whole house hot idccc

It was a silly thing, made with wood and carved with little symbols symbolizing love and unity. Your younger self had carved the busk, the younger self who believed that you'd have a chance to marry for love. After all, it was tradition to carry a carved busk with your beloved's name close to your heart.

How foolish.

And yet you'd kept it. Rubbing out the name of Mason, your former beloved, with a rasp (you would not be so stupid as to have another man's name next to your breast), covering the spot with the name of your soon-to-be husband. But you knew that even with all the scratching and scraping, the wood and your heart would still bear the scars left behind by Mason's betrayal. How could it not? You'd loved… and now you were to be wed to another. Mason? He would stay in Lannisport with your sister Cassandra, the bride he sullied. Until you carved another busk, you would sense his name there, beneath the scratchings. After all, he'd left scars behind on your heart as well as your underpinnings.

The wedding dress was next. You held your arms up above your head like a child as another lady helped you shimmy the dress down, down, down, over your form. Laces were tied, sashes knotted. Effectively, you were secured into the dress that would see you bound in marriage to Ormund Hightower.

Your eyes met your own in the mirror of your chambers. The dress you wore was a pale silver shot silk, a heightened version of the popular gray worn around Oldtown. The dress was laced down the arms and back with similar coloured ribbons. A simple outfit but stunning nonetheless. It showed the wealth of House Reyne had been blended in with the religious morality of the Hightowers. You'd been laced into a gown that represented your family's salvation. And yet you were not happy. How could you be when your family betrayed you for protection, taking happiness from you and the man you would be marrying in a few short hours.

~

Ormund

The day had finally arrived. His betrothed, the Lady Reyne, was one of the most sought-after heiresses in the kingdom, and today, he would place his family cloak over your shoulders and make you his second wife. His patience was to be rewarded very soon. He had planted the seed of this plan only a short while ago, and now it would bear the most delicious fruit. You.

A few months earlier…

The visit to House Reyne's stronghold at Castamere was one of business, not pleasure. Ormund had been dreading the ride through the Westerlands, as it meant many days among men who refused to bathe, inns with low standards of cleanliness, and days smelling of sweat and horse. Disgusting. He wished to be at his home in Oldtown, where the air was fresh, and bathing amongst peers was strongly encouraged.

Part of him wished he'd taken his ward's offer to ride over on dragonback. But only a part of him. He'd only done that once before and found the smell of animal and the scent of smoke, sulphur, and animal sweat to be overwhelming. An executive decision was made thereafter that Ormund would ride with Daeron on Tessarion only for absolute emergencies. This was not an emergency. For now, Daeron could stay in Oldtown while Ormund did his negotiations.

The visit to Castamere was meant to bolster relations with one of the richest families in Westeros, next to the Lannisters. Richard Reyne, the Lord of Castamere had invited Ormund as a gesture a good will and to build a better connection between his family and Oldtown. And by connection, Ormund expected that the visit would probably involve Lord Reyne throwing a daughter at Ormund in exchange for extra funds for the Crown and influence for the Reyne family in return.

Ormund would make considerations, but he was not to be swayed by money. He would not get married without making the decision himself. He had money, if anything, marriage would be for power and power only. He'd been married before, companionably if not happily, to Lady Samantha Tarly. She'd given him four children before dying in childbed. He had no need for more heirs, as he had three sons and his cousin, Daeron. If Ormund was to remarry, and that was a big if, he would have a say in who he married.

Castamere was an ugly-looking castle. Built into the rock of the Reynes' old mine, the castle jutted out like a prominent chin over the lake for which the castle was built, with two towers that stuck out like a large pair of ears.

The gates of Castamere opened like a mouth, swallowing Ormund and his men inside greedily. Ormund thought it fitting, considering how the Reynes' home was built so large, simply out of greed. Yet, he could not fault them. Given the chance to mine enough gold and silver to enrich himself and his family, Ormund would take it.

Richard Reyne met him in the courtyard of the castle, a beaming smile, eyes glimmering like hot coals, arms open wide, as though Ormund was a friend and not a stranger.

"Lord Hightower! It is most excellent to make your acquaintance and to have you here as a guest."

Ormund bowed and faked a smile in return as they both made pleasantries. A couple of members of the Reyne household had come out with Lord Richard, including a daughter.

"This is my eldest, Cassandra. I do not know where my other daughter is, but I am sure that you will meet her eventually," Lord Reyne shrugged. Clearly, Lady Cassandra was the prize, not the other daughter.

Ormund kissed the hand of Lady Cassandra out of politeness. She was pretty, but there was a falsehood to her appearance. Everything about her appearance seemed to have a layer of falsity. He found it irked him. Liars and cheats already surrounded Ormund; hells, he knew himself to be one of them. Yet having a potential wife who'd shroud herself entirely in falsity? Ormund would not have it.

Ormund greeted the other members of the household before entering the building. Inside was just as gaudy and ugly as the exterior; the lower levels growing larger and more cavernous towards the bottom. If not for the extensive renovations and improvements, visitors would probably be unable to tell that the building was housed in a mountain that was once a mine. Ormund, however, could tell. He disliked the building greatly. The air was filled with the cool, dank smell of the lower part of the building, even though the Reynes and their servants clearly tried to cover up the smell with beeswax candles, resinous incense, and perfume. The result gave the essence of a poorly bathed courtier who chose to hide his stench with rosewater. Ormund lifted his silver pomander to his nose and took a sniff, breathing in the familiar scent of cloves, orange peels, and sandalwood; a much-needed, momentary form of relief.

Lord Richard and his eldest daughter bid Ormund adieu in this space, claiming the need to prepare for supper. A servant was called to take Ormund to the guest's quarters. When the servant arrived, he silently began to lead Ormund to the upper levels, thankfully. The passages within the castle wound upwards, and Ormund followed behind. His jaw was clenched, fingers wound tightly behind his back as they walked up the stairs. Ormund found himself glaring at the nameless servant's back simply because he was there. He found himself doing this as he was guided down a hallway, and then suddenly, there you were.

You were beautiful. That was the first thing he noticed about you. Then he noticed how you dressed in finery, your shining hair adorned in a simple yet elegant style that accentuated your delicate features, with a pearl net at the back of your head. You had come from a room with a fragrant bouquet of what Ormund thought to be peonies.

"Oh!" You exclaimed with a startled gasp, steadying yourself with a hand on Ormund's arm, "Forgive me. I was not looking where I was going."

Ormund was so struck by her beauty that he put aside his earlier annoyance, the tension leaving his body.

"That is quite all right. I was not aware of my surroundings either."

The woman smiled shyly, gesturing to the bouquet in her other hand, "The peonies are in bloom. They look like massive snowballs, don't they? I admit I was rather struck by the similarity that I got distracted."

Ormund nodded, struck by her candour.

"I understand, peonies can be distracting. Especially the scent."

"Exactly!" She grinned, "I was in the gardens and saw that they're in bloom. I had been hoping to place some around the castle before our guest arrived—but I guess that is you, is it not?" She bit her lip.

"I am. Lord Ormund Hightower at your service," he bowed.

You gave him your name as you curtsied. As he had begun to suspect, you were the younger daughter of Lord Reyne.

"Forgive me, I would've greeted you with my family, but I have a habit of getting distracted," You blushed, pushing a loose curl behind your ear.

Ormund's mouth parted slightly before he replied, "Do not worry. I am glad to have met you here."

"Likewise." You looked over his shoulder to the waiting servant, "I should not keep you from going to your quarters. I can have one of the other servants send up some hot water for a bath if you would like."

Ormund smirked, "Do I smell that much?"

You tilted your head back and laughed heartily before replying, "No. Actually, you smell better compared to most people who would after a couple days of riding."

"I am glad I meet your approval." He was, Ormund had been adamant on ordering a bath every time they stopped at an inn.

"But in all honesty, I figured that you would probably want to bathe after travelling. I know that I would."

"Then I shall accept your offer." Ormund smiled, the real smile that he saved for private moments before bowing towards you.

You curtsied in return before traipsing away, leaving the scent of peonies, lavender and cedarwood behind. Ormund took a sharp breath in. He tried to memorize that scent, the way you looked when you moved. In that moment, he realized that while he may not have wanted Lady Cassandra, he did want another Reyne. You, with your honest apologies, and guileless speech about peonies. You could be his wife. Yes. You would do very well indeed.

~

Ormund was summoned for supper long after he'd washed and rested. Another servant was sent to bring him down to the grand dining room. Ormund noted that the damp, metallic smell of the castle got worse as he marched down to dinner. At times, he was overwhelmed by it, feeling the urge to gag. His sensitive sense of smell had always been both a gift and a curse. It meant Ormund could better appreciate the pleasures of the world, but it also meant he was sensitive to its displeasures.

The Castle of Castamere may have looked beautiful, but there was a rot beneath it. A dankness that repulsed Ormund. He wished to leave as soon as possible, hopefully with you in tow as his bride. He would not take Cassandra as his wife. Only you would do. Cassandra was symbolic of all the showy displays covering the rot at Castamere. You, were honest and good, and Ormund found himself infatuated with you from one meeting because of those attributes.

The dining room was large, filled with some of the family members Ormund had been introduced to earlier, as well as some other guests. Ormund's keen eyes scanned the crowd to see where you were, only to find something that displeased him.

You were in attendance, wearing an ethereal gown made of light green shot through with threads of pale purple. Your hair was kept in the same hairstyle as before, which Ormund found pleasing to the eye. What he did not find pleasing, however, was the fact that your hand rested gently on the arm of a man of medium build with dark hair. The man was attractive, dressed in a fine outfit of yellow velvet with slashes of bright blue. It was well made, if a bit dandyish. As he watched from afar, Ormund could not help but notice how the man whispered into your ear, causing you to laugh in response.

