Summary: Despite being a prisoner and the war still raging, a small light breaks through the darkness. Gwayne has arrived at Tumbelton, ready to join Ormund's forces. After months apart, you have the chance to see him again.
Warnings: Smut, barely any plot, porn with feelings, p in v, infidelity (not as you think… or maybe yes?)
An: Guys, I wrote this before episode 6 came out and before I saw all the rumors all over TikTok. I don't know, I just felt like a grieving widow or something.
Wc: 6.3K
Masterlist
Your hands were cold. That was the first thing you registered, before the news even had time to settle, before your heart had finished its frantic climb up your throat. And when it did settle? Nothing could have held you back. Not the guards, not the restrictions placed upon you, not the sharp calls of your name fading behind you as you ran.
You didn't stop until you saw his back.
"Gwayne?"
The name came out barely a breath, swallowed by the castle noise. He didn't hear you. But the second time, that time your voice found its nerve, you watched his shoulders go rigid, watched him turn like a man who already knew who he'd find.
Gods be good. He hadn't even had time to wash. Dust clung to his hair, his cloak still bore the road's grime, and the shadows beneath his eyes told you everything about how long he had kept riding. No rest. No pause. Just duty, shoved down his throat like stale bread.
Then he said your name.
And that was all you needed.
You were in his arms before you knew you'd moved, burying your face against his chest, your own arms locking around him like he might vanish if you let go. His came around you a heartbeat later—tight, desperate. He was really there.
He pulled you in harder, tucked his face into the curve of your neck, and you didn't care about the dirt or the sweat or how long it had been since either of you had felt anything but dread.
"What are you doing here?" His voice was muffled, thick. He pulled back just enough to look at you, hands finding your face. "Why are you here?"
The questions came too fast, worry bleeding through every syllable.
"Ormund knows," you said, and even you could hear how thin your voice sounded. "He knows Rhaenyra won't dare touch Tumbleton if she knows I'm here. If she knows my children are here too.”
His head dropped. You felt the tension ripple through him, saw his jaw work against whatever he wanted to say. He hated this. Of course he hated this. But he also knew, better than anyone, that when Ormund set his mind to something, not even the Seven themselves could pry it loose. The man was stubborn as a mule, and twice as loud about it.
"I'll speak with him," Gwayne said finally.
You couldn't help the small, tender smile that pulled at your mouth. There he was. Your Gwayne. The one who'd move heaven and earth if he thought it might spare you a single ache.
"Don't anger him," you murmured, reaching up to brush a smudge from his cheek. "You won't convince him of anything if you go in swinging."
He caught your hand before it fell, but instead of holding it, his fingers drifted lower. To your wrist. His eyes dropped, following the path of your sleeve, and you watched his expression shift when he spotted what you'd tried to hide.
"You're all right?" His voice was quieter now. Careful.
You pulled your hand back gently, tucking it against your chest. Away from his gaze.
"That question," you said softly, "should be mine to ask." You let your eyes travel over him, the exhaustion carved into his features, the grime settled into every crease of his clothing. You didn't know how far he'd ridden. How long he'd been awake. Or what happened after he left.
"Go. Speak with him." You stepped back, smoothed your hands down your dress. "I'll have a bath prepared for you."
Because if he couldn't rest yet, at least he could be clean. At least he could have that much.
You sank to your knees on the cold stone floor, your dress pooling around you like a whisper of silk against the flags. The fabric dragged softly as you settled, a gentle hush that seemed quiet as the room itself. Just this dim candlelight, this man with his eyes closed and his head tipped back against the edge of the tub.
His face was relaxed. Peaceful, even. And it struck you, watching him like this, how young he still looked when the weight of the world wasn't pressing down on his shoulders. Made you remember Oldtown in those early days, when everything had felt foreign and frightening and you'd wondered if you'd ever find your footing. Strange, how different that time feels now. Stranger still, how much has changed since.
You hadn't received a single word from him since the war began. Not one. Ormund had made certain of that—forbade you from sending or receiving any message that didn't pass through him first. Every raven that flew into Tumbleton, every rider that arrived with news, you'd watched with a hunger that bordered on desperate, hoping for something. A scrap. A whisper. Anything.
Nothing.
You dipped the cloth into the water, worked the soap into a soft lather, and began to trace it across his bare shoulders. The muscles there tensed for just a moment, then eased.
His eyes opened. Like he'd known it was you all along.
You smiled softly.
It had been months since he'd left. Months that had stretched themselves into years, each day longer than the last, each night emptier. You'd told yourself you were used to it. You'd been lying.
He smiled back at you, gentle and tired, but the worry hadn't left his eyes. It was still there, lurking beneath the surface, a shadow that no amount of warm water could wash away.
"Ormund is with Daeron," you continued, answering the question you knew was coming. "They'll be late. You have time."
Gwayne shifted, turning toward you, bringing his face closer to yours until you could feel the steam rising between you.
"How long have you been here?" he asked.
"Not long after Ormund pretended to surrender to my sister's forces." You paused, watching his brow furrow. "He tried to trick Daemon, sent a different boy in Daeron's place, hoping the ruse would hold."
Gwayne frowned, confusion pulling at his features. He didn't understand. How could he? Since Aemond's disappearance, since Rhaenyra and Daemon took King's Landing, Ormund had kept his plans close. Trusted no one. Spoke nothing aloud that he didn't have to. Gwayne had been riding blind this entire time.
"He told me none of this," he said slowly.
You kept moving the cloth across him—over his arms, across his chest, letting the motion steady you both. "He knew my sister wouldn't recognize Daeron by sight. He sent a decoy, bought himself time. And when the truth came out, he made sure Tumbleton was protected." You met his eyes. "By using me as a hostage."
Gwayne exhaled—a long, weary sound that seemed to carry every mile he'd ridden, every battle he'd fought, every sleepless night. His hands fell still in the water, and for a moment, he just sat there, letting the weight of it settle.
"I'm sorry," he said finally. "I should have done something. Kept you and the children away from all of this."
You smiled, though it didn't quite reach your eyes. You both knew that was a dream. A pretty one, but a dream nonetheless.
"It would have happened one way or another," you rested your arms along the rim of the tub. "You and I both knew that."
After all these months, his eyes on you felt like warm water on a winter's night. Like coming home.
You brushed a damp strand of hair from his forehead, your fingers trailing across his brow, tracing the lines of his face like you needed to memorize them all over again. Like touching him might quiet the anxious beat of your heart.
"I missed you," you breathed, no louder than a whisper against the wind.
His blue eyes found yours, those eyes that had more than once brought you comfort and company in the loneliness of a strange castle. He breathed your words in the same way you'd spoken them, slow and reverent, and reached for your hand. He guided your fingers to his lips and pressed a kiss there, soft and full of devotion.
"I missed you too," he murmured.
The water had grown tepid around him, but neither of you seemed to notice. Your fingers lingered at his temple, tracing the line of his jaw, and you watched his eyes flutter half-closed at the touch. Like a man starved for warmth. Like a man who'd forgotten what it felt like to be touched with anything other than violence.
"You're still wearing too many clothes," he murmured, and there was something different in his voice now. Lower. Rougher.
You laughed softly, the sound barely a breath. "And you're still covered in road dust. The bath was meant to fix that."
"I'm not talking about the bath."
His hand found your wrist again, but this time he didn't stop at your sleeve. He pulled gently, guiding you forward until your arms rested on the rim of the tub, until your face was close enough to feel the heat still rising from his skin. The candlelight flickered, casting shadows across his cheekbones, and you couldn't look away from his mouth.
"Let me finish washing you," you asked, your voice soft but steady.
Gwayne didn't stop you. He simply watched, those blue eyes tracking your every movement as you dipped the cloth back into the water. The soap had long since dissolved, but you worked it anyway, dragging the damp linen across his shoulders, down his chest, over the planes of his stomach. Each pass of the cloth made his breath hitch just slightly. Each touch of your fingers made his muscles tense beneath your palm.
You could feel the heat of him even through the cooling water. Could feel the way his gaze burned into the side of your face, patient and hungry all at once. Your own skin prickled under that attention, flushed and warm despite the chill in the air.
You kept washing him, down his arms, over his hands, between his fingers. You traced the lines of his palms, the calluses earned from years of swordplay.
And all the while, the space between you seemed to shrink, the air growing thick with something unspoken.
Finally, your hands stilled. The cloth dropped into the water with a soft plop.
You reached up and found the first lace of your dress.
Your fingers fumbled with it, nervous, clumsy, but you'd barely loosened one cord before Gwayne's hand caught yours.
"Let me," he husked.
His fingers replaced yours, working the laces with a deliberateness that made your stomach flip. One by one, he pulled them free, each tug loosening the fabric until you could feel it begin to slip. The bodice went slack. The weight of the dress shifted.
Then his hands found the edges of the fabric at your shoulders, and he pushed.
The silk slid down your arms in a slow, whispering cascade. Cool air kissed your bare skin, raising goosebumps along your arms, but you barely noticed. All you could feel was the heat of his gaze, the way his eyes traced the newly exposed curve of your shoulder, the line of your collarbone.
You shivered.
And then his lips were there, pressing soft and warm against the hollow where your neck met your shoulder. A sigh escaped you, breathily, almost helplessly, and you felt his mouth curve into a smile against your skin.
"Beautiful," he murmured, the word vibrating against you. "Gods, you're beautiful."
He kissed along your shoulder, slow and languid, his lips trailing a path that made your knees weak. Your hands found his shoulders for support, fingers digging into his damp skin as he worked his way across your collarbone. Each kiss was deliberate. Worshipful. Like he had all the time in the world and intended to use every second of it.
"Gwayne…" His name came out shakily, barely a whisper.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, and something in his expression shifted. Darkened. His hands found the loosened fabric of your dress and pushed it further down, letting it fall past your waist, past your hips, until it pooled on the cold stone floor in a heap of silk.
You stood before him, bare and trembling, and he looked at you like you were the answer to every prayer he'd ever whispered.
"Come here," he breathed. "Come here, please."
You didn't need to be asked twice.
He helped you into the tub, his hands firm on your waist, guiding you slowly, carefully, until you were standing between his thighs, the water lapping at your calves. The warmth of it seeped into your skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat radiating from him.
You lowered yourself onto his lap, facing him, and the feel of his skin against yours made you gasp. His chest pressed against your breasts. His thighs caged yours. And his hands, those steady, calloused hands, found your hips and held you like you were the most precious thing in the world.
His hands began their slow exploration.
The curve of your waist, the dip of your spine, the soft give of your hips beneath his palms. He traced you like a man learning a map by heart, each touch a line drawn in ink that would never fade.
You leaned into him, your body softening against his touch. Your eyes drifted closed, and you let yourself feel
The warmth of his hands, the steadiness of his breath, the way his thumbs swept in lazy circles against your skin. The water had gone cold around you both, but neither of you cared. His heat was enough. It was always enough.
He shifted beneath you, drawing closer, and you felt the brush of his chest against yours. The slight roughness of his skin, the way his heartbeat thrummed against your palm where your hand had come to rest over his heart.
His lips were so close you could feel the warmth of his breath.
"Don't get my hair wet," you whispered, the words slipping out before you could stop them.
A low chuckle rumbled through his chest. "I know."
And then he kissed you.
Was slow, unhurried, a kiss that tasted of longing and patience and the ache of months spent apart. His lips brushed against yours like a question, soft and tender, and you answered by tilting your head, by parting your lips just enough to let him in. He has always asked.
He deepened the kiss slowly, his tongue tracing the seam of your mouth before slipping inside. The taste of him was familiar and foreign all at once—home and discovery tangled together. You sighed against him, your fingers curling into the damp hair at the nape of his neck.
His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. Your chest pressed against his, your thighs tightening around his hips, and you felt every inch of him against you. The water sloshed gently around you, a soft rhythm that matched the beat of your heart.
You draped your arms over his shoulders, fingers threading through his hair, and kissed him back with equal tenderness. Your tongues met in a lazy, rolling dance, slow and sensual. His hands wandered down your back, tracing the valley of your spine, the curve of your bottom, the backs of your thighs.
" I'd forgotten how good you feel." he breathed against your lips.
"Don't forget again," you murmured back.
He smiled against your mouth. "Never."
His hands found your breasts, cupping them gently, his thumbs brushing across your nipples in slow, teasing circles. You gasped into his mouth, your hips rolling against him instinctively. He groaned at the contact, low and throaty, and his hands tightened on you.
"I know," he husked. "I know. Just let me—let me touch you. I need to touch you."
And he did. His hands roamed your body like he was relearning every curve, every dip, every secret place that made you shiver. He traced the line of your throat, the hollow between your breasts, the soft skin of your inner thighs. Each touch was worship. Each caress, a prayer.
You let him. You gave yourself over to his hands, to the slow, languid exploration that left you breathless and aching. Your own hands mirrored his movements—trailing down his chest, over the ridges of his stomach, lower still until your fingers brushed against him.
He hissed through his teeth, his hips bucking into your touch.
"You're going to undo me," he rasped, his voice catching on the last word.
You smiled against his shoulder, your fingers still wrapped around him, stroking slowly, deliberately. The sound he made, low and guttural, torn from somewhere deep in his chest, sent a thrill through you.
"That's the idea," you whispered.
His hand found your chin, tilting your face up toward his. Those blue eyes, dark now, hooded with want, searched yours for a heartbeat. Then he kissed you again.
Your fingers were still wrapped around him, stroking lazily, and he groaned into your mouth. The vibration of it traveled through you, warm and electric. His hips rolled against your hand, seeking more friction, and you gave it to him, slow, torturous circles that made him break the kiss with a gasp.
His hands slid down your back, gripping your hips, and you felt the shift in his body. The tension coiling, the intent building.
Then he stood.
Water cascaded from his body in sheets, streaming down his chest, his thighs, splashing back into the tub with a sound that seemed too loud in the quiet of the room. He lifted you with him, your legs wrapping around his waist, your arms locked around his neck. You clung to him, startled and breathless, as he stepped out of the tub.
"Gwayne…"
"Shh." He pressed a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth. "I've got you."
Water dripped from both of you, pooling on the stone floor as he carried you across the room. His skin was warm against yours, slick and damp, and you could feel every shift of muscle as he moved. The strength in his arms, the steadiness of his stride.
He laid you down on the bed, gently, so gently, like you were something fragile. The sheets were cool against your back, a stark contrast to the heat of his body as he followed you down, covering you with his weight.
His forearms braced on either side of your head, caging you in. Water dripped from his hair onto your face, your chest, and you blinked up at him through the droplets. He looked like a god like this, all sharp angles and soft shadows, his chest still heaving, his eyes burning with an intensity that made your heart stutter.
His tongue met yours in a slow, sensual dance, and you felt his hips settle between your thighs. The weight of him pressed against you, the heat of him seeping into your skin.
"Are you all right?" he breathed against your lips. His hand came up to brush a damp strand of hair from your face. "Tell me you're all right."
"I'm perfect," you whispered. "I'm perfect right now."
He smiled, and it was like watching the sun break through clouds. He kissed your forehead, your nose, each corner of your mouth.
Then he reached down between you, guiding himself to your entrance, and you felt the blunt pressure of him against you.
"Look at me," he husked. "I want to see your eyes."
You did. You looked into those blue depths as he pushed inside you, slowly, so slowly, inch by agonizing inch. The stretch of him, the fullness, the way he filled you completely, it stole your breath. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, and a sound escaped you, low and breathy.
He stilled once he was fully seated, his forehead pressed to yours. His breath was ragged, his chest heaving against yours.
"Move," you pleaded. "Please, Gwayne. Move."
He did.
His hips began to move, slow and deep, each thrust a deliberate, languid stroke that made you see stars. Your legs tightened around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he groaned against your neck.
"Like that?" he murmured, his voice rough. "Is that what you want?"
