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@jessmyspace
Keeping Up With The Targaryens: Episode 1 (The Family Arrives At Ashford)
House Targaryen makes its way to an otherwise unremarkable region, and the boys have some thoughts on the matter.
(visit my pinned post for the rest of the episodes!)
"Looks like a cinnamon roll" "could kill you"
"Looks like they could kill you" "is a cinnamon roll"
"Looks like a cinnamon roll" "is a cinnamon roll"
"Looks like they could kill you" "would kill you"
taglist: @sihtricfedaraaahvicius @neonhairspray @foxyanon @legitalicat @thenameswinter99 @ladyinred2248 @oddsnendsfanfics
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In this moment, you will become queen.
House of the Dragon - 3.02 |
“The boys who used to cling to me, who hid their little faces in my skirts, are dead now.”
Emma what an angelical face you have
Burnt Bread And Broken Hearts
Pairing: Gwayne Hightower x fem!reader
Authors note: I have no idea how Ser Gwayne Hightower managed to crawl under my skin by appearing for a few seconds on screen but here I am writing for the sad noble knight as if my life depended on it.
Warnings: SMUT 18+
Word Count: 5,8 K
Summary: a wounded knight, a healer's hut, and a love neither of them can afford
Dividers by @cafekitsune
The rain had come and gone three times that day. The forest smelled of wet earth and pine, and the cool air had made goosebumps rise along your arms. You shivered and gripped tighter your woven basket half-filled with mushrooms and wild herbs.
Most villagers avoided the forest even during the day, and every child knew the stories about spirits wandering beneath the trees once the light faded.
You knew better. The woods held wolves, thieves, and men. Those were the real danger.
The shadows were getting longer, you had to get home before darkness settled in.
It was when a distant sound reached you through the trees – a groan, low but unmistakably human.
You stopped and listened, the sound came again, so full of pain and angry despair that it made you flinch.
For a moment, you considered turning around and running. You didn’t. You couldn’t.
Your mind screamed at you in agony, calling you a fool, that whatever had happened here had nothing to do with you, that the only sensible thing to do was to vanish before anything worse happened.
You had never been good at sensible.
You stepped from the path and pushed through the undergrowth. The forest slowly darkened around you as the last remnants of daylight vanished behind thick clouds, but the direction you had chosen was right – the groaning grew louder.
A shape emerged between the trees.
A horse.
Dead.
Saddle half-torn loose, some pieces of armor scattered just next to it and several paces farther on – a man, sprawled against the roots of an ancient oak, one arm hanging uselessly at his side, face streaked with mud.
Your breath caught.
Not a bandit.
A knight, or rather what remained of one.
You stopped dead in your tracks. Men in armor brought trouble. Noblemen brought even more.
For all their faults, thieves and bandits understood the sacred rule: do not bite the hand that heals you. They knew what it was to go hungry, to bleed, to depend on the mercy of another. Noblemen rarely did.
They moved through the world as though it had been laid at their feet for their use alone. Gratitude flowed upward, never down. Kindness was expected, service demanded, and debts forgotten even before blood had dried on a bandage.
You had learned that lesson young, and life had seen fit to repeat it often.
Yet as you watched, the man’s head shifted weakly and you heard a strained breath escape him.
Not dead, not yet at least. You cursed at your foolishness as you moved closer.
The man's hair, damp with rain, stuck to his forehead, and even the mix of dirt and blood couldn’t completely hide the fine features of his handsome face.
The embroidery on his green doublet, the remnants of his armour, every single thing about this man screamed he was someone important, someone dangerous and surely someone far above the concerns of a village healer living alone on the edge of nowhere.
You leaned in and put your palm on his forehead. Burning hot.
His eyes opened. Blue of the morning sky and still sharp despite the pain. A shaky hand reached for you.
"Water," he rasped before his eyes rolled back, and his body slumped back against the tree.
You stared at him, at the blood seeping through his doublet, at the straight line of his nose, the sharp eyebrows.
The sensible choice would have been to leave him.
Instead, with a muttered curse and a prayer to every god willing to listen, you set down your basket and knelt beside the unconscious stranger.
You fetched the flask hanging from your waistband and slid one hand behind his neck.
"Easy."
His head lolled heavily against your palm and his eyes opened again, unfocused and glassy with pain.
You tipped the flask carefully.
He swallowed once, coughed, then drank again, greedily.
"Not too much," you warned, pulling it away.
His brow furrowed, whether at your words or simply from the effort of staying conscious, you couldn't tell.
For a long moment he simply stared at you. He looked confused, trying to place where he was, who you were, perhaps even remember his own name.
You set the flask aside and turned your attention to the armor.
The breastplate was dented along one side and mud had worked itself into every buckle and strap. You had to get it off but it was clear it was not going to be an easy task.
"What are you doing?" he managed as you started to pull at the straps.
"Saving your life."
Your fingers worked at the leather fastenings, the knight frowned and his hand moved weakly toward yours.
You slapped it away.
"Stop that."
A surprised blink and then, despite the blood loss and obvious pain, something almost resembling offense crossed his face.
"I can't carry you," you said with a slight scoff. "And you can't walk carrying half a forge on your shoulders."
The final buckle came loose, the breastplate shifted and he groaned in pain as you moved his body to ease it away from him.
You kept going – the pauldrons, the vambraces, all went off. He didn’t protest anymore, and piece by piece, all the steel fell away.
You looked at the man revealed beneath it – wiry but well built, pale and far younger than he had first appeared.
The doublet was stained dark with blood. The wound would need cleaning, stitching, perhaps, but none of that could happen in the middle of the forest.
"We need to move."
His eyes closed briefly and when they opened again, they were sharper and more aware.
"I can’t."
"You want to live, you will."
The look he gave you suggested he was unused to being argued with.
