𝙟𝙖𝙮.𝙣𝙚𝙩

He's seen you on the news, you've seen him on the news. Just to see that casualty count. Each time is one of you one-upping the other. There's mixed statements from the public that neither of you really gave a damn about but a good amount of people favored your "questionable" methods and approaches

You really want to get one over him this time. So, what do you think to do? Go to the areas where the AVTF are at most five minutes away and check up on their whereabouts from a stolen cop radio

Your plan is to sit outside the local diner, listening to the radio since this morning but there wasn't anything that interesting. Then... you hear talks of a unit being sent to the diner you're sitting outside of. The universe is just putting them in your hands!

You walked in all smooth and went to the bathroom to wait, putting on your mask and gloves. Checking your handheld weapons at your sides because you weren't one for guns. Too easy; boring

The second you hear shouting outside you peak past the door. Men scrambling around looking for Frank Castle apparently. Who tf called that in? One of the officers shouts at the guy sitting at the counter then...goes down. What the-

When you see him put on his mask and start throwing shit, you're like ooo you son of a bitch!

You come out and take some down too. After he jumped over the counter he's like...was that?? Her??

After some more get put down it looks like the end of it. Just one more officer who was injured. He slowly approached you, square shouldered and cocky as shit with forks in his hands

"I count six," You said behind the mask. "You?"

"Six," he replied. The sound of a dog whimpering made you both slowly turn and take your masks off, utterly bewildered

"Dogs in restaurants are unsanitary," he said

"Very," you added

"Please...don't kill me," the man said

"Woah," you chimed in

"Oh, don't worry," he said with a chilling smile before throwing the forks into the last officer's knees. "We're the good guys"

"Better than those assholes behind us. You're welcome, by the way"

"It's Bullseye and Vanish!" The officer desperately yelled into his comms. You rolled your eyes and pulled one of your sharper weapons from your belt. "It's them, it's them-!"

You finished the job by throwing it so hard it impaled his forehead

"That makes seven," you said

"I assisted. The kill is both of ours"

"I guess we're even then"

"Guess so."

You smiled. "Wanna grab a bite?"

He shrugs a little before grabbing the ketchup bottle off the man's table. "I could eat"

It was not joy alone that heavied your chest at the sound of his name. It was much closer to dread, which burned as it rose into your throat like bile — alongside something that should’ve felt like love but had since grown into something far more complicated in your last few moons as prisoner. You turned from him at once and shoved the tent flap aside just in time to exorcise your sickness onto the dewy grass below.

The dread did not leave with it, and neither did the guilt.

Now you sit at the long table of another manse’s dining hall, far humbler than that of the Red Keep but still a palace compared to the war tents, and watch the last of the orange sunrise die over the hills through the arched windows. Somewhere down that road, your husband rides towards you — alone and hunted and entirely unaware of what awaits him in these walls. 

“You’ve hardly touched your supper,” Ormund says beneath the soft scrape of his knife as he cuts himself a slice of honeyed boar. Despite not having properly dined since the war began, he eats with a methodical sort of restraint. He takes small bites, chews each of them thoroughly, and doesn’t talk again until he swallows. “I’m not going to have to feed you myself again, am I?”

You miss the amusement dancing on the edge of his melodic voice with your attention fixed on the window, where the dark edge of the hill meets the violet sky. “I’m not hungry,” you answer distantly.

“Yes. You said as much yesterday as well,” Ormund sighs with all the exasperation of a man grown tired of losing his battles with you. “I’d have thought you might be glad to have a proper kitchen. With proper cooks. With proper food.”

His apathy cuts you like a blade, which has grown sharper and more frequent since the letter arrived at camp. It seemed to sever whatever spell had briefly held the two of you together before now; or otherwise shut something in Ormund that has not opened since he learned of his cousin’s imminent arrival.

“Well, forgive me, my lord,” you say with a voice as thin as Valyrian steel. “If my husband’s sudden return from the dead has rather spoiled my appetite.”

Ormund’s eyes snap up from his plate at once. They’re pale and unreadable and utterly void of the warmth you’d grown so accustomed to. When the blue of his eyes are warm, they’re like swimming in the languid blue of a summer sea. They carry none of that silken familiarity tonight.

“He is not dead yet," Ormund reminds you with his brows raised to his hairline. “So far as either of us knows, anyway.”

Yet. The word alone makes you flinch, though you cannot yet tell if he means it as cruelly as it feels. You find more and more these days that you can no longer tell the difference with him now.

“What am I to say to him?” you wonder suddenly aloud, as if the question had been building in your throat since you learned of Gwayne’s arrival. Your anxious hands twist in the charcoal-silver skirts borrowed from Lady Footly’s closet; a gift, Ormund called it, despite it not belonging to either of you. “When Gwayne arrives— what do I tell him? How am I meant to look at him?”

“You are his wife,” Ormund responds plainly, with one careless roll of his broad shoulders. “I suppose you’ll look at him as you always have.”

Your face screws with a choked-back anger. “That’s not an answer—”

“No. But it’s the only one I have.” He sets his fork and knife on the plate with a heavy clink and leans back in his chair. He tilts his chin upward to stare at you over the top of the glittering candles between you, ringed fingers fidgeting over the pale white cloth.

“I have an army to feed, men to protect, and walls to build before Rhaenyra’s dragonfire can swallow the castle whole,” he continues in a monotone. “Unfortunately, I no longer possess the luxury, or the patience, of coddling your guilt.”

His words burn red-hot through your chest, searing you like a brand. You flinch away from them as if he’d struck you physically, though it might’ve hurt less if he had. Your eyes sting as your throat tightens around all the words you want to fling back at him — perhaps that he had not seemed so burdened by you a week past, when his mouth was on you and his fingers were in you; that he had not been so burdened by your guilt all the weeks before that, when he swore your safety mattered to him above his cousin’s own claim to you.

But you swallow down the accusations now and throw your napkin onto your untouched plate instead. Your chair scrapes hard against the cobbles as you rise from the table in a rush of black and silver silk.

“Where are you going now?” Ormund huffs.

“For a walk,” you answer without looking back at him.

“You haven’t even touched your food,” he calls to your retreating figure, motioning to your uneaten plate with a ringed hand. His even voice begins to fray at the edges, “Sit down and eat—”

“Feed it to the hounds—”

“Sit!” His voice cracks through the room like thunder when your hand curls around the cold brass door handle. The sheer volume of his voice, the raw bite underneath it, roots you in place. Your head turns slowly to find the man glaring at you from his spot at the table, though the scowl on his chiseled features disappears just as quickly as it came on.

His eyes flutter shut as his broad chest inflates behind his emerald coat, with a slow breath in through his nose. You watch the man walk himself down from some invisible ledge — tense shoulders dropping, clenched fists easing, rough breaths coming easier again.

“I’m sorry…” Ormund says when he opens his eyes again. The light in the pale blue of his gaze has returned to him, you find, and so has the softness in his smile when he rises from his chair to meet you. “I am sorry, my love— I forget myself— This war has driven me half-mad, if you could not already tell.”

He exhales a faint laugh that you do not join him in. He crosses the distance between you in a few short strides, wide hands settling along the outsides of your elbows — warm, even through the thin sleeves of your gown. You peer up at him through your lashes, uncertain whether the tenderness he extends to you now is real or simply the version he’s allowing himself to show you.

“If ever I am… cross with you. Or short with you in any way— It is never because of you, understand?” Ormund confesses lowly, eyes darting back and forth between your weary ones. “It takes me a moment to remember myself, is all… You understand that, don’t you?”

You swallow hard and nod wordlessly in response, though what you most desperately want to tell him in that moment is that Gwayne had never been so cross with you. That not once in your moons of marriage had he so much as raised his voice at you or frightened you the way Ormund has in such short time. You want to say it if only to see it hurt him the way his words have hurt you. Instead, you say nothing. 

“He does not have to know,” Ormund murmurs to you, thumbs brushing your arm in an absent, reassuring gesture. “Nothing occurred between us that was not asked of me. I gave you only what you wanted— Surely a man cannot be faulted for answering his summons.”

Your brows lower over your narrowed eyes. “Are you saying that… that what we did is my fault alone?”

“Of course not!” Ormund laughs, broad hands rising to cup your burning cheeks between them. His palms are warm and calloused; they feel like velvet as they brush your skin. “I’m saying neither of us is at fault— You said it yourself, did you not? The war broke your vows. Not us.”

Some traitorous part of you, so desperate for absolution, nearly softens into his touch at that. You did not ask to be taken from the Red Keep; you did not ask for Ormund's protection; you did not ask for a husband to ride off at dawn and leave you to wonder all these months whether he was living or dead.

You are desperate and half-convinced in your own madness, but you think that perhaps Gwayne will understand that. That surely a woman who believed herself abandoned and already widowed cannot be faulted for the comfort she found in the meantime. It is a thing far too fragile to build a conscience on, but you cling to the comfort of it anyway.

“My cousin rides to Tumbleton alone— without his own army and with Daemon’s surely hunting him,” Ormund coos gently to you, sweeping his thumb across your skin. “It is entirely possible that he will not survive the journey here at all. And then there would be nothing for you to confess… And you would’ve spent all these days worrying for naught.”

The words settle over you like ice in your veins. Your eyes dart back and forth between his own as you search for something human within him — some acknowledgment of what he’s just comforted you with — and find nothing in return.

“You speak of his death like it would be a mercy to me,” you whisper, voice thick with unshed tears. 

“I speak of it only as a possibility," Ormund corrects softly. “I only mean to spare you the fear of it, my love. Is that not a kindness?”

You do not answer him. You could not even if you wanted to; not with the invisible hand curling its way around your throat, as you listen to the man who’s protected you from certain death frame your husband's demise as a kindness done on your behalf.

But when Ormund ducks softly down to press a sickly sweet kiss to your mouth, tasting of the sweet wine and honeyed figs from supper, you cannot seem to pull away from him. Gods forgive you, but you lean into it instead; you ball the collar of his coat into fists and chase the comfort in his mouth the way you’ve chased the safety of his hands since you were brought to his side.

You think of the man who fed you bread from his own fingers when you would not eat; who cut down a hedgeknight before he could harm you; who wrapped you in his blankets and warmed your fingers in his hands on particularly freezing nights. 

That man is still in there, somewhere, hidden beneath the throes of war. 

You fear what might become of him before it’s done.

vii. MUD & MERCY

You stand before the tallest window of the Tumbleton manse, overlooking the winding ivied streets below. They lead straight to the western gate, where the scouts had seemingly spotted a rider without banners in the distance — a messenger from another camp, they said, or maybe Gwayne. The dying sunlight paints the sky in milky orange hues while you pick at the ragged skin of your thumbnail in an absentminded worry. The delicate nailbed splits and blooms red.

You do not notice until a silken handkerchief is motioned suddenly in the corner of your eye.

Your head whips to find Daeron standing at your elbow, green eyes glimmering and pink mouth fixed into a firm line of boyish solemnity. He stands taller than you now, which hadn’t been the case when you first arrived at camp — now you have to look up to properly meet the young boy’s gaze.

“Oh,” you say within a surprised breath. “Thank you.”

You take the cloth from him with a trembling hand. The pale linen blooms pink when you press it to the raging skin of your bleeding thumb. Daeron grimaces sympathetically in return, though you aren’t looking at him to see it. 

“Are you nervous?” he wonders aloud, hands crossed firmly behind his back.

“A bit…” you confess in a sigh, dabbing at the wound and knowing that there is no string of words you could possibly put together to express just how nervous you are.

“Aye,” he nods. “I suppose I am, too… I’ve not seen him since I was a child.”

Your head turns slowly to flash the boy a knowing look. “You are still a child, my prince,” you remind him with a smile.

“A younger child, then,” Daeron mutters sheepishly back, freckled cheeks flaring as he turns back toward the window. His long, auburn tendrils sway softly at his shoulders when he shakes his head. “Long enough that I can no longer recall the last conversation I had with him… Though I’m sure it was about you, no doubt, with his betrothal to you and all…”

“Well, he spoke of you often,” you tell him, and watch the boy’s pale eyes flicker with a newfound life when he turns to you again. “He made it clear he was quite proud of you… And if it’s any consolation, I did not intend to steal him from Oldtown.”

“I’m glad for it,” Daeron blurts, then shakes his head at himself when the words don’t come out right. “Not that he left, of course, but that it was you he was given. There are far worse fates, to be true…” 

He trails off and watches your face twist with confusion. His anxious gaze drops to the blood-spotted handkerchief as the tips of his ears glow pink. The words seem to escape him without a single thought in his floundering attempts to explain himself. 

“I only mean that— that he is good. My Uncle Gwayne. The best of us, really, and Ormund is…” Daeron forgets why he brings up the older man the second his name spills from his lips, though he cannot seem to stop talking. “Ormund is good, too, I’m sure. Somewhere deep down. But he— He does not lose well, my lady. And I’ve learned that… that it's a dangerous thing, to— to be the prize he’s decided he’s won.”

The words come out of him in a rush; sentences half-formed and stumbling. He glances at you only once in a quick and searching look, before looking away again like he can’t stomach a second more of the contact. Your stomach twists in a sick feeling at each word from his mouth. Your throat runs dry as you choke on whatever response you might have given him — some careful deflection, maybe, or a warm laugh to soothe the boy — but a horn sounds from the tower before you can find any response at all. 

Three short, sharp blasts send the keep into motion immediately.

“He’s here!” someone yells, far off in the distance. “Open the gates— it’s Ser Gwayne!”

Your feet seem to move on their own accord. Despite the dread sitting heavy in your belly, your legs carry you instantly towards Gwayne. You hold your dress skirts in your fists as you rush down the winding stone stairs, through the crowded hall, and out the heavy oak doors of the entrance. The humid, evening summer air takes the breath from your lungs as it strikes you across the face; it becomes near-impossible to take another one in, with your heart climbing so suddenly in your throat.