"Yes—yes, like that—"
He kissed you, swallowing your words, and you felt his rhythm quicken. Still deep, still deliberate, but faster now, more urgent. The bed creaked beneath you, a soft counterpoint to the wet sounds of your bodies moving together.
His name came out in a broken gasp of your mouth.
“I can feel you squeezing me."
You were. You could feel the tension building low in your belly, coiling tighter with each thrust. Your nails raked down his back, and he hissed at the sensation, his pace growing rougher.
"Come for me," he rasped. "Please. I need to feel you come around me."
That was all it took.
Your climax crashed through you like a wave, splintering you apart, and you cried out his name—loudly, wantonly, without shame. Your body clenched around him, pulsing, and he followed a heartbeat later, burying himself deep as he spilled inside you with a groan that seemed to come from somewhere primal.
Your humming filled the quiet room, soft and lilting, a melody you'd half-forgotten from your own childhood. Your fingers moved through your children's hair—slow, soothing strokes that made them sigh in their sleep. They looked so peaceful like this. So small. So untouched by the war raging beyond these walls.
Two hours. That was all Ormund allowed you. Two hours a day to sit with them, to hold them, to pretend for just a little while that you were still their mother and not just another piece on the board.
The door opened.
Your smile faltered. Just slightly. Just enough for someone who knew you to notice. You dropped your gaze to your eldest, tracing the curve of his cheek with your thumb, buying yourself a moment to compose your features.
"Today you're late," came the voice from the doorway.
You looked up.
Ormund stood there, silhouetted against the torchlight in the corridor. His arms were crossed over his chest, and his expression was unreadable—that careful mask he wore when he was measuring his next move. You'd learned to read him over the years, but some days he was still a closed book.
"I wasn't feeling well," you answered.
He said nothing. Just watched you with those dark eyes that missed nothing. The silence stretched between you, heavy and expectant. You knew that silence. It was the one that came before a question you didn't want to answer, or an accusation you hadn't seen coming.
"How is Daeron?" you asked, desperate to fill the space with something neutral. Something safe.
Ormund's head tilted, just slightly. "I heard you received Gwayne."
Your body went still. The kind of stillness that came too fast to hide, too obvious to deny. You felt the flicker of panic in your chest and forced it down, forced your expression to remain calm.
"He's your cousin. Of course I received him." You offered a smile, careful and measured. "It would be strange if I didn't."
The corner of his mouth twitched. A smile, or the ghost of one. You couldn't tell if he was mocking you or if he'd taken your answer at face value. With Ormund, it was always impossible to know.
He walked toward you until he stood directly in front of you. You had to lift your chin to meet his eyes, the difference in height making you feel smaller than you wanted to.
"You took a bath."
It was a question, or maybe not.
"I did."
Lying would have been pointless. He could probably smell the soap on your skin from here. You'd been careless.
"The servants didn't notify me," Ormund said, and there was something new in his voice now. Something that made your stomach clench.
"Do they need to notify you every time I take a bath?" You tried for incredulity, for indignation.
Ormund shrugged, a casual roll of his shoulders that did nothing to ease the tension in the room. "You're my wife. And you're quite important at the moment. Of course I should know everything you do."
You held his gaze for a long moment. Five seconds. Ten. You didn't move, didn't blink, didn't give him anything to work with.
Then you rose to your feet.
Now you stood at his height, your chin level with his, your eyes meeting his without flinching. You were a prisoner, yes. But you were still a lady of a great house, and you would not cower.
"You can ask the servants," you said evenly. "I ordered the bath prepared. There's nothing to hide."
Ormund's lips curved into a smile.
"I know," he said.
He reached out and took a strand of your hair between his fingers, rolling it absently, watching the way it caught the firelight.
"Did he tell you why he arrived alone?”
You kept your face neutral. "He told me nothing. He barely had time to accept my regards before you summoned him."
Ormund's fingers released your hair, and he stepped back. His smile had faded.
"He's been away a long time. I'm sure he'd appreciate the distraction."
There was something in the way he said it. A hint of amusement, or suspicion, or both. You couldn't tell, and that was the worst part.
"I'll do that," you replied, keeping your voice even.
Ormund turned toward the door, but paused at the threshold. He looked back at you over his shoulder, and for a moment, the mask slipped. You saw something flicker in his eyes—something that might have been jealousy, or might have been warning.
"Don't forget who you belong to," he said quietly. "You're my wife. My hostage. Keep that in mind.”
Then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him, and you were left alone in the quiet room with your sleeping children and the echo of his words.
For someone who used to express his repudiation of your blood and name, sometimes he made you think that, at times, he didn't.
18+ crack/smut, gojo being a needy, whiny brat tbh
Satoru has been pretending to be blind for your attention.
Well, it started off as he really was blind, so it's not an entire lie!
A curse did some weird shit and he couldn't see!!! It was scary, but you were right there for him, doing anything and everything until it came back, and even Shoko didn't know for how long.
Well...
Maybe he liked the attention too much, fuck you were even bathing him. You took off work completely, devoting every ounce of your time to being by his side, even though you were his former classmate, one of his best friends - no, it was all different.
Especially when he snuggled 'accidentally' against your soft, pretty tits, and you just giggled, letting him nuzzle with a little mumbled Toru.
Satoru was fucking glad he couldn't see, if he got this much attention!
Oh. And no going on missions didn't hurt either.
Just living the life in his penthouse, and feeling you brush his hair back soothingly, murmurs falling onto his ears, making sure to even spoon feed him. Oh he was living the damn dream, until this pesky eyesight shit came back.
Satoru had loved not seeing anything, but when he did get glimpses of you half naked in his living room? He could hardly stop the precum that leaked underneath his boxers. You sat next to him and he tugged you close again, resting his head on your lap and pretending he couldn't see a damn thing.
"How are you feeling, Toru? Any sight yet?"
""Oh no," he sighs dramatically, practically purring as you brush his silky hair back slowly. "Nothing at all, sweets."
"No? You poor baby..."
"Yes," Satoru throws his hand over his head, sighing dramatically. "It's depressing me!"
You pout all cute as he pretends his pretty blue eyes are just lost, sighing.
"Your eyes are too pretty not to be able see."
"You think they're pretty, hmm?"
"Who doesn't," you click your tongue and trace his cheek with your fingertips carefully. "I'm sorry you're going through it, but I promise I'll stay and help as much as I can! My job-"
"I'll pay you three times it!" He's practically frantic, making you feel so bad for him - imagine, being the strongest, then having to beg your friend to help!? You surely have to take good care of your best friend.
"Oh," you blink now. "You don't have to!"
"Please, you're takin' such good care of me," he snuggles up to your lap again, smirking as he feels that heat pressing up from your thighs, he can hear your heart racing as his nose nuzzles against your tummy. "I really need you here."
God he'd love to put a baby inside you.
He shouldn't be thinking that!?
But wouldn't it be so cute if you had a baby Gojo or three?
Or six kids? Or-
"I'll stay taking care of you till you're better," you cut off his filthy little thoughts now, smiling all bright and pretty. He'd tell you if he didn't have to lie about not seeing, just how pretty it was.
"You will?"
"I promise!"
Satoru sighs, smiling against your skin. "What would I do without you?"
*****
"Satoru, you can see - cut the shit," Shoko is stomping away as he chases after her. "I'm telling her."
"No, no, not yet! Let me have more attention first!" She rolls her eyes in annoyance. "Please, another week?"
"Are you serious? You have a staff to do shit for you if you're feeling this lazy."
"It's not that..." He blushes. "It's her, she's so cute takin' care of me."
Satoru is on his knees. "God, get up."
"Shoko please."
"God whatever, one week and I'm telling her," she yanks out her pack of cigarettes - she swears this man is one of the reasons she needs them, if he's not always coming in for some bullshit.
"Swear I won't pretend for longer!"
****
"She said another week at least?" You hug Satoru when you help him into the back of the car, he feels all around, breaking your heart.
Satoru was always the strongest, but now he needed you!
Even when his hands kept darting to your titties by 'accident' and he'd apologize all cute, snuggly and constantly hugging all over your body. "Another week, I'm so sorry."
"No please," you giggle a bit as he nuzzles your neck. "I kind of have enjoyed the break from work, even if you're work yourself."
"I'm trying to be such a good boy," you snort and roll your eyes at him. "I really am!"
"Mhm... what do you want for dinner?"
Satoru smirks. "You."
"What!?"
He blinks all innocently. "I said sushi?"
"Oh," you blink now, feeling your cheeks heat up - are you really being a perv right now when he needs you!!! "I heard um..."
"Hmm?" He watches the blush on your cheeks as you don't realize he can even see, smirking a bit. "You would take advantage of a blind man?"
"Oh fuck off!" You shove at him in the back of the car playfully as he feigns innocence. "You just wanna mess with me!"
"Oh, I'd eat you," your heart hammers in your chest when he hits a husky tone. "Wouldn't have to see to know my way around your body, sweetheart."
Fuck.
Does he have to drop his octave like this!?
****
Dinner goes as normal as it has been - two weeks of Gojo being blind, and you feeding him, helping him go upstairs to wash up, but he's being extra needy tonight. He's begging you to lay with him, to cuddle, and of course you do.
You have wanted this version of Satoru Gojo for a long time.
"I hope you get your sight back soon," you stroke his hair how he likes, laughing when he nuzzles you, trying to ignore how good he feels wrapping you with those big damn biceps.
"Yeah, me too. It's so scary," he pouts all adorable, inhaling you again. "Mmm, but all my senses are heightened."
"Oh?" His fingertip slips up your thigh. "Toru..."
"Can smell how turned on you are."
"No!?"
"Mhm," he's kneeling between your thighs, nudging them apart, long fingers pressing into the flesh of them, making you weak. "Feel how hot you are f'me."
"Liar, cannot," you arch your hips, making him chuckle, your cute lil panties soaked - he'd say something, but he knows he he can't. He needs you to help wash his back and feed him snacks, needs you cuddling him in his bed, whining out.
"Hear how needy you are, hmm?" You just sigh, thighs spreading, cunt slick and dribbling. Satoru groans at the sight, breath ghosting your panty clad cunt as you arch again. "I could use my sense of taste, too?"
"Fuck," your hands tangle in his face and he softly whines out, his lashes fluttering. "Thought I couldn't take advantage, hmm?"
"I'd let you do anything to me," you can't answer, not when he's lapping his tongue up to gather the wetness, slipping his tongue with a flick and moaning. "Taste so fuckin' sweet."
"Toru!" He's groaning as he tugs your panties up - he's jerked off to the thought of this since he was old enough to jerk his cock, picturing the moment he'd lose it to his pretty best friend.
Who knew that a curse would get him between your thighs?
That the girl who was the very source of damn near every hard on was letting him lick her? Satoru's never even done it - but he's pictured it enough times. He's tugging your panties to the side, blushing at the filthy sight of your pretty lil cunt all glistening.
"Look at you," he murmurs, before he can stop himself, tongue gathering that thick coat of slick, letting it coat his tastebuds, slurping at the mess you're making. "Pretty lil cunt, fuck..."
"Look at me? Wait a minute!"
Oh shit.
You pause then, leaning up on your elbows, seeing his bashful ass grin. "You can see!? How long!"
"Just a couple days, no, no," you're clamping your thighs around his head, he bites your inner thigh hard, you hiss as his sharp ass teeth catch your skin. "Baby please, just listen!"
"Had me damn near doing sponge baths, you little shit!" You shove at him with your foot, he captures it, kissing the inside of your ankle, teeth nipping at it, grinning like the dick head Satoru Gojo is. "I can't believe you were milking it!"
"I just enjoyed the attention too much," he leans low, shoving your thighs up into a full ass mating press, glancing down at your face, sighing. "I swear I was blind for a bit, but I really couldn't tell you."
"Why?" you whisper, nails pressing into his soft sheets, as he leans back, spitting a trail down to your clit, making her clench around nothing, your core tightening. "Best friends tell each other everything, they don't pretend to be blind."
"But I didn't want you to leave," he pouts again, like he didn't just spit on your cunt like a filthy little freak. "Pookie, really..."
"Don't pookie me, you spoiled brat," his eyes flash that pretty blue, and you suddenly feel all that strength against you, making you dizzy. "If you wanted attention, you didn't need to be blind."
"No?"
"No you idiot," you bite down on your lip when he glides two fingers through your mess.
"Can I make it up to you?" He slides two fingers in your needy hole, they suck him in with a greedy squelch, he can't wait to feel it wrapping his cock, leaking even more pre at the thought. At your little nod and cute ass glare, he grins, diving back down between your soft thighs, parting puffy lips to eye that twitchy, needy clit.
"Ah! You better..." His tongue circles it as his fingers find just the right spot in your slick lil walls that grip him so damn good, making the little thing jump. He can't help but laugh softly, tickling your skin.
"I'll do a really good job, sweetheart. I promise."
****
ahem this is for my bb @yenayaps heheh - also omg another virgin toru whaa
Pairing(s): Gwayne Hightower x TargFem!Reader
Description: After being appointed the second in command of the City Watch, the Keep has been a den of treachery and lies, but Gwayne takes comfort in the one person his father told him to keep an eye on.
WC: 2.2k
CW: No descriptions of appearance for Targ!Reader. Reader grew up under the green’s influence (ish). Otto is here, surprise! Reader is mentioned to be the rider of Vermithor. Teasing. Porn with some plot. Oral (fem receiving).
Note: please let me know if you guys want to join my taglist 🫂 AND THIS IS BOOK GWAYNE SO HIS STORYLINE IS FROM FIRE AND BLOOD!! And this may or may not be proof read ...
GIF CREDITS (THANK YOU, COULDN'T RESIST NOT USING FREDS HEHE): @/barbieaemond
“She is no Hightower, she is stained by the savage’s blood, yes, she grew up with our heritage and beliefs but she will be cunning and duplicitous, watch her, son. I do not speak to you as the Hand of the King but as your father, I beg of you,” Otto tells his son, Ser Gwayne Hightower, he instructed him to watch you for any signs of your possible disloyalty to the Green’s cause. Gwayne sighs as he overlooks the sleeping city outside the castle window, it is peaceful, but treachery knows no bounds.
“ … she only listens to you and to that extent, the Bronze Fury follows, we cannot lose them both to Rhaenyra and her men. As Alicent wishes, a lord from a great house will come and ask for her hand, an alliance to take more lands and more men to our side. We will be stronger, unbreakable,” he added more, Gwayne could not bear to listen any longer to his Father’s words and voice, the stresses and worries had already begun to pile up and overwhelm him. He only stands, waiting for Otto to finish his speeches and plans.
“Do you understand me, son?”
Gwayne only nods at the question but Otto abruptly stands, walking over to him, and grabs his jaw to look at him.
“Speak when you are spoken to.”
A moment passes.
“I understand, father, I will not fail you,” he says with certainty, he was bound to this house by the very end of his life, he will protect it and serve it towards greatness. His gaze doesn’t meet Otto’s, he refuses to, the genuineness felt forged, and so, he hid them from him instead.
But on the other side of the unguarded door, was you, and you heard everything.
It just so happened that you were passing by this side of the castle, being up so late in the night had been one of your comforts, the quiet halls made the keep at a standstill. You passed through the dark corridors like a ghostly figure, your robes barely hiding the rousing shift beneath it as you made your way to Gwayne’s bedchambers, passing through a couple of servants and guards that had curiosity written on their faces as to why their princess is up so late in the evening?
Gwayne, on the other hand, had slipped away from his father’s grasp, finally retiring for the night.
The cold air greets him as the stone walls shadow over him. He walked and walked until he reached the door to his bedchambers that was located at the wing where the least amount of people passed through.
He entered his chambers only to be met by you.
“You’ve no right … you’ve no right, and you let him say that to me … how dare you.”