You rose to your feet and dusted off your skirts, his gaze followed you.
You offered your hand and after a moment's hesitation, he took it.
You braced your feet.
"Ready?"
"No."
"Good."
You pulled, he cried out as he put all his remaining strength in holding on to you and pushing himself upright. For a second his knees buckled and you already thought he would fall back on the ground, but somehow he managed to keep standing.
"Seven, help me," he muttered through clenched teeth.
You quickly stepped closer, draped his good arm over your shoulders and wrapped your own around his waist.
The weight that settled against you was considerable.
"Gods," you breathed, looking with remorse at your basket on the ground. There was no way you could lean down to fetch it without letting the man drop back into the mud.
The two of you stood there for a moment, swaying slightly.
“Move,” you ordered.
There was a pause but then he shifted his weight forward.
One step. It was shaky and painful, the movement drew a sharp hiss from him but it was a step.
"Good boy," you gave him an encouraging smile.
His jaw clenched but another step followed.
Consciousness returned slowly and in fragments.
First was the feeling of warmth, then the sound of crackling fire, next came the scent of dried herbs.
Pain. A dull, throbbing ache spread through his ribs, shoulder, and side.
Gwayne frowned, his eyelids felt heavy but he forced them open.
A low wooden ceiling, smoke-darkened beams, a small window.
Memories run scattered through his still somewhat foggy brain.
The battle. The screams. The pain.
The fire. The rain. The forest.
A woman.
Beautiful, large eyes looking at him with open annoyance.
He was alive.
The realization came with a fresh pulse of pain and a ragged gasp.
The door opened and you stepped inside carrying a wooden bowl filled with steaming water.
"Look who's decided to rejoin the living," you smiled seeing the young man awake and set the bowl down.
The blanket shifted as he moved, attempting to sit up, and he instantly froze and looked down, realising there was nothing between him and the blanket. Completely, absolutely nothing.
His eyes widened.
"What in the..." his voice sounded hoarse but it still was pleasantly soft.
He looked pointedly at the blanket, then back at you.
You blinked.
"What happened to my clothes?" The accusation in his voice was hard to miss.
You folded your arms.
"They're drying."
A beat of silence passed.
Gwayne's face grew steadily warmer as the implications arranged themselves in his mind and the speed with which the young man’s cheeks all over to his ears turned brightly red made you chuckle.
"You removed them."
"You were unconscious."
"You removed all of them."
You stared.
He stared back.
Finally you let out a long, disbelieving breath. "Seven preserve me."
"What?"
"You wake up in one piece after nearly dying in the middle of nowhere and that's your first concern?"
His jaw tightened.
"You undressed me."
"I saved your life."
"You undressed me."
"I stitched your wounds!”
The man looked genuinely mortified and offended. You looked genuinely ready to throw something at him.
His mouth opened, closed, then opened again but nothing emerged.
"Not even a thank you," your frustration spilled out before you could stop it. "Not one."
Gwayne blinked.
"I carried you out of the woods, spent half the night cleaning blood off you, used almost every bandage and pain soothing herb I had and unless you've discovered some miraculous method of treating wounds through a doublet, yes, I removed your clothes."
The room fell quiet.
Gwayne found himself staring at a knot in the wooden wall, and his ears felt suspiciously warm.
"You stitched my wounds?"
"That is generally how healing works when someone has a hole in his side."
Gwayne shut his eyes and rubbed a hand over his face, the movement pulled painfully and he hissed.
The concern drove away the annoyance from your features so quickly that it caught him off guard. You immediately stepped forward.
"Don't. You'll tear the stitches."
Your gaze dropped to the bandages wrapped around his torso.
"Try sitting up slowly."
Gwayne eyed you suspiciously.
"Why?"
"Because if you're going to continue being difficult, I'd at least like you to be conscious for it."
It had been on the third day that the young man finally revealed his name.
To his credit, there had been no grand announcement, no expectation that the world should stop and marvel at it.
The truth had surfaced gradually, piece by piece, through idle conversation and half-answered questions until, with visible reluctance, he admitted that he was Ser Gwayne Hightower.
You cursed inwardly.
A Hightower. As if sheltering a wounded knight beneath your roof was not enough trouble to tempt fate. Of course he had to be a nobleman as well. Of course he had to belong to one of the most powerful houses in the realm, a house with its hands buried up to the elbows in the bloodiest war of the century.
Just your luck.
You dragged a half-dead stranger out of the forest and somehow ended up with a piece of the realm's troubles sleeping in your bed.
The days that followed settled into a rhythm neither of you acknowledged aloud – each morning began with fresh bandages and a new argument.
Gwayne healed quickly, much faster than you had expected. The fever broke after three days and by the end of the week, he could cross the room without needing to lean on walls or furniture. He stubbornly refused your hand whenever you offered it to him.
He had tried to ask you questions about the course of the war. You cut him off before he could speak them out.
"No discussions about kings, queens, claimants, dragons, battles, or whichever noble lord is currently trying to kill whichever noble lord."
A faint frown appeared between his brows.
"I merely wished to know..."
“I said, no,” you tied off the fresh bandage with perhaps a little more force than necessary.
Gwayne studied you for a moment.
"I'm too poor to have the luxury of caring who sits on the Iron Throne," you finally said and turned to face him. "When lords quarrel, villages burn. While princes decide who is entitled to crowns, common folk bury their sons. Armies take grain, horses trample fields, and healers like me spend their days stitching together whatever is left behind."
You folded your arms.
"I heal whoever comes through that door. Farmer. Merchant. Shepherd. Drunkard. When I picked you up in the woods, I didn’t ask for your title.”
Your gaze drifted briefly to the fresh bandages wrapped around his torso.
"I have no desire to be part of noble quarrels," you said at last, more quietly. "I don't want favors. I don't want rewards. I certainly don't want enemies."