The thundering of hooves against cobblestone finds you before you’ve made it down the steep stone steps of the ancient castle. You’re blinded, briefly, by the setting sun until you hold a hand over your squinted eyes. Armored knights and groomed horses come into view — straddled loosely behind Bold Jon’s mare is Gwayne, though his face and hair are so caked with dirt and blood you scarcely recognize him.

Gwayne tries and fails to dismount on his own. His legs betray him after days of nonstop walking, and the exhaustion makes them buckle almost instantly. “Gwayne!” he hears you shout, right before he feels your hands reach for him before he can fall. 

Your arms curl beneath his own to keep him upright. He leans the bulk of his weight against you without ever really meaning to, clinging to your warmth and the scent of floral bathing oils he isn’t quite used to. And, though he smells like dirt and death, you hold him back just the same. 

“You’re alive,” you pant, breaths fanning in his muddied hair.  “Gods, you’re alive—”

“Well…” He huffs a not-quite laugh that you can feel in his shoulder, pulling just far enough away to meet your wet eyes with a pair of duller, paler ones. “I told you I meant my vows, didn’t I?” 

His words come out in rasps, voice dry from days of thirst and weeks of shouting. His chest sears with a foreign feeling at the way you’re looking at him now — like he’s half stranger, half god. “Apologies for my appearance, dear wife,” he pants and swallows down the sudden urge to cry. “But I have had a… rough go of things as of late…”

Your features crumble under the weight of your own tears. You shake your head at the man, and at his sorry attempt at a joke. “Gods, I’ve missed you...”

Gwayne exhales slowly through his nose as his cracked lips curve into a crooked smile, visibly exhausted but his even still. “Not nearly as much as—”

“Ser Gwayne.” The voice cuts through the bustling courtyard at once.

You feel every muscle in your body seize on instinct as your head whips back towards the stone steps, where Ormund stands at the top of them. His eyes scan the scene below — of you and Gwayne and your bodies only just now easing apart as the red-haired man attempts to stand on his own. 

The silver chain of Ormund’s pomander clinks faintly in the newfound quiet as he brings the perfumed incense up to his nose, inhaling deeply to rid the scent of sweat and blood and death from his nostrils.

“I see you’ve made it,” is all he says.

Gwayne exhales an exhausted huff, a mixture of a laugh and a scoff. He sways softly on his muddied boots and clutches onto your shoulder with his free hand. “It’s good to see you too, cousin…” he responds in a monotone.

Ormund turns to Daeron, who’s hovering just beside him with his pale hands clenched into fists — it takes every bit of strength in the young boy’s body not to run down to his uncle alongside you, worried about how Ormund might react. 

“See that a room is made ready for your uncle. And a hot meal is sent with haste— whatever the kitchens can manage quickly,” Ormund says to the boy, then pauses as his eyes drift back to Gwayne’s. “And perhaps a bath.”

Gwayne’s cracked lips curl into a slow smile. He breathes a laugh through his nose as he watches his cousin spin on his heel to walk away. “You always did have delicate sensibilities…” he attempts to call to the man, though he fails to muster the strength in his voice to be heard. 

It is you who insists on escorting Gwayne to the bath. You wave off hovering knights and Tumbleton servants with a firmness that surprises even you — no longer a prisoner of war, but a high lord’s wife. 

Gwayne, it seems, is much too spent from the journey to do anything more than lean into your shoulder the whole way up the winding castle. He braces himself on your firm weight as you peel the ruined layers of clothing from his body and coax him gently into the steaming tub. 

Your own borrowed gown joins his tattered things in a forgotten heap on the cobbled floor as you sink into the water alongside him. The warmth laps gently at your waist as you shift yourself over his lap, resting the bulk of your weight on his thighs.

The bathwater turns the color of weak tea by the time you’ve worked the worst of the grime from Gwayne’s pale skin. Dark streams of dirt and old blood swirl away beneath the cloth in your hand, brushing a tad too gently over his shoulders and chest and back, as if anything too hard might break him entirely.

Gwayne sits slumped against the tub, eyes half-closed and head lolled back. The war had certainly taken its due upon his pretty features — the new hollows beneath his cheekbones, the fresh scar above his brow, the deep grey exhaustion under his once bright eyes. There’s a leanness to him now that suggests missed meals and weeks of marching; and a sort of heaviness in his gaze that suggests longer weeks of grief.

But still he softens for you, minute by minute, as you drag the cloth over the angle of his dirtied jaw. He exhales slowly through his nose and leans instinctively into your touch.

“You needn’t do this to yourself, you know?” the man murmurs, but makes no further move to stop you. “There are servants more than capable of tending to my bath.” 

“I want to do it,” you tell him simply, dabbing at a speck of blood on his cheek. “I’ve missed you too much— I’d rather not share you with a servant just yet.”

He gives you a tired, crooked smile in response. “I missed you, too,” he says with a sigh, fingers clutching you harder by the waist beneath the water’s surface, like he’s still trying to make sure you’re still real. “Gods, you cannot imagine how badly…” 

You rinse the cloth in the cooling water and press it gently to his hairline, dabbing at the remnants of dirt clinging stubbornly to him there. His adam’s apple bobs as he swallows through a tightening throat — being touched this gently threatens to undo him entirely, after weeks away and days of nonstop bloodshed. 

His tense shoulders finally sink beneath the water as he admits, “I thought only of you… The entire way here… I fear it’s the only way I managed it— knowing that I could not die without seeing you first.”

Your throat tightens as guilt strangles you all over again; the bitter reminder of what you’d done, and all the nights you forgot to miss him back. Your fingers move anxiously to set the cloth on the rim of the tub and dip into the ceramic dish lying there. You scoop a handful of lavender soap onto your fingertips, and work it between your palms until it starts to foam.

“I thought of you, too,” you tell him with an averted gaze, which is true enough even though it feels like a lie when it escapes your mouth. “Every day.”

“And what of Ormund?” Gwayne wonders aloud, cracking one pale eye open to study your face as you rake the suds through his long auburn hair. The dull, muddy strands slowly return to their proper flaming color with each gentle pass of your fingers, as the last of the war’s blood and grim streams down his pale shoulders in dark rivulets. “I trust my cousin treated you well in my absence. He can be insufferable, I know, but he is not unkind… Not truly.”

You falter at the mention of him. Your hands still briefly in his damp tendrils as a sick feeling curls in the pit of your stomach. You swallow hard through the cold hands of guilt strangling your throat and force your fingers to keep moving, praying he does not notice how they tremble faintly against his scalp. 

“He was… accommodating,” you answer carefully, eyes trained on his hair rather than on his attentive gaze, lest he read the whole truth of it plainly upon your face. “He kept me fed. Housed. Safe… For the most part— Tilt your head back; let me rinse your hair.”

You lift yourself slightly off the man’s lap to reach for the pitcher resting on the table beside the tub. Glittering rivulets of bath water cascade down your arms, glimmering in thin ribbons over the curves of your breasts in the dancing candlelight. Gwayne tips his head back to oblige you when you settle astride his scruffy thighs once more. His long, pale fingers smooth absently over your hips beneath the water, tracing idle circles along your soft skin.

“You’ve gone rather short with your answers, dear wife…” he observes lowly, peering at you from the bridge of his nose. “That’s not like you…”

“I’m just tired, is all…” you deflect, cupping one hand over his brow to shield his eyes while your other pours the clean water steadily over his hairline. The suds run clear down his temples and trickle back into the bath below. “It’s been a long day… A long several months, if I’m honest…”

“Yes… For us all, I’m sure,” Gwayne sighs and lifts his head once more when you shift to place the pitcher back onto its table. He arches an auburn brow and musters a quiet smile; the simple ease of being with you returns to him by the minute now, as his fingers settle over your ribcage again. “Though I do hope my letters kept you some company… Small comfort as they must have been.”

You go suddenly very still above him, muscle locking despite yourself. The guilt that had been simmering in your chest surges up your throat all at once now, in a red-hot flame that makes you feel halfway sick. For a long moment, you fail to make sense of the words — his letters — after so many months of waiting to hear from your husband, and after so many months of hearing Ormund tell you each day that there had been not a single word from him.

“…Your letters?” you repeat on bated breath.

“Yes,” Gwayne nods, brows pinching at your confusion. “I wrote every time I could manage it— At every stronghold we arrived… Did you not receive them?”

Your mouth opens and closes as you struggle to find the words to respond — words that would placate your own confusion without disclosing what you had been doing in the days awaiting his letters. “Perhaps… Perhaps they got lost. Along the road…”

Gwayne scoffs a humorless laugh at the thought. “Well, I pity the poor hand who got my letters instead of you…” he croons lowly.

“Why?” you press with a wavering grin. “What did they say?”

“Nothing of substance,” he shrugs his bare shoulders. “Just… foolish things.”

“Like…?” you trail off, soothing your palms down the pale canvas of his chest.

A faint uncertain smile tugs at his mouth as he watches your hands dip below the waterline. “I wrote of… what fields I passed. What foolish things Ser Criston said that day. What I’d seen— What I missed of home, what I missed of you…” 

He trails off when your fingers find his cock, lying limp along his left thigh. He feels like velvet in your fist as you massage him slowly hard. “Keep going…” you coo to him.

His hips twitch beneath you when you tighten your grip on his stiffening length. “I— I wrote of your hands,” he manages, and swallows hard when your thumb swipes across the sensitive tip of his cock. His eyes grow heavy with desire as he watches you work at him through the haze of cloudy water. “How I missed the— the feel of them on me… Gods…” 

“Go on…” you murmur, smearing your lips along his jaw.

“I wrote that… that I missed your smell,” he confesses, fraying with each slow pass of your hand. “Your hair after a bath… The wine on your breath after supper… The sweat between your thighs after a long day— Seven fucking hells.” 

His jaw clenches tight when your free hand dips down to cradle his balls, squeezing the sensitive sack between your fingers until his cock jerks in your fist. His heavy head lolls into your kiss; he feels you smiling against his cheek. 

“You’re already close, aren’t you?” 

He swallows hard. “You have no idea how long it’s been…” he confesses in a blissful sigh.

“I’m sure there were plenty of whores on the road,” you singsong in his ears.

He shakes his head instantly in protest. “None as beautiful as you…” 

His denial does little to comfort you. Instead, you feel a white-hot rage searing in your chest. Some distant, ugly part of you wishes he had taken a thousand whores while he was away, if only to take the weight of your own betrayal off your shoulders. At least then you could share it, this guilt, instead of living alone in your sin. You hate yourself most of all for even wishing it, and you feel very suddenly disgusted in your own skin — eager to be free of him and this moment altogether.

“Then cum,” you command against his pulse, jerking his cock faster in your fist. Gwayne’s fingers clutch at the plush skin of your hips hard enough to etch bruises there, and you revel in the hurt as his grumbled moan fills the bathing chambers. “Come on. Cum for me—”

He makes a broken sort of sound in the base of his throat as he seizes just beneath you, tense and trembling as his high hits him full force. The cooling water threatens to slosh off the rim as he twitches through his orgasm, which spurts into the cloudy water in short ropes of pearly-white, until he relaxes finally with a sigh.

“Give me a moment…” he pleads through ragged breaths. “I’ll make you feel good, I just— I need a moment…”

“I’m alright,” you assure him with a shake of your head, and with a sad smile that he doesn’t catch with his eyes still closed. “You rest tonight… I’ll see you in the morning.”

viii. CAGE & CONFESSION

You do not go to find Ormund until long after Gwayne’s breathing has steadied. 

He takes up the whole of the bed in his inhuman exhaustion; one leg straight and the other bent beneath the quilts, one pale arm slung over his bare stomach and the other left reaching out for your empty side of the bed as you slip from beneath the silk. You storm for Ormund’s solar in the dimly lit halls in nothing but your thin ivory nightgown; the fabric catching at your ankles with every furious stride in the man’s direction.

You find the room lit by a sea of glittering candles when you throw open the door without ceremony. It strikes the wall a harsh bang, far too loud for the late night; the wind of the blow makes the flames gutter wildly in their sconces. 

Ormund’s head snaps up from his dispatches at the sudden intrusion. His quill pauses on the parchment — because the work of war is never truly done, not even at the dead of night. His eyes are cold for a flicker with a soldier’s instinct, then warm again all at once when he finds no threat — only you. The corner of his mouth curls into a slow, knowing smile accordingly.

“Come to warm my bed already, have you?” the man lilts in his usual melodic voice, setting his quill aside as he slouches back into his cushioned seat. “I confess, I hardly expected to see you tonight, what with your husband so newly returned. Bold of you, really—”

“Don’t,” you snap. 

The word slices through the solar like a blade, and wipes away the smug curve of his smile in an instant. Your nightgown billows around your ankles with every furious step inside; the shadows of the fabric catch in the candlelight and turn you into something half-spectral as you loom over the desk across from him.

“He wrote to me. For months, he wrote to me,” you agonize. “And when he asked whether I’d received them, I sat there like a fool, knowing I hadn’t gotten a single one.”

Ormund draws a long, even breath through his nose. His ringed fingers settle flat over the desk as he keeps a measured composure about him, even though yours unravels by the minute.

“Ah…” he hums under his breath.

A shocked laugh escapes your mouth. “That’s all you have to say to me?”

“What would you have me say?” he asks, pale eyes locked with yours as he braces himself on the arms of his chair to rise. The wood scrapes harshly along the cobbles when he stands to full height. “That I kept them from you? That I— read them for myself and burned each one in the hearth when I’d finished? Very well… I did.” 

The plain admission threatens to knock the breath from your lungs. You had braced yourself for denial, to be true, to spend these late hours coaxing the truth from his lips. You were not prepared for confession; not so soon, and not so easily. 

“Why?” you demand, half-breathless with tears. “Why would you do such a thing?”

“Because I did not wish to hurt you,” Ormund says, as if it were the most reasonable thing in the world. “You wept for that man every night for the better part of a moon’s turn. I thought it might ease you, if you’d believed he didn’t care enough to write to you at all. I thought I was sparing you the grief of it.”