You scoffed out those words in vain, sitting so mightily on his bed.
Gwayne said nothing. You couldn’t bear to remember the emotions you had felt, how you were both reduced into the Realm’s scum with the tyrant Hightower’s words. You had to be … normal, to lose sight of your father’s histories and embraced Alicent’s, even when you could feel her distaste in having to be forced to raise you as her own. You were born detached from your Targaryen roots, away from your family and your false one, you grew up devoting yourself to the Faith of the Seven and had only learned High Valyrian at such a late age that you had thought the Gods had deemed you unworthy of a dragon.
You were forged under falsities. You had grown envious of your cousins and nephews that had hatched or even bonded with their dragons, but no, you were deducted into a proper Hightower even when the blood that runs in your veins comes from Old Valyria. Through jealousy and spite, one fateful night in Dragonstone changed the trajectory of your life when the Bronze Fury bonded with you.
But that was before this family tore itself apart from the inside.
Of course, family or foe, you were forced to only pick one.
To choose between the two is like a tear in the seams, but you choose to be both rather than die trying to ignore the other.
You take a cherry, its stem between your fingers as you unceremoniously let it burst between your teeth and your lips, your mouth tingling from the tartness as the flavour sneaks up on your tongue. Your expectant gaze is still on his as you tear the small fruit from its stem, chewing around the seed, and slowly taking it from your mouth.
Gwayne couldn’t say anything, you were in your finest of silks, the shift laying naturally on your body, like second skin. The translucent green slip was a sin one could not simply repent for, you were waging war against him and he was losing. Such a sweet irony. Like the skilled soldier that he is, he notices something other than the wicked fabric, he notices what lacks underneath, as well as the platter of cherries right beside you, the pits glistening in its juices and saliva along with the red fruit, making your lips bitten and bleeding.
The man in front of you was reduced to simplicity, stripped bare for you to poke and prod, binding him to your will. You looked like a predator who had recently caught and devoured prey and he was next.
You looked so soft sitting on his bed, the vision of beauty and love, the muse of his desires.
Gwayne was under your spell.
“You indulge yourself in me and you simply have no courage left to defend me. Do you not have anything to apologise for?”
You were ordering him, not begging. Your firmness superseded his sweet, sweet, sweet princess.
His judgement lapses as the words sit prettily on his tongue. He craved you like this for weeks on end, you were here, on a feather bed, in silks he had envisioned you in during starless nights, alone, he craved you like the sustenance he needs.
Your chest heaves. You sigh exaggeratedly as you tsked at his silence.
Just right before he broke the silence himself.
“I apologise, for earlier, sweetling. You know how difficult alliances can be.”
His intended effect was rendered useless when his eyes meet your own, a mix of fiery anger and cruel resentment swirling through those orbs of yours instead of the usual ones that welcomes Gwayne home. The spacious room suddenly felt small, the distance between you decreasing.
“Do you think of me as a fool?”
“Do not test me.”
“Says … you.”
Oh, your words made Gwayne weak to his knees.
He was in his sacred oasis, just right under the compromised Targaryen’s roof, he indulged, indulged himself with you. He revelled in the secrecy of it all, his own guilty pleasure, his sweet, sweet, sweet, princess.
By simply being there, existing, being yourself, you willingly feed into his desires, his needs, his wants.
Gwayne walks up to your figure.
And he kneels, by the foot of the bed, between your legs.
Your thighs spread open for him, his presence not unwelcome, but he feels your anger simmering at bay. He became careful, calculated, the tips of his fingers were almost burned by your soft and supple thighs, the palms of his hands were rough on your skin, the friction of it was sensual and wonderful.
The glow on you at certain lights, has intensified your beauty—maybe it is because they emanate from the radiance of desire, they come to Gwayne in your covert nakedness, the openness and grace, it makes him both honoured and unworthy to bask in it with the utmost greed.
His citadel. His devotion. His sweetling.
Gwayne looks at you, the look on his eyes, you could drown in them. You were just as weak as him by that point.
His hands wander upwards, to the edge of your slip—his keen observations were right, there was nothing underneath to conceal yourself from. You had nothing to hide from him.
Both of his hands keep you open for him, your cunt glistening from your pent up desires and frustrations. His mouth waters at the sight, he was indecisive with where to begin.
He starts slow, he presses chaste kisses inside your thighs, leaving a trail of saliva, the view before you made your cunt clench on nothing. Your hand goes to his auburn hair, immediately bracing yourself from him. He does the same for the other side, kisses turning sloppy and wet, purposefully drooling over your skin, the sheen from the candlelight makes it look impossible to ignore.
He moans between your thighs, the vibration of it was close enough to your weeping cunt, your arousal dripping down the clean sheets.
You let out a needy whine, your thighs becoming unbearable for him to hold back as you retaliate for his leisureliness.
“More. Apologise to me, properly,” you ordered once more, your eyelids drooping as you slowly come down in a haze, your breaths had become lighter, slower, but your heart had been pounding on your chest.
Gwayne obliges, immediately, his tongue licking a stripe on your cunt, the flavour of you flooding his mind and body. He licks it with fervour, from your hole up to your hardened pearl.
But he takes his time, again, he moves down, sucking your arousal clean from your needy hole, his nose nudging your clit as he does—the mere friction of it sends waves of pleasure all over your body. Gwayne is drunk on you, relishing your taste and your sounds, his ardour became unmatched. His mouth moves between your pudgy clit, your wet hole, or your entire mound, all of it was coated with your wetness and his saliva.
He slurps and licks you clean, pressing his face closer to your cunt, the act making you go hot all over your body. He hums in content, the vibrations doing something to you that it’s unfathomably difficult to keep upright.
He does the humming again and you’re forced to hold onto the back of his neck, grounding your hips against his face as you mewl in delight—taking your pleasure. Gwayne cups the globes of your ass, the long forgotten shift hiking up even more, pulling you more closer to him, as if it were possible to be more closer. You rock your cunt against him, your arousal spreading and dripping all over his mouth and chin. He licks and kisses you, occasionally driving his tongue into your weeping hole, leaving you breathless at every turn.
Gwayne pins your hips down, his grip on you could leave bruises come morning, but none of that was any of your concern as his pecks soft kisses on your wetness and swirling the tip of his tongue on your swollen clit. Gwayne becomes hungry again. He eats you out like you are his first and last meal on earth, indulging in the finest of forbidden fruit and sin.
You grew wanton and needy from his antics, lapping at your cunt and smearing more of his saliva, creating such a hot mess of you both.
There’s this feeling that coils in your stomach, ready to snap at any moment. You pushed his head further into you, humping his face as you felt yourself peak on his tongue.
A loud cry of his name slipped past your cherry-stained lips, your body twitching in pleasure as your climax surged through your body and into his mouth as Gwayne licked you clean. You hissed at the aftershocks of your endeavour, you were still recovering from your high and Gwayne was still adamant for yet another peak from you, his hold on you loosened. Waiting for your next move.
Gwayne had started to strip away his clothes, his neediness evident in his breeches. But he pulls away from you, a pout on his arousal-slicked lips at your lack of attention to him.
You were still angry, of course, your eyes averted away from him.
“Not tonight, Gwayne.”
Standing up, you straightened your shift and smiled softly at him before leaving him wanting more as you walked towards the door and opened it, you took one last look at him and said.
“Maybe next time … when we are on ... better terms.”
─ summary: Gwayne comes back from war and is so enamoured of his son.
─ pairing: Gwayne Hightower x wife!reader
─ content: literally nothing but tooth-rotting fluff
─ a/n: i just wanted some softness in my life. Thank you as always for reading🖤
The room lay wrapped in a silence reserved for the hours long past midnight, when the keep had surrendered its last stirrings, and even the wind lay still against the stone. In the hearth, the fire had banked and covered, leaving only moonlight to light the room. Darkness pooled in the corners. A watchman's distant call rose and fell, muffled by walls of stone and panes of glass, then faded into nothing.
Gwayne stood beside the cradle. He wore a loose shirt, its laces undone at the throat so the fabric fell open, revealing the hard planes of his chest. His strawberry-blonde hair, darker in the moonlight than by day, hung loose around his shoulders. One broad hand rested on the carved rim of the cradle, his fingers curling gently over its edge. With the thumb of his other hand, he traced the delicate curve of his son's cheek so lightly the skin barely dimpled. The boy was scarcely a moon old. He lay curled on his back, hands curled into tiny fists, his lips making small, unconscious suckling motions in sleep. He was so new, so impossibly small, that Gwayne could scarcely reconcile him with reality. This perfect, fragile life had grown and entered the world while he was away at war, and Gwayne felt unworthy of any claim upon it.
In the bed across the room, the furs shifted. You had awakened to the cold emptiness beside you. Eyes opened to the dim chamber, your hand reaching across the linen and finding nothing. You sat up slowly, the sheets sliding to your waist, and saw him standing by the cradle, backlit by the moonlight.
He felt your gaze.
"Did I wake you, my love?" he whispered, voice barely more than breath.
You shook your head, "I reached for you, and you were not there."
A flicker crossed his face, a softening of his mouth, a faint chastening of his brows. He looked back at the baby, then at you. You pushed the sheets away and swung your legs over the side of the bed.
"What are you doing?"
"I want him to see the moment he wakes," he murmured, eyes already drawn to their son.
You rose without a sound, your bare feet finding the stone floor, and crossed to his side. "He will, but come rest while he sleeps."
Gwayne shifted at once, opening his arm to draw you close. You fit yourself against him, your shoulder pressed to his ribs, your head turning to follow his gaze into the cradle. Together you watched the babe: the perfect smallness of him, the peaceful rise and fall of his breath, so new to the world, yet so sure of his place in it. "I do not want to miss another moment," Gwayne said, his voice low but carrying the weight of months spent in war; the nights in cold camps, the endless longing for home, for you, to meet the children he left growing in your belly.
You turned in his arms, hand finding his cheek, and kissed him. His hand was warm against your back as you began to guide him back toward the bed.
Then the baby stirred.
A thin fuss, a hitch in his breath, and he woke. His face scrunched, arms jerking in startled distress.
Before you could move, Gwayne was bending over the cradle, lifting the child. One hand cradled the back of the babe's soft skull, the other supported his tiny body. The rough strength of a warrior gave way to complete gentleness. The infant blinked, ready to wail, but then he met his father's eyes; blue to blue. He stilled, fists unfurling, gaze fixed almost in recognition.
"There now," Gwayne murmured, swaying from foot to foot, his voice low and warm, rough at the edges. Awe lit his features at the miracle in his arms. "I have you."
The baby sighed, eyes drifting closed once more. Gwayne kept his slow rocking, chin bowed, and you stood beside him, your hand resting lightly on his arm.
being the lady of the hightower has been your dream for as long as you could remember... but little do you know that being with ormund hightower comes with some things you have never known before you become his wife
genre/warnings:
18+ suggestive content—minors do not interact!—marriage of convenience, age gap, lots of romance & fluff, pregnancy, found family with daeron, arguments, hurt/comfort, ormund is a bit of a warning, tyrell!reader (reader is ormund's second wife), takes place during the dance of dragons, spoilers! from house of the dragon season 3
notes:
gif by @/dracaria-dracarys. part 2 to once upon a broken heart but can also be read as a standalone. daeron is my precious boy and ormund is a blatant red flag but bulls chase after red so i... yeah
“Tsk, tsk, my dearest...”
His voice was a low, honeyed murmur against your neck, the heat of his breath sending an exquisite shiver straight down your spine.
You arched into him, a soft breath catching in your throat as Ormund drove his shaft deep inside you in a slow thrust with that same devastating precision he brought to everything he touched.
When he swept into your life like a master strategist claiming a piece on a cyvasse board he had already decided to win, you had thought he was once again playing with your feelings. But now, sharing his bed and basking in his affections, he was no longer someone you could only yearn from afar or your estranged husband.
This version of Ormund Hightower was new... and one you had come to embrace the easiest.
And now, you were the Lady of Oldtown in the truest sense, and beneath your heart was his child, growing safely inside you while the world outside played its dangerous games.
Ormund had one hand entangling with yours, and the other on your hips, anchoring you as he set a more demanding pace. Your thoughts scattered, and he leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.
“You’re distracted,” he whispered, a dark smirk touching his lips as he felt you gasp beneath him.
His pale blue eyes were hazy with lust, but he made sure to roll his hips softer this time.
“Look at me... I won’t have your mind anywhere else tonight.”
You opened your eyes, meeting his burning gaze, and locked your fingers in his hair, pulling him down into a searing kiss as the tide of your passion swept you both away.
“Are you... trying to seduce me, my lord Ormund?” you breathed against his lips feverishly.
Ormund chuckled breathlessly, the vibration of his chest pressing warm against your own as he paused to press a trailing kiss down the line of your jaw.
“Well, it’s not quite working, I’m afraid,” you teasingly murmured, albeit tilting your head back to give him better access.
He let out a low sigh, half-amused and half-exasperated, his hands cupping your waist firmly as he leveled his gaze on you. “Dearest... I cannot, physically, go any harder than this— not with our child resting right there.”
You arched an eyebrow, a taunting laugh escaping you.
“My noble lord husband… at least, the one I thought I knew… is a preacher on the streets and delightfully depraved in the sheets. Is he simply afraid he won’t be able to control himself this time?”
Ormund went completely still above you. For a moment, the room was silent save for the heavy sound of your breathing and the distant flickering of candlelight against the bedposts. His gaze darkened, lust flickering in those hazy blue eyes as he stared down at you.
When he finally spoke, his voice dropped an octave:
“Every woman is the image of the Mother,” he growled, the solemn weight of his Faith clashing deliciously with the raw hunger in his expression. “You are carrying my heir. You are not to be treated roughly like a common whore. You should be revered and honored.”
You smiled up at him, unfazed by his pious nobility, and wrapped your legs tighter around his hips, pulling him back down.
“But what if I... want to get unholy with you tonight?” you whispered, your fingers digging into the firm muscles of his back.
A grunt tore from his throat at your defiance, whatever thread of restraint he had left instantly snapping into pieces. Ormund captured your mouth once more, his grip tightening as he surrendered completely to you.
“My dearest wife... you are the one who asked for this.”
Needless to say, the Lord of the Hightower didn’t practice a single holy thing for the rest of the night.
. . .
“Are you quite satisfied now?”
His voice was a rumble against the shell of your ear, rough with residual heat.
You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you just pressed closer, burying your face into the crook of his neck. Ormund’s arms tightened around you instantly, a possessive band of warmth that locked the two of you together. His bare chest rose and fell in a rhythmic cadence beneath your palm, his skin flushed where you touched.
“You tell me,” you murmured, your voice muffled against his collarbone.
Ormund let out a hummed laugh—a sound full of fond satisfaction, his palm squeezing your bum. “I’d say the evidence speaks for itself.”
He followed with peppering soft, feathery kisses along your jaw, cradling you as if you were the center of his universe. It was pure, unadulterated comfort—the kind that makes you drop every guard you’ve ever built.
Which, of course, was precisely what he intended.
While one hand idly stroking your back, lulling you into a state of defenselessness, Ormund leaned back just enough to look down at you. His eyes were soft, gleaming with an affectionate light, but beneath the tender haze lurked that sharp glint that never truly slept.
“Since you’re so agreeable,” he began, brushing a thumb over your lower lip in a gesture so sweet it made your heart ache, “we can finally agree that you are to take my ward to assist you.”
You blinked up at him, your brain still hopelessly slow and liquid from the last hour. “That again? Ormund, you said—”
“I said you’ll soon be waddling, and I won’t have my wife burdened when she bears the noble task of carrying our child,” he cut in gently, a dangerously charming smile dimpling his cheek as he pressed his palm on your growing belly.
