#crisgwayne

Criston yanked off his armor, the squire attending him. He was pissed. Beyond pissed. Alicent had sent him her uppity green boy of a brother to babysit him. It wounded him, down deep. He was already stressed beyond relief, and Aegon impulsively appointed Criston as hand. Just the icing on the lemon cake. He sent his squire off with an aggravated hand.

Gwayne was quiet since they’d hidden in the woods, their encampment having to hide under the cover of night, almost getting burnt by Daemon’s spawn on a dragon. The fool was going to a fucking inn. An inn for fucks sake, was he daft or just that self-absorbed?

The beleaguered man couldn’t bring himself to be that angry at Alicent, her control was slipping more and more every day. He thumbed her favor, inhaling it before tucking it away. Criston’s dark eyes cast to his sullied cloak, lips turning down. His thoughts were dark, swirling, and hard to define. It made him angry, full of rage.

Must he be so weak of heart all the time? Failing his duties yet getting promoted to a position he couldn’t possibly execute, but he took it, Criston always took it from the crown he served. His leg was tapping restlessly, hands clenching and unclenching.

Perhaps Alicent was right. They were cursed and doomed. What even was honor or duty these days? He took off his undershirt and pants, washing himself with the small basin of water they collected. No amount of water or scrubbing would scrape the filth from his body.

Common, half-dornish, impulsive, lustful filth.

A ruffling of his tent flaps alarmed him, glaring at the sound, brows furrowed. He called out, “Who the fuck is it? I’m not on watch yet.”

A voice replied, the irritating lofty accent of the Hightower fucker. “I’m merely trying to talk, may I enter?” Criston tugged on his breeches, frowning heavily. He growled, “Come in then.”

Gwayne’s light reddish hair entered, his haughty blue eyes gazing at Criston. He looked like Otto in a way, smug looks and smirks. The Marcher grimaced, demanding, “What? I’m trying to get some rest.”

The lordling gave him a look, eyes looking through him, that same smile he bestowed back in King’s Landing. Like he wanted to eat Criston alive…before flipping on a coin to lob insults. He demanded again, voice lowering, “I asked you a question, Ser. What do you need?”

Gwayne’s smirk faltered, his eyes turning downwards. He murmured, “I came to thank you. For saving my ass. I’d seen my nephew's dragon, but never one trying to kill me.” Criston scoffed, “Be prepared for more.” He paused, leveling the younger knight with a look, “You’re quite green aren’t you? Never seen a battle, flouncing around tourneys. Left alone from your father.”

Gwayne’s fairer skin blushed as he protested, “I’m finely trained, I just didn’t expect that. I’m trying to thank you, not argue!” He frowned, eyes gaining that piercing nature of Alicent. Criston stepped forward, sizing up the slim frame of the man.

Hightower as they come, willowy and graceful. Criston could easily take him down.

He laughed bitterly, “You know nothing of spilling blood. I’ve fought in battles before you touched live steel. Fighting off the Dornish.” Gwayne was a little shorter than Criston, swallowing audibly, blue eyes flickering. He couldn’t focus, eyes darting to the older man’s face and bare chest.

“Where’s my apology then, Hightower? So far you’ve come in and stammered, Alicent has more gall than you.”

Gwayne frowned, eyes narrowing as he slowly stated, “I apologize for suggesting such a foolish thing, leaving us exposed. I owe you a debt, Lord Commander.” Criston gripped his shoulder, smirking, “You’d be best to listen if you wish to keep your pretty face.”

The redhead inhaled sharply, pupils expanding. He breathed, “I see how you’ve bewitched my sister.” Criston raised a brow, gripping harder, “Mind yourself.” Gwayne shivered, mouth falling open, his pink lips wet.

Why did he want to force this pretty boy down? Criston was depraved enough. He shoved down his guilt over Alicent, did she even care? He didn’t know.

His breath deepened, studying the lordling. Gwayne stammered, “I can repay the debt some more, let me, you’re so damn tense.” Cole cocked his head, voice darkening, “How will you do that, Hightower? Rub my shoulders? You’re starting to make me think you frequented those pillow houses for men in Oldtown.”

