let your soul fly

You stopped and listened, the sound came again, so full of pain and angry despair that it made you flinch. 

For a moment, you considered turning around and running. You didn’t. You couldn’t. 

Your mind screamed at you in agony, calling you a fool, that whatever had happened here had nothing to do with you, that the only sensible thing to do was to vanish before anything worse happened.  

You had never been good at sensible. 

You stepped from the path and pushed through the undergrowth. The forest slowly darkened around you as the last remnants of daylight vanished behind thick clouds, but the direction you had chosen was right – the groaning grew louder.

A shape emerged between the trees.

A horse.

Dead.

Saddle half-torn loose, some pieces of armor scattered just next to it and several paces farther on – a man, sprawled against the roots of an ancient oak, one arm hanging uselessly at his side, face streaked with mud.

Your breath caught.

Not a bandit.

A knight, or rather what remained of one.

You stopped dead in your tracks. Men in armor brought trouble. Noblemen brought even more. 

For all their faults, thieves and bandits understood the sacred rule: do not bite the hand that heals you. They knew what it was to go hungry, to bleed, to depend on the mercy of another. Noblemen rarely did.

They moved through the world as though it had been laid at their feet for their use alone. Gratitude flowed upward, never down. Kindness was expected, service demanded, and debts forgotten even before blood had dried on a bandage.

You had learned that lesson young, and life had seen fit to repeat it often. 

Yet as you watched, the man’s head shifted weakly and you heard a strained breath escape him.

Not dead, not yet at least. You cursed at your foolishness as you moved closer.

The man's hair, damp with rain, stuck to his forehead, and even the mix of dirt and blood couldn’t completely hide the fine features of his handsome face. 

The embroidery on his green doublet, the remnants of his armour, every single thing about this man screamed he was someone important, someone dangerous and surely someone far above the concerns of a village healer living alone on the edge of nowhere.

You leaned in and put your palm on his forehead. Burning hot. 

His eyes opened. Blue of the morning sky and still sharp despite the pain. A shaky hand reached for you.

"Water," he rasped before his eyes rolled back, and his body slumped back against the tree.

You stared at him, at the blood seeping through his doublet, at the straight line of his nose, the sharp eyebrows.

The sensible choice would have been to leave him. 

Instead, with a muttered curse and a prayer to every god willing to listen, you set down your basket and knelt beside the unconscious stranger.

You fetched the flask hanging from your waistband and slid one hand behind his neck.

"Easy."

His head lolled heavily against your palm and his eyes opened again, unfocused and glassy with pain.

You tipped the flask carefully.

He swallowed once, coughed, then drank again, greedily.

"Not too much," you warned, pulling it away.

His brow furrowed, whether at your words or simply from the effort of staying conscious, you couldn't tell.

For a long moment he simply stared at you. He looked confused, trying to place where he was, who you were, perhaps even remember his own name.

You set the flask aside and turned your attention to the armor.

The breastplate was dented along one side and mud had worked itself into every buckle and strap. You had to get it off but it was clear it was not going to be an easy task. 

"What are you doing?" he managed as you started to pull at the straps.

"Saving your life."

Your fingers worked at the leather fastenings, the knight frowned and his hand moved weakly toward yours.

You slapped it away.

"Stop that."

A surprised blink and then, despite the blood loss and obvious pain, something almost resembling offense crossed his face.

"I can't carry you," you said with a slight scoff. "And you can't walk carrying half a forge on your shoulders."

The final buckle came loose, the breastplate shifted and he groaned in pain as you moved his body to ease it away from him. 

You kept going – the pauldrons, the vambraces, all went off. He didn’t protest anymore, and piece by piece, all the steel fell away.

You looked at the man revealed beneath it – wiry but well built, pale and far younger than he had first appeared.

The doublet was stained dark with blood. The wound would need cleaning, stitching, perhaps, but none of that could happen in the middle of the forest.

"We need to move."

His eyes closed briefly and when they opened again, they were sharper and more aware.

"I can’t."

"You want to live, you will."

The look he gave you suggested he was unused to being argued with.

You rose to your feet and dusted off your skirts, his gaze followed you.

You offered your hand and after a moment's hesitation, he took it.

You braced your feet.

"Ready?"

"No."

"Good."

You pulled, he cried out as he put all his remaining strength in holding on to you and pushing himself upright. For a second his knees buckled and you already thought he would fall back on the ground, but somehow he managed to keep standing. 

"Seven, help me," he muttered through clenched teeth.

You quickly stepped closer, draped his good arm over your shoulders and wrapped your own around his waist.

The weight that settled against you was considerable. 

"Gods," you breathed, looking with remorse at your basket on the ground. There was no way you could lean down to fetch it without letting the man drop back into the mud. 

The two of you stood there for a moment, swaying slightly.

“Move,” you ordered. 

There was a pause but then he shifted his weight forward.

One step. It was shaky and painful, the movement drew a sharp hiss from him but it was a step.

"Good boy," you gave him an encouraging smile. 

His jaw clenched but another step followed.

Consciousness returned slowly and in fragments.

First was the feeling of warmth, then the sound of crackling fire, next came the scent of dried herbs.

Pain. A dull, throbbing ache spread through his ribs, shoulder, and side. 

Gwayne frowned, his eyelids felt heavy but he forced them open.

A low wooden ceiling, smoke-darkened beams, a small window.

Memories run scattered through his still somewhat foggy brain. 

The battle. The screams. The pain. 

The fire. The rain. The forest. 

A woman.

Beautiful, large eyes looking at him with open annoyance.

He was alive.

The realization came with a fresh pulse of pain and a ragged gasp.

The door opened and you stepped inside carrying a wooden bowl filled with steaming water.

"Look who's decided to rejoin the living," you smiled seeing the young man awake and set the bowl down.

The blanket shifted as he moved, attempting to sit up, and he instantly froze and looked down, realising there was nothing between him and the blanket. Completely, absolutely nothing.  

His eyes widened.

"What in the..." his voice sounded hoarse but it still was pleasantly soft.  

He looked pointedly at the blanket, then back at you.

You blinked.

"What happened to my clothes?" The accusation in his voice was hard to miss.

You folded your arms.

"They're drying."

A beat of  silence passed.

Gwayne's face grew steadily warmer as the implications arranged themselves in his mind and the speed with which the young man’s cheeks all over to his ears turned brightly red made you chuckle. 

"You removed them."

"You were unconscious."

"You removed all of them."

You stared.

He stared back.

Finally you let out a long, disbelieving breath. "Seven preserve me."

"What?"

"You wake up in one piece after nearly dying in the middle of nowhere and that's your first concern?"

His jaw tightened.

"You undressed me."

"I saved your life."

"You undressed me."

"I stitched your wounds!”

The man looked genuinely mortified and offended. You looked genuinely ready to throw something at him.

His mouth opened, closed, then opened again but nothing emerged. 

"Not even a thank you," your frustration spilled out before you could stop it. "Not one."

Gwayne blinked.

"I carried you out of the woods, spent half the night cleaning blood off you, used almost every bandage and pain soothing herb I had and unless you've discovered some miraculous method of treating wounds through a doublet, yes, I removed your clothes."