Ormund seethed, his teeth grinding and his fists tightening into fists. He wanted to be the only person who could make you laugh like that. Ormund wanted to be in charge of your joy and pleasure. This oafish dandy did not deserve even an ounce of your attention.

'No, I'll have to remedy this issue.' Ormund thought, his tongue poking against his cheek as he considered his next move, staring at the couple.

"Ah! Lord Hightower! Glad you could join us," boomed Richard Reyne as he gave a friendly pat to Ormund's back.

Ormund straightened, fastening his fake smile in place before thanking his host. A servant brought over a ray with crystal cups of arbour gold. Both men helped themself to a goblet before continuing their conversation.

"Who is that, I wonder, with your younger daughter? I was so lucky as to meet her on my way to my quarters. I do not recognize the man she is with," he inquired, gesturing in your direction before taking a sip of his wine. It was effervescent, sweet on his palette, an excellent vintage that Ormund would have enjoyed more if he was not so jealous.

Richard Reyne cast his eyes over to his daughter, "That is Mason Coldwater. He's the son of a wealthy textile merchant in Lannisport. They met last year while my daughter was visiting the Lannister sisters," he gave a shrug.

"Ah, I see." Ormund did not see. You were the daughter of one of the wealthiest families in Westeros, did your father not notice how Mason Coldwater dressed? How his showy display of wealth was meant to entice as well as ensnare? "Are they to be married?"

Richard Reyne laughed, "Oh no, I am sure that wedding bells may be in the future for them, but my younger daughter has always believed that a bond of friendship is important to foster before making any sort of wedding arrangements."

Ormund could agree, but not every person had that luxury, "Do all your children believe this?"

"No, my sons are all too young to marry anyways. They need to sow their wild oats before any sort of decisions are made. Cassandra, however would happily have an arrangement."Lord Reyne's eyes glimmered again with greed, now that he was letting Ormund know his true intentions.

'Good. Better to be honest, rather than to keep skipping over the subject with small talk. But if I had my way, I would have an arrangement with the other Lady Reyne, not Cassandra.'

Ormund sipped his wine and nodded peaceably. Outwardly, Ormund continued his conversation with Lord Reyne, speaking of crops and mining, inwardly he was scheming. Perhaps he could look into the Coldwater boy's past. Ormund knew a few people in his retinue who could be trusted to investigate your beloved with discretion.

When everyone was called down to dinner, Ormund found himself not shocked that he was placed across the table from Lady Cassandra. Luckily, you had been placed in a spot next to Lord Ormund, with Mason Coldwater sitting next to Lady Cassandra. Ormund was pleased by this update, even if it meant that he would have to associate himself with your beloved and your elder sister. The annoyance would be worth it if he could be near you.

The dinner was extravagant, meant to show the wealth of the Reynes as well as the abundance of gold and silver in the Westerlands. Ormund could swear that he could make a gold bar from the amount of gold leaf placed on top of the dishes served at the feast. The table was loud, in raptures of the opulent display of wealth: fresh roast venison, candied lemon cakes, gold covered gingerbread coloured with sandalwood, and other such delicacies were gasped over by all.

You did not seem to care for it, turning your head to whisper to Ormund, "I swear, my Lord, we do not often eat like this. I would much prefer a trencher of stew to some of the dishes on this table tonight."

"What dishes displease you?" He asked, curiosity peaked.

"I'm afraid I'm not a fan of eating gold as I am of wearing it. It feels wasteful. Aspic and jellied eel are also not on my list of favourites," you admitted, looking up at Ormund through your lashes while you cut your food.

"My sister is picky, it is most ungrateful of her to be so in your presence, Lord Ormund," sneered Lady Cassandra as she pointedly licked her spoon clean of aspic.

"Let her be picky, leaves us more to enjoy," guffawed Mason, gesturing at the table before taking a large bite of venison.

You looked embarrassed, shyly going back to eating your food, tucking your head down for the rest of the meal. Ormund felt a strong hatred in that moment for Mason Coldwater and your sister. Because of their sneers, Ormund was denied the pleasure of your conversation, being forced to listen to the other guests' droll words. Tightening his grasp on the silver cutlery, Ormund vowed this situation would not repeat itself.

After dinner, the guests were allowed to mingle around the building before music and dancing occurred. Ormund's eyes found you quickly, sitting on the edge of the room by yourself, Mason Coldwater nowhere in sight. You had your hand pressed against your breastbone as though you were catching your breath or holding something to you. Ormund decided to approach. If he planned on making you his wife, he needed to have some rapport with you. Already, you seemed to like him as an acquaintance, but Ormund wanted more. He wanted for you to burn as hot as he did for you.

"Why are you sitting by yourself? Are you alright?"

"Oh yes, sometimes I find father's gatherings to be rather overwhelming," you pulled your hand from your chest and rubbed the back of your neck sheepishly.

"I understand. My daughter, Bethany, she does not enjoy parties. She may like the dancing but… the parties themselves do not provide her much pleasure."

You tilted your head up towards him as you listened before replying,"She and I have that in common then. Do you have many children?"

"Four. Poor Bethany is the only woman in a household of boys."

You laughed, eyes closing as you did so.

"Forgive me, but you do not look old enough to be a father of four."

"I married young," he grinned.

"Still. You bear it well. The stress of parenthood does not seem to have aged you," you held your hand over your mouth, "Sorry, I shouldn't have said that. Not that you're old, I mean."

Ormund cackled, "I'm happy my appearance meets your approval," he leaned down to whisper, his mouth almost caressing the shell of your ear, "and I do not mind being called old. Because age means experience."

You shivered. He knew he shouldn't have said such things in your presence, but he couldn't resist, especially seeing your reaction. From his vantage point on the bench, he could see the hairs on your neck standing up on end, goose flesh pricked up in anticipation.

Good. You were receptive to his presence. He could work with that.

You straightened your back and turned to whisper back, "In what? Being old? I'm afraid I have a few years yet before I gather as much experience as you then."

Ormund pretended to wince before changing the subject, "Did you manage to put more peonies around the castle?"

"Only a few bouquets. I did not wish to rob the plant of all of its flowers. I can pick other plants to decorate the home if need be," you rambled.

"Do you enjoy floristry?"

"Yes! Indeed I enjoy everything about plants. While flower arrangement is enjoyable, I love other aspects of botany. In fact, recently I have been experimenting with enfleurage."

"Perfumery? I might have to smell your experiments. I'm afraid my sense of smell is exceedingly strong, so I often have to use pomanders to assist me. Perhaps I can be one of your early customers," he crooned, his voice low beneath the hubbub of the party.

"I cannot imagine how hard it would be to be constantly aware of the smells of one's surroundings. And as for being a customer, I can gift you some as a token of friendship, if you would take it," you offered, eyes twinkling.

If only you knew how much he longed to possess you beyond friendship. For now, he would make do with this. But he took your interest in perfumery and floristry as a sign from the Seven. If they did not wish for you to be his, why were your interests and humor so aligned with his own? Ormund had to find a way to break your entanglement with the stupid fop, Coldwater.

A couple ladies from the party called out your name, forcing you to stand up and make your excuses to Ormund.

"I thank you for your company, my Lord. I will have one of the servants bring some of the perfume to your rooms."

Ormund thanked you, watching as you sashayed away, leaving behind the scent of lavender and cedarwood. Ormund wished he could bask in it. But he knew that with patience, you would soon be his.

~

The moment Ormund was waiting for came not long after the dance had started. Claiming exhaustion from his travels, Ormund left the party to retire to his quarters. He did not dance with you, even though it was one of his dearest wishes. Ormund wished to feel the warmth of your lithe body against his own. He yearned yo smell the scent of your skin. He felt eager to press his hands possessively against the small of your back.

'In time, Ormund. In due time.' Patience was a virtue that the Seven revered highly. Ormund could be very patient when he had a goal in mind.

Having remembered his way to his quarters, Ormund allowed himself the leisure of a slow walk before bed. A walk would clear his mind and allow him to formulate a plan. Yet, Ormund did not need to wait long for an idea to come to him.

Not long into his walk, Ormund passed a shadowed alcove. There were many of them in Castamere's castle. Ormund was not sure but he thought that the alcoves may have once housed candles for miners, the curved shape of the rock allowing for light to reflect off of the cavernous walls. And reflect the light did, onto the writhing bodies of Mason Coldwater and Lady Cassandra Reyne. The couple were kissing passionately as Coldwater rucked up the older Reyne daughter's skirts, rutting himself rhythmlessly into her like a green boy.

'Ah. Now, this is something I can work with,' thought Ormund with a smirk before clearing his throat.

The couple's lips quickly separated, still bound by a string of spit. Ormund felt repulsed at the sight of such a small thing but tried to hide it. When the two saw who Ormund was, they split apart. Lady Cassandra fumbled with her crinkled skirts, while Coldwater tucked his minuscule member back into his trousers.

"Tsk. Lady Cassandra, your father was telling me how faithful and dutiful a daughter you are earlier. I'm afraid this sight has put me in the opposite opinion. What would your sister think, knowing that you ruined yourself with the man she believed to be her beloved—"

"My Lord, I—" butted in Coldwater, his lips quivering.

"I am not done, boy," Ormund snarled, throwing out the word boy as if it was an insult, "You come here as a guest and openly flaunt yourself with your host's daughter? Have you both no shame? No idea of guest friendship?"