“But I said we’d discuss—”
He leaned down and kissed you deep and slow, stealing whatever protest was forming on your tongue before you could even voice it.
When he pulled back, his gaze remained unrepentant.
“And we just did.”
It was an old truth by now, but Ormund Hightower had the frustrating tendency to force his will on others, and everyone had to abide by his word or risk his ire.
You huffed out a breath, half-indignant, but as he pulled you tighter against his chest and began tracing lazy patterns over your spine again, the frustration melted into a resigned scoff.
“You are terrible,” you muttered, leaning up to press a quick kiss to his chin.
“Mayhaps,” Ormund murmured against your lips, his grin triumphant.
Your husband’s ward, also a prince of the realm— Daeron Targaryen was a delight to have around.
The youngest of Queen Alicent’s sons was dutiful, exceptionally polite, and as adept with a lute as he was with a sword. Though a bit shy and prone to keeping to himself, the moments you did share with him were always pleasant, and you had quickly grown fond of his gentle nature.
And now, Ormund had tasked him to—
“Daeron, you really do not have to do this,” you sighed, lamenting and turning to face him.
Following a brief nod from your husband earlier that morning, Daeron had fallen into step right behind you ever since. Wherever you walked, he followed—blade at his hip, hands folded, looking almost like an unassuming knight, except that he was a royal prince.
The boy immediately stopped, his shoulders straightening. His eyes widened before he collected himself, but his posture remained resolute.
“My lord tasked me to be your sworn sword, my lady. It is my duty to ensure your safety.”
You tilted your head, genuinely amused. “Oldtown is as peaceful as it gets. What is there to guard me from?”
“Following the wars, the times are still uncertain. My lord felt it best that you have someone able to protect you by your side in times he cannot.”
There was something in the way Daeron conducted himself that made you think that this boy had been thrust into a world far too severe for his years, and it made your heart twinge.
“You are too stiff, dear boy,” you let out another sigh. “Boys your age could afford to let loose a bit. I’m sure Ormund wouldn’t mind.”
It was only for a fraction of a second, but you didn’t miss then sudden freeze in his posture and the faint veil of horror that swept behind his eyes.
What has happened to him?
“My lord’s judgement is always sound,” he insisted, attempting to sound stern. “He only wishes for your mind to be at ease. And mine is also at ease knowing you are well-guarded.”
“I see,” you acknowledged. “So you intend to follow me everywhere today?”
Daeron bowed his head slightly. “Everywhere, my lady.”
“Very well. You could do that, but...”
Mayhaps it was because you were about to become a mother yourself, but your motherly instincts were tingling and you were overcome with the need to comfort him.
The corners of your lips curved into a meaningful smile.
“…if I am to be saddled with a guard all afternoon, I insist on better company than silence. I happen to know for a fact that you play the lute far better than Ormund’s court fool does— so If you are to follow me into the gardens, you are required to play me a tune.”
A flush touched Daeron’s cheeks as his head shot up to meet your gaze, and whether he realized it or not, a genuine smile bloomed across his face.
He is but a young boy, you thought fondly.
“It is nothing more than a little hobby, my lady,” he chuckled softly, the rigid posture finally melting away. “But if you wish for it, then play I shall.”
. . .
“Has Daeron always been like that?”
You asked later that evening, your fingers tracing lazy patterns through your husband’s dark hair as Ormund rested his head against your chest.
“Like what?” he questioned lazily as he breathed in the scent of your bath oils.
“So... solemn,” you frowned. “He takes his duties so seriously that I fear he forgets he is still a young man.”
Ormund hummed but he didn’t answer right away. Instead, his hand slid up your waist, pulling you flush against him.
“A tainted princeling,” Ormund murmured against the dip of your collarbone, trailing slow, warm kisses along the skin of your shoulder. “Caution was drilled into him young... and I have given him a noble task.”
In your hazed state of mind, you missed the way he spoke about taint.
“Following me around?” you breathed out, tilting your head back as his lips found the sensitive curve beneath your jaw. “Ormund, we are in Oldtown, what could possibly— Ah...”
He silenced your questions with a deliberate press of his mouth against your pulse point, his teeth catching the soft flesh in a gentle bite that scattered your thoughts entirely.
His hand slipped inside, pushing the fabric of your nightgown down, exposing your tender breasts to the cool evening air before immediately replacing it with the heat of his mouth.
He peppered hot kisses down your chest, tracing your bare skin until he reached the tips of your breasts. A titillating moan spilled from your lips before you could stop it, your hands tangling into his hair, pressing him closer instinctively.
“O-Ormund—”
“You worry too much about the boy,” he whispered huskily against your skin, feeling the wild flutter of your heart, completely satisfied. “Let Daeron mind his duty... and let me mind mine.”
You tried to focus, to press him on why he assigned Daeron to your side, but your cunning husband was relentless— as if he knew what you were going to ask and therefore, found ways to distract you from it.
His hot tongue on your breasts made you shiver— flicking and swirling over peaks that had grown sensitive since your pregnancy. You gasped, your hips arching off the mattress as his hands roamed freely over your body, mapping every curve with a practiced familiarity.
Needless to say, the spot between your legs had grown wet in no time. Heat rose to your cheeks as his fingers gently parted you, feeling the slickness of your heat with an appreciative hum.
He slipped one finger inside, and a gasp caught in the back of your throat. “Ngh...”
Then he inserted another finger and you let out a shameless moan— the sudden intrusion made your hips roll instinctively against his fingers, your breath hitching into a ragged sigh as he began a sweet rhythm that left you clinging to him for anchor.
Your husband hummed again, pressing deeper, his thumb working in slow, tantalizing circles against your clit until your soft moans began to echo softly in the quiet room.
“Bearing my child suits you so well,” Ormund whispered, his voice thick with lust as he observed how you squirm under him.
Before you could respond, he leaned down and pressed a tender kiss right onto the swell of your belly. His breath lingered against your skin as he rested his forehead there for a fleeting second, worshipping the life you carried for him.
For a moment, your heart melted. He adored you this much— this was everything you used to pray for.
“Would you like me to fetch your cloak, my lady? It is rather windy today.”
“There is no need, Daeron. I am actually quite enjoying the breeze.”
“Really...?”
“Why, do you feel cold?”
“No, my lady. I’m quite fine.”
As the days turned into weeks, Daeron remained your constant shadow, fulfilling the duty Ormund assigned him.
You paused in your tracks, turning back to him with a wistful smile.
“Daeron, did you know that your eyes drop to the floor every single time you attempt a lie?”
Yet the longer you spent in his company, the more clearly you saw that he was not an elusive knight or a distant prince— he was simply a boy hiding behind the mask of a man.
A faint blush dusted his cheeks as his gaze instantly darted upward, caught red-handed and your heart warmed for him. He was miles away from his mother, who was trapped still in King’s Landing, and the closest maternal figure he could have was you.
“We are getting my cloak then.”
You had asked him to accompany you to the Starry Sept, thinking a visit would offer you both a moment of peace—a chance to say your prayers and a welcome reprieve for Daeron from the noises of the sparring fields.
The young prince walked a half-step behind you as he looked around, his hand remained habitually resting near the pommel of his sword. You sat before the table of candles, lighting a taper for safety and peace, offering him to do the same.
Bathing his young face in warm, flickering light, he finally looked like a ward he was rather than a knight or a prince.
“Do you miss your mother, Daeron?” you asked then, because suddenly you saw in him the face of the solemn queen you had long thought as the very living image of irony.
Alicent Hightower was the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, yet happiness was a luxury she had never seemed to possess, and now her youngest son turned to look at you—
—and for a fleeting second, you could have sworn a sheen of unshed tears glistened in his eyes.
“Very much, my lady,” he confessed quietly, casting his eyes down.
The raw honesty in his quiet admission tugged sharply at your heart—and when you felt the gentle flutter of your babe kicking within you, that ache became tenfold.
Reaching out, you gently rested your hand over his, offering a reassuring squeeze that drew his gaze back up to yours.
“The queen must have missed you just as deeply,” you murmured, your voice thick with tender sincerity. “A mother’s heart never truly leaves her children. And until you are reunited with her... you are never alone here. You have a home with us.”
A look of profound gratitude softening his face as he offered you a genuine smile. “Your words bring me a great comfort, my lady. My lord is truly fortunate to have you as his wife.”
“Ha. He sure is. Tell me, Daeron,” you began, tilting your head slightly. “What was Ormund like before I arrived in Oldtown?”
Suddenly the ease in Daeron’s posture evaporated. He stiffened, his shoulders squaring instinctively, and once again it made you frown.
“He... well, he has always been a man of great resolve,” he stammered out, clearing his throat as he searched for the right words to say. “But I have to say… since you came to Oldtown, he has changed. He smiles more, and I admit I have never seen him care for anyone the way he cares for you, my lady.”
Your heart swelled at his words, a fond smile gracing your lips. “Does he now...?”
You were reflecting on everything that had transpired between you, when—
Clang!
The sharp, heavy scrape of iron against stone shattered the sacred quiet of the sept.
A dark, hooded figure suddenly lunged from the shadows behind a stone pillar. A curved blade gleamed in the light, aimed straight for the young prince’s exposed back.
“Daeron, behind you!” you shrieked.
In a heartbeat, the gentle boy vanished, replaced by the lethalness of a knight. Daeron spun on his heel, his left hand shoving you protectively behind his back while his right drew his sword in one blinding, fluid motion.
Steel bit into flesh with a gruesome, heavy strike— and blood spattered across the candles.
The attacker gasped out a wet, strangled breath, his blade clattering against the stone before his body collapsed onto the sacred floor, with his blood pooling across the flagstones.
The sudden, brutal violence crashed over you. The sweet scent of incense dissolved into metallic stench of blood, and a surge of dizziness made the high stone vaults spin out of control above you.
“Guards!” Daeron roared, his voice rough in the way you had never heard from him before. Sheathing his crimson-stained blade with a trembling hand, he spun back towards you, his eyes wide with panic.
“My lady! Are you hurt—?”
He is safe. You are safe. However, the world was already tilting away. Your breath hitched, and clutching your abdomen, your knees buckled beneath you—
Daeron dropped to his knees, his arms catching you just before you hit the cold marble.
Ormund was by your bedside when you were awoken.
He was visibly worn with concern, the shadow of exhaustion heavy beneath his pale blue eyes, which searched your face as if ensuring you were truly fine.
“Dearest.” He reached out, his calloused hand cupping your cheek, his thumb softly brushing away a stray strand of hair from your face. Then he enveloped your cold fingers, pressing them to his lips before resting them over the soft swell of your belly.
“Do not try to move too quickly,” he urged when you shifted. “The maester said you and the babe suffered a great shock, and therefore you must rest.”
Amidst your hazed mind, the sight of him made your heart lurch with relief. You swallowed past the dryness in your throat, your mind flashing back to the blood on the sept floor and instinctively leaned into his touch for comfort.
“You must have been so scared,” he murmured, his brow furrowing in deep lament as he gazed down at you. “My brave girl... to see such horror in a house of peace.”
“I was,” you whispered, squeezing his large hand and closing your eyes to breathe in the comforting, familiar scent of lavender that clung to him. “It happened so fast, Ormund, I thought—”
“Do not think on it,” he cut in softly, leaning down to brush a lingering kiss against your temple. “It is over. The traitor is dead, and you are here, safe with me.”
Despite your best efforts, a shudder racked your frame as tears pricked at the corners of your eyes.
“Oh, my dear, sweet wife...” Ormund shushed you, shifting onto the mattress to gather your trembling body against his broad chest. He rocked you slowly, his arms wrapping around you like a shield, burying his face into your hair.
He peppered soft, fleeting kisses across your face, the affection was such a comfort that slowly coaxed the panic from your chest.
“Daeron...” your voice came out small, buried against his neck as the fear bled away. “He... he saved me. He was so fast.”
Against you, to your surprise, your husband’s posture snapped taut.
“He did what was expected of him,” he said then, though his voice carried a coldness. “I will ensure he learns from such a grave lapse in judgment, so that you are never exposed to such peril again.”
“Ormund...” you rasped, looking up at him with tearful eyes. “Please... do not be harsh on him. He did well.”
Ormund stared down at you, a tempest of fury raging behind his eyes. After a silent moment, however, he sighed, letting go of his unspoken rage for now as he wrapped his arms around your form.
“Say no more of the boy. Rest your eyes,” he said with a tone of finality, tucking your head against his chest. “You have endured enough for one day.”
Yet as sleep pulled you under, you had no way of knowing this was just the fragile calm before a storm.
“Fucking craven!”
The next time you saw your husband with his ward, you heard an explosive crash echo from the walls of his study.
You hurried toward the half-open doors, stopping dead as Ormund’s voice thundered out, utterly merciless—
“Listen to me well, Daeron. A prince does not get to be afraid. If you hesitate for half a second on the battlefield, you will not just lose your life— you will condemn every banner and every Hightower who marches behind you to the block!”
The sight inside made your breath catch in your throat— Daeron stood cowering, his shoulders hunched as a shattered goblet lay in pieces near his feet.
It was unthinkable and simply unacceptable. How could Ormund unleash such venomous rage on a boy who deserved none of it?
In that single, sickening second, all of Daeron’s uncomfortable gaits whenever you mentioned your husband suddenly made sense. Refusing to let him suffer a moment longer, you slammed the door open—
“That is enough!” you cried, stepping between them, your voice trembling as you shielded Daeron behind you. “What are you doing to him!”
“Stand aside,” Ormund growled. “The boy must learn. A future king cannot flinch!”
King? Your heart lurched into your throat, terror instantly replacing your anger. “Have you lost your mind? To speak such words is high treason!”
“His brothers are a spoiled cunt and a one-eyed craven!” Ormund thundered, his towering form casting a long shadow over both you and the boy behind you. “The realm needs a new king who can command, and therefore, now that task falls into him!”
“He is a child!” you screamed back, refusing to step aside. “Look at him! He is terrified! You... you cannot break a boy to feed your own ambition!”
Insatiable, ruinous hunger— it was the one trait you had always known defined him. But as the clarity finally dawned on you... you just realized you were looking at a man willing to burn anything to sit behind a boy-king’s crown.
How could he...? How has it eluded you?
Behind you, Daeron’s breath came in ragged, wheezing gasps. Even without looking at him, you knew he was close to tears.
This ends now. Without another word to your husband, you turned, grabbed Daeron’s cold, trembling hand, and pulled him out of the study.
“Return to your desk!” Ormund’s commanded viciously. “I am not finished with you, Daeron!”
“He is finished!” you shouted back, not daring to look back as you hurried the young prince away from him.
You guided Daeron through the corridors, as his boots dragging against the floor and his tears finally falling. He didn’t say a word, and you didn’t stop until you reached the safety of the courtyard gardens.
You turned to him, opening your mouth to offer whatever words of comfort you could gather, but the sight of him struck you silent.
Looking at his tear-stained face and trembling form, you didn’t see a prince or a knight, but a terrified boy who desperately needed to be saved.
Silently, you reached out and pulled him tight into your arms.
Night fell over Oldtown, and sleep was impossible despite your exhaustion.
You stood by the wide stone window of your bedchamber, your arms wrapped around your waist as you stared out into bay. Every so often, the fluttering kicks of your child inside you stirred against your palm, offering comfort against the heavy knot in your chest.
The door opened and closed behind you. Soft, heavy footsteps sounded against the floorboards behind you. You offered him nothing but an icy silence as your husband approached.
Gently, his broad arms wound around your waist, pulling your back flush against the heat of his chest. He leaned his head down, his warm breath fanning softly against the sensitive skin of your neck.
“You have not slept,” Ormund breathed out, his voice far softer, carrying none of the rage from earlier.
You remained entirely rigid, staring blankly out at the dark waters, refusing to melt into his embrace.