The room fell quiet.

Gwayne found himself staring at a knot in the wooden wall, and his ears felt suspiciously warm.

"You stitched my wounds?"

"That is generally how healing works when someone has a hole in his side."

Gwayne shut his eyes and rubbed a hand over his face, the movement pulled painfully and he hissed.

The concern drove away the annoyance from your features so quickly that it caught him off guard. You immediately stepped forward.

"Don't. You'll tear the stitches."

Your gaze dropped to the bandages wrapped around his torso.

"Try sitting up slowly."

Gwayne eyed you suspiciously.

"Why?"

"Because if you're going to continue being difficult, I'd at least like you to be conscious for it."

It had been on the third day that the young man finally revealed his name.

To his credit, there had been no grand announcement, no expectation that the world should stop and marvel at it.

The truth had surfaced gradually, piece by piece, through idle conversation and half-answered questions until, with visible reluctance, he admitted that he was Ser Gwayne Hightower. 

You cursed inwardly. 

A Hightower. As if sheltering a wounded knight beneath your roof was not enough trouble to tempt fate. Of course he had to be a nobleman as well. Of course he had to belong to one of the most powerful houses in the realm, a house with its hands buried up to the elbows in the bloodiest war of the century. 

Just your luck.

You dragged a half-dead stranger out of the forest and somehow ended up with a piece of the realm's troubles sleeping in your bed.

The days that followed settled into a rhythm neither of you acknowledged aloud – each morning began with fresh bandages and a new argument.

Gwayne healed quickly, much faster than you had expected. The fever broke after three days and by the end of the week, he could cross the room without needing to lean on walls or furniture. He stubbornly refused your hand whenever you offered it to him. 

He had tried to ask you questions about the course of the war. You cut him off before he could speak them out. 

"No discussions about kings, queens, claimants, dragons, battles, or whichever noble lord is currently trying to kill whichever noble lord."

A faint frown appeared between his brows.

"I merely wished to know..."

“I said, no,” you tied off the fresh bandage with perhaps a little more force than necessary.

Gwayne studied you for a moment.

"I'm too poor to have the luxury of caring who sits on the Iron Throne," you finally said and turned to face him. "When lords quarrel, villages burn. While princes decide who is entitled to crowns, common folk bury their sons. Armies take grain, horses trample fields, and healers like me spend their days stitching together whatever is left behind."

You folded your arms.

"I heal whoever comes through that door. Farmer. Merchant. Shepherd. Drunkard. When I picked you up in the woods, I didn’t ask for your title.”

Your gaze drifted briefly to the fresh bandages wrapped around his torso.

"I have no desire to be part of noble quarrels," you said at last, more quietly. "I don't want favors. I don't want rewards. I certainly don't want enemies."

A muscle shifted in Gwayne's jaw as it slowly hit him, the reason for that distinct feeling that learning his name had somehow lowered your opinion of him. 

"You think knowing my name places you in danger."

"I know it does."

The certainty in your voice surprised him.

"When you leave this place, Ser Gwayne, I sincerely hope you forget the path that brought you here."

His expression tightened.

"You saved my life."

"Exactly."

You pointed at him.

"And if, after all that, the thanks I receive is having soldiers, rivals, debt collectors, spies, or ambitious noblemen showing up at my door asking questions, then I hope every old and new god in the Seven Kingdoms curses you for the rest of your days."

For a heartbeat, Gwayne simply stared, his blue eyes met yours and something softer flickered there, something unusually sincere.

"I give you my word. No one will hear of this place from me," the solemn certainty in his voice surprised you, and for reasons you could not entirely explain, you found yourself believing him.

A week later, Gwayne Hightower discovered that recovering from a near-death injury was considerably easier than earning your approval.

Gwayne had spent most of his life knowing exactly what was expected of him.

He was a knight. A Hightower. A soldier. The son of a powerful house.

There had always been a place for him in the world, a purpose that fit as naturally as a sword hilt in his hand until he woke up in your hut and discovered that in your world he had none of all that. Even more - he was entirely useless.

The realization did not come all at once.

At first, there was the wound. No man could be expected to work while half stitched together and burning with fever but the fever broke and the strength returned.

The days passed.

You rose before dawn every morning. 

By the time he woke, water had already been fetched, the fire lit, herbs sorted, breakfast prepared.

Then the rest of the day began: children with split open knees, farmers with swollen joints, old women seeking remedies for aching backs, broken bones, cuts, fever.

You treated them all.

Then there was laundry, cooking, cleaning, mending, collecting herbs, brewing potions, the work never seemed to end, and somehow everything that needed doing simply found its way into your hands.

For the first time in his life, Gwayne found himself uncertain of where he belonged within it all. Worse still, he discovered that he wanted to belong. 

Every morning he woke to the scent of porridge or fresh bread and the soft sounds of a household already awake around him. 

It was a small life by the standards of lords and castles, a simple one, hard, undoubtedly, and demanding in ways he had never seen before, yet there was something about it that drew him in.

Perhaps it was the honesty of it, the quiet purpose woven into every task, or perhaps it was simply you.

Whatever the reason, Gwayne found himself wanting, more and more, to be a part of this strange little world fate had thrown him into.

It took him a while before he braved to offer help, but it seemed the least he could do.

A mistake.

A terrible mistake.

The first task you entrusted him with was watching the bread.

It sounded almost insultingly simple – sit by the oven, keep an eye on it, take it out when it was done.

A few distracted thoughts later, smoke began pouring from the oven and by the time he realized something was wrong and dragged the loaf out, it had transformed into a charred black brick that could scarcely be called bread anymore. 

Your face when you discovered it haunted him for days. 

The bowls proved even less cooperative. The task was to wash and dry them. 

How could anyone wash dozens of fragile things every day without breaking them?

As the third one hit the floor, Gwayne stopped and sat down with his head in his hands. 

Not that he had more luck with the wood.  You had found him standing in front of the chopping block and watching the axe stuck in the log after his first swing with absolutely no idea how to get the stubborn tool out of it. 

The truth was humiliating.

He was a knight and yet you were more capable than him in almost every practical matter that kept a household alive.

At first he found that realization uncomfortable, then impossible to stop thinking about. 

He started to watch you. Not intentionally, at least, not at first.

His gaze simply found you. Again and again. 

There was confidence in everything you did – competence earned through years of doing.

There was no one else in your life. No servants. No household staff. No family helping. Just you and yet somehow you managed it all.

And for the first time in his life, Gwayne found himself wondering if fate had dropped him into the world with nothing but his own hands, would he have managed half as well as you?

He wasn’t certain, and it made him feel both shame and admiration.  

The realization arrived gradually like the dawn creeping across a room.

No single moment or dramatic revelation, just a growing certainty.

He liked your sharp tongue, the way you refused to be intimidated by him, the way you argued with him without hesitation or the way your eyes flashed whenever he said something particularly foolish.

Gods.

Especially that.

You were infuriating and somehow he found himself looking forward to every argument.