The young couple gulped, shuffling their feet awkwardly, cowering beneath the glare of Lord Ormund. He liked that. He was glad to see the two get a dose of the medicine they'd given to you. He ran some of his fingers through his auburn curls before drawing his attention back to the couple.

"Perhaps, then it is good thing that I caught you both."

"My Lord Hightower? What could you mean?" Asked Lady Cassandra, her full lips quivering dramatically. Ormund wanted to roll her eyes.

"As a cousin to the Queen and as a Hightower, I can pull some strings with the local septons."

"Septons—"choked Coldwater.

Ormund waved his hand casually. "A special license will be procured for you both tonight. In the morning you will be married in a quiet ceremony before you leave for your honeymoon in Lannisport. As I am an unwilling witness to this disgusting display, I can say your marriage is already consummated." Ormund rambled off.

He felt quite pleased with himself for coming up with a plan that benefited all parties.

"Now to prevent scandal, I'm afraid the hasty marriage will still prove to be quite shocking to the masses." Ormund's eyes once again fell to Lady Cassandra, who was beginning to understand the formidable man Lord Hightower was beneath the green velvets of his doublet, "However, I will speak to Lord Reyne about a solution that will protect the Reyne family from ruin caused by your moral failures."

"Yes, my Lord." Bobbed Lady Cassandra in a curtsey, her face blanched.

"You are most kind, Lord Hightower," thanked Coldwater through gritted teeth.

"Excellent," Ormund smiled wolfishly, his teeth bared like a predator, "I will go make the arrangements. You both should get some shut eye. If you're prepared to fly with the owls at night, best be prepared to soar with the eagles in the morning," he rubbed his hands before turning back to the ballroom, "and by the way, don't expect a massive wedding attendance. I'm afraid that most of these partygoers will not wish to associate themselves with you both from now on," he bit out over his shoulder.

This was proving to be a productive evening.

~

"My eldest daughter did what!" Lord Reyne yelled out in the privacy of his office.

"I am just as shocked as you, Lord Reyne, believe me. I was just trying to head back to my chambers when I came upon the couple."

"The scandal of this…I don't know how I can—" Lord Reyne grunted as he slumped in frustration into a nearby chair.

"I can make arrangements with the local Septon. We will have the couple leave to Lannisport after their vows are said."

Lord Reyne wiped his sweaty forehead, "but what of the rumours."

Ormund pretended to pace in thought, enjoying the theatricality of the moment. He was finding quite a lot of pleasure in this. Who knew that when his Uncle sent Ormund to Castamere that he would have such fun.

"Ah. I think I have a solution that may work, but I'm afraid it may be disagreeable to you," Ormund turned his face away from Lord Reyne, feigning reluctance as he leaned his hand on the mantle of the office's fireplace.

Richard Reyne straightened in his seat, his knuckles paling as he gripped the arms of his chair, "Tell me, my Lord Hightower. Your guidance is extremely helpful in this matter."

Ormund looked over his shoulder, "I could marry your younger daughter, in exchange for your investment in the kingdom, as I'm sure you hoped for your other daughter."

"But she was so set on marrying Mason Coldwater," Lord Reyne responded.

"Could you wish to bind your younger daughter to the man that sullied your other child? I would not bind my daughter to such a man. But to protect your family, I would bind myself to your younger daughter, give her the courtly wedding she is due, and cherish her better than any husband would."

Lord Reyne looked up at Ormund, his eyes glowing with unshed tears of stress, face filled with hope, "Would you do that for my family?"

Ormund smiled, his eyes lowering to Lord Reyne, feeling himself pull in the snare he had set.

"Of course."

Hook, line, sinker.

~

The marriage was held at first light, with only Lord Reyne and Lord Ormund to witness the hasty ceremony. A carriage had been packed with all of Cassandra's worldly goods, dowry not included.

Ormund had expected your reaction to both the wedding and to your new betrothal. Clearly, you had some affection for the Coldwater boy. Ormund imagined the conversation revealing your sister's betrayal had been utterly devastating. He'd wanted to comfort you, to hold you in his arms, stroke your soft hair and tell you that all would be well. But he could not. You had hidden yourself away in your chambers, where the only sign of life within was the sound of your sobs.

"She will come around, you'll see, my lord." Richard Reyne said, trying to appease his daughter's affianced.

He did understand. Even though he wished to wring the necks of your sister and her new husband, he understood that you needed your time. What made him angry, was the pain that they'd caused you. For that, Ormund would despise your sister and Mason Coldwater for the rest of time. Especially since now he had been robbed of extra time with you before he left for Oldtown. Ormund had planned to woo you, to shower you with gifts, honied words and hidden caresses, but no. You had hidden yourself away because of the pain and humiliation you'd experienced.

When he eventually left, as his duties in Oldtown could no longer be delayed, you did not even come to say goodbye. Your father gave your excuses, claiming you had a headache, but that you looked forward to seeing Ormund in Oldtown ahead of the wedding.

"Oh! Before I forget," Richard Reyne reached forward and pressed a small glass jar into Ormund's hand, "She said that this was for you. That you would know what it meant."

Ormund opened the jar. A wave of delicate scent cascaded over him: peonies, lavender and cedarwood. The scent of a first meeting, of the kindling of friendship. He grinned.

~

You

A little part of you died the day your sister got married. One part was because you were not there. You may not have been every close but you wished to at least attend her wedding. But perhaps it was for the best, since the moment you heard who the groom was, you collapsed to the floor of your father's office.

"Your sister has put our family in danger of social ruin. You know you will have to help us rebuild our reputation, don't you?"

You shook your head, not from lack of understanding, but from disbelief

Your father sighed with exasperation believing you to be ignorant, "Lord Ormund has made the sacrifice of offering for your hand. I had hoped he would be married to your sister but…"

Your back straightened with realization, "I'm the leftovers at the feast. I'm what remains," you remarked sardonically.

Your father's eyes widened, "Now, now, my dear! It's not like that. Lord Ormund is—"

"A good man who's been forced to help us because my sister could not let me have one thing for myself. One thing. And she stole him, like she's stolen everything," you hissed, feeling years of anger bubble up.

Cassandra had always been harsh to you, yet your father's favouritism had spared her from the world's cruelties. And now you and poor Lord Ormund were to be placed as human shields. What must he think of your family? You could only begin to imagine. An elder sister who gave herself publicly to a man considered to be her sister's betrothed? The Hightowers were a religious lot. Their ties in the Faith of the Seven were numerous and strong. By marrying Lord Ormund, you would benefit your family with connections and protection from ridicule. But him? He would only have you and the dowry you brought. What a pitiful pittance for such a sacrifice.

"I know this new engagement is a bit shocking but eventually you will see that everything is for the best."

You bobbed your head in acknowledgment, "Can I leave now? I wish to retire to my chambers."

"Of course, my child," your father cooed as you exited the office.

The next few days of Lord Ormund's visit flew by in a blur of depression and an ocean of tears. You did not leave your chambers for anyone or anything. Not even your beloved flowers. You felt bad, of course, that you did not give Lord Ormund much in the way of hospitality, but you did not have the energy to do anything other than cry.

On the day of his departure, you remembered the promise you'd made to Lord Ormund: the offering of the perfume. Your current experiment had been put aside in your time of grief but… you looked towards your dressing table where there was a pot of perfume pomade that you'd made the previous year. It still bore the fingerprints from when you occasionally applied it. You would give Ormund a fresh jar before your wedding, but for now, this would have to do.

You pressed the jar into your maid's hand, ordering for it to be brought to your intended before he left, with the understanding that he would know what it meant. You did not watch him leave from your room, nor could you have done so anyways. Cassandra's rooms had the better view, and while she had gone to live in Lannisport, her rooms remained untouched. You were still set aside in favour of her, even though you were making a sacrifice because of her folly.

~

You did what you could to plan the wedding from a distance while still taking time to heal at Castamere. You'd never made such arrangements before and found the whole situation overwhelming.

"You must push yourself out of this sadness, my child. Lord Ormund will expect your assistance in ruling Oldtown. If you cannot handle a wedding, how can you help him?," Your father lectured you one morning over breakfast.

You put down the cup of tea you were drinking delicately back on its saucer, but you could still imagine the sound of porcelain sounded like swords clashing in the quiet of the room.

You poked your tongue in your cheek, restraining yourself, "I can run a household fine enough, father. I cannot simply just learn to plan a wedding without assistance. Did you plan your wedding to mother?"

"No. I had her do that. She had help from your grandmother," he shrugged.

"Exactly. I have neither."

It was eventually decided that you would go to Oldtown to assist in preparations. You had never been farther than Lannisport, so the journey down south provided you with much diversion. Throughout all of this, Lord Ormund wrote to you. His letters were well written and eloquent, showing you his scholarly and artistic nature. You never knew how to reply. How could you? He was only being kind to you as he had been when he visited. You imagined that in another life, you might've come across Lord Ormund at court, rather than during his disastrous visit. Maybe then you both could have a marriage built on something other than the ruin of a reputation. From what you gathered from your few experiences with him, Lord Ormund and you had much in common. Surely, that could lead to happiness in marriage, even if he'd initially come to Castamere to court your sister.

You could not be positive. Your father made a massive show of lecturing you throughout your travel to Oldtown about the importance of deference and obedience. He saw Lord Ormund's proposal as an opportunity for advancement. Richard Reyne did not see how he was pushing you away for the sake of his greed. That is what hurt you the most. The betrayal of your sister and Mason, your arranged marriage by your father, all of it came down to greed.

~

Ormund

Now

Everything was running according to his plan. The guests were on time, people were sat according to station and rank, the Sept had been decorated with fragrant flowers according to Ormund's orders, and his children were all behaving. His cousin and squire, Daeron, stood by his side, ready to assist in the cloaking ceremony. All they needed, was the bride.

