what anyone in the room thought of you.
Once normal sinus rhythm came back, you moved to stand back beside Baran. You hadn't realized how hard you'd been clenching your jaw until it loosened.
"Hell of a way to start the day." Robby said, disrobing the white sterile surgical covering. Baran followed suit, and you did the same, peeling the gown from your sleeves and dropping it into the bin. Your gloves were dark with blood, forearms aching.
"Unconventional. But a decent outcome." Baran agreed, every consonance perfectly crisp on her tongue.
All three of you left the bay, the noise of the monitor and raised voices disappearing with a swish of the doors closing behind you.
"Why don't we split up?" Robby said. "For efficiency."
"We can certainly discuss that." Baran answered with a smile. "I'll find you in a minute. I need to speak to my resident."
Robby made a face, but nodded. "Good job back there." he said shortly to you.
You gave him a polite smile, then threw your surgical glasses down into a bin.
Baran came in front of you, watching the attending walk away.
For a moment, neither of you said anything. The bay was still noisy behind you, people cleaning, counting, calling upstairs, stripping the room down so it could become useful again now that the patient was stable enough for surgery.
"I'm sorryβ¦ forβ¦ undermining your authority in the room." you said with a sigh. "I'd thought of it before he even said anything about the flip, I felt confident enough toβbut I should've askedβ"
"I have always said I admire your confidence, doctor." she said gently when she turned back to you. "Just remember, you have nothing to prove to them. Or to me. I know your work."
"But they don't."
"No," she said, and smiled, chin tipping up in pride. "But they will."
You looked down for a second, trying to breathe around the adrenaline still crawling under your skin.
"Go check your other patients," she said. "And I expect to hear some updates. Andβ¦excellent work. You saved the patient's life."
You nodded, sucking in a big breath before turning and going back to your charts.
A couple hours passed in much easier quietβthough you'd never say the Q word out loud. You hadn't worked in many emergency departments, but you knew better than that in any hospital setting.
Quiet wasn't really quiet anyway. There were still labs to chase, discharge papers to fix, scans to check, patients waiting to go upstairs and heart rate monitors beeping.
Your own patients were doing fine. A few waiting on labs, one getting ready for discharge, one still up at CT. Baran had sent you through triage for a while too, helping clear out the lower acuity cases before they stacked up. It was steady, easy work. It kept you out of the way, too.
You were just making your way across the emergency department when you saw the most peculiar thing. An entire SWAT team was rushing in beside a bed, one of their members holding a breathing bag up, cursing and calling out the trauma.
"intubated neck woundβstats not great. Is there a trauma room open?!"
You ran towards the voice, listening to the story.
Dr. Robby blocked your view as he ran toward the incoming trauma as well, already cutting toward the bay, calling out orders to his residents and students.
You heard something about a high-velocity gunshot wound, the bagging not working on him. Warehouse robbery gone sideways. That piqued your interest, a flicker of memory tugging at your brain, making you smile a little as you pushed the trauma doors open.
They were putting him on the table as you pulled on a surgical gown again, blue gloves and glasses going on quickly. Your heart rate was climbing, eyes wide as you took in the victim. His shirt had already been cut open, blood running out of his mouth, over his neck, soaking into the collar bunched beneath his shoulders. Someone was calling for suction, another trying to get a pressure. The other SWAT team members filed out of the room, making space. But still one of them stayed.
"Thought you left us for the open roadβ" the remaining team member said from the bed as the nurses got the patient hooked up to the heart rate machine.
You couldn't quite place why his voice sounded so familiar.
"And miss seeing you in uniform?" Robby shot back as he rushed beside the bed.
"Should've seen me as a flight attendant." the other man whispered.
You had half a mind to laugh as you pushed forward toward the patient, not looking up. You moved to the side of the bed instead, checking the tube, the blood around his mouth, the barely there rise of his chest beneath the bagging. Not enough movement on the left. The wound at his neck was still pooling blood and soaking the gauze someone had pressed there, bright blood slipping between gloved fingers and down into the sheet.
"You do this intubation?" Robby asked the man.
Why was this SWAT member still here?
You needed room to work, to get closer to the patient. You stood across from the uniformed man, not bothering to look up as you reached for the suction tubing and cleared blood from the corner of the patientβs mouth. You wished he'd leave so you could see clearer around all the nurses and students, wished his vest and elbows and radio weren't taking up so much of the narrow space by the head of the bed.
"Under active fire, yeah."
Your eyes flitted up to him.
Only for a second, or what you meant to only be a second, to see if he was serious.
But for that second, your brain did something very strange.
For the first time in 7 years, you were looking at Andrew Cody.
But⦠not Andrew.
Andrew wasn't here. Andrew wasβ¦ he wasβ¦
He was dead.
As the man turned to glance over his shoulder, it was Andrew's hair you were looking at. Graying now, still curly. The freckles on the nape of his neck you used to trace like constellations.
Your hand stayed on the suction tubing, but the room had slipped somewhere far away from you. Voices kept moving around the bed, Santos, Robby, Garciaβ all of them thinned out beneath the monitor and the hard thump of your pulse in your ears.
The SWAT member was still turned slightly, glancing back at the bullet graze across his left shoulder. The fabric there was torn, dark with a splotch of blood. He looked at it like it was nothing.
He was saying something, but it joined with the rest of the voices around youβmuffled in your buzzing ears. You heard something about the SATs going down, about causes of respiratory failure in intubated patients. Things you'd have answers to if you weren't looking at your dead ex boyfriend.
And he looked back at you.
It felt like someone had taken you by the shoulders and plunged you underwater.
But this man was Andrew. Older, for sure. Older than time would've allowed in those 7 years anyway. There were marks of it around his eyes, in the set of his jaw, in the heavier shape of his shoulders beneath the tactical vest. But those were Andrew's eyes. Those were his lipsβlips you knew, lips you'd kissed, lips that whispered secrets in the dark, lips that had curled back and bared at you the last time you spoke.
You heard the talking around you, but you were frozen. Completely frozen as he smiled at youβthis SWAT member, this stranger who wasn't a stranger. Your brain was trying to catch up to the uncanny likeness.
You wanted to cry. You felt like you might faint.
You opened your mouth, lips dry, voice tight, and said:
"Pope?"
seven and a half years earlier
"I'm nervous."
It was darkβsometime around two or three, you thought. The only time Andrew could sneak in through your window without your parents hearing the latch of the gate, the scuff of his boots on the siding, the soft creak of your floorboards when he walked across the room to sit beside you on the bed. You hadn't turned on the light, maybe some part of you thought if you did it would all be too good to be true.
"Me too."
"What do you have to be nervous for?" you breathed a little laugh that felt stale in the darkness, your hands a little shaky around the envelope.
You felt the thick sleeve of his jacket rise and fall as he shrugged, "Dunno."
He was sitting very close, his right shoulder tucked behind your left, his palm flat on the bed behind you as he leaned into you until his chest pressed against your shoulder. His jacket was rough against your skin, still cold from outside, but underneath it he was warm, the heat of him coming through by degrees.
You sucked in a shaky breath, "Big envelope usually means good news, right? Right?"
"I have no idea."
"You're so helpful."
"M'here, aren't I?"
You nodded, and then realized he might not be able to see it. "Yeah."
Shifting the envelope in your lap, you turned it over, then back again. The seal caught a thin line of moonlight from the window, your name looking so neat on the front, printed by someone who had never met you. Someone who didnβt know about the hours spent at Smurfβs kitchen table filling out applications beside J, or Andrew grabbing cash from a rubber-banded stack in his glove compartment to pay for the application. You hadnβt asked where it came from, though you'd already had a good idea.
"Are you gonna open it?" he asked.
"I'm scared."
"Do you want me to open it for you?"
You shook your head, "No, no. It's okay."
"Soβ¦"
"It's just that⦠my whole world is in this envelope right now." you said quickly. Admitting it felt surreal, it gave weight to the paper in your hands. You let your fingers trace over the parchment, the white address sticker peeling up a little as you picked at it. It felt as if maybe it would come up, and someone else's name would be under it. Like it wasn't meant for you after all.
He stayed quiet, waiting for you to go on.
"If this letter says I didn't get in⦠I don't know what my life looks like. I mean, what would I do?"
"You can stay with me." he said softly, just breath against your jaw as he leaned into you. "We would figure something out."
You nodded. "I know. Butβ¦ if it says I did get inβ¦"
"It will."
You looked over at him. You could see the outline of his face, the barely there moonlight catching the pretty light in his eyes. You leaned in further, pressing your forehead to his temple, letting out a long sigh.
His skin was warm there. A little damp near his hairline from the hood of his jacket, from the climb, from the summer night still caught on him. Your grip shifted around the envelope, paper dragging against your cotton shorts. When you spoke again, it was hardly a whisper.
"How can you be so sure?"
He rolled his head against yours, gently, sucking in a breath with you before letting it out. The smell of pine soap and minty toothpaste moved over your face with it.
"Because this is what you're meant to do. I know it. I just do."
You licked your lips, smooth with your bedtime lotion and chapstick already applied, leaning into him a little more, pausing there. You felt close enough to feel his breath touch your mouth before either of you moved.
He closed the distance, gently pressing his mouth against yours, breathing you in through the kiss.
His hand found your faceβrough palm, calloused fingers, the careful cup of his touch beneath your jaw. It always did something strange to you, how gentle he could be with hands that had evidence of so many split knuckles past. His thumb moved over your cheekbone, soothing.
When he pulled away, you almost followed.
His eyes moved over your face in the dark. Searching, maybe, or checking. He said he never had the right words for this sort of thing, not really, but you didn't need them. Because he looked at you like he was trying to make sure you were still there with him. And that was more than anyone else had ever offered.
His other hand came up, fingertips light as they cupped your skull, turning your face just enough for the moonlight to catch it. To one side, then the other. It should have made you laugh, the seriousness of it, the way he studied you so intensely.
Then he leaned in one more time, pressing a featherlight kiss to the tip of your nose.
"Open it." he whispered.
You pulled in one last breath before sitting up straight, crinkling the corners of the manila envelope before flipping it over. You took your time, carefully unfolding the wire clasp, gently slipping your finger between the closure before the sound of tear of paper filled the room.
Pope's hand lifted from the bed behind you to wrap around your body, squeezing you close.
Slowly, you pulled a stack of papers out.
Your eyes immediately dropped to the first line below the greeting of the first page:
On behalf of the Committee on Admissions, we are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to the Johns Hopkins University School of Medicine.
Even in the dark, there was no second guessing it. The words were there, black and perfect on the page, and your whole body seemed to understand them before your mind could.
Your vision narrowed, your world opened up, a future you had no idea how to take part in but knew you'd be there anyway. Something changing in your own chemical makeup, the feeling of Andrew's arm around you, squeezing you tighter, whispering something.
When you turned towards him, he was already looking at youβso close in the dark, eyes bright and mouth pulling wide like he couldnβt help it.
You smiled back, big and toothy and disbelieving, your throat burning as tears began to gather. The papers slipped from your hands and scattered to the floor as you threw your arms around him, pushing him back into the bedspread with a burst of hushed laughter.
now
"Pope?"
The man who looked like Andrew's lips pulled into a little smile, his head tilting at you, inquisitive.
"You know," he said, voice touched with amusement, "I never pay attention to that stuff. Can't even remember the guyβs name. He's from Chicago, right? I grew up Catholic, so really I should know."
You blinked.
"Dr. Abbot is an attending here," Robby said as he came up beside you, peeling back the soiled gauze around the patientβs throat and revealing the displaced trachea beneath.
You looked down at the patient again, and the transected trachea snapped you almost back to the present. Almost. Your hands were still shaking, your brain still scrambling to separate the man across from you from the dead one in your memory, but you had to get yourself together. The patient could die if you didn't focus.
"BabyβI need a babyβ"
The SWAT memberβDr. Abbot, if you remembered right, looked at you a little funny. You shook your head sharply as if to dislodge your running thoughts and organize them with a quick jostle just as another resident moved in beside him with an air bag. The breathing tube was out now, the open wound exposed, blood spluttering from it.
"I mean, a neonatal mask. I need a neonatal mask! He's not getting any air."
You looked around, everyone was still looking at you a little weird, but Robby only nodded his head, agreeing. "Santosβgo!"
"Neonatal?" she asked.
"YES!" you barked, and you were surprised to hear Robby's voice overlapping yours.
She was only gone for a moment, but it felt longer than it should have. Too many seconds with the monitor complaining, too many hands hovering over a body that had no usable airway.
The moment the mask hit your palm, you pressed it over the open wound, sealing it against his neck while someone squeezed the bag.
The monitor began to settle down to a steadier beat.
"Neo-natal mask is working," Dr. Abbot said, his voice lighter than before, almost impressed. Dr. Santos continued the EFAST while the patient was stable enough, and Abbot injected lidocaine with epi to help with the bleeders. Things felt almost normal again, or at least close enough to pause and figure out the rest.
You kept looking up at him though.
Not on purpose, and not for very long. Your eyes would lift, catch on the curve of his mouth or the set of his brow, and then youβd force them back to the patient, to the wound, to the monitor, to anything with a number attached to it. Your brain kept trying and failing to separate memory from present.
He and Robby were talking, discussing next steps around you.
"I could do a Shiley?" you offered.
"I don't like the curve of a Shiley." Dr. Abbot teased.
"Didn't know you were so picky," Robby answered. You almost had the nerve to smile.
This was turning into a very weird day.
When you looked back over to Dr. Abbot, he was looking at you. Your skin lifted in goosebumps.