He liked hearing your voice, just simply being near you and seeing you smile. At some point, without noticing when or how, you had become the first thing he looked for when he woke and the last thing he thought about before sleep and once he acknowledged that, the rest became impossible to deny. 

Your handsome knightly patient was getting better with every passing day and somehow it made you inexplicably sad. 

Patients came and went. Some stayed for an afternoon, some for a few days. They arrived carrying pain, fear, and uncertainty and departed as soon as their bodies allowed it.

That was how it was meant to be.

Yet lately, whenever you looked at Gwayne, you found yourself wishing his recovery would slow.

Not stop, just... slow.

The wound along his side had nearly closed, the bruising had faded. He moved easily now, no longer wincing every time he stood, soon there would be nothing left keeping him here.

The thought sat heavily in your chest whenever you allowed yourself to think about it for too long, but even if you tried not to allow it, your attention kept drifting toward him.  

The truth was, he was not at all what you had expected.

When you had learned who he was, you had imagined the worst – a proud nobleman, demanding and entitled, the sort who believed the world existed for his convenience only.

Instead, fate had delivered you a knight who burned bread, shattered bowls, and spent half an hour contemplating a log because he did not know how to chop it.

The memory still made you laugh and there was one thing you couldn’t deny – his efforts had been genuine, even after repeated failures, especially after repeated failures, he still never acted as though any task was beneath him.

Despite all his attempts to appear composed, he still blushed every time you changed his bandages.

A grown man and a knight, reduced to awkward silence and burning cheeks whenever you untied the laces of his shirt.

You glanced up from sewing the torn sleeve of his doublet.

Lost in thought Gwayne was staring into the fire again. He looked so out of place when he did that. 

He looked lonely.

You had spent most of your life alone, you were used to it, and yet for a brief, foolish moment, you found yourself imagining what would happen if he stayed.

The thought lasted all of three seconds but it was enough for you to accidentally drive the needle into your thumb.

Then common sense returned with the pain.

“Ouch,” you hissed.

He would never stay and even if he wanted to, he shouldn't. 

Gwayne belonged to castles and armies and great stone cities, to duties and responsibilities, to a world you could scarcely imagine.

You lived in a forgotten hut at the edge of a forest.

Your lives were not even supposed to touch. 

Carefully, you brushed your fingers over the healed skin on Gwayne’s side one last time.

The gash was gone, the skin had knitted together cleanly and what remained would also fade with time.

You didn’t even notice Gwayne had gone suspiciously still beneath your touch.

"Well," you leaned back. "Congratulations. You are healed."

You both glanced down at the discarded bandage in your hands.

"There is no need for another one," you said more quietly. 

You knew exactly what that meant. He could finally leave. 

You placed the bandages aside and pushed yourself off the bed as a hand closed around your wrist.

Your eyes dropped to the place where his fingers touched your skin. 

Gwayne immediately looked as though he regretted every decision that had led him to this moment.

Color flooded his face.

Gods.

You had never seen a man blush so thoroughly.

The redness reached all the way to his ears.

For a heartbeat he simply stared at your joined hands.

Then he released a breath.

Opened his mouth.

Closed it again.

You waited.

Gwayne looked like a man preparing to charge a dragon.

You blinked.

"I … I…,” he stammered. 

“What?"

A flash of horror crossed his face.

"Gwayne."

His gaze found yours again.

"Come… come with me," he finally managed.

You stared, certain you had misunderstood.

"What?"

His grip tightened slightly before immediately loosening again.

As though he feared frightening you away.

"When I leave."

The words came slowly now.

Carefully.

"I want you to come with me."

For a moment, you simply looked at him, at the handsome knight sitting on your bed with an earnest terror in his eyes.

A soft, disbelieving laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

"Gwayne."

"I know how it sounds."

"Do you?"

He closed his eyes and shook his head.

That, at least, was honest.

Neither of you moved but neither of you looked away.

Gwayne still held your wrist lightly. Slowly, almost hesitantly, he loosened his grip and turned your hand in his.

His gaze dropped to your fingers as he lifted your hand toward his mouth.

The touch of his lips against your knuckles was feather-light.

You could have pulled away.

You knew that.

You should have.

Instead, your hand remained where it was.

Gwayne kissed your knuckles first, one after another, slowly, eyes shut close, savouring every touch of his lips against your skin. 

When he finally looked up at you again, something had changed.

The uncertainty in his gaze remained, but now there was something else alongside it.

Wonder.

As though he could scarcely believe you were still there, that you hadn’t pulled your hand away.

Slowly, giving you every opportunity to stop him, he leaned closer. 

"Gwayne..."

His gaze flickered briefly to your mouth then back to your eyes. You held your breath but didn’t move away.

Carefully, tentatively his lips brushed yours. So lightly, so briefly that at first you almost wondered whether it had happened at all, even so your heart stumbled painfully in your chest. 

Gwayne’s eyes fluttered shut and he leaned in once more. His hand cupped your cheek and you could feel the slight tremor in his fingers as though he could scarcely believe he was allowed to touch you.

You felt him smile faintly against your lips, a small, disbelieving thing, as if he had spent so long hoping for this moment that now he didn't quite trust it to be real.

Without thinking, your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer. 

It drew a soft breath from him, something between a soft moan and a whimper.

The sound sent warmth flooding through you.

Gwayne's hand, still resting against your cheek, slipped into your hair, his fingers threading through the strands before settling at the nape of your neck. The touch was careful, almost protective, yet there was nothing uncertain about it anymore.

The kiss deepened, his lips moved against yours with impossible tenderness but you could feel the quickened beat of his heart beneath your palm on his chest. 

When you finally broke apart, it was only because breathing had become necessary.

"Gods," he murmured.

"What?"

A smile appeared. It was slow but bright enough to transform his entire face.

"I was certain you were going to throw something at me."

Despite yourself, you laughed.

Gwayne drew back with the unmistakable look of a man gathering the courage to say something that mattered.

His lips parted.

You already knew what was coming.

A promise, a plan, something sensible and reassuring.

You did not want any of it. You didn’t want promises that were impossible to keep. You wanted this moment, this beautiful fleeting moment between now and then, where everything was possible and nothing was spoken out loud. 

Before he could say anything, you lifted a finger and pressed it gently against his lips.

"Hush."

He blinked.

"Don't."

There was confusion in his gaze, you ignored it.

Slowly, you guided him backward. He let you. The mattress dipped beneath his weight.

His gaze never left your face.

You crawled on top of him, straddling his hips. His heartbeat picked up beneath your palm. Fast. Much too fast for a knight.

You smiled.

"Don't speak," you murmured.

His throat bobbed.

"Just feel. No promises. Just this one night."

Your fingers drifted absentmindedly across taut planes of his abdomen tracing the familiar lines of the body you had spent weeks tending back to health.

Beneath your touch, every muscle seemed to go still.

You leaned in and pressed your lips to the scar on his side. Gwayne's breath caught audibly, head tipping back with a soft gasp. 

The sound emboldened you. You kissed the line of the scar again, letting your tongue trace its length. His hips twitched beneath you and a low, broken sound left his throat.