Ormund let out a long, low sigh against your skin. “I know I was harsh with him today,” he admitted quietly, his hands resting gently over yours where your child had just kicked.
“I take no pleasure in it, my dear. But this is necessary. I have named him the successor to the Iron Throne and Daeron cannot afford to be soft. I must leave again for Tumbleton at first light... in three days.”
Cold horror spiked through your veins. You twisted in his arms, wrenching yourself away from his grip as you spun to face him, your eyes widened in disbelief.
“Tumbleton, again?” you gasped, voice trembling. “When you barely escaped with your life the first time?”
“Listen to me—”
“And you have doomed him,” you whispered, tears spilling past your lashes as the horrific truth sank in. “By the Gods, Ormund… he is just a boy! You are painting a massive target on his back and sending him straight into the slaughter!”
“It is what must be done,” Ormund countered in a frighteningly calm voice. “He must rise to meet his destiny, for his sake, for House Hightower, and for ours.”
Tears blurred your vision as you stared at the man you loved. A sick, hollow ache settled deep in your chest— how had you been so blind? You had loved him, trusted him, believed his cruelty was merely a shell of a devoted husband.
But Ormund Hightower was a man always reaching for more power than he could ever handle, no matter who he broke—or killed—to get it.
“And what of us?” you asked tearfully, your voice breaking into a ragged whisper as your hand instinctively grasped your abdomen, shielding your unborn child. “What becomes of me, and what becomes of your child, should you fall? Have you... have you even stopped to think about us for a single second?”
Ormund’s expression softened instantly, as if he knew and felt too what your tender heart was feeling as he reached out, gently cupping your tear-stained cheek.
“Every breath I take is for you, my dearest. Everything I build, every battle I fight, I do so to forge a world where no one can ever threaten you or our child again.”
But you shook your head in despair, inconsolable, unable to comprehend his justification. He pulled you tighter, brushing his thumbs on your fallen tears.
“I will return to you,” he swore, his pale blue eyes burning with conviction. “You have nothing to fear, my sweet girl. I swear it on my life, on my blood— on everything I hold holy.”
His other hand moved down, resting over yours, his warm palm feeling both you and the babe.
“All I ask of you… is to stay safe. You need only do one thing for me—bring our child safely into this world.”
You looked into his eyes, horrified at his words. Whether he truly believed he was doing this for you or was simply wrapping his own thirst for power in a noble promise, you couldn’t tell—
Yet as he kissed your brow, you knew with a chilling certainty that his pursuit of the throne would be the very thing that destroyed you all.
genre, warnings ⊹ fluff. slight angst. reader is pregnant and second daughter of viserys. semi established marriage. daeron is included. it is pretty much book gwayne from fire and blood + hotd combined ゞ 1.k
メ it was a hatred. but was it ?
there was a constant reminder for him... after being wedded to you... the second daughter of viserys. a targaryen princess... that he was bound to you for the rest of his life.
fire flows in your veins. and damn him. that he was able to feel it through his.
calling you an enemy ? was a lie he would repeat over and over again. to make himself feel better. to make ormund feel better. or to just set boundaries. a thin line.
it was a hatred. but was it ?
" if you grab the book with such force ? " the library was hushed, his voice was a whisper in that quiet atmosphere.
" you will rip it apart. my princess " his voice drew closer to you. it was firm though it gave you thousands of butterflies.
you lifted your head slowly from the book. with your so called elegance, you show whenever you are within his circle. your grip on the book loosens slowly just a little.
" i do not recall if i asked for your opinion, my lord." the fire in your blood was flowing as you pinned him with your eyes. like some hunter targeting it's prey.
" ah. such rudeness... you truly wound me princess." with a muffled chuckle, he stepped out of your radius just slightly. like he already knows that he is getting hunted.
at that you just rolled your eyes at him. and continued reading your book. like it is the most interesting thing in the whole realm.
" well..." a pause. " the babe. how is it..." his voice was alot closer now. as you look up just a little from the book.
he was staring at you, like he is examining the most important and precious thing. your eyes immediately found his, he was lowering his upper body slightly. to be leveled with your sitting position. and his arms were resting behind his back.
his face was just an inch away from yours. a little movement would be enough for you both to brush your noses with eachother's.
he was smiling prettily as your big doe eyes was gazing upon his green ones, with that shocked and surprised expression.
you pulled your face away from his when you saw him smiling. and shifted your eyes down on the book on your lap. to avoid him.
" last time the maesters said that it is healthy. and growing beautifully." there was a little hint of nervousness in your voice.
he hummed softly with a slight nod as he straightened himself slowly. like he was thinking about something.
you did not look up this time.
" daeron... he shouldn't be in ormund's company. he is a good child." you closed the book and placed on the side table. your hand was now resting on your little bump. rubbing it up and down slowly.
" you should not indulge yourself with such matters." his voice was a little sharp. " just take a good care of my child that is inside you." he added softly this time.
you tilted your head a little and looked at him. he was not looking at you right now. the side profile of his was pretty. really pretty.
a sigh left from your mouth in exhaustion. the moment your father wedded you to him. it has been like this. every time you try to give your opinion into something regarding his house or daeron. he gets angry and upset.
" very well. husband." you turned your face away while saying it. your voice was low and surprisingly calm but there was a hint of disappointment in it . which made him turn his face to look at you. he stepped closer to you and grabbed your chin gently then rubbed your lower lip with his thumb ーwithout saying anything he pressed soft kisses on both corners of your lips.
it was his way of apologising. you knew that much.
" daeron, he is my kin... my brother from another woman but still i worry for him..." you spoke softly against his lips. your gaze was on the floor.
" look at me, while you speak..." he stated firmly but his voice was gentle. your gaze slowly found his.
" what do you expect me to do... ? " he murmured. while still rubbing your lower lip with his thumb. " he needs that discipline to grow stronger." he scoffed the words out as he let go of your chin and straightened himself again.
there was a frown on his brows it was enough for you to understand that he is upset as well. he ran his fingers through his hair in frustration.
" well you can always warn ormund about his behaviour." you half shrugged while sighing.
" you think it is that easy ? you know of him..." he stopped in mid sentence. " he is cruel...and vile." he added harshly. while turning himself away from you, now his back was facing you. he crossed his arms over his chest. as he paced around the library. and you just watched him with a concerned expression.
" well... you can try. no ? " you brushed your palms together. in an attempt to calm yourself down.
he finally turned his face towards youー stepped closer to you. and he kneeled down in front of you between your legs. then he placed his hands gently on your thighs.
your breath hitched. ' you can never understand his intentions and feelings about you. sometimes he smother you with love and affection and sometimes he avoids you like you are some parasite. '
you slowly leaned closer to him and pressed your forehead against his gently. cupped his face with your palms then stroked his under eyes softly with your thumbs.
" i will talk... to him." he mumbled against your lips. it was a whisper.
you pressed soft kisses on both of his eyelids. he let out a soft sigh
" thank you..." you breathed out faintly. and pulled your face away from his to look upon his face.
he was looking at you with his half lidded eyes. his gaze was filled with longing and yearning. you knew that he indeed is in love with you like you are with him. but you also knew that he would never confess.
" i sent a raven to my sister in dragonstone. regarding the dragon egg for the babe." you spoke tenderly. as he wrapped his arms around your waist and pressed his forehead gently on your belly.
" i truly wished for our babe to have an egg from silverwing hatchlings." you whispered. while stroking his hair softly.
" but.. she stopped hatching a while ago." you added disappointingly. he hummed softly against your bump in response.
you both were listening to eachother's breaths peacefully in that quiet atmosphere.
the next morning was peaceful gwayne left the chambers early to look after some urgent business. you were walking down the corridors to look for daeron. your hand was resting on your belly, rubbing it up and down to soothe your frustration coming from the life growing inside of you.
" my lady... " you heard a muffled voice from behind. you immediately recognised it.
" oh daeron... there you are." you turned yourself slowly to face and walked towards him with slow steps.
" i have been looking for you everywhere, dearest." you spoke tenderly as you lifted your hand and cupped his cheek softly. he leaned into it like a cat starved for love.
" have you broken your fast ? " you asked him softly. as you stroke his cheek with your thumb.
" yes... i broke my fast with uncle gwayne and... ormund." he whispered carefully.
" good good. let us sit somewhere." you let go of his cheek and grabbed his hand gently and lead him towards a bench in the gardens.
" how is the babe doing... my lady ? " he murmured softly as you both took a seat on the bench.
you were still holding his hand, so with your other hand you removed the creases from your gown gently.
" hmm... it is healthy, my dear." you explained gently. while looking at him with a soft smile. he returned your smile.
" i will be always here for you daeron." you mumbled faintly. as you looked up at the sky.
you heard him saying ' and i, for you.'
it was the hour of wolves almost you were sleeping peacefully in your and gwayne's shared bedchambers. when you felt strong arms wrapping around your waist from behind. and his hands settled on your belly.
" did i wake you up sweet thing ?" he whispered softly against your ear. his warmth was all over your body like a blanket.
you hummed softly in response.
" go back to sleep. sweetling." he mumbled against your skin as he peppered your neck with soft kisses.
and everything went peacefully quiet again.
• let me know if you want to be tagged in my future fics. 🤍
contains ᦸ fluff smut themes more fluff established marriage age gap even tho it’s not mentioned short but sweet ٫٫ 1.5k
❛❛ I think loving you has been the truest thing about me…
Gwayne kissed you with growing fervor, his hands sliding down from your face to the small of your back, his fingers pressing into the dimples of your lower back to press you flush against him. The taste of the spiced wine lingered on his lips, mingling with yours. The bedchamber seemed to shrink around you—the cool air forgotten as heat bloomed between your bodies.
He slowly backed you gently towards the large canopy bed, too needy to break contact with you for more than a second. When he finally lifted his mouth from yours, just enough to breathe, his dark eyes were half-lidded and warm as they looked into your lilac eyes. “You make me reckless.” He admitted in a husky whisper before claiming another kiss.
Gwayne’s fingers made quick work of the delicate lilac gown covering your sweet body. His battle-toughened hands were surprisingly deft at untangling the silk and lace. The fabric pooled around your ankles as he deepened the kiss, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other traced down your bare spine.
Cool air kissed your newly exposed skin, but your husband's body was all warmth—hard muscle against your soft curves. He broke away from your soft lips only to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses along your jawline to that sensitive spot below your ear. A low growl rumbled in his chest and against your skin when you arched into him with a moan.
”You wanton!” You gasped, a shocked giggle leaving your lips at the feeling of his strong hands taking handfuls of your plump bottom with a squeeze.
Gwayne’s laugh was a rich and playful sound vibrating against your collarbone before he teasingly nipped lightly at your shoulder. His grip on your backside tightened possessively.
”Wanton?” He echoed, feigning offense with you—even as his fingers kneaded your skin with shameless appreciation. He continued with a faux cocky tone as he teased you, “You married a handsome, skilled Knight Princess. Did you expect me to be chaste?”
Before his words even registered, in one fluid motion he lifted you entirely off the ground—your legs instinctively wrapped around his strong waist—and carried you towards your shared bed draped in the finest silks and pillows. The setting sun painted golden stripes across both of you.
Gwayne laid you down with such gentleness only a man like him could give, before crawling over you. His larger frame cast a shadow that swallowed yours whole. Your eyes never left his as the bed dipped beneath his weight as he braced himself on one elbow beside your head, careful not to accidentally tug on your gorgeous locks.
His free hand explored your body as if he didn't have it already memorized: tracing the curve of your lip, skimming up your ribs to gently brush against the swell of your breast. His touch was reverent yet hungry—a man starved of his wife’s intimacy after days of being at his cousin and nephews' side.
The scent of cedar oil and ink from earlier clung to him as he lowered his mouth again, this time aiming for the fluttering pulse at your throat. So delicately begging for his touch.
Soft sighs and moans left your parted lips as Gwayne worshiped you with the devotion of a man who believed you were his miracle. A Targaryen princess who’d chosen green, chose him. Every kiss he pressed to your skin was deliberate: along your collarbone, down the valley between your breasts, over each rib…
When he reached the delicate edge of your smallclothes, his teeth caught it gently—testing—before slowly peeling it away with his teeth. The cool air made goosebumps rise on your newly bared flesh. A desperate groan escaped him as more of you was revealed to his adore-filled eyes. His hands roamed again, not greedy, but savoring.
“You’re beautiful.” He breathed against your stomach, saying a prayer to the gods—thanking them for blessing him with a goddess for a wife.
Your soft hands moved from gripping the sheets beneath you to rest upon your husband’s strong, warm shoulders. A flustered warmth spread through you as you whispered, “You say this every day.”
Gwayne lifted his head and moved upwards to you. He caught your warm cheeks between both of his soft palms. His gaze was unbearably fond—the same look he only ever reserved for you and his sweet nephew. His thumbs gently caressed your cheeks as his eyes never left yours. His voice was thick with sincerity and devotion as he vowed, ”And I’ll say it every day until the gods tire of me.”
Then, because he couldn't resist teasing his flustered wife even more, he continued with his sweet tone, “Or until our children grow up and scold us for being so disgustingly in love.”
Your eyes filled with such love and adoration at your husband's words, at the life he spoke of for the two of you. He leaned down closer and placed two soft, featherlight kisses on each one of your cheeks before sealing his mouth with yours again—this kiss slower but deeper than the ones before. Your hands moved up to his hair as your tongues moved together in tandem.
Gwayne’s hair—thick, soft, and always smelled of the soaps you use—spilled through your fingers as your fingers tangled in it. He made a pleased sound into your mouth when he felt you lightly tug, the pull sending sparks down his spine.
His tongue danced with yours in a dance you both knew all too well, warm and slick with shared breaths. One of his hands slid up to cradle the back of your head while the other traced lazy circles on your bare hip. The bed creaked softly as he shifted closer; the weight of him pressing against you was a feeling you hoped you never would forget.
The bedchambers—usually a place of quiet and untamed love—now pulsed with the sounds of your passion: soft moans muffled against lips, the rustle of silk sheets as your bodies moved together, the occasional breathless laugh shared between kisses. Every touch now was skin on skin, a symphony only the two of you could hear.
Outside, dusk had fully fallen. Torches along Oldtown’s walls flickered to life one by one—but instead, in your chamber, golden firelight from the fireplace glowed warmly over your entwined limbs and flushed skin. His hand on your hip moved beneath your body as your back arched off the bed—heavenly moans of pleasure leaving your lips—pulling you closer to him.
Gwayne’s breath came out ragged as he drank in the sight of you beneath him, your back arched like a bowstring, your sweat-slicked skin glowing from the firelight, his love bites blooming faintly along your shoulders and collarbone. Truly, you looked divine. His wife—a goddess who’d chosen his mortal arms.
“My pretty wife.” He murmured against the curve of your breast before pressing open-mouthed kisses there. Every moan from your lips spurred him on, hands mapping every inch they could reach, mouth following with worshipful kisses along your chest. The bed frame creaked rhythmically now—no longer silent but now singing with passion as your bodies moved together perfectly.
The cool night air kissed Gwayne’s bare torso as he leaned against the balcony’s stone railing, silhouetted by the touches of Oldtown below. The city sprawled beneath him—alive. Behind him, in the bedchamber's soft glow, lay your peaceful form. Your back rising and falling gently with your near-sleep form as you lay sprawled out on your stomach. Your skin still held faint marks from your lovemaking; hair fanned like spilled silver across pillows.
He didn't turn around yet, just stared at his home. The major city he wasn’t heir to, but loved deeply. He felt an unfamiliar swell in his chest. Not duty tonight, just gratitude for you, who made his life feel complete. You made him feel more than just the eldest son born from the seed of a second son.
