Your flatmate and best friend Rhaenyra invites you along with her group of friends on a summer holiday to Dorne. In the group is the gorgeous Gwayne. Is it the heat or is he checking you out?
Word Count: 2.2k
Themes: SMUT, very indulgent smut, rough p in v, praise, semi-public sex, creampie, content warning of alcohol, lots of fluffy love too
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You've been looking forward to this trip for weeks, but now that it's finally here, you can't help but feel a twinge of anxiety. After all, you're flying to Sunspear in Dorne with a group of people who are practically strangers to you. Sure, your best friend and flatmate Rhaenyra Targaryen will be there, but her friends are a mix of old schoolmates, some of whom you've only met in passing. You know that, just like Rhaenyra, they're all unfairly cool and chic.
You’re sitting on the edge of your bed, stuffing the last of your essentials into your suitcase, when Rhaenyra bursts into the room with a vibrant energy only she possesses. Her long silver hair is tied up in a messy bun, sunglasses perched on her nose, and a grin spreads across her face.
"Are you ready for the best holiday ever?" she asks, practically bouncing on her toes. She flops onto your bed, grabbing your hot pink bikini from the bed and wiggling her eyebrows.
"As ready as I'll ever be," you reply with a giggle. "I'm just hoping I won't be the odd one out."
"Nonsense! Everyone's going to love you. Just wait until you meet them. Criston is a riot, Alicent is a sweetie, the siblings Laena and Laenor are the life of any party. Oh, and Gwayne is coming too—Alicent's brother. You remember him, right?"
Vaguely, you think. You've seen him at a couple of Rhaenyra's gatherings. Tall, handsome, with a laid-back charming demeanour that contrasts with his sister's quieter and more reserved nature. You recall his wry smile and the way he watches the room as though he's in on a joke no one else knows. There’s something about him, something you can’t quite put your finger on.
As you make your way to the airport, Rhaenyra rambles on about her plans for the week. She’s planned for days on the beach lounging in the Dornish sun and nights out on the town drinking. Your worries slowly dissolve in the anticipation of the warmth and adventure awaiting in Dorne.
• • • • • • • • • • • • ✦ • • • • • • • • • • • •
You step out of the airport into the sultry Dornish air, feeling the sun's heat embrace you like an old friend. The group has already assembled—Criston Cole, tall and charismatic, with a smirk and brash humour; Alicent Hightower, elegant and serene, her presence calming like the ocean breeze you can already feel; Laena Velaryon, with hair as wild as the ocean, whose laughter is contagious; and her brother Laenor, who immediately makes you feel at ease with a light hug and smile.
And then there's Gwayne.
You notice him standing off to the side, leaning against the huge rental car (thank the Gods Rhaenyra is rich), a lazy smile spreading across his lips as he catches sight of you. He has an air of effortless charm, like someone who doesn't need to try too hard to make an impression—and from the way his eyes linger on you and your heart races, it's clear that he's made one on you.
“Welcome to Dorne,” he says, extending a hand to help you with your luggage. His touch is firm yet gentle, and you feel an unexpected thrill at the contact.
“Thanks,” you manage, smiling back. “It’s good to be here.”
Rhaenyra claps her hands, pulling everyone’s attention back to her. “Alright, folks! Let’s get this party started!” Criston whoops loudly, winding his arms around yours and Alicent's shoulders, walking towards the car.
• • • • • • • • • • • • ✦ • • • • • • • • • • • •
The massive beach house you’re staying in is a dream come true. Nestled on the coast with a panoramic view of the glittering sea, it has enough room for everyone, plus some. The ocean breeze filters through the open windows, carrying with it the scent of salt and orange blossoms.
Your days quickly fall into a blissful rhythm. Each morning begins with a lazy breakfast on the terrace, the laughter and chatter of your friends setting the tone for the rest of the day. Rhaenyra is the queen of leisure, leading the group in a daily swim as soon as the sun reaches its peak.
One afternoon, as you laze under the sun, you find yourself alongside Gwayne. He's reclined on a deck chair next to you, sunglasses shielding his eyes from the sun’s glare. The two of you have drifted into a companionable silence, occasionally exchanging thoughts about the holiday.
“Do you ever feel like you belong in a place you’ve never been to before?” he asks suddenly, turning to you. The sincerity in his voice surprises you.
You nod, considering his words. “Yeah, I do. There’s something about Dorne—it's different from anywhere else.”
Gwayne smiles, his gaze thoughtful. “I think you fit here. With us.”
The words make your heart skip a beat. You hold his gaze, the air between you charged with an unspoken understanding.
• • • • • • • • • • • • ✦ • • • • • • • • • • • •
Nighttime in Dorne is a different beast altogether. The group descends upon the local beach bars, eager to get as drunk as possible on zesty cocktails.
Criston, ever the instigator, orders round after round of drinks for the group, insisting on trying every concoction on the menu. The Valyrian Blaze cocktail is bright red, spicy, and strong enough to burn as it goes down, while the Winterfell Chill is a stark contrast, with its cool minty freshness. You yourself favour the delicious Dornish wines, the Stormlands sangria taking the cake.
You find yourself next to Gwayne again, both of you leaning against the bar, both trying a drink that seems to be some unholy blend of dragonfruit and tequila. The laughter from your friends fills the air, mixing with the sound of the waves crashing in the distance and tropical music playing in the bar.
"These are dangerous," you comment, swirling the colourful drink in your glass.
Gwayne chuckles, taking a sip from his own glass. "That's the point, isn’t it? To let loose and forget about everything for a while."
His eyes lock onto yours, and the intensity of his gaze sends a shiver down your spine.
"I suppose you're right," you reply, your voice barely above a whisper.
As the night wears on, the drinks take effect. Everyone is dancing now, the rhythmic beats of the music vibrating through the air. You join in, feeling the weight of your worries lift as you move to the rhythm, hips swaying, and sandals gliding across the floor.
At some point, Gwayne finds you on the dance floor, his movements in sync with yours. There's a magnetism between you, an undeniable pull that keeps drawing you closer. The music slows, and without missing a beat, he slips an arm around your waist, guiding you in a gentle sway.
The sun is setting as you and the group make your way back to the beach house. The day has been long, but the energy is still buzzing among your friends. As you approach the entrance, you hear Rhaenyra’s voice rise above the chatter.
"Right, everyone, it's surfing and a seafood meal out tomorrow!"
Everyone sounds out their approval, and plans are quickly made for an early morning departure. But for now, the night is still young, and you find yourself wandering the grounds outside of the beach house, needing a moment to yourself whilst the others head to bed.
Or at least you think you're alone until you hear footsteps on the sand behind you.
"Couldn't sleep?" Gwayne's voice cuts through the darkening sky, smooth and inviting. He steps into view, and even in the low light, you can see the amusement dancing in his eyes.
"Just needed some air," you admit, sighing lightly. "It's been a long day."
He nods, falling into step beside you. Wordlessly, his hand slips into yours and guides you towards the Water Gardens that lie adjacent to the beach house. Together, you walk through the gardens, the scent of jasmine and sea salt heavy in the air. There’s a tranquillity here that contrasts with the vibrant chaos of earlier, and it offers a quiet intimacy between you and Gwayne.
"These gardens are beautiful," you muse, your voice barely above a whisper.
Gwayne stops walking, turning to face you fully. "They are," he agrees, his gaze steady on yours. "But not as beautiful as you." His hand comes up to gently brush some hair from your face and rests on your blushing cheek.
The words hang between you, heavy with meaning. In the next breath, he closes the distance between you, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that is both gentle and insistent. It’s a moment that feels like it’s been building from the instant you laid eyes on each other, a culmination of unspoken desire fuelled by the Dornish summer.
Gwayne pulls you closer, deepening the kiss, and you can feel the heat radiating from him like the sun you’ve spent all day under. His hands are firm on your back, anchoring you against him in a way that feels both possessive and tender.
Before you realize it, you're backing up toward the edge of the garden where a small, secluded pool lies hidden among the lush foliage. The water shimmers under the sunset, inviting and cool.
Gwayne breaks the kiss first, his breathing uneven, eyes searching yours for permission. There’s a question in his gaze, an unspoken invitation to take this moment further.
You answer with a nod, slipping off your purple sun dress as he unclothes, and with a shared smile, the two of you slip into the water. It’s cool against your sun-warmed skin, a welcome reprieve. The coolness tingles against the building fire between your legs.
Gwayne pulls you into him again, his lips tracing a path down your neck as you wrap your arms around him. The water laps around you, creating a rhythm that matches the steady pulse of your heart. His hands explore your body with a reverence that makes you feel cherished, desired in a way that’s almost intoxicating.
Gasping lightly, you reach beneath the water to feel his cock, hard and thick in your hands. He moans against your neck, standing on the floor of the pool, pushing you up against the pool wall. You instinctively wrap your legs around him, moaning as his hardness presses against your aching pussy.
He looks at you, asking if he can continue. You nod slightly, feeling a shiver of lust as his hands grip your ass tight and his cock nudges against your slickness. He pushes inside smoothly, holding you tightly for what feels like an age as your pussy flutters around him. He murmers sweet words into your hair, caressing you, cherishing you.
"You feel divine, you look divine, my angel, let me make you feel good." Gwayne rumbles against your lips. You nod desperately, feeling so full and loved.
He thrusts against your wetness, sending the cool shimmering water rippling. Your head lolls back, lips parted, as Gwayne bestows kiss after kiss on your tender neck and collarbone as his cock pounds your pussy hard in a measured pace.
His fingers sneak between your legs to touch your clit reverently. Gwayne circles your clit delicately, and whilst you enjoy his worship, you want more.
You kiss him, hard, and bite his lip, not hard but enough to make his eyes widen.
"Gwayne," you beg. "Fuck me, please. I need you to show me how much you want me." Your pussy weeps as his hips slam harder. He leans over you, eyes ablaze and a smirk curling across his lips. You mewl helplessly.
"My angel, I'd love nothing more." He snaps his hips, rubbing your clit more urgently now. You feel the warmth of an orgasm licking inside as his teeth brand marks across your neck. Your fingernails scratch against his muscled back as Gwayne moans.
The water ripples quicker now as he fucks you hard and fast, kissing across your cheeks and nose.
"My pretty baby," he rasps. "So good for me, pussy so good for my cock. Gonna cum, gotta make you cum my angel."
You cry out in agreement, hips bucking wildly as his fingers and cock draw out a searing orgasm from you. His head falls to your shoulders as he cums, thick white cum filling up inside you.
You both stay there for a while, kissing each other softly and stroking hands through each others hair. Gwayne's eyes are shining in the moonlight as you seal your lips under the stars.
• • • • • • • • • • • • ✦ • • • • • • • • • • • •
The next morning, the pair of you are greeted with whoops and hollers from the rest of the group as you walk into the kitchen hand in hand. You bashfully smile as Gwayne proudly kisses your cheek. Criston pats him on the back in congratulations.
"I'll make you an iced coffee." Gwayne says, pecking your lips. Laena pretends to gag but throws a cheeky smile at you.
Rhaenyra sidles up next to you, offering you a brioche, looking far too smug. You roll your eyes.
"Glad you came now?" She asks, hip bumping you. You glance over at Gwayne, who is chatting with Laenor but looking at you reverently.
"Yes I am."
• • • • • • • • • • • • ✦ • • • • • • • • • • • •
AN: the way i was kicking my own damn feet writing this. it has been a scorcher in england today (at least for me lol) so got inspired to write a summery sexy fic for darling gwayne. check out my masterlist for more modern aus and sexy fun! send requests and feedback plz love u xx 🍒
You and bestie Aegon are proper party freaks. Your life is a glittering rollerocaster of whiskey, cigs, and banging tunes. So when Aegon invites you to his ancestral home for the summer, why are you so attracted to his highbrow uncle?
Word Count: 2.1k
Themes: SMUT, 18+, alcohol consumption, cigarettes, older man x younger woman, spanking, p in v, domination kink, praise, hair pulling kink, creampie
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When your number 1 bestie (he'd gut you if you said otherwise) Aegon Targaryen first invited you to spend the summer with him at Dragonstone Manor, you were skeptical. Aegon was your best friend, a proper party freak like you, always up for a good time. He'd been there through everything, every shitty breakup, every hangover nursed with a takeaway.
You were the hottest students at Blackwater University and by Gods did you two know it.
Spending a summer with Aegon promised excitement, but there was something about leaving the familiar chaos of city life for the unknown allure of his ancestral home of Dragonstone that made you pause.
Yet, here you were, standing at the grand entrance of Dragonstone Manor, gazing at its ancient stone walls that seemed to tower into the sky, trying not to throw up from nerves. You could handle a rave, but meeting family was a different story.
Aegon bounded up the steps ahead of you, his platinum hair shining in the sunlight, and pushed open the large oak doors. You thanked the Gods he was chiller than you were right now.
"Welcome to Dragonstone, babe," he declared with a cheeky grin. "The place is a bit stuffy, but it grows on you. Wait till you meet my family. They're gonna love you."
The manor was as grand inside as you had imagined, with its sprawling hallways and majestic portraits lining the walls. You were introduced to Aegon’s mother, Alicent, who pecked both of your cheeks rather formally. You already knew Aemond from several nights out, and Daeron and Helaena seemed intrigued by the idea of Aegon’s infamous friend joining them for the summer.
But it was Gwayne Hightower, Alicent's brother, Aegon’s uncle, who caught your attention more than anyone else. He stood slightly behind the crowd in the hallway.
Tall, impeccably dressed, with an air of authority that made everyone around him stand a little straighter, Gwayne was dashingly handsome in a classic sort of way. His eyes seemed to appraise you with a besmused curiosity, and you felt slightly tingly under his heavy gaze.
“Ah, so you’re the famous companion we’ve heard so much about,” he said, his voice smooth and rich, like a well-aged whiskey. You crumbled inside a bit. Older men were your weakness.
You flashed a winning smile, suddenly aware of the heat creeping up your neck. “And you must be the uncle Aegon's been warning me about.”
His lips twitched with a smirk, his gaze never wavering. “I assure you, the stories are greatly exaggerated.”
The days at Dragonstone slipped by in a haze of sunlit afternoons spent in the pool, endless nights drinking the finest of wines and sampling Aemond's cigar collection. Aegon was right—his family was incredible, and it wasn’t long before you felt like you belonged. Gwayne, however, remained a mystery to you. He was always polite, always courteous, but there was an edge to his interactions with you that you couldn't quite place.
Your mind often wandered to him, especially during those long, lazy evenings where you’d find him reclining in a leather armchair in the manor’s library, a book in one hand, a glass of some expensive amber liquid in the other. He seemed amused by your antics with Aegon, his eyes glinting with a knowing that left you rather flustered.
One particularly sultry evening, Aegon suggested a trip to Dragonstone nightclub, a renowned hotspot in the manor's adjacent town.
“You up for it?” Aegon asked, his eyes sparkling with mischief.
You grinned. “Always.”
Sneaking out of the manor was no small feat, but you and Aegon were experts at slipping past watchful eyes. The club was everything you expected and more—loud music, pulsating lights, and a throng of people moving in rhythm to the DJ’s beats. You lost yourselves to the night, wrapped up in the freedom that only a place like this could offer. You kept it light on the drinking but indulged in wandering the streets at night, arm in arm with Aegon, cigarette dangling from your lips.
But as the hours passed and Aegon started yawning, then you both knew it was time to head back. Aegon, ever the responsible one when it came to these outings, guided you back to the manor with a practised stealth.
You giggled softly as you crept through the darkened halls, your heart racing not from fear of getting caught but from the thrill of it all. Yet, as you turned a corner, you stopped short. Standing at the end of the hallway, arms crossed, and gaze piercing, was Gwayne.
Next to him stood Alicent, looking less than amused. Her eyes softened when they landed on Aegon, a hint of disappointment mingling with fondness.
“Aegon,” she sighed, “we’ve talked about this.”
Aegon rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “Sorry, mummy.” He glanced at you with a helpless smile. You smiled reassuringly back.
With a firm hand, she steered him away, leaving you alone with Gwayne. You stood there, feeling like a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar.
Gwayne watched you, his expression unreadable, though there was a gleam in his eyes that spoke volumes. He moved forward slowly, shoes clicking on the floor. You felt your heart rate speed up a tad.
“Looks like you’re not as elusive as you thought,” he said, a hint of amusement in his tone.
You shrugged, trying to muster up some semblance of nonchalance. “Guess we got a bit carried away.”
He stepped closer, the warmth of his presence enveloping you, sending a shiver of anticipation down your spine. There was something different about him now, something that promised a departure from the composed exterior he usually presented.
“Carried away indeed,” he mused, his gaze fixed intently on you. His voice was so deep and firm that you felt yourself shiver with need. “And just what... do you suppose we do about that?"
You swallowed, the playful bravado you had so easily maintained with Aegon slipping away in the face of Gwayne’s intensity. The air between you crackled with an unspoken tension, a magnetic pull that left you breathless.
“I suppose,” you started, your voice a touch unsteady, “a punishment is in order?”
A slow, delighted smile spread across his face, one that promised danger. He nodded, his eyes never leaving yours. “I’d say that’s fair.”
Without another word, he grasped your hand hard, and he led you through the dimly lit halls to his study, a room you had only glimpsed from afar. The door clicked shut behind you, the sound echoing like a heartbeat in the silence.
He moved closer, the rich scent of his cologne mingling with the aged aroma of whiskey, a heady combination that made you feel lightheaded.
“You’re quite the little rebel, aren’t you?” he remarked, hands reaching up to rest on your shoulders.
You met his gaze, a challenge sparking within you. “Only when I have a reason to be.”
He chuckled, a low, indulgent sound that reverberated through you. “And tonight? Was it worth it?”
Every part of you screamed yes, your pussy thrumming with want and your body aching to be touched. You nodded, unable to trust your voice, knowing full well that he could read you like a book.
Gwayne moved fluidly, almost predatory, closing the distance between you with deliberate intent, lips finding yours swiftly. Your knees weakened at his domineering kiss. He reached out, his fingers brushing against your cheek, tracing a path down to your jaw.
