Taken- part 5

Masterlist is in my Bio

Summary- Tormund has returned, but you are not the same woman he captured.

Word Count- 3.1k

Warnings- Explicit smut

Author’s Note- Here is the last chapter. I hope y’all enjoy it. I’m sad to see it end. I’ve loved writing Tormund. Finally got to the prompt for Sherrybaby14 challenge.  There’s a fire in her. If loved, she will warm your entire home, if abused she will burn it down.

“Get the fuck out, Ygritte,” Tormund growled.

The ginger headed girl’s grin widened, her eyes alight with mischief as they danced from you to Mance and back again. “Oh, I wouldn’t miss this for—"

“OUT!” Tormund pulled his dagger as the girl left leaving the three of you alone.

The man before you with the flash of rage in his eye was not your husband. He was the Wildling that slaughtered your village, leaving bodies strewn in pools of blood in his wake. The arms around you lifted. Your body trembled as you turned, worried you would fall without Mance to steady you.

“Tormund,” you said, voice quavering. Tears that had started to subside rose again. His eyes flicked from Mance to you. His glare never lifting. Heartbeat racing, you stepped forward, hoping you could calm the storm building in the atmosphere.

“You get out too,” he commanded, pointing to the exit with his blade.

You looked to Mance, who nodded, before treading carefully around Tormund. The cacophony of yells hastened your steps. You had to get away. You couldn’t be the cause of your friend’s death. Couldn’t see blood spilt by Tormund once more, knowing that you were the cause. What would happen to the peace between clans if the King-Beyond-the-Wall was murdered?

This was not at all how you envisioned your reunion. You had wanted to him to be happy to see you. To run to his arms. To have him carry you back to you tent, where he would ravish you soundly. You shook your head at the foolishness of your dreams, confused by them and even more so by your reality. Everything with him always felt wrong and yet still somehow right.

Pausing at the mouth of your tent, the guilt and fear clouding your thoughts lifted. You had done nothing wrong. Mance had done nothing wrong. The only guilty party in this situation was Tormund. He kidnapped you. He brought you beyond the wall. He took everything from you. Took your virtue. Left you without saying farewell. And he had the audacity to be angry with you? For seeking solace over your worry for him? Heart slamming against your chest, you turned from your lodging and headed towards the caves, the snow crunching under your strides. Tormund could wait for you now.

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Omg, how did I miss this!!!!! Love LoVe LOVE!!!!😍😍😍😍

Taken-part 1

Characters- Tormund x Reader

Summary- Tormund Giantsbane finds more than just weapons and food on his latest raid. He finds you.

Word Count- 6k

Warnings- Kidnapping, non-con/dub-con, attempted assault (by someone else), Explicit lemons in the next part. That’s right I said lemons. This part is mostly limes. 

Author’s Note- This was written for sherrybaby14′s 6K challenge. The prompt I picked will appear in part 2. I am a casual watcher of the show. I have not read the books yet. This is non-canon and is basically just a way for me to write Tormund in a smutty way. lol. Just sit back and try to enjoy. This is my first GoT fic so if you like it, let me know! Thanks!

**Formatting is messed up on mobile. I’ve tried to fix it. Sorry, guys. It looks fine on desktop.

Screams rent the air. Bloodthirsty cries of men rose above the din of destruction outside. Crouching in the cellar, your sweat-slicked palms covered your mouth, silencing the sounds of terror that threatened to erupt as you listened to the echoes of death. The sounds of Wildings.

Growing up in The Gift, legends of Wildling raiders had always ended in Rangers from the Night’s Watch and the villagers banding together to defeat the barbarians from beyond the Wall. The wall kept you safe. And the watchers on the wall would always come to your aid.  You grew up safe with that knowledge.

The daughter of the local tavern owner, life was somewhat easier for you than your friends. You never went hungry, but your father worked you to the bone. He refused any offer of marriage for you, knowing anyone he hired after you would demand pay and work half as hard. The old gods had cursed him with a daughter instead of sons, but in you, he had a cook, washerwoman, and barmaid for the price of none. Why would he ever part with that?

Grateful to escape the fate of the other young women in the village, you worked tirelessly to keep the tavern clean and well stocked while your father enjoyed the fruits of your labor. The stew and bread served at the establishment was as sought after as the meads and wines thanks to you and a few hearty herbs in a small window box garden. The knowledge of how to care and cultivate them was all you had left of your mother. Someday, after your father was gone, you had planned on taking that knowledge south and building a new life; one that would never involve selling yourself to a man either in marriage or a brothel.

Over the past few years, however, legends had turned into reality as reports of Wildings south of the wall began occurring with more frequency and moving further south than ever before. More and more villages were abandoned as small folk sought the safety of settlements near a great house like Winterfell. But your father refused to listen to reason like so many others whose fathers and grandfathers before them had worked The Gift to provide for the Night’s Watch.

 Now you were hiding behind barrels of wine, beneath the stairs under the trap door that lead to the kitchens wondering if your father was still alive. If he had managed to hide or find his way to safety. You knew he would not survive a fight. 

A sudden crash from above broke you from your thoughts. Heavy footfalls shook the ceiling above you as you heard the tossing of furniture and the rolling of barrels. Gathering your black cloak around you, you hugged your satchel of prized possessions, praying you would live to escape from this nightmare.

Light flooded the stairs above you, as the trap door swung open. Dirt rained down with each fall of the heavy footsteps that now descended, step by step. You prayed to gods old and new to keep you hidden, tucking your chin to your chest, trying to conceal your face. Fighting your instincts to following the intruders progress around the cellar, you squeezed your eyes shut and focused on keeping your breathing shallow and silent.

You were sure he was taking stock of the wine, mead, and food stocks that were kept down here. When they left, you would have nothing. But if you were lucky, you would have your life.

You weren’t.

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