A muscle shifted in Gwayne's jaw as it slowly hit him, the reason for that distinct feeling that learning his name had somehow lowered your opinion of him.
"You think knowing my name places you in danger."
"I know it does."
The certainty in your voice surprised him.
"When you leave this place, Ser Gwayne, I sincerely hope you forget the path that brought you here."
His expression tightened.
"You saved my life."
"Exactly."
You pointed at him.
"And if, after all that, the thanks I receive is having soldiers, rivals, debt collectors, spies, or ambitious noblemen showing up at my door asking questions, then I hope every old and new god in the Seven Kingdoms curses you for the rest of your days."
For a heartbeat, Gwayne simply stared, his blue eyes met yours and something softer flickered there, something unusually sincere.
"I give you my word. No one will hear of this place from me," the solemn certainty in his voice surprised you, and for reasons you could not entirely explain, you found yourself believing him.
A week later, Gwayne Hightower discovered that recovering from a near-death injury was considerably easier than earning your approval.
Gwayne had spent most of his life knowing exactly what was expected of him.
He was a knight. A Hightower. A soldier. The son of a powerful house.
There had always been a place for him in the world, a purpose that fit as naturally as a sword hilt in his hand until he woke up in your hut and discovered that in your world he had none of all that. Even more - he was entirely useless.
The realization did not come all at once.
At first, there was the wound. No man could be expected to work while half stitched together and burning with fever but the fever broke and the strength returned.
The days passed.
You rose before dawn every morning.
By the time he woke, water had already been fetched, the fire lit, herbs sorted, breakfast prepared.
Then the rest of the day began: children with split open knees, farmers with swollen joints, old women seeking remedies for aching backs, broken bones, cuts, fever.
You treated them all.
Then there was laundry, cooking, cleaning, mending, collecting herbs, brewing potions, the work never seemed to end, and somehow everything that needed doing simply found its way into your hands.
For the first time in his life, Gwayne found himself uncertain of where he belonged within it all. Worse still, he discovered that he wanted to belong.
Every morning he woke to the scent of porridge or fresh bread and the soft sounds of a household already awake around him.
It was a small life by the standards of lords and castles, a simple one, hard, undoubtedly, and demanding in ways he had never seen before, yet there was something about it that drew him in.
Perhaps it was the honesty of it, the quiet purpose woven into every task, or perhaps it was simply you.
Whatever the reason, Gwayne found himself wanting, more and more, to be a part of this strange little world fate had thrown him into.
It took him a while before he braved to offer help, but it seemed the least he could do.
A mistake.
A terrible mistake.
The first task you entrusted him with was watching the bread.
It sounded almost insultingly simple – sit by the oven, keep an eye on it, take it out when it was done.
A few distracted thoughts later, smoke began pouring from the oven and by the time he realized something was wrong and dragged the loaf out, it had transformed into a charred black brick that could scarcely be called bread anymore.
Your face when you discovered it haunted him for days.
The bowls proved even less cooperative. The task was to wash and dry them.
How could anyone wash dozens of fragile things every day without breaking them?
As the third one hit the floor, Gwayne stopped and sat down with his head in his hands.
Not that he had more luck with the wood. You had found him standing in front of the chopping block and watching the axe stuck in the log after his first swing with absolutely no idea how to get the stubborn tool out of it.
The truth was humiliating.
He was a knight and yet you were more capable than him in almost every practical matter that kept a household alive.
At first he found that realization uncomfortable, then impossible to stop thinking about.
He started to watch you. Not intentionally, at least, not at first.
His gaze simply found you. Again and again.
There was confidence in everything you did – competence earned through years of doing.
There was no one else in your life. No servants. No household staff. No family helping. Just you and yet somehow you managed it all.
And for the first time in his life, Gwayne found himself wondering if fate had dropped him into the world with nothing but his own hands, would he have managed half as well as you?
He wasn’t certain, and it made him feel both shame and admiration.
The realization arrived gradually like the dawn creeping across a room.
No single moment or dramatic revelation, just a growing certainty.
He liked your sharp tongue, the way you refused to be intimidated by him, the way you argued with him without hesitation or the way your eyes flashed whenever he said something particularly foolish.
Gods.
Especially that.
You were infuriating and somehow he found himself looking forward to every argument.
He liked hearing your voice, just simply being near you and seeing you smile. At some point, without noticing when or how, you had become the first thing he looked for when he woke and the last thing he thought about before sleep and once he acknowledged that, the rest became impossible to deny.
Your handsome knightly patient was getting better with every passing day and somehow it made you inexplicably sad.
Patients came and went. Some stayed for an afternoon, some for a few days. They arrived carrying pain, fear, and uncertainty and departed as soon as their bodies allowed it.
That was how it was meant to be.
Yet lately, whenever you looked at Gwayne, you found yourself wishing his recovery would slow.
Not stop, just... slow.
The wound along his side had nearly closed, the bruising had faded. He moved easily now, no longer wincing every time he stood, soon there would be nothing left keeping him here.
The thought sat heavily in your chest whenever you allowed yourself to think about it for too long, but even if you tried not to allow it, your attention kept drifting toward him.
The truth was, he was not at all what you had expected.
When you had learned who he was, you had imagined the worst – a proud nobleman, demanding and entitled, the sort who believed the world existed for his convenience only.
Instead, fate had delivered you a knight who burned bread, shattered bowls, and spent half an hour contemplating a log because he did not know how to chop it.
The memory still made you laugh and there was one thing you couldn’t deny – his efforts had been genuine, even after repeated failures, especially after repeated failures, he still never acted as though any task was beneath him.
Despite all his attempts to appear composed, he still blushed every time you changed his bandages.