“You’ve been quite the distraction since you arrived,” he confessed, his voice a low rumble that rasied goosebumps across your skin.
His touch was electrifying. You leaned into it, admitting silently that you felt the same pull, the same allure that had drawn you to him from the start.
“Distraction?” you managed, the word a whisper in the charged air.
“Indeed,” he replied, his thumb brushing lightly across your bottom lip. “One I find myself increasingly unwilling to ignore.”
He kissed you again then, a sudden, searing press of lips that left you gasping and wanting more. His hands found your waist, pulling you closer as you responded with equal fervour, the world around you fading as the kiss deepened, igniting a fire within that had been smouldering since your first encounter. You moaned helplessly into his hot mouth, and he laughed.
His lips trailed a path down your neck, each kiss a brand that marked you as his. You arched against him, a soft moan escaping your lips as he nipped at the sensitive skin, his hands exploring with a confidence that left you breathless. He bit down onto your tender skin and you felt tears welling at your desperation.
"Please!" You gasped. "Touch me!" He clicked his tongue.
"Patience, girl. You've been so naughty, do you think you deserve my cock?" His words sent your cheeks flaming. He was obviously amused at your wordless arousal. He gripped you tight and walked you over to his armchair. He sat down , leaving you to stand in between his legs, shaking slightly. He rubbed your thighs, as if you calm you
"Now, my girl," he said softly but firmly. "You said you needed a punishment. Lie down across my legs with that delicious ass in the air." Your eyes widened, and you followed his command without question.
He lifted up your skirt and pulled down your panties, making a noise of approval as you mewled for attention. Hands kneaded your ass, and you could feel the hardness of his cock press into your stomach.
Before you could open your mouth, he spanked you hard, making you lurch slightly and cry out. His hands smoothed over the reddened skin.
"Naughty girl. Do you know how much I've had to restrain myself? Seeing you prance around these halls with those gorgeous tits and your short skirts? How many times I've imagined how that pretty face would look as I made you cum?" He rumbled, striking your ass again. You could feel the sharp tingle of a bruise and the wetness between your thighs.
"Gwayne!" You cried out, hands gripping the armchair. "Please, please, I'm sorry for being a bad girl. I'll be good for you, I promise!"
Gwayne tutted in agreement, sliding a finger through your soaked pussy lips. You kneened at the touch, begging for more.
"Oh you little thing," he sighed heavily with lust. "I'll make you all mine, my good girl."
He lifted you up, helping you walk with wobbly legs over to his desk. You gave no resistance as he bent you over, shucking your top off and unzipping his trousers. He leant down, pressing himself against your back. You felt his hot, lengthy cock press between your asscheeks.
He grasped your jaw, turning your head to kiss you aggressively. You moaned, grinding your ass back to him.
"So eager, such a good girl." He gasped out, nudging his cock into your soaked pussy. A hand reached down to circle your clit as he thrusted into you. Both of you moaned at how good it felt. Gwayne seemed struck by how tight your pussy squeezed his cock, so warm and wet. You felt fuller than ever, feeling his heavy balls slap against your pussy as he fucked you.
Gwayne’s other hand was pressed against the small of your back, watching how your ass shook as he fucked you hard and fast. He reached up, twisting your hair in his fist and pulling, not enough to hurt but enough to make your pussy blaze. You arched your back, mouth open in a silent moan, feeling his cock rut against your sweet insides. His breath was hot and heavy on your neck. Gwayne bit onto your neck, your hands scratching the oak of the desk as you felt your orgasm rise up in your battered pussy.
"Cum for me, my good girl," he rasped. "Cum for me and I'll give you a reward. I'll fill up that little pussy the way you want, little slut." You mewled, his finger insistent on your clit. Without warning, Gwayne ripped an orgasm from you, making your pussy squeeze him in an anaconda like grip as he gasped. He moaned loudly, thrusting in fully to cum, filling up your pussy with white hot cum. He collapsed on top of you, panting, as your head swam with pleasure.
Gwayne managed to right himself up, pulling you into his arms. He held you for a very long time, kissing you gently and softly praising you.
Gwayne watched you, his gaze soft yet intense, as if memorising every detail. His fingers brushed idly against your cheek.
“Well,” he murmured, a teasing smile playing on his lips, “consider your punishment complete.”
You laughed softly. “If that’s what punishment feels like, I might have to misbehave more often.”
• • • • • • • • • • • • ✦ • • • • • • • • • • • •
AN: yummy yummy gwayne hightower, check out my masterlist for stuff like this! send in any feedback or request as always lovies
ᵎᵎ summary. once sharing womb, now entwined in madness — two dragons in mortal flesh, forever bound to one another. † now, at ashford tournament, a twisted feeling caused by you, his dear twin sister, will ignite his fire. jealousy.
warnings. au, +18. sexual explicit content ahead. mdni. heavy TARGCEST, afab! reader, reader is described with the typical targaryen appearance, violence, death, SMUT, hair pulling (m receiving), oral (f receiving), semi public. 3.8k. request.
notes. longest fic i've ever made. r u guys proud of me
࣪ ִֶָ☾. 𝕻𝖆𝖘𝖙.
“My little dragons.”
Those were the first words uttered as both babes, born within the same hour, were tenderly laid upon Dyanna’s trembling arms. She was too exhausted to summon even the faintest steady smile, too spent to fully express the overwhelming tide of love that surged within her chest at the sight of her healthy newborns nestled against her.
She could not have been more profoundly content. Her firstborn son, delivered two years prior, had entered the world equally robust, pink-cheeked and brimming with vitality — his sandy hair a mirror of her own rather than his father’s.
Yet these twins she now cradled, one upon each side of her chest, had been born with hair of pure silver, shimmering like moonlight upon polished marble. Dyanna was certain that when they at last opened their eyes, they would gleam a vivid violet, as though forged by the very blood and fire of ancient Valyria.
Her little dragons.
The infants still wailed with the raw vigor of their first desperate breaths, though Dyanna herself remained lightheaded from the ordeal. The heavy scent of sweat and blood lingering in the chamber stirred a throbbing ache in her temples — one she chose not to ascribe to the twins’ ceaseless cries.
Maekar appeared at the doorway the moment the maester granted him entry, confirming that the birth had gone flawlessly. Still, he did not release the breath he had been holding until his gaze fell upon the three figures nestled together on the rumpled bed.
“You must rest, my love,” he murmured, his voice nearly lost beneath the infants’ cries. He approached the bed, one arm extended. His eyes settled upon the babes, and a rare gleam of wonder softened his characteristically solemn features. He kneeled beside her. “Give one to me.”
Dyanna shifted carefully against the pillows, preparing to pass him the child closest to his side — the boy.
The slight movement drew the twins momentarily apart as she turned to lift the infant toward her husband. Their cries sharpened at once, growing even more piercing.
Dyanna froze, brow furrowed in concern as she studied her son.
“What troubles him?” Maekar asked, his tone firm yet laced with unease. He glanced about the room as though answers might linger in the air. The maesters had withdrawn to afford them a moment of privacy now that the peril had passed. His gaze returned to Dyanna, then to his son. “Is he in pain?”
The mother had no answer. Slowly, she drew the boy back to her body, pressing him closer to his sister. Their tiny hands fluttered across her skin, and the boy’s delicate fingers curled instinctively around his twin’s wrist, like the softest of anchors.
The wailing ceased at once — for both of them.
Dyanna and Maekar exchanged a fleeting glance. While her eyes brimmed with tender affection and quiet awe, a shadow of uncertainty flickered in his.
Only the Gods knew what destiny they had woven for these children, for they only sought comfort in one another.
࣪ ִֶָ☾. 𝕻𝖗𝖊𝖘𝖊𝖓𝖙.
The morning sun’s rays streamed through the tall windows lining one side of Ashford Castle’s corridor, bathing the interior in a pleasant, golden warmth. Outside, the clatter of horses’ hooves, the metallic clang of armor, and the murmur of the crowd could be heard — most likely placing wagers on who would triumph in today’s jousts.
Aerion strode down the hallway already clad in his armor. Crimson dragon crests in enamel stood out boldly against the dark steel of his helm, rendering it as imposing as a dragon itself. He carried the helmet tucked beneath his arm, pressed against his coal-black surcoat, where the swirling flame-like patterns gleamed in the sunlight. No one turned to stare; the extravagant design made it obvious who approached: Aerion Brightflame. No one sought trouble with the monstrous prince.
Though he paid no mind to the worms he passed, his gaze remained fixed on the great mahogany door beyond which lay his sister’s temporary chambers. His steps were purposeful, determined to see her before mounting his horse and unhorsing every fool who dared face him. He wished to make her proud — as he always did.
An unconscious smile curved his lips as his hand reached for the door handle, but it burst open before he could grasp it. He staggered slightly as a servant girl fled the room at a frantic pace. He did not bother chasing her or punishing her insolence, as he normally would. Instead, his smile turned mocking. He stepped inside, slamming the door shut behind him, and his heart gave a heavy thud at the sight of you.
Oblivious to the commotion, you stood before the vanity, adjusting a piece that the clumsy girl had failed to place properly in your braided silver hair. Unlike a common tiara, your dark headdress rose several inches upward — black as jet, its central base adorned with intricate filigree flowers and glittering with inset rubies. As extravagant as your twin brother, and as dazzling as someone of your bloodline was meant to appear.
“Sister,” Aerion called, watching your reflection in the mirror as he approached with that effortless familiarity he reserved only for you.
A calm smile touched your lips, as though you had not just terrified a harmless servant.
“Oh, brother.” You placed your hands on the front of your skirts and exhaled heavily. “The servants in this castle are all utterly inept.”
Aerion’s gaze lingered on your celestial headdress, then drifted over your blood-red gown with its black ribbons, the shoulders rising like dragon claws, and the chain bearing the three-headed dragon emblem crossing your chest horizontally.
“How did they fail you?” he asked, genuinely curious. Everything seemed perfectly in place — every accessory, every jewel, crafted as though made for you alone.
“Their hands trembled like a newborn’s while fastening the pins,” you replied with a contemptuous curl of your lip. “She kept pricking me like some fumbling novice.” You finally turned to face him. “She fled in terror. I merely told her that if she hurt me again, I would rip out her windpipe with my bare hands and feed it to the pigs. It was nothing more than a warning.”
“We keep them better trained at home,” Aerion scoffed. “They don’t shatter from a mere threat.”
You made a soft sound of disappointed agreement in your throat and moved away from him to pick up a delicate, translucent dark silk cloth. Turning, you held it between two fingers. He approached at once, as if he already knew what you wanted. He removed his gloves, setting them on the bed, and took your hand with surprising gentleness.
“Use this to bless me with your favor in the jousts,” he asked commanded as he began tying the silk around your wrist so it could be easily untied and given to him on the field.
You could feel the warmth of his touch against your skin, a sensation you had grown accustomed to since you first knew your own name. Accustomed to his heat. To his overwhelming presence. To the silent understanding that you were his and he was yours by right.
“If I were to grant it to you, I would tie it on your wrist myself without delay,” you said, your eyes watching as his fingers stilled the moment your words sank in.
His violet eyes, identical to your own, lifted to meet your gaze.
“Hm?” His entire expression had grown deadly serious, as though some foul jest had left your lips.
“You heard me. Father has been pressuring me about marriage again,” you replied lightly. Aerion stared at you as if the words could not possibly be yours.
How dare you even entertain such a thought? It was written in the blood that two dragons such as you were destined to be joined in marriage. The duty of keeping the blood pure fell upon you both. And it was not duty alone that drove him. The desire to possess you ran like molten fire through his veins.
With an angry snarl, his free hand seized your other arm, nails digging into your skin as he forced you to face him squarely.
“We dragons stand far above arranged marriages. We do not bow to the laws and decrees of Westeros as lesser men do. We are gods.” His voice dropped low and rough, as though merely speaking the reminder cut like knives across his throat.
And you knew it to be true. You clung to that truth as fiercely as he clung to you. Yet your gaze held his without faltering. A small spark of satisfaction gleamed in your eyes.
Yes, you were destined. Yes, there was no purer blood than yours — the blood of twins born from the same womb, fated to be together from cradle to grave. Your temper complemented his, and together you were terror incarnate to any fool who dared provoke the dragon’s wrath.
But you had grown tired.
With you, he was relaxed, so certain of your belonging that it rivaled his certainty in himself.
Yet you craved more.
You wanted his fire. You wanted his rage. You wanted to see him erupt. You wanted to watch him burn the kingdoms for you.
So you smiled.
“Let the knight who unhorses you be worthy of my favor in the coming jousts,” you said sweetly, like honeyed poison. “And of my hand in marriage, should he prove bold enough to claim it. Which he will.”
Fury danced in Aerion’s violet irises. His fingers remained pressed into your skin, leaving marks. His knuckles had turned white, and his jaw was clenched so tightly you saw the muscle twitch.
“You speak as though you have already foreseen my defeat,” he hissed. His tongue swept across his lips, fighting the urge to tear yours away with his teeth for such provocation. With remarkable restraint, he released you and snatched up his gloves, stepping back. “You are wrong, sister. I do not come here to play, like this herd of swine who dare compete. I come to win. And you know the dragon ought never lose.”
“You should hurry. The knights must already be assembling on the field.”
Rage bubbled hot inside his veins, a feeling he wasn't accustomed to when the receiving end were you. A heated, ugly feeling was shaping in his core. Aerion bared his teeth in contempt.
“You will regret those words.”
The sun bathed the high royal stands where you sat beside Maekar, granting a privileged view over the field where the jousts would soon commence.
All around, the hurried bustle of squires attending their knights, the nervous whinnying of horses being armored for the impending clashes, and the lively chatter and laughter of the common folk formed a chaotic symphony that did little to calm your racing heart.
You tilted your head, glancing at the empty seat where Aerion usually sat beside you. He was now mounted upon his great coal-black stallion. Your eyes returned to the field, sharpening like a falcon’s upon your twin. He drew every gaze with his extravagant splendor. His mount was draped in a barding of fabric cut in the furious hues of fire — orange, crimson, and gold. With every powerful stride, the cloth billowed and snapped like living flames. A dragon-scale chanfron adorned the horse’s head. It was impossible not to stare. The rider attracted attention like a magnet, and his regal, arrogantly graceful seat made the more impressionable ladies smile behind their fans like helpless fledglings awaiting devouring.
Your upper lip curled in open disdain. Maekar shot you a stern glance. Everyone was watching — not only Aerion, but you as well. The announcement that your hand was available for marriage had several knights eyeing you with shameless interest. You showed them no contempt, however.
Your earlier words to Aerion still echoed in your mind. If anyone unhorsed him, you would accept their offer of marriage.
Fortunately, you knew no one was capable of throwing him from his saddle. Especially not now, with the future of his beloved sister at stake.
The blast of trumpets pulled you from your thoughts. When you refocused, your eyes were still locked on your twin as he paraded his horse at a slow, deliberate pace. Not once did he lift his gaze to the royal box. He must still be furious.
A herald began the announcements. It seemed Aerion was to face a capable knight of House Tyrrell, easily recognizable by the rose emblazoned upon his shield.
Your fingers toyed absently with the fine dark silk tied around your wrist — the very token Aerion had fastened there with such certainty that it belonged to him. You straightened your spine in anticipation as the knight in question halted his white destrier before the royal stands. A sudden hush fell over the crowd. Aerion, completing his own lap of honor, reined in his stallion and turned in your direction, lifting his visor with narrowed eyes.
“My dragon princess,” announced Ser Tyrrell with solemn courtesy. He raised his lance so that its tip reached you near the wooden railing.
You rose gracefully and folded your hands neatly over your abdomen as you stepped forward. The knight appeared far more nervous in your presence than at the prospect of facing your brother. That would change soon enough, you were certain.
“I humbly beg your favor for this joust. Would you do me such an honor?”
Maekar kept his gaze fixed on the scene, tapping his finger uneasily against the arm of his chair. Aerion clenched his teeth, staring daggers at the knight while gripping his own lance with the clear desire to charge forward and drive it through the man’s nape until it burst from his mouth. That was his sister. His lady.
“You dare present yourself before me,” you asked with icy composure, “begging my favor to defeat my own brother?”
The knight seemed to reconsider every choice that had led him to this moment. A terrible threat coiled in your throat, yet the words that left your lips were soft as silk. “Foolish. Or perhaps brave. Here it is.”
Ser Tyrrell exhaled in visible relief as you tied the dark silk around his lance. The crowd erupted into fresh cheers.
A dragon granting her favor to a rose, so that it might face another dragon. What madness was this?
The trumpet sounded once more. The knight offered a slight, respectful nod before riding to his position. Aerion did the same with barely contained rage, slamming his visor shut and urging his stallion forward with a sharp, angry thrust of his hips.
Aerion was seeing red.
Moonlight bathed the sandy arena where the jousts had unfolded hours earlier. The ground remained churned and scarred, yet an eerie stillness hung over the field, as though time itself had halted. There was no one else present — only you and the solitary song of crickets accompanying your steps. Shards of splintered wood and lingering traces of blood still marked the earth, imperfectly cleared by the squires.
You walked slowly toward the largest pool of blood staining the sand. The dried blood of Lord Tyrrell, now a dark, crusted stain upon the arena floor, summoned vivid memories of the events that had transpired mere hours before.
The thunderous clash of lances. The piercing screams of horses. The sudden whirlwind of sand thrown up by pounding hooves, followed by a sepulchral silence as the entire crowd held its breath. When the dust finally settled, Tyrrell’s convulsing body lay exposed, the tip of your twin’s lance driven through his throat. Too precise to be an accident. Aerion never missed.
The wet, gurgling death throes of the dying man drowning in his own blood were eclipsed by the horrified gasps of the spectators, who turned away and covered their mouths in dismay. Yet you felt a dark, twisted satisfaction watching Aerion’s unnerving calm as he committed murder — for you.
A faint smile curved your lips.
The sound of footsteps made you turn. Aerion stood before you. He stepped unhesitatingly into the pool of dried blood, his eyes finding yours.
He had shed his armor and now wore his customary red-and-black attire. Less imposing, yet no less dangerous — though those wide, almost boyish eyes refused to leave yours.