"You must be Gloria's new hire," he murmured.
"One of them." you answered.
He tilted his head to the side, his eyes skating over your features. You wondered what he saw when he looked at you. Your presence didnβt seem to have the same effect. He was calm, collected, nothing like you felt.
Robby answered before he could say anything, "We were lucky enough to get two." he introduced you by name, then explained, "R3. "
He didn't sound like he felt very lucky, but you ignored that.
"Pleasure to meet you." Dr. Abbot said. You could swear there was a certain tone to his voice. Cheeky, almost. Your skin felt tingly.
Just then, you heard Baran's voice enter the room, "What is going on here? You have a field medic assisting?"
"Dr. Abbot is an attending and also a SWAT physician." Robby explained again to her.
"Transected trachea, we're working on an airway." you explained.
Dr. Abbot was moving in with his tube, explaining it to Dr. Santos, but Baran had shouldered her way between you and the resident.
"We can do this." she said stiffly.
"No, no," he said easily. "I got it. You must be Gloria's second hire. I'd shake your hand, but my tube is ready."
You felt your lips twitch in what could've been a smile if you didn't feel like you'd lost your breath entirely.
"Keep an eye on the SATs," she told you over her shoulder.
You backed away, holding your hands up to keep them from touching anything or anyone.
"What, you're gonna take away the only helpful person in the room?" Abbot asked as he inserted the tube into the retracted trachea while Robby pulled it up with forceps, Santos taking over on the air mask.
"Hey," Robby protested. "I'm the one holding this open for you."
Dr. Abbot smiled, focusing back on the patient, "I'm gonna sew this in, 2-0 silk, please?"
"End tidal, good wave form." you called out, eyes flitting from the attending to the screen.
Robby let out an impressed whistle from in front of you. "Not bad, Abbot."
You moved away, feeling a little hazy, like you were walking through water as you began stripping off your sterile surgical gear. You took in a few deep breaths, focusing on the movement. Glove off. Gown untied. Mask flicked off. Glasses lifted from your face. One thing, then the next.
But you couldn't help the way you kept wanting to look back at him.
It felt almost like you'd been transported. You weren't sure if it was back in time or forward, or to some strange parallel universe that had split open in the middle of Trauma One. Andrew Cody was standing in the room. Graying hair, stubble grown out, blood on the back of his SWAT uniform, his hands busy at a patient's throat.
Not AndrewβDr. Abbot.
Your brain offered the correction, but it didnβt settle right.
He looked up as if you'd called his name. Those eyes followed you across the room, curious, wondering. It was the same steadiness that would study you from across the kitchen counter, the one that would sneak glances at you from the driver's seat of a car, beside you in your bed. Your stomach dipped as you remembered the last time you'd seen them.
You turned away, unconsciously reaching up to grasp the necklace that adorned your throat between your fingers as you pushed the doors open.
The ED had gotten busier than before, and you inhaled the hospital air steadily into your lungs as you looked around. Your hands still felt like they were trembling, all that adrenaline and unease working its way through your bloodstream. Epinephrine, norepinephrine, cortisol. You recited it just to have something you knew. Something that was real. Adrenal medulla. Sympathetic nervous system. Hypothalamic-pituitary-adrenal axis.
Your body was doing exactly what it was built to do, flooding you with chemicals and tightening your muscles, preparing you for danger.
But instead of danger this time, it was a ghost.
Time passed strangely after that, in pieces easily measured. A CBC resulted. A urine sample collected. X-ray called to say they were ready for the wrist in triage. You'd gone back out there to let your thoughts collect, and maybe to avoid the main trauma center too.
Usually work helped. Even when you'd had bad days before, or days where you felt helpless and tired and worn out, the hours of helping other people could usually quiet whatever was wrong with you. There were orders to put in, pulses to check, nurses asking for discharge plans. There was always something that needed your hands more than your feelings did.
But now⦠this was different.
In every patient checked, every lab sent, you thought of Andrew Cody.
A broken wrist came in at some point, swollen at the joint and held tightly against the patient's chest, her fingers moving but stuff. Her skin was puffy where it began to swell by her apple watch she hadn't taken off. You touched two fingers to her radial pulse, asking her to wiggle her fingers, then pressed along the snuffbox until she hissed.
"Sorry," you'd murmured. You'd ordered the films and ordered a splint until ortho took a look at her, simple and easy enough.
Except as you were doing it, you felt twenty years old again in a sunken living room in Oceanside, Craig Cody's wrist tucked against his own lanky chest while Deran paced behind you, agitated and barefoot as he tried to call their doctor in Mexico.
Andrew had been standing stiffly behind your chair, one hand gripping the back of it so that when you sat up, his knuckles brushed the top of your spine.
You'd been googling how to make a splint for a broken bone while walking to the fridge for ice. You remembered Craig looking at you funny when you'd returned with one of Smurf's magazines from the bathroom and a roll of duct tape from the junk drawer, wrapping his arm with more confidence than you actually felt.
It had healed fine in the end.
Mostly.
There was a man with split knuckles from a bar fight. Typical day drinking incident for a city like this. But while you cleaned his wounds and bandaged his hand, you thought of Andrew's blood rinsing from his hands in your bathroom sink, quiet while you sat on the closed toilet seat with a towel in your lap. How he would never admit how badly it hurt. Or how badly he hadn't wanted to do it.
There was even a pair of twins, both with fevers. A boy and a girl, maybe four years old, sitting side by side while their mother tried to keep them from touching every surface in the room. They had the same flushed cheeks, the same damp hair at their temples, the same tired little lean toward each other whenever one of them started to cry.
You hadn't known Andrew that young. You hadn't even been alive. But seeing them staring up at you with those big fever-bright eyes made you think of him anyway. Andrew and Julia. Inseparable, but both destined for a tragic end.
You checked their ears, listened to their lungs, pressed gently under their jaws while they blinked up at you. Viral, probably. Nothing too bad. Tylenol, fluids, return precautions. A normal childhood illness on a normal terrible day.
On your way back into the trauma center, you sent a little prayer up that the story of Andrew and Julia would never happen to them.
By the time you made it back to your workstation that had you seated around the edges of the charge nurse area, you felt a little refreshed from your earlier encounter. You hadn't seen the SWAT memberβor attending, or whatever his title really wasβanywhere yet. That helped too.
You took your seat and pulled the keyboard closer, the plastic keys worn smooth under your fingertips as you brought up the charts that needed finishing. A coffee you'd grabbed on the way over sat beside the mouse, lid half off, the surface already cooling. You began finishing your charts, trying to keep your eyes on the screen and your thoughts inside the room you were in.
"You've been gone for a while."
You looked over your shoulder to see exactly who you'd expected: Baran, standing straight, looking over your shoulder, her perfume faint against the hospital smell.
"Just making myself useful in triage, I guess." you said, looking back at the screen, but you felt her eyes on you anyway.
She let the silence sit there for a moment, the way she always did when she thought you might fill it if she waited long enough. You didn't. You clicked into the next chart and pretended the cursor needed all your attention.
Finally, she sighed.
"Are you ever going to give my generative AI a chance? You could be seeing other patients right now. You could be enjoying a small break in the lounge."
You huffed a little laugh. "When I'm ready to wipe out all the wildlife for data centers, I'll let you know."
She shook her head, a little pressed smile catching at the corner of her mouth. And then, after a moment, she said: "You've been avoiding me."
You paused, fingers hovering over the keyboard.
Damn her for being so observant. It made her a great doctor. It also made her an annoyingly keen boss. And a wonderful friend.
You turned on the rolling stool.
"I"m sorry. It'sβ¦"
"Did you know him from somewhere?"
Your eyes widened, heart dropping. Feigning ignorance, you asked: "Who?"
"The patient," she said, watching your face. "The one with the transected trachea. He's in surgery right now. I can call for an update if you'd like."
You let out your breath quickly, almost too quickly. "Oh. No, no. I didn't."
Her eyes narrowed a little, that brown gaze searching your face with a steadiness you had watched study patients, consultants, nervous interns, men who thought they could talk over her.
"Okay." she said.
You could hear the tone of disbelief under it, the things she wanted to say but wouldn't.
Clicking your tongue softly against your teeth, you looked down at your lap, at your hands folded there, at the faint red mark across the back of one finger from where one of the twins had held onto you tightly as you took their blood.
"Wellβ¦" she continued. "I trust if it's something that needs discussing, you wouldβ"
"βYes, yes, I promise." You looked back up at her. "I justβ¦ I needed to clear my head. I'm good. I'm back."
Baran held your gaze.
It wasn't like a typical attending, not harsh or deciding whether you were fit for work. More like Baran the friend, the one who had once shared a bowl of popcorn and Raisinets on her couch with you as you watched Love Island after her surgery. She knew what you looked like when you were lying. She knew what you looked like when you were telling only half a truth too.
"Okay." she said at last, a smile twitching back to her lips. "You can help me with a middle-aged woman with sudden-onset blindness. Mel is heading up for her deposition soon, and I need someone in there to observe."
"Sure, yeah." You nodded, turning back toward your chart before she could keep looking at you. "Give me a few minutes to finish this, and I'll be over."
She tapped two fingers against the counter beside you, then walked away. "Room 15."
You watched her reflection move across the dark edge of your computer screen before you started typing again.
The words came slower than they should have, and eventually you gave into the notion that you'd probably be spending an hour after your shift catching up, just like the rest of the residents anyway.
You closed out of the charts, and headed over.
Only, halfway across the department, you realized Baran hadn't said where the patient was. Room 15, yeah. But there were 3 different fifteens in this god damn maze. North, South, Centralβ¦
You slowed near the charge board, coffee still in your hand, eyes scanning the names too quickly to make sense of them. Looking for anything resembling blindness or vision loss, neuro, consult pending. You found none of it fast enough. You felt the department going on around you, noisy and distracting.
You gave up and walked a few steps away, looking around the different doors, and just decided you'd try all three.
Central Fifteen was closest, and the curtain was pulled all the way across, so you approached, trying to plaster on your best bedside smile.
You pulled it open.
The sight inside hit you so fast you gasped, nearly dropping your coffee as your other hand tightened around the curtain, wrenching it closed again.
Your heart felt like it had catapulted into your throat, your stomach falling the opposite way onto the floor.
Not Andrew, not Andrew, not Andrew, you kept chanting it as you squeezed your eyes shut, forcing your breath in and out of your lungs.
"You⦠can come in." the voice said from the bed. It was low and careful and quiet, startled too. His hazel eyes had been wide, flickering up when you'd scared him too. Those broad shoulders bare, thick muscled chest plain as day with his shirt in his hands.
You sucked in another breath and opened it slowly this time to see Dr. Jack Abott sat on the exam bed before you.
seven and a half years earlier
You weren't sure what had gotten into Andrew that day.
It had been a sunny Friday afternoon, the place already loud with music and vices carrying throughout the house. Andrew had asked you to come, and he'd sounded so serious over the phone you hadn't even hesitated.
But now he'd locked you out of his room.
At first you weren't sure if it was just because he needed a minute, or he was messing with you. But Andrew didn't mess with you like Craig or Deran did. He didn't tease just to tease or make you chase him around for the fun of it. If Andrew was making something difficult, there was usually a reason.
You knocked on the door softly at first, a gentle little C'mon, Andy, open up, before you'd started really knocking, practically shouting for him to answer you. The house went on behind you, the day drinkers enjoying summer out by the pool, drinks being poured in the kitchen, a game of kings in the living room. Music carried all through the house. It was why you'd thought maybe he'd just been overwhelmed. Usually an hour or so into a party, the both of you would retreat to the company of only each other in a quiet room.
You leaned your head against the wooden door, and listened.
He was pacing. You could hear him mumbling to himself too, what it was he was saying, you had no clue.
What was his problem?
You were lifting your head from the door, about to go join the party outside when suddenly the bedroom opened up.
"What the hell, Andrβah!"
You squealed as he grabbed your wrist, pulling you inside roughly. Then, just as abruptly, he stood away from you, breathing hard, eyes moving over the bed, the nightstand, the floor by his shoes, anywhere but directly at your face.
"Sit." he said simply, pointing to the bed.
"What the hell is going on with you?" you snapped, folding your arms over your chest.
He was doing that thingβthe puppy dog eyes, rubbing of his palms together, the eye contact flitting around to anywhere but you. It would have been irritating if it didn't make your stomach twist. You knew him angry, you knew him quiet. And you knew this version tooβnervous, child-like.
Andrew could scare other people with all his silences and hard staring, but you knew the difference. This wasnβt anger. This was him getting stuck somewhere in his head, turning a thought over and over until it wore a groove.
"Heyβ¦" you said, and then again, softer: "Hey."
He looked up at you. His big hazel eyes were wide in the afternoon light that came through the bedroom window, softened and yellow by the drapes.
"What's going on?" you murmured, stepping closer and reaching out to take the sides of his hoodie in your hands, fisting the fabric so you could pull him closer.
The fabric was warm under your fingers, the pocket stretched out where he always hooked his thumb. You could feel his breath move through him, uneven under the cotton. He stared at your hands.
"Andyβ¦" you said, quieter.
His eyes flicked to the bed.
"Sit."
You sighed, let go of him, and obliged.
You bounced a little as you landed on the mattress, his unease making you fidget. You could smell the detergent from the perfectly made bedspread, the old wood of the house, the smell of your sunscreen wafting around you.
"You're making me nervous." you murmured.
His eyes finally landed on you and stayed there, "M'sorry. I'm sorry."