“That was not yours to decide!” you shout, voice shaking beneath the weight of your girlish fury. “Those were my letters, Ormund! My husband's words! You had no right—”

“No right?!” he thunders through an emotionless laugh, ocean eyes flickering with madness in an instant. “You are my prisoner! Or have you so quickly forgotten, given how generously I’ve treated you?”

You flinch back as he rounds the desk, though you cannot seem to leave the spot ahead of him as he inches towards you like a predator to prey.

“You’re lucky you’re standing here at all. Any other Targaryen beast would be in chains, but you…” he continues, prowling another step closer. “I let you share my tent, my table, my bed. And I did it gladly because I came to love you despite the— taint in your blood.”

You peer up at him through teary eyes when he towers finally in front of you — brows raised, eyes hardened, jaw clenched tight.

“But… you are still my prisoner,” he reminds you evenly. “You have been since the day you arrived at my camp. So I have every right to decide which letters enter your hands and which ones do not.” 

Each word strikes you like a physical blow — worse, somehow, than the searing one the hedgeknight had dealt you, which has caused an unnatural cracking of your jaw ever since. Maybe because these cruel, cruel words come from the same mouth that has kissed you, pleasured you.

“Prisoner?” you repeat tearily, features screwed in disbelief. “You say you love me and yet you call me beast in the very same breath. Wh… What am I meant to make of that?”

Ormund’s face falters finally at the sight of your tears, clinging to your lower lashes and glimmering gold in the candlelight. A soft crack splits down the unforgiving marble of him as he shakes his head down at you. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says and turns away.

“Like what?” you spit at the back of him.

“Like I've wounded you,” he snaps, long coat fanning slightly at his waist when he turns to face you again, now several paces away. “Where was your Gwayne when you hadn’t eaten in five days, and I fed you bread from mine own hand? Tell me that.” 

Your mouth parts, but nothing comes out.

“Where was your dutiful husband when that hedgeknight had you pinned in the dirt with your skirts torn to your thighs?” Ormund continues, palms splayed at his sides for effect. “Because I did not see him riding to your rescue as I had. I did not see him holding you through the nights you woke screaming. That was me— Only me— And yet you still stand here and weep over a handful of mindless letters, as if that erases the whole of what I've done for you.” 

Your chin jerks back as you flinch hard at his words, at the weight of them, which you can feel heavying your chest until every new breath feels impossible. Ormunds goes silent for a moment; the shadow of his clenched jaw comes and goes as he grits his teeth. His fists open and close at his sides until they finally relax, when the anger within drains into mourning.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters suddenly, boots padding along the cobbles as he closes the distance between you once more. “Forgive me. You’re right, I— I should not have kept them from you. I only meant to spare you, you understand that, right?”

His wide, gently calloused hands reach for your cheeks with a tenderness that feels maddeningly sincere compared to the vitriol he’d thrown at you moments ago. He lifts your chin and ducks his head into your eyeline when you do not meet his gaze. His blue eyes go round and wet with a boyish grief as hurt sears through his chest.

“I only want to keep you safe,” he whispers. “Whatever else I’ve done wrong— that much has always been true… You know this, don’t you?”

He peers down at you and waits on bated breath for a response. You say nothing just yet. Your trembling hands reach from the gold buttons of his coat. At first, he thinks you mean to push him away — you want nothing more, in fact, than to push him away and wrench yourself from his hands and return to your place in bed next to Gwayne.

You do not.

You just close your eyes, exhausted past the point of arguing any further. The threads of guilt and love and fury and anguish tangle together somewhere deep in your chest, until one is utterly indistinguishable from the others. The only thing you know now for certain is that the whole of your life can be categorized into two groups: those who have stayed and those who have gone. 

Your own family had sailed across the Narrow Sea and left you behind without so much as a backwards glance; and Gwayne, gentle as he is, still rode off to serve a cause that mattered more to him than you. 

Ormund is, perhaps, the only person in your life who has never once abandoned you. Whatever else he has done to you before now — however cruel or calculating or maddening he has since become — he has never once walked away from you. Not when you intended to starve yourself, not when you were pinned in the mud by your skirts, not when you woke up screaming on particularly brutal nights.

You hate how much it all matters to you, however fickle it may seem. You hate it, and you hate that cannot make yourself stop needing it all the same.

“I don’t know what to do…” you confess in a broken voice, clutching him hard by the collar of his coat. His softened face is bleary behind the tears burning in your eyes. “I feel so guilty, Ormund— I do not know for how long I can bear it. It sets heavy on my chest, all the time, and I cannot set it down—”

“Then let me carry it,” he tells you. His grip goes more solid when you attempt to turn away, thumbs pressing harder into your cheeks. “I can bear it well enough for the two of us, I swear it—”

The breath of his words fans across your chin when he ducks down to kiss you, hard and sudden and searing. He tastes of wine and mint leaves when the velvety pad of his tongue licks into your mouth without warning. 

You sigh hard through your nose at the feeling of him and cling to the front of his coat as he walks you backward a few paces towards the desk. The edge of the wood catches hard against the backs of your thighs. Ormund’s hands dip from your face to your hips, balling the fabric of your gown until it rises up your legs.

“Did you take him into your bed tonight?” he pants rough against your mouth, with the tip of his broad nose nudging yours. “Your husband? Did you fuck him? Tell me.”

“No,” you shake your head on an exhaled breath. Your fingers curl into his dark curls as his wet mouth drags along your neck, down to your exposed collarbone. “I only pleasured him with my hand. Nothing more.” 

Ormund nods swiftly, as though pleased by the admission. He peers up at you through his lashes as he kisses down your clothed chest. “Always a giver, aren’t you?” he hums lowly, mouth quirking softly at the edges. “Allow me to return the favor, then…” 

He sinks to his knees, with your ivory skirt now pushed up to your thighs. You keep one hand splayed along the back of his knuckles and the other tangled in his curls as he kisses your cunt like he would your mouth. He moans when his tongue slots between your sticky folds, a muffled growl you can feel in the very pit of your stomach.

Ormund is not quite as measured with his mouth as Gwayne had been the evening before he left you. He’s fast and sloppy and loud — you can hear his tongue as it flicks against you, his lips as they suckle your clit, his moans as your honey pools on his tongue.

You swallow down a moan before it can swell through the quiet room. It turns into a whimper in your throat instead. “Ormund—” you gasp quietly, tugging him hard by the hair as his tongue laps at your swollen clit.

His bleary eyes open to peer up the length of your body — your heavy head tilted to your chest, your gaze lidded and glassy with pleasure, your chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. “Let me have it,” he slurs against your pussy, and smiles to himself at the pretty sound you make for him in response. “That’s it— Let me have it…” 

Your mouth presses into a tight line to choke back a moan when his mouth returns to your cunt, suckling the sensitive button between his lips and flicking his tongue against it simultaneously. You shudder against his mouth when you cum for him, whimpering when he buries his moans and muffled murmurs of praise against your drooling pussy.

You do as you’re told — you give it all to him, you let him bear it — while Gwayne sleeps off the remnants of war across the hall.

ix. GARDENS & GHOSTS

The gardens of Tumbleton are modest things compared to the grandeur of the Red Keep, though you struggle to remember it so vividly now. Here there are only a few neat rows of late-summer roses gone wild for want of a gardener, an overgrown path winding between shaggy hedges, and a slowly weeping fountain gone quiet and still. You spend Gwayne’s second evening at the foreign castle walking beneath a canopy of drooping wisteria, with your hands looped loosely through the crook of his arm and your dress skirts whispering against the stone with every languid step.

“I’d nearly forgotten what this was like…” Gwayne hums, studying the wilting roses with distracted interest. “Walking somewhere without waiting for an arrow to find me first…”

“Don’t worry, Ser Gwayne…” you squint with a teasing lilt. “I’ll keep you safe.”

And though Gwayne hasn’t so much as seen you hold a real sword in your hand, he flashes you a tight-lipped smile anyway. “Of that, dear wife, I have no doubt…” 

You fall into an easy quiet thereafter; the ordinary rhythm of marriage, though it still feels a bit foreign to you now. He asks only about small things: if the summer storms had frightened you too badly, if the men at the Hightower camp treated you well, and if you’d truly meant what you said about that farm. You answer each in turn, grateful for the ease of it — or, at least, for the brief illusion that nothing had changed between you at all.

“And the encampment?” Gwayne asks then, flashing you a knowing look from the corner of his eye. “You’d said precious little of it thus far. Surely, it wasn’t so unbearable— Though I’m sure my cousin likely wasn’t making it easy for you.”

“There isn’t much to say,” you shrug with a feigned air of detachment, though the words come out a little quicker than you mean them to. You catch the faint furrow of confusion between his brows, and pretend to be more preoccupied by the wilting wisteria overhead instead. “It was… eventful. I suppose. In its own way.”

“Eventful?” Gwayne repeats with an arched brow. An unsure laugh sputters from his chest a second later. “I can’t tell whether that’s meant as a comfort or a warning…”

“It’s nothing worth troubling over,” you tell him. “Truly.” 

Gwayne’s eyes flit down to where your wrists are curled lazily around his bicep. The dull nails of your right thumb and forefinger pick aimlessly at the already marred skin of your left. He stops instantly in place — he had sensed something amiss since you caught him in the yard, to be true, but he sees it more plainly in your being than he had the night before.

“Did something happen?” he blurts.

Your head whips to him, eyes widening in an innocuous look. “I… I don’t know what you mean?”

He swallows once and rephrases. “Something happened…” he repeats, this time as a firmer statement. “At the camp. Something you’re not telling me.” 

You exhale a slow and shaking breath, though it does little to loosen the tightness in your chest now. You find that, once cornered and with his pleading eyes searching your face, you cannot quite bring yourself to lie to him again.

“There was a… a man," you start unsteadily, eyes fixed on the overgrown hedge behind his shoulder rather than his face. “A hedgeknight. I was out gathering berries, and he— He asked me about a letter. The one you left me. And when I wouldn't— He tried to—”

“He tried to what?" Gwayne presses when you trail off, ducking his auburn head into your eyeline when you avert your gaze. His voice is low and careful, but you can hear the tension straining beneath it already. 

“He grabbed for it… And I struck him, without thinking, and he struck me back…” Your fingers lift absently to your cheek, brushing the ghost of a bruise with your finger, long since healed but not yet forgotten. Your gaze goes glassy and unfocused with the recollection of the memory — the smell of the berries, the taste of the blood, the feeling of the wet earth beneath you. The rest of the words come out in choppy and nonsensical. “And I fell— and my skirts— I think he meant too— I don’t know truly, but I— I could not stop him—”

“Gods…” Gwayne huffs, as if the breath had been punched out of him entirely. His pale, handsome features screw together in horror as his pale eyes glitter with anger at himself. “I should’ve been there… I never should’ve left you.”

“Ormund killed him,” you add quickly and watch a complicated look flicker behind Gwayne’s eyes at the name. “Before he could…”

Gwayne nods when you trail off, signaling that you need not go on any further. “I am glad for that, at least,” he says, though there is a strain in his voice that suggests something other than gladness. His palms reach for your hands then, preventing you from picking at the skin there. “I am glad my cousin was there for you. Truly. I was a fool leaving you behind. I should’ve stayed, I should’ve—” 

You shake your head in protest of his apologies. “No—”

“I should’ve been there—”

“Don’t,” you tell him, though the word spills broken from your mouth when you jerk your hands free from his. The sudden loss of his touch leaves your fingers strangely cold. “Don’t apologize. I do not deserve it.”

“Deserve it?” Gwayne echoes with lowered brows. “What do you mean, deserve it?”

“Your kindness,” you sniffle. “I don’t deserve it.”

Gwayne blinks owlishly at you, and feels a strange searing in his chest when you flinch back from him as he tries to step closer. “Why are you saying this?” 

“I have— I have sinned.” Your breath catches hard on a sob. Your wet eyes try and fail to meet his gaze. “I have betrayed you.”

Gwayne tenses at once. His face goes still and solemn; the warmth he’d had for you moments ago drains slowly from his features now. “What do you mean?” he wonders lowly.

“With— With Ormund— We— I,” you attempt to speak through hitched breaths, though you cannot seem to get any of the words out. “I cannot express to you— how unspeakably lonely I have been—”

“Lonely?” he repeats, spits back at you like venom. “Do you think I was not lonely?”

“You at least had a war to fight!” you argue tearily. “I was taken prisoner, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“And do you think I would not have rather been home?” Gwayne shouts. “With you, instead of watching my men die in a field over a war I never wanted any part of?”

“You’re the one who left!” you exclaim when he turns away from you, already retreating down the gravel path before he can lose his composure completely. “If you stayed, we could’ve been together! And none of this would’ve happened! You act like someone was dragging you by your boots to go fight a useless war!”

Gwayne stops at that, a few paces ahead. His shoulders are rigid beneath his borrowed doublet when he turns to you again, though not enough to face you fully. Only his profile is visible to you now, with his auburn hair falling over his brow and his emotionless grin hinting at the corner of his mouth.

“I did not… want this marriage…” he confesses in calculated murmurs. “Not at first, anyway. That much I’ll admit, but… From the moment I wed you, it never once crossed my mind to seek comfort elsewhere.”

“Gwayne, I—”

“I meant my vows,” he tells you and turns, finally, to face you fully. You found no trace of fury in his face now, only a pained sort of look that turns his pale eyes a glassier shade of blue. “I have always meant them.”

“I didn't know if you were alive!” you agonize through a sob. “Don’t you understand that? Months, Gwayne — months without a single word! Not knowing whether you were breathing or rotting in some unmarked grave! And I couldn't even write to you to ask, because Ormund told me it wasn't safe. He said the letters might be intercepted, might lead Rhaenyra's army straight to you, and I could not risk that—”

“Ormund told you that?” Gwayne interjects, voice gone dull and cold. “That your letters weren’t— safe to send?”