“Do you see what happens?” he asked, lips tightening with irritation. He gave the crimson sand a dismissive kick. He regarded you as one might scold a wayward child, his voice soft as silk sheathing steel. “When you doubt your brother. When you wager against him. I struck the blow… but you killed him.”
“I did not aim the lance at his throat,” you replied dryly, fighting the urge to smile with open satisfaction.
Aerion pressed his lips together, suppressing a grin of his own, and shrugged with feigned innocence. “I felt obligated.”
That look on his face — as though the most natural response to the threat of losing you was violence. As though he would gladly slaughter any man and walk away unscathed, solely to keep you by his side. As though he would defy every law of Westeros for his beloved sister.
“You have pleased me,” you declared, lifting your chin with regal poise.
“I did not do it for your pleasure, my dear sister.” His mouth widened into a dangerous, wolfish smile as he stepped closer. The heat radiating from his body became almost tangible. “I did it for mine.”
His gaze dropped to your lips, and he slowly licked his own. Before you could draw another breath, his hand closed firmly around your arm. He pulled you after him, dragging you toward a small, deserted pavilion not far from the bloodied sand.
To claim the reward he so richly deserved.
Aerion had kissed you before. Innocent little pecks, fleeting brushes of lips — before your father had swiftly put an end to such behavior, at least in his presence.
But the way he kissed you now was savage.
His mouth claimed yours with raw hunger, his body pressing you back until you stumbled against a table. Even then, he did not break the kiss. If anything, it grew more dominant. His teeth sank into your lower lip, drawing a stifled gasp that he seized upon, plunging his tongue into your mouth to taste you as he had always longed to.
Your tongue met his with equal fervor, sliding and coiling around it with a sensuality that stole the breath from his lungs. His dominance faltered for a moment as you sucked on the slick muscle, pulling a deep groan from him. He braced himself with one hand on the table beside your hip.
With his free hand, he impatiently untied the laces of your gown, one by one, until the fabric slipped from your shoulders and pooled at your feet.
The cool night air kissed your bare skin, but your brother’s merciless mouth soon warmed every inch it touched.
Breathing hard against your cheek, lips parted, he tilted his head to trail kisses along your jaw, down your neck, and across your collarbone, leaving a wet path in his wake. While one of your hands braced against the wooden table behind you, the other buried itself in his hair, not guiding but holding, as his heated mouth descended to one of your breasts.
“Someone could walk in,” you gasped, even as you made no move to stop him. “We don’t even know whose tent this is.”
A crooked smile curved his lips before they closed around one hardened nipple, drawing a sharp arch from your back.
“Let them enter,” he murmured against your skin. “They’ll learn it belongs to us now.”
You meant to reply, but he silenced you with a sharp bite to the side of your breast. His mouth moved to the other, lavishing it with the same hungry attention. He licked and sucked until the peak glistened with his saliva, then continued downward. Lower. And lower still.
“Brother,” you whispered breathlessly, eyes widening as you watched him sink to his knees before you.
He rested his chin against your stomach, looking up at you with an arrogant, predatory smile. His lips were slightly swollen from the kiss and glistening with the mingled wetness of your mouths.
“What?” he asked mockingly. “Is this too fast for you?” He lowered his head again, pressing kisses and soft bites across your navel and lower abdomen. His hands gripped your waist firmly. “This is what happens when you keep poking the dragon all day. You haven’t stopped teasing me once — and I won’t stop now, even if I have to drag your apologies from you screaming.”
Without another word, he hooked one of your thighs over his shoulder, spreading you open for him. He buried his face between your legs, eyes fluttering shut as his nose brushed along your swollen folds, making your hips twitch. His grip turned ironclad, holding you still as his tongue dragged a long, slow lick through your slick heat. Then he closed his mouth around your clit and sucked hard.
Your fingers tightened in his hair, nails digging into his scalp. The sharp sting only made him groan with pleasure and devour you with even greater fervor.
His tongue plunged inside you, drawing a loud moan from your throat. Aerion growled against your cunt, tilting his head to reach deeper, his nose brushing your sensitive bud with every thrust.
He loosened his grip just enough to let you grind against his mouth while he fucked you with his tongue. His eyes remained locked on your face, drinking in your expression of ecstasy, which only made him more ravenous.
You were close — your walls fluttering and clenching around his tongue, your movements growing erratic.
“Come in my mouth,” he rasped against your soaked flesh, baring his teeth in raw desperation. “Please… you taste too fucking good.”
You surrendered completely, pressing his face harder between your thighs. The coil of pleasure snapped, unraveling in a wave of moans and curses from you both. Aerion never pulled away, drinking every drop as it flooded his tongue and dripped down his chin. He swallowed greedily, as if he had never tasted anything purer — or more sinful.
When he finally drew back, a shadowed, satisfied smile played on his glistening lips. His chest heaved in time with yours.
“Was this what you needed from me?” he asked, pressing one last lingering kiss to the inside of your thigh before rising to his feet. His eyes burned into yours. “For me to kill for you... to kneel for you?” He leaned in closer. “Next time, speak plainly... or I’ll take you in front of all those fools who think they have any chance with my sister.”
Summary: You spent all day trying to get your husband attention, now that you finally have it he won’t let you go.
WARNINGS: MDNI, smut, p in v, kinda of dirty talking, little of a praise kink, straight up porn
A/n: I’m writing so much these days, since I have nothing to do, so expect many one shots🤞🏻
masterlist | wc: 1.4k
A SOFT, breathless gasp escaped your parted lips as you felt the weight of him pressing you down into the mattress, the friction of your bodies sending jolts of heat through your entire being. Your fingers dug into the silk sheets of your shared bed, bunching the fabric tightly as you arched your back instinctively against his rhythm. The sound of your slapping skin filled the air, already smelling of sweat and sex. All those hours of pestering him, trailing behind him like his shadow, and tugging at his sleeve, teasing him in front of everyone, it had all led to this delicious, overwhelming moment.
"Valarr..." you whimpered his name, your voice trembling softly. You turned your head to the side, lifting your face partially from the pillow so you could catch a glimpse of him over your shoulder.
Valarr gazed down at you with hooded eyes, dark with desire, drinking in the sight of your burning skin and the way your body yielded so perfectly beneath his own. Your arse was still flushed for all of the slapping he has done just a moment before. He leaned over you, one hand sliding up the curve of your spine and the curve of your hips before tangling gently the strands of your soft hair, tilting your head back just enough to expose the column of your throat. "Shhh, my love." he murmured, his voice rumbling through his chest and into yours. "I'm here now. I've got you." His hips continued their steady, purposeful rhythm, each thrust hitting that perfect spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyelids. The other hand caressed your hip, your thigh, your breasts, mapping out every dip and swell of your form reverently even as he took his pleasure from your willing body. You could clearly feel his shaft dragging into you, brushing your clit enough to make you whimper. You squirmed under his grip, as if you tried to run away from that overwhelming feeling, just for Valarr to tighten his firm grip on you.
"Valarr..." you breathed his scent, squeezing your eyes closed. Your head was spinning, vision white and clouded.
He snickered a laugh, his breath trembling against the back of your neck, where he placed a wet kiss on. "You were so impatient today, begged for my attention. Now that you have it you can't even talk."
A frustrated, needy sound caught in your throat, halfway between a moan and a sob, as his words teased the very edge of your composure. You hated how easily he read you, how he knew exactly which buttons to press to leave you completely undone. When his teeth grazed the sensitive skin of your nape, followed by that searingly hot kisses, your toes curled against the sheets and your hips bucked backwards, trying to find more of him, to chase the friction that was driving you mad.
"You're making it... impossible." you managed to choke out, your voice thick with lust and exhaustion. Every time he hit that specific, maddening point deep inside you, your brain seemed to blur, leaving you unable to form coherent thoughts.
Valarr chuckled lowly at your adorable frustration, the sound vibrating deliciously against your skin. His grip in your hair tightened just slightly, holding you in place as he continued his relentless pace. Each powerful thrust seemed to reach deeper than the last, stoking the flames of your arousal higher and higher until you thought surely you must combust. Your wetness was all over him: on his fingers, which he put inside you just a few minutes before, on his face, that he used to eat the delicious sweet treat between your legs, and on his pelvis, where your skin was meeting each other. He was covered by you, and he was incredibly pleased with that.
"You're doing so well, my love." he purred into your ear, his free hand sliding around to your front, calloused fingers finding your aching clit without hesitation. He began to circle the sensitive nub in time with his thrusts, the dual stimulation almost too much to bear for you. "Look at you, how good you are for me. So perfect.” His voice was pure sin, dripping with seduction and desire. Valarr knew exactly what your body needed, how to play it like an instrument only he was meant to touch.
Your world narrowed down to the points of contact, the heavy, rhythmic intrusion of him filling you, the agonizingly perfect pressure of his thumb circling your clit, and the warmth of his breath against your ear. It was sensory overload, a beautiful, chaotic storm that left you gasping for air you couldn't seem to find. You let out a broken, high-pitched keen when his finger found its mark, your hips jerking uncontrollably against his hand as you tried to both escape and lean into the sensation.
"Valarr, please..." you pleaded, though you didn't know what you were asking for. More? Faster? To stop? Everything was blurred together into a singular, desperate need for release. You reached back blindly, your hand searching for his leg or his arm, needing something solid to hold onto as the waves of pleasure began to crash over you.
Valarr's heart swelled with softness at the desperation in your plea, the way you clung to him like he was your lifeline. He knew you were close, could feel the fluttering of your walls around his cock, the tension coiling tighter and tighter in your body. With a low groan, he redoubled his efforts, his hips snapping forward harder, faster, determined to push you over the edge.
"That's it, my girl." he breathed, his voice rough with his own impending release. "Let go, mh? I want to feel you come apart on me." His thumb pressed down harder on your clit, rubbing firm circles as his other hand released your hair to wrap around your waist, pulling you back to meet his thrusts.
The command shattered whatever fragile control you had left on your body, which was very little. At his words, the coil within you snapped, and a blinding explosion of pleasure ripped through your core. You cried out, a raw, uninhibited sound that echoed off the stone walls of your chambers, as your internal muscles clamped down violently around him in a series of rhythmic, pulsing contractions. Your vision went entirely white, the sheer intensity of the orgasm forcing your back to arch sharply, your spine curving like a bow as you surrendered to the waves crashing over you. You felt utterly powerless, nothing but a vessel for the ecstasy he was providing. As you shuddered through the peak, your hands gripped the sheets so hard they threatened to tear, your whole body trembling under the force of the climax.
Valarr groaned long and low as he felt your walls spasming around him, the rhythmic squeezing pushing him closer to his own edge. He continued to stroke your clit, drawing out your pleasure as long as possible, until he could feel you start to come down from the high. Only then did he allow himself to let go, his hips stuttering as he buried himself to the hilt inside you with a guttural moan of your name. His release pulsed hot and thick, painting your insides with his seed as he held himself deep, grinding against your cervix to prolong the sensation. Aftershocks wracked his frame, small shudders running through him as he emptied himself fully into your welcoming womb. "Fuck, Y/n." he panted, collapsing forward to rest his forehead between your shoulder blades.
You lay there, limp and utterly spent, your chest heaving as you struggled to draw in oxygen. The silence of the room felt heavy and warm, punctuated only by the sounds of your synchronized, ragged breathing. The feeling of him still buried deep inside you, pulsing with the remnants of his release, sent tiny, lingering tremors through your nerves. You felt heavy, sated, and cherished, wrapped in the cocoon of his sweat-slicked skin. His sticky hot seed dripped out from your hole on your thighs, covering your skin with him.
You reached back blindly, your fingers grazing his damp hair before settling on his forearm, tracing the strong lines of his muscle. "You're always so impatient." you said, your voice barely a rasp, cracking slightly from the intensity of your cries.
“Look who’s talking.” Valarr chuckled softly, giving your hip a gentle squeeze that made you yelp.
Sweet vengeance. // Gwayne Hightower x Cole!Reader (sister of Criston Cole)
Summary: After the encounter with Criston Cole, they return to the keep after successfully defending the territory, almost as if the gods were calling out for him to seek revenge; he ends up bumping into you.
WARNINGS: smut, mdni, porn with plot (a little bit too much plot ig), unprotected p in v sex, slight breeding kink, cunnilingus, oral (f. receiving) interrupted orgasm at the end, cumming inside, Gwayne is an absolute asshole to Criston, purity culture, virginity loss, profanity, age gap (left it up interpretation, but the reader is in her 20s and Gwayne in his 40s), doesn't follow the show plot it's a literal fic which I altered heavily + not proofread.
WC: 2.7k
A/N: here comes the promised gwayne x cole!reader fic, I've teased it ever since that confrontation episode dropped and now finally I'm able to publish it 😭 // divider credits: @cafekitsune
Gwayne walked through the corridors furiously, stomping his feet inside the red keep, departing to his guest chambers in a hurried manner, trying to stay calm.
He just returned from the battle, successfully defeating the invasion of the blacks into King's Landing, securing the land for themselves as Aemond ruled as Prince regent. However, there was only one thing on his mind.
His sister's tainted honour.
Amidst everything, he had gotten Criston to confess and admit that he was sleeping with the Queen, he was disgusted by the revelation. Wasn't Criston a kingsguard? Vowing to not seek pleasures or taint his cloak?
He felt sick in the stomach, wanting to empty it out, regardless of the fact that there is nothing inside.
His feet tapped against the stone floor harshly, his armour clanking with every step forward, he took a harsh turn at the end of the path only for his body to hit something that came from the opposite direction, causing him to stumble two steps backward. He took a moment to collect himself and straighten his posture, wanting to see what it was that he bumped into.
He looked down, shocked to see you on the ground. You broke the impact of the fall with your hands, which proved to be a bad idea considering how the force made them give up immediately, crashing your butt onto the ground. “Ouch.” You clenched your eyes shut as a burning sensation spread through your buttox.
You glared at the reason for your fall, eyes widening on the realisation that it was Ser Gwayne Hightower. “Seven hells, I apologise my lady, are you alright?” Gwayne is quick to apologise, extending his out, waiting for you to grab it and get up.
You gently place your hand in his, his palm closing immediately as he grips onto you while you get off the ground. “Ser Gwayne, I apologise, it was me who was at fault.” You bow, dusting off your gown with one of your hands.
“If it is not rude, might I ask who you are? I have not ever seen you around before, yet you seem to know me.” He speaks politely, giving you a small smile and you nod. “I am Y/N Cole, I know you very well Ser, your knighthood isn't unheard of.” You praise him.
“Y/N Cole… ? Are you related to Ser Criston Cole perhaps?” He questions, furrowing his eyebrows as his grip tightens around your hand. “Yes Ser Gwayne, He is my elder brother.” You reply.
Gwayne was not aware that Criston had a sister.
He took in your form, eyes trailing down from your face to your neck, to your breasts and further downwards, analysing you quite intently, “Mhm, I did not know he had a sister.” Gwayne shrugs, still not letting go of your hand. “He is quite overprotective, so he doesn't mention my existence to his peers.” You admit embarrassedly, looking down and biting your lip. He stared at you for a moment too long, the like of dots being connected as his mind sketches out a plan of action. His expression almost betrayed him as his face bloomed into a wide smile.
Oh you sweet little thing.
He could not believe that Criston had a younger sister. It's almost as if the Gods are etching him on to trudge this path, but he was not going to complain. It felt like he won a war when he realised this fact.
He can use you against Criston.
Perhaps he will make Criston feel the same thing he felt.
He smiles widely at you, bringing your hand upwards and pressing his lips to your knuckles. You blush at this gesture and give him a soft smile in return. “If you may excuse me, I have to take my leave, my lady. I've returned from war and my state.. is well.” He looks at himself and you chuckle, “It is alright.” You reply and he smiles. “Let's go on a stroll next time, yeah?” He speaks in a questioning manner, your eyes widen at the offer but you nod immediately.
Those walks became more frequent as you both enjoyed each other's company quite a lot. Gwayne found you much more bearable than criston, he's aware of the fact that he is an elitist. Holding himself at great stature as he comes from the Hightower family. So any other house that is not in power or he hasn't heard of; he acts like an ass to them.
But he found himself being lenient on you, perhaps to butter you up for the feast he's planning to have. His thoughts have been a mess for the past few days. He at first began to plan on how to execute the plan and take your maidenhead and let the keep hear it. But the ratio of the execution and sexual part became heavily unequal as he wanted to indulge fully in you.
You were beautiful, your skin was pretty, the way your hair was styled, exposing your neck from behind. He wanted to bend you over the ledge and fuck you. You would be so confused he assumes.
Have you had your first orgasm? Did you ever touch yourself?
You were from Dorne so you must know of the deprived acts right? But he notes how young you are, likely spending your entire life here in Kings Landing with Cole.
It was one of those usual garden walks you went on with Gwayne, walking in silence as you both had nothing to talk about, this was no means foreign to you, there would always be silence sometimes during your walks; but this time it felt tense.
Like the feeling of a volcano before it erupts.
You both were standing over the parapet of the backside in the keep, noticing how the waters flowed gently. You felt him move, standing right behind you, pressing himself against you.
“My lady.” He whispers in your ear and you turn your head slightly, not reacting in any way, “H-hmm?” You reply in nervousness his hands moved up your sides in a sensual manner. You stood there frozen.
He grabs you by your shoulder and spins you around so that you're facing, placing his hands on both the sides of your frame; preventing any escape. “Are you promised to any man yet? Your beauty is otherworldly.” He asks, his eyes staring right into you, his voice was sweet yet held a hint of his perverse desire for you.
You shake your head no.
“Such a pity.” He mocks, one of his hands coming to grip your cheek. He pauses for a moment, staring at your lips before looking into your eyes waiting for you to say something; yet you remain quiet as your heart beats loudly in your chest.
He takes it as a cue to press his lips against yours closing his eyes; fully indulging himself onto you as he groans at how soft your lips feel, his own move against yours in a soft manner, a gentle pull of a wave.