Your nose brushed against the pillow as you slowly turned your head to face the balcony. Your eyes fluttered open with a small, tired sigh; your tired eyes admired your husband’s strong form. There was no sign of the tension that was normally seen in his body. You called out sleepily, your tone teasing, “Only a man would admire his own city and not his bare wife.”
Gwayne’s lips twitched into a smile at the sound of your sleepy teasing. The city lights reflected in his eyes as he turned away from the balcony, stepping back inside where warmth and your intimacy waited. He approached the bed silently, padding barefoot over cold stone and rugs. For a long moment, he simply admired you. Your tousled hair, the way the moonlight traced every curve of your bare back.
Then he sank onto the mattress beside you, his fingertips delicately moving your strands of hair from your back so he could lean down to place a soft kiss between your shoulder blades. His hand then moved down to your lower back, rubbing it soothingly as he quietly admitted to you, “You’re right, the view here is immensely better…how selfish of me.”
┊࿐ ❛❛ continue on to my…sweetling mlist & main masterlist ❜❜
Იᰍ gwayne hightower my love let me save you :( he’s just so perfect, how could i not write something for him. I’m so proud of my consistency of posting every weekend for like what, 6 weeks? anyways, I love you all my bunnies 🐰 please tell me your thoughts , ideas, and opinions, they are very important and wanted !! comments, reblogs and feedback is very welcomed !! 🐇
Summary: After the death of your husband and Daeron's ascension to the Iron Throne, you are summoned to King's Landing to discuss your future.
Pairing: Gwayne Hightower x F!Reader (past Ormund Hightower x F!Reader)
Word Count: 3.6.K
Warning: Eventually 18+ only. This chapter includes brief references to past physical, sexual, and emotional abuse (Ormund is a warning himself, okay?).
A/N: A big thanks to @aninhatatu for all her help. No use of Y/N. Reader's house is not named and there is no physical descriptions of her given. Daeron will feature heavily in this story because I adore him.
Please comment or reblog if you enjoyed this and want to see more. Or scream at me in my inbox. That always makes my day.
Masterlist
When you are a girl, you dream of the day you will marry a true knight who will love you as faithfully as the heroes in the songs.
Your father promises he will find you a good and honorable lord to wed. He speaks of great castles beyond the Reach and noble houses far from home, but your heart seeks another much closer than the distant lords your father imagines.
You long for Gwayne Hightower, looking forward to the days he visits alongside his father. There is a tenderness in him that seems so absent from the men around you. Even the simple courtesy of the way he presses a kiss to the back of your hand feels like something out of the songs you cherish. You imagine a day he might look upon you the same.
It is a dream you guard closely, never daring to give it voice for fear that speaking it aloud will make it vanish. Yet you hold onto the hope that once your sister is wed to his cousin, Lord Ormund, your father might look kindly upon such a match.
Then sickness comes, and with it the Stranger. He claims your sister and the future you imagined. Dury destroys what little remains.
Weeks later, it is you who stands beneath the vaulted ceiling of the Starry Sept and accepts the richly embroidered bride cloak from Lord Ormund Hightower as sunlight pours through the windows.
His eyes are impossibly blue and gentle, his bearing every inch the noble lord the stories have promised. You believe him kind. You believe him true.
That illusion does not survive the night.
The years that follow as his wife are a slow burial of the girl who once believed in songs. You learn to make yourself small, to accept whatever his temper and his body demand of you, and to survive until morning.
You are not alone in your captivity. Daeron is little more than a boy when you first meet him, and he too suffers beneath your husband. Ormund's cruelty toward him is subtler, but no less damaging for its lack of bruises. It comes in a familiar barbed tongue and carefully chosen words that burrow deep, slowly twisting a kind heart into one that forever questions its own worth.
You cannot save Daeron from Ormund, any more than you can save yourself. But you offer him what comfort you can, growing skilled at redirecting your husband's ire when it turns toward the boy, just like Daeron learns the ways to shield you in return.
Then comes the war, and for the first time in years you find yourself alone. Yet there is no peace in your husband’s absence. You have spent so long preparing yourself for his anger that you no longer know how to exist without waiting for it. The silence feels like a trap.
Worse still, he takes Daeron with him.
It is a strange thing, to find yourself both hoping for and dreading their return. Their fates are too intertwined now so you find yourself kneeling before the statues of the Seven, whispering pleas to both the Warrior and the Smith. Months pass with little world beyond what gossip your maids gather for you.
Then, on a warm summer morning, news comes that your lord husband has fallen in battle.
Nothing is said of Daeron. You wait nearly a week in agonizing fear before a letter arrives sealed with the king's sigil. You break the heavy wax and unfold the parchment, breath catching in your throat at the familiar hand that sweeps across the page.
Daeron.
Your fingers linger over his name as though you fear it might vanish beneath your touch. A sob catches in your throat.
He is alive.
More than that, he is king.
Ink blurs beneath your tears as you read his message, a request to come to King's Landing. He promises that you will be welcomed, that you will be safe. It has been years since anyone has promised you safety.
–
The journey to King’s Landing takes nearly three months. Hightower men dressed in the dark greens and blacks of your house greet you within the inner keep. They bow when you emerge from the carriage, voices subdued as they offer condolences. You nod at the proper moments, offering the expected words of gratitude with practiced ease, your expression composed in quiet dignity and mourning.
Inside, you feel nothing.
Their praise of Ormund's honor and the heroic deeds that helped secure the king's ascension twists something inside you. They speak of a man you scarcely recognize, a man far removed from the one you knew.
Thankfully, you are spared further words when another figure approaches.
"My lady," he says with a quick bow, "I am the King’s steward. His Grace requests your presence once the Small Council has concluded its business."
"Of course," you reply, lifting a hand to your brow as you glance toward Margaery, your maid. "If I may have but a moment."
His eyes flick briefly over your travel-worn appearance before returning to your face, his tone remaining perfectly respectful.
“His Grace will not mind a brief delay," he agrees, motioning for you to follow.
The steward leads you through a series of quiet corridors, your maid following close behind with a small traveling trunk balanced carefully in her arms. The chamber awaiting you is modest but comfortable. A basin of fresh water rests upon its stand with clean linens folded neatly beside it. A large mirror hangs upon the far wall.
You pause before it.
The woman staring back at you looks exhausted. Dust clings to the hem of your skirts, and your mourning veil has slipped askew. Ormund would be furious if he found out you had been seen in such a state.
The thought comes so suddenly that you freeze.
He is dead, you remind yourself. Yet the unease settles beneath your skin all the same, irrational but impossible to silence. You can almost hear his clipped voice. A Hightower lady, his wife, no less, reflected not only upon herself, but upon him. To appear before the court looking so travel-worn was careless. Unbecoming.
"My lady," Margery says quietly, resting a gentle hand on your shoulder.
You flinch and she adverts her eyes.
“Yes,” you agree to her unspoken words, mouth gone dry.
Together, you work to make yourself presentable. You wash your face and hands and allow Margery to help you into a fresh gown. It is black, like all the others, stiff and uncomfortable. She runs a critical eye over you before smoothing the creases from your shoulder and tugging at a fold of bunched fabric at your waist, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.
It strikes you then that you are not the woman trapped in old habits, still fearful of her master's displeasure.
You say her name softly, and she looks up, her expression uncertain.
"All is well," you assure her.
She nods once and helps you pin a fresh mourning veil into your hair. Only then do you allow the steward to lead you to the king.
The deeper into the keep you go, the darker it becomes, lit only by flickering candlelight that leaves the air hazy with smoke. The Red Keep is nothing like the Hightower, surrounded by sea winds and endless beauty. This place feels close and shadowed. The very air seems heavy, steeped in a cold kind of power that unsettles you.
Golden dragons on fields of green hang from every wall, an uneasy union of Targaryen and Hightower heraldry. Ormund would have despised the sight.
You walk a few moments longer until the steward stops before the towering oak doors of the Small Council chamber. Two white-cloaked Kingsguard stand sentinel on either side. You come to a halt behind him and wait.
“The Lady Hightower,” the guard calls out, opening the heavy doors.
A short flight of stone steps rises before you, and you ascend them slowly. At first, you do not see Daeron at the far end of the table. Your attention is drawn instead to the tall figure who rises the moment you enter.
Warm green eyes meet yours, and suddenly you are fifteen again, back in your father’s great hall, watching Gwayne practice with your father’s men. For a moment, you simply stare, caught between memory and the present. A strange flurry of emotions stirs in your chest. You should have expected Gwayne to be at Daeron's side, yet the sight of him still takes you by surprise.
Unbidden, you stare, searching his face for the changes left by the years since you last saw him. Weariness marks him now, the war having taken its toll, but his proud features remain as striking as ever. Reddish-gold hair curls at the nape of his neck, and he is dressed in a fine green doublet woven through with gold thread. At his side hangs Vigilance, Ormund’s longsword and the symbol of the title and the legacy he now carries.
The new Lord Hightower.
Gwayne opens his mouth to speak, but Daeron rises first, his chair dragging heavily against the stone floor. The rest of the men at the table quickly follow, scrambling to their feet, but Daeron pays them little attention, rounding the table toward you.
He seems to catch himself halfway, stopping abruptly to slow his gait. His attention jumps to Gwayne, then to the gathered council, as though suddenly aware of the eyes upon him.
“Lady Hightower,” he greets, stilted and formal.
On his head rests a golden crown. A seven-pointed star sits at its center, emerald facets catching the candlelight, framed by a pair of dragons whose delicate etching is so faint you nearly miss them.
He has grown taller since you saw him last, much of the lingering softness in his face gone, but he still looks so young. A scar bisects his left brow, and dismay settles in your chest. Your fingers itch to soothe away the hurt that must have caused it, but the skin has long since healed, pale and silvery against the rest of his face.
Someone at the table coughs, the sound drawing you back to the moment at hand. Only then do you realize you’re simply standing there, staring. You are not greeting Daeron you realize, but your King.
You drop into a deep curtsy, head bowed.
“You Grace.”
You hold your posture until Daeron gently takes your elbows and encourages you to rise. A faint blush colors his cheeks, and despite everything, you cannot help but smile.
"I am pleased you are here," he says warmly. "We have much to discuss."
"And to celebrate," a dark-haired man behind him adds, lifting his cup. "It will not be long before His Grace finds you a worthy husband.”
Daeron goes still.
His brows lift in surprise, and your own mirror his. You know him well enough to recognize the flicker of emotions that crosses his face, something between fear and guilt.
A quiet anxiety blooms in your chest, making your jaw tighten and your stomach twist.
"My..." Your voice falters as you look between the men gathered in the room. Most avoid your gaze, but the man who spoke watches you carefully, a faint smile at the corner of his mouth.
The silence that follows is broken by Gwayne.
"Lord Peake." The words come sharply, and the man's smile falters. "You forget yourself."
Gwayne’s handsome features harden, the warmth gone from his face, replaced by a cold displeasure carefully held in check.
Daeron touches your arm, drawing your attention to him for only a moment before your gaze returns to Gwayne. He has moved from his position behind the table, placing himself between you and Lord Peake. One hand hangs relaxed at his side, but the other rests upon the pommel of his greatsword.
“Lady Hightower’s future is a private matter between the Hightower House and the crown”.
Lord Peake raises a single hand, as if to forestall further reprimand. "You mistake my meaning. I merely wished to offer Lady Hightower happy news."
Your breath leaves you in a slow, unsteady exhale. They speak of your future as though you are not in the room. As though you do not matter. It is all too familiar.
Gwayne does not answer. Instead, he folds his hands behind his back and looks to Daeron.
"I would speak with Lady Hightower and my Hand in private,” Daeron announces. “We shall reconvene tomorrow."
Chairs scrape against the stone as the men rise and file from the chamber. Lord Peake is the last to leave. He slows beside Gwayne, meeting his eyes with the faintest lift of one brow. Then he turns to you and smiles. It is a courteous smile, perfectly measured. Perfectly empty. Your stomach tightens. You know that smile.
As the heavy doors swing shut behind Lord Peake, a different silence settles over the chamber.
You lower your eyes to your clasped hands. Your thumb finds the slender silver ring on your finger, tracing the emerald set within it. The ring worn by every Lady Hightower that’s become before you. The one Ormund placed on your hand all those years ago. It will belong to Gwayne soon you realize.
Daeron says your name so softly it almost breaks you. But you keep your head bowed, pressing your thumb harder against the emerald's sharp edge until it bites into your skin. The sting steadies you, driving back the tears threatening to spill.
You mustn't cry. Ormund despises tears. He calls them weakness. He—
Daeron reaches for your hands, his own larger than you remember. Gently, patiently, he eases your fingers apart until the pressure against the ring disappears.
“He is not here,” he whispers quietly. “You do not have to stifle yourself.”
You blink rapidly, clearing your vision before forcing your shoulders back. “I am sorry, your Grace,” you reply.
The use of his title seems to wound him. A shadow crosses Daeron's gentle features.
“You do not need to call me that when it is just us,” he says. “Things have not changed.”
Against your better judgment, your look to Gwayne. He watches without speaking. Daeron follows your gaze.
"We can trust my uncle," he says gently. “He is a good man.”
They said the same about Ormund.
You force a smile for Daeron and he relaxes.
His hand remains wrapped around yours as he gently guides you away from the council table toward a smaller seating area tucked beside the hearth. The chairs there are lower, cushioned. He waits until you are seated before taking the place beside you.
Gwayne settles into the chair opposite, leaving the low table between you.
"This is not how I wished this conversation to happen,” Daeron begins.
"How long?" The words leave your lips before you can stop them. The two men exchange a glance. "How long until I must marry again?"
Daeron's face falls. His fingers tighten around yours before he lowers his eyes. For a long moment, he says nothing. Then, almost helplessly, he looks to Gwayne.
“Soon,” his uncle replies.
The words settle over the room like a stone.
"Lord Peake spoke out of turn," Gwayne continues, "but he did not speak without reason." He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "Since Ormund's death, many ravens have arrived carrying proposals."
You stared at him. "For me?"
"For your lands," he corrects gently. "For your inheritance. Your father's health worsens and the maesters believe he has little time remaining."
You swallow around the lump in your throat. Ormund had never permitted you to leave Oldtown without him as your escort, and your father's failing health had long since robbed him of the strength to travel. Letters from him had grown fewer with each passing moon. Long before that, you had stopped asking Ormund if you might return home. It was not worth provoking him.
"As he has no sons, his lands and titles will pass through you... and then to the sons you will one day bear. Until your heir comes of age, your husband will govern in his stead. But, if your father dies before your future is settled, every ambitious lord Westeros will believe the succession is open to influence."
His expression shifts, disgust surfacing briefly.
“There are those like Lord Peake who would not hesitate to spill blood over it."
Your gaze drops to the fire. The flames dance and twist, blurring as your vision stings. Before you even realize you're doing it, your thumb finds the emerald ring again, turning it over and over against your finger until the stone bites into your skin.
Daeron’s reign is still new, still fragile. They cannot risk another open war, not while he struggles to secure the realm. You know that. You know exactly why they have made this choice. It does not make it hurt any less.
After a long moment Gwayne says your name. Not Lady Hightower. Not some carefully chosen honorific. Just your name.
The sound catches you off guard. Against your better judgment, your eyes lift to meet his.
"I understand," you manage. The words are steady enough, but they sound distant, like someone else has spoken them.
“You are a member of House Hightower. We will protect you,” he says. The promise is earnest enough to make you ache.
You want to believe him. You want to be angry with him. Instead, fear settles heavily beneath your ribs, cold and unyielding.
At last, Daeron speaks.
"I wanted..." His voice catches. "I wanted you to have more time."
For the briefest moment, you see not the King of the Seven Kingdoms, but the little boy Ormund first brought home to Oldtown. All gentle smiles and earnest questions, forever eager to please. He is still there. Pained by what duty asks of him and of you.
"You will be safe here, no matter the outcome," he promises, a small crease forming between his brows.