Gwayne inhaled sharply, placing a calloused hand on Criston’s chest, thumbing his gold necklace, cheeks darkening by the second. He made a soft sound as a tan hand slid to the side of his pulsing throat, thumb swiping up and down his rapid pulse point.

“I- I’ll show you things I know sister dearest doesn’t allow. Keeps you on a tight leash doesn’t she,” Gwayne rasped, desperation lacing his voice. He was panting, licking his lips.

“Don’t speak of her grace, she’s not depraved. Fine, show your skills.”

Criston yanked Gwayne by his silly doublet, shoving his lips against the lordling. He growled into the kiss, seeking that dominance he’d been denied. The redhead moaned, sweeter than he’d expected, arching into Criston’s touch.

It felt different, soft lips and tongues, lacking the plushness of the woman Criston had kissed. Gwayne was eager- hands running through Criston’s chest hair and firm pecs. He let Criston lap and bruisingly kiss him, making more soft moans.

He pulled back to ask, “Do you always moan like a whore?”

“Do you always kiss men like you’re starving for it?”

Criston jerked Gwayne’s head back by his hair, biting and kissing at pale, smooth skin. The lordling whined, hands digging into Criston’s waist. He panted, “Want to suck your cock, let me, let me, when’s the last time you had that? You act like you need to fucking cum.”

Criston smirked at the desperate begging, steady hands unbuttoning that doublet, commenting, “You wore this to a battle. Mayhaps you’d be better as my slut in the tent.” He rumbled with dark laughter as Gwayne gasped, heaving with arousal. His pretty pale chest and slim hips were revealed, flushed too.

Gwayne shrugged it off, falling to his knees as Criston backed onto his cot, thickened thighs spread wide, his swollen cock protruding through the pale fabric. Criston watched him with a pensive expression, eyes lingering on swollen lips and the pretty boy’s deft hands, long elegant fingers undoing his pants.

Gwayne mumbled, “Fuck- can’t believe I’m doing this. You’re inside my damn sister on the daily. But she’s not here is she?” Criston felt guilt, growling, “Get to it, I’d rather not dwell on that.” His hand thumbed at Gwayne’s lips, sliding a thick thumb across his wet lips.

Criston hissed as he was eased out of his breeches, throbbing prick thick and heavy. He knew he was a mouthful, long ago before he was bedding prim nobles. Gwayne wanted it, drooling spit on the tip of Criston’s dark cock.

He spat into his lithe hand, wrapping it around the girth, lashes fluttering as he blabbed, “You’re a thick one.” Criston breathed through his nose, shuddering when a hot, wet mouth enveloped his recently neglected prick. He let his head fall back, moaning lowly, hand gripping reddish waves.

The younger Hightower was eager, hollowing his cheeks and bobbing eagerly, hand moving in tandem as he sloppily drooled more. Criston shivered again, tightening his grip, moaning again. Fuck this was delicious. Bastard had a mouth on him.

Gwayne slipped his other hand down to the cup and squeezed gently at his sack, a thumb sliding across the seam, Criston gasping in surprise. The lordling smirked, flicking his tongue playfully, pulling the skin back as he lathered attention on the cockhead.

“Ahh- fuck- you’re wicked,” Criston breathed, pathetically trying to control his voice, finding it to pitch up as his ecstasy increased. His thighs were twitching, belly tight. Gwayne merely moaned like a slut, the vibrations sending the older knight reeling again. Gwayne’s blue eyes watched him, teary and pretty, lashes wet and clumped.

He swallowed down more of Criston’s cock, slick, slick drool sliding down to coat his sensitive balls. Gwayne merely thumbed and rubbed gently, Criston losing his edge, scrunching his face closed, mouth wide open.

He leaned back, overwhelmed, elbows feebly keeping the marcher upright as his current nuisance was eagerly shoving cock down his throat and whining like he was going to come. Criston’s back was arching as he panted, moans slipping from his wet lips.