“Yes,” you nod. “He said that—”

“And mine?” Gwayne presses with a slow step closer. “I presume he kept mine from you as well. That’s why you never got them, isn’t it? Because of him?”

You go quiet, unsure of how to answer — like there’s some joke here somewhere you have not yet been let in on. But, to Gwayne, your silence is answer enough. He exhales a long, shuddering breath through his nose.

“Ormund and I used to play a game,” he tells you suddenly, with a humorless smile ghosting across his mouth. “Run the tower, we called it— a footrace to the top beacon. And I let him win. Every time. Because he could not bear to lose even the smallest thing.”

Your eyes widen slightly, as you remember Daeron’s warning in the castle window — his anxious, hardly intelligible ramble. “It’s a dangerous thing to be the prize he’s decided he’s won,” the boy had told you. You hadn’t understood what he meant by that until now.

Gwayne’s features screw with a withheld fury, one that Ormund would’ve already unleashed on you tenfold by now if the roles were reversed.

“He was a thin-skinned twat even then. I thought it harmless, at the time. I never imagined…” he trails off, clicking his tongue against his teeth when he turns to you again. He shakes his head as his mouth twitches into a sympathetic sort of smile. “If you think Ormund loves you, dear wife, I assure you, he does not. He simply decided that you were another game worth winning.”

He does not wait for your response. He turns on his heel, and when he walks away this time, he does not stop. 

His feet carry him down the overgrown path, through the winding unfamiliar castle, and straight towards Ormund’s solar — without him ever fully registering any of it; not until he swings open the heavy oak door, at least, and is met instantly with the humidity of an incensed bath. He nearly chokes on the musky oils sitting heavily in the air.

“Leave us,” Gwayne orders Daeron in lieu of a real greeting. The boy’s eyes widen in shock at the sudden intrusion from where he stands obediently off to the side, robe in hand. His gaze flits to Ormund’s on instinct, who gives him a curt nod of approval without looking up, before scurrying out of the room.

The older man sits submerged to the chest in a steaming copper tub. A wooden tray sits balanced across the rim, with his inkpot and parchment laid before him. His quill scratches against the paper in swift strokes until Gwayne unsheathes his long sword with a sharp hiss. The older man tenses when the steel kisses the soft skin of his throat.

“You will explain yourself,” Gwayne says, peering down at the man from the bridge of his nose. “Or, by the gods, I will open your throat right here in this tub.” 

Ormund does not so much as flinch when he sets his quill back into its inkpot. He tilts his chin just slightly to look up at the man and feels the faint pressure of the blade against his adam’s apple. Amusement flickers in his blue eyes.

“She told you, then,” he hums — not quite a question but not entirely a statement either. “I did wonder how long that might take.”

“She told me everything,” Gwayne bites out through clenched teeth. “The letters— mine to hers; hers to me. Months of lies, cousin, you called protection.”

“Yes. I protected her," Ormund nods without reservation. “More than you ever did, seeing as you were hundreds of leagues away and all. I fed her when she attempted to starve herself grieving you. I killed a man who meant to rape her in a berry patch while you were off playing at war like a child—”

Gwayne tenses at the accusation buried in his words. The edge of the blade presses harder to Ormund’s throat, but still, he does not waver.

“I gave her a place to sleep when the storms came, and warmth when the nights grew cold, and company when she felt no one else in the entire realm cared whether she lived or died,” the man lilts evenly. His voice does not rise and his stare does not yield, not even with the cold steel resting steadily against his pulse. “So, please, spare me the outrage, cousin. I only gave her what she asked for— freely, and often, and more enthusiastically than you can imagine.”

Gwayne’s whole body goes rigid. A mixture of fury and humiliation prickles red-hot at his pale skin. His knuckles turn white around the hilt of his sword, but the blade does not move an inch.

“Well, go on, then,” Ormund tilts his head, eyes glimmering with amusement. “Finish it, if you mean to. Open my throat here, in my own bath, and we’ll see who she weeps for. You or me.”

Silence fills the empty solar. Gwayne grits his teeth and wills his hand to move; to either strike the man down or turn away entirely. He cannot seem to do either. 

Ormund lifts a lazy hand to swipe the blade away without a word. He rises slowly from the bath a second later. Rivulets of water glisten as they rush down his lean body and trickle audibly when they hit the surface again. He stands before his cousin, unabashedly bare, and reaches for the linen cloth draped over the edge of the tub. 

“For what it’s worth, cousin,” he says, swiping the nettle across his toned, golden skin. “I never intended to make an enemy of you. And I rather think, whatever she may tell you now to spare your pride, that she’d choose to stay exactly where she is, if given the choice.”

Gwayne opens his mouth to argue.

“Daeron!” Ormund calls out before he can. 

The door creaks slowly open a second later. The younger boy reappears with an obvious hesitance, refusing to meet either of their eyes as he rushes to his uncle’s side. He settles the emerald fabric over the older man’s broad shoulders, and Ormund slides his arms through the long sleeves. He ties the sash with slow hands and with an expression that looks almost sympathetic.

“Best wash up soon, cousin,” he grins. “It’s nearly time for supper.”

x. STEEL & SUPPER

Supper that evening is a small and wretched thing; four places set at a round table dragged in from some lesser hall to make the arrangement feel less tribunal. It’s close enough that you can feel the heat of both men suffocating either side of you, along with the cold, watchful silence of Daeron across the way; young enough to shift awkwardly in his seat at the tense silence, but old enough still to understand exactly what such silence truly means.

No one speaks a word of the hard truth of it out loud. Neither of you needs to — the whole of your sin sits at the table like an uninvited guest, souring the wine in every cup and thickening the air until you can scarcely draw a single breath around it.

“So…” Ormund says first to break the silence. He talks beneath the soft scraping of his knife against the porcelain as he cuts into his meat. “Ser Criston fights on, and yet you alone have returned to us… Why is that, I wonder?”

Gwayne turns slowly to glare at the man with dull, blue eyes, already too annoyed for idle blather. “Because fighting on is madness,” he answers distantly.

Ormund scoffs with a wad of food in his cheek. He smiles as he swallows it down, angling his head in the young prince’s direction. “Do you think me mad, boy?”

Daeron’s eyes shoot up from his plate. His spine straightens instinctively at his uncle’s sudden attention. “No, sire,” he answers quickly.

Ormund nods, pleased, and then turns slowly to you. A fondness flickers in his pale gaze behind the challenge in his eyes. “And you, my—” He catches himself half a breath too late; my love, he’d nearly said, though you cannot tell if it was an intentional attempt to rile his already aggrieved cousin. “My lady… Do you think me mad?”

Your brows bounce in response, though your gaze never lifts from your lap as your nails work relentlessly at the already torn skin of your thumb. “I don’t think you want me to answer that—”

You freeze in place when Ormund’s wide hand reaches suddenly to splay his calloused palm over the back of your knuckles. Your head whips in his direction. You struggle to tell if the action is heedless or entirely uncaring, as Gwayne sits close enough to watch the exchange on the other side of you. The man inhales sharply through his nose and straightens his spine as he reaches for his goblet, trying hard to pretend he hadn’t noticed it at all.

“Why do you insist on ruining yourself this way?” Ormund wonders lowly, as his thumb rubs soothingly over your marred one.

“Seems to be a common affliction as of late,” you answer distantly and draw your hands from beneath his touch. “Messing with things we ought to leave well enough alone…”

“You are aware—” Gwayne says gruffly as he swallows down his bitter wine, setting down his chalice with a bit more force than likely necessary. “—That while you’re all in here playing happy families, there’s a dragon sitting on the hill above us? And five more not thirty leagues away?”

“Why do you think we came here, cousin?” Ormund scoffs and waves his concern away with a lazy flick of his knife. “Rhaenyra will not burn her own subjects. She is a woman, after all. Squeamish, by nature.”

A short laugh spills suddenly from your lips. “Squeamish?” you echo. “Says the man who requires a milk bath twice daily, lest he make it everyone else’s burden to bear?”

The jab earns a proud smile from Gwayne that he tries hopelessly to bite back, and a small grin from Daeron that he conceals behind the rim of his goblet. Ormund swallows hard through the embarrassment strangling his throat, angled jaw clenching as he grits his teeth.

“Well… If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were taking up the usurper’s cause.”

“I’m not taking up anyone’s cause,” you mutter. “I just want to go home.”

“Oh?” Ormund hums with a feigned air of curiosity, though you do not miss the bite in his words as he wonders aloud, “And where is that precisely? King’s Landing? Oldtown?”

“Well, it’s certainly not here—”

“No,” he agrees instantly, warmth freezing over in an instant. “But when the usurper’s host comes here, we will fight on our own terms, on our own ground— turning King’s Landing against that overweening cunt, little by little, bite by bite… And when we expose her as weak and unsuited to rule, the great houses will flock to our side, and then, my lady, we can all go home.”

“Have any yet come?” Gwayne wonders knowingly. “Great houses, I mean.”

Ormund’s gaze snaps in his direction. “The patient hunter gets the kill, cousin,” he says through gritted teeth. “I’d have thought you’d learned that much by now.”

“Only one of us at this table has actually been hunted, if you’ll recall…”

“Yes, you have endured much,” Ormund huffs and returns to his boar. “Though I’m sure you find some solace along the road… with whores, perhaps, or your… brothers in arms…”

The insinuation sits heavily in the quiet, thicker than smoke and choking the three of you accordingly. Gwayne’s jaw tightens hard enough to make the muscle flex. Whatever retort had been rising in his throat at that moment is killed instantly by the sudden creaking of the heavy door across the room. Bold Jon enters, flanked by a couple of punier squires. 

“My lord,” the older knight announces. “House Baratheon has sent an envoy. They mean to bend the knee to House Hightower.”

Ormund is aglow in an instant. The sourness of the previous moment rolls off of his broad shoulders as a newfound satisfaction kindles behind his blue eyes. “Let the Stormlands lead the way…” he mutters to himself, mouth curling into a grin. “Highgarden will have no choice but to follow…” 

He flashes you a proud and knowing look as he rises from his seat. “Alright. Stand up,” he says and begins to round the small table. When no one follows him quick enough, he snaps, “Stand up! All of you.”

You rise at once, abandoning your plates as you follow him to the front of the dining table. The three of you fall into line beside the high lord, who stands just ahead to greet the incoming knights Ser Jon ushers in. The knights are caked in dirt from the long road; their yellow cloaks are crusted thick with mud, and their boots track dark prints across the fine pale stone beneath them. They smell like earth and sweat, hardly noticeable to you, though you spot Ormund’s shoulders tensing instantly when the stench hits him.

“Lord Ormund Hightower,” Roxton announces formally. “Beacon of the South, Defender of the Citadel, and Voice of Oldtown.”

“Well met, Ser Ormund," the head of the envoy greets with a polite nod, arms propped along the pommel of his longsword. “I come on behalf of Lord Borros Baratheon, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands.”

“Mm…” Ormund hums, ringed fingers fidgeting at his sides as he attempts to swallow through the invisible hand strangling him. “You are quite welcome, Ser…?”

“Ser Arrion Baratheon. Cousin to Lord Borros.”

You freeze at once. A newfound fear settles ice-cold in your veins. Your eyes squint as you study the stranger’s bearded face more closely — his curls, his eyes, his nose, his mouth. You find that he looks nothing like the Ser Arrion you had once met, at a tourney some several moons back; the one where you first laid eyes on Ser Gwayne Hightower.

The man himself tenses at your elbow. His jaw clenches tight with knowing as he turns slowly to flash you a single, silent glance. You communicate without words. His folded hands fall casually beside the sheathed sword at his hip; yours cross behind your back, as you reach blindly for the fruit knife idling somewhere beside the plates of supper.

“I most regret presenting ourselves to you in this state,” the stranger continues. 

Your jaw clenches tight in frustration as your fingers miss the handle in several agonizing attempts. You slide it closer with the very tip of your middle finger, slowly so as not to draw attention, before your fingers close finally around the hilt. You grip the blade to your back, palm going clammy around the grip.

“The road was long and filthy, but I thought it best to speak to you immediately.”

“We are honored to receive you,” Ormund assures him, entirely unaware. “And what word does Lord Borros send?”

“House Baratheon offers its banners in alliance with House Hightower,” the envoy says. “I have been charged to swear fealty on Lord Borros' behalf.”

“Well,” Ormund grins. “Your lord has made a wise choice—”

“Ser Arrion?” you call at once, stepping forward and drifting instinctively in front of Daeron with your arm still tight around your back. The boy’s eyes widen when he catches sight of the blade behind you. Your smile remains as artificially sweet as ever, despite the way your heart hammers hard against your ribs. “You do remember me, don’t you?”

The man’s heavy brows furrow as confusion flickers across his bearded face. He musters a similarly fake grin. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure, my lady—”

The hesitant answer is confirmation enough. Gwayne unsheaths his sword in a blink and slices the imposter across the neck before he can finish his sentence. His throat splits wide open, bright crimson blood gushing out instantly. You feel it splattering across your cheek as the man falls limp to the ground in front of you.

The dining hall erupts into chaos in a blink. The shouting of Baratheon imposters and Hightower knights fills the room at once. One lunges towards you, trying to get to Daeron, you figure, though he’s met with the small blade clutched in your trembling grip before he can. 

You drive the knife into the first soft place you can find — his eye, you think, and then the side of his neck, before he crumples to the floor screaming.

“No!” Ormund’s voice shouts over the ringing of colliding blades, flashing a fiery look at Ser Jon. “Stop them, you fool!”

Daeron steps quickly in front of the older knight. “No!” he says to the man, small as he is, but standing his ground regardless.

“These are assassins!” Gwayne shouts over the clash of steel, kicking one knight down before striking him across the skull. “Sent for Daeron— and probably you!”