“Gods…” he breathed, fingers flexing against the sheets as if he didn’t know whether to reach for you or hold himself back.

“Schhhh, my knight,” you whispered.

You took your time exploring him with your hands and mouth, every scar, every ridge of muscle, every place your fingers had once brushed as you tended his wounds, you worshiped them now with your lips and tongue – the hollow of his throat, the sharp line of his collarbone, the sensitive spot just beneath his ribs that made his breath hitch sharply.

Gwayne’s head pressed back into the pillow, eyes half-lidded. You loved the soft, helpless sounds that spilled from his lips with every touch, all the quiet gasps and shaky moans. His hands finally rose to your waist, gripping lightly, reverently, as though you were something sacred he was terrified of breaking.

“Don’t…,” he managed, voice wrecked. “I… I can’t…” 

You silenced him with a deep kiss, swallowing his words as you rocked your hips slowly down against his. His fingers dug into your waist, then loosened again, trembling with the effort.

“It’s my choice,” you said firmly. “You’re mine for this one night. Unless you tell me you don’t want it.”

Gwayne swallowed hard but didn’t say anything. 

“I take it for a yes,” you smiled and started to pull your dress over your head.

You let your fingers trail the hem of his breeches. 

The moment you pulled him out, your noble knight almost stopped breathing. He was beautiful, hard and flushed, a vein running along the underside from base to the flushed tip. 

You wrapped your hand around him slowly, stroking once from base to tip with a feather-light touch and Gwayne’s chest started to rise and fell rapidly, his hands fisting the sheets. 

You stroked him a few more times, gliding your thumb over the sensitive head, drawing  beautiful broken whimpers from him. 

His hands settled lightly on your thighs, fingers trembling. He didn’t guide or rush you. He simply held on, as if touching you was the only thing keeping him from shattering.

You shifted higher on your knees, Gwayne’s gaze snapped back to yours, pupils blown wide.

“Are you sure?” he rasped. You silenced him by sinking down onto him, slowly, unhurriedly, savoring every inch. Gwayne’s head fell back with a broken moan, hands clutching at your thighs.

You stayed still for a moment, savoring the way he pulsed inside you, then you began to move. Slow rolls of your hips, rising and sinking down on him again and again. 

You loved every desperate sound your movements drew from him: the soft, needy moans, the sharp gasps and pleas he couldn’t seem to stop. 

Your proud, noble knight was completely unraveling beneath your touch. The flush on his cheeks, the way his eyes fluttered half-shut with every roll of your hips, the broken sounds he couldn’t hold back… you loved it. You loved it more than you could ever admit.

His hips started to buck up to meet you, sharp needy thrusts that almost knocked the air out of your lungs. You stemmed your feet against the bed and rode him harder, faster, grinding down, chasing your pleasure shamelessly.

Gwayne’s back arched clean off the bed with a strangled moan, one hand flying up to clutch at your waist as he kept moving against you.

“Good boy,” you moaned, leaning down and capturing his mouth in a messy kiss. 

The praise hit him like a spark to dry tinder. Gwayne whimpered into your mouth, the sound raw and needy, his tongue sliding against yours in urgent sloppy strokes. 

His fingers dug into your waist as he flipped you over like you weighed nothing. 

“Say it again,” he gasped, voice wrecked and pleading, hips slamming against yours in almost desperate rhythm. “Please…, I need to hear it.”

You moaned beneath him, nails raking down his back, as the new angle sent sparks of pleasure shooting through every nerve.

“My good boy,” you breathed against his lips. “My perfect knight.”

“Fuck me harder, knight!” you moaned and a low, broken groan rumbled from Gwayne’s chest, his hips stuttered, rhythm faltering before he managed to get the hold of it and started  driving into you with deeper, more powerful thrusts. 

It didn’t take long, a broken sob of pleasure tore from you as you shattered, back arching against the bed. He kept fucking you through it, arms wrapped around you, holding you close. The tenderness never left him even as moments after he came, gasping, shuddering, groaning hoarsely against your neck.

The night passed in quiet whispers and lingering touches. Neither of you spoke much, there seemed little point.

Words belonged to tomorrow, tonight belonged only to the two of you.

Gwayne held you as though he feared the dawn, you rested against him, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear.

At some point during the night, when sleep still felt far away, Gwayne pressed his face into your hair.

"I never want to let you go."

The honesty of it was both beautiful and unbearable.

For a moment, you closed your eyes. Gods help you.

It would have been so easy to pretend, to let yourself believe impossible things, that the war did not exist, that he could stay or that you could follow.

Instead, you reached up and brushed your fingers through his hair.

"This was my parting gift, Gwayne."

You felt him go still and the silence that followed hurt more than any argument could have.

His arms tightened around you again.

"You could come with me."

"And go where?"

He did not reply.

You shook your head.

"You belong to your world and I belong to mine."

His breathing grew uneven, but he didn’t say anything. 

Morning arrived far too quickly, by sunrise you slipped out of bed. 

“It’s time,” you whispered. He didn’t answer.

A moment later Gwayne stood fully dressed beside the door, his sword at his hip.

The sight felt wrong.

Neither of you seemed able to find the right words, but in the end, it was you who broke the silence.

"You should go."

Gwayne looked at you, eyes moving over your face.

He took a step toward you, then stopped and nodded once. A small, broken gesture before turning and walking out the door.

You remained where you were, arms folded tightly across your chest. 

The path disappeared between the trees a short distance from the hut. 

Gwayne reached it and stopped.

Your heart betrayed you immediately.

For one terrible second, hope surged through your chest.

He turned around.

Even from there, you could see the question in his eyes.

Come with me.

Stay.

Choose differently.

Slowly, you shook your head.

No.

His eyes closed briefly, then he turned and continued down the path.

You watched until the trees swallowed him completely, only then did you allow yourself to sit down.

You did not see the tears that finally slipped down Gwayne's face once he was safely hidden by the forest.

And he never saw yours.

Years passed. The realm endured.

A fragile peace settled across the land, uncertain and imperfect, yet peace nonetheless.

Life continued.

The little hut remained where it had always been, tucked against the edge of the forest, the herb garden had grown larger, the roof needed repairing twice.

The ache had softened with time and become something quieter, a fond memory tucked carefully away, a story belonging to another life.

The afternoon sun was warm against your skin as you sat outside sorting herbs into neat bundles.

Your hands moved automatically, the work was familiar enough that your mind could drift elsewhere – toward a broad-shouldered knight with kind eyes and a talent for burning bread.

You paused, a stem of lavender still between your fingers as you couldn't shake a feeling of being watched.

Slowly, you lifted your head, the forest stood silent. Nothing there. You shook your head at your own foolishness yet looked up again. 

A movement caught your eye. A figure was standing at the edge of the woods, far enough away that another person might not have recognized him.

You did. Immediately.

Not because he looked unchanged, time had touched him, as it touched everyone, yet you would have known him anywhere.

A soft smile appeared on your lips before you could stop it. 

The figure remained motionless for a heartbeat longer, as though he needed a moment to convince himself you were real.