He wanted to kiss more and was already thinking of fucking the pretty slip between his thighs into the ground.

“I- I’m close, Gwayne I’m close,” he warned, voice tight and eyes watering, hand pulling some.

The redhead eyed him again, eyes conveying for Criston to shut up. He sped his movement up, the noises obscene. Choked whimpering spilled from Gwayne’s stretched lips. His throat was wet and tight, flexing and swallowing. The lithe hand caressing Criston’s balls shifted, two of his long fingers sliding back.

The marcher looked at him wildly, Gwayne shaking his head, raising a brow. That little fox was NOT getting his hand near his ass. Maybe. Criston eased back, huffing again as his body was trembling, muscles drawing tight as ecstasy flowed through his tired body.

Curious fingers pressed upwards, into the soft spot behind his sack. Criston seized with a grunt, biting his lip as he swallowed down a pathetic noise, tiny whines leaving his lips. It was emasculating at how he was reduced to feminine trembling and spread thighs, the orgasm forcing him into submission. He pumped his thick load down the man’s throat, Gwayne swallowing eagerly, greedy with it.

He lathered attention until the marcher gasped, “Ah, no more, you’ve paid your debt, gods.”

Gwayne pulled off with a wet pop, grinning with swollen wet lips, lapping some spit from the corner of his mouth. He moaned, “Cat’s out the bag I guess, I like sucking cock. I like sucking yours, Lord Commander.” He patted Criston’s thigh, smug with his talented efforts.

The Lord Commander was exhausted, eyes lidded as he regarded Gwayne. He yawned, “Quite the cocksucker, with and without one in your mouth. What was that shite you pulled on me at the end?”

Gwayne leaned forward placing his arms on the older man’s legs. He smirked, haughtily humming, “Such a pity. Stuck to doing whatever your master tells you. It’s a good spot in your ass, makes a man twice your size squeal like a maiden.”

“Now, does Otto know your predilections?”

Gwayne shrugged, “He was away, focused on my sister getting on the rotted King’s lap. I grew up without stress or constant eyes, doing as I pleased. You’d benefit. Already more relaxed out here. Besides dragons and a war.”

Criston felt his chest tighten at the hard truth. The Red Keep was a prison, coated in gleaming paint. He grumbled, “You come?” Criston felt lethargic, lazily beckoning the knight.

“No, was pretty close,” he breathlessly laughed.

Gwayne crawled upwards, Criston watching him with a strange expression as the younger sat atop his thighs. Gwayne remained silent for once, blue meeting black. His hand slowly pulled at the strings on his breeches, waiting for a rebuttal.

“Don’t come on me. Take care of yourself, too pretty not to watch.”

Gwayne retorted, “Pull my cock or finger myself, my lord?” He grinned at the aghast look on Criston’s face, eyes wide, brows firmly set in surprise. He stammered, “I- just do what you want, make it quick.”

The lordling searched around, looking for some sort of grease or oil. He found a small jar of scented oil, raising a brow, teasing, “Did you nick this off my sister?” Criston smacked his thigh, frowning.

Gwayne poured a bit into his hand, setting the little jar back down. He slathered his pink cock, already ruddy and flushed from arousal, lips lax at the pleasure. Criston nipped his lip, taking in the sight. He growled, “Be a bit quieter, will you?”

Gwayne nodded, fisting himself rapidly, breath coming fast and hard. He whimpered softly, squirming as his hand teased the underside of the tip. The Hightower lad’s other hand slid back, massaging that spot he spoke of, lashes fluttering as he moaned helplessly, sweating.

The marcher couldn’t help but be enamored. Those damn siblings would kill him. Kill him. If the war didn’t first. He placed a hand on Gwayne’s slim thigh, gripping the meager flesh on the inside.

“Fuck- please- good,” Hightower panted.

Criston gripped his slim hip, eyes boring into blue, murmuring, “You’re shameless.”