A pair of thick hands close hard around your wrist, cold and calloused and unforgiving. It yanks a memory from some buried place in your mind — spilled berries, wet earth, pooled blood in the mouth. You do not know whether or not he intends to strike you, or if he truly does, or if he only means to stop you. You only feel a girlish fury clawing its way from your throat as a buzzing adrenaline prickles at your burning skin. 

The bloody knife in your fist cuts him clean across the face — his throat, his jaw, his cheek, his eye, his temple. He stumbles back against the wall, bloodied and unrecognizable, but still you do not stop. Your blade follows him as he sinks to the ground in a gurgling, limp ball. His blood splashes warm across your face, clinging sticky to your fingers, but you still do not stop.

“Enough, enough…” you hear a voice say from behind you, muffled through the ringing in your ears. You feel a warmth press against your side and a gentle hand curl around your wrist. Gwayne’s voice follows more clearly in your ear, “He’s dead… It’s over now...”

The adrenaline seems to ebb from your veins at once, with a raw sob sputtered from your mouth. The knife slips from your limp fingers, clattering audibly to the bloodied cobbles below. You feel something warm trickling across your forehead and reach to wipe it with the back of your hand; blood smears wet across your brow in its place.

Across the wrecked hall, Ormund hunches over the back of his chair on the other side of the table. His face has gone pale-white; made more ashen, perhaps, behind the drops of vivid crimson splattered across his face. The thick copper stench of it settles in the back of his throat, along with the sweat and mud and death and shit hanging in the air.

“How—” he chokes hoarsely out. “How did you know— These men were false?”

“I was nearly betrothed to Lord Borros’ son once,” you hear yourself answer, though the words sound a bit distant, like they’re coming from someone else’s mouth. “I met his cousin… Lord Arrion…  at a tourney in King’s Landing years ago… I gave him my favor that day—”

“Right before I cut him down,” Gwayne adds through panted breaths, with a distant satisfaction in his voice at the memory. “The real Ser Arrion Baratheon has hair of light chestnut, stands near a foot taller and is, as it happens, far more comely."

Ormund makes a low, strangled sound in the back of his throat. “I will cleave the bitch— From crown to cunt—” he manages between heaving breaths “—She will die wishing she never dared to... dared to…” 

His body seizes as he retches — once, then twice — before doubling over the table and vomiting his supper along the plates ahead of him.

Gwayne watches on with a grim sort of amusement. “Best wash up now, cousin,” he hums in jest, as drily as Ormund had to him earlier that day. 

His amused smile fades when he catches you swaying in the corner of his eye.

The room seems to tilt on its axis under your feet. The cobbles sway softly beneath you, as if you were standing on water instead of stone. You reach blindly for the back of the nearest chair to steady yourself; you watch your fingers curl around the embellished wood, though you cannot feel it under your palms. Daeron’s quick hand catches you beneath the elbow in a small attempt to steady you.

“My lady?” he mutters softly, beneath Gwayne’s firmer, “Are you hurt?” 

Your mouth parts, but it takes a moment for the words to come out. They fall from your tongue in strange slurs that sound nothing like your voice. “My back…” You trail off before choking on a whimper. It is not pain you feel, not completely, but rather a cold numbness blossoming wide along the left side of your spine.

Ormund perks instantly, swiping a hand along his chin and fighting off his own dizziness when he watches Gwayne close the distance between you. His long, pale fingers skim carefully along your shoulders as he examines the back of you. They settle finally just above the thin tear in your bodice, where the fabric of your borrowed dress starts to bloom a darker crimson from the blood spreading from underneath it — from where a soldier’s blade must’ve kissed you in the chaos.

“Gods…” you hear Gwayne breathe just behind you. “You’re bleeding— Someone call the maester!” 

Your knees buckle underneath you as the strength spills from your body like sand through your fingers. Two sets of hands keep you upright; one smaller and trembling, the other wider and far more steady. They guide you into the seat before you can collapse. You watch Gwayne kneel into your vision with his palms resting firmly on your knees. The world continues swaying all around you.

“Let me see it,” Ormund says through panted breaths, gripping the table’s edge as he attempts to walk to you despite his own weakening state. He’s still pale and sheening with sweat from the blood clinging to his skin and nostrils.

“You can barely stand yourself,” Gwayne scolds drily. “She is my wife— I am more than capable of tending to her.” 

Ormund attempts to laugh, though the chuckle comes out wearier than he means to. “Are you?” the older man manages to choke out. “Because you surely haven’t cared about tending to her while you were off playing at war—”

“Enough…” The word comes out slurred and hoarse from your mouth. The men fall silent at once. Their heads whip in your direction with matching expressions of concern that would’ve felt almost comical in any other moment.

The pain has started to sharpen now beneath the somewhat pleasant numbness. A hot, insistent throb begins to settle in its wake, searing through you like fire.

Your first instinct is to reach for Gwayne, but the guilt of what you’d done to him weighs on your hands like cement — what right do you have, you think, to reach for him now with bloodied hands, after months of reaching for another? 

And then you think inevitably of Ormund and the particular safety you’ve always found in his hands, after he’s already seen you blood-soaked and broken and ugly from war, and never once flinched away at any of it. And then you think of the burned letters and the lies, and then of Gwayne’s departure with only a sliver of parchment left in his wake. 

You reach, in the end, for neither of them.

“Daeron,” you call instead to the boy hovering beside you. You turn your swimmy gaze to his wide and frightened ones. Your voice is unnaturally thick in your throat as you ask him, “Can— Can you help me up to my chambers, please?”  

The boy blinks and forgets to look to his uncle for approval first as he nods. “O-Of course, my lady,” he stammers and loops your arm carefully over his shoulder. “Lean on me…” 

You do not look back at either man behind you as Daeron eases you from the chair and guides you slowly towards the door; but you do feel both of their eyes following you like twin points of heat searing through your dress, just like the soldier’s blade had. Neither Gwayne nor Ormund says a single word; the hollow sound of your fading footsteps fills the silence as you go. 

The two of them are left standing alone together, amid the bloody wreckage of the unfamiliar hall, staring at the space where you’d once been.

Steam curls thick in the air. There, rising from the great copper tub, stands your husband, Ormund Hightower. Water sheets down the broad slope of his shoulders, tracing every ridge of muscle across his chest, the hard plane of his stomach, and lower. It drips from the dark hair at his groin, clings to the powerful lines of his thighs. He is utterly bare, unashamed.

A furious blush explodes across your cheeks, spreading down your neck and to the tips of your ears. Your gaze darts away, but not before catching the sight of him in full. “M-my lord!” you stammer, voice barely above a whisper, trembling. “I— I did not know you were here. The servants said you were in the yard, I… I beg your forgiveness for intruding. I shall leave at once!”

You spin on your heel, heart hammering, reaching for the door handle.

But Ormund moves with surprising speed. In two long, wet strides he is upon you. His wet hand closes firmly around your wrist and he pulls you back, turning you to face him as the door slams shut. Water from his skin soaks into the fabric of your gown where it presses against his chest. He leans down, towering over you, one hand tilting your chin upward so you cannot hide your flushed face. His eyes lock onto yours. A slow, teasing smirk curves his lips.

“Blushing so prettily again, are we, sweet wife?” he murmurs, voice low and rough. His thumb brushes your heated cheek. “My gentle little dove… always so kind, so soft-spoken. You look after everyone in this keep with that tender heart of yours. But here, with me…” He pauses, pulling you flush against his dripping form, his free hand settling possessively at the small of your back. “…you tremble like a maiden.”

Your breath catches. Then he asks, voice dropping, edged with command, “Where the fuck do you think you are going?”

Your lips part to protest or apologize more, words tumbling out in a flustered rush. “M-my lord, I didn’t mean to stare, I swear it, I only came to— I should have knocked, I beg you, please let me—”

He silences you with a kiss.

It is not gentle. His mouth crashes down over yours, hot and claiming, swallowing every stammered syllable. One large hand cradles the back of your head while the other grips your waist, yanking you flush against his naked, dripping body. His tongue pushes past your lips, tasting you deeply, dominating the kiss until your knees threaten to buckle. You whimper into his mouth, fingers curling helplessly against his wet chest. When he finally pulls back, your lips are swollen and glistening, your breath coming in shaky little gasps.

He does not give you time to recover. His hands slide down your arms, strong and sure, guiding you downward with quiet authority. He walks you back a single step from the door, then presses you lower until your knees meet the thick woven rug spread across the stone floor near the bath. The damp fabric of your skirts pools around you as you sink down. You find yourself kneeling before him, the hard, water-slick length of his cock now level with your flushed face.

Ormund towers over you. One hand settles on the crown of your head, fingers threading slowly into your hair, not yanking, but holding you there, possessive and steady. The other hand cups your chin, tilting your face upward so you have no choice but to meet his dark, hungry gaze. Water still drips from his body onto your collarbones.

His voice is low, rough, edged with dark promise. “If you please me enough, little wife… I’ll fuck you so good that you won’t be able to walk for a week.”

You lean forward on your knees. The thick, water-slick head of his cock brushes your lips. You part them shyly, tongue flicking out first to taste him, salt and soap and the clean musk of his skin.

Then you take him into your mouth.

Ormund’s reaction is immediate. “Fuck—” The curse rips out of him, low and guttural. His fingers tighten in your hair. “Gods above, woman…”

You suck gently at first, lips stretching around the thick crown, tongue swirling experimentally. He hisses through his teeth. “Shit— that’s it. Just like that.” His voice is rough, strained. “Your mouth… fuck, your mouth is sin. Hot, wet little sin wrapped around my cock.”

The praise comes filthy and constant, spilling from him between curses as you work him with your mouth. “Look at you,” he growls, hips giving a shallow thrust. “My sweet, gentle wife on her knees with her pretty lips stretched around me. Blushing so fucking hard while you suck your lord husband’s cock. Gods, you’re perfect.”

You whimper around him, the vibration making his thighs tense. He groans. “Fuck— do that again. Moan on it, sweetling. Let me feel how shy and eager you are.” His free hand comes down to cup your cheek, thumb stroking where your lips are wrapped tight around him. “Such a good girl… taking me so deep. You want to please me, don’t you? Want me to keep my promise and fuck you until you can’t walk?”

You nod as best you can with your mouth full, eyes watering slightly as you push further, nose brushing the dark hair at the base of him. Saliva and bathwater mix, dripping down your chin. You bob your head, sucking harder, tongue working the underside.

Ormund swears again, voice breaking.

“Fuck— yes. Just like that. Your mouth was made for this, wasn’t it? Made to worship your husband’s cock. Such a filthy little wife… so proper in the halls, but on your knees you’re a fucking dream.” His hips rock, fucking your mouth in slow, controlled strokes. “Gonna fill this pretty throat if you keep going like that. Or maybe I’ll save it… pull you up and bend you over the bath instead. Fuck you raw like I promised.”

He holds your head steady, letting you feel the full weight of him on your tongue, then eases back just enough for you to breathe, only to push forward again with a low, filthy groan. “Fuck. Your mouth is going to be the death of me.”

You feel him start to lose control. His thighs tense, his grip in your hair tightens until it borders on painful, and the filthy stream of praise and curses becomes broken, desperate. You push deeper, swallowing around the thick length filling your throat, eyes watering as you look up at him through wet lashes.

That does it.

“Fuck— fuck, fuck, fuck—” Ormund snarls, voice shattering. His hips jerk hard, once, twice, and then he’s coming with a raw, guttural groan. Hot, thick pulses flood your mouth, coating your tongue.

You swallow it down, every drop, throat working, some of it spilling from the corner of your lips as he keeps thrusting shallowly through the aftershocks. “Gods— your fucking mouth— shit— taking it all— good girl, good fucking girl—”

He’s shaking when it’s over, chest heaving, thighs trembling so hard you can feel it where your hands rest on them. For a second he just stands there, breathing like he’s run a mile, cock still twitching against your tongue as the last of his spend trickles out.

Then something in him snaps.

He hauls you up so fast your feet barely touch the rug. One strong arm bands around your waist, yanking you against his still-heaving chest.

Before you can even gasp his name, his mouth is on your shoulder, teeth sinking in hard through the damp fabric of your gown, biting down with feral intent.

You cry out, the sharp sting blooming into heat that shoots straight between your legs. He growls against your skin, biting harder for a moment before finally easing off just enough to speak.

His voice is wrecked, low, dangerous. “I will not be gentle, not now, not when you have just sucked out my fucking soul.”

His free hand fists the front of your gown, right at the neckline, and he rips. The sound is loud, violent. Fabric tears straight down the center with one brutal yank, laces snapping, seams splitting. The ruined gown falls open, exposing your breasts, your stomach, the wet heat between your thighs. He shoves the torn pieces aside, baring you completely.

Ormund’s eyes are dark, almost black with lust. His chest still rises and falls hard against you. His thighs are still trembling from the force of his orgasm, but his cock is already twitching back to life, pressed hot and heavy against your bare belly. One hand slides down to grip your ass, hauling you up onto your toes so he can grind against you.

“You wanted to please me?” he growls. “You did. Too well.” His teeth graze the bite mark again. “Now you’re going to take what you earned. And I’m not going to be fucking gentle about it.”

He spins you without warning, pressing your front against the nearest wall, stone cool against your flushed skin, his body burning hot at your back. One hand pins your wrists above your head. The other slides between your legs, finding you slick and ready, and he groans.

“Fuck. Already wet for it.” Two thick fingers push inside you without preamble, curling deep. “Good. You’re going to need it.”

He bites your shoulder again, harder this time, bare skin now, and lines himself up, the broad head of his cock nudging against your entrance.

“Brace yourself, sweet wife,” he warns. “I’m going to fuck you until you forget how to walk.”

The thick head of his cock notches against your entrance and then he drives forward in one brutal thrust. You cry out as he sheathes himself to the hilt inside you. The stretch is immediate and overwhelming. He fucks you like a man possessed, hard, deep, relentless. Each thrust rocks you forward against the wall. “Fuck— tight little cunt,” he snarls. “Gods, you’re squeezing me like you were made for this.”