Conspicuously absent was your sister and her husband, but you could hardly fault Ormund for not inviting them. It wouldn't be appropriate. And besides, it had taken an enormous amount of effort for Ormund not to castrate Mason Coldwater with Vigilance, his sword, during their previous encounters. Their sinful presence would be better suited for Lannisport.

You had arrived a few weeks previously to prepare for the wedding, as according to your father, you had found it difficult planning from a distance. Even then, due to the limitations on Ormund's schedule, he was unable to spend as much time with you as he had wanted.

He'd wanted to seduce you in the way he'd imagined, with ballads and words of courtly love that you would surely find it hard to resist. Ormund would show you the still room and private gardens he'd had built just for you. But that could wait, those were your wedding presents, and Ormund did enjoy a surprise.

On some lonely nights, when the day had been especially long and frustrating, he would apply some of the perfume you'd given him to his wrist. Then, he would lay back and hold the scented skin to his nose while he pumped himself into his fist until he climaxed. Even though his thoughts of you were completely sinful, Ormund could not help himself. He was weak, but only for you. Ormund would pray for salvation each day, knowing that until the wedding day, he would have to curb himself.

But now his salvation was here.

The light of the Starry Sept was no match for your beauty as you walked down the aisle on the arm of your father. Your face had been demurely covered by a lace veil, your cloaked shoulders emblazoned with the silver, red, and gold lion of the Reynes. Beneath all of that, you shone like one of the stars painted on the ceiling of the Sept. It wasn't just your dress, with its silver threads that made Ormund think so, it was you. You were finally going to be his, and nothing could keep you away from him.

~

You

The ceremony was long. You knew it would be from the few weddings you'd attended over the years. Even though you and Ormund truly did not have to do much.

At least not yet.

Anxiety and curiosity filled the pit of your stomach. You had been told by your Septa of what the next part of the marriage would entail, but not much else. It made sense, of course, Septas took a vow of chastity so they could hardly give advice to their charges.

You hoped Ormund would be gentle with you. That it wouldn't hurt too much with him, and that maybe he would be able to put aside thoughts of your sister while he did so. You wondered if he imagined he'd cloaked her instead of you at the altar. You would not fault him for that. Perhaps it was best she was not invited for the sake of propriety, it would cause too much pain for all involved.

After the ceremony, you, your husband and your new family were swept away to the wedding feast. The tables were heavily laden with food and drink. They seemed to be simple and delicious fare with high quality ingredients and spices that lingered in the air. Thankfully, the dishes were not laced with gold leaf like the dinner on the fateful night before everything changed.

During the feast, your nerves steadily worsened. Your eyes focused on the table ahead of you as you sipped at a delicate pumpkin soup and nibbled at the dishes spread in front of you and Ormund. He seemed to sense your nerves simply from your body language.

"Are you alright, my love?" It was the first time he had ever called you that. You found you did not mind it.

You leaned close to whisper in his ear, "I'm afraid I am a bit nervous for the bedding ceremony," you murmured hushed voice.

"Ah. I see." He said, smiling at you with his mouth closed before he leaned in to whisper in return, "we do not do such sinful ceremonies here in Oldtown. No need to fret. It will just be you and me."

His voice was warm in your ear, caressing down your neck deliciously like it had done the time you'd spoken on the bench.

His words did not make you any less nervous. You fidgeted with the silky fabric of your skirts, crumpling it in your fingers.

~

Once the feast finished and dancing had commenced, Ormund stood to his full height, offering you his hand. Ormund's children and ward had been sent to bed after the feast. You found you missed their company and conversation. Young Prince Daeron and Bethany were particularly sweet and obliging, ensuring your comfort above all else.

"Shall we leave before the crowd gets rowdy?"

Your throat tightened. Of course he would want to make sure the marriage was fully legal before everyone was too drunk to care. You felt thankful he was protecting you from the lecherous hands of party guests from outside Oldtown who expected a traditional bedding ceremony. You coughed into your fist to relieve the tension before nodding and taking his hand. Ormund smiled.

Your father had long since left to mingle among the crowd with your brothers in tow. He would not be guiding you to your new quarters. Instead, a septa and some servants followed behind, her grey habit swishing on the floor with a shushing sound. Even with the sound of the music and merriment in the hall, the silence between you and Ormund felt deafening as you walked towards a door surrounded by tapestries.

"Our chambers," Ormund announced as he gestured for the servants to open the door.

You furrowed your eyebrow and looked up at Ormund, the firelight from the room catching the red of his auburn hair as you entered the room, "Will we not have separate chambers?"

Ormund looked at you quizzically as he removed your arm from the crook of his elbow, "would you like for us to have separate rooms?"

The door clicked shut. You both were alone for the first time. Even with the heat of the blazing fire, you shivered.

You bit your lip, "I thought… I don't know what I thought," you shook your head and began to remove your jewelry at the mirrored vanity placed at the centre of the room.

"Clearly something is on your mind. I am your husband now, you should feel free to tell me your thoughts," Ormund had walked up behind you and began plucking at the pearl pins in your hair.

Each pin landed in a porcelain dish with a resounding tink sound. Such a small noise felt so loud in the silence of your new chambers.

"That's the thing. I know you did not want to be my husband in the first place."

Ormund's fingers stopped picking at the pins, "What or who gave you that idea?" His voice sounded different, curious but with a darkness to it that made your skin prickle. He continued removing the pins with a new quickness of manner.

"My father. He said you had come to Castamere to marry my sister, that you married me only for the sake of our family's reputation and money."

Ormund did not speak. Not for a long while, you could feel the warmth of his chest against your back as he finished removing the last of the pins, running his fingers through your hair now that it was free from the confines of the pins. His fingers scraped and massaged against your tender scalp, relieving the tension you did not know you'd held in that place. Then, you felt his head rest on your shoulders, his lips caressing the shell of your ear and neck before he responded with a heated whisper.

"…Your father, is a fool. I have only ever wanted you."

"What? Me? I don't understand. My sister is far more beautiful and accomplished than I. Even when she was ruined she would still be considered a catch," you muttered, feeling the familiar sensation of self loathing flow through you.

Ormund considered your words before replying, his fingers now occupied with unlacing the ties of your dress until it sagged to the floor. He did the same with your stays, unlacing them until the only thing left on your body was your chemise and stockings. You wanted to ask why he was doing this when a maid could do the job just as well, but you'd already asked enough questions.

“Your sister uses her beauty as a weapon to ensnare men and bewitch them to her wicked intentions. Whereas you, your beauty is without artifice. You are exactly who you are, without lies or apology. You think I wanted her? If I did, I could have easily had her. She gave herself up to your feckless boy, Mason Coldwater, easily enough. But I never wanted her. I wanted you the moment you ran into me, babbling about peonies.” Ormund drawled, turning your body around tilting up your face to meet his intense gaze.

His thumb moved up to rub against your lip. It was callused. You found you did not care, in fact the sensation of his finger, rough from years of training with Vigilance. The feeling, the raw tenderness of it made your breath quicken. A shiver ran down your spine, making your nipples pucker through the fabric of your chemise. Ormund’s eyes flickered down to your chest momentarily, caught by the heavy movements of your bosom.

He smirked before leaning forwaas his nose traced yours, “Because you do not lie. I am surrounded by liars and cheats. I, myself, have had to lie regardless of my morals for the sake of my people. But you, you’ve never lied a day in your life. Have you?” Ormund’s words hit you deep in your chest.

"I've made small lies. Lies to myself mostly I have come to realize," you admitted, voice cracking as your nose pressed against his cheek, your mouth nearly touching his.

"About what then? Confess to your husband," he murmured his voice thick with arousal as he laced his fingers through your hair.

"Lies of omission. Lies about my feelings—"

"Feelings?"

"About you. About all of this. That I—oh to hells with it!" You swore before lurching forward, unable to take the anticipation any longer, pressing your lips to Ormund's.

You'd never kissed anyone before this. Not even Mason. Had you been anywhere but Oldtown, you would've kissed Ormund at the altar, but that did not happen. Oldtown was too old fashioned. Perhaps your boldness surprised your husband, because he stilled for a fraction of a moment, before kissing you back with an equal ferocity. You were a quick learner, and found that Ormund was an excellent teacher. He was right, age does bring experience.

His fingers, still laced into your loose hair, tugged. You moaned at the sensation, allowing Ormund access to your mouth. It was a strange sensation, but you welcomed it, and tried to mimic his movements. Ormund made a groan of approval into your mouth before breaking the kiss to press his lips down your jaw. You rolled your head to the side, giving him access to your neck and shoulder.

"Good girl," he purred in between kisses, his hands travelling to your chest, before resting on your thighs. He lifted you onto the table of the vanity. "But you said you lied to yourself about me, I want to know those lies," he said as his mouth feasted on your exposed chest before he grabbed at the hem of your chemise and ripped.

You gasped. Heat ran through you, straight to your core, whether it was embarrassment or arousal, you did not quite care in the moment.

"Oops," he grinned unapologetically as he pressed his mouth to one of your nipples.

"I—" You stammered, undone by the sensation and by the fact that you were practically bare, save for your stockings, in front of your very clothed husband.

"Tsk, that's not a confession, my sweet," he said as he took the same nipple into his mouth and sucked.

You gulped, gasping in breath, trying not to focus on the sight of Ormund suckling on one nipple, before switching to the other.

You screwed your eyes tight and tried to formulate words, "I lied to myself, thinking that I was not affected by you. But I am. I've been attracted to you for a while. I was angry at my father, my family for breaking all the promises they'd once kept, I used that as a shield from my feelings."