It was your first kiss, never having done this with anyone before, it felt odd; but in a good way, his lips felt soft against yours, he waited for you to reciprocate— giving you all the time you needed to process this.
One of his hands rested on your hips, using it as leverage to pull you closer, pressing your bodies together while the other positioned itself against the back of your head pulling you deeper into the kiss.
You responded a while later, learning through the process, moving your lips in a rhythmic motion with his, he muttered something against your lips which you weren't able to process as your mind was hazy. Something about this kiss was shooting immense pleasure down your body; increasing the heat between your legs.
He pulls away from the kiss to take a breath while staring at your lips, noticing the string of saliva that was still connecting you both. He hums before capturing your lips once again but with even more fervour this time. He pushes back until your butt hits the ledge before he places you on it, not breaking the kiss at all.
He plants himself between your legs as his hands roam around all over your body in desperation, sometimes gripping your waist or your soft breasts, squeezing your flesh as he grips onto you tightly.
He breaks the kiss abruptly before he suddenly kneels, you look at him confused until you notice that he's hiking your skirts up, revealing your intimate area. “Ser, this might be inappropriate—” You try to protest but not knowing what to expect, but circles his arms around your thighs pulling you close as he disappears before your legs.
You watch curiously when you feel his warm breath on your cunt. You shriek in surprise when you feel his tongue run across your fdd before he fully takes in your cunt.
You squirm uncontrollably as he works his wonders on your cunt; causing you to grip his hair tightly and push yourself further into his face, you let out small moans, hoping that no one would pass by this area and catch you both in this compromised position.
You place your other hand on the ledge to support yourself from falling before closing your eyes and fully enjoying what he's doing to you. His tongue laps hungrily at your folds, licking them up and down before he suckles on your clit harshly, flicking the bud with his tongue before capturing it wholly again with his mouth.
He groans into your cunt, enthralled by the sensation of having your soft folds in his mouth, he enjoyed it way too much than he'd like to admit, wanting to be forever stuck in between your legs.
You feel a sudden heat building up in your abdomen as he continues his actions, “U-uhm Ser Gwayne— I think something is happening.” You tell him unsure which makes him speed up his movements.
Without warning, you're hit with a plethora of euphoria, your back automatically arching and your voice letting out a loud moan as the feeling hits you in waves. He suckles on your cunt for a minute to let you ride out your orgasm before coming out your skirt.
You feel your cheeks heat up when you see how his lips were coated with your wetness which makes you look away in shyness, he gets back up on his feet before grabbing your chin and tilting your head slightly to make you look at him.
He doesn't say anything but only stares at you as he slowly connects both your lips once again, making you take your own essence. He grinds against you, pressing his now hard bulge in between your thighs as he dry humps you.
He tears away from the kiss with a wet pop, not wasting any time in undoing his breeches, revealing his cock to you, your eyes widened at the sheer size and girth of it. “I-i don't think it will fit?” You stare at him which makes him smirk a little, “It will my lady, I shall see it does.” He replies before bunches up your skirt, making your cunt come into view.
He slowly lines himself against your entrance, his tip kissing the entryway gently as he slowly closes in, pushing it inch by inch. He places his hand on both your sides as you grip him for support, the stretch stinging a little bit.
It takes a while but he's fully inside now, and slowly he begins to move, he grabs a hold of your waist with one of his hands so you don't fall over the edge, he pushes your body against his, making it so as if you're hugging him.
You wrap your arms around his neck tightly as he rams into you, thrusting in and out; causing you to bounce along with him, he grunts into your ear, whispering sweet things.
“Seven hells, you feel so divine.” He whispers against your ear, causing you to clench involuntarily; which makes him gasp in shock, “Jeez—” He drops his head onto your shoulder, now fully gripping you by his arms around your waist as he rams further and further into you. “Fuck, I'm about to finish— should I do it inside you? Fill you up with my seed huh? Make you carry my babes?” He groans, the idea of you being pregnant with his children driving him insane, it would always be a good way to get back at Criston.
You feel him hitting your sweet spot inside you, prodding it with his tip every thrust. His pace falters as he reaches his end, with a final thrust— he finishes with a loud moan of your name as he pulls back and recaptures your lips, kissing you with even more hunger.
He keeps thrusting, wanting you go finish as well, you were about to; almost reaching the breaking point— “What in the seven fucking hells is going on here?!” The shout of a familiar voice makes you snap out of the trance, Gwayne halts and you both immediately look to the place of origin.
It was your brother, Criston.
His expression contained that of both anger and shock, Gwanye quickly pulls himself out of you and puts his breeches back on and you get off the ledge and pull your skirts down and pat the wrinkles down.
“B-brother I— I can explain, it was me—” You begin, “Be quiet, Y/N.” He grits his teeth, cutting you off from speaking as his eyes shoot daggers into Gwayne, whose face is now bearing a smug expression.
“You fucking bastard!” Criston yells before he reaches over and grabs Gwayne, throwing him to the ground before punching his face. Gwayne dodges it, holding his hands down. “It is not so nice when you discover that someone has been fucking your sister, is it?” Gwayne remarks which angers Criston further.
A group of guards rush over putting an end to this fight, pulling the two men apart as you stand there in shock, shaking as if you were scared of both the men.
The next thing you know, You, Gwayne, Criston were all standing before the dowager queen as she looked at you all three in questioning ways. “What has happened?” She directs her question to Gwayne who raises an eyebrow.
Gwayne doesn't answer, “This b- Lord Gwayne was—” Criston swallows as he looks at you, “He was caught in a compromising position with my sister.” He blurts out, “And what was the compromising position that made you raise your hand on my brother, Ser Cole? They could have just been together—” Alicent wanders off.
“He was fucking my sister.” Criston grits his teeth, spitting the words out like venom, causing Alicent to cut herself off. She goes silent as she looks over at her brother, “Is this true?” She asks and Gwayne nods, “Yes my Queen, how can a man hold himself back at the sight of such a maiden? Besides, she wasn't opposed to the idea.” Gwayne speaks out, his words angering Criston ever more.
“Y-yes your grace, I wasn't opposed to it.” You jump in defending Gwayne which makes me smile at you, making Criston look at you in disbelief.
“My Queen, he has tainted her, he has ruined her, who will marry her now?” Criston brings up a valid point which makes the Queen get lost in thought, you put your head down, ashamed of it.
“I shall, I will marry her.” Gwayne volunteers which makes everyone look at him in shock. He only offers a smile.
He wasn't doing it out of kindness or anything, he knew that by marrying you, Criston will experience the same torment and anguish Gwayne felt when he discovered the truth of Criston and Alicent, except it will be a hundred times worse because Criston has no way to avenge himself, for he cannot marry Alicent.
He'll have to suffer, watch his little sister marry Gwayne, become his wife and a mother of his children, every step will be a stab in a vital organ to Criston.
Was Gwayne going a bit too far? Perhaps, yet it didn't matter, for the situation only benefits him. Not only will Criston be tormented by this relationship but he will have you as his pretty wife whom he can fuck and ruin all he wants.
Gwayne is a selfish man.
— ! ݈݇- thank you so much for reading! i hope you enjoyed it <3 comments and reblogs are appreciated greatly ♡
summary: you, a young noblewoman, devout and yet curious find yourself accompanied by none other than Ser Gwayne Hightower, the knight that has stood beside you for almost every nameday since you met. And now, at the hour of the owl you kneel together at the pillars of the Sept, finding yourself in a much different position, and your knight cannot resist.
pairing: gwayne hightower x f!reader
warning(s): SMUT, slight age gap, porn with plot, gwayne has pervy thoughts, yearning, general canon courtship, forbidden lovers.
word count: 6.7K
a/n: this took way too long but I promise there is more, and this probably isn't my best work, though I'll be working on some more darker fics soon and I'll have to go over this, and I have your asks to get to but here you go gorgeous people!! enjoy :)
The Sept had already emptied, lit only by the votive of candles and the cold spill of moonlight through the stained glass windows that adorned the walls. And here, if only for a little while, amidst the smell of old stone and the heavy sweetness of burning myrrh, you felt as if you could breathe, so much so even the Gods themselves held their breath.
You already knew the troubles a girl, or it should be said a Lady, would face being here at such an hour— the hour of the owl to be exact. But all of your duties had been undertaken, precisely day in and day out, everything asked of you without a moment of peace until now. So you knelt, shins pressed into the cold flooring without a care in the world, your skirts bunched up around you as you placed your elbows upon the altar. Your eyes pressed tightly together, only the flickering of orange behind your eyelids except the darkness and you began to say prayer, well, you tried. Word spoken only between you and the Gods, one for the fallen, one for the sick, one for the lesser noble and another for your mother, ‘may she rest.’
But other thoughts crept in, the ones of the Lord your father is pushing you against, ever since she’d been gone and since you reached your eighteenth nameday, marriage was the only answer. “For your house, for your honour, and for your family.” He had told you many times over, much to your protest, and now it has gone on long enough, you are without choice.
A Tully boy of your age, sweet and boyish enough but he was immature, ‘dumb as a pike’ as you’d called him, earning a few laughs from your chambermaids and a squire, but your father had had enough. “Many young ladies of your age would already be with child by now, you can do your house the grace of accepting this union.”
“But he is-“, you began to protest as he stood across from you. “But he is nothing, and to be your husband no less. A young, fine boy which will solidify our rank with the Riverlands. I have known Lord Tully since I myself was a boy, I have no doubt this will be reasonable.” He argued, eyes burning into yours as you looked away, before snapping your head up.
“You are to have me married off over war matters, this is madness.” You barked, standing beside your bed as he dismissed the servants with a wave of his hand, and he came closer, standing before you, holding your hands in his. Reaching one hand to cup at your cheek, “These things are not always so simple, my dear girl, but this is how we survive in this world, very few find such happiness so easily. Not even the Queens nor commoners lead such simplicity, but with this union, you will be safe, perhaps find your own happiness, love.” Love. The last word let a bitter taste in your mouth, questions running around your head beyond just the anger, the fear— “Did you find that with mother?” It seemed to leave your lips without another thought, and his face hardened, eyes flicking down between you at the floor and back to you before smiling softly,
“In time, very much..” This was no lie, but something in his voice pushed duty over any concept of love, of something worth fighting for more than just arrangement. “And you will too.” “Father-“ You called back as he pulled away, the soft moment forgotten. “Father nothing, it is already settled.”
The creak of the door went on deaf ears as a cough rang out through your chambers, “My Lord, you have been called upon in the council.” That familiar voice made you look, as you hung onto your bedpost, creeping around the corner as your father gave you a final look before turning away, uncovering the face. Ser Gwayne Hightower. The knight, the warrior that had manned your gates and guarded your city’s walls from the horror that creep in in the night, the soft smile that would always greet you in the halls and the boy at only a few years older who would hold you at every upset, proclaiming with his shield and sword he would protect you.
Those same eyes met yours across the space of the room—older now, wearier, but still holding that same quiet sympathy. That same yearning, barely veiled, the one you’d always sensed but never dared name. You two hadn’t been close, not really, not long enough to talk as you’d liked to. But you’d known him long enough to read the shift in his stance—the way time had leaned heavier into his bones, how even stillness sat like a burden on him now. He stood taller than you remembered, more solid, yet worn in the way a knight grows worn—not broken, but tempered. His armor caught the light in sharp angles, muscles shifting beneath the steel like a memory of youth.
He was handsome. You’d known that from the start, you had even once joked—boldly, perhaps too boldly—that he was far too pretty to waste behind a helm, that noble sons weren’t meant to bleed. He'd overheard, of course. Said nothing, but smiled in that way that betrayed more than words. You hadn’t known what it meant then, but in this time you believe you do.
He may have stepped in where he shouldn’t have—drawn attention, made himself part of a fight that wasn’t his. You were mid-argument with your father, when he pressed his ear beside the wood, slyly listening to your voices raised over the marriage he was arranging, and when he heard you— you said no—twice, then louder. And then and only the had Gwayne had moved through the doors, not a word spoken, not a challenge issued but just the sharp clatter of his armour as he announced himself.
It wasn’t for pride. Not even for honor. But because he knew—knew you didn’t want this, knew they were pushing too hard, too far. He didn’t speak another word to you as your father used past him, but he didn’t need to. You felt the truth in his silence, the weight of it, knowing that he’d been watching. Listening. Wanting.
And you knew, even then, that he didn’t want that fate for you any more than you did.
You’d come to the sept for silence, but it offers none, not tonight, even with your head bowed and hands steepled, your thoughts refuse to settle. You try to summon reverence, gratitude—something holy—but all that comes is the dull throb of resentment. Weeks. Maybe months, if you're lucky and then it’s over. A marriage sealed in parchment and gold, to a boy with empty eyes and no words of his own. And freedom—your freedom—slips further from reach with every nod of your father’s head.
If only they’d given you time, a little more time to patch your wounds, to shape your own path and maybe you’d have found a lover—someone with sharp wit and slower hands. Someone who read poetry or rode recklessly or kissed you like he meant it, and perhaps he wouldn’t be noble, maybe he’d be a knight, one you could trust your secrets to in the dark.
And maybe… maybe it’s foolish to be kneeling in a sept praying for another fate, foolish to long for someone not written into the path the gods laid for you. But you’d be lying if you said there wasn’t one man you’ve thought of more than the others.
Gwayne.
Charming, disciplined, maddeningly polite Gwayne Hightower. Always standing just far enough away, always watching. Always choosing silence when you wished he’d just speak. And still—when he looked at you, it burned. No words, no gestures, just those eyes, as if he already knew the shape of your longing.
Your thighs press together as you shift slightly on the cushion, half on the warmth and half on the hardened floor. It’s unseemly—blasphemous, maybe, but you don’t stop. Because when your mind drifts now, it isn’t to holy vows or golden rings, it’s to Gwayne’s hands braced against the altar. His mouth at your throat, the sheen of those rosy lips against yours. His armor cold against your bare skin.. If he touched you here, would the gods forgive it?
Or would they watch?
He took the stairs two at a time, jaw clenched so tight it ached. Steel clanked at his side with each step, the weight of his sword more irritating than reassuring. The sept loomed ahead, lit by thin, flickering lines of candlelight leaking through its tall windows, and still he climbed—like absolution waited for him at the top.
It didn’t, and he knew that.
He was cursing himself quietly, rhythmically. Not in the way soldiers did, not brash or loud, but tight and quiet, the way his father might’ve done when politics went sour. His boots struck stone harder than they needed to and his hands itched to curl into fists.
The council had been intolerable. Old men in silk arguing over troop placements and taxation with not a single ounce of understanding for what war cost in blood, in bone. And when he’d tried to speak sense—when he’d dared to voice concern for you, for the marriage being forced upon Lady Y/N—they’d dismissed it as sentiment. “A knight ought not concern himself with maiden woes,” one of them had said, smug behind his wine cup. And there and then he’d nearly broken that goblet over the bastard’s head.
Training only made things worse, nothing worked today, not when his blade felt heavy and his thoughts felt heavier, swinging at his opponent with too much force and not enough form. The younger squires noticed—he could feel their eyes. And he let them. Let them think him unhinged, because he was. He hadn’t meant to go to the sept, not really, but he’d found himself walking that way anyway, as if his body had made the choice for him. And maybe it had. Maybe the only place quiet enough for what clawed in his chest was a place where the gods would judge him for it.
Or forgive him.
And still he climbed.
Each step felt heavier than the last, not from the weight of his armor but from the thoughts he couldn’t shake. He huffed through clenched teeth, jaw tight, every breath a curse spat under his breath—not just at the day, but at the council, the kingdom, the way they’d all spoken of you like you were a pawn to pass, and not a person to protect.
They talked down to you in that chamber, voices like knives masked as reason. Dismissed your voice. Laughed when you walked out. And when he tried to speak—tried to defend you—his words were waved away like smoke.
“The girl needs a match, not a sword at her side.”
“Too soft on her, Hightower. Mind your place.”
He should’ve struck someone. Would’ve, if it wouldn’t have turned the council into chaos. And still… still it wasn't just rage in him.
It was you.
The memory of your voice still rang in his ears—low, sharp, velvet-lined with fury. The way you held your chin high even when your father shouted, the flash of your eyes when you dared him to speak, and the way your lips pressed together when he did. And worse than that…The way you’d looked days ago—laughing in the gardens, sunlight on your throat. The way your bodice shifted when you leaned too close over the council table, the curve of your spine when you turned from him. The way his hands burned just thinking of touching you there, right where silk met skin.
Gods forgive him, but he wanted you.
Not gently. Not chastely. He wanted you bent over something sacred. Wanted to ruin the pretty way you spoke his name. Wanted to rip open your perfect courtly life and give you something real. Someone real.
And fuck, he wanted it to be him.
He reached the giant wooden doors of the sept then, heart thudding like a drum in his chest. Somewhere between salvation and hell, that strange place only men with shaking hands and bad intentions find themselves. He wasn’t looking for prayer, just some sort of stillness.
He just needed a moment to forget— And when he opened the door, there you were.
Your eyes drifted shut again, following the flickering light of candles behind them, letting your thoughts scatter. You sat still, unmoving, lost between prayers and wishes that the Gods would never grant you. But something shifted.
The silence cracked.
A low creak, the groan of weight against the sept’s wooden doors and your eyes shot open. Hand braced against the wax-slicked stone, your spine straightened but you didn’t turn. No one ever came this late. Only you. The wind slipped through the stained-glass slits, curling the cold against your exposed back with a heavy breath. Then came the dull thud of the doors shutting once more, not in a hurry—slow, deliberate, almost cautious.
A shadow moved. Long limbs, squared shoulders and a cloak trailing behind like spilled ink, all you could make out, a deep shade of green. You turned your head, just barely. Enough to confirm what your heart already knew.
Gwayne.
He stopped as though struck, frozen mid-step with one boot still lingering on the stone behind. His brows drew in, squinting at you through the dark, “Gods—“ he muttered low, not even sure if he’d said it aloud or just in his mind. "I didn’t mean to—“ He swallowed the rest. And you turned fully, facing him with your body still folded low near the altar. He looked away quickly—out of courtesy or control, you couldn’t tell, maybe both.