You try to speak, to beg for a moment. “M-my lord— ah— it’s— too— too much—” He growls and fucks you harder. “I know what you need. You sucked my soul out through my cock and now you’re going to take every inch of what you earned. Beg for it if you want mercy. Beg.”

Your thighs are already trembling. Every thrust punches a whimper from your throat. He slides a hand between your legs from the front, fingers finding your swollen clit and rubbing in tight, ruthless circles. “Come on it. Come on my cock while I fuck you stupid. Then beg me for more.”

The orgasm rips through you without warning. Your whole body seizes, thighs shaking violently, a broken cry tearing from your throat as your walls clamp down around him. He fucks you straight through it, pace never faltering. “That’s it— fuck, yes— come for me, sweet wife. So pretty when you fall apart.” His voice is thick with filthy praise. “Good girl. Such a good girl taking it so deep.”

You’re pleading now, voice hoarse. “Please— please, mercy— I can’t take any more— my lord, please—” He pulls out so suddenly you nearly collapse. In one fluid motion he spins you around, lifts you clean off the ground, and slams your back against the wall again. Your legs wrap around his waist as he drives back into you. Now face to face, he rolls his hips, grinding deep. “Look at me. You want mercy? Then beg for it properly. Tell me what you really want.”

You shake your head, tears slipping down your cheeks, but your body betrays you. “Please— please fuck me harder— please, Ormund— I want it— I want you—” He drops your wrists, both hands gripping your ass, and starts fucking you in earnest, lifting and dropping you onto his cock. Every thrust punches the breath from your lungs. Your legs tremble where they’re locked around him.

He talks the entire time. “Fuck— that’s my girl. Taking it so deep. Look how your pretty tits bounce for me. Gods, you’re perfect— my shy little wife turned into a desperate slut on my cock.” He shifts his grip, one hand sliding up to wrap loosely around your throat. “You swallowed every drop earlier and now you’re going to take another load. Going to fill this cunt until it’s leaking down your thighs for days.”

You’re babbling, broken pleas mixing with his name. “Please— please, I’m going to— I can’t— my thighs— they’re shaking— please—” He knows. Your second orgasm is already cresting. He angles his hips and when you come again it’s with a scream muffled against his shoulder. Your thighs clamp around his waist so hard they shake, your whole body convulsing. You’re sobbing, begging incoherently for mercy even as your cunt milks him.

Ormund snarls and keeps going. He fucks you through the orgasm and straight into another. He carries you across the room to the large copper bath. He sets your ass on the wide, curved edge, pushes you back until you’re half-lying on the rim, and hooks your knees over his elbows. The new position spreads you open. He looks down at where you’re joined. “Fuck— look at that. Look how well you take me. Stretching around me so pretty.”

You’re beyond coherent begging. “Please— please, Ormund— mercy— I can’t come again— I can’t—” He leans over you, biting the other shoulder, and drives harder. “You can. And you will.” One hand slides between you to rub your clit again. “Beg me to come inside you. Beg me to fill you up.”

The words push you over the edge again. You come with a broken wail, thighs trembling so violently they nearly slip from his arms. Your cunt spasms around him, gushing wet. You’re sobbing his name, begging, “Please— please come inside me— please fill me— I want it— I want you to ruin me—”

That’s what finally breaks him. Ormund roars, hips slamming forward as he buries himself deep. You feel him pulse inside you—hot, thick ropes flooding your cunt. He keeps thrusting through it, grinding deep, pushing his spend further inside you while his thighs shake and his chest heaves. “Fuck— take it— take every drop— good girl— my perfect wife—”

He doesn’t pull out when he finishes. He stays buried inside you, hips rolling in slow, deep grinds as the last of his orgasm fades. Your thighs are still trembling uncontrollably. Your whole body feels liquid and ruined.

But he’s not done. Even as his come starts to leak out around his cock, he starts moving again, slow at first, then building back to that feral pace. The overstimulation makes you keen. “No— no more— please— I can’t—” He kisses you, deep and claiming, swallowing your pleas.

“You can. Because I know you want it. Because your cunt is still fluttering around me like you need more. Because you sucked my soul out and now I’m going to fuck one into you.”

He lifts you again, carrying you to the thick rug in front of the hearth. He lays you down on your back, follows you down, and hooks your legs over his shoulders, folding you nearly in half as he drives back into your come-slick cunt. The new angle is devastating. He fucks you deep and slow at first, then faster. You’re beyond coherent begging now, just broken sounds and desperate little “please”s that he answers with more.

He makes you come again. And again. Each time your thighs tremble harder, your voice grows hoarser, your pleas for mercy grow more frantic. And each time he ignores the mercy but gives you exactly what your body is begging for, more, harder, deeper, until you’re a trembling, sobbing, come-drunk mess beneath him.

Only when your legs are shaking so badly they can no longer stay hooked over his shoulders does he finally slow. He lowers them gently, settling his weight over you, still buried deep. His hand strokes your sweat-damp hair back from your face. “You took it so well,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the bite mark on your shoulder. “My good girl. My perfect wife.”

He rocks his hips once more, slow, deep, possessive, pushing the mixture of your come and his deeper inside you. Then he stills. “I told you I wouldn’t be gentle. And I wasn’t. But you wanted it. You begged for it. And you took every fucking inch like you were made for me.”

He rolls so you’re draped over him instead, your trembling thighs straddling his hips, his softening cock still inside you. One big hand strokes slowly down your back. “Rest,” he orders softly, even as his other hand grips your hip to keep you seated on him. “Because when I’m hard again—and I will be—you’re going to take me one more time. On your knees this time. Or bent over my desk. Or wherever I decide. And you’re going to thank me for it.”

You’re too spent to answer with words. Your body just trembles against him, thighs still shaking, cunt still fluttering weakly around his cock, filled and marked and utterly claimed. Ormund’s arms tighten around you, possessive even in the aftermath. His lips curve against your temple.

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs. “My sweet, shy wife who fucks like sin when I tell her to.”

He holds you there on the rug, the fire crackling nearby, your ruined gown tangled around both of you, his come slowly leaking out of you onto his thighs. And even as your body aches and trembles with the aftermath of being so thoroughly used, you feel the low, steady thrum of satisfaction deep in your bones.

Because he was right.

You wanted it.

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, ten—!"

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 years—not 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 you—?"

"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, and—

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 are…delightful. Delicious. "How—" 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 again—and 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 Ormund—your 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 desire—the 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 it—of 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 might—"

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 is…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 you—who 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 an…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 it—of 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 worse—disappointed 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, I…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 life—the 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! I—!"

"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 and—!"

"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 you…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.

"Oh—" 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 be—I'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, perfect—

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 else…" 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 understanding—like 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 never…"

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. Or—or you."

"But you…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 you—furious, 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 sweetness—I 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 sensitivity—him. "Oh, gods, I—"

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 happens—a 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 so…"

"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 him—with 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 so—so 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 god—!"

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't—don'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, please—oh 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, willingly—but 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 am—I 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 I—it is not a…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.

"I…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 be…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 is…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.

And when he ties it, he pulls the ribbon tight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fill me then, darling,” you commanded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What?!"

You groaned as you shuffled your work pants on in a hurry. Your shirt and shoes to follow, only to remember you forgot your socks. Your boss, Kassidy, called you in to bartend last minute since someone randomly quit today. Today was your only day off all week!

"I know it's sudden but we need you here, girl. You know how it is," she said. Sounding like she was reading a script.

"Don't think I do," you muttered under your breath and ended the call. The doorbell rung as you rushed to the bathroom to brush your teeth. Your older brother, Derrick, called out from his room.

"Hey, get the door for me!"

"Get your own door!" You shouted back and flipped on the dim flickering light. You really gotta talk to your landlord about that.

"Just get the fucking door!"

"No!"

He shouted your name and you groaned dramatically with toothpaste suds in your mouth, spitting it out then made your way to the front door, toothbrush still in hand. You opened it with haste, but stopped in your tracks. The guy that was standing there looked to his right and locked eyes with you. The neutral expression he had kind of shifted into a smug one as you notice his eyes lowering.

Your brow raised then you look down to see your uniform shirt was very much unbuttoned, your cleavage was on display and bra was peaking out. You covered your chest with a disgusted look and walked off.

"Derrick ! Your weed friend is here!"

Derrick stopped whatever he was doing with a look of panic and sped walked past the bathroom you went back to. When he went to greet Dex--you knew his name was Dex, you just wanted to be extra--Derrick went to dap him up and let him in.

"'Weed friend'?"

Your brother rolled his eyes as you ran past him to get to the kitchen. Dex made himself at home and plopped down on the couch like he owned the place.

"Ignore her. I thought you weren't coming until later?"

"Got my shit done early, thought I'd swing by early to kick it. That a crime?"

Derrick didn't want to make it abundantly obvious that he was trying to make sure you and Dex never crossed paths but Dex just had** to go off script.

"Nah, nah, just...warn me next time."

You slung your work bag over your shoulder and bolted towards the door with an apple--something like it was straight out of an anime. Dex watched your every move until you disappeared. You could feel it but chose to ignore it. Chalked it up to thinking you're weird or overall just being nosy.

Luckily your shift was just five hours and you got home at 11 but you weren't in the best mood because your hair got really frizzy from the beaming heat.

You walked in and didn't process that the lights were still on until you got hit with a cloud of weed smoke. Spotting Dex laid up on the couch and puffing O's in the air after taking a hit. When he heard the door shut he looked over. That same smug look on his face appearing from earlier.

"Love the hair."

You could kill a man right now.

"What? I'm being serious."

"Where's Derrick?"

You slid your work bag off your shoulder like it weighed a hundred pounds.

"D went out for some errands."

"At 11 p.m?"

"He's a big boy, he'll be okay. He'll be back in like 30 minutes."

You nod and pick the bag up again as you head to your room. It was rare that you ever crossed paths with Dex. He came over often but you were usually out with your friends or at work. How convenient.

Convenient as in Derrick set it up that way. It's been that way for the past fifteen years.

"You could at least open a window," you called out.

"And let out the antidote?"

He suppressed a laugh as he heard you react, not quite in favor of the song reference and how fast he said it.

"You did not just quote Travis Scott."

"Kinda did," he said, a little too proud, taking another hit. "There's still time to join the dark side."

"Hell no. I enjoy having a working immune system."

"Ah, that's for rookies."

You walked back out in much more casual attire, hair less frizzy, and went to the kitchen to heat up your leftovers. But when you opened the fridge, the three slices of yesterday's pizza in a ziplock bag were nowhere to be found. Your blood almost turned cold. You've been thinking about that pizza since Kassidy called.

You look up and over to Dex like you were in a horror movie. Except you'd be the killer.

"Dex."

"Uh huh."

"Where's my pizza?"

"Oh, shit. That was you?"

You slammed the fridge door.

"My fault."

You startled him a little with how fast you got to the couch. He quickly sat up and held his hands up.

"Damn, girl, I'm just fuckin' with you! I hid it in the microwave."

"Why... would you hide it in the first place?"

"D said you'd beat my ass if I ate your food. Wanted to see if he was bluffing."

You stare at him blankly then go back to find the pizza still in the bag in the microwave. With a sigh you grabbed a plate and tossed them back in.

Dex got up to walk over and lean on the doorway. Arms folded, biceps slightly visible through his baggy shirt but that's not important.

"Surprised you don't have munchkins."

His brow raised before he laughed. "Munchies, sweetheart."

"Please do not call me that."

"Well, what should I call you?"

"My name, maybe?"

The microwave dinged and you took the plate out, making no move to get out the kitchen. Not yet at least.

He said your name but it wasn't normal...you think. His voice softened and got deeper just a little. Little enough to think you might be delusional.

"Now that's a pretty name."

Your heart definitely did not flutter a little there.

"Okay, actually, you shouldn't be calling me anything anyway."

"And why is that?"

"I shouldn't be talking to you."

"Says who?"

"Derrick."

He said a lot more than that.

Dex scoffed and turned away from you to lean more on the doorway. "Oh, word?"

You nodded with a thin lipped smile. "Word."

He hummed softly to himself when you responded. It sounded unnatural coming out of your mouth. "It's cute when you say it."

"Can you not do that?"

Your eyes meet again. "Do what?"

"Flirt with me? It's weird."

"I'm not flirting with you."

Liar!

"I was stating the obvious."

You rolled your eyes, finally taking a bite of food and planned on going back to your room and eating so you can catch up on your show. But when you walked past him he spoke up again.

"Had fun at work?"

You stop and turn slowly to him.

"...what?"

"I said," he repeated slower. "Did you have fun at work?"

What a ridiculous question. And yet, in the blink of an eye, an hour passes.

You're both on the couch, just laughing your asses off over some crazy stories of his that are completely unbelievable. Some of with included Derrick. You're clutching your stomach from how funny he is when the door slams shut.

Both your heads turn and the room fills with silence. You rolled your eyes at him when he walked over.

"I'll see you tomorrow, bro."

He stood there with his hands in his pockets. Staring Dex down as if they weren't best friends.

"Damn, it's like that?" Dex said as he stood up.

"Getting late, man," he insisted and gestured for him to leave. "Catch you later."

Dex put his hands up and glanced at you one time just because he knew it would irritate your brother. When he grabbed his hoodie and slipped it on you lowered your eyes upon getting flashed by his abs for half a second. The door closed behind him and there was silence again.

"... don't make it weird," you muttered.

"I told you to stay away from him."

"You shouldn't have let him stay over while you were out."

"You couldn't have just did your shit and stayed in your room?"

"Oh my god," you exasperated. "I'm not 18 anymore! I'm not some helpless impressionable kid who hasn't an ounce of discernment."

He rubbed his temples like you were giving him a headache. It was the other way around!

"He's... just don't do that again."

"What is so bad about a guy you consider your best friend? If he was so dangerous, why let him stay here, alone, in the house?"

"Because I can!"

You scoffed and stood up. "You're starting to sound like him."

Derrick sighed heavily. "Don't say that."