A grown man and a knight, reduced to awkward silence and burning cheeks whenever you untied the laces of his shirt.
You glanced up from sewing the torn sleeve of his doublet.
Lost in thought Gwayne was staring into the fire again. He looked so out of place when he did that.
He looked lonely.
You had spent most of your life alone, you were used to it, and yet for a brief, foolish moment, you found yourself imagining what would happen if he stayed.
The thought lasted all of three seconds but it was enough for you to accidentally drive the needle into your thumb.
Then common sense returned with the pain.
“Ouch,” you hissed.
He would never stay and even if he wanted to, he shouldn't.
Gwayne belonged to castles and armies and great stone cities, to duties and responsibilities, to a world you could scarcely imagine.
You lived in a forgotten hut at the edge of a forest.
Your lives were not even supposed to touch.
Carefully, you brushed your fingers over the healed skin on Gwayne’s side one last time.
The gash was gone, the skin had knitted together cleanly and what remained would also fade with time.
You didn’t even notice Gwayne had gone suspiciously still beneath your touch.
"Well," you leaned back. "Congratulations. You are healed."
You both glanced down at the discarded bandage in your hands.
"There is no need for another one," you said more quietly.
You knew exactly what that meant. He could finally leave.
You placed the bandages aside and pushed yourself off the bed as a hand closed around your wrist.
Your eyes dropped to the place where his fingers touched your skin.
Gwayne immediately looked as though he regretted every decision that had led him to this moment.
Color flooded his face.
Gods.
You had never seen a man blush so thoroughly.
The redness reached all the way to his ears.
For a heartbeat he simply stared at your joined hands.
Then he released a breath.
Opened his mouth.
Closed it again.
You waited.
Gwayne looked like a man preparing to charge a dragon.
You blinked.
"I … I…,” he stammered.
“What?"
A flash of horror crossed his face.
"Gwayne."
His gaze found yours again.
"Come… come with me," he finally managed.
You stared, certain you had misunderstood.
"What?"
His grip tightened slightly before immediately loosening again.
As though he feared frightening you away.
"When I leave."
The words came slowly now.
Carefully.
"I want you to come with me."
For a moment, you simply looked at him, at the handsome knight sitting on your bed with an earnest terror in his eyes.
A soft, disbelieving laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
"Gwayne."
"I know how it sounds."
"Do you?"
He closed his eyes and shook his head.
That, at least, was honest.
Neither of you moved but neither of you looked away.
Gwayne still held your wrist lightly. Slowly, almost hesitantly, he loosened his grip and turned your hand in his.
His gaze dropped to your fingers as he lifted your hand toward his mouth.
The touch of his lips against your knuckles was feather-light.
You could have pulled away.
You knew that.
You should have.
Instead, your hand remained where it was.
Gwayne kissed your knuckles first, one after another, slowly, eyes shut close, savouring every touch of his lips against your skin.
When he finally looked up at you again, something had changed.
The uncertainty in his gaze remained, but now there was something else alongside it.
Wonder.
As though he could scarcely believe you were still there, that you hadn’t pulled your hand away.
Slowly, giving you every opportunity to stop him, he leaned closer.
"Gwayne..."
His gaze flickered briefly to your mouth then back to your eyes. You held your breath but didn’t move away.
Carefully, tentatively his lips brushed yours. So lightly, so briefly that at first you almost wondered whether it had happened at all, even so your heart stumbled painfully in your chest.
Gwayne’s eyes fluttered shut and he leaned in once more. His hand cupped your cheek and you could feel the slight tremor in his fingers as though he could scarcely believe he was allowed to touch you.
You felt him smile faintly against your lips, a small, disbelieving thing, as if he had spent so long hoping for this moment that now he didn't quite trust it to be real.
Without thinking, your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer.
It drew a soft breath from him, something between a soft moan and a whimper.
The sound sent warmth flooding through you.
Gwayne's hand, still resting against your cheek, slipped into your hair, his fingers threading through the strands before settling at the nape of your neck. The touch was careful, almost protective, yet there was nothing uncertain about it anymore.
The kiss deepened, his lips moved against yours with impossible tenderness but you could feel the quickened beat of his heart beneath your palm on his chest.
When you finally broke apart, it was only because breathing had become necessary.
"Gods," he murmured.
"What?"
A smile appeared. It was slow but bright enough to transform his entire face.
"I was certain you were going to throw something at me."
Despite yourself, you laughed.
Gwayne drew back with the unmistakable look of a man gathering the courage to say something that mattered.
His lips parted.
You already knew what was coming.
A promise, a plan, something sensible and reassuring.
You did not want any of it. You didn’t want promises that were impossible to keep. You wanted this moment, this beautiful fleeting moment between now and then, where everything was possible and nothing was spoken out loud.
Before he could say anything, you lifted a finger and pressed it gently against his lips.
"Hush."
He blinked.
"Don't."
There was confusion in his gaze, you ignored it.
Slowly, you guided him backward. He let you. The mattress dipped beneath his weight.
His gaze never left your face.
You crawled on top of him, straddling his hips. His heartbeat picked up beneath your palm. Fast. Much too fast for a knight.
You smiled.
"Don't speak," you murmured.
His throat bobbed.
"Just feel. No promises. Just this one night."
Your fingers drifted absentmindedly across taut planes of his abdomen tracing the familiar lines of the body you had spent weeks tending back to health.
Beneath your touch, every muscle seemed to go still.
You leaned in and pressed your lips to the scar on his side. Gwayne's breath caught audibly, head tipping back with a soft gasp.
The sound emboldened you. You kissed the line of the scar again, letting your tongue trace its length. His hips twitched beneath you and a low, broken sound left his throat.
“Gods…” he breathed, fingers flexing against the sheets as if he didn’t know whether to reach for you or hold himself back.
“Schhhh, my knight,” you whispered.