Ormund chuckled against your breast, the sensation buzzing through your whole body. He pulled away from your chest

"I knew it."

Your eyes fluttered open, "You did?" You questioned.

"Yes. I knew that if I waited, you would come to me with the truth when you wanted to share it. And for that," he said as he spread your thighs apart, kneeling between them, "you will be rewarded."

"What do you—oh," you moaned, hands bracing on the table behind you as Ormund's mouth descended onto your mound.

The feeling was indescribable. You'd never so much as touched yourself in that area before, and now Lord Ormund, your husband, was feasting on it as if starved. He lapped and sucked, inhaling deeply as he did so, his muscular arms tugging your body closer until your body was on the brink of falling off of the table. You let out a small squeak.

"I have you," he chuckled.

"Yes, I think you do," you giggled breathlessly as you moved one hand to brush a lock of his hair from his brow.

He pressed his head into your palm, kissing it before standing to his feet.

You tilted your head up, confused, "where are you going?"

He smirked, "Not far. I am undressing."

"I can help you," you offered earnestly.

He shook his head, "Another time, I fear if you do so now, I will combust."

"And I have not been set aflame by you? Does not seem fair," you pouted.

"Do not worry, my bride, I will not neglect you for long," he took your hand into his, the same one that had brushed hair from his brow. He kissed it again, before taking your index finger and middle finger into his mouth and sucking.

"What are you—"

"Shhh, my love. So many questions," he soothed, as he took your fingers and aligned them with your centre, "I want you to touch yourself while you watch me."

"But I've never done that before."

He was already unbuttoning his jerkin, "You'll learn. In and out. Like a needle and thread."

"Sounds painful."

"Try it. You might be surprised."

You shrugged your shoulders and did as bid. Your fingers slid easily into your core. At first it was an odd sensation, then you found it to be rather pleasant. You looked up from your fingers and moved your gaze to Ormund. It was as though he was eating you with his eyes while he pulled the last stitches of clothing from his body.

And his body…. it was magnificent. You'd known his height, his strength, but it was an entirely different thing to see him naked. He was muscular everywhere you looked, his body tanned from days spent training outside with his sword. And speaking of swords… you could see where the Hightowers got their name from.

"Wow," You said, mouth dropping open in awe, "you're beautiful."

Ormund prowled towards you, his muscular body caging around your seat on the vanity table. His left hand traced down your body, leaving tingles and heat in its wake, before meeting up with the hand inserted into your core. He pulled your fingers out before inserting them into his mouth once more.

"I couldn't resist. Do you think you're ready, my sweet?"

You nodded. You'd been so afraid before but Ormund had made this all seem so natural. Inevitable. Like everything you both had gone through had come to this conclusion.

"Yes."

Ormund smiled before he kissed you gently on the mouth before lining himself up to your centre. Then, slowly but surely, he pushed himself into you. You threw your arms around his shoulders and held him tightly as you kissed him through the experience. At first, you felt a bit uncomfortable, but as he began to move, the pain left in favour of pleasure. Each time he thrusted into you, the vanity table shook. Pins fell to the floor as your hips rolled in return, trying to meet Ormund thrust for thrust. He groaned into your mouth before moving his head down to your neck.

He did not kiss you there, no. Instead you could feel him breathing heavily, inhaling deeply as he pushed into you faster and faster, his free hand moving down to press against the bundle of nerves between your thighs. Your hips bucked into his violently at the sensation. Beneath you, the table had begun to crack. You could hear the leg supports and the top giving out.

"Ormund?"

"Yes?" He asked, his voice foggy from pleasure.

"The table. It's breaking."

"Let it break. I'll buy a better one."

The room was filled with the sounds of your skin slapping against one another, the uncontrollable moans escaping from you both, and the scent of lavender, peonies and sex. It was heady. Inside your body, between thrusts, you could feel your core fluttering. The feeling was new and wonderful. As if he could sense how you were feeling, Ormund moved his head from your neck to stare intently into your eyes as he pounded into you before pulling you into a heated embrace.

"You're mine," He murmured against your lips, "you've always been mine."

You nodded, trying not to break the kiss, but that wasn't enough for your husband.

"Say it," he growled, nipping at your lip as he ground his hips against yours.

"Ah—I'm yours," you cried out.

That seemed to please Ormund, as he kissed you with a renewed vigour as he pistoned himself into you, moving your right leg onto his shoulder to pound deeper inside of you. This new angle was too much, the sensation seemed to overwhelm you to the point where your head tilted back as you reached your peak. Your whole body shook as pleasure pulsed through you. Ormund was not far behind. He continued to pound into you, seemingly mesmerized and aroused by your loose and satisfied form on the tabletop. When he reached the precipice of his pleasure, it was with a loud cry. You could feel his seed shoot into you, your internal walls soaked in the evidence of your husband's pleasure.

For a moment, you both stayed in place, catching your breath on top of the creaking vanity table.

Ormund looked down at you tenderly as he picked up your naked body from the table, carrying you to the bed and laying you on top of the sheets, before pulling off your stockings and tucking you in. You watched his naked body as he grabbed your ripped chemise from the vanity table, examining it closely before nodding in satisfaction. To your dismay, he walked over to a coat rack in order to put on a bathrobe.

"Where are you going now?"

"To give evidence of our coupling to the septa and to order a bath for us. I'm not letting you leave this room anytime soon."

You smiled, "so long as you come back."

"Wild horses could not tear me away."

Mike watched you wiping your tears from across the field, your teammates consoling you a little. At first, you tried lying, saying it’s the sun, the migraine, the period, but your friends knew better. He knew better. Mike gripped his clipboard, a frown marking his face. He hated seeing you like this. Against his better judgment, he decided to come closer.

“You said it yourself, babes,” your best friend had her arm around you, moving tear-soaked strands from your face, “he never wanted to fuck you. It’s important, you know it is.”

You just nodded, that pain half-laugh momentarily escaping your mouth.

“I just didn’t think it would hurt this bad,” you mumbled, trying not to burst into another crying fit. “We’ve been together for so long, and otherwise he was perf-”

“No. Fuck no,” your friend immediately interrupted. “Your needs were not met. And you don’t owe him a relationship just because he didn’t force fuck you when you were tired or sick. And didn’t you say that even when you did manage to do the nasty, he’d only cum jerking off? Come on, you owe yourself someone better.”

Mike had to admit, he wholeheartedly agreed. Someone better, how nicely put. Him.

“Stop clucking,” Mike growled at you two, waving at your friend to get lost.

“Coach, no, please, she’s really not-,” she tried, she really tried standing her ground for you, but you knew it was futile.

“Don’t make me fucking tell you again.”

With that, she mouthed a pitiful sorry at you and made herself scarce. You wiped your tears, tried to fix your hair a little. You could have carried on with your relationship, pretending nothing happened, not provoke Mike anymore and then think of him every time your boyfriend managed to get his dick up for you.

Except you couldn’t, for two reasons. First being that Mike wouldn’t stop, provoked or not. Second, you weren’t sure you wanted him to stop. The guilt was eating at you, absolutely, but there was also something freeing about the whole situation that Mike forced on you.

“I’m sorry, Coach,” you mumbled, your eyes momentarily drifting to his.

Mike didn’t say anything, his expression unreadable. And then, just as you wanted to do more drills, he grabbed your face, holding your chin between his thumb and index finger, the rest of his long fingers pressing into your throat.

The reaction in you was immediate: breath hitching, heart beating, palms sweating… And pussy wetting.

Mike was looking at you from behind his glasses like he wanted to eat you or drag you into the locker room to fuck the tears out of you. Instead, his lips curved into a rather smug smile.

“Good girl,” he whispered, sending another pleasurable jolt through you.

It didn’t take long for him to start screaming at you again when, not even forty-five minutes later, you kept missing your free kicks. Literally all of them would go wide over the net, not even close to the beam.

“Stop over-extending your fucking leg!” Mike yelled, already halfway to you, watching you fumble yet another kick. “These are rookie fucking kicks, what the fuck are you doing?”

You could hear him working himself into another hoarse throat situation, straining his vocal cords to the maximum. Not that you weren’t frustrated with yourself and your lack of follow-through and precision, mangling something that usually came with such ease to you. You felt pathetic. You were pathetic.

Even your teammates were at a loss for words, probably ascribing your lack of performance to your temporary emotional upset. You just wanted Mike to stop screaming at you, because if he managed to get you in your usual state, you knew you wouldn’t be able to keep your mouth shut.

“What now, Micha-,” you cut yourself off in the middle of the yell, swallowing the rest of his government name, reminding yourself he asked you not to use it. 

“Other goal,” Mike growled, staring daggers at you. “Now.”

Just what you needed, spending the rest of the practice running drills with Mike. Alone.

“This is all your fault,” you spat out bitterly, watching Mike’s knuckles turn white and the clipboard caving under his grasp.

“Shut. Up. Fucking brat.”

It wasn’t that bad, actually, once you cooled off. Well, partially at least, still pressing your jaw shut, feeling the burn in your calf after repeated shots. You were tired, sweaty, and frustrated, and more tears threatened to burst out of you any second now. Luckily, the coach called the whistle, but before you even blinked in that direction, Mike crowded you.

Standing in front of you, making sure no one could see you from that side of the field, his eyes quickly darted around to see if anyone was paying attention.

Then, he turned back to you, brows furrowed, jaw clenched, and that flush spreading all over his face and neck.

“From now on, you will keep your mouth shut. You don’t talk back, and you don’t speak when I speak. Got it, angel?” his voice dropped on the last word to a throaty whisper.