Your mouth pulls into a mocking smirk as his insufferably casual words replay in your mind. An afterthought, delivered just as your parents had been leaving, as though he had merely remembered to request an extra candle for his chambers.

They had not even objected.

That, perhaps, stings more than the command itself.

The fact that Ser Ormund had taken possession of her bedchamber seemed far more unsettling to your mother than his demand that her own daughter play a common serving girl for him.

But then, why should anyone trouble themselves over a widow who had already failed in the one duty expected of her? Your marriage had brought House Footly none of the prosperity promised, no lasting alliance, only a widow's blacks and the quiet disappointment your mother never failed to show you. 

And now you, the eldest daughter of House Footly, stand with a servant's tray balanced in your hands before your parents'... no…. Ser Ormund's bedchamber and stare at the iron handle, pondering how you are meant to open the door without sending Ormund's grand supper crashing spectacularly across the floor.

You shift the tray experimentally in an attempt to knock with your elbow and a goblet slides half an inch.

“Don't you dare,” you whisper to it as the door suddenly swings inward.

A startled sound escapes you, the tray tips dangerously and Ormund's hand shoots out, catching its edge before wine, supper, and your remaining dignity can tumble to the floor.

“I was beginning to wonder,” he says, “whether you intended to stand outside my door until the food went cold.”

You don’t look at him, at least you try not to but it’s rather difficult when the man has answered the door in a loosely tied robe, falling open in a deep, careless v-line across his chest. Your eyes drift lower and for one treacherous instant they stay on the spot where the folds of fabric finally meet at his waist before you wrench your attention back to the tray.

At least Ser Ormund is wearing trousers this time, you think with a smirk as you force your features into something resembling polite indifference.

Too late.

Ormund glances down at himself then back at you and the slow amusement that settles across his face is unbearable.

“Are you coming inside, or must I retrieve my supper from you piece by piece?” he says calmly. 

You lift your chin.

“I despise you.”

“Your mother has made it abundantly clear.”

“I said – I despise you.”

Ormund studies your face for a moment.

“Yes,” he murmurs. “I heard you,” before stepping to the side.

An invitation or an order? With Ser Ormund Hightower, you suspect, there is very little difference. With a roll of your eyes you lift your chin even higher, step inside and head to the table to set down the tray.  

The feeling of being watched creeps under your skin the very moment you bend slightly down to begin arranging the dishes and cutlery. You ignore it until the unmistakable awareness of someone standing close behind you makes you turn sharply, nearly colliding with a broad chest.

There is scarcely a hand's breadth between you and Ormund. You take an instinctive step back. Ormund matches it with one forward.

Before you can say something, he leans in. You can feel the warmth of his breath against the side of your neck. 

Seven hells…

You close your eyes as you try to collect yourself, fighting against the heat climbing uninvited up your throat.

"...You are the most conceited..." you open your eyes and hiss. Ormund’s arm reaches out, his sleeve grazes your collarbone, the other hand braces on the table next to you as he leans further.

"...man," you finish weakly as Ormund’s hand closes around the wine flagon and without seeming to notice the way your cheeks lit up in deep crimson, he picks up a cup with his other hand and straightens only enough to pour it. 

He takes an unhurried sip before lowering the cup.

"I've found," he says with a smile that makes you regret your foolish decision against poisoning his wine before, "that most accusations of conceit are simply frustration in disguise."

You stare at him.

"I just poured myself some wine. What did you expect me to do?"

Words fail you for perhaps the first time in your life as you bite the inside of your cheek.

There is something sharp in his smile, something that makes your skin cribble.

He’s still too close, so close that you could probably count his eyelashes if you wanted, so close that you can catch the clean scent of soap lingering from his bath.

A thumb reaches the corner of your mouth and ghosts over your bottom lip.  

"You've made your point," you say. "The tray has been delivered."

"It has."

"So I'll leave."

"You seem eager."

"I am."

"I don't believe you."

Your laugh is short and sharp.

"You think I enjoy waiting upon the man who stole my home?"

"I think," Ormund replies evenly, "that if you truly wished to leave, you would have done so already."

The words catch you off guard.

"I was being polite."

"Were you?"

"Unlike some people."

His gaze flickers to the table.

"The cutlery is crooked."

You look down instinctively.

It is.

With an annoyed huff, you straighten the knife.

When you glance back, he looks openly amused.

“My lord enjoys making fun of people? You think that makes you more noble?” you lift your chin defiantly.

"I enjoy discovering how long it takes before they stop pretending."

"Pretending what?"

"That they aren't curious."

"I am not curious."

"No?"

His brow lifts.

"You’ve been stealing  glances at me three times since I opened the door."

Heat rushes to your face.

"I most certainly did not."

"Liar."

"Maybe just once, to make sure you were decently dressed," you don’t sound very convincing right now.

"And, am I?"

His voice softens just enough to be dangerous.

Curse him.

"I despise you."

"I know."

You take another step back, determined to reclaim at least a little space between you, but your thighs hit the edge of the table.

Ormund’s eyes flick briefly to the table behind you, then back to your face.

"You've run out of room."

"I've run out of patience."

"I don't think so."

"Oh?"

"If you had," he says, "you would have slapped me by now."

Your heart stumbles.

"I've considered it."

"I imagine you have."

You brace your hands against the table, fingers gripping the edge. 

"It's too late for that now, don't you think, my fair lady?" 

He leans in again.

This time, the warmth of his breath ghosts across the sensitive skin of your throat, sending a shiver you stubbornly refuse to acknowledge. His lips brush the line of your pulse. The contact is fleeting, almost teasing, yet it steals the air from your lungs all the same.

A thigh presses between your legs, parting them and you suck in a sharp breath as you lean heavily back on the table.

"Hush..." the single word is little more than a murmur.

The warmth of his breath brushes your ear, and your pulse answers before your pride can and for the first time since entering the chamber, your tongue fails you.

You know you ought to pull away, to swat his hand aside, to remind him exactly what you think of arrogant conquerors who mistake audacity for charm.

Instead, you find yourself held by the unwavering certainty in his gaze, infuriatingly aware of every point where he is almost, but not quite, touching you.

Seven save me! What are you doing? 

The question rings through your head, loud enough to drown out everything else.

You ought to hate him.

No, you do hate him! 

You despise every word that leaves his arrogant mouth.

Do you, really?

Then why can't you help but let your lips curl into a satisfied smile every time your traitorous mind insists on remembering this morning?

Your father's outrage.

Your mother's indignation.

The way both of them had expected to be met with apologies, explanations, negotiations...

...and instead found themselves calmly dismissed.

For the first time in your memory, someone had spoken to Lord and Lady Footly as though their displeasure simply... did not matter.

The realization had shocked you.

The satisfaction had shocked you even more.

It was ugly to admit, even to yourself.

You had spent years being reminded that your marriage had been a disappointment. Your parents had arranged it with all the confidence of merchants striking a profitable bargain. An elderly lord with fertile lands, generous coffers, and no surviving heir.

A prudent match, they had called it.

A fortunate one.

No one had asked whether you found fortune in becoming a nurse to a man old enough to be your father.

He had coughed more than he had spoken, slept more than he had laughed and within a year, he was dead.