He sounded so genuine as he sat beside you finally, the mattress dipping under his weight. His knee brushed yours before he pulled it back, and his hand flattened over the seam of his jeans. You watched his thumb press into the denim, rubbing at the same spot, the skin around his nail going pale.
"Justβ¦tell me what's goin' on." you said, laying your hand gently over his.
He was fidgeting too, pursing his lips, his eyes down turned again. Then he leaned toward his bedside table, opened the drawer, and pulled out a leather pouch. There was a gold cord wrapped tightly around it, leather softened and expensive. He held it out while not even looking at you, taking in a long shaky breath.
You took it carefully, setting it in your lap with two hands. "What's this?"
He didn't answer.
"Andyβ"
"It's nothin'." His eyes stayed on the floor. "Justβwell, not nothing."
"If this is what I think, I can't accept."
"Yes, you can."
You rolled your eyes.
He leveled his gaze very seriously on you, his brow set, his hands suddenly still. "Will you just open it?"
You looked at him for a long moment, and then sighed. Fighting him was futile when he had something on his mind.
You looked back down at the leather pouch and untied the gold cord. The knot had been pulled tight, and it took you a second to work it loose with your nail before you unfolded the worn pieces of leather.
Something glittered beneath.
"Ohβ" you gasped.
Inside was a diamond necklace.
A white-gold chain connecting to a bejeweled bail that held two small circles stacked above an oval stone, the whole pendant ringed in more diamonds, so bright that it threw little cuts of light across the inside of the pouch.
You were almost certain it was worth more than anything you had ever owned.
You looked up at him. "Andyβ¦"
His jaw shifted, but he was looking at you differently nowβthose big hazel eyes stayed on you, waiting, nervous, still, but changed with a softness that often was reserved for only you.
"I wanted to get you something," he said, voice low, "for getting into the program. Do you like it?"
"Andy, I can't accept thisβ"
"Yes you can." he corrected. His tone was soft, hoarse like he was telling you a secret instead of trying to hand you what had to be a five-figure diamond necklace. You wondered if his brothers knew what you were given. If Smurf had any say.
"Whβwhy are you even giving me this? Aren't the cops gonna be looking for it?"
He tilted his head at you and whispered, "Don't worry about that stuff. I'll handle it."
You shook your head in disbelief, fingers toying with the white gold chain in your lap. For a moment, you didn't know what to do about him. About his kindness, his generosity, the over-the-top gestures he often made without understanding they were over-the-top at all. To him, it was direct. You loved someone, so you gave. You celebrated.
You loved him for it, for him wanting to give so much. The way he made sure you understood how much you meant to him, never questioning or second guessing.
Still, you wondered if he'd taken it from under his family's noses when they weren't looking. You were almost certain you knew the job it came from, too. The mansion you'd visited under the guise of a decorating crew with a little black dress on, hair pinned and proper, clipboard to your chest while you smiled at a woman who had no idea you were memorizing the hallway behind her.
"We could've gone out for a drink to celebrate!" you said under your breath, though it wasn't mean.
He shook his head. "You worked hard to get in. You deserve more than a round of shots at Deran's shitty bar."
You stared at the necklace. He whispered your name, and you looked up.
He leaned in closer, making sure you heard every word as he said, "You deserve to be celebrated."
You pressed your lips together, your eyes moving over his faceβthe freckles across his nose, the little scars near his brow, the old nick at his cheek you still remembered touching the first week you knew him. You'd never seen someone flinch like that before. You thought of how he hasn't flinched from your touch in years now. It makes your chest warm as you look at his cheekbones. They were sharper than they had been a month ago, his eyes darker underneath, like he hadnβt been sleeping well.
"Do you like it?" he asked again, quieter this time, his voice losing some of its edge.
You let out a breath, smiling despite yourself. "Yes."
His shoulders eased, a small shift under his hoodie, but his eyes stayed fixed on you. Then, he smiled. Small, almost hidden at first, just the corner of his mouth lifting. And then his whole face split, his cute toothy grin, dispelling all the tension in his muscles. Your own smile grew before you could stop it.
"You do?" he asked.
"Of course I do."
He leaned in slowly, as if unsure if you'd pull away (you never, ever did) and kissed you gently. His mouth was warm against yours, chapped where he'd been most likely biting at it all day before you got to the house. You held the kiss, lips slotting together, and his hand came up to your cheek, thumb brushing along your jaw, keeping you close.
Your tongue dipped out to trace the underside of his top lip, and he opened for you, eager enough that your breath caught. His tongue slid against yours, and the kiss deepened, both of you breathing heavier as your hand moved up his chest and around his neck, fingers curling into the brown hair at his nape.
Before you could get as carried away as you wanted, he pulled back. Neither of you let go. His forehead nearly touched yours, his hand still at your face, your fingers still in his hair, both of you panting into the small space between your mouths.
"Let me put it on you." he said.
You smiled a little, leaning forward to push your forehead into his before giving in, "Fine, okay, yeah."
He straightened with the necklace in his hands, the chain flashing between his fingers before he stood and crossed to the dresser. You followed him, still breathless from the kiss, the leather pouch left open on the rumpled bed behind you.
The mirror leaned against the wall by the window, catching the softened sunlight through the curtains and spilling it warm across your face, your neck, the front of your shirt. Andrew came in behind you in the reflection, shoulders broad around yours, head bent as he lifted the necklace.
His fingers brushed your skin as he worked the clasp, so careful that you barely felt them. The chain settled cool against your neck, and the pendant rested heavy at the base of your throat, glittering in the mirror each time you breathed.
Andrew leaned into you from behind, his chin hooking over your shoulder. "There." he murmured.
It was beautiful, you had to admit. Glittering in the golden warm light.
"It's perfect, Andy." you murmured.
"You're perfect." he whispered, pressing a kiss to the side of your neck.
Heat rushed to your face, and you lifted a hand over your shoulder, pushing your fingers back through his hair as his arms wrapped around your middle. His mouth stayed at your neck, kisses soft at first, then heavier, his teeth catching lightly at the sensitive skin beneath your jaw.
"Want you to wear it," he said between little nips. "Nothing else."
"Oh, yeah?" you giggled.
"Mhm," he hummed.
He turned you around in his arms and kissed you harder, one hand going to your hair, the other low at your waist as he walked you backward toward the bed.
now
He even had the same freckles.
There was a mole on his right pec, and your eyes dropped to it before you could stop them. Andrew had one there too. You used to kiss it when he'd lead you to bed, when he'd let you kiss all his marksβscars, moles, freckles, the places violence had touched him and the places heβd simply been born with.
You blinked hard and made yourself look away.
This wasn't Pope. It wasn't Andrew.
It was strange, seeing a body you knew so well shaped by time and some other life. There was a time Andrew had started boxing because he thought it would help get out his worst thoughts, and for a while, it had. Heβd built himself for muscle and strength, for something to do with his hands besides hurt people, or himself, or anyone who got too close on the wrong day. Even after he quit, he kept the shape of it, strong through the shoulders, leaner when he forgot to eat, his body always carrying whatever his mouth couldn't say.
Jack Abbot seemed similar, though broader now, thicker through the chest and middle, less carved by violence and more by age, work, routine. The same kind of body built to carry too much. The same kind of shoulders that looked like they were holding a door shut from the inside.
You wondered if he was trying to outrun scary thoughts too.
"I'm⦠sorry." you said, breath uneven as your eyes went back up to his face.
There, some of the freckles were different. Less sun maybe, no California sunshine out here in Pennsylvania, no Oceanside glare to leave burns on the skin year round. But still. There were too many similarities, the kind your brain kept trying to make sense of and failing. Your blood thrummed in your ears again, warm and rushing.
"I was just⦠looking for a patient."
Jack looked at you funny again, his eyes scanning you, trying to read the messy thoughts behind your eyes, you figured. You probably looked insane.
"It's okay."
"Are you okay?" you asked, jutting your chin up toward his shoulder. Focusing on something you could see, understand.
He glanced back at it as he opened the kit on the medical tray in front of him. "Yeah, bullet just grazed me."
"Jesus."
"S'nothin'." He picked through the supplies with one hand, tearing open a packet with his teeth before thinking better of it and using his fingers. "Geniuses thought it was a good day to rob a goods warehouse. Didnβt think about how much time it would take to load everything up."
You nodded, your throat beginning to burn. You wondered who the kids were, if they were another crew like the Codys had been, sitting around a kitchen table with beer bottles and a map, thinking through cameras, doors, exits, timing. Or if they were idiots with guns and no plan, chasing the rush before theyβd learned how much a bad one could cost.
"Did⦠you catch them?"
"Yep."
You huffed a little laugh despite yourself. "Wellβ¦ I should probablyβ"
But when you looked up, he was trying in vain to reach the wound, his shoulder rolling forward, arm lifted awkwardly behind his head. The graze sat high along the back of his right shoulder, too far around for him to clean well. He tried anyway, jaw set, antiseptic swab pinched between two fingers, his back arching a little to reach.
Your mouth was opening before your brain could stop you, "Give me that."
"I'm fine."
"I'll start your chart, then."
"No, no. Don't need the paperwork."
You held out your hand, "Our little secret then?"
He looked up at you, stalling, those hazel eyes searching your face again. So familiar, so steady. Your hand stayed out between you.
"Who are you?" he asked.
Goosebumps rose along your skin. You gave him your name.
"No, I meanβ¦" his eyes narrowed, but he shook his head, sighing.
He handed over the Qtip with the antiseptic.
"Promise I won't tell." you said gently, stepping around him.
"Better not." he huffed with a half smirk.
You moved behind him and set the supplies in order on the exam bed: saline flushes, gauze, chlorhexidine swabs, a small packet of bacitracin, nonadherent dressing, tape. This would help. It had to. Simple stuff, cleaning a wound, knowing the steps. Just doing the work. The exam light above him hummed softly, casting a flat white square over his shoulder and the metal tray.
Both of you were quiet, but you saw his eyes slide around to you every once in a while.
You started with saline, flushing the graze from the cleanest edge outward, watching diluted blood run over his shoulder blade and into the gauze you had tucked beneath it. The wound was shallow, ugly more than dangerous, a raw red track through skin with darker bruising already starting around it. No embedded fragments that you could see. No active bleeding beyond the surface ooze. You wiped the skin around it with gauze, then cleaned wider with chlorhexidine, careful to keep most of it around the wound instead of scrubbing straight into the open line.
You hadn't realized you'd begun to cry until Jack turned his head over his shoulder, his brows drawing together.
"Hey," he said, quieter now. "What happened?"
You shook your head, trying to swallow the burn in your throat as the sting in your eyes flooded down your face with tears. "SorryβI'm sorry."
You took the nonadherent pad from the tray, too quick, grateful for something to do. Your fingers pressed the dressing into place over the graze, then layered folded gauze over it for a little pressure. All you could think about was a familiar freckled shoulder. A familiarly thick neck with the same curls at the name. The man you loved turning his head in your bathroom to tell you a job had gone bad like he was telling you dinner ran late. Blood on the sink. Blood under your nails. His face pale, and you had felt scared enough for both of you.
"Whoβ¦" Jack Abbot began, but bit his lip, and you saw the infinitesimal shake of his head, before he was looking up at you, and trying again. "You lost someone."
Your eyes found his, and held your breath.
He nodded, "I know that look."
You wiped your cheek with the heel of your palm, then reached for the adhesive. Jack tore off two strips for you and handed them back without looking away.
"I'm fine." you said. "It's nothing."
He sighed, hands coming together in his lap, and you saw him twist the gunmetal wedding ring on his left hand.
"I lost my wife," he said after a moment. "A few years ago."
You stared at the side of his face. "I'm sorry." it's all you knew to say in that moment.
He nodded, eyes on his own hands. "Not a day goes by I don't think of her. But todayβ¦" He looked back at you, and you stood very still with the tape half-smoothed over his dressing. His eyes moved across your face, knowing and far away. "Today I saw you and it was like she was there. In the room."
You sucked in a little breath.
"I don't know why." His mouth pressed to one side. "I guess youβ"
"β look like her?" you whispered.
He nodded.
You let out the breath you'd been holding in. You finished taping the dressing, smoothing the adhesive edges against clean skin because your hands still needed something to finish. The pad sat flat over the graze, the gauze beneath it catching what little blood was left.
"Youβ¦ you look like myβ¦" you weren't sure what to call him. An ex? Dead boyfriend? "Well. Heβ¦ died, a long time ago." you went on anyway. "And when I saw you, it felt likeβ¦"
"β¦ like you'd seen a ghost."
You looked back up at him with wet eyes, voice cracking, "Yeah."
For a second, neither of you moved, neither of you spole. The exam room felt small around the two of you, the curtain drawn tight, the overhead light buzzing, the metal tray with torn packets and pink-stained gauze piled on it. His shoulder was warm under your fingertips where you hadn't yet pulled away.
How could this be happening? You kept asking yourself over and over, but you couldn't understand the cosmic ironyβthe idea that somehowβ¦somehow, Andrew had lived on. Maybe not in this timeline, but another. So that you would be here. Now. With Jack.
Out of all the lives you could have lived. Out of all the turns you could have missed and the ones you chose. Your parents and your childhood home. Andrew and all the ways he had been the sweetest soul you'd ever known and the most volatile man in any room. The acceptance letter. The way you'd wanted nothing more than to go but couldn't bear to leave andβ¦the last time you saw him. And then, after years of hard work, of trying to forget, you met Baran overseas, half a world from Oceanside, pulling you into her orbit. Then to the city, to Pennsylvania. The VA. The PTMC on the Fourth of fucking July in the middle of humid Pittsburgh.