Gwayne frantically looked for his tunic, grabbing it as he whimpered and shook, riding his fingers instead of working his cock before covering his prick with green. Criston smirked, the knight falling apart, thin chest heaving as he whimpered, shaking from head to toe as he emptied into the tunic.

The younger fell to his side, panting as he rolled on his back, Criston smirking, pleased with the submissive nature of Gwayne. He looked over, rumbling, “Consider this debt nonsense over. I’m expecting I’ll save your ass soon.”

Gwayne laughed breathlessly, eyes warm. He replied, “Eh, you’ll be seeking me out. Let me gather myself for a moment, don’t want to look too much of a mess.” He snorted, eyes on his soiled tunic.

Criston huffed, taking another deep breath. He shouldn’t be here, spread out in his ex-fiancé’s adjacent hotel room. Yet he was lonely. He’d already planned to find some nameless pointless woman to fuck on the business trip with Alicent’s entitled brother— head of sales for the Oldtown branch.

Yet Gwayne’s irritable charm and pretty blue eyes had started to wear on him. Add a couple of Negroni’s at the happy hour and the rest entailed. He’d never even slept with a man before, Criston honestly was picturing pounding the lean fucker into the bed.

Instead, Gwayne pushed him down, pressing hot kisses on each inch of skin revealed under his pressed suit. The prat leisurely divested his clothes, all long creamy limbs and elegant lines while Criston was panting like a dog on the bed.

Then Gwayne’s lips were around his cock, expertly bobbing his head while cupping his aching balls. Criston gasped and let out throaty moans, hands fisted into the bedding, thighs helplessly spreading. Gwayne’s nimble fingers curled up behind his balls, Criston had yelped, eyes bugging as he looked up.

“What? No girl ever slips one in?” Gwayne snorted, purring.

Criston shook his head, grumbling, “No, fucking hells, of course not.”

The redhead laughed a haughty noise, his eyes crinkling, lips a darker color from the stretch. Gwayne sat up between Criston’s thighs, pale hands contrasting with olive skin as he rubbed Criston’s hips. His pretty cock was bobbing against his trim belly, flushed.

“You should let me,” he murmured, eyes lidded and sultry, voice lowering.

Fuck.

Criston sucked in a breath, throwing his head back on the pillows. He wanted it. He wanted it bad. The Stormlander was no idiot, he’d heard about the prostate, how the orgasm was intense. His jaw gritted, trying to muster words.

“Relax,” Gwayne chided, firm hands gripping Criston’s thighs.

“Fine, fine, yeah- I want it,” Criston said.

Gwayne’s lips stretched into another feline smile as he rubbed circles into Criston’s inner thighs. Criston moaned softly, Gods, he felt as if someone had sparked every nerve ending in his body.

Criston’s mind was a warzone by the time he had gone to the bathroom to ‘prep’ as Gwayne instructed. He was anxious and uncomfortable once more. His thoughts were a jumble of Alicent, his sexuality, and fucking the whole thing up.

He exited, dark eyes scanning the darkened bedroom. Gwayne was idly tugging on his prick, soft noises leaving his swollen lips. The thoughts began to disappear when Hightower’s eyes drifted over as he sat up once more, voice soft, “You won’t have to think, I’ll take care of you Cole.”

“You can call me Criston.”

Gwayne rolled his eyes, beckoning Criston over and pulling him into a searing kiss. Criston’s hand wrapped around the back of Gwayne’s head, fingers slipping through copper strands. The heat was growing again with every slide of their tongues, lazily moving.

“You’re gorgeous, gods, even if you look like you swallowed a lemon,” Gwayne murmured as he pulled back, one hand rubbing Criston’s flank as the other slowly stroked the brunette back to full mast. He growled back, “Shut it pretty boy.”

“Mhm,” the redhead hummed, sliding a thumb across the tip of Criston’s weeping cock— sending a jolt of molten desire up his back. Criston pressed his mouth hungrily against Gwayne’s, his own calloused hands feeling the smooth expanse of pale skin.