Yet somehow, it was you who was left to answer for the failure of the match.

No lasting alliance had been forged, no child had been born to bind the two houses together and none of the wealth your parents had so confidently anticipated ever found its way to House Footly.

According to your late husband's will, every acre, every coin, every title passed neatly along the family line to his brother, while you, who had spent a year tending his fevers and measuring out his medicines, were not even mentioned.

You returned home in widow's black, from day one carrying everyone's disappointment like another layer of mourning.

It had been easier for them to resent you than to admit their careful calculations had failed.

Perhaps that was why watching Ormund unsettle them had felt so... satisfying.

He had looked your father in the eye without yielding an inch.

He had met your mother's outrage with infuriating composure.

He had reduced years of unquestioned authority to little more than an inconvenience standing in his doorway.

It was arrogant and insufferable, and somehow so magnificent.

You could still hear your mother's horrified gasp when Ser Ormund Hightower emerged from his bath with all the modesty of a man entirely untroubled by the existence of clothing.

You had very nearly laughed aloud.

Not because of your mother's expression.

Well... not only because of your mother's expression.

You had seen enough of your late husband to know that the gods did not distribute their gifts with any sense of fairness.

Ser Ormund, it seemed, had received rather more than his share.

Seven save me, you think, mortified, as the improperness of that observation hits you, then again, propriety had brought you an old husband, an early widowhood, and parents who measured your worth in coin.

Perhaps propriety had enjoyed enough victories for one lifetime.

Ormund's fingers slide beneath your chin, tilting your face upward until your eyes meet his. His thumb lingers for the briefest moment against the corner of your mouth, then ghosts your bottom lip.

"There," he says softly. "Much better."

His thumb presses more firmly against your bottom lip, dragging slowly across the soft flesh.

“Open.”

Your lips part for him on their own. His thumb slides between them, you close your mouth around it instinctively, swirling your tongue over the thick digit before sucking on it eagerly, almost greedy. A low, approving sound rumbles in his chest.

“Good girl,” he whispers in your ear, the praise sliding through you like warm honey.

“See? It’s not that hard after all…” He presses his thumb harder against your tongue, holding it there for a heartbeat, then slowly drags it out. A soft, wet sound breaks the silence as it leaves your lips. “...to stop pretending.”

His fingers remain beneath your chin, holding your face tilted up to him, letting you feel the full weight of his body so close to yours, the heat rolling off him, the way your thighs are trapped against the table’s edge.

Every instinct screams at you to push him away, to salvage some scrap of dignity, but your body refuses to obey, your fingers only curl tighter around the edge of the desk to the point it hurts.

Ormund leans closer, stopping with only the smallest breath of space between your mouths. You can feel the warmth of every word before he speaks it.

"There is nothing shameful about curiosity, my fair lady," he murmurs. "And don't imagine for a moment that I failed to notice the way you looked at me this morning."

Your breath catches.

"During my exceedingly pleasant conversation with your mother."

The corner of his mouth quirks, thoroughly pleased with himself.

You swallow hard.

His gaze doesn't leave yours.

"Here's the bargain," he says quietly. "Tell me to stop."

A beat passes.

"Say the word now, and I will step away."

His voice remains calm, almost professorial, as though he were explaining some self-evident truth rather than standing close enough to unsettle every coherent thought in your head.

"But if you do not..."

He lets the sentence hang between you, studying your face with that infuriating, scholarly patience of his.

"...then I shall take your silence for what it is."

His nose brushes yours, then his mouth grazes your cheek, trailing slowly toward your ear. “Say it.” 

You open your mouth, but only a shaky exhale escapes. His lips curve against your skin in a faint, satisfied smile.

“No?” he breathes, pressing a feather-light kiss just beneath your ear. “Then be still, my lady.”

His hand slides from your chin to the nape of your neck, thumb stroking lazily along your throat. Each pass sends tiny sparks down your spine. 

Ormund’s breath fans across your ear, lips barely grazing your skin while he simply breathes you in.

His hand at your waist drifts lower, fingertips tracing the curve of your hip through your dress. He doesn’t tug or rush, he simply explores, learning the shape of you as if he has all the time in the world.

You whimper slightly as his palm slides down to the top of your thigh. It’s heavy and warm. Another soft, embarrassed sound escapes your throat. He smiles, slow and pleased, lips brushing your temple.

His fingers gather the fabric of your skirts, lifting them inch by inch. He pauses, thumb stroking soothing circles just above your knee.

He leans in closer, lips grazing your ear again as his hand slips between your thighs. The first brush of his fingertips along your inner thigh makes your knees tremble. He feels it immediately.

“You’re trembling,” he observes softly as his fingers glide higher. “Easy,” he whispers, steadying you with the hand still at your neck. “Just my fingers for now. Breathe.” 

You gasp as his fingers start to brush your pulsing bundle through your underwear. Your heart starts racing even faster, each thumping beat pulsing between your legs as you struggle to calm your breathing that threatens to spill into moans at any second if those thick fingers won’t stop their slow, torturous movement.  

Ormund watches your face the entire time, cataloging every hitch in your breath, every twitch of your lashes.

It’s been so long since anybody has touched you like this. No, that’s a lie. No one has ever touched you like this. 

Your wedding night had been awkward, brief, and disappointing. The few fleeting encounters you’d allowed yourself in the years since, some desperate attempts to feel something, anything, beyond the crushing monotony of your days, had been cold, transactional, and hollow. 

But this… he hasn’t even fucked you yet… by the Seven how does he do that and why does it have to be him?

“You’re thinking too much,” Ormund murmurs, as his hand slips inside your underwear. A thick, callused finger glides through your soaking wet folds and stops at your entrance. 

A low, satisfied sound rumbles in his chest. “So wet. Is this what I do to you, my lady?”

You shake your head trying to deny the undeniable. Ormund smiles, that knowing, arrogant smile of him that makes you want to slap him. 

“I can feel it. Your mind is fighting, but your body… your body is welcoming me,” he slides one thick finger just inside you, barely to the first knuckle, then stills, letting you feel it. 

Fuuuuck, why does it feel so good? More, you need more… your hips jerk forward, your head snaps back and you moan, raw and unrestrained, as Ormund pushes deeper, watching every flicker of pleasure and embarrassment cross your face.

“Look at you,” he breathes. “So tight. So responsive. Your body is starved for this, isn’t it?”

“Mmmmm… mmhhh,” is the only thing that rolls over your lips, your body reacts instinctively, muscles clenching around him, spine arching, fingers gripping tighter around the edge of the desk as you melt into the sensation, legs falling open just a little bit more, surrendering. 

“Such a good girl, aren’t you?” he rasps, voice dark and soothing. “No one has taken care of you but I will.”

A helpless whimper escapes you. Shame and arousal twist together so tightly you can barely breathe. Your hips twitch involuntarily against his hand. 

Why does it feel so good? Why does his voice make everything worse … and better? Oh, fuck, he’s good...  so… so good…

“Ahh-ahhh,” your moan is barely muffled as he pushes deeper, thumb stroking firmer over your pearl, fingers curling against the wall of your core and pressing into that spot inside you that makes your vision blur and your toes curl. 