You took your time exploring him with your hands and mouth, every scar, every ridge of muscle, every place your fingers had once brushed as you tended his wounds, you worshiped them now with your lips and tongue – the hollow of his throat, the sharp line of his collarbone, the sensitive spot just beneath his ribs that made his breath hitch sharply.
Gwayne’s head pressed back into the pillow, eyes half-lidded. You loved the soft, helpless sounds that spilled from his lips with every touch, all the quiet gasps and shaky moans. His hands finally rose to your waist, gripping lightly, reverently, as though you were something sacred he was terrified of breaking.
“Don’t…,” he managed, voice wrecked. “I… I can’t…”
You silenced him with a deep kiss, swallowing his words as you rocked your hips slowly down against his. His fingers dug into your waist, then loosened again, trembling with the effort.
“It’s my choice,” you said firmly. “You’re mine for this one night. Unless you tell me you don’t want it.”
Gwayne swallowed hard but didn’t say anything.
“I take it for a yes,” you smiled and started to pull your dress over your head.
You let your fingers trail the hem of his breeches.
The moment you pulled him out, your noble knight almost stopped breathing. He was beautiful, hard and flushed, a vein running along the underside from base to the flushed tip.
You wrapped your hand around him slowly, stroking once from base to tip with a feather-light touch and Gwayne’s chest started to rise and fell rapidly, his hands fisting the sheets.
You stroked him a few more times, gliding your thumb over the sensitive head, drawing beautiful broken whimpers from him.
His hands settled lightly on your thighs, fingers trembling. He didn’t guide or rush you. He simply held on, as if touching you was the only thing keeping him from shattering.
You shifted higher on your knees, Gwayne’s gaze snapped back to yours, pupils blown wide.
“Are you sure?” he rasped. You silenced him by sinking down onto him, slowly, unhurriedly, savoring every inch. Gwayne’s head fell back with a broken moan, hands clutching at your thighs.
You stayed still for a moment, savoring the way he pulsed inside you, then you began to move. Slow rolls of your hips, rising and sinking down on him again and again.
You loved every desperate sound your movements drew from him: the soft, needy moans, the sharp gasps and pleas he couldn’t seem to stop.
Your proud, noble knight was completely unraveling beneath your touch. The flush on his cheeks, the way his eyes fluttered half-shut with every roll of your hips, the broken sounds he couldn’t hold back… you loved it. You loved it more than you could ever admit.
His hips started to buck up to meet you, sharp needy thrusts that almost knocked the air out of your lungs. You stemmed your feet against the bed and rode him harder, faster, grinding down, chasing your pleasure shamelessly.
Gwayne’s back arched clean off the bed with a strangled moan, one hand flying up to clutch at your waist as he kept moving against you.
“Good boy,” you moaned, leaning down and capturing his mouth in a messy kiss.
The praise hit him like a spark to dry tinder. Gwayne whimpered into your mouth, the sound raw and needy, his tongue sliding against yours in urgent sloppy strokes.
His fingers dug into your waist as he flipped you over like you weighed nothing.
“Say it again,” he gasped, voice wrecked and pleading, hips slamming against yours in almost desperate rhythm. “Please…, I need to hear it.”
You moaned beneath him, nails raking down his back, as the new angle sent sparks of pleasure shooting through every nerve.
“My good boy,” you breathed against his lips. “My perfect knight.”
“Fuck me harder, knight!” you moaned and a low, broken groan rumbled from Gwayne’s chest, his hips stuttered, rhythm faltering before he managed to get the hold of it and started driving into you with deeper, more powerful thrusts.
It didn’t take long, a broken sob of pleasure tore from you as you shattered, back arching against the bed. He kept fucking you through it, arms wrapped around you, holding you close. The tenderness never left him even as moments after he came, gasping, shuddering, groaning hoarsely against your neck.
The night passed in quiet whispers and lingering touches. Neither of you spoke much, there seemed little point.
Words belonged to tomorrow, tonight belonged only to the two of you.
Gwayne held you as though he feared the dawn, you rested against him, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear.
At some point during the night, when sleep still felt far away, Gwayne pressed his face into your hair.
"I never want to let you go."
The honesty of it was both beautiful and unbearable.
For a moment, you closed your eyes. Gods help you.
It would have been so easy to pretend, to let yourself believe impossible things, that the war did not exist, that he could stay or that you could follow.
Instead, you reached up and brushed your fingers through his hair.
"This was my parting gift, Gwayne."
You felt him go still and the silence that followed hurt more than any argument could have.
His arms tightened around you again.
"You could come with me."
"And go where?"
He did not reply.
You shook your head.
"You belong to your world and I belong to mine."
His breathing grew uneven, but he didn’t say anything.
Morning arrived far too quickly, by sunrise you slipped out of bed.
“It’s time,” you whispered. He didn’t answer.
A moment later Gwayne stood fully dressed beside the door, his sword at his hip.
The sight felt wrong.
Neither of you seemed able to find the right words, but in the end, it was you who broke the silence.
"You should go."
Gwayne looked at you, eyes moving over your face.
He took a step toward you, then stopped and nodded once. A small, broken gesture before turning and walking out the door.
You remained where you were, arms folded tightly across your chest.
The path disappeared between the trees a short distance from the hut.
Gwayne reached it and stopped.
Your heart betrayed you immediately.
For one terrible second, hope surged through your chest.
He turned around.
Even from there, you could see the question in his eyes.
Come with me.
Stay.
Choose differently.
Slowly, you shook your head.
No.
His eyes closed briefly, then he turned and continued down the path.
You watched until the trees swallowed him completely, only then did you allow yourself to sit down.
You did not see the tears that finally slipped down Gwayne's face once he was safely hidden by the forest.
And he never saw yours.
Years passed. The realm endured.