"I didn't think anyone would be here," he added, voice rougher than usual. Tired from training, from the noise of council, from the ache in his arms and the deeper ache gnawing in his chest. He wanted to say more, but instead you offered a soft smile—mysterious, perhaps even merciful. "Neither did I."
There was a beat. A pause that wasn’t quite silence, heavy and warm and pulsing like a held breath between them.Your gaze lingered on him, how his chest rose and fell like he’d been running. His hair was messy, lips parted, the faintest shadow of a bruise along his jaw. Whatever had riled him today, it clung to him still—like dust from a battlefield.
"Would you sit with me?" you asked, voice low, a whisper carved from soft stone.
His eyes finally met yours, then dipped lower. Slowly. With reverence and something else… something darker. They trailed over your face, your mouth, your bare shoulders where your nightgown hung low, down to where your hands rested in your lap. He nodded, eyes flicking back up to your own, though his legs didn’t quite obey at first. And when he did move, it was cautious. Careful. As though getting too close might undo him completely.
He lowered himself beside you, bending at the knees as he settled on the floor, just close enough to feel. The coolness of the steel grazed your thigh and you gasped, and Gwayne pulled back slightly.
You laughed lightly, covering your bare skin with the silk, “Must you wear that all the time?” He only hung his head chuckling just enough it rumbled beside you. “It is duty my Lady, if it were choice, mayhaps not.” The smile on his face crept into a smirk, tilting his head as he looked at you, the light bouncing off of his face and his eyes narrowed. Contemplating for a moment, “Though if I can ask, what brings you here at this hour. If you would like I could escort you back to your chambers?” You rocked your head back, slumping a bit where you sat as you let out a loud sigh, shaking your head a little, “It won’t be needed, I only came here to breathe.”
“You cannot breathe in your chambers?” He remarked, a certain cheek in his tone still, seemingly already knowing your reason, the meaning behind your escape, and you knew he did. Even in passing, he’d been just as against this whole ordeal as you, perhaps even more. Your hand slung out to gently push at his chest in protest, only meaning to be playful. But when you did, he winced slightly through his chuckle, and you notice— the way he rotates his shoulder like it aches, the way his jaw flexes and eyes stay forward. He’s trying to be still. Proper. Holy.
But the air has already shifted and the light hits his chest plate just right.
“You’re bleeding.” You murmur, catching sight of the thin line across his arm, just where the steel reveals his tunic.
“Just a scrape my Lady, nothing more.” He replies brushing it off as he runs a shaky hand through his hair, like he does with most things. Though he turns then, meeting your gaze and seeing your almost concerned expression his face softens, tightening again.
“A long day?" you ask, half knowing.
He huffs a bitter laugh, looking down at his gauntlets, “You could say that. I got paired with a fool twice my size and half my discipline, swung like an ox. Took it all out on me.” His hands twitch as he starts to undo the leather bindings of his forearm guards, rambling as he does so, contemplating of doing such a thing in front of you, let alone here of all places. And you catch the way his fingers tremble—not from pain, but something else, something you can’t quite read.
“Here,” you offer, cutting in as you see him falter a little, kneeling slightly behind him, hands already moving to the straps at his shoulder.
He flinches under your touch, and his breath quickens—just barely—but then leans into it like a man who’s carried too much too long.
“You don’t have to-“
“You came here for peace did you not,” you interrupt gently. “Then let me help.”
You work in silence. Strap by strap. Piece by piece. The pauldrons come first, your fingers grazing the hot metal where it meets his skin, then the chest plate, heavy and reluctant, slipping away to reveal the thin linen beneath—damp with sweat, clinging to muscle, stained faint with bruises earned in the yard.
Your fingers linger a moment too long, tracing the lines along his chest where the shirt opens.
And he feels it.
He doesn’t dare look at you—not yet—but his breath stills all the same. Your touch ghosts over the edge of his collar, innocent only by inches but his mind twists—prayer unraveling into want. You’re too close. You’ve always been too close. And now, the scent of you is tangled with incense and smoke, your breath soft near his ear as you shift.
He swallows hard. Steel and cedar—that’s what they say he smells like. But if you asked him now, he’d say he smells like sin. Like something barely held back. You notice him watching, you’ve noticed before. In the yard. In the quiet. In the press of his hand against yours for a breath too long. You’ve imagined it—fantasised, even. The way his body moves, the strength in his hands, the tension in his jaw when he’s holding something back. The way his tongue flicks out to wet his lips when he's deep in thought. You’ve seen it all. And maybe you’ve wanted him to see you too.
Now, in the hush between words, his neck is craned at you, sitting there, more bare than before. You continue to face him, your voice quiet but unflinching.
“I know you’ve looked,” you say. “So have I.”
His breath catches, but he doesn't deny it. “I’ve felt it,” you edge onwards, “something like fire beneath my skin. I’ve prayed it away. Washed it clean. And yet…” You reach for him, let your fingers ghost over his shoulder carefully, dangerous as a curse.
“I used to wonder,” you whisper. "Wonder what?” he asks, voice low—darker now, as if part of him already knows. Your mouth is dry, but you say it anyway, beyond your pride.
“What it would be like. If you ever touched me… like I wasn’t a nobleman's burden.”
His hands twitch and his jaw clenches, yet he still doesn’t move. Gwayne’s eyes darken, raking over you with a hunger he’s tried so hard to bury under oaths and armor and obedience. But that armor between you—it’s scattered, cast aside on the floor.
“Gods,” he breathes, the word falling from his lips like a plea, not a prayer. His hand lifts—slow, hesitant—until it cradles your cheek, his thumb grazing the softness beneath your eye. You feel how hard he’s trying not to tremble, as though touching you might break the last thread of restraint he clings to.
“I’ve thought of you,” he admits, voice raw. “Here… in this very place.” He swallows, jaw clenched. “Every time I’ve tried not to.” You don’t speak or move, just breathing in tandem with him, feeling his forehead brush yours, hot and damp with want and guilt and all the weight of him. He lingers like that, caught in the torment of it, his nose brushing yours. And then—his hand slides down. Over the line of your neck, the shape of your shoulder, toward the hem of your gown, fingers hesitating as they ghost over the curve.
“Do you know what it’s like…” His voice is a whisper now, cracking under the weight of confession. “To kneel in prayer, so hard, because you smiled at me the night before?” A quiet gasp escapes you, but you don’t retreat, you only draw nearer pushing back into his touch ever so slightly.
His thumb moves to your mouth, dragging along your lips as though blessing them.“I’m not holy,” he murmurs, looking down to them. “Not with you.”
You look up at him, eyes shining in the candlelight. “Then don’t be.”
That breaks him.
With a sound caught between a curse and a groan, his hands grip your waist. The gentleness doesn’t vanish—it sharpens, becoming focused. Reverent still, but no longer afraid. He lifts you with surprising ease, hooking his hands up underneath your legs, bringing you chest to chest, setting you atop the cold stone altar. No words now, just breath, just movement. Your legs part slightly, and he steps between them, his hands bracing either side of your hips.
“Gwayne—” Your gasp cuts the quiet. But his mouth is already on your neck, desperate and warm. His hands press into your thighs, pulling you to him. He kisses you— dropping his head to the crook of your collarbone. Leaving a trail of kisses along the delicate skin there, the kind of kisses that make your back arch and your hands grip his shoulders. He grumbles something you don’t catch, something low against your skin as his hands slide up your thighs, pushing your gown slowly upward, inch by inch, as though revealing sacred ground. His lips follow downward, at your shoulder and down to your breast, meeting his hands at the round of your waist.
His prayers have turned carnal. And now—he worships you.
The neck of your nightgown falls revealing your chest as his hands work behind you, beginning to unlace the top with delicate fingers, before stopping himself, eyes flicking up to yours, parting from your skin. “Are you certain you want this?” He asks, the look in his eyes hungry but enamoured, as if, had he made the wrong move he’d lose you entirely. You nod, pulling him closer, arms wrapping around his middle as your legs push onto the backs of his own, the cold metal of his leg armour hitting your soft calves. “More than anything..” And thats all he needs, and he is tugging at the back of the silk in one swift motion, down and down until it pools at your hips.
Gwayne stands before you, his eyes roaming over your body greedily, naked and bare in front of him, the cool air hits your skin and your cheeks flush, darting your eyes away suddenly.
"You are beautiful," he breathes, reaching out to trail a finger along your jawline, tilting your chin just enough to meet his eyes once more. And without protest, he leans in, capturing your lips in a searing kiss, his tongue delves into your mouth, tasting you deeply. Slowly, reverently, he slides the straps of your dress down your hips and past your legs, letting it hit the floor atop his discarded chest plate. His hands trace your collarbones, thumbs brushing the tops of your breasts.
"Perfect," he rasps, cupping your breasts in his large hands. He kneads the soft flesh, thumbs circling your nipples until they pebble under his touch. Leaning down, he takes one into his mouth, suckling gently and you arch into him, a moan escaping your lips.
His hands roam lower, and he groans at your moan vibrating your skin just enough, skimming over your stomach and coming to rest on your hips. He grips them firmly, pulling you closer to the edge of the altar, closer to him. Your hands go up to the opening of his shirt, undoing the worn buttons with ease, your fingertips gracing over the hard muscle and he stutters, pinching your thigh. Once it falls open, you push it off his shoulders, letting it rest at his feet. His torso is on full display, trousers hanging low on his hips, and the outline of his cock pushing at the seam. The blush on your face grows darker, and hands move without a thought tracing the defined lines of his abs. He shivers under your touch, a soft growl escaping his throat.
Gwayne's fingers dip between your legs, brushing against your slick folds through your underskirt, removing it gently, the mix of silk on steel, the only things between you, now gone. You gasp, hips jerking forward. "Soaked already, sweet girl?” he croaks, running a finger along your slit. "And ready for me."
He drags his fingers lower, slow and taunting, tracing the slick heat between your thighs until he finds your clit. A teasing, featherlight circle. Once. Twice. Just enough to make your breath catch and your hips twitch, chasing him. But he pulls back just slightly, his breath trembling against your neck as he watches you unravel. "Already," he mutters like a confession, like a man on the edge of something holy and wicked all at once. "You're already aching for me, aren't you sweet girl?"
Your only answer is a whimper—soft, helpless—and he groans, the sound pulled from his throat like it hurts. Then he slides a finger into you. Slow, and deliberate. He curses under his breath at how tight you are—“Seven hells”—his voice ragged with restraint, and his jaw clenches like fighting off every thread of control. He begins to move it—gently at first, stroking that spot inside you that makes your legs tremble and your head tips back, lips parted, the air thick with the sound of your breathing and the distant flicker of candles.
Your hips rock forward, seeking more, desperate, and he listens. Oh, he listens. He adds a second finger with a hiss between his teeth, and this time he curls them just right. "That's it," he murmurs, voice low and reverent, like he's praising you, and he is. "Take it, my girl. Let me hear you."
And gods, do you.
"Oh god," you moan, gripping the edge of the altar, one hand bracing his uninjured arm. He picks up the pace, fingers plunging deep and fast, his thumb finding your clit, rubbing tight circles. Pants come from your mouth as he holds you, pleasure coiling tight in your core.
"That's it, let me hear you," Gwayne growls, fingers moving relentlessly. Your moans echo off the stone walls, mixing with the wet sounds of him finger-fucking you. It's filthy and erotic, stoking the flames of your desire higher. He keeps curling his fingers just so, stroking deep, slow, rhythmic—like he knows your body better than you do. His palm grinds against your clit in maddening little presses, never rushed, never sloppy. He's watching you like you're a vision he was never meant to touch, and yet here you are—wet and open and pulsing around his fingers.
“That's it,” he coaxes, lips brushing your jaw. “I can feel you fluttering, trying to pull me deeper. Gods, you’re everything.” You try to answer—try to say his name, beg for more, anything—but the words dissolve into moans as your stomach tightens, that electric wave building fast and hard.
His voice drops to a growl as he leans in close, lips brushing your ear. “Don’t fight it. Let go for me. Come on my fingers dearest.”
And that’s it—that’s what snaps the last thread of restraint. You cry out, body clenching around him as your climax rips through you. Your thighs tremble and your hands clutch his chest, fingernails biting into his shoulder where the armor has fallen away. Your walls pulse wildly around his fingers, drawing him in as he groans low and long, mesmerised by the sight of you undone. When your hips finally still and you collapse back against the furs, panting and trembling, he brings his glistening fingers to his mouth without breaking your gaze—sucking them clean with slow, deliberate reverence.
“Sweetest fucking thing I’ve ever tasted,” he says, voice rough and ruined, all nobility long gone. And he’s still hard, still hungry. Still watching you like he's only just begun. The only sound is your breathing—ragged and high—only his eyes roaming your body, taking in the way you shake, the flush painting your chest, the way your thighs still twitch in aftershocks.
“You’re not done with me,” you whisper, voice wrecked but daring, his gaze snaps back to yours. “No,” he rasps, eyes dark and dilated, possessive. “Not even close.” Your fingers wrap around his neck, your voice lowering to a whisper, “Then stop holding back, Gwayne.” His jaw ticks at that, and you can see him fighting it—see the knight warring with the man—but then his hands are on your thighs, spreading you open again, and his mouth crashes to yours, messy and hungry and real.
“I’ve waited,” he says against your lips, voice low and shaking. “Gods, I’ve waited for this. Thought of it every time you smiled at me. Every time you walked away, “ Forehead against your own, your noses knock together and his eyes flutter shut, “But I don’t think I can be gentle anymore.”
“Then don’t,” you breathe, abandoning every repercussion, just as he abandons duty, abandons his own oath. “I don’t want gentle.”
With a choked sound, he guides himself to your entrance, pressing the head of his cock against your slick heat. The stretch is slow but then he grips your waist and pushes in with one firm, fluid motion. Your mouth falls open—no words, just a sharp gasp as he fills you, all of him, deep and claiming, your head resting at his jaw as it hangs low. “Fuck—” he grits, buried to the hilt, voice barely human. “Made for me.”
And he lets go. He thrusts, deep and hard, knocking the breath from your lungs, swallowing your moan with a kiss so desperate it borders on violent. There’s no distance anymore. No restraint. Just Gwayne, skin against skin, body pounding into yours like he means to etch himself into your bones. “I’ll never let anyone else have you,” he groans, voice hot against your neck, teeth bearing and messy. “You’re mine—mine.”
“Yes,” you sob, body trembling. “Yours—please—don’t stop—” He doesn’t. He fucks you like it’s a vow, like its sacred, like he’s finally found heaven and he’s never leaving it again.
His thrusts are steady but brutal, dragging along every swollen, soaked inch of you like it’s familiar—not soft, but worshipful in the filthiest way. Every time he pushes in, it’s like he’s sinking deeper into devotion, losing himself between your legs, in your cries, in the sacred ruin of your body under him. He pants against your mouth, words breaking apart like his restraint, knees pushing against the hard stone without a care in the world.
“This— this is what I wanted,” he grits through clenched teeth, fucking you int you, starved. “Not the throne. Not the title. Just you. Spread open and mine.” You whimper, hands clawing into his back, your body arching for more—greedy, like him. Your walls flutter tight around him, and he feels it—his hips stuttering, his rhythm briefly faltering before he slams back in with a growl, brow knit in absolute, trembling desperation.
“Don’t do that unless you want me to come,” he warns lowly, shaking, forehead pressed to yours. You cry out his name, not in warning, but in challenge. And he bites down on your shoulder as he fucks up into you harder, no finesse left now—just raw, maddened need. You can feel him unraveling—every muscle straining, every breath hitching, trying to last, trying to give you every drop of what he’s denied himself for so long. But the rhythm gets sloppy, the only thing holding it together is the way he grits, “Come with me—Y/N, love, please—I need—”
One more thrust.
One more drag against that sweet spot inside.
And you're both gone.
The sound of them echoes through the room—low, ragged cries tangled with skin meeting skin, a frantic chorus of breath and the whispers of your name. The air is thick with it, humid and golden like honey under candlelight. He doesn’t stop when he comes, he stays buried deep, shuddering, his whole body locked over yours like he’s shielding you. Not war, not fire, not gods or men—just the truth of what you've done. What you are.
His forehead rests against yours once more, slick with sweat. His breath trembles as he exhales a broken sound, not a moan, not a word. Just a huff. Some soft, splintered echo of a man who’s tried to be noble for too long and failed, at last, beautifully. You’re trembling too, not just from aftershock, but from the sheer gravity of it. Your cunt clenches around him, feeling every twitch of him as you rest against his chest, his arm hooked around your back keeping you up. The weight of his body leans against you, the stubble burning you collarbone where his mouth pressed, the damp linen crushed under you hips. It all feels lived in. Not like a tryst. Not like a mistake.
Like home you weren’t supposed to find, but did anyway.
“I should stop,” he whispers. Not moving, not pulling out. Still sheathed so deep in you his voice cracks. “I should let you go. I should’ve walked away before I—before I took you like this.” But he still doesn’t move, his arms only tighten, and his mouth finds the side of your throat, fervently. “You should’ve,” you breathe, fingers in his hair, anchoring him. “But you didn’t, and I didn’t want you to.”
And that’s the truth of it, that continues to undo him because he knows it’s true.
He moves again. Not sharply—not chasing a second high. Just slow rolls of his hips, like he’s trying to feel everything.Like he can’t bear the thought of leaving your body yet. His lips drag across your jaw. “I love you,” he says, so low you almost don’t catch it. “Fuck, I love you, Y/N.” And you break. Not just from his words, but from the way he says them, like it’s the only honest thing he's said in years. Your hands clutch his back, pressing your mouth against his temple, and maybe you gasp something back that might’ve been “I love you too,” or maybe it was just his name.
Either way, it’s all Gwayne needs, because here? Here, he has you.
He begins to move with more purpose now, delicately through the shocks, but fierce. Like relearning your body after all these years of watching, waiting, aching.
“Look at me,” he groans, pulling back just enough to see your face. “I want to see it—I want to see you when you fall apart.” Your eyes are locked, pupils blown, and neither you look away, dragging every thrust into your g-spot so much it burns, the coil in your stomach reaching it’s edge. His hands smooth over your thighs dragging them around his waist, and he groans into your mouth. The tension in you coils like a bowstring, drawn so taut it quivers. He grinds deeper, harder, and your spine arches off the altar.