"Don't act like him and I won't say it."

"I'm not him," he says firmly. "You're being dramatic."

"Me? You don't want me around your drug dealing best friend because, what, you think I'll catch feelings?"

He didn't respond. That was enough for you to get offended.

"Wow..."

"Listen-"

"No, you listen. I'm 32 years old now. Not 15. You have absolutely nothing to worry about. Alright?"

He crossed his arms. Still silent. You had a point.

"...alright."

"Alright. And I actually know how to function while sober, so."

He rolled his eyes as you went back to the kitchen to rinse off your plate. "Whatever. I did you a huge favor keeping my shitty mistakes from effecting you."

"I know. Love you, brother!"

You came out and held out your hand to initiate your handshake. Afterwards you put your hand on his shoulder to bring him down to your height.

"I am still a grown ass woman and you will treat me as such."

He playfully swatted your hand away before pushing you towards your room.

"Yeah, yeah. Good night."

You're busy wiping glasses behind the counter since it was usually slower at the bar in the middle of the week. Your coworker, Asha, which you could honestly call a close friend by now, finally clocked in and appeared at your side with a bright smile.

"You are wiping the hell out of that cup."

You snapped out of your thoughts and smiled back when you saw her, nudging her when her comment registered in your head.

"Gives me something to do before Kass tells me I'm not doing my job again."

She laughed and started rearranging the liquor bottles behind you--her version of cleaning--while stealing glances at your face.

"Did you get your eight hours?"

"What do you mean?"

"It looks like you didn't get much sleep. Said with love."

You playfully rolled your eyes. "Maybe that's just my face."

She looked past you for a moment with a confused look.

"Uh...either I'm crazy or there's a fine ass man staring at you, front of house."

"What?" You turned and followed her eyes. It was impossible to miss the man that definitely stood out amongst the rest of the customers. You put the cup you were mindlessly cleaning down and slowly made your way towards him. Asha watched with a keen eye, completely disregarding the bottles she was organizing.

"What you acting shy for?" He called out once you got close enough. "C'mere."

You couldn't help but laugh at how absurd it was to see Dex, of all people, at your job...the day after your brother freaked out for even sitting in the same room with him.

"Dex?"

He smiled at you and met you in the middle with open arms. So we're on hugging status now...okay...?

"What's up, mama?"

Mama?!

You were already in his arms before you could even question it. When he let go, you could just hear Asha asking a million and one questions the second you got back to work.

"I thought I told you to quit the nicknames."

"You said don't call you 'sweetheart.'"

"Alright, well I'm telling you don't call me anything that isn't my name. What are you doing here anyway?"

"Damn, girl, you ain't happy to see me?"

"I didn't say that!"

"Wowwww, that's, like, really fucked up."

"Dex," you feigned exasperation.

"Maybe I just wanted to grab a drink."

"At my job. The place I haven't even told you I work at."

"D told me."

You gave him a look.

"...He mentioned it in passing."

"Right."

"For real, though, I just wanted to surprise you."

"You know my brother would have your head if he found out you pulled up to my place of work, right?"

Dex had a laugh. A genuine laugh.

"He can certainly try."

Your brows furrowed. Whatever that means.

"I'm gonna get back to work. It was good seeing ya."

You turn and start to walk back when he called out again. This habit was seriously starting to get annoying!

"What time you get off?"

You stopped in your tracks. Then made eye contact again.

"You're serious?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"I don't..." you scratched your head. "Are we, like... friends now?"

"Shit, I thought we were."

You didn't have words for that. The tension was broken once Asha called out your name in a hushed panic so you'd turn back around and see Kassidy about to survey the floor.

"Shit, uh, I really gotta go. We can't hang out. It'd be weird. Sorry."

He watched you scurry back to the bar, practically tripping over yourself trying to grab an already clean glass and wiping the rim with the small towel hanging from your apron.

"Girlllll," she whispered as she peeped him standing there, looking like he had something else to say but chose to leave it alone and left. "Who the fuck was that?"

"My brother's friend," you whispered back and began stacking the glasses to make it look like you were actually working. "I don't know why he came. He'd have a hissy fit if he somehow got word that he came to my job and I didn't immediately tell him off."

"Oo, he want you."

You scoffed. "Ew."

"Don't play. You know he fine as hell."

"He's my brother's best friend."

"And??"

"One, that'd be really weird if his best friend was into me. Two, that also means I'd be the complete opposite of his type anyway. I'm sure the women he gravitates towards don't look like... this."

"Like...?"

"Boring."

"You are not boring."

"You haven't seen me outside of work. You know why? Cause I'm boring!"

"Working hard, ladies?"

You both turned at the same time. Kassidy stood there with her clipboard and her fake smile.

"Working hard," you said.

"Very hard," Asha added. "Making everything as neat as possible before the rush, ma'am. All her idea."

You held back a laugh. Kassidy nodded with an impressed hum.

"Love to see it. Don't let me interrupt you. I know it's slow but I'm sure it'll pick up in an hour."

"Aye, aye," you saluted her as she walked away. The second Kassidy was out of earshot, Asha turned back to you with a grin.

"He wants you."

You groaned. "Stop."

"I'm just saying! You gotta hit that at least."

"What?!" You huffed in disbelief. "Are you crazy? And who even says that anymore? Perv."

You playfully shoved her shoulder and grabbed a small towel to start wiping down the bar. Before she could continue her "analysis," Kassidy reappeared.

"Hey," she got your attention from across the bar where two customers had finally sat down at a booth near the window. "Table three needs drink orders."

"On it," you left the bar with a glance over your shoulder at Asha winking at you all theatrically. You laughed it off and went to serve the waiting customers with a smile.

Later that shift; closing.

"Sooo," she said while stacking chairs on their respective tables.

"You have got to let it go," you replied while wiping down the other side of the bar. It was just you two since it was closing time. "I'm not getting involved with a guy like him."

"Ugh, translation: I hate fun," she pouted. "Nothing wrong with making stupid decisions every once in a while!"

"That's the thing, I don't have that luxury," you explained. "I don't get to be the sibling that fucks up. Always had to be the goody two shoes sister who actually completed high school and** college and rarely ever had a boyfriend and kept a decent/stable job that didn't include drugs. I'm the boring one in the family which is technically a good thing. I've accepted it a long time ago."

Asha paused stacking chairs to fully turn and look at you.

"Stop calling yourself that. You aren't boring."

"The life I live would say otherwise, but, I dunno, I mean It's not like I haven't thought about it every single day and almost every waking hour," you stopped cleaning and leaned on the counter for a moment to think. You haven't talked about this kind of thing with anyone, not even your close friends. "Sometimes I'd like to be able to make a dumb decision without a second thought. Like... sometimes I wish I wasn't known as the good girl. You know?"

Asha sighed and pursed her lips together. She didn't know what to say that would cheer you up or even comfort you. Then something told her to look to her right. A dry chuckle escaped before she could catch it.

"I think your wish might come true."

"What do you mean?"

She didn't say anything, waiting for you to follow her eyes again. When you looked over to the big window by the front door, you scoffed. No way.

"There's no way..." you muttered.

"I...will finish closing."

"What? No, I can't ask you to do that."

"It's a good thing you didn't ask!"

She came over and snatched the towel from you, pushing you towards the door.

"Wha- hey! I still need to change!"

"I'll bring your duffel!"

She pushed you out the door and waved at Dex with a big smile. He waved back and put his hand back in his pocket as she took off running towards the locker room.

"She seems nice."

"Dex," you began. You didn't even know how to feel right now. "You know you aren't supposed to be here."

"Yeah, I know."

"... do I even wanna ask why you're here?"

"I feel like you're itching to know."

"No, don't tell me...you're here for me."

"Well look at you, Miss She-lock Holmes."

You playfully groaned as if it physically hurt to hear him say that.

"I did not know Derrick had such corny friends."

"Comes with the territory."

Asha came back out and shoved the bag in your hands, whispering "Go get em girl" then ran back inside and locked it so you wouldn't even think about going back in.

"I'd like to give you a ride home."

"Derrick would slash your tires."

"Maybe," he shrugged and started walking. You made eye contact with Asha staring through the window and waved her off, following behind Dex begrudgingly.

At least you didn't have to take the bus...

You walked with him to the parking garage and he pointed to the big black jeep a few feet away. He even opened the passenger door for you.

...this is so strange...yet so nice...?

You hesitated for half a second, just long enough to wonder if this was real life or some bizarre dream, before climbing into the worn leather seat. The interior smelled faintly of a woodsy scent--obviously to cover the smell of weed--and...a really good smelling cologne. The kind that would make your head turn if he walked past you.

He arrived in 15 minutes. A hell of a lot faster than the bus, which is double the time. You got out and rounded the car with a quick wave.

"Uh, thanks. For real."

"No problem."

You stood there for a second.

"...you can go."

"Gotta make sure you get in safe."

"If Derrick sees you-"

"-he won't. Go. And good night."

You sighed and quickly made your way to the door, going inside without another glance. He pulled off; thank heavens Derrick was sleep by now. A big part of you hopes Dex doesn't make this a regular thing...but the other really small part wouldn't particularly mind the excuse to break out of this faux saint shell.

Whatever. This is likely a one time thing and you're still focused on saving up enough to finally move out. There wasn't time to think about-

-He took you home the rest of the week.

Friday came in a flash. This time when you got out the car after thanking him, he got out and leaned on the door since he had to park a little farther to avoid being seen. You waved goodbye, he waved back, and you took a few steps back. This Is the part where you keep walking...but you didn't.

"Fuck it," you muttered and went up to him to kiss him on the cheek. Giving him no time to react verbally as you walked away quickly, but you did feel him lean into it a little. He smiled to himself with a short chuckle and got back in his car after you nearly ran through your front door.

And then things just..started changing.

What would appear as little things to anybody else is a billboard of a difference for you.

"What the..."

Your other coworker, Danny, and Asha were staring at you like you had two heads when you came into work.

First of all, you were late. You're never late.

"Hey, girl...!" Asha said with her eyes on your collarbone.

"Hey, sorry guys, I overslept, totally on me."

"Right," Danny chimed in. "Is that alcohol I'm smelling?"

You smiled sheepishly. "Ah, yeah...sorry about that as well."

"Okay, uh, I ask this with all the love in my heart...what the fuck did you get up to last night?"

-

Last night; 10 p.m.

"Damn, girl, slow down," Dex said as you just finished your third hard cider beer. "It ain't going nowhere."

"This...I am celebrating," you slurred and latched onto his arm for support.

"And what exactly are you celebrating?"

"I am celebrating... being bad," you whispered. "No more mister nice guy."

"Yeah?"

His arms flew to your waist to keep you balanced, now being behind you. You gasped and turned in his hold despite his efforts to keep you from falling on your face.

"Tattoo!"

"What?"

"I'll get a tattoo! Like yours!"

"You are not getting a face or neck tat."

"I knowww I mean like right here," you pointed to your collarbone.

"Good spot. D won't even notice."

"He can get the hell on somewhere. I'm getting that tat."

"I'll take you right now."

-

"... got drunk and got a tattoo."

The two exchanged looks.

"And that's what made you oversleep?" Asha asked.

-

"Oo it look real pretty," he said as he looked at it under the streetlight next to his truck. "Almost as pretty as you."

You smiled, saying nothing else before grabbing his face and kissing him. Ahem. With tongue. He hummed in a pleasant surprise and pulled you closer. No seconds thoughts.

"Fuck! Oh, fuck," you whined. How he ended up balls deep inside you in the backseat is quite fucking blurry.

"I know, mama, I know it's big," he murmured in your ear with encouraging, guiding hands on your hips. "All for you. Shh, shh, listen how she talk back to me."

You quieted down to hear the obscene squelching coming from between your legs.

"Aw, she's beggin' for me. Weepin', baby. That's all mine. Say it."

"It's all yours," you barely managed to say. Hands gripping his shoulders.

"You damn right it's mine. Think you can cum for me when I tell you to?"

You nodded as it was impossible to speak anymore. He had the nerve to count how many bounces it took to bring you on the edge. Counting 13 before telling you to cum. And you did.

He pulled out and told you to catch it in your mouth. You did that too. When he finished, he pulled you up to peck your messy lips.

When you settled down a bit next to him, the alcohol started to wear off and you became more and more tired. But it just dawned on you.

Oh...shit. You just fucked your bother's best friend.

"You... will not tell him about anything that happened tonight," you said while lazily fixing your too-short skirt you barely get to wear out anymore. He laughed a little at the thought. Not that he would feel inclined to do so anyway. That was smile he wasn't trying to deal with. Not right now, at least.

He locked eyes with you, a sly smirk on his face as he did the zipped lips and throw away the key gesture.

"Secret's safe with me, pretty girl."

-

"...yes."

They exchanged looks again.

"Okay..." Danny said. "Just try not to do that again. Kass almost threw a fit earlier when she realized you were late."

"Won't happen again. I promise."

Three months to by like that.

You saved enough money to get your own apartment. You're finally free!

And you've gotten more tattoos. His god damn initials on your hip.

Your style has completely changed. Your coworkers and friends barely recognize you. All you wear is crop tops and low rise stylish jeans outside of work to show off now. You've started partying with Dex more and getting acquainted with his "friends."

First mistake.

There was that time he lost you at a house party and found you passing around a blunt, smiling and cuddling up a little too close with his homeboy. When you got home, he was pissed. So pissed he pulled his gun on you--drunk and high, by the way.

"What I tell you about getting too close with these fools?"

He said while pressing it under your chin. The Dex you "knew" vanished. Or maybe this was the real him. Who knows, you are cross faded to all hell right now.

Instead of cowering like you normally would've if this was months ago, you parted your lips while looking him in the eyes. Tilting the gun up to teach your mouth and started sucking on the tip of the gun. Just. The tip. He watched you with sick curiosity. Were you insane? Did you have a death wish?

The questions didn't seem to matter that much when he came up with the grand idea to fuck you from behind with the gun to the back of your head.