All of it. Every terrible, ordinary, impossible thing.
"You were so calm." you said quietly. "How were you so calm earlier? If you feltβ"
He shrugged, and the dressing tugged a little at the movement. "I thrive under pressure, I guess."
"That explains the SWAT thing," you murmured.
"My therapist said I needed a hobby." he said dryly.
You stared at him for half a second before a smile caught your lips, as if a string was tied to the corner, pulling it up into your cheek.
"You were great today." he said softly, turning his face toward you so that even with his chin dipped, he could still look up at where you stood beside him.
"Thanks." you murmured.
"I can tell this isβ¦" he paused, nodding a little, like he was feeling for the right words before they left him. "This is something you were meant to do."
You squeezed your eyes shut, your lungs hitching over what little breath you'd pulled in.
It was not only the words. It was the way he said them, low and careful with his eyes moving off yours right after, his top teeth catching his bottom lip, his hands rubbing together with the black shirt bunched between them. He looked so much like Andrew then that your chest went tight and your throat thickened.
You pressed your lips together, shutting your eyes against the threat of more tears, and nodded. You wanted to say something back, like thanks or you're not bad yourself!βbut the words wouldn't come. They were stuck behind the lump in your throat, and you had to swallow them down before you choked on the grief.
You moved away from him to begin cleaning up the room, taking the trash from the metal tray, feeling his eyes follow you around in silence.
When all was done and cleaned up, he was standing back up with his shirt back on, his hands shoved in the tan camo cargos, shoulders straight.
"I should⦠go check on my patients." you said, reaching for the curtain. "Baran is probably waiting for me."
He nodded, fidgeting a little where he stood.
You pulled the curtain, but then heard him call your name.
His head was ducked again, eyes down at his boots, one thumb moving against the seam of his pocket. Then he stood straighter and looked at you.
"We should grab a drink sometime."
Your eyebrows shot up before threading together. "Like⦠swap war stories, or?"
"Or." he shrugged.
You licked your bottom lip haphazardly. You weren't sure what to say. It felt like a terrible idea. Giving in to whatever weird prank God was pulling on the two of you. A man who looked like Andrew asking you out in a curtained exam room with a bullet graze under his shirt. A man who had seen his dead wife in your face and still somehow looked at you like there might be something to do with that besides run.
"I don't knowβ¦"
"If it's too much, I understand." he said softly.
"It's justβ" you paused, searching for the right words as you fisted the curtain beside you tighter, looking around like the answer was in the room, "s'kinda weird, right?"
"Very weird." he agreed. "But I see no reason why we shouldn't give in. If it doesn't work, it doesn't work."
You stared at him a long moment, before he was stepping forward, his voice low. You had to hold your breath.
"One drink." he murmured. "What're you doing after your shift?"
The three B's came to mind. Bath, Book, Bed, truthfully. Maybe crying in said bath if the day kept going the way it had been and falling asleep with wet hair and waking up with sore eyes tomorrow to whatever PTMC had waiting next.
"Nothing." you said instead.
His eyes moved between yours, then down to your mouth, to the necklace at your throat, then back up again. The diamonds sat heavy beneath your scrub collar, hidden from most people, except the chain had shifted at some point while you were dressing his wound. A little flash of white gold against hospital black scrubs.
"Aren't you just⦠a little curious?" he asked, barely above a whisper, "About what the fuck this all is?"
You couldn't help the little huff of laughter that escaped you. He smiled back, just a twitching of his lips.
"Okay." you said. "A little."
"Then meet me at Redbeard's." he said, tipping his head. Then, after a second, quieter, "Please."
You gnawed on your bottom lip, looking past the curtain into the ED. Dana was picking up the red landline again, her other hand already reaching for a pen. A tech pushed an empty stretcher toward the elevators, the wheels clicking over the seam in the floor. Across the hallway, Robby stood in front of Santos with a chart in his hand, listening with his head tipped down while she talked.
The whole department kept moving, loud and bright, as if nothing was amiss. As if your world wasn't folding over itself, different timelines coexisting together in this strange space where time and grief took no pity.
You let out a long sigh.
"Yeah," you said, bringing your hand up to clench around the diamonds of your necklace, "Yeah, okay. Fine."
He smiled a little wider, and looked out into the same sea of chaos as you. "Okay. Go. I'll see you tonight. Redbeard's."
You looked back at him and smiled a little. "See you."
Because when you looked at him, all you could see was Andrewβs face, open in that rare way he never let last long.
seven years earlier
The house already felt out of control when you arrived. The bass rattled through the open slider and the large floor to ceiling windows as you made your way through the sea of bodies in the kitchen, the floor wet under your bare feet where someone had spilled. Beer, maybe. Something sticky that pulled faintly at your skin with each step. You made your way to the fridge anyway, pulling out a beer, the cold neck of it relieving to the touch in your hand.
When you turned around, about to open it, you saw Andrew.
He was sitting on the couch in the living room, sitting up from his laid back position, his arm coming off the back of the couch to stand up. His attention had snapped to you too quickly, and you saw his face change. Confusion first, then relief, but then something much, much harder. Something that shut everything else down.
He was up and beside you in less than ten seconds. "Why are you here?"
You blinked, but turned to walk away. βHi to you too.β
He reached out quickly, pulling you by the arm to turn towards him. You squeaked out a little hey!
βWhy are you here?β The second time was lower, meaner, his head ducking as he said the words.
Your smile faltered a little, but you tried to pull it back. βItβs Craigβs birthday, isnβt it?β
βYouβre supposed to be gone.β
You swallowed hard. Your bags were packed. Sitting in the trunk of your car. You'd meant to take the exit going east butβ¦ but you couldn't. So, you shrugged as averted your eyes from his, beer pressing coldly into your palm, condensation slicking against your fingers. βYeah, well. Iβm not.β
You could feel his piercing stare on you.
The party kept moving around you, but it felt farther away now, muffled under the rush of blood in your ears. People were shouting by the pool as usual, music blaring and scores being called as idiots jumped from the pool house roof into the water. You watched Deran do a backflip, the crashing of the water making you jump.
When you looked up at Andrew finally, you were surprised to see how uncertain he looked. You could see the thoughts moving through his brain, the cogs trying to make sense of why you were here, if he'd gotten something wrong. But you knew, and you knew he knew, that you should be crossing state lines by now. As if you'd said it out loud, face went hard and strange.
Blank, almost.
βSo no med school.β he said darkly. It wasn't even a question.
You rolled your shoulders, trying to make it look easy. Trying to make any part of it feel easy. "No med school."
Andrew's eyes only narrowed more, his jaw tightening.
βIβll call tomorrow,β you said. βIβll tell them something came up. Or Iβll defer, maybe. People do that, right? They defer.β
His hands tightened into fists at his side, fingers curling in slow, controlled increments.
βItβs fine,β you said, talking faster now because he wasnβt saying anything, and the silence was getting worse the longer he held you under his stare, no matter how loud the house was around you. βI can work. I can help more. I already know half the shit you guys need before you even ask me. Have you talked to Deran about the mattress warehouse off the 23? Because I was thinking if you hit it beforeββ
And then he was reaching for you, a hand closed around your wrist, and he was moving.
You stumbled one step after him, your shoulders bumping into strangers. You didn't have time to apologize because he was pulling you so quickly, his broad back making a path ahead. You set your beer down to not add to the drinks already spilled on the floor, tugging at his strong hold.
"Andrewβ"
He didn't answer, nor did he stop.
"Andrew, pleaseβwaitβ" and then you saw he was bee lining for the back gate, and you dug your heels into the concrete of the pool deck, the rough edge of it catching under your flip flops as you tried to hold yourself in place.
He whirled around to glare at you, his grip tightening just enough to sear your skin. You had half a mind to be a little scared, but you just looked at him back with the same iciness, refusing to give him that.
"Stop, let's stay." you said, and then, a little softer, "Let's have a drink and go hide in your room."
His lip curled, and he was reaching out to grab you again, but you slipped free.
You ran back to slip into the house, to maybe weave through the crowd and lock yourself away, but he was on you when you met a road block of bodies, his arms going around your waist, locking in before you could twist away.
To anyone else, this probably looked normal. Playful roughhousing with one of the Cody boys and their girl. And besides, no one stopped Pope Cody when he was in the middle of something. No one even really questioned it.
He manhandled you into his arms, even as you squirmed, his hold already set, already decided.
"Andrewβget off!" you yelled, trying in vain to push him. "Get off!!"
But it was no use, he was breathing heavily, his eyes a mix of muddled color and pain, something too tight behind them, like he was making himself do this, no matter how badly he didn't want to be rough with you. His hands were so big, his muscles bigger, and in no time your gravity was being lurched off its axis, and you were being flung over his shoulder.
You slammed your fist into his lower back, his hand coming over the back of your thighs to stop your kicking.
βPut me down!β you shouted, hair falling into your face, blood rushing to your head. βAndrew Cody, put me down right now!β
βNo.β
You shrieked in humiliation, in frustration, and he was walking out the back gate. He carried you across the driveway while you hit at him, furious, mortified, trying to twist enough to get a knee into his chest, his side, anything. Pavement blurred beneath you. The hood of your car flashed in the moonlight. He shifted you higher when you nearly slipped, palm pressing hard into the back of your thigh, his breathing heavy but controlled, like he had shut every other part of himself off except the part that knew how to move, how to get this done.
He came around to the front of the car, and opened the driver's side door.
Gravity whirled once again and the world tilted as he brought you back upright, only to push you off balance again and into the front seat.
"No!" you exclaimed, hands hooking at the door edge.
He didn't say anything, only was shoving your limbs into the seat, hands at your shoulders when you tried pushing back, firm, unyielding, not giving you an inch to work with.
"Andrewβstop!"
"No."
"Fuckβ" you tried to push him away, "βoff!"
You shoved at his chest and tried to duck under his arm, but he caught you again and again, both hands closing around the caps of your shoulders, pushing you down into the seat.
βYouβre going.β he finally muttered.
βIβm not!β you spat back.
βYouβre going.β
You wouldn't give in, twisting in the seat so your legs were half out the car door. Trying to stand again, he stepped between your knees, his body blocking the open space, boots planted in the ground, one hand catching both of your wrists when you swung at him.
βAndrew!β
βYouβre going.β
The words came out of him like he had to force them through his teeth. Like it was all he could say.
βI want to be here!β you shouted. βWhy is that so fucking hard for you to understand?β
His eyes burned into yours.
He didn't say anything else, the two of you a tangle of limbs until his hands snapped over the joints of your wrists, holding them tightly between you. You were heaving in breath, your muscles aching, the hair at your cheeks sticking to your face with what you realized then were tears.
βI love you.β you croaked.
He paused for a moment, looking down at you.
βI love you,β you said again, louder, like maybe if you said it hard enough he would stop looking at you like that. βI want to be with you. I want to live with you. I want to work with you. I want this.β
Your tears began to pour hot and fast, slipping down before you could do anything about them.
βSay it back,β you begged, trying in vain to push at his chest with the hands he held firmly in his grip.
He didnβt answer. But he'd had the worst frown on his face you'd ever seen. His eyes hard, brows drawn, as you beggedβ
βSay it, Andy.β
His mouth pressed into a line.
Your wrists twisted under his hand, but there was no real fight in it anymore. Your whole body had gone loose in pieces, anger draining out and leaving behind a panic so raw and ugly you felt almost humiliated.
βTell me you love me,β you begged.
His face changed.
βSay it back.β you cried.
He looked down at his feet, his mouth twisting, his brows threading.
βNo.β Your pleaded, hands trying to grip at him, but he held you too tightly. "No, look at me. Tell me you love me.β
He was breathing hard through his nose. His eyes were wet and mean with the effort of keeping it in, and that hurt worse than if he had screamed at you. You wished he'd just say something.
βPlease,β you said again.
His hands dropped from your wrists as fast as if they'd been burned, and came to your face instead, both palms catching your cheeks, rough and too fast, his fingers curving harshly into your hair. He pulled your face up to look directly at him, his thumbs slipping through your tear tracks.
βOf course I love you,β he snapped, voice cracking. βOf course I do. What do you think this is?β
βAndyββ
βYou have to go.β His voice split again, and he looked furious, whether it was at you or himself, you couldn't tell. But it was terrifying. The tears were beginning to blur your eyes. βYou have to. Youβre meant to do this. Youβre meant to be a doctor. Youβre not meant to be here with me and thisβthis shit.β
"I don't careβ"
"You deserve a chance at a normal life." he said tightly, more a whisper than words. "I didn't. You have to go. You have to."
He stood there, shoulders rigid, mouth flat. It was his turn to beg.
βPlease, sweetheart. You have to."
You threw him off of you, shoving him away, and he let go this time. You reached for the keys where he had thrown them into the cupholder at some point. You didnβt remember him doing it. You didnβt remember anything except his face, his hands, the sound of his voice telling you no.
You slammed the door and put the car in reverse with your whole body shaking, not looking at him. The tires screeched as he stayed where he was, his chest heaving as he watched you, his face crumbling entirely.
At the end of the driveway, you took one final look back in your rearview mirror.
You could just make out the tears falling down his face, his hands in his hair, elbows flared. Panic there, in his eyes. But relief too.
Relief in watching you leave.
now
Redbeard's was a dingy thing in downtown, thankfully close to your apartment, though you didn't even stop home. As badly as you wantedβhell, neededβ to wash off the day, you knew once you made it through the door the fear would keep you from walking out again. And you hadn't gotten Jack's number. Picturing him waiting alone at the barβ¦ on his only night offβ¦ you couldn't do it. To him, to youβ¦to Andrew.