“Gwayne—”
“I’ve got you,” he growls, cupping the back of your neck, lips brushing yours as he thrusts again. “Come on, sweet girl. Take it. Take all of me.” And you do—with a cry that tears from your throat, broken and raw, your climax washing through you like a tidal wave as your nails rake his back. Your walls flutter and clench around him, pulsing, demanding. He chokes on a sound, lost in the tight heat of you, buried so deep he forgets how to breathe. “Fucking… gods—” he gasps, stammering into his release, shuddering hard as he spills inside you, rutting through it like he’s worshipping at the altar of your body, not the one beneath you.
For a long moment, neither of you move—just the sound of your mingled breath, the faint echo of moans still trapped in the stones above, like a secret the gods were never meant to hear. His weight is still on you, heavy and perfect, chest heaving against yours. Gwayne’s brow rests to your temple, his lips brushing just beneath your ear like a benediction.
“…Are you alright?” he murmurs, barely audible.
Your fingers twitch, still curled against his damp back and you nod, a soft noise escaping—more breath than word. “Yes. Yes, I just—” You give a breathless laugh, dazed. “I think you broke me.” His head lifts to look at you properly, eyes glowing like a knight kissed by sin, and reverence, and something close to forever. “Then I’ll spend the rest of my life putting you back together.”
Your throat tightens and his words settle in your chest like something eternal, something vowed. You cradle his jaw with one hand, thumb brushing his cheek.
“I love you, Gwayne,” you whisper. “I didn’t mean to, not like this—not all at once, not this much. But it’s already too late.” His mouth finds yours in a kiss that doesn’t try to start anything—it only holds. It's soaked in devotion.
“I loved you the moment I saw you dancing at court,” he says, voice thick. “And I hated it. Hated that you looked like sunlight and moved like a promise. I knew I’d never get free of you.”
You smile and your eyes glow with softened heat “Good.”
He laughs under his breath, nudging his nose along your jaw. “You ruin me.”
You hum. “And you ruin me right back.”
His arms gather you close, both of you still half-dressed, your body a mess beneath him, filled and flushed and fragile. But it’s quiet now. Still. Sacred.
Outside, the stained glass throws wild colors over the pews. Inside, the altar has been christened by bodies that know nothing of restraint when it comes to each other.
And for a little while longer, you just lay there. Breathing together. Holding each other like salvation, leaving one thing on your breath.
“The gods will never forgive us.”
“Then let them watch.”
taglists for my babes ;) : @villainscharm - comment or ask to be added and I shall!
𓂃˖ ࣪⊹ Ghostface!aerion x reader x ghostface!valarr
This work contains : SMUT and a lot of triggering things so read at you own risk
summary : With the end of exams at King’s Landing University comes a wave of brutal student murders, leaving the city drowning in fear and rumors. But when Tybolt Lannister throws a lavish Halloween party to distract the elite of the campus, the killers seize the perfect opportunity to turn the night into chaos — especially after setting their sights on you.
Tw : This is straight up porn, and filthy omg…they are freaky asf, they should seek therapy as well.. so blowjob (2x) oral (m. Receiving), doggy, Slight voyeurism lmao? Multiple orgasms, breeding kink, murder, etc.. Wc : 4721
Part 1 : here
Aerion’s grunts were the only sounds filling the room—or perhaps simply the only sounds you were able to hear at this moment. Every ragged breath and every low groan that managed to slip past his lips while your wet, yet skilled tongue traced the prominent, oh-so-pretty vein along his length was only encouraging you further. The small iron ball adorning your tongue was creating a striking contrast, as the cool metal was gliding against the warmth of your mouth with each slow, deliberate, practiced lick.
You were still on your knees before him, your skin already slightly reddened by the carpet burns you had earned only moments earlier. At the moment, however, they were the least of your concerns. You were far too absorbed in your task to pay them any mind, your hands firmly anchored around his hips as though afraid he might push you away before you got the chance to swallow every last drop while tending to him.
Your heart was pounding so violently with anxious anticipation, so loudly within your chest that you wondered whether he could hear it over the uneven rhythm of his own breathing?
Were you pleasuring him enough?
Or
What if he did not like it?
After a long moment, curiosity finally drew your gaze away from your traitorous thoughts and upward.
And damn…
The sight before you was fucking gorgeous.
There he was.
Aerion’s head had fallen back slightly, his throat exposed as his jaw hung open in a desperate attempt to keep any further sounds from escaping and shattering the fearsome image of the Targaryen he insisted on maintaining. From your position, you could not see his face clearly, but yet it was not that difficult to imagine his eyes squeezed shut, his lashes resting against flushed cheeks while his lips were parted and restrained groans the only sounds escaping him despite every effort to contain them.
The guy who so often carried himself with cold arrogance was nowhere to be found.
Instead, he looked almost undone, the carefully cultivated composure he wore like armor was finally beginning to splinter before your very eyes.
His fingers were buried deep within your hair—the wig had been scattered in a corner of the room— no longer guiding you with deliberate control but simply holding on, tightening and relaxing in unconscious rhythm whenever another wave of pleasure overtook him. The muscles along his jaw flexing as you were watching him swallow hard as though he was fighting a battle —that he was probably losing it seems— against himself.
Each line of his body had grown with restraint, His shoulders tensing, his breathing that was shallow and uneven, and more than once you could catch the subtle twitch of his hips before he mastered himself again. It was obvious he was desperately clinging to whatever little self-control that was remaining, so determined not to surrender to you too soon.
Seeing him like this—stripped of his usual confidence and betrayed by every involuntary reaction—filled you with a certain quiet satisfaction and discarded the previous questions playing in loop in your head. It was a rare thing indeed to witness the Aerion Targaryen relinquish even a fraction of his control, and rarer still to know that you, alone were capable of drawing such reactions from him.
“Fuck—” he pushed your head back, away from his fully hard and now wet cock, trying to catch his breath and regain a little control before speaking.
The sudden distance caught you off guard, and a soft, protesting whimper escaped your lips before you could stop it.
You looked up at him, your eyes still glossy from trying to take him moments earlier.
The sound seemed to pull him from his thoughts.
Slowly, his usual sneer returned, curling across his handsome face as he realized what had just happened—or rather, what he had managed to coax out of you.
A low, mocking laugh slipped past his lips.
His hand came up to cup your jaw, his grip firm but unhurried, tilting your face toward him.
The corner of his mouth lifted into an amused smirk as he studied your expression, clearly savoring every second of your reaction.
“Nuh-uh, sweet girl… My seed cannot be wasted here.” Even then, even as he was clearly trying to regain control of himself, that familiar confidence still lingered in his voice, that same mocking arrogance, the infuriating certainty in his voice, that is when the realization settled over you almost instantly, The way you had almost forgotten that he was toying with you. They were toying with you. And you were just another toy in their hands—one they had yet to break.
but…
Some toys are meant to be far more difficult to break than others, no?
You remained silent for a moment, still flushed and slightly dazed, your attention fixed entirely on him. You found yourself hanging on every word that left his lips. Every subtle crack in his voice, every fleeting sign that, despite all his composure, you had managed to affect him.
There was something strangely satisfying about it.
Because Aerion spent so much of his time hiding behind cutting remarks and cold expressions that witnessing even the slightest fracture in that carefully crafted façade felt almost unreal.
And for just a moment, you wondered whether he realized you’d noticed it too.
You were flushed and dazed, your eyes fixed on him as though you couldn’t bear to look anywhere else. Your lips parted as you swallowed hard, silently waiting for him to decide what came next.
“Get on the bed.” he marked a pause as he pointed the same bed, where valarr had given you the best cunni of your life, the sheets wrinkled from your previous utilisation..
“On all fours. We don’t want Valarr to miss the show, huh?” A mocking pout across his face as the coolness of his ring put you back to your senses when his fingers came across your lips to wipe away the remaining of his pre release.. “You’re going to be a good girl for him, yeah?” he gave a small nod toward his cousin, as the teasing words left his lips.
Your gaze followed.
Valarr was still sitting in the small velvet armchair, watching the two of you with an intensity that made your breath catch. His eyes never left you, still filled with an hunger that was almost unnerving.
It was only after a few seconds that you noticed the blood, that was coating his hands. A dark smear stained his forehead too—he must have absentmindedly wiped his face with the same bloodied fingers.
Hot.
The sight should have horrified you. Putting you back to your senses, waking you up from your trance. It did not. Instead you found yourself staring, but only for a few seconds, because then something else registered.
The room had fallen quiet.
And this is the moment it registered.
Irina.
The muffled sobs had stopped, Completely and probably since long minutes now.. The realization struck you like a blow, the girl was dead.
Your stomach tightened at the realisation, this was your occasion, to run away from them, they were distracted, you would have just enough time to escape right?
but no, your gaze drifted back to Aerion. You couldn´t care if there was a corpse in the same room at you, or rather you decided to put the realisation in stand-by. You would deal with that shit later.
You gave a small nod in response to his ordee before obediently climbing back onto the bed, settling into the position he had asked for.
You were bracing yourself against the mattress as you could hear the footsteps approaching the bed. Your panties had been previously ripped away, and the position you were in, was leaving you terribly vulnerable. Your bare cunt was already wet, still coated with the remnants of the pretty cousin’s spit —that was comfortably sat across the room— mixed with your own arousal.
You probably did not need any preparation, but still.
Aerion was in a good mood tonight and it seems that he did not wish to break you too quickly. He enjoyed toying with you.
At last, you felt the mattress dip behind you, followed by the warmth of his presence along your back, quickly followed by the direct brushing of his hard cock against your folds, teasing you with nothing more than the tip, but still enough to tear a sharp gasp from your lips.
So sensitive
A low grunt escaped him at the sight of your cunt tightening around nothing. His hand came down against one of your cheeks with a sharp slap, drawing another helpless whimper from you and only deepening your arousal.
“Fuck— look at this pretty pussy…, she can’t wait for me to fill her with my babies huh?” he hissed sharply as the tip circled your soaked folds with deliberate slowness, his voice rough enough to send another shiver through your body.
You were not a virgin, though neither were you particularly experienced. But, you knew your way around pleasure, and more importantly, you knew how to leave a lasting impression on a man. Yet somehow, every filthy word leaving Aerion’s lips unraveled that confidence piece by piece.
The praise.
The possessiveness.
The way he spoke as though your every reaction belonged to him alone.
It was all sent straight to your head.
You did not want to disappoint Aerion. Nor Valarr, who remained comfortably seated across the room, watching the two of you with the unwavering patience of a predator waiting for the perfect moment to attack its prey. His deep eyes following every little twitch of your body, every uneven breath, every involuntary reaction that betrayed your mounting anticipation.
Knowing you were being watched only made your cheeks burn hotter.
You could feel the weight of both their gazes upon you, and despite the embarrassment curling in your stomach, you found yourself craving their approval more than you cared to admit.
Your fingers tightened against the sheets beneath you.
You nodded eagerly, almost instinctively, your breathing growing shallower as your body trembled with anticipation. Your pulse hammered in your ears, and every passing heartbeat seemed to stretch the wait a little longer.
Impatience settled deep within you, leaving you tense with expectation as you waited for the one thing that refused to come quickly enough.
“Aerion…” you moaned, shifting your hips toward him in a desperate attempt to create more friction, to finally have him inside you. But unfortunately the attempt earned you nothing more than another low, mocking sound from him.
His index finger was brushing between your folds, parting them with a deliberate slowness as he took in the mess you were. “Please…” you breathed desperately and your voice cracked when he made no movements. “Please… please…”
The words were falling from your lips before you could stop them, each plea more desperate than the last. You hadn’t even realized tears had begun to spill down your cheeks and ruining your mascara.
Your body was trembling and aching with need, every second stretching into an endless loop.
You needed him and the emptiness was becoming almost unbearable.
You didn’t see the slight tilt of his head at your whine, but you felt his hands gently caress the curve of your ass before pecking gently the redness caused by his slaps. The tenderness of the gesture caught you completely off guard and didn’t fail to send butterflies straight to your belly.
“What is it, pretty girl?” he murmured, almost whispered, a smug smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Want the dragon to fuck you?”
Your body clenched involuntarily at the adjective he had used to describe himself.
It wasn’t exactly surprising.
Everyone knew the Targaryens descended from royalty. Their ancestors were said to have ridden dragons and rule the skies and even now their family’s sigil still bore the famous three-headed dragon.
Aerion, however, had always taken that legacy far more seriously than most.
Around campus, it was almost common knowledge that he had developed something of an obsession with the mythical creatures, weaving them into his identity with the same confidence—and arrogance—that seemed to define everything he did.
You only nodded in response to his question, but the sharp slap he delivered to your cunt a second later was enough to remind you that a nod wasn’t the answer he wanted.
He expected words. Not silent obedience, that would be too easy..
“Yes! Yes! Yes, please!” He scoffs teasingly at your nods and the desperation in your voice. Before bending over you to whisper in your ear.
“That’s my good girl,” he cooed, the praise washing over you before finally guiding the tip of his cock to your entrance. He paused just long enough to watch your body tremble in anticipation. Then, in one smooth thrust, he buried himself inside you.
A loud, utterly obscene moan tore from your throat as the sudden fullness stole the air from your lungs. Aerion could only hiss sharply through his teeth, at the tightness around his length.
“Fuck…” Your walls had clenched around him so fast, gripping him so tightly that it was taking him every ounce of restraint he possessed not to lose himself then and there.
For a brief moment, neither of you moved. You simply stayed there, impaled on him, your body struggling to adjust to his size while his fingers dug into your hips. Then he began to move.
Slowly at first.
Drawing almost all the way out before thrusting back into you with deliberate, measured strokes that only made your moans louder. You forced your eyes open, searching for Valarr once more. He was still seated in the velvet armchair.
Watching.
His eyes never leaving the two of you, every thrust reflected in his hungry gaze. But the bulge straining against his trousers, he was trying to conceal was impossible to ignore now. Whatever composure he had managed to hold onto was slipping.
Finally, he stood. Without taking his eyes off you, he began walking toward the bed. You fought to keep your eyes open despite the pleasure threatening to overwhelm you, desperate to see what Valarr was going to do next.
Your mouth fell open in a silent O, every breath catching in your throat. The position Aerion had bent you into was allowing every thrust to reach a place your own fingers had never been able to. You had thought he was already impossibly deep but it seems that you were wrong.
Without any warning, one of his hands slid to the small of your back, his touch surprisingly steady as he guided your body into an even deeper arch. Your spine curved instinctively beneath his palm creating an immediate new angle.
“Oh—fuck!” the broken gasp had escaped you before you could swallow it back. The cry came out higher than you intended, your fingers clutching at the sheets as your entire body reacted to the new position. It felt different. Much better, sharper and mostly deeper.
Every movement seemed to find the same spot again and again, leaving your legs trembling beneath you. Aerion noticed. A smug chuckle rumbled low in his chest as he watched the effect he was having on you, his grip tightening ever so slightly on your hips whenever your body threatened to give out beneath him.
The rhythmic slap of skin echoed through the room, accompanied by your uneven breaths and the shameless sounds neither of you made any attempt to hide.
It was so loud and obscene. The kind of noise that would have made you hide your face in embarrassment under any other circumstance. The same kind you could only hear in porn..
You were arching your back further, chasing him instinctively as his name spilled from your lips again and again, each repetition more breathless than the last. For those few moments, the rest of the room simply ceased to exist.
Even Valarr.
Because you didn’t notice him rising from the velvet armchair. Didn’t hear the quiet rustle of fabric as he approached.
Your entire world had narrowed to Aerion. To the sound of his breathing. To the weight and heat of his hands. To the way his eyes remained fixed on you, as though he were determined to memorize every expression crossing your face. It wasn’t until something warm brushed gently against your cheek that your thoughts finally broke apart.
You blinked, dazed.
Valarr was standing beside the bed now. Just infront of you, his expression was so cold and his jaw clenched as he looked down at you in complete silence, his gaze impossibly intent, studying you with the same quiet patience he always seemed to possess.
Then the corner of his mouth lifted into the faintest smile. Using the tip of his cock, he lightly traced the curve of your cheek before letting it linger against your lower lip.
Your lips parted instinctively. His smile widened by only a fraction before he slowly guided himself into the warmth of your waiting mouth, never breaking eye contact with you for a single second.
The feeling was so overwhelming.
If someone had told you, that you would end up like this—your lips wrapping around Valarr’s cock while Aerion’s hips drove into you from behind—you would have laughed in their face before promptly blocking them.
The scenario would have sounded utterly ridiculous and Impossible…
And yet…Here you were.
Reality had long since stopped making sense. You have decided to just enjoy the moment.
Your mind had now become a haze of broken thoughts and scattered sensations, each one bleeding into the next until you could no longer tell where one ended and another began.
Every breath that escaped your nose sent warm vibrations along Valarr’s length, drawing quiet groans from him that only encouraged you further. His fingers threaded through your hair with surprising restraint, never forcing you, merely guiding you as his eyes remained fixed on your face, unwilling to miss a single expression, while behind you, Aerion never once slowed.
His relentless thrusts rocking your entire body forward, making it nearly impossible to maintain any rhythm of your own. Every snap of his hips was stealing any other breath from your lungs, leaving your vision blurry as pleasure continued to build until it became almost unbearable.
Your fingers tightened around the rumpled sheets.
You couldn’t think. Couldn’t speak. At the moment you were just their little fuck toy.
It was getting hard to focus on anything except the overwhelming sensation of being surrounded by them.
It didn’t take many more muffled groans before Valarr’s composure finally cracked. He had been on the edge for what felt like an eternity, and his restraint had worn dangerously thin the past seconds. Watching you like this—completely fucked out, caught between the two of them, Every reaction and expressions unfolding right in front of him—proved to be the final push he needed.