“Ser Ormund, I need to talk to you,” your mothers voice suddenly cuts through the closed door the same moment as Ormund presses a second finger alongside the first. Your hand flies to your mouth as you try to stifle the moan that claws through you. 

“No, don’t do this,” he smirks. “Don’t fight it. It’s all right, let me hear you. The Seven have made you for this,” that velvety voice edged with steel is killing you, not that those fingers inside you, curling, stretching, teasing, his thumb brushing firm, controlled circles against your pulsing bundle, is making it any easier to gather any coherent thought.  

You should feel ashamed, you should feel embarrassed. 

You don’t care. You can’t. Your head is spinning, thoughts dissolving, and every last bit of your self-control is fading away, all your senses dulled and consumed by the feeling of his fingers inside you, by that hypnotic voice dripping filth into your ear.  

“Tell me how good it feels,” he orders.

“Fuck… yes,... oh gods, it feels so good…,” you moan, grinding your hips into his hand, greedy for every friction you can catch, your body shakes as you feel his fingers move faster, expertly working you toward the edge and then you’re coming undone, like a common whore, pressed against the edge of the table, skirts rucked up, legs spread, thighs trembling, pussy clenching around his fingers and juices soaking his hand and running down your inner thighs. 

Your knees almost buckle and Ormund’s other arm sneaks around your waist, pulling you closer as he holds you upright.

Your eyes are heavy and half lidded, your head falls against his shoulder, your underwear is ruined, completely drenched, and your hips keep rocking instinctively chasing the pleasure he’s drawing out of you. 

“Breathe, my lady,” Ormund’s voice is a dark purr in your ear and it slowly brings you back to reality, as he withdraws his fingers from you. You whine quietly, your pussy twitching at the loss. 

Ormund is watching you, a spark of satisfaction dancing in his gaze, his thumb brushes over your bottom lip, a teasing ghost of a touch.

 “Ser Ormund… it’s urgent,” another impatient knock on the door makes him wince in annoyance.

Ormund pulls you back against his chest, while his hand captures yours, guiding it downward and pressing your palm against the hardness straining beneath his pants.

Fuck, even through the fabric, you can feel him hot and pulsing. 

“I know what you want right now. Want me to ruin you, don’t you? Right here and now with your mother listening behind the door. Want me to fuck that tight, greedy pussy of yours, until you can’t walk anymore?” he murmurs against your ear and all you can do is swallow a needy wine and bite your lip to prevent it turning into a moan.

“Believe me, sweet thing, I will. I know what you need and I’m gonna give it to you,” his fingers slide up your inner thigh again, making you shudder. 

Sevel hells, you want him, you want him so badly it almost hurts. You want him fucking loose that arrogant composure, you want him moaning your name the same way you just moaned his and you don;t give a damn who is standing outside that door. 

The thought of fucking Se Ormund in your mother’s bedchambers with her battering the door from outside and begging for his attention is far more exciting than you had ever expected. 

“I want you to put that pretty mouth of yours to work, sweetheart. Will you do that for me?” his other hand reaches for your neck as he pulls you closer, thumb brushing your pulse line. 

You straighten yourself and reach for him, fingers slightly shaking. The single knot keeping his bathrobe halfway together yields in a breathstime. The laces of his breeches are more stubborn and your fingers are trembling.  Your hand slips inside, wrapping around his pulsing length and you pull him out.

Ormund inhales, drawing air through his teeth, a low growl rumbling in his chest, as your fingers tease over his leaking tip. 

His fingers weave through the strands of your hair with just enough force to make your scalp tingle. His grip tightens and he urges you down, his silent command unmistakable.

You glance up at him, meeting his darkened gaze, the corner of his mouth lifts in amusement, watching you, waiting.

Your fingers trail along his length, teasing, feeling the weight of him in your palm. Fuck, he’s big, thick, hot, pulsing against your skin.

Slowly, eyes still on him, you sink down, your knees hit the ground and your lips are already parting as you let your tongue flick over the swollen tip, tasting the beads of precum gathering there. 

Ormund exhales sharply, a curse slipping from his lips.

"Good girl," he murmurs, his voice dissipating in the thumping sound of your own heartbeat.

You take him deeper, wrapping your lips around him, savoring the way his breath hitches as he disappears into the wet heat of your mouth. His hand stays buried in your hair, firm but not cruel, guiding you in a slow, deliberate rhythm, up, down, deeper, letting you feel every thick inch of him.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, watching you with dark, heavy-lidded eyes. “Take me just like that. Slow. Let me feel that pretty mouth of yours.” 

His voice drops into that low, rough register that makes your thighs press together as you hollow your cheeks and take him deeper, the thick head of his cock sliding over your tongue and toward the back of your throat. 

“Lady Footly, you may enter,” he turns his head slightly toward the door and calls out with a smirk. 

The door creaks open. Hurried footsteps approach and your body freezes mid-motion.

Adrenaline floods your veins, sharp and electric, making your heart hammer in your chest. Panic and arousal collide violently inside you, but Ormund’s hand in your hair holds you exactly where he wants you. You’re kneeling, mouth full, unable to pull away.

The control of it steals your breath. Shame burns hot in your chest but also something darker, something intoxicating, that you have never felt before.

Your mother steps into the room and comes to an abrupt halt. Ormund stands with his back to the door, his body and the open edges of his robe shielding you almost completely from view. Almost. 

His grip tightens in your hair. Unhurriedly he guides you back down onto his cock, resuming the slow, wet rhythm of your mouth as if nothing in the world has changed.

“Ser Ormund… what… what are you doing?” your mother’s voice cracks with shock as the lazy roll of his hips and the muffled, helpless sound you make around him leave no room for doubt.

Your heart is hammering so hard it hurts. Every instinct screams at you to pull away, yet Ormund does not release you. He tilts your head just slightly, adjusting the angle so he can sink a fraction deeper, and the stretch of your throat makes your lashes flutter. 

“As you can see, I am rather engaged at the moment, Lady Footly.” He glances over his shoulder with a faint, unrepentant smirk, voice calm, almost lazy. “But you nearly broke my chamber doors, so I assumed the matter must be of the utmost urgency. Speak, if you must.”

Ormund’s thumb brushes the corner of your stretched lips, while his other hand stays buried in your hair.

“Good girl,” he murmurs looking down at you. “Stay right there. Quietly. Let her finish her business while you finish yours.”

You can’t see your mother. Ormund’s broad frame completely blocks your view, and your own disheveled hair falls forward like a curtain across your face. All you have are the sounds: the sharp rustle of her skirts, the short, indignant scoff she makes… and then the strangled, mortified gasp as it suddenly hits her what exactly Ser Ormund is busy with.

You should feel ashamed. 

You feel nothing but hot, burning need twisting low in your core as you suck harder. Ormund’s head tips back with a low, unrestrained groan of pleasure. The sound rolls through you like liquid heat.

You’re on your knees sucking the very man’s dick who has taken your family’s home. 

Your mother is dying from embarrassment behind his back.