You found him outside, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, one hand in his pocket, the other holding his phone close to his face as he read something on the screen. It was like he sensed you coming, whatever strange sixth sense the two of you had for one another prickling up his spine to make him look.
You still had to stifle the gasp that threatened when his eyes found yours.
Jack Abbot, you told yourself again and again. Jack Abbot, not Andrew Cody.
For one brief, insane moment, you wondered if Andrew was with you there. If he was standing somewhere beside Jack on that gum spotted sidewalk, looking him over with that severe set to his mouth, suspicious of the warm little smile pulling at the man's face. Or maybe he would have been looking at you instead. Maybe he would have been smiling too, pleased in that way he got when you were brave.
You didn't even believe in ghosts, or spirits, or heaven or hell. Of any afterlife in which Andrew Cody's spirit would be there that night. You believed wholly in science. In blood and oxygen and a heart and a brain to keep a person alive⦠And you believed that when those things stopped, when there was no blood flowing to the brain, when the cells began to starve, there was no secret door opening somewhere else.
But that night, standing outside a bar in humid Pennsylvania while fireworks whistled and cracked and died somewhere distant over the water, you felt something too strange to dismiss.
Becauseβ¦ what ifβ¦ what if there was something? What if there was some universe in which Andrew Cody and Jack Abbot's wife could see the two of you exactly as you were. Lonely, sad people who still carried their ghosts around. Maybe they knew. Maybe they had found each other out there, wherever it was, and maybe Jackβs wife had told Andrew about the man she left behind. How good he was, how he needed you and you needed him.
What other explanation was there?
When you approached Jack, there was an awfully familiar twinkle in his eye that had your lips pulling up into a real smile.
"Hey." you sighed.
βHi,β he said, then cleared his throat a little. βThank you forβ¦ coming out.β
You shrugged, shoving your hands into the pockets of your jeans to mirror him. βGuess I was curious about 'what the fuck this all is',β
Jackβs smile widened. His head tipped back for half a second before it ducked, his eyes dropping toward the sidewalk.
βYeah,β he said finally with a nod. βMe too.β
You tilted your head at him. βShall we?β
His eyes moved over you then, from the top of your head to the toes of your shoes, then back up to your face. It wasnβt the kind of look that undressed you. It was stranger than that. Softer. As if he was trying to make sense of the person standing in front of him, alive and still somehow carrying the woman he had lost.
How two lives could run so far apart and still end up here, on the same humid night, grief and curiosity braiding curiously through the two of you like some invisible red thread.
He nodded, then turned and opened the door.
βAfter you.β
Iβll be honest I looked over this maybe twice before posting so please excuse any inconsistencies or grammar mistakes! ilysm and THANK YOU FOR READING π€
this somehow broke me healed me and then broke me again????????? what a masterpiece of an author and a concept and hey!!!! btw iβm suing for emotional distress (with love) π«Ά
summary: Ormund Hightower has been the guiding hand pushing you forward all your life. Teaching, shaping, and disciplining whenever necessary. His affections are unconventional and at times even violent, yet you cannot help but want his teeth in your heart anyway.
warnings: +18 mdni, explicit content, age gap, size difference, otk spanking, toxic relationship dynamics, reader is rhaenyra's daughter but has lived in oldtown for most of her life, power imbalances, could be said that reader is being groomed but she (like the writer) very much wants this evil man all on her own, light angst, mentions of canon typical violence, punishment, kneeling, begging, praise, sexual tension, clit stimulation, pillow humping, talk of maidenhood/virtue, bd/sm dynamics, ormund licks your tears, dry humping, oral sex f!receiving, possessive behavior, cruel devotion, discussion of marriage, jealousy, repressed feelings, body worship, virginity loss, dirty talk, face grabbing, scenting? girl idk, rough sex, multiple orgasm, creampie, collaring, lightly edited, images are purely for aesthetic purposes, reader has no physical description!
wc: 9.2k
note: if a single person asks for a part twoβ¦β¦β¦i may beβ¦.persuadedβ¦β¦..
[masterlist][AO3]
He's never liked you, that much was obvious in his stare alone.
You'd been sent to Oldtown with your cousin Daeron at your grandfather's request. Viserys had wanted it to be a sign of a united family. It had been done in a time of peace with pure intentions.
How would they have known of Ormund's hatred for Valyrian blood? How would they have known that a single look upon your face would have the man's jaw clenching and his hands curling?
For what it's worth, you truly believe he tried in the beginning. Tried not to allow his prejudice to cloud his judgment of you. But it was always there, like a curse held at the back of his throat. Too large to swallow, too cruel to speak.
He loved your cousin and treated Daeron as if he were born of his own blood. But though you were often found in the same trouble, Ormund's display of discipline was always a bit different when directed at you.
Not only a raised voice but a physical punishment, too.
A rough hand on the back of your neck. A lashing across your knuckles. Fingers curled tight around your jaw.
You'd let yourself believe that things would change when you became a woman grown. It is one thing to discipline a girl with the intent of guidance, but it is another thing to strike a lady.
The solution was to discipline in private.
Once, you'd gotten caught stealing wine from the kitchens in the dead of night. And when Ormund had been told of your transgression, he'd come to your bedchamber alone. Sat on the side of your mattress, fingers gentle as they stroked your cheek.
He shook you awake, and pretended at patience while you rubbed away the drunken stupor from your eyes.
And then he'd explain, "I am hard on you because I care. Because I see the potential beneath all your corruption. I understand it is not your fault you have such atrocity in your blood. I am only teaching you to overcome it. And you have much yet to learn, sweetling."
This is the first time Ormund takes you over his knee.
His palm lands sharp and hard across your bottom, five good times for each and every cup you'd stolen. He makes you count, and does not comment on the tears as they brim at the corners of your eyes.
The first time is the worst, because you hadn't expect it.
But by the tenth time it stops being a surprise and starts to become an expectation.
The routine is always the same. The sun will set, and he will slink into your chambers. Sometimes he doesn't even speak. He will simply stare down at you where you lay, head tilted, eyes dark, and you'll whisper apologies in the flickering candlelight.
He is meaner, you come to notice, when he is encumbered by duty. His strikes are harder and there are more of them. Sometimes he will spend hours in a day listening to petitions or dispersing soldiers or politicking with lords who come to him with future propositions.
On these nights, Ormund will groan low in his throat when you twist in his grasp, your legs flailing as you run from the impact of his tingling palm. But he will always wait for you to compose yourself, and then he'll lift his own leg over yours to bracket you in place, all before striking you again.
It is only after several months of this routine of discipline that you begin to wonder if it is less for your sake and more for his.
On one particular night, you're on strike eight out of ten, the number gritted through your teeth as you speak it aloud. Your breath comes fast and labored in your chest, lungs burning as you greedily drink up oxygen. Your muscles tire of pulling tight in anticipation only to melt in relief as the pain disperses across your skin.
It is later than usual, and you'd spent the day on horseback, and you're so exhausted that you fold your hands over one another and lay your head atop them. Face turned, you steal a glance up at Ormund to find his lips parted and his shoulders relaxed.
Posture far different than it had been when he'd closed your chamber door behind him.
You force your eyes to stay open as he hits you again, observing the look on his face.
Troublesome and argumentative woman you are, you're smart enough to recognize solace when you see it.
"Nine," you say, though it is more of a whisper than a fully spoken word.
Ormund notices.
His eyes find yours, gaze heavy and intense, as if he were seeing something inside of you that he could not put a name to if he tried.
This time, when his palm comes down against your cheek, it is hard enough that the sound echoes against the stone walls.
Your eyes squeeze shut and your ears ring and you can hear and feel and sense nothing but the heat of him beneath you and the pain he elicits. Breathing does not come easily. Each inhale is short and labored and choking.
"Count," Ormund says, the word low and demanding, the way he so often is.
You cannot catch your breath.
"Count, girl," he repeats. "Or we will begin again."
A spark of fear ignites in your chest, because you could not endure another ten lashes. Not like this, not knowing this is not even about the cruel words you'd spoken to your septa but rather for his own selfish respite.
"Ten!" The word is rushed. "Ten, ten, tenβ!"
His hand smooths over your spine, as if to heal the ache he himself inflicted. "Very good," he whispers, shushing your cries. "You did so well."
The following morning, your flesh stings and bruises have already begun to form, but all you can think of is the way his praise had made your heart sing inside the cage of your ribs. The words echo in your mind, a mantra, a song, a poem.
The feeling is only because it is so rare to hear such things from his mouth, you tell yourself. It is not for desire. You could not desire a man like Ormund, could you? Who'd shaped you into the woman you are. Who saw such corruption in you and had spent the better half of your life trying to root it out.
But no matter how hard you try, you cannot shake the look you'd seen on his face. Like he'd enjoyed it.
And because you are stubborn and far too curious, you conduct an experiment to disprove your theory.
For weeks, you try very hard to be good. You go to your lessons without complaint, you listen to your septas, you pray to the seven and deny yourself excess in all forms.
You speak kindly. You cling tight to poise. You cast your eyes away when a man speaks to you and bow graciously instead of arguing or challenging a direction, no matter how stupid it may be.
You are perfect.
It is the longest you have gone without punishment in all your life.
But the stretch of time only lasts so long. And you wake late one night to find Ormund standing at your bedside, hovering.
Staring, with that same look he's leveled at you for yearsβnot disgust, but something more complex. Something hotter. Searing.
You lift yourself up on an elbow and ask timidly, "Did I do something wrong?"
His jaw feathers as he clenches his teeth. "No."
Somehow, his answer is worse than if he had found a reason to punish you. Because this meant you were right, that his discipline was not only for you. It meant there was something else beneath it all.
It meant that this perverse craving in your chest that you have tried to fight off was not only yours. It was shared.
"If I've not done anything wrong, then what are youβ?"
"Get up." He lifts his hand, motioning for you to remove yourself from the comfort of you linens, finally breaking the intensity of his stare.
And because you have been trained to heed his every beck and call, you do exactly as he says.
He sits at the edge of your bed, the way he always does. And you stand in front of him awaiting instruction, the way you always do.
Your heart feels suddenly too large, pushing against your bones.
He is supposed to say, kneel. He is supposed to say, over my knee. He is supposed to say, do you know what you've done?
Ormund does not.
Instead, he says, "Take off your gown."
You blink in surprise, unsure if perhaps this is a test. Maybe he's temping you, goading for a reason. Trying to get you to reveal yourself, to sacrifice your modesty so that he might prove you are just as wicked as he believes you to be.
"What?"
"Your gown," he says again, voice firmer now. "Take it off. Do not make me repeat myself."
You can hear the blood rushing in your ears and feel suddenly frozen. Afraid to move, afraid to say one thing when he truly means for you to do another, andβ
Ormund stands suddenly and his hands are on you. Big and rough and mean, tearing the lace fabric over your chest so hard it leaves indents against your shoulder blades. Your nightclothes are thin and give so easily beneath his violence.
You do not stop him. You don't even try.
You don't want to.
Before you can fully process what's happening, you're standing completely bare before him, white fabric pooled at your feet. Your nipples harden beneath the night's cool air and your heart hammers in your ribcage.
He is not shameful in his assessment of you. His eyes are greedy and roaming, leaving no part of you untouched, starting at the curve of your throat and the the swell of your breasts, and eventually lower down to your navel and the space between your legs.
Ormund stares, and his lips part on a hollow sigh. His hand comes up to cup his jaw, squeezing hard, trying to rub the tension away.
You want so badly to hear the thoughts in his mind but know better than to ask.
Does he think you're beautiful? Does he like the shape of your body? Does he enjoy the softness of your skin, or the scent of honeysuckle oils at your pulse point? Are you womanly enough for him?
Does he want you? Does he think of you, the way you have him? Do you appear in his dreams, too?
He clears his throat, the sound masculine and powerful, startling you out of your reverie. And then he sits back down on the edge of your bed and says, "Kneel."
You do.
"Over my knee."
This instruction, too, you follow.
Warmth blooms low in your belly at the texture of his leather breeches against the top of your bare thighs.
He doesn't ask if you're aware of your transgressions, because there are none.
Ormund sets one hand on the small of your back, and the other comes to rest against the globe of your arse. His hands are calloused. Rough. Hardened from the weight of a sword.
And above all, they areβ¦delightful. Delicious. "Howβ" you swallow thickly. "How many?"
His hands are gentle as they stroke your skin. Feather light and mistakenly devoted. Ormund leans forward, lips a breadth away from your ear as he answers, "As many as I'd like."
And then his hand comes down sharply, the sound of skin against skin a piercing echo.
A whine leaves you, and it takes a moment to gather yourself enough to choke out, "One."
He hits you again, and again, and againβand each time those delicate touches in between last just a bit longer. As if he is able to find peace in your punishment, granting him the gift of softness.
Everything feels hot. Your skin, your hands, the place between your legs. It throbs and aches and grows stickier by the minute.
You think he must see it. He must. Each strike has your spine arching, exposing you even more, the number more of a moan on your lips than a cry.
It is around number six that you begin to feel him harden beneath you.
The swell of his cock presses against your belly, right beside your navel. Growing larger with each loud echo.
He does not mention it, and neither do you. But your head feels fuzzy with the truth of it.
Ormund settles around strike fifteen. You are certain it will be painful to sit tomorrow, but you can't find yourself in it to care when he traces delicate patterns over your warmed flesh with the tips of his cool fingers.
The praise comes after some time, when your muscles relax in his hold, when you stop expecting one more strike to befall you.