"Have you settled on someone?" you ask quietly.
You hold his gaze. It is not a challenge. It is a quiet demand for honesty, if nothing else. After everything the two of you have endured together, you are owed at least that.
"Nothing would be decided without your approval,” he promises
You search his face, watching as his expression shifts ever so slightly, a change you might have missed had you not known him since he was a boy. The look when he was weighing the cost of the truth before giving voice to it.
He already has someone in mind you realize.
“Who?” You ask with a boldness that surprises you.
His eyes drift toward Gwayne. The older man stills. His shoulders stiffen almost imperceptibly before he shakes his head once.
It’s a warning that Daeron ignores it.
"My uncle," he says. "You would keep your title. And because Gwayne serves as my Hand, your home would remain here, in King's Landing."
His voice is careful, but you hear what he does not say. That you would be close to him. That you would not have to return to Oldtown and walk those halls where every stone still bears the memory of Ormund’s abuse. It is a boyish hope, but it is a kind one.
Your look to Gwayne. Daeron's suggestion seems to have unsettled him. In his position Ormund would have feigned reluctance. He would have offered some practiced protest about duty before graciously accepting what he desired all along.
Gwayne does no such thing.The muscles in his jaw tighten, hollowing his cheeks. His expression is not one of embarrassment or false modesty, but something closer to shame.
"This is not a burden Lady Hightower should bear today," he says quietly.
"Of course," Daeron agrees at once.
His hands twist together in his lap before he catches himself and stills them. His gaze darts from Gwayne to you and back again.
"We should let you rest," he declares after a moment, rising so abruptly that his crown slips forward over his brow. He hastily straightens it, a faint flush creeping into his cheeks. "You must be tired from the long journey."
You stand and smooth your skirts, searching for words but all you can manage is, "Thank you, Your Grace."
The title leaves your lips before you can stop it. Daeron's smile falters.
"Daeron," you say softly.
His expression warms at once and you smile to see him so unguarded.
For a heartbeat, he remains where he is and then he takes one uncertain step, then another, before closing the distance and wrapping his arms around you. The embrace is almost desperate. He buries his face against your shoulder, clinging to you. Your hand finds the familiar curve of his back. Slowly, gently, you stroke between his shoulders. After a long moment, the tension leaves him in a soft, shuddering breath.
Over Daeron's shoulder, your eyes meet Gwayne's. His features tighten almost imperceptibly. He looks almost stricken, but a heartbeat later, his composure returns.
Without a word, he looks away.
You close your eyes and rest your cheek lightly against Daeron's hair, allowing yourself to simply exist. In this quiet moment, he is not the King of the Seven Kingdoms, and you are not Lady Hightower. You are simply two people who survived the same man, holding one another steady as the world shifts beneath your feet.
You are free of Ormund. That alone feels almost impossible. Yet beneath that relief, a shadow lingers. You want to believe Daeron is right. That Gwayne is a good man. A true knight, the kind the songs once taught you to believe in.
But hope is a fragile thing.
You are no longer certain you remember how to hold it.
If you enjoyed the chapter, I'd absolutely love to hear your thoughts. Comments, reblogs, and asks about the story genuinely make my day and keep me excited to keep writing. Whether it's a favorite moment or just keyboard smashing, I appreciate every bit of it.
Pairing(s): Gwayne Hightower x TargFem!Reader
Description: After being appointed the second in command of the City Watch, the Keep has been a den of treachery and lies, but Gwayne takes comfort in the one person his father told him to keep an eye on.
WC: 2.2k
CW: No descriptions of appearance for Targ!Reader. Reader grew up under the green’s influence (ish). Otto is here, surprise! Reader is mentioned to be the rider of Vermithor. Teasing. Porn with some plot. Oral (fem receiving).
Note: please let me know if you guys want to join my taglist 🫂 AND THIS IS BOOK GWAYNE SO HIS STORYLINE IS FROM FIRE AND BLOOD!! And this may or may not be proof read ...
GIF CREDITS (THANK YOU, COULDN'T RESIST NOT USING FREDS HEHE): @/barbieaemond
“She is no Hightower, she is stained by the savage’s blood, yes, she grew up with our heritage and beliefs but she will be cunning and duplicitous, watch her, son. I do not speak to you as the Hand of the King but as your father, I beg of you,” Otto tells his son, Ser Gwayne Hightower, he instructed him to watch you for any signs of your possible disloyalty to the Green’s cause. Gwayne sighs as he overlooks the sleeping city outside the castle window, it is peaceful, but treachery knows no bounds.
“ … she only listens to you and to that extent, the Bronze Fury follows, we cannot lose them both to Rhaenyra and her men. As Alicent wishes, a lord from a great house will come and ask for her hand, an alliance to take more lands and more men to our side. We will be stronger, unbreakable,” he added more, Gwayne could not bear to listen any longer to his Father’s words and voice, the stresses and worries had already begun to pile up and overwhelm him. He only stands, waiting for Otto to finish his speeches and plans.
“Do you understand me, son?”
Gwayne only nods at the question but Otto abruptly stands, walking over to him, and grabs his jaw to look at him.
“Speak when you are spoken to.”
A moment passes.
“I understand, father, I will not fail you,” he says with certainty, he was bound to this house by the very end of his life, he will protect it and serve it towards greatness. His gaze doesn’t meet Otto’s, he refuses to, the genuineness felt forged, and so, he hid them from him instead.
But on the other side of the unguarded door, was you, and you heard everything.
It just so happened that you were passing by this side of the castle, being up so late in the night had been one of your comforts, the quiet halls made the keep at a standstill. You passed through the dark corridors like a ghostly figure, your robes barely hiding the rousing shift beneath it as you made your way to Gwayne’s bedchambers, passing through a couple of servants and guards that had curiosity written on their faces as to why their princess is up so late in the evening?
Gwayne, on the other hand, had slipped away from his father’s grasp, finally retiring for the night.
The cold air greets him as the stone walls shadow over him. He walked and walked until he reached the door to his bedchambers that was located at the wing where the least amount of people passed through.
He entered his chambers only to be met by you.
“You’ve no right … you’ve no right, and you let him say that to me … how dare you.”
You scoffed out those words in vain, sitting so mightily on his bed.
Gwayne said nothing. You couldn’t bear to remember the emotions you had felt, how you were both reduced into the Realm’s scum with the tyrant Hightower’s words. You had to be … normal, to lose sight of your father’s histories and embraced Alicent’s, even when you could feel her distaste in having to be forced to raise you as her own. You were born detached from your Targaryen roots, away from your family and your false one, you grew up devoting yourself to the Faith of the Seven and had only learned High Valyrian at such a late age that you had thought the Gods had deemed you unworthy of a dragon.
You were forged under falsities. You had grown envious of your cousins and nephews that had hatched or even bonded with their dragons, but no, you were deducted into a proper Hightower even when the blood that runs in your veins comes from Old Valyria. Through jealousy and spite, one fateful night in Dragonstone changed the trajectory of your life when the Bronze Fury bonded with you.
But that was before this family tore itself apart from the inside.
Of course, family or foe, you were forced to only pick one.
To choose between the two is like a tear in the seams, but you choose to be both rather than die trying to ignore the other.
You take a cherry, its stem between your fingers as you unceremoniously let it burst between your teeth and your lips, your mouth tingling from the tartness as the flavour sneaks up on your tongue. Your expectant gaze is still on his as you tear the small fruit from its stem, chewing around the seed, and slowly taking it from your mouth.
Gwayne couldn’t say anything, you were in your finest of silks, the shift laying naturally on your body, like second skin. The translucent green slip was a sin one could not simply repent for, you were waging war against him and he was losing. Such a sweet irony. Like the skilled soldier that he is, he notices something other than the wicked fabric, he notices what lacks underneath, as well as the platter of cherries right beside you, the pits glistening in its juices and saliva along with the red fruit, making your lips bitten and bleeding.
The man in front of you was reduced to simplicity, stripped bare for you to poke and prod, binding him to your will. You looked like a predator who had recently caught and devoured prey and he was next.
You looked so soft sitting on his bed, the vision of beauty and love, the muse of his desires.
Gwayne was under your spell.
“You indulge yourself in me and you simply have no courage left to defend me. Do you not have anything to apologise for?”
You were ordering him, not begging. Your firmness superseded his sweet, sweet, sweet princess.
His judgement lapses as the words sit prettily on his tongue. He craved you like this for weeks on end, you were here, on a feather bed, in silks he had envisioned you in during starless nights, alone, he craved you like the sustenance he needs.
Your chest heaves. You sigh exaggeratedly as you tsked at his silence.
Just right before he broke the silence himself.
“I apologise, for earlier, sweetling. You know how difficult alliances can be.”
His intended effect was rendered useless when his eyes meet your own, a mix of fiery anger and cruel resentment swirling through those orbs of yours instead of the usual ones that welcomes Gwayne home. The spacious room suddenly felt small, the distance between you decreasing.
“Do you think of me as a fool?”
“Do not test me.”
“Says … you.”
Oh, your words made Gwayne weak to his knees.
He was in his sacred oasis, just right under the compromised Targaryen’s roof, he indulged, indulged himself with you. He revelled in the secrecy of it all, his own guilty pleasure, his sweet, sweet, sweet, princess.
By simply being there, existing, being yourself, you willingly feed into his desires, his needs, his wants.
Gwayne walks up to your figure.
And he kneels, by the foot of the bed, between your legs.
Your thighs spread open for him, his presence not unwelcome, but he feels your anger simmering at bay. He became careful, calculated, the tips of his fingers were almost burned by your soft and supple thighs, the palms of his hands were rough on your skin, the friction of it was sensual and wonderful.
The glow on you at certain lights, has intensified your beauty—maybe it is because they emanate from the radiance of desire, they come to Gwayne in your covert nakedness, the openness and grace, it makes him both honoured and unworthy to bask in it with the utmost greed.
His citadel. His devotion. His sweetling.
Gwayne looks at you, the look on his eyes, you could drown in them. You were just as weak as him by that point.
His hands wander upwards, to the edge of your slip—his keen observations were right, there was nothing underneath to conceal yourself from. You had nothing to hide from him.
Both of his hands keep you open for him, your cunt glistening from your pent up desires and frustrations. His mouth waters at the sight, he was indecisive with where to begin.
He starts slow, he presses chaste kisses inside your thighs, leaving a trail of saliva, the view before you made your cunt clench on nothing. Your hand goes to his auburn hair, immediately bracing yourself from him. He does the same for the other side, kisses turning sloppy and wet, purposefully drooling over your skin, the sheen from the candlelight makes it look impossible to ignore.
He moans between your thighs, the vibration of it was close enough to your weeping cunt, your arousal dripping down the clean sheets.
You let out a needy whine, your thighs becoming unbearable for him to hold back as you retaliate for his leisureliness.
“More. Apologise to me, properly,” you ordered once more, your eyelids drooping as you slowly come down in a haze, your breaths had become lighter, slower, but your heart had been pounding on your chest.
Gwayne obliges, immediately, his tongue licking a stripe on your cunt, the flavour of you flooding his mind and body. He licks it with fervour, from your hole up to your hardened pearl.
But he takes his time, again, he moves down, sucking your arousal clean from your needy hole, his nose nudging your clit as he does—the mere friction of it sends waves of pleasure all over your body. Gwayne is drunk on you, relishing your taste and your sounds, his ardour became unmatched. His mouth moves between your pudgy clit, your wet hole, or your entire mound, all of it was coated with your wetness and his saliva.
He slurps and licks you clean, pressing his face closer to your cunt, the act making you go hot all over your body. He hums in content, the vibrations doing something to you that it’s unfathomably difficult to keep upright.
He does the humming again and you’re forced to hold onto the back of his neck, grounding your hips against his face as you mewl in delight—taking your pleasure. Gwayne cups the globes of your ass, the long forgotten shift hiking up even more, pulling you more closer to him, as if it were possible to be more closer. You rock your cunt against him, your arousal spreading and dripping all over his mouth and chin. He licks and kisses you, occasionally driving his tongue into your weeping hole, leaving you breathless at every turn.
Gwayne pins your hips down, his grip on you could leave bruises come morning, but none of that was any of your concern as his pecks soft kisses on your wetness and swirling the tip of his tongue on your swollen clit. Gwayne becomes hungry again. He eats you out like you are his first and last meal on earth, indulging in the finest of forbidden fruit and sin.
You grew wanton and needy from his antics, lapping at your cunt and smearing more of his saliva, creating such a hot mess of you both.
There’s this feeling that coils in your stomach, ready to snap at any moment. You pushed his head further into you, humping his face as you felt yourself peak on his tongue.
A loud cry of his name slipped past your cherry-stained lips, your body twitching in pleasure as your climax surged through your body and into his mouth as Gwayne licked you clean. You hissed at the aftershocks of your endeavour, you were still recovering from your high and Gwayne was still adamant for yet another peak from you, his hold on you loosened. Waiting for your next move.
Gwayne had started to strip away his clothes, his neediness evident in his breeches. But he pulls away from you, a pout on his arousal-slicked lips at your lack of attention to him.
You were still angry, of course, your eyes averted away from him.
“Not tonight, Gwayne.”
Standing up, you straightened your shift and smiled softly at him before leaving him wanting more as you walked towards the door and opened it, you took one last look at him and said.
“Maybe next time … when we are on ... better terms.”
Thinking about Gwayne being the most devoted husband..
He seeks you out everywhere, and in every thing. Knighthood may have taught him to be vigilant and steadfast, always looking over one shoulder to the other, but it doesn’t come close to how quickly he finds you.
His eyes search. Across court, through corridors, from the other side of the courtyard, even mid conversation, his gaze remains on you. Studying, computing, making sure you are alright, for no other reason than because he can.
No matter how many years together, he still treats you as he did when you were his betrothed. But in the sense that his chivalry knows no bounds. Only now, knowing you more. Always walking a step behind you, but with his hand raised to your lower back. Bringing flowers by hand to your solar or chambers when he returns home. Unclasping his cloak from himself to drape it around your shoulders on colder nights. It’s become second nature now.
And he secretly loves when you steal them from him, letting it fall into your hands even when his men eye him from behind. He could care less, so long as you’re the one doing it.
You’re the last person he sees before battles, if the time will allow him. It’s a ritual he has, already in his armour, tucking his helm under his arm before standing in front of you.
“Do you have to go?” You blink up at him, still fussing with the steel placed on his arm.
“You know that I must. I only want to make sure your face is the last I see.” His voice is a delicate rasp, not once tearing his eyes from you as his fingers raise you strike your cheek.
Your hand plants into the metal under your hand, nudging him as he tempts a smile, the action barely knocking him back at all. And then he leans, placing a kiss to your cheek, one longing and lasting, nudging his nose to yours as he breaths. Another one captures your lips, this time more fervent, both palms smoothing to the sides of your face as he draws you near. So that should it be the last, it’s the only thing to remember him by.
Speaking of battle and being taken from you, he brings souvenirs and gifts back with him as often as he can. Pressed flowers in his handkerchief at his breastplate, ones far from what you’re used to, summer flowers, wildflowers, and herbs in vibrant colours. Trinkets and delicate pieces of jewellery that are dainty enough to fit into his pockets. Or simply just the small letters he sends more frequently than he should by Raven.
Always signed with the signature of his name and beneath it:
Forever Yours.
The most protective in the quiet way. Because even if he can’t be beside you, his eye always is. Though jealousy isn’t something strong with him, he is weary of those around him, with full trust and care of you. He had seen how depraved men can be, how ruthless they become with a quick turn. At feasts he pulls out your chair, sliding an arm around you, or settling lowly on your knee, at ceremonies or in large crowds he’s at your side. And when others raise their voice or get too close, he’s slipping impossibly close just to put himself between you and the danger.