You noticed how big his pupils were and how his lower left eyelid twitched. Mike took a step towards you, your nose almost touching his chest. Your breathing deepened again, and you looked up at him, wondering what he had on his mind.

“Open your mouth,” Mike whispered, his voice making you tremble. 

You had no idea what he wanted, but you obeyed. Slowly, you relaxed your jaw, eyes still trained on Mike’s. 

“More,” he mumbled, his eyes falling to your lips, watching your tensed tongue resting behind your teeth.

When he was finally happy, he spat in your mouth without a warning. Wet warmth spread across your tongue, drops landing over your lips and around them. 

Sharply inhaling through your nose, your eyes fluttered shut, overwhelmed and aroused.

“Every time you open your mouth,” he watched you swallow every last drop, your tongue  greedily dragging across your lips, “remember that only good girls get this.”

“Yes, Coach,” your eyes were still closed, the musky scent of Mike’s sweat still reaching your nose.

“Off you go then.”

**

“You okay?” your teammates rallied around you in the locker room, some faces concerned, some curious, some rather smug.

“Hm? Yeah, of course,” you dismissed them, but they still prodded.

“Why did he grab your face like that?” one voice asked, and you couldn’t really pinpoint who brought it up. 

“He did what?” another voice piped up, and suddenly everyone was crowding around you like you were a wise old grandmother telling a scary story to a bunch of wide-eyed children.

“Ughh,” you growled, irritated to the bone. “I just struck a nerve, and he lost it a little. What’s new, right?” you laughed it off, putting on your best nonchalant face, shrugging. 

The voices started again, everyone talking over each other, and not even your friend could tell them off. Clucking, as Mike said, was the correct word. You pinched the bridge of your nose, trying to breathe.

“All right!” you finally yelled. “I get it, this is obviously taking too much attention from the game and the team. “I promise…” your eyes drifted from face to face, and then you looked at your captain, a woman you expected much more of than to allow these verbal offences, “that I will set all my differences aside and talk to Mike. And now, if you excuse me, I need to cry a little bit more.”

It worked, their excitement immediately dropped in disappointment that you wouldn’t trash Mike some more. You suddenly felt stupid for even doing so; venting in the locker room was common, but this personal beef you and Mike had for literal years had obviously been nothing but entertainment. 

No one cared how much you suffered when his comments started, no one cared about your problems and issues; you were nothing but a class clown, a court jester. It washed over you, the wave of realisation, followed by sadness, disappointment, and emptiness.

You took a deep breath. No more.

**

It was two in the morning, and you were still tossing and turning, trying to sleep. Mike still hasn’t kept up with his promise, and you started to believe he only said it in the heat of the moment. 

Pulling your eye mask down your face, you turned around, happy that at least you didn’t feel like crying anymore. And then you heard it, a beep and a door creak, but you still decided to pretend you were asleep, deep breathing and all.

Mike laid down next to you, gently, his arm enveloping you, immediately settling between your tits, before grabbing one.

“You smell so good, angel,” he whispered against your neck, inhaling deeply. He was hard already, again, pressing his cock against your ass.

You finally stirred, trying to reach for your mask, but Mike caught your wrist.

“Leave it on,” he chuckled, his lips dragging over the strained muscles of your neck, enjoying the warmth of your skin. 

“I’m gonna make you so happy, angel, I know I can,” Mike cooed, pushing his tongue in your slightly open mouth, teasing a breathy moan out of you.

“Yes, Coach,” you mumbled between sloppy kisses, your hands dragging Mike closer and closer, until he was on top of you.

And then he started moaning, deep, throaty sounds that sent little jolts through your whole body, pooling heat directly in your pussy, tiny little spasms shocking their way through your abdomen. 

His fingers, extended, drew a line starting at your throat, going lower, playing with your nipple, and even lower, slowly dragging over the thin fabric of your tank top, until he reached your panties, an obvious wet spot blooming.

He teased you through the soft cotton, his fingers pushing in a little, then dragging all the way up towards your clit, then back down again; you arched your back into Mike, begging in your mind for him to just move your panties to the side and stick his cock back in, and stay like that until morning, fuck you into the mattress.

“Did you wear these for me?” he teased, his fingers playing with the bow on your panties and sliding over the lacy parts.

“Yes, Coach,” you whispered, enjoying the way his tongue dragged over your throat, your heart hitching even higher at the vibrations his chuckle made against your sweaty skin. 

“Good girl.”

And then he slid lower, his lips leaving sticky wet kisses on your collarbone; somehow he managed to pull off your tanktop without disturbing the mask, his mouth immediately closing around your nipple, his teeth grazing it.

He grabbed both of your tits, pressing and massaging, and you couldn’t do anything but moan, enjoying how much Mike wanted you.

“So pretty when you’re so needy,” he breathed out, going lower and lower, until he reached your panties. Mike started sucking and teasing your clit through the fabric.

Your whole body writhed in pleasure as you reflexively pushed your hips towards Mike’s mouth.

“Let me hear you, angel,” he mumbled, hastily removing your panties too, guiding both of your legs over his shoulders. He gently pushed one finger inside you, then the second one too, laughing at how greedily your pussy swallowed them. 

You whimpered, jerking your hips, when he tried to push the third one.

“I know, angel, I know,” he cooed, “but we need to stretch you properly, don’t we? It barely fit the last time.”

He returned his attention to your clit, goading you towards the orgasm, feeling how your pussywalls started to tense and flutter around his fingers, listening to how your moans fell into needy whimpers; your hand grabbed his hair, and Mike couldn’t help himself but moan against your pussy.

“You taste so fucking good, angel, I can’t get enough,” he mumbled, his thumb now drawing tight little circles over your clit. 

“Mike,” you moaned, overwhelmed, immediately biting your tongue. For a moment, you got scared he’d punish you, especially now since you were so close, that knot in your stomach threatening to explode.

“Good girl,” Mike moaned against your mound. “My good girl.”

When he felt you coming, he immediately lowered his head, greedily lapping up your juices as your body trembled in the best orgasm of your life. You had no idea how loud you were or what exactly you were saying, so thoroughly overwhelmed and overstimulated. But Mike wasn’t finished with you, far from it.

As your body relaxed, he pulled out his fingers, sucking on them, watching as your pussy glistened. You whined a little at a loss, but he replaced it with his cock soon enough, your legs still draped over his broad shoulders.

In one quick thrust, he pushed in and folded you up, hitting deeper than before. It was still a stretch, his big, fat cock spearing you in half. You whined in pleasure, begging Mike to fuck you hard.

“Fuck, angel, I can’t even think,” Mike kept snapping his hips, barely delaying his own pleasure to watch your tits bounce up and down and feel your nails against his skin. You lost all sense of time, tasting yourself repeatedly on Mike’s tongue, your hands pulling at his hair and drawing blood on his shoulders, as you kept begging and begging.

“Tell me you’re close,” Mike whispered, “because I want to flood your pussy so badly.”

“No, Coach,” you mumbled in response, “I’m sorry.”

“Oh, my poor baby angel,” he teased a little, “how about you take that mask off, let me see those pretty eyes, hm?”

“Please come into my mouth,” you begged, finally looking at Mike’s flushed, sweaty face.

“What?” his hips stuttered, slowing down.

“I want to taste you, please,” you pulled him in another desperate kiss.

Mike tried, he really wanted to indulge you, but before your lips even touched, he started coming with long, hoarse grunts, his mind and body overcome by the amount of your desire for him. You could feel it, Mike emptying his balls, the hot sticky seed spilling in you, dripping out of you.

“I’m sorry, angel,” Mike mumbled, falling forward after freeing your legs from his feverish hold. “Next time, I promise.” His lips went back to the same spot where they were the last time, just behind your ear, as he started to suck tiny bruises into your skin. 

You groaned.

“Tell me I don’t have to wait three to five business days again. Didn’t you boast every night, angel, I want you to come around my cock every night?” you mocked him, imitating his manner of speech.

“Behave,” he breathed, somewhat amused.

“Yeah, yeah,” you countered, rolling your eyes and pouting. 

You could still feel his cum dripping out of you, sticking you two together, his hot breath on your neck making your nipples harden again. You were so insanely insatiable, needing Mike to go again, last longer, fuck all your holes, or at least the ones his cock could fit into. 

“Behave,” he gritted out, his hand falling onto your throat.

You smiled smugly at him, suddenly feeling his limp cock twitching against your thigh.

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You loved being on your knees for your man. You loved being around Maekar all the time. Summerhall was different with you on it, and Gods know that if it was up to you, and the kids weren’t here, you two would fuck like rabbits on every room.

Not that you haven’t tried. Or done. 

“You’re so big” you say to him, your hand stroking lazily the base of his cock. 

“Am I?” He asks softly, chuckling. His hand on your hair, fistful full of loose hair, as you never got them properly braided. He didn’t care, as Summerhall was his, and if his wife wanted to be indecorous… let her be.

“Yeah. So big” your tone is practically drunk, the tip against your mouth as you speak, moving to suck him. 

His cock was heavy and leaking, you’d always found him like that when you undid his breeches; Hard, leaking precum and his balls full of cum. Make your mouth water.

Maekar groans, seeing you bob your head against his cock, not having a single drop of decorum. 

“Get up.” He says, pulling you out of his cock by the hair, and you love it when he pulls your hair.  

At this hour, after having midday meal with all of Maekar’s children, he had sent them off to the yard for training , even if it was unreasonable, and welcomed both Daella and Rhae to train if they wished as well.  No wonder why, as he wanted you all to himself for a few hours. 