A fragile peace settled across the land, uncertain and imperfect, yet peace nonetheless.
Life continued.
The little hut remained where it had always been, tucked against the edge of the forest, the herb garden had grown larger, the roof needed repairing twice.
The ache had softened with time and become something quieter, a fond memory tucked carefully away, a story belonging to another life.
The afternoon sun was warm against your skin as you sat outside sorting herbs into neat bundles.
Your hands moved automatically, the work was familiar enough that your mind could drift elsewhere – toward a broad-shouldered knight with kind eyes and a talent for burning bread.
You paused, a stem of lavender still between your fingers as you couldn't shake a feeling of being watched.
Slowly, you lifted your head, the forest stood silent. Nothing there. You shook your head at your own foolishness yet looked up again.
A movement caught your eye. A figure was standing at the edge of the woods, far enough away that another person might not have recognized him.
You did. Immediately.
Not because he looked unchanged, time had touched him, as it touched everyone, yet you would have known him anywhere.
A soft smile appeared on your lips before you could stop it.
The figure remained motionless for a heartbeat longer, as though he needed a moment to convince himself you were real.
Then Ser Gwayne Hightower began walking toward the hut, and with each step he made, you found yourself smiling a little wider.
My breakfast, brunch, lunch, snack, dinner, midnight snack.
girllll have you seen finn's new photos on insta?? that stare and the crooked smile he is so bb please sedate me
babygirl finally left the house everyone ‼️
oneshots | ᴅᴏᴍᴇꜱᴛɪᴄ!ᴛᴏᴍ x ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ
𑣲⋆ GOOD WIFE.
𑣲⋆ SUMMARY: your husband, Tom, is an occupied man—busy convincing the wizarding world of his ideas, determined on reaching heaven and above. though lately, not only that has been plaguing his every thought...
𑣲⋆ WARNINGS: MATURE CONTENT. domestic!Tom with a breeding kink. slight size kink, hints at free use but consent is acively given, kitchen counter sex (fuckkkk), tits play, Tom discovers something new about himself, rough sex, desperate Tommy, slight choking, pregnancy talks of course, creampie, fingering and pussy eating is considered aftercare in Riddle manor <333
𑣲⋆ AUTHOR'S NOTE: Mar has returned from protecting the city 👩🏼🦇 with food for her favourite children. yall went feral for my domestic!Tom blurb so here you go <333
wordcount: 3,2k
You're about halfway finished with dinner when the front door creaks open and clicks shut just a few moments later. The rustling of his coat and the hurried throwing-his-shoes-in-a-corner hints that once again dinner will be left for "later" when he's finished with whatever is currently plaguing his mind.
And normally, you'd be correct. Usually, when he doesn't have time to properly place his leather shoes, it means you'll receive a gentle kiss to your temple and a whispered excuse as to why he cannot join you for your shared meal today.
But instead of an apology and a rushed kiss, Tom walks towards you with newfound patience. Careful, measured steps close the distance between the two of you until he stops to stand just a mere metre away.
You greet him, still facing the stove.
Perhaps you should have—should've turned to look at him—because you'd have seen it. Spotted it immediately like the tiniest drop of red wine on a white tablecloth.
Desperation. Hunger. Burning desire.
His hands brush over your waist before they circle you, and then his head dips, hot, sharp breaths ghosting past your ear—he places a kiss to the shell of it, brushes over the curve with his lips, his hands splayed across your tummy.
Then, he speaks. No greeting. No excuse. No complaints about the stupidity of people.
Your world tilts ever so slightly as he does.
"You are a good wife," he murmurs, and you catch the strain in his voice. The sincerity in his tone tells you more than he'd ever admit.
That this isn't a rare compliment out of the courtesy of his frozen-over heart.
There's an edge to it—one you haven't heard in a long time. It makes your skin tingle, breath catching in your chest. The spoon stills in the soup you've been bravely stirring up until this moment—some of it boiling over, which snaps your attention back to the pot. To his favourite soup.
It's only—only that this is rare. This isn't something you expected when you first heard the keys turn in the lock. Your brain doesn't yet have a set response for it. This isn't what Tom does—not here in the kitchen, not when he's been gone for three days and would normally head to bed right after dinner.
And by all means, you understand.
He's been busy lately—occupied to the point he comes home after you fall asleep, and when the sunlight wakes you the next morning, his side of the bed has long cooled off. A note is all you get—I apologise for leaving so early, hope to see you soon. Important meetings today. Won't be home in time for dinner.
Often, you do not get to exchange more than a few sentences with him each day.
But it's okay. It's fine, you tell yourself. You've agreed to this—known what he's like since you first met at King's Cross station all these years ago.
You offer him stability—the kind of calm and normality he craves after a long and stressful week. And in return, you get security. Protection. An anchor in turbulent times as they are these days—knowing he is the turbulence, the root of the changes steering the entirety of the wizarding world bow first into a violent sea storm.
Today, as it seems like, you're his anchor too. Pulling him back down to earth from however far he thinks he has ascended to heaven on his way to become a manmade god.
He cages in your legs with his own—hips gently pushing you up against the edge of the counter whilst his lips explore down the length of your neck—kissing, nipping, biting down gently.
You exhale sharply when he finds what he's been looking for—the one spot which has your mind grow fuzzy, makes your skin tingle with the want for more.
He hums in satisfaction—working a bruise into your neck there, tongue swiping over it to soothe the sting before he repeats the same move just an inch farther down.
You begin to realise it now—a bit late perhaps.
He needs you.
That tonight, above anything else, he needs you.
He's been burning for you in ways you wouldn't understand even with complex mind magic. Been thinking about you—about this exact moment—since the morning he left a few days prior.
And thus, right now, he's more than grateful that you're understanding. That you're kind and willing to give yourself to him whenever he wishes you do.