Aerion had been sensing his own release drawing closer as well. But rather than losing control, he had managed to remain deliberate in his thrusts, determined to prolong the moment for as long as he could. What could he do? The moans coming from your lips, muffled by his cousin cock, and your pretty cunt keeping his cock so warm and so tight was one of the best feeling the blonde ever felt.
But he wanted you to cum with him, with them.
He reached between your bodies without breaking the steady rhythm of his movements, his hand finding your throbbing bud with a practiced ease. His touch was precise and unhurried, almost teasing, because he knew exactly how close you already were and intended to keep you suspended there just a little longer before allowing you to fall apart.
At last, the curtain of pleasure finally fell over you.
The orgasm crashed through your body with such force that it felt as though your mind had gone completely blank, every coherent thought melting away beneath wave after wave of overwhelming sensation.
Valarr finally came with a deep, restrained groan.
The warmth was filling your mouth as his body was gradually relaxing as well, his cock softening as he slowly withdrew from your mouth. For a brief moment, he simply looked down at you, his eyes searching yours with a quiet expectation. No need for him to say a word, because you knew what was expected of you, you knew what he wanted you to do.
And without any ounce of hesitation, you swallowed, your gaze never leaving his.
He granted you a small, satisfied smile as the praise came out
“So perfect…”
He gave a subtle nod of approval before adjusting his clothes with the same composed elegance he seemed to carry even after completely losing himself only moments earlier. Whereas Aerion’s breathing had grown even more uneven.
His groans had reached your ears in broken, breathless intervals before he finally buried himself as deeply as he could, releasing inside you with a sharp hiss through clenched teeth.
His movements slowed into lazy, lingering thrusts as he rode out the last of his pleasure and yours, his forehead resting briefly between your shoulder blades while he struggled to steady his breathing and regain composure. Before he started kissing your back gently like a devoted lover.
And you wish you could have stopped your heart from pounding that hard in your chest. Because this was going to end… and you didn’t want to. Your brief moment of thinking was interrupted by the feeling of his large hands drifting over your hips, his thumbs absentmindedly stroking the skin he had gripped so tightly moments before. As if he was feeling guilty.
The faint blue bruises had already begun to bloom beneath his fingertips but you barely noticed them. Or rather felt them.
The adrenaline and endorphins flooding your body dulled any hint of pain and that shit would come later. For now, all you felt was the exhaustion.
Your arms finally gave out beneath you. With a quiet, defeated sigh, you collapsed face-first onto the rumpled sheets, every muscle in your body refusing to obey another command.
You ached everywhere. But It was the pleasant sort of ache that only left you feeling impossibly heavy.
Aerion withdrew a moment later before letting himself fall onto the mattress beside you with a tired exhale. He lay there for a few seconds, simply watching you, the usual arrogance in his expression softened by something quieter. Perhaps it was the exhaustion that was playing with your senses but he almost look tender than usual.
“Such a good girl for us, huh?” His voice was little more than a murmur. “You did so good, baby.” His praise only filled you with this pleasant heat in your belly, Before the last thing you felt before sleep claimed you was the gentle press of Aerion’s lips against your forehead.
Then, with the warmth of his body beside yours, exhaustion finally won and darkness welcomed you into its embrace.
You woke to the dull throb of a splitting headache. Your eyes fixed on the unfamiliar ceiling above you, your thoughts sluggish, drifting in and out of consciousness as though your mind refused to fully wake. Your limbs and your eyelids felt so heavy. Even your breathing.
And the silence of the room was unsettling. Not a single sounds to be heard.. Only the faint crackle of a dying fire somewhere in the room and the rhythmic ticking of an antique but expensive clock.
You slowly pushed yourself upright. The movement sending another pulse of pain through your skull, forcing you to squeeze your eyes shut.
“…Fuck. I’m never drinking again..” finally the dizziness finally settled and you were able to took in your surroundings. The room was huge. Like fucking huge.
Dark oak paneling covered the walls, interrupted only by shelves lined with leather-bound books and portraits whose painted eyes seemed almost alive in the morning light. Heavy crimson curtains framed floor-to-ceiling windows, allowing only thin ribbons of pale sunlight to spill across the polished wooden floor. A fireplace, large enough to warm an entire hall, occupied one side of the room, with its embers still glowing faintly.
Everywhere you looked, the dragons were watching you over the room. Aerion’s room probably you thought.
It was elegant. Perhaps a bit old for you, but it had potential. You finally noticed that your costume was gone. The orange wig had disappeared a long time ago and your makeup had been carefully washed away.
Someone had changed your clothes while you slept, dressing you in an oversized black shirt that smelled faintly of expensive cologne, and something unmistakably familiar. That confirmed once again where you were. You hissed and cursed when the lingering dull ache between your legs started to hit you and when you noticed the bruises beginning to bloom across your hips.
What kind of marking was that??
The soreness that settled into every muscle whenever you shifted. None of it had been a dream. The memories returned with a merciless clarity. The party. The Ghostface mask. You almost cursed your past-self for not asking them to keep the mask on while they were fucking you…perhaps for another time then?
And… that is also when you remembered Irina. And you surprised your own self because you actually don’t really cared about her like she wasn’t that kind anyway so..
Your gaze wandered across the room again, searching for anything familiar. Your phone was resting neatly on the bedside table, placed there with almost unsettling care.
They had probably wanted you to find it. They knew you wouldn’t say anything. You reached for it and the screen lit up instantly. Twenty-four missed calls and every single one were coming from Syra. Several unread messages following.
Babe where tf are you?
Please answer.
I’m so worried please just tell me you are fine..
A sharp pang of guilt settled in your chest. She must have spent the entire night searching for you. Your fingers moved before your thoughts caught up. You quickly wrote an apology telling her you would explain everything later.
Your eyes then wandered to another notification sliding across your screen.
Breaking News.
Your thumb hovered above it. You already knew what was coming
Still…
You tapped the notification and the red headline filled your screen.
IRINA LANNISTER FOUND BRUTALLY MURDERED IN HER BEDROOM DURING HER OWN HALLOWEEN PARTY.
Your heart was pounding so fast. It was real, it had happened. It wasn’t a stupid scenario you had made under the influence of alcohol.
You kept reading.
According to investigators, the victim had likely been separated from the other guests sometime during the evening. Witnesses reported hearing nothing unusual over the deafening music. Police believed the murder had taken place only a short distance away from hundreds of partygoers.
The killer had vanished without leaving any obvious trace. The article continued beneath the headline. The police had already detained Tybolt for questioning after multiple witnesses claimed they had seen him arguing with Irina earlier that night.
An obvious suspect and very convenient.
You let out a hollow laugh. It almost sounded hysterical. They had no idea.
Not just one but two killers actually.
Two guy whose family basically owned the country. No one would ever suspect them. Or rather who would dare to accuse the Targaryens anyway?
Your eyes wandered for another notification but nothing. Not even a threat from the boys.. as if they knew that you would hold your tongue. And they were right indeed because you had never seriously considered going to the police.
You held no proofs against them, it was your word against theirs. And how would you explain to the officers that you were getting fucked by the killers while the victim was agonizing beside you?
For the first time since waking, you realized something far more frightening than the murders themselves. You had walked into their trap and they had allowed you to walk back out. So why were you considering walking right back in?
A:n : sooo there will be a bonus because I think this ending is sooo shitty! Anyway I hope you guys liked it <33
summary: in which gwayne indulges in his favourite thing, his wife’s sweetness in the heat of the morning.
pairing: gwayne hightower x f!reader
warning(s): body worship, pussy eating, slight somno (but he wakes reader)
a/n:
the first rays of dawn in Oldtown crept through the arched windows of your chamber, painting the stone walls in soft golds and pinks. the air was still cool from the night, carrying the faint scent of sea salt from the nearby harbour and you lay tangled in the heavy silk sheets of the grand four-poster bed, your body heavy with the remnants of sleep, dreams lingering like whispers— dreams that were filled with your husband's strong hands and heated gaze.
Ser Gwayne Hightower, ever the devoted knight and gentleman, and he lay beside you, stirring. his presence was a constant warmth, broad frame shifting as he woke before the household did. he sat up on his elbows rubbing at his eyes before turning to you, he watched you for a moment, his green eyes tracing the curve of your shoulder, the way your hair fanned across the pillow like a halo. a soft smile tugged at his lips, you were his sanctuary, his sacred charge in a world of scheming courts and endless duties. and this— this quiet ritual before the day demanded him—was how he honored you.
he lay on his side, hand callused from years of wielding sword and shield, reaching out to you and slipping beneath the sheets with deliberate slowness. fingers ghosting along the smooth skin of your thigh, tracing lazy circles that sent a shiver racing up your spine even as you slept. you murmured in your half-sleep, shifting slightly, but didn't fully wake. not yet. and he savored that vulnerability, the trust you placed in him even in repose.
gwayne’s touch grew bolder, his palm flattened against your inner thigh, parting your legs with gentle insistence. the cool air kissed your exposed skin, covers bunched at your ankles, but it was his closeness that ignited the first spark of heat. you were already slick, your pussy damp from those subconscious fantasies of him— of his mouth claiming you, his body pinning yours, his kisses trailing your body. he inhaled sharply at the feeling, his own arousal stirring as he touched you, edging closer with his mouth at your temple.
"Good morrow, my lady," his voice a low rumble like distant thunder, husky with sleep and want, summier forming as you opened your eyes in a squint. he took it as way to roll over you partially, his weight a comforting pressure on the mattress, lips brushing the shell of your ear. your eyes fluttering all the way open to meet his intense gaze. but he gave you no time to greet him properly, with that same knight's precision, he slid down your body, the sheets pooling around his waist as he positioned himself between your thighs.
your breath hitched as his hands hooked under your knees, spreading you wider. he paused there, drinking in the sight of you— bare and open for him, folds glistening in the morning light. "So beautiful," he whispered, reverent, before leaning in. his tongue flicked out, a tentative trace along your slit, tasting the sweetness that was yours. the sensation jolted you fully awake, a gasp escaping your lips as pleasure bloomed sharp and immediate, eyes opening wide.
fingers instinctively sought his hair, threading through the golden red strands that caught the sunlight like spun threads. gwayne hummed in approval, the vibration of his sending ripples through your cunt. he lapped at your folds with unhurried strokes, broad and flat at first, coating his tongue in your arousal. each pass building the coil deep into your stomach.
he lingered there on your entrance, tongue circling the sensitive rim before plunging inside, fucking you with shallow thrusts with his tongue that mimicked what was to come. you arched against the pillows, hips canting up to chase more, but his strong hands gripped your hips, pinning you down with effortless strength. "Patience, wife," he chided softly, though his voice was thick with his own need. "Let me savor you."
he rose slightly, knees digging into the plush of the mattress, and he focused on your clit, that swollen pearl begging for attention. he sucked it gently between his lips, alternating with flicks of his tongue— teasing, then firmer, drawing out whimpers that echoed softly in the chamber. your thighs trembled, muscles tensing as the pressure in your belly wound tighter. and his eyes locked on yours over the curve of your mound, watching every flicker of ecstasy cross your face. and he felt his cock harden, it fueled him, that power to unravel you.
“Taste divine," the words came muffled and fast as he slipped two fingers into your heat, the stretch delicious as they curled upward, stroking that hidden spot deep inside. and when he matched the rhythm of his hand to his mouth— fingers pumping steadily while his tongue swirled relentlessly around your clit, it proved overwhelming; stars burst behind your closed eyelids, your breaths coming in ragged pants.
but he didn't relent, even as your body began to quake. his free hand splayed across your lower abdomen, pressing down to heighten the pressure, making every curl of his fingers feel impossibly deeper. you felt the wave building, cresting, until it crashed over you in a shattering orgasm. your pussy clenching around his fingers, walls fluttering as release flooded out, coating his hand and chin in your essence. thighs clamped around his head, quivering uncontrollably, you cried out his name, both plea and a prayer.
he rode it out with you, lapping softly to prolong the bliss, until your tremors subsided and only then did he withdraw, rising on his knees with a predatory gleam in his eyes. his cock stood proud, thick and veined, the tip flushed pink and leaking. he stroked himself once, twice, smearing the slickness along his length, but his gaze never left yours. "Not done yet, my love," he promised, voice roughened by restraint.
PAIRING ⎯ Criston Cole x Targaryen Princess!Reader
WARNINGS ⎯ 18+, angst, dirty talk, au elements (nothing happened between him and nyra + he's remained her guard)
You had never met anyone as infuriating as your sister’s sworn protector, Ser Criston Cole.
The mere sound of his name could make you grit your teeth and a flare of anger ignite inside you like a wildfire. He was good at his job, always at your sister’s side and keeping her protected, as well as you and anyone else if things got out of hand at any point. Yet, he was always near you as well, right where you did not want him.
He acted as if he were also in charge of you, meant to keep you safe and to avoid dangerous situations along with Rhaenyra. You already had your own guard you had handpicked like your older sister, but Criston constantly over stepped. He claimed your guard didn’t pay enough attention, was not trustworthy⎯it seemed like everything your guard did was some kind of problem that only Criston himself could fix.
Today he’d gotten on your nerves almost instantly when he suggested you shouldn’t dance with certain lords at a celebration feast that was being held for your father’s nameday. You’d been having great fun, dancing, drinking, laughing, mingling with many lords who showed great interest in you. You had no plans to marry any of them, but it was fun to flirt with them and see just how much flattery they could offer you in hopes of wedding a Targaryen Princess since your sister was set to marry Laenor Velaryon.
Now you stood in an empty corridor with Ser Criston Cole standing in front of you, seething at his interruption. You had hoped he actually needed to speak with you about something, but when he began to speak ill of the man you were previously dancing with, the dragon inside of you awakened.
“You overstepped one too many times, Ser Criston,” you snapped, voice sharp and slicing through the silence of the corridor.
Criston clenched his jaw at your sharp words. “I am protecting you,” he said.
“No. What you are doing is putting yourself in places in which you do not belong, just as you have always done,” you said. You took a step closer, jabbing your finger against the cold metal of his breastplate. “You are Rhaenyra’s sworn protector, not mine. Ser Mikael Brandes is my shield. You do not get to make decisions for me or⎯”
He grabbed your wrist, not harshly but firmly, holding you in place. “Do you truly believe that he can protect you? That he sees each way those lords eye you like vultures circling a wounded prey? That he will act before it is too late?”
You jerked your hand free, scoffing. “It is none of your concern. I am allowed to dance with whomever I wish and I will not allow you to stand in my way.”
You could see the anger in his eyes, how his breathing had quickened. A tense silence encircled the two of you, filled with something unspoken.
Criston clenched his jaw, taking a step closer. “You are infuriating,” he growled.
“And you are insufferable,” you retorted.
That was all it took for the tension to finally snap.
You both moved, bodies coming together. He grabbed you by the back of the neck, crashing his mouth against yours. You meet him with equal fervor, pushing him against the stone wall with both hands. Your fingers tugged on his white cloak, your lips parting as he eased his tongue into your mouth.
It was not gentle. It was rushed, desperate⎯a release you both needed.
When he finally pulled away, his breaths were ragged and his lips slightly reddened. “We should not⎯I can’t.”
You faintly shook your head, pressing your forehead against his. “No, we shouldn’t.” Then you pulled him back in. This kiss was deeper, hungrier. His hands rested upon your hips, bunching up the fabric in his gloved hands as if he needed to anchor himself.
He turned the two of you, pressing you against the cold stone wall, but you did not break from the kiss. He crowded your personal space, the lines of his armor pressing into you.
“Do you know,” he gruffly asked, kissing down your jaw, “how maddening it is to see you dance with all those men, Princess?”
You gasped as his lips trailed down your neck, leaving hot, punishing marks of frustration. “Do you? You seem too preoccupied with what I am doing rather than what anyone else might be,” you retorted.
That snarky comment both angered and aroused him.
He effortlessly lifted you up, pressing you more firmly against the wall. You clung to him, your breath hitching in your throat. “I am protecting you, your family as is expected of me,” he firmly said.
“No, you are trying to control me,” you angrily said, hating the fact that his close proximity was causing your heart to quicken.
He clenched his jaw, bringing his face closer to yours. “You get under my skin, and yet…you make me forget my vows.”
Your lips slowly parted, hearing your heart beat in your ears. “You infuriate me to no end, Ser Criston,” you whispered, your gaze dropping to his lips. “And you make my heart race.”
Your mouths crashed together again, full of fire, anger, and lust. His gloves fell to the floor with a dull thud and his bare hands finally met your warm skin. They roamed your skin, going over your curves⎯anything that he could reach.
His hands hiked up your dress, kneading the flesh of your thighs. Your hands skimmed over his shining armor, gliding down the metal. They went to his waist, tugged at the laces of his pants. He lowered one of his hands, assisting you in untying them. Your hands worked together and with unrestrained lust, a flurry of movements.
In no time the two of you managed to maneuver into your bed chamber, defiling your bed with your bare bodies stuck together. His cock was hard and free, driving into your dripping cunt with desperation. Your hands gripped his shoulders, legs wrapped around his waist. Your moans were music to his ears, driving him to fuck you faster. There were many heated words between the two of you, your fiery attitude and his frustrations seemingly driving the two of you to act more rough with one another⎯though, neither of you truly seemed to mind it in the slightest.
“Oooh, fuck! Yes!” you cried out, your back arching off your bed.
Criston hovered over you, grunting with each of his forceful thrusts. Your nails scratched down his back and he groaned, burying his face in the crook of your neck. “Princess…”
You came without warning, clinging to him as if he were a lifeline. He continued his thrusts, sloppily kissing your neck. When he felt himself getting close, he pulled out of you and sat up on his knees. He fisted himself in his hand, groaning as he came all over his hand. He sat kneeled in front of you, the two of you basking in the afterglow.
You closed your eyes, giving yourself time to collect yourself. You felt movement beside you and then the sudden sound of metal clinking. You slowly opened your eyes and sat up on your elbow, frowning as Criston stood beside your bed, beginning to dress himself once again.
“Is that it?” you asked. “You are going to leave as if nothing happened?”
“It is how it must be,” Criston said without meeting your gaze. “This cannot leave this room, Princess.”
“Are you joking?” you asked, your anger noticeable in your tone.