"You always look so beautiful in the aftermath," he mutters. and you feel yourself smiling, despite your better impulses. "Pretty, obedient little girl."
His hands knead at your sore skin, squeezing the pillowy flesh and spreading you open. You look up to see him staring at your most intimate place, likely seeing the wetness that's gathered.
He then does one more thing you don't expect.
With only the pad of his thumb, Ormund slides his finger through your slit.
The touch is firm and so unforeseen that it sends a jolt straight to your heart. You let out a true cry this time, but not of pain.
Of pleasure.
You're so sensitive that your muscles clench at the contact, so lost in the feeling that you hardly hear the low groan that rumbles through his chest.
And then he's pushing you off of his lap onto your bed, and standing to his feet. He does not even spare you a parting glance over his shoulder as he says, "Enough for today."
You do not see him again for some time.
In fact, Ormund leaves Oldtown entirely the next morning and he takes Daeron with him. It is only from your septa's that you learn they've set on a quest to deliver goods to the Citadel.
Usually Ormund will mention as much to you over supper with your cousin, and you cannot help thinking the reason for his sudden and unannounced absence is due to what transpired between you the night before.
And to yourself only, you admit his absence has made you yearn for him.
You cannot quiet the thoughts in your mind each night, the longing for him, the hope that he will simply appear at your bedside with a heavy hand and that familiar stare.
But he never does, and left to your own devices with thoughts of his touch invading your every thought, it is not long before you try desperately to abate the need yourself.
In fact, you form a new routine of your own.
It starts as desperate rocking against nothing, but you learn rather quickly just how much better it feels with your linens wedged tight between your legs as you do.
The bulk of the fabric presses deliciously against your center, and each roll of your hips has your vision turning black around the edges. You can think only of Ormundβyour mentor, your disciplinarian, the hand that shaped you.
You think of the force behind his strikes and of his low groans and of his sweet, sweet praise. You think of the darkness in his eyes and of his strong jaw and the way the muscles in his shoulders flex when he moves.
Even his gait makes your belly squeeze tight in desireβthe surety in his steps, his confident posture and the way he towers over you. Always so big and hulking and intimidating.
Sleep only comes to you each night after you reach the peak of bliss. After a fog clouds your mind and your vision goes all starry.
You think if Ormund were to see the things you'd been up to in his absence, you don't believe fifteen strikes would be nearly enough.
He would tell you it is a sin to indulge lustful fantasies in this way. That your pleasure is reserved for your husband, meant to be given at his discretion.
But you've never been a perfect listener nor a rule follower. If there is anything in your life you are certain of, it is that.
You allow yourself to freely walk about the tower in his absence, too. The rookery and the kitchens, plucking fruit or cheese from nearby trays and sending ravens to your cousin Helaena in the Red Keep.
You visit the stables to pet the horses and even make friends with a bastard boy who'd recently come to Oldtown from Casterly Rock.
When Ormund does finally return, you're there to greet him in the great hall with a flicker of delight in your chest.
He looks the same as when he'd left. Strong, masculine, confident. His skin is maybe a bit more sun-kissed than before, and his normally polished leather boots are caked in mud.
Yet still, you cannot help but smile when you see him. You'd worn your most beautiful dress, a gown of emerald velvet and white lace, low cut with a jeweled bodice. He'd complimented you on it once, several moons ago, and it has been your favorite ever since.
When he comes to stand in front of you in greeting, you bow low. "My lord," you say. "I am grateful for your return."
His eyes stay glued to yours when you rise, his pert mouth turned up at the corners. "I am grateful to be back," he says, taking your hand in his and bringing your knuckles to his lips.
Ormund's kiss is chaste, but it feels anything but. The simple touch of his hand has your belly flipping and your face heating.
He does not linger long, though you wish he would. But there is much to tend to in the keep, things that have simply been awaiting his return.
The cooks prepare a feast that night. A massive spread for both Ormund and the knights that traveled with him.
Ormund sits at the head of the table and Daeron sits to his right. You are placed on the other side of your cousin, who spends most of the night recounting tales of the Citadel to you. Of the towering stacks of books and the tomes bigger than his head.
He tells you in a whispered tone just how old the Grand Maester truly looks. "Ancient," he explains. "With tufts of graying hair and eyes that no longer see."
You laugh and giggle together about it, indulging your childish whims that always manifest whenever you are near him.
Daeron tells you, too, about the ambush they'd suffered from raiders who's been lying in wait off the King's Road.
"Uncle Ormund nearly died from a stab wound," he whispers, and it makes your heart give a sudden lurch. "He fought bravely. Slashed the raider clean in two, if you'd believe it."
This makes you mirth fall. You have never considered his loss before this moment. Ormund has always been there, a steady presence in your life.
Just the thought of itβof losing him, it does not sit well in your gut. Though hated by him as you are, you could not imagine...you could not imagine.
Ormund does not speak to you, but you can feel his stare. Heavy and warm on the side of your face. You wonder silently if he'd missed you as you have him.
Had he been thinking of that night, too? Of how it had felt to be bared before him? Of the heat you saw in his gaze?
Had he thought of you with a blade pressed to his belly? Had it truly gotten that close?
Ormund makes a toast to his men near the end of supper. To their valiant efforts that contributed greatly to the trade and to their protection.
Your maidens ready you for bed that night and spend a little longer scrubbing you clean at your request. They dress you in white silk and by the time they leave, the fire in the hearth has dwindled to cinders. The excitement in your chest is a roaring flame, however.
But, Ormund does not come to you.
You toss and turn restlessly, hoping to hear the creak of your chamber door or footsteps on the stone just outside.
Yet, there is nothing. The night is still, as it has been for the last several weeks.
You lie there with a longing in your chest, an ache between your legs, and your head filled with a thousand questions.
The setting sun has long since given way to the moon by the time you leave your bed.
Ormund's chambers are on the other side of the Hightower, but you are more and more certain with every step you take.
Ser Roy of Oldtown stands guard outside his door, the way he does most nights. He bows low when he sees you, eyes cast away from the too thin fabric of your gown. "My lady."
"I wish to speak to him," you say, trying to muster the strength to keep your voice from wavering.
"He did request not to be disturbed lest there was an emergency," the knight tells you.
"I don't care," is your simple response, because it is true. "Please, ser, step aside so that I mightβ"
Ormund's door opens, the heavy weight of it daunting.
He looks at you and stares. Hard and knowing.
Your breath gives way at the precision attention, all the jumbled thoughts in your mind untangling like a pulled thread before promptly vanishing. There isβ¦something new behind his ire for you. Something you might call intrigue, if you didn't know any better.
Ormund does not take his eyes off of you as he speaks. "Find something to busy yourself, Ser Roy," he says, eyes searching your face now, flickering from your nose to your cheeks and then to your mouth. "And do not come back," he adds to the knight.
Roy nods stiffly and doesn't argue. He, too, knows better.
The clang of his armor disappears down the corridor, and before long it is just you and the man who haunts your insides. Heart and head alike.
He smiles down at you. A true smile. Small, but real, and it weathers your resolve in an instant. Because it's a kindness he does not give freely or often, but he is here now, giving it to youβwho you'd thought he'd hated.
But this doesn't feel like hatred to you in the slightest.
It's heavier. Sharper. Sweeter.
In the end, it is you who breaks the spell, pushing past him and into his chambers. You recall all your cousin had said about the journey to the Citadel. How blades had been drawn and blood had been spilled and the thought of it makes your eyes sting.
Ormund closes the chamber door behind you, but you face away from him. Staring into the crackling flames in the hearth, trying and failing to fight the tears that brim in your eyes. "Daeron told me there was anβ¦altercation on the King's Road," you say. "He speaks tales of blood and death. Is this true?"
His heavy footfalls sound in your ears. Ormund nears you, yet you still do not turn to look at him. "It is," he answers simply. "These are dark times, as you well know. Darker yet to come."
The idea of itβof war, of famine, of the rot and loss that he speaks of, it makes you terrified. You've seen men die before, in jousts or tourneys, even on the way here to Oldtown. But thinking of Ormund in the middle of it all?
Finally, you turn to face him. He is closer than you'd expected. Only a single step away, focus narrowing as he sees the tears in your eyes. "You could have died."
"But I did not." His head tilts curiously. "Where do you place your ire?"
"In you!" You should not yell. You know this, and yet the venom in your mouth refuses to be washed out. "It is from someone else that I'd had to learn you'd been attacked on the way to the Citadel. From another I'd learned you'd taken a wound that very nearly could have put you in the grave. And even those details I'd had to overhear from one of your men when it should have come from you!"
He watches it unfold; your rage surfacing, all masks of poise absent. He does not stop you or speak a warning into existence, he only watches with curiosity on his face and something far more intense alongside it.
"I have longed for your return for weeks! You leave without a word and take my cousin with you, leaving me to sit all alone and wonder if perhaps I'd done something wrong or worseβdisappointed you!" Your tears fall freely down your cheeks now, but you are far past the point of sparing yourself any embarrassment.
Ormund raises his hand to your face, cradling your head in his palm. His thumb strokes gently across your cheek, swiping your tears away. "Is it for me that you weep, sweetling?"
Yes, you want to say. Yes, of course it is. He is everything to you and has always been. "Do you have any idea how I would have mourned you?"
His eyes soften, and it soothes something inside of you to see it. Ormund leans forward slowly, carefully so as not to frighten you.
And you stand there, frozen in the gentle hold of his hands, as he licks the tears from your cheeks. His tongue is warm and soothing against your ruddy skin, and it feel so intimate that it makes you shiver.
He then kisses your eyelids. The left first, followed by the right. "I cannot promise to tell you of each of my wounds," he says, voice softer than it's ever been before. "But I can promise to warn you before I leave the tower again. I thought you'd be glad to be rid of me after all I've done, in truth."
"Glad?" The thought does not register in your mind. "I could never be glad of your absence. I confess, Iβ¦I hate it."
"Is that right?" Ormund takes a step back, and you see him inhale a shaking breath as he does. "More than you hate me?"
You wish you could deny the words, but you cannot. You've hated him all your lifeβthe man who'd always looked at you as if your very blood was wrong, who'd never hesitated to raise a hand to you, who'd been cruel and rigid. The man who denied you the softness you've always craved unless you'd earned it.
You do hate him.
But yes, you hate his absence more.
"There is another matter," he says, not giving you time to answer his question.
Perhaps because he did not care to hear the answer, or perhaps because he could not bear it.
"I am told you'd been quite disruptive while I was away," Ormund says. "That you'd stolen and spoken with a sharp tongue. All things I could forgive, considering the worst of your misdeeds."
Your brows furrow. "And what was the worst?"
"I have told you a hundred times to stay away from the stables," he explains. "So, imagine how unexpected it was to hear that you'd been spending far too much time with a boy who works in the very same stables I've warned you against."
Your stomach twists at the sharp tone of his voice. A stark contrast to the way he'd spoken to you only moments ago. "He does magic tricks," you say. "We were not being inappropriate."
"Magic," he spits. "Is that what you'd sell your virtue for? Your maidenhood? Worth nothing but a few tricks?"
"What? No! Iβ!"
"It does not matter if you truly did it," Ormund interrupts. "All that matters is the way it might seem to the passing eye. A whisper in one ear turns to truth in the mouth of another."
"But I didn't do anything! There was another, in the stables," you argue. "An old woman mucking out the stalls. Ask her, she can attest we were simply brushing the mares andβ!"
"He did not touch you?"
"No, my lord. On the seven above, I swear it."
You see something rigid relax in him as you say the words aloud. His posture softens, his hands unfurl. Ormund wets his lips and says, "There is still the matter of precedent. I told you not to do something, and you went ahead and did it anyway. On this much we can agree, yes?"
"Yes," you echo.
He nods thoughtfully, steps closer to his four poster bed, and says, "Come."
You do not know quite why, exactly, you feel your heart slow as he says it. The word is rehearsed and familiar and puts you at ease in all the places you've felt wound tight for weeks now. You stand in front of him and await further instruction, and Ormund does not hesitate to give it.
"Remove your dress."
That spark of excitement returns. You obey wordlessly, unlacing the fabric just enough to pull the silk over your shoulders. It falls down your body like water and pools at your feet.
And then, finally, he says, "Kneel."
You do.
Ormund does not sit on the edge of his bed for several moments. He simply exists in the space you've created, drinking up the power he holds over you. He's still fully clothed, wearing a black tunic and leather breaches, towering over your naked body that awaits his instruction.
When he does finally sit, he speaks a word you have not practiced before but it invokes something primal in you all the same.
"Crawl."
You do.
Ormund's chest heaves as you keep your eyes firmly on his, closing the space on all fours. And when you're close enough that you're right between his spread knees, you lay your cheek against the inside of his thigh.
He squeezes his eyes closed, whispering under his breath, so quiet you'd have missed the curse on the tip of his tongue had you not been paying attention.
His throat bobs as he swallows and exhales slowly. When his eyes find you again, there is something akin to wonder in them. "Over my knee."
You assume the practiced position and find yourself slick between your legs before he's even touched you. But you know he sees it, too, when he squeezes your flesh and spreads you open wide enough to feel to cool air touch your cunt.
"Ten," he says lowly. "Because I can see now that you were only acting out in response to my lack of thought for your isolation."
Ormund does not give a warning. He never does. He simply raises his hand and brings it down sharply against the swell of your cheek. The impact is painful and soothing all at the same time, and though your breathing stutters you feel your chest loosening.
You count each and every one in perfect succession, skin growing raised and warm to the touch. You cannot be sure if his hand comes down harder each time or if perhaps you've just grown more and more sensitive.