That you submit when he requires it most.
Whether that be at night, when he's just come home and clings to the stress relief he finds as he joins you under the duvets and slips your pyjama shorts down your legs, or when he needs to find distraction in his study in the early morning hours with you on your knees before him.
You'd do it all for him. Have done it all for him.
Tom is aware, too. Aware that even here in the kitchen, after he's been gone for days, you'll allow him to ground himself again. Allow him to have all of you, feel your welcoming warmth envelop him—in more ways than just one.
While he's still preoccupied suckling on the sensitive skin of your neck, his hands travel south, finding the waistband of your skirt—fingers hooking in the stretchy material and easing it down the length of your plush thighs.
You gasp when the cool air, which accompanied him from outside, brushes past your heated skin, and he answers with an appreciative hum as his hand slips between your legs and he lets his thumb stroke over your covered pussy, feeling the dampness soaking through the cotton fabric.
"That's my girl. Look at you—so worked up for me already." he murmurs, giving the supple flesh of your ass a gentle squeeze before he turns you around swiftly and lifts you to sit on top of the kitchen counter, making you face him.
His usually harsh, dark brown eyes study you with rare softness, the mystical dark spots replaced by swirls of honey gold. When the corner of your mouth lifts into a subtle smile, his head dips slightly, lips connecting with yours for an unhurried, soft kiss. In the meanwhile, his fingers expertly work open the buttons of your blouse, one by one, so patiently it frustrates you.
The soup—now boiling on low heat—stands long forgotten on the stove. Your focus has been stolen by the man in front of you, smelling faintly of cigarettes and burnt paper, the spicy scent of whiskey flooding your taste buds when he deepens the kiss.
It doesn't take long for him to strip you of your top and undo the clasp of your bra, easing the straps down your shoulders and discarding the shed clothing on the floor of your kitchen.
His eyes roam over your body then—hungry, desperate to feel you again.
"You're beautiful," he says, placing a kiss on your collarbone—eyes locked on yours, even as his mouth explores downwards. Brushes kisses down your sternum, cups your tits, and kisses you there too.
Soft moans escape your barely-parted lips, one hand tangled in his gorgeous brown curls as you let him have his way with you. You're entranced—entranced in the way his lips kiss every last sane thought of yours away, his touch fiery in a way you chase after the burn, utterly addicted.
Your eyes blink open when he takes a step backwards, the faintest hint of a smirk turning his expression into something almost human. However, before you get to dwell on it, he lifts you off the counter and turns you around again—pressing his hips against yours as his chin rests on your shoulder, hands holding you steady.
Letting you take it in. His want. His lust. His desire and devotion, as he had not too long ago sworn to before the altar. Tom wants you to know what you do to him. The ways you wreck him, bare what is left of his soul, melt the thick layer of ice around his numb heart. He almost laughs at the irony of it.
No enemy could ever come close to the sheer amount of power you hold over his very being.
And you are oh so blissfully unaware of it all.
His lips find your pulse point, nipping gently as he ruts his erection against the curve of your ass. "You feel this? What you do to me?
You try finding purchase at the surface on the counter, holding yourself up best as you can—but with everything he's telling you, with every touch, you only lose more of your control to him. "Yes, Tom— yes, I do. Fuck—"
He growls lowly at the sweet sound of your voice—laced with the same need he's been experiencing these past few days.
"All day, all night. I could not stop thinking about you. Not once. You're plaguing my every thought, haunting my every dream. You are wherever I go. Without you, I am lost," he whispers, so silently, it's carried away faster than you'd like by the breeze sweeping past you through the open window in the adjacent living room.
You swallow at his words—want to taste them on your tongue for longer, weigh them—their meaning, figure out why all of a sudden he's become like this—but you're once again interrupted by the absence of his heat against your body.
Tom works open the button and zipper of his trousers, allowing them to fall to the floor alongside his underwear—and before you know it, the length of him rests snugly between your thighs. Not inside, but there—allowing you to feel the heat of him.
Oh, how you've missed this. Missed having him like this, pressed up against you, groaning when he feels your arousal coat his painfully hard cock.
His hands push your legs together as tightly as possible before he starts moving—gently thrusting between your thighs, his tip, swollen and leaking with precum, nudging against your clit with every movement of his.
"Darling, I need you. I need to feel you—all of you. Will you let me have you?" he rasps out, his gaze focused on the way his cock disappears between your thighs each time he thrusts forwards, the way your slick has soaked him each time he withdraws halfway.
You are lost for words. Logic has left you, and so has the ability to speak.
You moan instead.
Tom takes it as a yes.
He pushes inside—slowly, savouring every inch. Every hitched breath of yours. Every slight tremble of your walls around him—stretching to take him, accommodating him after all these weeks of neglect.
The burn is intense—but so is the urge to take him all. Feel him wreck you without care—as he has so often.
"So fucking tight, barely letting me in," he grumbles, eyebrows drawn together in concentration, coaxing your legs apart ever so slightly. "So good for me."
It takes him concentration and willpower not to bury his entire length in you with one quick thrust—his cock throbbing with every inch enveloped by your slick cunt, warm and snug around him.
You both gasp when his pelvis is flush with your ass—he allows you to get used to him so deep inside you again, all of him buried to the very base. One of Tom's hands sneaks from your hips to your lower tummy, pressing down gently when he finds what he is looking for.
"Feel this? Feel me right here?"
You whimper in response—a broken sound that makes his lips curve into a smile as they brush a kiss over your shoulder blade. How could you do anything other than that? How could he expect a coherent answer when he's nestled so deep inside you, your lungs burn with each shaky inhale?
"You do, don't you? And this?" he asks, voice strained with desire, giving you a subtle thrust and feeling himself move inside of you. He drags his cock against your walls so slowly, you feel every single ridge. Every single vein stretching beneath the thin skin, as well as the thick, familiar one on the underside of him.