Then came the time, at another party, where you got into a really heated argument and you threatened to fuck his friends because he still wasn't claiming you as his girl.

Second mistake.

He proceeded to grab you by the arm and drag you outside to his circle of acquaintances, the last people he would ever call his friends, and offered you up for grabs. "Free game," as he called it. Letting them play with your hair and caress your face. Even did as much as turning you around and acting like he was going to pull down your pants. That's when you apologized profusely and hid behind him. He scoffed and dragged you back inside.

"Bet you won't say that shit again."

And still, you eventually got a tramp stamp. A bullseye.

You're not sure how you've been able to keep living a double life. Your brother is still convinced that you're the same person you were when you left. Definitely not now the girl who greens out almost every day after work. You could work a short morning shift and be high as fuck in the afternoon. It didn't matter.

And then came the final straw. Your biggest mistake was getting involved with one of his friends from his gang. The world Dex lives in, "getting involved" can and will mean something as simple as having one brief conversation with someone who owed bad people a lot of money and drugs.

You were kidnapped. But not without a fight.

Which did lead to you getting beaten. Pretty badly.

"The fuck?" Dex's friend muttered as he took a drag of his cigarette. "Yo, Bullseye. Check this shit out."

Dex took his phone. When his eyes landed on the photo of you, unconscious and tied to a chair, bruises and cuts all over you--which showed that you put up a good fight--and your face being held up to look at the camera, his chest felt like it was caving in. The following text said:

"Bricks or she dies."

It was referencing the bricks of coke Dex and his boys stashed from a house robbery gone wrong. Not his fault the other guys forgot to come collect!

"Ain't that yo girl?"

He stared at it for a few moments then sighed really heavily, locking eyes with everybody in the room.

"I'll handle it."

Two. Days. Later.

A hard slap woke you up. So hard it drew blood in your mouth.

"Mornin' sunshine."

You don't know how many days it's been but you could tell it's been more than 48 hours given that the guy in front of you's broken nose was slowly healing.

"I'm gonna ask again. All you gotta do is tell the truth and you walk free. Where. The fuck. Is the coke?"

You spit blood in his face.

"I've seen all your faces," you rasped. Voice still coming back from when you were screaming at them. "Like hell you'll let me walk"

He wiped his face with your shirt and stood up with a dry chuckle. Pulling his gun from his pants and cocking back the hammer as he pointed it between your eyes.

"You real loyal to your dealer. I'd say respect but that's just stupid as shit, and you don't seem like a stupid girl."

"I told you I don't know where the fucking coke is."

"Stop fuckin' lying."

He moved the gun under your chin so that you were forced to look at him. Bright fluorescent light stinging your eyes.

Then the lights flicker. Three times.

The leader of this group walked up and snatched him back away from you with a panicked look. He wasn't there when they took you but you could tell he was in charge.

"What the fuck are you doin'?!"

"Getting our shit back, what you think I'm doing?"

"Are you stupid?!" He exclaimed. "That's Bullseye's girl."

The other guy instantly goes pale. The room full of big guys with automatic rifles is quieter than before.

"How do you know...?"

"Travis told me about you bringing in a girl with a bullseye tramp stamp. And you brought her to our spot. Fuckin' moron."

The lights flicker again. You start chuckling and looking around the room to count how many guys were there.

"Fuck is so funny?" The moron asked.

"You are all...so fucked."

"Yeah? How would he know where we are? We're underground."

"She's right. We gotta go. Now."

"We have military grade guns."

"They have Bullseye."

Silence fell. A knock came to the door.

"Yo! They're on the way in! We gotta move!"

The leader ran his hand down his face as he went to open the door, gesturing for the others to follow. It opened and he instantly collapsed the ground. The others look up and see

"Bullseye!"

They raise their guns in haste, but it's too late. Three go down from his silencer pistol and with the rest, well, he just wanted to show off.

He tucked his gun away and found random objects nearby to break and send them flying into their necks. One guy managed to cut you free and get behind you, head-locked and a gun to your head. You grunted in pain but kept a brave face. A weak smile on your lips as you nodded. Without hesitation, Dex flicked a broken glass shard really hard at you and you turned your head at the very last moment. It had just grazed your ear when it landed right in the guys throat.

He was the last to drop. Your knees gave out as you held onto the chair but Dex was on you in a flash, picking you up and carrying you out bridal style. You fell limp against him. Head on his shoulder as he walked out and his boys come in to start taking their shit. Money, drugs, all of it.

He got to his car and carefully put you in the passenger with your seatbelt on this time (oh wow he must really care!) then he got in the drivers side and waited for them to come back out.

"So that's why they call you Bullseye," you murmured tiredly. He glanced at you, a sting of protectiveness and something else he couldn't quite place striking him in the spine as he swallowed his pride and held your hand, looking out to see if anybody could see him before pressing a kiss to your dried bloody knuckles.

He didn't say anything for the rest of the ride to his place.

As he took care of you for days, the past few months have been playing in loop in your head. You're not the same woman you were when you opened that door. Your body was covered in little tattoos that had no meaning. Hell, you had a fucking tramp stamp!

You drank, smoke, and fucked most days. Learned how to use a gun and properly wield a knife. It took one dumb decision and you just couldn't stop. It felt so good to just do stupid shit for once. Have a taste of the life your brother so desperately made sure you'd never have to live.

"I told you to leave my guys alone."

You looked down while Dex was gently cleaning a skin wound on your shin. Did he just say what you think he just said?

"Excuse me?"

"I said I told you to leave my guys alone. All you had to do was listen to me."

You sat there in silence.

"I was gone for almost three days, Dex," you said calmly. "I almost died. For something that had nothing to do with me. I assume you only found me because they sent you some kind of picture of me while I was unconscious and that** is what you have to say to me?"

Silence fell again. Then a huge argument erupted. All it took was him asking how many times he's had to remind you how dangerous this shit is and you went off. Despite how pissed he was it was still surprising to see you this angry. You're not even sure you've even seen yourself this angry.

Everything came tumbling down. It wasn't just him talking to you crazy but every single thing that's been bothering you. Everything he's done that you should've addressed but let it go because he "has it hard." It got so bad you stunned him into silence after breaking up with him and stormed out of his place despite having a slight limp.

It's been a week. He hasn't called. Texted. Shown up to your door and begged for you back. By the end of the week you felt like shit. How did you let this spin so out of control?

You stared at the contact on your phone with tears in the corner of your eyes. "Brother 🖕." You can almost hear him complaining about the emoji next to his contact again.

The line rang.

"Long time no speak," his voice crackled on the other side. It's been a while since you've called him but you've been texting here and there. Just the sound of his voice "...Hello?"

"I fucked up," you said with a quiet, shaky voice. His smile instantly vanished.

"What?"

"You were right," you continued with a sniffle. "I fucked up really bad and I should've listened to you. I shouldn't have said you were acting like dad when you were just trying to look out for me. I'm so, so sorry..."

"Woah, woah, slow down. Right about what? What happened? Are you okay?"

"... right about Dex..."

Derrick put the phone down for a moment to take a deep breath then put it back up to his ear.

"Are you home?"

"Yeah."

"I'm coming over."

"You don't have to do that-"

"-like hell I don't."

You heard the sound of a chair moving and keys jingling before the call dropped. He was there in 25 minutes. The second you opened the door, you broke. It wasn't just relief from seeing him again but also seeing his reaction to this completely different version of you. The side you've hidden so well for months.

The door shut and you just cried your eyes out against his chest. He hugged you carefully to avoid worsening your physical pain.

"I'm so sorry," you sobbed. "I never meant for it to go so far."

Derrick didn't say anything. Not that he could anyway. He wasn't the comforting type and it wasn't often that you cried around him after you got to high school. Especially not like this. All he could do was shush you and keep holding you. Seemed like it was what you needed.

"I need you to tell me who did this to you," he said. "The bruises, I mean."

You pulled back just a little to look at him after wiping your tears. "You're not pissed at me?"

"Oh, I am," he admitted with a faint chuckle. "But that's the least of my concerns right now. You need to tell me who did this."

"They've already been dealt with," you said while wiping more of your tears. "Dex got them all. By himself."

Derrick scoffed and shook his head. "That so? Sonuvabitch didn't stop and think to call me."

"Yeah, we, uh...we got into a huge argument after, last week. I haven't heard from him since and that's kinda why I called you. Processing all this shit at once overwhelmed me so bad that I had to call you."

Derrick hummed to himself. "I'd be surprised if you did hear from him."

"Why?"

"Oh, you don't know?" You shook your head. "He went to prison."

"O-ohh...." was all you could say at first. Prison?! "When did he...?"

"Few days ago. RJ called me a few hours after they booked him. Eighteen months."

"Eighteen months...I don't even wanna know what he did."

"I wasn't gonna tell you anyway."

You laughed at that, calming down more as the conversation went on.

"Now you understand why I was on your ass?"

"I do. I said I was sorry."

"About twenty more times and I'll go easier on you."

You rolled your eyes before he pulled you back into a hug. This time you hugged him back.

"I really am sorry." You murmured.

'I heard you the first time' was on the tip of his tongue but he chose to let the moment stay at least a little wholesome.

"I know."

Eighteen months later.

It just turned midnight when five knocks come to your door. You quickly grabbed your piece from the kitchen drawer and quietly came to the front. Checking the peephole, you sighed heavily and put your gun away before opening the door.

First mistake.

He looked to his right and locked eyes with you. Unable to stop the little soft smirk that appeared on his face

"... what's up, mama?"

You were not happy.

"Why are you here? Actually, don't tell me. I don't care. Go."

"It's like that?"

"I left your ass. Remember? You need to go before I call Derrick."

"You ain't gonna do shit."

He pushed past you into your place knowing you wouldn't stop him. You closed the door behind him.

Second mistake.

"Wanna bet?"

"Think you can get to your phone before I can intervene?"

You narrowed your eyes. He started smiling.

"I've only been gone a year and some change, baby," he said as he walked towards you. You didn't back down though.

He liked the challenge.

"Don't fuckin' call me that."

"Or what?"

"Why are you here?"

"Unfinished business."

He got so close you instinctively backed up and hit the door.

"You really need to leave, Dex."

Yeah, very convincing there.

"Tell me to go, and I'll go," he shrugged and jutted his chin towards the door. Though a big part of you didn't believe him. "Just say the words, 'get out' and you'll never see me again."

You hesitated.

Last mistake.

He nodded and stood directly in front of you, leaning down just an inch from your face. "See, that's your problem," he said your name. Warm breath fanning against your lips. "You bluff. All you do is bluff. Because in your heart of hearts, you're too good. Too much of a good girl. You're not gonna tell me to leave and you damn sure ain't calling D."

He paused to watch you try not to squirm. Aw, how cute.

"Say you want me," he added. "Just get it out way."

Oh, how you always felt so small in his presence sometimes. This is a man you've shed real tears over. Sobbed in your brother's arms and even promised you wouldn't do this shit again.

But the high that was Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter was a high you've been chasing since you first locked eyes. He was right. Unfortunately.

"...I want you..."

"Say it again."

"Dex-"

"-say it again."

"I want you," you said louder like it hurt to utter such truth. He did that stupid side smile that always had you weak in the knees.

He didn't move immediately. He let that admission hang in the air so you'd really feel it. He knew he had you. He knew exactly which buttons to press to make you crumble in his cruel hands.

"I know."

Now he closed the distance with a kiss. Tongue first. You melted just like that. In that year and some change you were getting your shit together. Got a better job and everything. And here he comes undoing all the things you had to unlearn just from being around him.

A single tear shed down your cheek as you cupped his fave abs deepened the kiss yourself with a soft moan. Being away from him was the equivalent to withdrawal. Sure, you were** getting your shit together. Outside the house. But inside, you were losing it. No amount of leftover weed or alcohol amounted to the feeling of Dex's hands on your body. How he traced those tattoos while stroking it deep enough for you to see colors. The filthy things he whispered that you thought only existed in porn.

Dex was your downfall.

He laid you down on the big worn out couch Derrick gave you when you first moved in. Tugging your little shorts off in one swift motion. There wasn't time for the cute shit. This is a man fresh out of jail and he needed to be inside you. Like, now.

"Looks like she missed me, too," he said as slapped the tip against your folds to hear how wet you were. "Still weepin'."

You gasped and gripped the pillow behind your head when he thrusted forward with no warning. The pace was all but steady. This wasn't your typical reunion sex.

Or maybe, it was.

He pried your thighs apart so he could watch your face. You haven't even touched a man since Dex left. That was obvious.

Every push was a reminder of everything you tried to forget. The late night drives around town, the smell of his cologne mixed with weed and the thrill of being loved on by a man the world warned you about.

He leaned down next to your ear to get deeper. If such a thing was possible. You stifled a moan but that didn't last long.

"I should knock you up," he whispered. "Should nut in you and dip. Just so the world knows what I do to you. Maybe it'll piss D off enough to actually stand a chance against me."

You involuntarily clenched against him, he let out a husky laugh.

"You'd enjoy that, huh? Me spillin' all in you and going off the grid? Maybe you aren't the saint I thought you were."

"I'm- fuck," you wanted to say you were close but can't even get the words out. He didn't help by kissing along your neck.

"In or out. Gotta tell me now."

"In. Please, in!"

Dex let out a half laugh. He genuinely didn't expect you to want him to do it. Let alone say it that fast. And beg.

You cried out as your essence dripped down your ass. After a few more strokes, he came too. Pressing his hips against you and bottoming out so that you'd be taking every last drop. He hasn't creampied before. Always safe, never sorry. But how could he say no to you?

The next two minutes was just the room filled with heavy breathing. He has long since collapsed on top of you, still inside, your legs still wrapped around his waist. The guilt settled in again but it was overshadowed when he turned his head to mutter directly into your ear.

"I was just talking shit before," he said. "You ain't getting rid of me."

You exhaled and let your eyes close, not letting go of him anytime soon.

"I know."

-