“Come here” His mouth has a smirk as he pulls you closer to the bed, your back against his chest as he moves you whoever he pleases. “So wet already” He grunts against your neck, undoing the laces of your nightshift. “Tryna make me fit inside your pretty pussy, hm?”

“Yeah, yeah” you murmur slightly dizzy from the pleasure. 

Maekar always prepared you first, realising that you needed to be a bit stretched before taking him properly so it doesn’t hurt. Even if it was a quickie.

You cannot resist your husband. He had been complaining and grunting, being all grumpy about something that Aerion had done, coming to your chambers to take a break. 

He had groaned as he sat on the chair, leaning back lazily as his legs spread wide to be comfortable, as if the bulge on his breeches would go unnoticed by you.

“Fuck, you’re always so tight” He groans, hugging your waist as he slides himself inside your warm cunt, his chest moving to press against your back.

“No, it’s that– you’re just too big!” You say trying to gain your breath, your hands flat against the mattress as if to keep your head from being buried against the mattress.

He reaches for one of those tedious and nerve-racking (in his opinion) small velvet cushions, placing them under your head, and a bigger one under your hips. 

“There” he grunts, moving back in. “You lured me into fucking you” 

You nod softly, feeling his cock slide inside once again. You feel so full, stretched against his cock in a way you can’t think of anything else. 

The first few sways of his hips were always a bit numbing to you, because it felt like too much at once. Yet Maekar always made sure the servants prepared a bath for you afterwards. 

“You can feel me all the way in, hm?” Maekar says, moving your hair to press a kiss on your shoulders. “Real deep” 

“Yeah…” you say breathlessly, feeling how he starts swaying his hips. “Fuck‐-”

“That’s it…” he soothes you, his hand moving to press down your lower back, as he starts pounding into your cunt. 

The gushing sounds were loud, as his balls slapped against your flesh, you could hear his grunts behind you, as if the task took him tremendous effort. 

Earlier on the day, before Maekar went away for his duties and his children woke up to start whining at him, he had eaten your pussy under the sheets. 

“Can’t take it, too much” you say to him, as his cock filled you to the brim. It was a delicious stretch, but overwhelming all the same. 

“Hm?” He asks, not clearly listening to your words.

“I can’t take it” you whine. 

“You can take it” He assures you, stopping for a second, kissing the side of your face. “Hm? You can, don’t tell me you can’t baby”

“It’s too big…”

 “We’ll make it fit” He promises, and he always has. 

His hands move from your skin, from your stomach to your pussy, his fingers in your folds, as his middle finger quickly finds your clit, circling it just the way you like it.

His left arm moves to wrap itself around your throat, just as you always beg Maekar to do. He doesn’t squeeze, he simply lays it here as both the movement of his fingers on your clit and the feeling of being full by his cock overwhelm you. 

When he thrusts again, you don’t feel like you can’t take it, but feel like you want him to make you cum again and again, until you can’t think. 

“There you go…” He grunts, his fingers working nonstop. “You’re always take me so fucking well”

You nod senselessly as you feel the head of his cock hit your cervix, the simple way he slides himself in makes you shake in pleasure at the feeling; you can’t help the way your eyes roll back, how your legs slightly shake and how loud you are. 

“It’s so big!” You moan loudly, “Fuck me harder, harder”

His arm squeezes your throat slightly as he moans as well, his hand moving away from your clit as he needs to support himself to change the angle. You know he will be pissy about his back later, but you cannot care now. 

“Gods, yes. Maekar, fuck, fuck, it is so big”

His hips never falter, the pace of his thrusts become more animalistic, allowing himself to do it however he wanted as you were stretched for his cock. 

You feel his arm under your chin, as you were quite trapped by Maekar. As his thrusts push you forward, his arm stops you, keeping you in place as if you were a toy for his cock. You absolutely love it.

“Harder, harder”

“As you wish, wife”

The ring of the bell is what fills the silence below the stairs..

“Oh. Thought they would take longer” the valet, Grenn says, frowning as he looks at his cards. 

“Nay, she never lasts when the prince does…” the maid, Violet, says, receiving a stern gaze from the housekeeper. “Nevermind, I shall mind my tongue.” 

“And you better fetch the oils for the missus, they are in the back” the housekeeper says. “I have prepared the water so we better be quick, I’ll ask the manservant to bring the tub”

It was quite the routine, and every servant at Summerhall knew; as soon as the Prince and his wife started with their martial duties, the bell would ring requesting for a warm bath. Now, they simply arrive with the water and the linens instead of waiting for them to ask for it.

“But I have the winning hand” 

“I’ll fetch it” another of the maids said, as she moves to the back “But it is your turn to wash the lady, I washed her in the morning”

“Fine.” 

Even if everyone worked quickly, the ring rang again, longer and more persistent. 

“That’s the prince” The valet speaks loudly, trying to be heard above the ring, standing up and leaving his cards on the table. “I was going to lose anyways”

As they all walk upstairs, holding the chest with multiple oils for baths and the linens for the couple, Violet asks “You think the prince is actually big?”

“Watch yer tongue!” The other maid says chuckling, and adds “Wives always exaggerate, y’know what men want to hear.”

“Well, Grenn dresses the Prince” both pairs of eyes turn to him “Is he quite big as the lady says?”

“None of your business” The valet says, not saying a word about it as he carries the chest.

When you open the door, wearing a deep green robe,  you see your handmaidens ready for a bath before you even ask for it. 

“Oh, how did you know…” You ask as the maids bring the tub inside your rooms, next to the fire. 

You see two of your handmaids giggling softly, a bit puzzled. 

“We are always prepared m’lady”

You see Maekar roll his eyes as he lays back against the pillows, not worried about anything, but already grumpy about their ‘delay’ as he always grunts. You were a bit shy to have maids for anything, but he was used to it, not caring if they saw him naked or not. 

“What oil do you wish for today?” Violet asks softly. “We used lavender by the morning, perhaps you wish for something new, m’lady?”

“Oh… yes, I…” you feel your cheeks redden. “What would you like, my love?”

Maekar grunts “Whatever fucking smell works faster” He says, one oh his arm around his abdomen as the other moves behind his head. 

You watch as they pour the water, working easily as you wait for them to do all of the work.

“Have my children finished training?” Maekar asks the housekeeper. 

“No, my Prince. I believe they were fighting to see who could… shot an arrow more far away.”

He closes his eyes as he lets out a deep sigh. Those children…

“Fine. Go away, all of you”

“My prince?”

“I will bathe my wife, so leave all those shit there, I’ll take care of it” He waves a dismissive hand, before adding “And do not bother us , unless one of my children gets fucking shot by the other. Or if Aerion tries to challenge Daeron to a duel, again.”

"Have you no shame at all, woman?" he grouched, face pinched in irritation as you lifted the tunic until it pooled under his armpits, revealing his chest and belly in all its glory. "Disrobing me and pawing at my flesh like I'm nothing but a toy to be played with when I'm exhausted from the bloody fucking—"

But you were barely listening to what your husband was saying, and frankly, in that moment, you had no qualms about paying mind to what came out of his mouth. All you cared about was how good he looked in that moment, leaning back against the pillows of your bed, still sweaty and dirty from the royal hunt he attended, looking every inch a man. All muscle and sinew and Gods, the smatterings of fine silver hairs all over his chest and belly, and all the way lower on his navel, where a white trail of hair led right beneath the waistband of his breeches, to his cock.

You almost sighed thinking of it. You loved your husband's cock. It was one of the best things about him.

"You're exhausted," you parroted, humming as your soft hands continued to caress his stomach, pressing your fingers in, kneading at the skin like a cat, leisurely and appreciative, eliciting a displeased groan from your husband. "So sit back and indulge me for a few moments, dear husband."

Maekar only scowled at you, the furrow between his brows deepening, lip curling in a snarl as he leaned forward, trying to loom, to intimidate in hopes you would cease pestering him. "Don't dear husband me, you aggravating woman," he gritted, teeth barred, akin to a dragon before it unlatched its jaws to breathe fire and ash in anger. It made you warm under your chemise. You loved it when your husband was all snappy and indignant.

You leaned forward, undeterred by his little intimidation tactic, noses almost brushing as you spoke, your tone soft and persuasive, as if beckoning a wild animal that might bite. "You were gone for so long, and I have been here, all alone, missing you like a limb," you lamented, distracting him from the way your fingers trailed along the waistband of his breeches now, prodding at the pudgy roll of fat there, loving the soft feel of it. "The least you could do is yield to my whims for a while."

Aware that it wouldn't be enough to placate your husband, you leaned in, pressing your lips to his scarred cheek, leaving chaste, sweet kisses on the skin as you murmured. "You always look so good after a hunt, husband," you appeased, relentless in your pursuit of what you wanted, especially when it was something as delicious as touching Maekar freely without him grumbling in your ear incessantly. "Makes me want to devour you whole," your tone was on the precipice of resembling a purr, lips descending towards the strong line of his jaw and down his neck, nuzzling at the sweaty skin in delight.

As always, he tried to persist, even as you felt his skin warm and flush under your lips, making your mouth curl into a satisfied smile. You had him exactly where you wanted him, even if he was still resisting.

"You're being ridiculous," and oh, he was already panting softly, broad chest heaving along with the warm breaths that brushed your temple as you littered his ruddy-skinned throat in wet kisses. "Pouncing on me like a cat in heat the second, ah—fuck," he cursed right when your tongue laved at his skin, tasting the remnants of the hunt. The sweat, the grime, the dirt—him, musky and manly and oh so palatable. “Stop. I reek of filth and—”

“And I love it,” you moaned against his throat, mouth parting to press open—mouthed kisses to the skin of his throat, tongue licking at every remnant of perspiration, catching it against your palate and savoring it like the finest arbor gold. “You smell s’ good, husband, gods. I want to lick you all over.”