You think you may lose your mind if he does not finally ease the ache that has built up in your stomach.
He repeats the same move when only your mouth opens, but no sound leaves you.
"Oh god, Tom— yes, I do!" you whine, arching into his touch. "Please, more. Need more."
So, he gives you more. His thrusts start gentle, only withdrawing half of him before easing back inside your dripping walls—but not for long. He's been wanting, craving you and this moment for nearly a week.
Now that he has you, he might as well take you properly.
Slow and tender soon turns rough and frantic, the sound of his skin smacking against yours with every snap of his hips filling the kitchen, drowning out any other sound but your combined moans.
With one of his hands delicately wrapped around your throat to keep you upright and pressed against his chest, the other on your lower tummy, intrusive thoughts return like rats to a wheat barn.
Do rats chew cables?
Because certainly—Tom feels rewired. Something has changed. Something which he cannot exactly point out. Suddenly, the hand on your lower belly eases from where it's been glued this entire time—and instead, splays across the soft swell of your tummy, looking, searching for something that does not exist.
Not yet.
You've never spoken about the prospect of children. You never thought you would—given Tom's rather clear stance on the topic.
He's him. Tom Riddle—once a little, orphaned boy, begging for lukewarm soup and new donated clothes to replace his torn ones, looked down upon by society and his peers—now has the world laid out at his polished leather shoes.
He's reached this all himself. From scratch, from absolutely nothing, he's worked himself up to the most respected—and feared—wizard of Great Britain and far beyond.
Tom has never cared about passing on his legacy. Everything he does, every move, every discussion, every trade for information is for himself and for you—not for his name. Tom does not require an heir for greatness, nor to be remembered.
And yet—here, in this moment—he wishes for nothing more than just that.
To bury his seed so deep within your velvety walls, you'll grow round and swollen with his child—carrying and nurturing his heir.
He growls lowly at the thought—breathing heavily against the sensitive skin of your neck. He's so close, he can taste the sweetness of his impending orgasm on his tongue—his cock throbbing deep inside you, twitching with want.
And yet, he holds himself back. Just a little longer.
"The potion. Don't—fuck—don't take it tonight. In fact, throw it out."
Have you reached the final stage of delirium, or did you hear him right? You don't think you did. You think you may faint any second, instead.
"W-what?"
Tom's thrusts maintain their pace, rutting his cock deep inside you while he presses a kiss to the corner of your lips. "You understood me perfectly fine. Do what I say, darling. Trust me."
You shake your head, disbelieving, distrusting of what your ears made of his words. "I thought you didn't want—"
"My mind has changed." Tom rasps, hand still splayed across your tummy, the other descending to your chest, squeezing your tits. "Be a good wife and listen to your husband."
A wanton moan escapes you—at both the added stimulation and the insinuation.
He wants what you've long written off as a possibility.
Tom Riddle, the most influential wizard the wizarding world has seen in the last few centuries, wants you to be the mother of his child.
Fuck.
"As you wish," you gasp, every rough thrust of his knocking the air from your lungs. "I will— get rid of it."
Tom hums, cupping one of your breasts whilst his palm massages over your belly. "You'll make—god—the most beautiful mother. Round and swollen with my child. You want it too, don't you?"
"Yes," you hiccup, the knot in your stomach tightening, pleasure blooming low where his cock is nestled deep. "I've been— thinking about it. Often."
To put it lightly.
Tom growls at that, pulling you a few centimetres away from the edge of the counter—just so he can slip his hand between your thighs, finding your puffy, swollen clit.
He can feel your walls pulse around him, legs shaking, moans growing louder—he knows you're just as close as he is.
Whilst his fingers rub fast, tight circles over your sensitive bud, his thrusts grow faster if possible, hips smacking against your own with newfound motivation.
Fuelled by the urge to push his cum deep, to succeed at his first try to produce an heir with you. To watch your belly swell with his child.
To make you a mother.
Both of you reach your climax at the same time—your walls pulsing needily around him, nails scraping over the marble surface of the counter as you finally let your body sink down on top of it. You whimper when he follows not a second later, when you feel his cock twitch, and when he finally, accompanied by a low, throaty groan, spills himself deep inside your warm pussy.
Tom stays like this for a little while longer—buried all the way, keeping his cum right where it belongs—gathered at your cervix.
"That's it," he murmurs when he withdraws gently, inch by inch, as not to hurt your irritated, stretched walls. "That's a good girl. Took it all for me. All of it."
What you don't know: Tom is far from done.
Because this is Tom Riddle who you are dealing with, he quite obviously has done his research before his return this evening.
And from having read through countless books—both magic and muggle—he has gathered that, well, orgasms can help with increasing the chance of pregnancy.
He helps you straighten yourself, gathers you in his arms, and then carries you to the bedroom.
You ask about the soup.
He shushes you, eases you onto the bed, and parts your legs.
"Heard that it— takes better like this. When I make you feel good." Tom says, watching with interest as the first drops of his cum leak from your hole, his head so close to your pussy you feel his breath on your sensitive, glistening skin.
"Again," he murmurs, then pushes his cum back inside your cunt with two of his fingers, "again," his head dips, his wet, hot tongue licking a stripe up your slit, "and again." Finally, Tom's lips close around your clit, suckling gently, looking straight at you from between your legs as though that's where his home had been all this time.
Looking at you with promise.
thank you so much for reading! <3 feel free to reblog and leave feedback! :3 — masterlist. | oneshots.
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we miss you dada
everyone clocking how weird langdonmel are about each other is so funny to me
watching true detective for him
Finn Bennett with white hair... I'm obsessed !!
happy father’s day peepaw come home and lemme crack that .