By the sixth strike, you're throbbing. Your hips move of their own accord, desperate for something to be wedged between them. Your toes curl and your feet cross at the ankles, thighs squeezed together as you try to abate the need.
By the eighth strike, you can feel Ormund's cock pressing against your belly, hard as stone. You cannot bear to look at him, not like this. Because you think you might lose all sense of self if you do, might kneel and beg for him to touch you. To violate you.
"Nine," you hiss, fingers curling in his sheets. You can feel everything, everywhere, all at once. Not just his hand and the way he hits you but his other, pressed firmly to the small of your back to keep you in place. You can feel the leather beneath you and his breath as it fans across your spine. You can feel the cool air that drifts in through the open window pane and the warm lick of the fire across the room.
You can feel your blood in your veins, the air in your lungs, the holiness in your body.
"One more," Ormund says. "Breathe, girl."
You obey, sucking in a slow breath of air and letting it fill your belly.
He strikes you on the exhale, and this time his hand stays against your tingling skin.
"Ten," you whimper. It feels as though your bones melt in his hold. The tension in your muscles dissipates, fading to nothing.
Just one touch would be enough. The pressure has become a mountain inside of you and it's on the verge of collapse.
"Are youβ¦enjoying this?"
You cannot lie. Not to him. "Yes," you answer breathlessly.
He hums, a sound at the back of his throat that you're not sure is because he's pleased with you or because he's appalled. You half expect him to strike your backside again.
He does not.
Instead, his hands drift slowly down the back of your thighs. And as his thumbs move, they slide through your slick and your spine arches back of its own volition.
"Ohβ" You grit your teeth, trying to hold back the moan that threatens. But it feels so good, better than anything else.
He lifts one hand, and you expect it to hurt when he touches you again. Ormund instead curls his fingers inwards, spreads your knees, and strokes his knuckles through your syrupy folds.
This time there is no chance at holding back your sound of pleasure. It rips through you, deep and heady, goosebumps spreading across your skin.
"So sensitive," he muses, more to himself than words spoken to you. "You've always been such a sensitive girl."
You press yourself backwards, chasing the sensation of his hand. He gently strokes you again, soft enough you'd convince yourself it's a touch of love if you believed he were capable of such a thing.
His knuckles graze over your clit and what was once warmth in your belly now spreads like wildfire beneath your skin.
"Please," you whimper. "More, please. I'll be good, I'll beβI'll be so good, I promise."
"Of course you will be," he says. "You're my perfect girl."
The word clangs around in your emptied mind. Perfect.
Perfect, perfect, perfectβ
Ormund smooths his hand over your cunt, the pressure and roughness of his touch dizzying. He then presses his thumb directly to your clit and you feel all the blood in your body rush to your center. "Do you know what you're asking of me?"
"Yes," you answer truthfully. "I want it to be you. I need it to be. No one elseβ¦" You swallow.
"Speak, sweetling," he encourages.
"No one else makes me feel like this," you admit, turning your head to look up at him.
And what you see is catastrophic to your aching heart. Because you've known Ormund all your life, but you've never seen him look like that.
Despaired, hopeless, a slave to the thoughts that plague him. There is such longing in his eyes that it makes your stomach flip. But beneath it all there is understandingβlike he relates far too well to your words to ever deny them.
"I could ask for your hand," he mutters. "Though your mother will likely deny me for my allegiance to my cousin and my house."
"So take me." The words come unbidden, a treason in their own right. "Steal me away. Hold me captive, a prisoner of a war not yet waged."
Something dark and searing flares behind his eyes when you speak.
"I am yours," you admit, and you think it may just be the truest thing you have ever said. "The way I have always been."
Ormund growls low, a frustrated sound at the bottom of his chest. He leans forward and presses his forehead to the space between your shoulder blades. "You are, aren't you."
Not a question.
He sighs, breathing in the scent of your skin deep into his lungs to soothe himself.
You are unsure of what comes next, once the truth of your feelings for him has been laid out in the open.
It feels raw. Like your chest has been cut and your ribcage cracked so he might see your very insides.
What happens next is a kiss upon your shoulder.
Gentle. Devoted. Faithful.
There is a deep crease between his brows, and you can feel evidence of hesitation in his hands.
"You are troubled," you observe aloud. "Is it because of me?"
He winces as if you'd struck him. As if the words were far more painful than anything he's ever done to you. Ormund's jaw feathers, and he breathes in deeply before saying, "Of course not. You have neverβ¦"
He shakes his head, swallows, and tries again.
"Understand this; my feelings for you do not come from a righteous place. I should feed you, guide you, protect you, and do nothing else. You should not be here now. I should not want this. Orβor you."
"But youβ¦do?" It sounds mousy as you ask it, said with an unsure tongue.
"I do," he admits in a hoarse whisper.
There is pain in his eyes as he says it. As if this feeling has been sitting in the depths of him for some time, and only now does he allow himself to succumb to it.
You move. You are uncertain and cautious as you do, but you will strength into your limbs anyway. Climbing into his lap, straddling his hips, winding your hands around his shoulders and tugging gently at the hair at his nape. "You don't have to take," you say, so close now you're breathing in his air. "Not if I give."
His stare is heavy and dark. Full of more longing and lust than you have ever seen exist in a man before.
You close the distance. Ormund freezes, unmoving as you press your lips to his experimentally. He tastes of smoke and cedar, of steel and blood, of safety and familiarity.
He tastes of home.
When you pull back, his chest heaves and his hands curl into the sheets. The thought crosses your mind that he is angry with youβfurious, even.
But Ormund does not shout or raise a hand to strike you.
He grabs you by the back of the neck and crushes his mouth to yours. Less experimental and less nervous than you were.
Ormund kisses you like he's starving.
His lips move against yours, soft and wanting. And when his tongue slips between them, he moans into your mouth as he tastes the inside of it.
It is a battle of a different kind. He bites and sucks and licks, and you try to meet his fervor. You are just as desperate, but Ormund is untamed. A feral dog let off its leash.
Your center throbs and you whimper, rolling your hips on top of him to abate the feeling. He is still fully dressed while you sit naked in his bruising grip, and you suddenly want nothing more than to feel his bare skin beneath your fingertips.
When you tug at the buttons of his tunic, Ormund's hands find yours to assist your clumsy movements. He is much faster than you are, and tugs the garment over his head the moment he is able.
There, along the left side of his abdomen, is a jagged wound.
You pause to press your fingers tenderly to the angry, red skin. His muscles are strong and hard beneath your touch. Though the stitches are removed now and the wound is mostly healed, he still winces at the pressure of your fingertips.
Without thinking, you lean forward and press a soft kiss to the scarred skin.
Ormund melts beneath your affection. And then he brackets his arms around your waist and turns you both, laying you flat against the mattress. He kneels between your legs, seeming so large and intimidating from the new angle.
His hands find your face, feeling your skin. They move slowly over your bones, down your neck, over the swell of your breasts, your navel, your hips. As if he were trying to memorize this particular moment by sight and touch alone.
"I have thought of this more times than I could ever say," Ormund tells you. He settles low, hovering over your body, pressing his mouth to the hollow of your throat.
His lips follows the same path as his hands, peppering wet kisses over your skin and leaving goosebumps in his wake.
"Your taste, you scent, your sweetnessβI have dreamt of it," he continues. His tongue circles your navel once before moving further down. And when he kisses your pubic bone, Ormund pauses. Looks up at you through dark lashes, his stare soft but still no less intense. "Is this where you ache, sweetling?"
The words feel filthy and depraved and so delicious that you whine. "Yes," you tell him, squirming. "Will you kiss me there?"
A malevolent smirk forms on his pretty mouth. "More," he answers.
And with no warning at all, Ormund licks a stripe through your heat, tongue flat and soft and so very wet.
It sends you reeling. The sensation, the sensitivityβhim. "Oh, gods, Iβ"
He does it again, this time licking back down as well. Ormund moans low and the vibration of the sound spreads through you mercilessly. Again, and again, and again, his tongue laves through your apex. You feel yourself clench, muscles pulled taut.
Your spine bends off the mattress and your hands come to his head, fingers twisting in his soft curls, pulling his mouth impossibly closer.
When he takes your clit between his lips and sucks gently, your vision blurs. Everything else in the world fades to nothing, every sensation muted apart from the pleasure his warm mouth brings.
Ormund is relentless. He doesn't stop, even when you're writhing and gasping for air. His face flushes and you can feel his stare on you even when you can no longer keep your eyes open.
It's far better than linens between your legs, far more intense. It doesn't take long before you become a trembling mess, legs shaking around his head, heels digging into his spine as you scramble to find some sort of purchase.
And then it happensβa searing pleasure, ripping through you mercilessly. Light flashes behind your eyes and your spine arches and your fingers tighten in his hair.
He licks and sucks you through it, making those sweet, rumbling groans all the while, as if this is more for his pleasure than yours.
The bliss is blinding and fizzles out slowly, leaving remnants of euphoria behind. Only then does he settle, tongue slowing as it slides through your wet heat with less pressure now.
When he finally pulls his mouth away, his cheeks are flushed and his lips are glossy with your arousal. "Better," Ormund whispers. "Far better than I ever could have dreamed."
You can hardly react to his praise, too lost in the feeling he'd given you. "I did not know it could be like that," you admit, breathless. "That it could be soβ¦"
"Perfect," he finishes for you. And you think, yes. He is perfect.
Maybe not in everything, but for you.
Ormund crawls over you until you are face to face once more. He is heavy on top of you, muscles thick and smothering in the best way. His length presses against your hip, so hard now you can feel the pulse of it.
He kisses your mouth but this time it's slower. Softer. The taste of you lingers on his tongue, sweet and intoxicating.
His hands cradle your face far gentler than another ever has. It is dizzying, the way he can bring such pain and still grant such ease.
You wriggle your arm beneath his abdomen, reaching for the metal of his belt buckle.
Ormund groans, but you feel the way his lips turn up just slightly against yours. "Greedy girl," you says, pulling away to nuzzle your cheek with the tip of his nose. "I have warned you against overindulgence endlessly."
He speaks true, but you have never listened to his warnings. Have always bent the rules until they break, have retained a sharp tongue and a love for all that might destroy you.
Including him, you suppose.
"Will you deny me, then?"
"No." Ormund shakes his head. "Never in all my life."
It eases something in you to hear the response. To know this is a sin you share, a mirrored reflection of one another.
He leans backwards, just enough to unbuckle his breeches and remove them. His cock is larger than you'd anticipated. Thick and veiny and flushed at the tip, hanging heavy between his legs and decorated with a thatch of dark, coarse hair at the base.
Ormund kneels in front of you, staring hard, watching you take all of him in for the first time.
He's beautiful, you think. Strong and powerful and profound. Your mouth waters at the sight of him, your brain going fuzzy again, carnal impulses beginning to take hold.
"I can be gentle," he says. "If that is what you need."
But it's not gentle you want. You want himβwith all his sharpness, with all his anger. The totality of it; his heart, his soul, his body. If it hurts, you think it is meant to. "What I need," you whisper, "is you."
He watches you for a moment, eyes searching your face, trying to find hesitance that doesn't exist. And then he nods, leans forward to kiss your temple, and says, "You will tell me if it becomes too much."
You swear to him that you will.
Ormund takes his cock in his hand and slides the head of it through your center, coating his length in your wetness. Each stroke of him over your clit has you sighing, hips canting towards the sensation.
He lines himself up at your entrance, and your attention is so focused on his movements between your legs that it startles you when he uses the other to grab your face.
Ormund's fingers curl tightly around your jaw, forcing your head back, forcing you to look at him. "Eyes here," he says, voice firm.
And then, gently, he begins to push in.
The stretch of him burns, but it is not terrible. It simply aches, and you whimper a distorted version of his name but he does not stop. He keeps going until he's fully seated inside of you, so deep you swear you can feel him in your belly.
All the while, he keeps his big hand around your jaw, squeezing so tightly it momentarily distracts from the throbbing of your cunt.
Ormund touches his forehead to yours, breathing in your air. He says, "You are so fucking perfect."
And it makes you moan.
He starts to move, slowly at first. Pulling out of you tenderly just to slide right back in. A few strokes, encouraging your endurance. Sweet and soft and loving.
"Feels soβso full," you say, whimpers falling from your lips.
Ormund pulls out again, nearly all the way this time. He still forces you to look at him, and you can see the desperation enter his eyes mere moments before he slams his cock in deep.
There is nothing soft about it. Nothing sweet.
Your vision goes blurry and the air vanishes from your lungs as if it'd never existed there in the first place. The force of it aches so deliciously you feel pressure begin to form behind your eyes. "Oh godβ!"
He does it again, pulling out almost completely before slamming back into you. "My perfect girl," he mutters against your lips. "Does it hurt?"
"Yes." Your hands find his shoulders, fingernails digging into the thick muscle .
"Do you wish for me to stop?"
That familiar warmth spreads someplace deeper than before. Not just your belly but in your womb. "No, please don'tβdon't stop."
Ormund turns your head just enough to press his own against the side of your cheek. He inhales the scent of your skin and a low growl reverberates in his chest.
Finally, blessedly, he picks up the pace. Hips grinding hard against yours, finding a rhythm that feels somehow both satisfying and violent. He breathes shallowly against your cheek, pressing kisses to your jaw that feel so tender in comparison to the way he fucks you.
And when he reaches between your bodies with his free hand to find you clit, you think you might die. It's too much, too sensitive. Your toes curl and your spine arches, pressing your breasts against his chest. The only word you seem to have held onto in your bliss is, "Please. Please, pleaseβoh god, please."