Gwayne doesn’t do titles, at least only for the times when duty doesn’t require it, and he introduces you as such. To him you are not just lady.. he speaks your name first, and that alone, before he continues.
“My wife..” A proud smile appearing on his face as he draws you closer to him. Though for whatever reason, he still uses ‘My Lady’ to tease in the softer moments, wrapping his arms behind you as you stand in front of your vanity, lips pursing at your neck. Because the titles and endearments are for you, no one else.
His favourite pastime is just being in the quiet with you, existing together, more so reading. Sometimes he will read with you in his lap, one hand combing gently through your hair as you listen, drifting slowly. Other times he’s the one laid behind you, your back pressed into his chest, his arms curling around you as you hold the book. Those are the rare times he truly feels like he relaxes, eyes closing, breath warm at your neck, listening to the soothing tone of your voice.
He reserves the more lighthearted sides of himself in private. Most people would describe him as plain, a chivalrous, good man, but perhaps in some people’s eyes boring. He doesn’t stand and shout amongst the other men, or become raucous in crowds, but he isn’t without humour. It’s dry, and sarcastic like he is. Like the looks he gives you from the side when a lord drones on too long, or the sly comments he makes behind someone else’s back that make you both laugh when you’re attempting to stay serious. There is more to him than most know, and he’s often mocking them at their own expense, just to see you smile.
When the weight of the realm feels impossibly heavy, he simply rests his forehead against your own, in company or without it. It’s your shared way of grounding one another, and how he vows to you silently, over and over, that he is yours. He’s here to protect, and be by your side more than any other responsibility that befalls him.
“Yours, before all else.”
He says it plainly, a whisper against your lips or into your hair, meant only for you, because by the Seven and his oath, that’s the truest thing he’ll ever believe in.
| After your marriage to Gwayne as a Stark lady, you’ve been living in old town, but you can’t help but to miss the north ۶ৎ
Cw:: homesickness, fluffff, no description of the reader beside being a stark and having hair
Your head is rested on the palm of your hand as you’re seated by the window, looking at the lights of the city. Oldtown. It’s a beautiful city you admit it, it’s large, full of historical richness. Much warmer than winterfell, which you’re still yet to get used to. All of your life so far you’re used to snow falling from the dark sky most year around, being wrapped up in heavy furs, but now all of it is in past. As your eyes land on the sight of The Starry Sept, you let out a soft sigh of weariness. You miss sacred groves in the north, you miss going to the hearth tree when everything felt too much, but now you have nowhere to go.
“You’re thinking too much” you suddenly hear a voice behind you, jumping slightly startled by the sudden presence. You turn around enough to face him, as you smile slightly, barely, as you mutter “husband”. Gwayne comes to site beside you, as he scoops your legs to his lap. “What has made you upset sweet wife?” He inquires as he starts to draw soft circles on your knee. All you answer is “nothing” without even turning to look at him, keeping your eyes glued at the window, looking at the city with melancholy in your eyes.
“Then why are you looking at the city as if it has personally upset you?”
“Maybe it has”
To that Gwayne couldn’t help but to let out a low chuckle. His fingers come to play with the end of your hair, while he tries to think of the best words to speak next, to get you to open up to him, after all he only wants to help, ease your sorrow. After some time his fingers move from your hair to your chin, turning it so you have no choice but to look at him in the eye “tell me”
You look down at your lap while starting to fidget with the sleeve of your dress “I miss north, winterfell” . You stay quiet after it, waiting to see if Gwayne speaks up, he doesn’t, so you take it as a sign to continue. “It’s not that I don’t like it here, I do, but I just….. miss home. The snow, the people, all of it” you admit, eyes becoming glassy as you try to hold back the tears, that are threatening to fall.
Gwayne can’t help but to frown at the sight of you, teary eyed, filled with sadness. For the seven gods he wants to take away your sorrow, he’d rather carry it himself then have you feel ounce of sadness. His hand comes to cup of your soft cheek “I wish you had told me earlier darling”
“There’s nothing you can do about it”
“There’s always something that I can do. And I don’t want you to carry sadness alone ever again. If something or someone ever upsets you, tell me. Let me help, I’m your husband after all”
For awhile he just looks at you, looking as the word sinks to you, making sure you know you can always come to him. Lastly he pulls you for a tight hug, his hand coming to your hair, rubbing it comfortably. “I know this isn’t much, but we could travel to winterfell next year” he offers as he lives a lingering kiss on the top of your head.
Tags: @userhotd @littlelovebiird @vlarrtrgryn {feel free to comment, message or send me an ask if you’d like to be tagged in my future posts!}
𓏲ּ𝄢 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: pregnancy has left you sickened by nearly every scent in oldtown. your only reprieve is burying your face in gwayne’s neck. though your poor husband rarely escapes without his pretty, pale skin thoroughly ravished.
𓏲ּ𝄢 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: smut, romance, cockwarming, pregnant sex, p what p, poor gwayne, his wife is a menace, domestic fluff, 18+ MDNI
𓏲ּ𝄢 𝐚𝐧: in celebration of gwayne finally having a bath in hotd. don’t get me wrong, I would have 100% risked that STI for dirty Gwayne, but now we can all admire that pretty pale neck again….
anways! this is also a little thank you for the unexpected, wonderful reaction i received on my debut gwayne fic! this can be read as a continuation or a stand-alone.
𓏲ּ𝄢 𝐰𝐜: 1.3k (oneshot)
You were barely showing, just the softest swell beneath the silk of your abandoned nightgown, but the pregnancy had already made your stomach squeamish.
Gwayne sat with you in the wide armchair by the open balcony doors, the warm night air billowing the gauzy curtains with the scent of the bay and night-blooming summer flowers. You were settled fully in his lap, arms around his neck, bare skin against his, his cock buried deep inside you and simply… resting there. Warm and full from your first round. Neither of you moved. The slow, steady throb of him against your walls was enough. It soothed the deep soreness pregnancy had left you with, and that restless ache that forever made you want to live in his skin.
Your nose was buried in the pale column of his throat.
You could not get enough of the smell of him. Clean skin, faint traces of the cedar and orange soap the maids used on him, and underneath it the deeper, warmer scent that was purely your Gwayne.
Ormund’s cloying perfumes made your stomach turn these days and the entire household reeked of his potpourri. You kept the windows and doors thrown open all day and night. But your husband’s neck was the one thing in the world that did not make you want to retch.
So you scented him constantly. And took advantage of him as you pleased, ravishing his pretty, pale skin. Your poor husband patiently endured his fate, condemned to spend his days feasted upon, the long column of his neck bitten red and purple for the whole of court to see.
“My dragon love is attempting to eat me again,” he murmured, voice low and amused even as he tilted his head to grant you better access. “I have a meeting with the High Septon in the morning, you greedy, greedy woman.”
You hummed against his skin, the sound making him close his eyes. His Adam’s apple bobbed and you attacked it. Your teeth scraped at the sensitive skin. He hissed, hand tightening on your hip. You soothed the sting at once with soft kitten licks, tongue tracing the indentations you had left.
“Sorry,” you whispered against his skin, not sounding very sorry at all. “You are just so pretty, husband. And you smell… gods, Gwayne.”
You whined as you buried your face again in the curve of his neck, just breathing him in. You felt like Ormund with his damned pomander.
“How am I to survive a whole week without this?” you asked mournfully.
“Stay.” His hand found the gentle swell of your belly and spread protectively over it. “It is far too much strain to ride in your condition.”
“The babe will be perfectly fine—"
“It is too much strain for you.”
He caught your chin and guided your face away from his throat until you were forced to look at him. Green eyes steady, serious. “You are already ill every morning. You scarcely keep anything down till midday. I worry for you.”
You hummed in reluctant acknowledgment and dipped your head again, resuming your slow, wet kisses, tasting the salt of his skin.
“Rhaenyra is with her second child already,” you murmured against his skin. “We want to go together and choose eggs for the babes to cradle with.” Your hand drifted down to rest over his on your stomach. “Oh, how sweet would it be if they were of the same clutch?”
“Very sweet,” Gwayne conceded, though his tone suggested he found the prospect considerably less charming than you did. He tried, but your husband was not born with fire singing in his blood. You could not fault him for not understanding. “But please, dearest, you should make the journey after the babe arrives and you have recovered.”
You answered him by rolling your hips.
A slow, deliberate grind that dragged your slick walls along the thick length buried inside you. Gwayne’s breath left him in a rough exhale and you felt him twitch inside of you, swelling even fuller. His hands immediately settled at your hips, large and warm.
“Again, for me,” he rasped.
You obliged. Up and down, slow at first, savoring every inch of the stretch, the way he filled you so completely even when neither of you was thrusting hard. The armchair creaked beneath you. You were dripping; his seed from the first round already spilled out with every upward slide, slicking his thighs and balls, making filthy wet sounds that filled the quiet chamber. Mixed with the quiet wash of the bay and the soft rustle of curtains, it was obscene.
You whined and he helped you without hesitation. His strong hands lifted and lowered you in a steady, generous rhythm, strong thighs braced beneath yours.
You kept your face buried to his skin, dipping to suck dark marks at his collar, breathing him in like you were starving for him, licking sweat from his skin, biting down whenever the pleasure spiked too high.
“That’s it,” he whispered against your hair, voice strained. “Have what you need, sweetling. Use me.”
You whimpered and clenched around him, his words going straight to the tight coil low in your belly. Your pace turned desperate, grinding harder, faster, chasing the friction of his cockhead against that perfect spot inside you while your sensitive clit dragged against the base of his dark curls on every roll.
“My love,” he gasped, head tipping back against the chair, his eyes fixed on you. “My beautiful love. Gods, I should keep you always like this— soft and lovely with my babe.”
Your pace quickened, hips rolling with growing urgency. The soft swell of your stomach brushed against his abdomen with every downward slide. One of his hands left your hip to cup the back of your head, holding you close so you could keep nuzzling and biting as you pleased. The other remained firm on your hip, helping you rise and sink, rise and sink, until the pleasure coiled tight and bright low in your belly.
You pulled your head back just enough to grip his chin and drag his mouth to yours. Breath mixed. Teeth clicked.
You came with a muffled cry, walls fluttering and clenching around him. Gwayne groaned deeply, hips lifting once, twice, grinding up into you as he followed, spilling hot and deep while you rode out every last pulse.
For a long moment neither of you moved. You stayed exactly where you were: impaled, trembling, staring into his green eyes while you stroked his hair and pressed soft, open-mouthed kisses to his lips. His hands stayed wrapped around your back, holding you gently against him even as his cock twitched with aftershocks inside you.
“That was shameless,” he murmured.
“Was it persuasive?”
Gwayne gave you a long, unimpressed look. You smiled sweetly.
“…You are an unscrupulous woman.”
You squealed with joyous victory, peppering thankful kisses to the scar under his eye.
He ran his fingers through his hair, brushing it from his face, doing poorly to hide his own smile.
“You have my blessing— provided the maesters find no cause for concern.” His gaze sharpened. “And you will rest once you arrive. You will not exhaust yourself attempting to keep pace with your sister, and at the first hint of pain— however slight— you will stay with her and send for me.”
“You make me sound so terribly fragile.”
He pressed a kiss to your left eye, then to your right. “You are what is most precious to me.”
Then he bent to your throat and began repaying your greedy attentions, one lingering kiss at a time.
HOTD masterlist
@ange0o
if you want to be in my tagged for any character i write for let me know :)
genre, warnings ⊹ fluff. tooth rooting fluff. reader is a stark. semi established marriage. slight age gap. ゞ 804.
メ ” was it duty ? or was it love at first sight all along ”
at first your arranged marriage with gwayne was... alright not too overly sweet nor bitter either, it was just a formal companionship a balance one, you both respected eachothers boundaries. though you had already consummate your marriage with him, as it was your duty as a man and wife.
but it has been for a while that gwayne was acting slightly suspicious. not in a bad way... but it was good... too good to be actually true.
before all the changes, he would leave you alone after coupling up with you, but now he does not... you wake up beside his warm and lean body every morning. his arms wrapped around you...
it was strange. but you tried your best to avoid it. before he would not even hold your hand in public. but recently he started placing soft kisses, sometimes on your lips, on your temple or cheeks.
it was all so wonderful, but you were also afraid.' what if he is just taking advantage you ? what if it is just a phase ?' these kind of thoughts were floating inside your mind.
it was a fine day, the weather in oldtown was incredibly pleasant. you were sitting alone on the bench enjoying the cool breeze in the garden. it was perfect... the wind was playing with your hair, the soft sunlight painted your face in golden. you were wearing a green coloured gown. the colour of his house.
your fingers were working on the cloth with needle knitting a handkerchief. you were knitting a sigel of hightower. the handkerchief was for him.
you were humming a lullaby while doing the work. your eyes were so focused on the cloth. that you did not even realize he was sitting beside you on the bench.
listening to your silly little humming.
it was his coughing which startled you and drifted you out of your dreamland. so you lifted your head and looked at him.
" you are bleeding my lady-" you heard him saying that, then you realized. you have injured your middle finger with the needle. his voice was filled with worry and concern.
the next moment he grabbed your wrist gently, pulled it closer to his lips and sucked the dripping blood from your finger. it was shocking to you. the sensation was ticklish and soft. it filled your stomach with butterflies.
your gaze was fixed on him. he was looking so lovely. 'was he frowning ?' you wondered.
" it does not matter, it is nothing too harmful, it will be alright my lord." you stated in your calm and collective voice. or you tried to.
" you... still harmed yourself." he answered against your finger, before leaving a soft kiss on it. " and it matters to me." he added as he let go of your hand slowly.
" so... what brings you here, to seek me out like this ? " you asked him as you tried to brush off his earlier words. your fingers were tingling with heat and excitement. so you grabbed the discarded handkerchief and the needle to start your work again.
" i wanted to see my ladywife... do i need a reason to seek you out my sweet." his pretty voice was so close to you, his breath was brushing against your ear. you could feel your heart was hammering inside your ribs.
" well ? no... not really." you responded casually. your hand started to move again on the cloth skilfully.
" is it for me ? " he asked softly his gaze was on the handkerchief. you looked up at him with an unsure look.
then he tilted his head slowly as he lifted his head and meet your lovely doe eyed gaze with his proud one... he was smiling. like he already knew that it is for him...
you just nodded slowly before breaking the eye contact.
" you have a pretty voice, sweetling you should sing more." your fingers stilled on the cloth, his voice was alot more intimate now. 'was he teasing you ?' you wondered.
" well i was aware of that fact... i get to hear you pretty voice... whenever i am buried deep inside you..." he added softly and very slowly, his voice was low an intimate whisper only for your ears.
" m- my lord... are you here... to mess with me ??" you asked him softly your voice was uncertain and doubtful. the redness on your cheeks were touching your ears.
" no.. my love... i just realised that you have got me wrapped around your finger... " he murmured softly against your ear. his lips were grazing your ear. your breath hitched and a soft sigh left from your lips.
" you.. love me ?" you asked, your voice trembled as you asked him a risky question. you did not look up at him.
you turn on the bench facing him fully. your uncertain eyes met his loving ones. " do... you love me husband ? "
your hands were shaking at this point. it felt like your heart is going to burst open.
" i do... i have been inlove with you" his voice was soft like he is reassuring you as he took your hands in his both hands and placed soft kisses on your each knuckle slowly. without breaking the eye contact.
your breath hitched, tears started to form around your eyes. and there was a pretty smile on his face.
" lets make many babes together." the moment these words came out from his pretty lips, you pulled your hands away from his and stand up from the bench in embarrassment.
you heard his muffled chuckle as you walked away from him, and you could tell that he was following you.
you heard him almost shouting your name. but you did not stop. you were too flustered to face him right this moment.
and the handkerchief ? you will probably gift him sooner or later.
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