It always got like this. The more disheveled he returned, the more aroused you got. Shame had deserted you moons ago, being absurdly vocal about how much you enjoyed when your husband was anything but presentable and pristine.

Maekar made an aborted sound at your words, already flushed all the way to the tip of his ears, one rough hand moving to clasp the back of your nape and squeeze in hopes of deterring your assault on his senses, but it seemed in vain. The touch only spurred you, a soft sound resembling a purr rumbling against his throat as you continued to press your tongue to his skin, dipping it to taste the touch of grime gathered in the hollow of his throat.

“Filthy,” Maekar snarled, fingers squeezing just so at your nape and pulling upwards, eliciting a disgruntled sound from you; a whine. Your lips were slick with spit, cheeks flushed and eyes blown wide, hazy with heat and adoration, which only made the pressure of his hand increase, reprimanding you for how far gone you already looked. “You’re a filthy, dirty woman, you know that?” he spat, tone brooking on a growl.

“Always have been,” Maekar continued, tightening his hold onto your nape, the pads of his fingers restricting your breath for just a moment, just enough to make you gasp, before he eased it. “Getting hot and bothered by your soiled husband like a degenerate,” his thumb brushed against your throat, where he gripped prior, the closest thing to quiet tenderness you could get in that moment, but it made warmth spread through you regardless.

“What of it?” you challenged, dipping your head back to his throat, nosing along the flushed skin, your soft fingers resuming their pawing along his belly, pressing and prodding at the pudgy flesh there, nails scraping along the trail of fine hairs leading below his waistband, making your husband hiss. “It’s your smell I crave, your taste—” another filthy lick, along the jut of his collarbones, before moving downwards towards his chest, where the smattering of hair was thicker, the smell of sweat and musk more pungent.

Maekar tensed as soon as he felt your lips brush against one of his pecs, and you could feel the shiver that ran through him when the tip of your nose nudged a nipple, willing it to harden.

“Don’t you fucking dare—”

You did it again, nosing at the pebbling bud once, twice. Then, you licked it, slow and wet, circling the nipple with the tip of your tongue, flicking teasingly.

A garbled moan punched out of Maekar’s chest, his hold on your nape tightening anew, his other hand fisting the sheets under him, white—knuckled and trembling with restraint. You could tell he wanted to shove you away, to haul you as far as possible from his body so he wouldn’t be able to feel all this, to have to succumb to your whims and depravity. But you also knew he liked it. Craved your attention like poison in his veins. Hated that he needed it. Snarled and snapped his jaws while being half—hard already beneath his breeches, blushing from the tips of his ears to where your mouth was currently busied, lips parting to suckle noisily at his nipple, drawing out another restrained, delicious grunt from your husband.

“Look at you,” he managed to bite out through gritted teeth, broad chest heaving under your mouth, voice thinner, breathier. “Licking and sucking like a common whore,—”

But you didn’t let him finish, letting your teeth scrape against the bud, nipping at it enough to sting, halting his crude words, making him curse, back arching, pushing his chest more into your awaiting mouth. It was a reprimand, but also a sick, twisted pleasure. Seeing your husband bucking and snarling under your lips and tongue was a sight you could never get tired of, much like right now, as you laved one last lick to his wet, swollen nipple, before nosing between his pecs through the fine hairs there, inhaling the scent of him like a woman possessed.

“How would you know what common whores do, mhm, husband?” you murmured, nuzzling along the underside of his pecs, letting your lips press against the skin in damp kisses as you descended towards his stomach, fingers still trailing along the hairs leading towards his navel. “Have you been indulging without my knowledge?”

Each question was a taunt, like dangling a hunk of meat under a dragon’s nose, waiting for it to bite. And you loved nothing more than to taunt your dragon until he bit, until you could feel his teeth sink in, metaphorically or not.

And he always bit.

“You think I would debase myself with some pleasure house wench?” he snarled, violet eyes glinting with something close to offense, which made you preen quietly, warmth spreading through your chest like drizzled honey.

As you nosed along his stomach, you couldn’t help but breathe him in again, mouth parting in soft pants as your eyes fluttered, the musk of him stronger the closer you got to the V—shape of his hips. “I would hope you wouldn’t, dear husband,” you mouthed along his belly, tongue poking out to lick at the skin, tasting him again. “I would be thoroughly scorned if you so dared,” another lap of your tongue, slow and filthy, this time along the trail of hair near the waistband of his breeches, feeling a slight tickle onto your palate.

But, gods, the scent—the taste of him.

Musky and sweaty and man.

It drove you wild, lips pressing to that tempting silver line, open-mouthed and slow, savoring him on your tongue again and again, as if you couldn’t get enough.

A groan slipped unbidden from Maekar’s mouth, fingers tightening at your nape, as if remembering he still had a hold on you, blunt nails biting at the skin light enough to make you shiver as he pressed with firmness, as if scruffing a cat. “Don’t need some perfumed, wanton wench when I have my hands full with you,” he panted, eyes trained on you, almost unblinking, having watched you the entire time, despite his protests. Lavender hues half—lidded, glinting, part anger, part heat, eyeing you like a predator stalking prey.

His words made you purr against his skin, a satisfied sound, your fingers moving to tug slightly at his waistband, revealing more of his navel to you to lick and kiss. “Good,” you murmured into his skin, dipping to nose at the cincture of his pants, and lower, nuzzling against his crotch, where you could feel him hard and throbbing already.

“Woman, you—” but his protest dissolved into a shuddering moan as you rubbed your cheek against his clothed cock insistently, eyes fluttering, gaze holding his, molten and smoldering with heated affection. The friction was delicious, and it only made more bitten-off, pleasured sounds fall from his lips, broad chest heaving, splotched red from how hard he was blushing, skin ruddy and flushed. He looked good enough to eat. And maybe later, you intended to do just that.

The scent of him was strongest there, musk so strong it made you dizzy with want, lips parting to mouth at his crotch, feeling his cock throb beneath the cloth, only spurring you on. “Smell s’ good,” you mumbled as you continued to map the hard ridge of his arousal with your mouth, tongue laving at the material, wetting it with your spit, making the outline of his cock even more visible. “Taste s’ good, husband.”

“Gods, fuck—” came from above you, the grip at your nape firming, pressing down, almost smushing your face into his crotch, but you couldn’t be happier to succumb to Maekar’s guidance, feeling his hips twitch upwards, rutting weakly against your face.

It made you moan, the action so debauched, so depraved, making you nose along his clothed cock in time with the clumsy grinding of his hips against your face, the scent of him thickening, clogging your senses and coating the back of your throat from how greedily you inhaled.

“C—can’t believe you’re, shit—” he could barely get his words out, too impaired by the way you looked, the blissful look on your face as he humped against it. “Can’t believe you’re getting off on this, you wanton woman,” Maekar continued, his hips picking up the pace, forcing you slightly more against his clothed cock, grinding against your cheek, the corner of your mouth, your nose; anything he could, the pleasure tingling down his spine way too rapid for his taste. “Mouthing at me like a filthy animal, letting me hump—fuck.”

You could tell he was getting close, the thought satisfying you more than you could tell. Seeing your husband so unraveled by this alone, hips grinding against your face, hand holding you down for more delicious friction, chasing more but not being able to get it. A delicious torture that was way too exquisite not to witness.

“Mhm,” you hummed against his crotch, rubbing your cheek harder against his clothed cock, feeling it throb incessantly, the smell of him more pungent, the precum leaking steadily through his breeches and staining your cheek. “Not my fault my husband left me unattended for so long,” you lamented, fluttering your lashes, continuing to rub against him. “I’ve been so lonely.” The words were mouthed against him, breath warm against his crotch, pushing him closer and closer to the edge.

“Always so fuckin’ demanding,” he groaned, long and suffering, humping against your face with more fervor, so close to his peak, face and throat flushed and splotchy, hand firm against your nape as he pushed your face deeper into his crotch. “N—never satisfied, ah, fuck, fuck, wife—,”

Wife. The word strained and close to a whine as he lost control, rutting against your plush cheek once, twice, before he came with a pained groan, as if someone clawed the sound from deep in his chest, his spent dirtying his breeches, wetting the fabric against your cheek.

His chest was heaving, mouth parted wide as he tried to catch his breath, his grip still firm, but trembling against your nape, his thumb now brushing along the side of your throat, just like before, as if rewarding you silently, thanking you for letting him use you like this.

It made you smile, and you nuzzled into his now damp crotch, the smell of him more powerful than ever, making you moan against the cloth. The sound seemed to bring Maekar back from his post coital bliss, his violet eyes blinking down at you, hazy but attentive.

“Lick it,” he breathed out, voice strained and heaving still, the fingers at your nape guiding you towards where his cum stained his breeches most, a wet patch visible where the head of his now softening cock was under the cloth. “Can’t let good spend go to waste, wife.”

You only hesitated for a heartbeat, mind not wrapping around his words for a moment, before you moaned, mouth parting eagerly, tongue pressing to the damp material and licking, feeling the taste of him invade your palate. “Yes, yes,” you sighed, overly pleased, too preoccupied and greedy, lips wrapping around the wet spot and suckling it into your mouth, the essence exploding onto your tongue.

“Fucking filthy woman—,” Maekar cursed, the sight of his wife, so desperate and eager, making him equal parts flustered and astounded.

You knew the night was going to be a long one when you felt a twitch under your tongue, your husband’s cock throbbing back to life, making your lips curl.