"You beg so prettily," he says. "Almost like you were made for it. Made to kneel before me. Made to be mine."
The possessiveness in his tone alone has you teetering on the precipice of release. You'd given yourself freely to him, willinglyβbut Ormund still manages to take. Your innocence, your purity, your heart.
You're falling. Bliss blinds you, thighs trembling, nerve endings coiled and white-hot. His name falls from your mouth and Ormund kisses you hard to swallow up the sound.
"Yeah," he murmurs. "There you go, sweetling. Give it to me. My perfect girl."
He doesn't stop, even when tremors rock through your body. He keeps fucking his cock into you without remorse, fingers moving over your clit in tight circles, ratcheting your pleasure higher and higher until you feel like you might burst with it.
The pace of his hips falters, and then he's groaning low against the curve of your neck and laying wet, open-mouthed kisses against your pulse. With his cock buried inside of you, he fills you with his release, painting your insides all sticky and white.
Ormund gives a couple of slow thrusts, chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath, before gently pulling out of you and rolling to his side.
It is not you who reaches for comfort first.
His arm wraps around your waist, hauling you across the mattress and into his warm embrace.
You nestle beneath his arm, head resting against his shoulder. He is so large and the heat of his skin is so comforting. Familiar in some ways, despite this being the first time you've ever been so close.
That same warmth that emanates from him seeps through your bones and touches your fast-beating heart. A delighted giggle escapes you, and you can feel Ormund's mouth turn up into a smile against your forehead.
He tilts your chin up so you're facing him. "What is it that you find so amusing?"
You shake your head. "Nothing, just...I amβI am happy."
His smile softens into something heavier, but no less pleased. You don't believe you've ever seen him look this way. So vulnerable. Benevolent, even.
Silence settles for some time. And you would be content to stay here, skin tingling in the aftermath of bliss, safe in his arms. But there is something weighing on him, and you can feel it in the stiffness of his hands that stroke gently over your hip.
When you can stand his distance no longer, you ask, "Is there something wrong?"
He doesn't answer right away, which frays the edges of your comfort. But then he says delicately, "I have something for you. A gift."
"A gift?" You prop yourself up on an elbow. "From the Citadel?"
"No," Ormund answers. "I'd had it made for you some time before my journey. But Iβit is not aβ¦kindness, exactly. More a token of my own grotesque worship of you."
Your brows furrow in confusion. "What is it?"
Ormund untangles himself from the sheets, unkempt and messy now below you. He crosses the chamber to his wardrobe and pulls open a drawer.
It is hard to see from so far away, but you watch as he takes something hesitantly in his hand before returning to the bedside.
"Iβ¦I sometimes believe that I have been shackled to you by the gods themselves," he begins. "Fated to bend my own morals in response to my longing for you. I am but a wolf coiled around a lamb and there will never be anything else, not for me."
You don't understand. It makes a million questions form in your mind, none easily answered.
Ormund swallows thickly. "I am a slave to your affection," he says. It makes your chest pull tight. "I do not deserve your softness but I will never turn it away so long as you continue to give it."
He extends his hand in front of you, opening his palm to display the prettiest necklace you've ever seen. Made of glittering emerald stones and a silken black ribbon.
You reach out to touch it on instinct, and Ormund lets you take it from him. But as you do, witnessing the lack of length, realization dawns on you. "This heralds a collar," you say.
Ormund nods slowly. "I only wished for you to beβ¦possessed by me, the way I have been possessed by you."
A response does not come easily.
There is a part of you that knows this is not the way of things. A man should love his lady. Should be kind and respectful. He should certainly not place a collar around her neck as if she is owned property or a family pet.
But there isβ¦something else, too. A part of you where desire sparks at the thought of being so wholly his, of surrendering to whatever fate may befall you so long as it is done by his own hand. There is peace in it. And certainty.
"I'd told myself to get rid of it a thousand times, but there has always been a hope within me that perhaps one day you might return my wretched affections," he says. "It is yours. But if you are to wear it, you must do so willingly."
The decision feels heavy. Weighted.
But you do not need long to decide.
You hand the necklace back to Ormund, who takes it hesitantly from your grasp.
And then you turn, facing away from him but looking over your shoulder to ask, "Will you tie it for me?"
He smiles, and there is something deeply fragile in it. Almost boyish, as if this is the first time in all his life he has ever felt truly loved by another.
Ormund kisses the back of your neck and sets the ribbon in place around your throat.
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one of the best parts of making up increasingly wild and specific aus with a friend is sending them posts like "this is sooo blorbo in torture chamber au number 15" and they reply back like "YESSS btw have i told you about my latest idea for how to torture them even more" and you get to enjoy a little snack and kick your feet with glee
warnings: +18 mdni, sex worker!fem reader, religious themes/guilt, dubcon (on account of being paid to have sex but reader gives explicit consent multiple times), porn no plot (so spoiler free!), dry humping, heavy petting, nipple sucking, marking, possessive behavior, dirty talk, begging, praise, a little bit of intimidation, size difference, finger sucking, ormund fucks you on a desk, clit stimulation, pussy slapping, unprotected piv, creampie, breeding kink towards the end, might be ooc because this is the first time i've ever written for him, lightly edited!
wc: 1.8k
thinking about pious ormund hightower and whore!reader who is so fucking pretty that she immediately becomes this man's kryptonite.
you're first presented to him as a gift. delivered to his bed chamber late one night by some castellan who'd gotten him all wrong, an offer to find common ground.
but ormund isn't an indulgent or lustful man. he honors the seven and resists his impulses. he'll be married one day, after all. he doesn't want to disrespect his future wife by sullying himself before he's even met her.
but you are...gods. the most beautiful woman he's ever seen. and ormund is well traveled, has seen all matter of beautiful women before and has never looked twice.
but the moment he lifts his eyes from the scrolls on his borrowed desk, he feels his resistance waver.
and, yeah. he knows he should send you away. should tell his guards to take you elsewhere, should give you a golden dragon for your troubles and tell you to buy yourself a nice gown or a good meal.
he should do the right thing. the godly thing. but then you come near him smelling of honeysuckle and ambrosia and every godforsaken tempting thing in all the seven kingdoms, and ormund is done for.
at first, you only sit in his lap and kiss his cheeks. and he tells himself it's fine, you know? it's not like you're really doing anything wrong. just worshipping a man you'd been paid to make feel good. and it does make him feel good, your soft lips against his skin.
but then he lets himself touch you.
slow at first. a hand on your thighβover your dress. albeit a thin barrier of lace and silk, but a barrier still. and then he drags his knuckles down the back of your smooth neck, stroking the sweat-slick hair that clings to your nape.
you thread your own fingers through his curls, mouth drifting lower to lay kisses over his pulse. you're good at what you do, he realizes quickly. because before he can even register what's happening, you're turning fully to staddle his hips and hiking your dress up your legs.
he can feel you, even through his trousers. the heat that emits from between your thighs, the wetness, the desire. it makes him feel dizzy. drunk, even.
you give a tentative roll of your hips over his bulge and his head falls back, knocking lightly against the top of the mahogany chair. it's too much, and he knows it, and there's a thought in the back of his head as you create a delicious rhythm that he might be damned for this.
but he's too far gone now, that iron grip on his control slipping through his fingers like smoke. he can only feel the remnants of it like a thick humidity, can hardly remember those life-long teachings of the faith.
when your fingers unbuckle the iron buttons of his doublet, he lets you. doesn't push you away like he should when you push it over his shoulders and down his strong biceps, either.
you're so soft. tracing his scars with eager hands, still humping his clothed cock like you're the most desperate girl he's ever seen. he tugs roughly at the tie at the back of your dress, the fabric over your chest falling away with little resistance.
his big hands come to cup your breasts, massaging the supple flesh, calloused thumbs stroking over the peaks of your nipples. his mouth waters at the sight of you, bare and free and open, all for him.
his for the taking.
his for the feasting.
ormund leans forward and suckles your tit into his mouth, tongue demanding as it flicks across your nipple. he kisses his way across your sternum to the other, sucking and biting, unable to stop himself from making some sort of claim on you despite being fully away you're not his to claim.
he's not an indulgent man, no. but greedy? well...that's another matter.
your breath is warm against the shell of his ear as you say, "i want you inside me."
he should say no. he knows that.
but then you say, "please, ser."
and gods. what's a man to do? deny a pretty woman? deny the prettiest woman?
ormund doesn't have the strength. not when you beg so beautifully.
"get up," he says.
you do without a moment's hesitation. perfect girl. obedient girl.
ormund stands to his feet and crowds your space until you have to take a step back. one, and then another, and another. he tilts his head and smiles with a wolfish grin until your back hits the edge of the desk.
he sees it there, for a fleeting momentβthe fear in your eyes. but you don't have to be afraid, not of him. he's a godly man, don't you know? he would never hurt a woman, let alone one like you.
gently, he lifts his hand to your face and strokes the back of his knuckles over the curve of your cheek. "do you have any idea how beautiful you are?"
the fear subsides, and ormund traces the shape of your sweet mouth with the pad of his thumb.
"if it weren't for coin, would you still want this? and don't lie, girl."
he watches as your pupils dilate. you nod, slowly at first, but then again with more certainty. "yes."
"good." he presses his thumb past your lips, feeling the soft wetness of your tongue and she sharpness of your teeth. you hollow out your cheeks, staring up at him through your lashes the whole time.
a moan escapes him at the sight of you. pretty and sinful and irresistible all the same. he lets you suck his thumb for a few precious moments, committing the feeling of your warm mouth to memory.
but the moment his desire for you grows impossibly more suffocating, he brackets an arm around you and lifts you onto the desk. ormund pushes your shoulders back and pulls your dress up right over the ravens he'd been writing moments before you'd stepped foot into his space, ink likely still drying.
you lift your legs; the heels of your feet hooked right at the edge. ormund gorges himself on the sight of you; bare and spread wide for him, beautiful and womanly and so very wet.
with one hand, the knight undoes his belt. and with the other, he strokes a finger through the seam of your cunt. finds your clit and circles it carefully, delighting in the way your eyes flutter closed and a hum leaves your lips.
his cock is aching now. throbbing in his hand as he pulls it from his breeches and strokes it desperately.
this would be enough to finish him, he knows. a firm grip around the base of his cock and the most mouth-watering sight before him. an interactive display of indulgence.
it should be enough.
and yet it is not.
ormund brings his hand, wet now with your arousal, to his lips. he inhales deeply, taking the scent of you deep into his lungs, before he brings his finger to his mouth and sucks the taste of you off of it.
he makes space for himself between your spread thighs and watches curiously as you prop yourself up on your elbows. "i want to watch it go in," you admit sheepishly.
there's a tone of innocence in your voice that has him trembling with need. it makes him feel...powerful, almost. like you're at his mercy.
and maybe you are.
ormund knows he shouldn't like the feeling, but he does. and he's already gone this far, and so he grips the back of your neck hard and pulls you forward, abdomen curling to get a better view.
he lines himself up at your entrance, coating the tip of his cock in your slick, and then slides in deep.
the thought crosses his mind that you feel like heaven.
tight and wet, a kind of worship in it's own right.
ormund fucks you hard. tugs at your hair and slams his hips against yours with reckless abandon. kisses your cervix with the tip of his big cock, stretching you wide.
he doesn't kiss you, because it's too intimate.
but his lips hover over yours, breathing in your moans, swallowing up your exhalation. ormund thinks you're beautiful as you are, but when your eyes are wide and you're all filled up with him?
gods.
it's something else entirely. makes him throb inside of you, the muscles in his arms flexing as he holds you upright. "you're perfect," he says, and means it. doesn't throw the word around lightly.
but it's true.
ormund circles your clit with his free hand after gathering spit from his own mouth for ease of friction. he smears his saliva over your cunt, slapping his fingers against you slit, twice gently, and then once sharp.
but he soothes the ache quickly, shushing your whining with a steady pressure against your swollen clit.
he spreads his fingers and slides them down, two on each side of his cock that still pistons into your opening. sweat begins to bead along his hairline. "tell me you want me," he murmurs, voice low and thready.
"i want you," you say.
and it satisfies him, but then you keep going and his knees grow weak.
"want you toβto defile me. feels so good. soβso good inside of me, please. don't stop. please don't stop. i want to be your woman. i'll do anything, my lord. anything, please."
there's a part of him that doesn't believe it. ormund tells himself you're being paid to say these things. that it's about the gold and not about him.
but you beg so beautifully and he thinks that yeah, he might want that, too.
might want to keep you at his bedside for his own twisted pleasure. for his own relief. his pet. his plaything.
his woman.
your cunt squeezes tight around him, and your knuckles around the edge of the desk blanch as you hold tight. "oh, gods."
he groans, the sound reverberating deep in his chest, and then empties himself deep inside of you. fills you up and doesn't stop his thrusts. his cock twitches and becomes coated with your release and his.
he doesn't slow his pace until your muscles go slack, until the oversensitivity becomes borderline painful.
carefully, he releases his hold on you and lays you back against the desk, a small smile forming on your pretty face. a look of pure bliss, provided by his touch alone.
ormund gently pulls himself back, and watches as the sticky white mess of his cum spills out of you. he gathers it with his fingers and pushes it back in, thumb stroking lightly over your clit.
it's wrong, and he knows it, but he hopes that it sticks. hopes that one day your belly will be rounded with his baby, and he'll have no choice but to marry you. to raise you up from a girl in a brothel to a lady of his house. a hightower.
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