“If I stay any longer,” he said, glancing at you as he pulled his pants up his legs, “I will never be able to stop.”
You pursed your lips, your expression faltering. His eyes bored into yours, a heavy silence now filling the room when it had just been full of lust.
You eventually nodded, looking away. “Then go.”
His eyes bored into you for a moment longer, wanting to say more. But, the words died on the tip of his tongue. He gathered the last of his armor and then slipped out of the door.
- sworn protector!gwayne hightower x targaryen!reader
synopsis. You drink wine that someone mixed with something that makes you desire touch more than all else. Touch from someone particular. You need his touch, or you’ll die. Luckily, your sister—the queen—can be quite the matchmaker.
contents. SMUT, no war au (rhaenyra is queen), reader is a targaryen princess and rhaenyra's younger sister, gwayne is her sworn protector, reader has fem anatomy and is addressed as a princess, sex pollen/fuck or die, mentions of suicide, oral (f!recieving), loss of virginity, unprotected sex, p in v, finger sucking, slight praise kink, not proofread
Your body burns.
No, it feels more like if your body was actually truly burning in a fire, perhaps from that of your dragon, as if you’d told it to rain flames upon you. You may consider that option if it comes down to it. If someone didn’t touch you soon, you were going to explode.
Instead you were writhing and squirming on your bed in front of your own sister—the queen—and you would much rather be dead. She looks at you with that callous smirk, as if she thinks she knows something. Something you don’t want to tell the maesters.
“Is it poison?” she questions Grand Maester Gerardys, her arms crossed on her chest.
He nods. “It seems as so. We believe it is from the wine she drank at supper.”
“Can’t you open a window?!” you yell with a cracking voice.
Silence fills the room after the outburst. Both Rhaenyra and Gerardys glance over. You do the same once you see a smile fall over her face, one she fails to bite back.
The windows are open.
“All of the windows are open, princess,” Gerardys mumbles.
“Yes, I can see that now, thank you.” Your head falls back onto the pillow, allowing your dampened hair to reconnect with your sweaty nape and back. “Will I die tonight, Gerardys?” you question, almost joking.
“No, no, princess,” he says. “Not tonight.”
Your head shoots back up from its resting position. Rhaenyra is already looking at him, any sign of her former coyness erased from her features.
“It seems the poison was mixed with the wine,” he begins. “Therefore, unless the culprit is found, it will be quite difficult to tell whatever was infused in the drink. And given your symptoms, unless somehow magically cured, there is not much I can do.”
“Not much you can do?” Rhaenyra exclaims, her arms now at her side.
Gerardys lowers his voice and steps closer to her. “Not unless you would like me to find a maegi.”
She takes one look over at you. You look full of fear, full of suffering, but most of all—full of regret. “That wont be necessary,” she mutters. “If you’ll let me speak to my sister alone?”
“Of course, your grace.” He leaves the room. Rhaenyra watches him go, not looking back until the door swings back shut.
She makes her way to your bedside so swiftly it was as if she was running. The screech of the chair she pulls to sit on hurts your ears more than any of the conversation you had just been put through. You wish your protector was here instead. He would be able to help you. He would have to help you.
“Tell me,” she commands, already leaning forward, her hands folded in her lap.
You lift your body off the sheets, but they stick to you as you rise. “Tell you what?”
“Don’t play the fool. You know what I’m referring to,”
“I don’t.”
“You do.”
“I don’t, Your Grace.”
She scoffs out a laugh after that. Two of her fingers settle on the bridge of her nose. “Your condition is of your own volition. If you tell me what you drank, it will be easier for me to find a solution.”
You look at her. She isn’t smiling. There’s no hidden agenda beneath her stoic expression, none of the small facial cues you spent your childhood learning to decipher. She truly wants to help you.
And your body feels like it could give out at any moment. No, you want it to give out at any moment. You’re starting to feel nauseous.
You’ll do about anything to stop whatever you did to yourself.
You exhale a heavy breath. “You mustn’t tell anyone what I did.”
Rhaenyra lets herself crack a smile. “Gods, sister, what did you do?”
“I am unwed. Undesired,” you mumble. “I thought it clever to…”
“To what?” Rhaenyra presses, leaning closer.
You sigh and cover your face with your hands. You mutter something so quiet you don’t even hear it in your own ears.
“What did you say?” she asks softly.
“I had a potion brewed.”
Rhaenyra lets out a sharp breath through her nose. “Oh, Gods, sister—“
“You don’t understand! The Realm’s Delight, the most beautiful maiden in all of the Seven Kingdoms—you could have anyone and anything you desire!” you argue. “It isn’t the same for me. Even if it were, I don’t get to choose—”
“I’ve heard enough.” You finally remove your hands from your face, both now sheen with a layer of sweat as is the rest of your body. Rhaenyra is now standing at the edge of your bed, pacing back and forth. “When you had the potion brewed, did the alchemist tell you of any cure?”
“No…” you mumble.
“Well.” Rhaenyra sighs. She gazes over at you, but avoids your own. “I can presume what it is.”
You know what remains unsaid. It is torturous enough for your own sister to know of the humiliation you’ve brought upon yourself. For her, the queen, to be made uncomfortable by the revelation? You get a sudden urge to throw yourself from the highest point of the Red Keep. It would cure all of the emotions swirling in your head.
The writhing starts all over again. The feeling makes you want to crawl out of your own body. In your peripheral, you can see Rhaenyra stop moving. She faces forward to look at you as you thrash around the mattress.
“I know what must be done,” she says. And she leaves the room.
You are left alone in your torture. Now seems about the best time to consider your future. You could jump from the window. It would be quick. You’d be remembered as tragic. Never wed, without children, lonely, jumped from her bedroom window after being poisoned—Rhaenyra would spread the word of poison. She wouldn’t subject the public to the truth.
You suck in a breath as you rise from the bed, dragging your feet to the window. The air fanning on your face makes you hopeful for about fives seconds before the sun finally catches on your skin and shines over the moisture on your skin.
The ache in your body almost certifies that you wouldn’t be able to hoist yourself onto the windowsill without some help.
Maybe your protector would help you. You could say you need more air. He certainly wouldn’t help cure your self-inflicted debilitation—he is too honorable. No—he’s too insistent on protecting your honor to do anything to you.
The door swings open again.
Rhaenyra enters first. You watch her panic once she does not immediately spot you on the bed, then watch her settle once she finds you by the window. There is someone behind her.
The person unveils themself from the shadows.
It is your sworn shield and protector. Ser Gwayne Hightower.
He steps into the room, and it is like your legs turn to water. He notices this, and dashes across the room to wrap his arms around your waist, stabilizing you. Once you are brought back to your feet, you let out a moan. It is almost embarrassing, but you couldn’t care less now.
Gwayne is touching you. Sometimes, the Gods do work in your favor. You slowly look up at him. He is already staring down at you, concerned at your condition, of course—and probably confused as to why you just moaned when he touched you—and you place a hand on his shoulder. Your other arm wraps around his bicep.
“I shall leave you to it.” Rhaenyra is out of the room with a slam of the door before you can look over to acknowledge her. When you look back, Gwayne still has his gaze fixed on you.
The contact you share feels truly breathtaking, perhaps because it is. It does feel quite hard to take in any air. You find your body inching closer to his, desperate for closer proximity. You feel your nipples, hard under your smallclothes, brush against his gambeson. You let your head fall onto his sternum, and it is then that you realize what you are doing, and immediately push away.
You stumble back to the bed, sitting on its edge, and shame washes over you. Gwayne hasn’t moved from his spot by the window. He still stares at you, however.
“My princess.” He steps closer. You hold up a finger as if to tell him to stop, and he does. “I cannot bear to see you in this condition. I only wish to help.”
“Help with what?” you breathe.
He remains silent.
“What exactly did Rhaenyra tell you?” you question.
Silence.
“Tell me. I command it.”
His gaze shifts to the ground. “Her Grace informed me of your condition.”
“You already knew of my condition. What else did she tell you?”
He looks back up at you. “She revealed to me the nature of your condition. What exactly brought it on.”
“Gods,” you mutter under your breath and squeeze your eyes shut. This cannot be real.
“How it can be cured,” he adds.
Your brows tighten. You hope that when you open your eyes again, he will be gone, and this will all have been a figment of your imagination.
When you do so, you find that this is the realest he has ever been. Ser Gwayne of House Hightower, in all his glory. He glistens in the flare of the sun. His hair, usually a light brown, shimmers auburn in the light. It looks similar to his sister’s in a certain light.
You can see the resemblance, him and his father. You would rather not, but it is there. He is certainly more alluring.
“I want to help you.” He takes a single step closer. “I need to help you.”
Your head is cocked to the side, though only out of exhaustion. It feels to heavy to carry yourself.
“When you swore yourself as my protector, I vowed that I would ask no service of you that might bring you dishonor. What do you reckon this is?” you scoff out a laugh, feeling the whole situation truly ironic.
“It would not bring me dishonor if nobody discovers it.” His voice is low. He closes the window, then moves to close the other. “In fact, I swore first to protect you from any and all harm. I believe that prevails over bringing me dishonor.” You watch him then as he travels to the door. The lock clicks shut, and the sound of it travels to your core.
Not only is he able, he is willing.
He turns back to you, and you lock eyes. His brows are turned upwards at the corners—it is true, desperate concern etched onto his face. You can only imagine how disheveled you look.
You sigh, but it comes out as more of a moan, and let your head hang low.
Gwayne is across the room in a moment, kneeling down in front of you. He removes the gloves from his hands, settling them on the ground beside him, and then places his hands on your clothed thighs. The contact draws the linens slightly upwards. How you wish he would just slide them all the way up and just kiss your cun—
You close your eyes and draw in a long breath.
“Tell me what you need,” he purrs. Your eyes shoot back open, and his hands move to hold your hips. “I am yours.”
You want to. Gods, who are you kidding? You need to tell him, because he will do it, but you can’t. The words freeze on your tongue. Where do you even start?
But he is knelt before you, almost pathetic in his attempt at a remedy, so eager on helping you.
Why must you tell him?
You grab the cloth at your thighs and curl your fingers enough times until it is bunched up near your crotch. All that prevents him from laying eyes on your bare cunt is closed legs. You let them spread, gruelingly slow, pushing Gwayne’s hands from your hips in the process.
He does not look away from your face. “Tell me. Please,” he whimpers, letting his fingers graze the sides of your thighs.
You stammer, and squirm once more. “I need you to touch me,” you declare.
Gwayne nods once. “As you wish.”
And he hoists your legs over his shoulders and his face inches closer and closer to your core until his lips latch onto your clit. And finally, for once since drinking the stupid wine, you feel bliss. You’ve never felt something like this before.
It surges through your body and your entire body twitches violently. Gwayne lifts his arms up and grips your hips back again, using the hold to tug your cunt farther into his mouth. He eats you like a man starved.
You did not realize of the noises you were making until you nearly screamed, letting your head fall back. Your hands snake into his hair, pulling his head closer to your core.
He releases your clit from his lips. “Tastes so good—my princess—” his words fan over your damp slit, and he leans down to lick a thick stripe from bottom to top, collecting your arousal into onto his tongue. He swallows it with a loud gulp.
Your breath catches in your throat.
Gwayne continues his assault on your clit, sucking down hard. Your hips roll toward the allure of his lips. You are panting and gasping, hand bunching up his hair into your fist.
Heat flows through your entire body. It is a mix of the feeling you felt upon drinking that curséd wine and something incredible. True, pure ecstasy. You feel the blood of the dragon in you now. You understand it.
An unfamiliar ache begins to tighten in your lower stomach as he persists in lapping at your cunt. Nothing in your life has ever felt so good. You wonder if this is the true effect of the wine, or if it is just because it is your first time—you cannot really think about anything else. His tongue flattens and rolls against your clit and you choke on a moan.
Your muscles tense, your toes curl, and your heels dig into his back. His tongue presses and prods against you and he can feel it coming, the way your thighs tighten around him and shake and spasm.
Shudders wrack your body as you cum. He does not stop even when you do, even when your moans crescendo, his tongue still relentlessly ravishes your cunt even after you fall back onto the bed.
Finally, he lets go of your core with a wet pop.
It is then that you realize the burn has subsided. Relief washes over you momentarily.
But it returns as quickly as it went away. It flows through your body and you feel desperate for him once again.
He crawls up your body, caging you in between his arms, searching for something beneath your fucked-out expression.
“It isn’t enough—” you declare, your breath labored.
“What do you require?” Gwayne rasps, using a hand to brush your hair off of your forehead. His touch wavers in concern when he realizes the scorch of your skin.
“I need—” you paw at his clothed cock. “Your—”
“My what?” he pants.
“I need you inside,” you mutter.
Without a word, he begins shedding his garments. You were simply too dazed to admire it. Perhaps if there is a next time—Gods you hope there is a next time—you’ll get to do exactly that.
He is crawling back over you in an instant, his body bare. You run your hands up his chest, dragging the ball of your hand over his sternum. His cock hits your pelvis.
Your smallclothes, practically wet at this point, Gwayne lifts slightly at your waist. “Would you like me to take this off?” he asks.
You nod lazily.
He shimmies the linen up your body. “Sit up for a moment, sweet girl,” he instructs, and you obey.
They are finally, finally off, discarded somewhere across the room, and it feels much better being exposed than you expected it to be. There is no insecurity when you are with him. He just wants to help.
He grabs a pillow from off the head of the bed, lifting your hips up with a swift sleight of hand and shoving it under. “For your comfort,” he clarifies.
His hand comes up to cradle your cheek, his elbow resting beside your shoulder, as his other hand reaches down to grip his cock.
You look into his eyes, trying to search for anything past pure devotion and adoration for what he sees before him, and failing. Your lips falter as they reach up to lock with his. He meets you halfway.
Your hand tangles in his hair, pressing his head down harder onto your wet lips. The kiss is unpracticed and messy. Has he done this before? With anyone else, you mean. You should ask once you finish.
Gwayne enters you in a slow thrust, inhaling the noise you make into his mouth. His hand, the one that was cradling your cheek, finds itself on the nape of your neck.
His lips depart from your own, and he presses his forehead against yours, looking down to watch his cock sink into your cunt. He withdraws and sinks in once more, just to see it again. And again. And again. Slowly, slowly, slowly, the torturous drag of his length into you.
Your lips are parted, throat singing moans so frequent you’d think you were performing for him. You know you are being too loud. It feels impossible to be anything but.
Those gorgeous blue eyes of his find their way back to yours. "Oh—fuck, look at you," he praises, no longer needing the arm that guided his cock into you to guide his cock into you, so he raises it up to your mouth.
His thumb glides over your teeth, and then pushes past them. You wrap a hand around his wrist and suck on the digit. Up and down, up and down, as if it were his cock. He almost freezes inside of you.
Your hand slides up his, grabbing his pointer and middle-finger, swapping his thumb out for them. You do the same to them, bobbing your head up and down, moaning around them, and Gwayne fucking whimpers.
He resumes his movements. His cock throbs, your walls wrapping around him, sucking him in like you were made for him—or more so he was made for you, because he was. He is your man. He will be your man until the day he dies.
His fingers leave your mouth, and your saliva connects to the pads of them. He takes them into his own mouth momentarily.
Your fingers dig into his shoulders, pulling his body down to connect to yours. His hand snakes between you, gripping your hardened nipple, earning a gasp from you.
“I’m yours, my princess,” he murmurs, drunk-like. “I’m yours.” And he presses his lips all down your neck, the trail all wet and sloppy.
You’re clenching around him, body spasming from under his caging hold. You feel close to a similar sort of climax that you felt only once before, just then when his head was between your legs. With each slap of his skin against yours, you are screaming. He mutters things, most you can’t quite catch, but they’re all something like that’s it, sweet girl, and let it out, my princess.
He uses his forearm to rise from the skin-to-skin contact you had forced him into. His fingers, desperate yet nimble, work themselves to the small of your back. The contact releases your skin from the suction of the pillowcase, and he lifts your hips up more with his arm now wrapped around them.
His pace quickens. You glance down, and nearly sob at the sight of him disappearing inside you.
“Gwayne?” you look back up at him. Again, he is already staring back at you, ready and willing to fulfill your every need.
“Yes, my princess?” he heaves.
“Kiss me.”
As you wish, is he would have said, if it weren’t for him immediately giving in to your wish. He kisses like he is eating you. Messy. His spit somehow finds itself all around your mouth. You don't notice that you do the same to him.
Your orgasm slams into you. It is a violent punch that knocks the wind out of you—you think you see the Stranger reaching out to you—then you feel Gwayne slow his movements and a thick liquid coat your insides. You babble incomprehensible speech as you ride it out.
“Fuck—” you hear him mutter, and pull out quickly. He runs a finger up your slit, not considering the fact that you were still beyond sensitive—you jerk back at his touch, still trying to catch your breath.
It was like all air was running from you. It probably was. You violently pushed it back out with every small inhale of it.
You finally come to, and realize he has been repeating the words fuck, fuck, fuck, since he pulled out.
“What’s wrong?” you raise a hand to hold his cheek, bringing his attention back to you.
“You don’t—” he pauses. And he sighs, squeezing his eyes shut. “I wasn’t supposed to cum inside.”
You’re still confused. “What’s the problem?”
“That is how you get pregnant.” He lets out one last heavy sigh and then falls onto his back beside you.
You turn onto your side, resting your head on one of the arms he lies beneath your shoulder, and bringing a hand up to place it on his chest. His is still rising and falling as rapidly as yours is.
Your fingers trace your name onto his chest. He is none-the-wiser, but you still smirk at the action. Your man.
“Will you ask the maesters to brew me moon tea?” you mumble.
He brings his other hand to hold yours. “As you wish.”
You chuckle breathily.
“Are you—are you cured?” he says, playing with your fingers.
“I suppose so.” You sigh. The need for him no longer thrums through you in the way that it did before.
Now you want him in a different way. A normal, human, potionless way. The way you wanted him before you drank that wine—you thought it would make you seductive enough for him. It certainly worked, you assume.
In less than a minute, you’re beneath him again, his fingers pumping in and out of you.