Seven hells, you have never been more aroused in your whole life. 

Your tongue glides along the thick vein running down Ormund’s length and you hollow your cheeks, taking him deeper, feeling him twitch against your tongue. His groan is low and guttural, barely restrained. The sound alone makes your empty core clench desperately around nothing.

“I… I…” your mother’s voice cracks, thin and horrified.

There is a frantic scramble of footsteps. Fabric hisses as she spins around. You hear the sharp, panicked intake of her breath, the hurried, almost stumbling retreat across the floorboards, and then the heavy slam of the chamber door as she flees.

Your own pulse pounds in your ears. A slow, wicked smile curves around his cock.

"Just like that," he rasps, his hips jerking slightly, pushing himself further into your mouth.

You take him deeper, moaning around him, letting the vibration send a shudder through his entire body.

"Fucking hell…," Ormund’s hand tightens in your hair, his chest rising and falling unevenly.  You can feel how close he is to letting go and coming undone right here and now. The thought alone makes you throb between your legs, but before you can push him over that edge, his fingers grip your scalp harshly and he pulls you off his sock by the hair with a slick pop. 

Your lips are wet, swollen, and you look up at him, dazed, your breath coming in short gasps, Ormund smirks down at you, his chest heaving, his cock still thick and flushed in your hand.

"Naughty little thing, you enjoyed our little show didn’t you?" he murmurs, his thumb swiping over your bottom lip, his voice rough with barely-contained lust. "That was good. But I’m not done with you yet."

He hauls you up. His mouth hovers just above yours, as he whispers against your lips, low and filthy: 

“Do you want me to fuck you? Want Daddy to take care of you? Poor little thing… I know you do. I know you’ve been starving for this.”

Before you can even respond, he’s already moving. Hands slide under your thighs and lift you onto the desk. 

Your ruined panties hit the floor. The broad head of his cock is already pressed against your entrance with his hand on the small of your back as he holds you in place.

“You know how to play this game, don’t you?” he asks, eyes boring into you. You nod, swallowing hard.

Your mind is hazy, body burning, every nerve tuned to him but there’s no fear, no hesitation, only raw, unfiltered desire.

A sharp, broken gasp rips from your throat as he thrusts forward and fills you completely in one deep stroke. Your body shudders hard around the sudden, thick stretch of him.

One of his hands wraps around your throat, while the other digs into the soft flesh of your ass beneath your dress. 

Nothing else exists anymore. 

Everything fades away, the only thing that matters is Ormund and his cock twitching inside you, stretching you just right, the firm grip on your throat.

You don’t care about anything, there is no room for shame or doubt in your mind.

And then he fucks you. 

His hips snap forward in harsh, powerful thrusts, driving into you harder, deeper. His grip on your throat tightens. 

Not too much, not too far, just enough to make your head spin, and soon, you're a mess, a drooling, moaning, wrecked mess, every coherent thought shattered. 

The desk creaks beneath you as Ormund fucks you with deep, relentless strokes, burying himself to the hilt again and again. His hand grips your ass hard enough to bruise, pulling you onto every thrust.

“Look at you,” he growls against your ear, voice rough and dark with satisfaction. “Taking my cock like you were made for it.” 

His fingers tighten just slightly around your throat. He feels the way your walls flutter and clench hard around him in answer.

“That’s it. Squeeze me. Show me how much you need this.”

Your head falls back, mouth open, eyes half-lidded. You can barely form words, only raw, broken moans spill from your lips with every deep snap of his hips as the wet, filthy sound of your body taking him fills the room.

“Louder,” he commands, easing the pressure on your throat just enough to let you speak.

Your voice comes out wrecked and raw.

“More…” you moan. “Please… I need more…”

A dark, pleased sound rumbles deep in his chest. He rewards you by shifting the angle of his hips, dragging the thick head of his cock over that perfect spot inside you with every stroke. Your thighs begin to shake around his waist. 

The pleasure coils tighter and tighter, almost painful in its intensity.

You come with a strangled, broken moan, nails digging hard into his forearms as your body clamps down around him.

“That’s my good girl,” he praises, voice thick with approval. His hand flexes around your throat again as he fucks you straight through the climax. Deep, relentless thrusts, never slowing.

You can feel him swelling even thicker inside you, his breath comes hot and ragged against your cheek.

He doesn’t stop, he shifts again, angling deeper, and the new pressure makes your vision blur. Another broken moan spills from your lips. Your nails scrape down his arms, the haze of your first orgasm hasn’t really faded as you feel the pleasure start building all over again.

You can’t control it anymore, you let yourself sink back on the desk, Ormund pushes your legs up over his shoulders as he keeps pounding into you. 

“You’re going to come again,” he tells you, voice low and certain. “I can feel it. That tight little cunt is already fluttering around me.” His next thrust is especially deep, punching a sharp cry from your throat. “Do it. Come on my cock one more time, and I’ll fill you up. That’s what you want, isn’t it? To be claimed. To be full of me.”

His hand tightens around your throat. Your head spins as he fucks you without mercy.

Every thrust drives you higher, the overstimulation bordering on too much until the second climax crashes over you hard and sudden. Your body seizes around him, a broken, wordless cry tearing from your throat as your walls clamp down in powerful, rhythmic pulses. 

“Fuck… yes,” Ormund snarls, voice raw. The tight, fluttering heat of you milking him is the last thing he needs. His rhythm stutters, then turns almost brutal for a few final strokes. With a low, guttural groan he buries himself to the hilt and comes hard, cock throbbing as he empties himself deep inside you in long, heavy pulses.

He doesn’t pull out immediately. Instead he stays close, letting you feel the residual heat and the slow, soft pulses of him still inside you.

When he finally withdraws, the loss is sudden and intimate. A soft, wet sound accompanies it, and you feel the warm trickle of his release beginning to slip from you. Ormund steadies you with both hands at your waist, helping you sit more securely on the edge of the desk while your legs still tremble.

He cups your jaw, tilting your face up to his.

He gathers your hair in one fist and pulls it aside, exposing your neck. His mouth follows, pressing a firm, claiming kiss on your collarbone.

“Who would have thought Lady Footly could be such a greedy little slut,” he murmurs against your skin, voice low and dark with satisfaction. “No one has ever fucked you properly, have they? No one has ever taken care of this greedy little cunt the way it needed.”

His hand unhurriedly slides up your thigh, fingers coating in the slick dripping down your legs, until they reach still-sensitive heat between your legs. He doesn’t push inside, just stays there.

“You came so hard for me,” he continues, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Twice. And still this needy little thing is fluttering under my hand like it wants more.” A soft, mocking click of his tongue. “Starving. That’s what you were. Starving for a man who would actually use you the way you were meant to be used.”

He presses a firmer kiss to the side of your neck, teeth grazing just enough to make you shiver.

“I’ll be waiting for my supper tomorrow evening,” he says, his hand still between your thighs, brushing slightly through your folds. “And we both know this greedy little cunt will be waiting for me too… won’t it?”

You suck in a shaky breath, feeling the faint throb of your own pulse where his fingers press into your core, making heat coil low in your belly.