“Turn over, c’mon,” Gwayne ushered as Criston did so without a second thought. He was aching again, he felt an insurmountable pull towards this— whatever it was. Criston could always silence his head when he was intimate. All he knew was that Gwayne Hightower was going to take care of him and that was that.

The Stormlander jolted again when Gwayne pulled him by the hips, mouth falling open at how exposed he was. Hands slid around, settling on Criston’s firm ass. He moaned, head dropping when he felt Gwayne’s lips kiss across tender skin.

Gwayne didn’t waste any time, lapping at his ass, groaning deeply, hands gripping. Criston outright whimpered, thighs twitching at the foreign feeling, but gods— Gwayne’s hot tongue lapping at his hole was going to send him to an early grave.

The other man’s tongue was slow and almost tender, settling in and pleased with his hums and throaty little noises. Criston was a trembling mess, unable to keep the moans and drawn out slurring of Gwayne’s name as he was eaten out.

Time seemed to melt, Criston couldn’t tell you, his head was cloudy, body like syrup with pleasure. Gwayne pulled back, warm breath ghosting across his skin.

“Want me to go a bit further now? All soft and sweet for me.”

Criston garbled out a yes, eyes unfocused as he swallowed down drool. Gwayne’s hand gently pressed down on the nip of his waist, voice hoarse, “Stay like this, it’ll feel amazing, I promise.”

He trusted him for some damn reason, shifting as he felt a finger breach his entrance. Gwayne cooed his name, praising Criston. He sounded so sweet, voice low, “There you go, yeah, lovely. Just stay like this Criston.”

He trembled, chest expanding with his heavier breathing, getting used to the slim finger sliding in. Then another, Criston licking his lips, a whine slipping out. Gwayne pressed a kiss to his tailbone, fingers sliding back and forth.

Criston was moaning again, the discomfort giving way to another throb of heat. His lashes fluttered as Gwayne built up a rhythm, fucking Criston with his fingers. More praise. The brunette whined Gwayne’s name, whole body feeling like putty.

Then Gwayne’s fingers shifted, pressing downward— one, two, three, and sparks exploded behind Criston’s lids. He shouted out, eyes flicking open. He felt his cock leaking, a spurt of pre. Criston babbled something, begging likely.

“There it is,” Gwayne rasped smugly.

He began to focus on the gland now, every quick stroke and push of his fingers stretching Criston thin. Criston could feel everything buzzing, his prick and balls throbbing. He whined again, “Fuck, Gwayne, s-shit don’t stop- oh gods.”

“I’ve got you, just feel it love.”

Criston dropped further into the bed, mouth ajar as he moaned helplessly. He could feel his back arching, and legs shaking as the heavy pleasure draped over his body. The brunette knew he was making a mess, dripping all over the expensive bedding. Gwayne seemed to love it, encouraging and very, very giving.

He was close, he was sure, the heady ecstasy growing more and more, spreading from his hole to his chest. Criston gasped, then again, a loud keening erupting from his wet lips. Gwayne sounded pleading as he sped his movements up, “You’re there love, right there, so tight, good fucking boy.”

He blanked out for a moment, the most powerful orgasm washing over Criston’s body, waves of white hot ecstasy. He knew he was probably loud but all he could process was the blood rushing in his ears, blowing his load, and the hands of…

Gwayne, Gwayne, Seven Hells, Gwayne Hightower.

Criston came back to his side, Gwayne petting his dark curls back, eyes roving over the bigger man as he breathed through the aftershocks, twitching here and there. He felt like he was floating, body pleasantly worn.

“Smith’s balls,” Criston breathed.

Dark brown met that brilliant blue, Gwayne right next to Criston, wiping his fingers on the bed. He cocked his head, lips turned up as he regarded the other man’s wrecked state.

There was a vulnerability in the heir’s eyes as he asked a simple question.

“Did you like it?”

Criston felt his lips curl into a smile, lazily responding, “Better than good. That mouth of yours…I can’t come up with an insult.”

“Then I’ve done my job,” the redhead sniffed, a strange expression on his face. The air was stagnant, waiting.

Criston gripped Gwayne’s hip, looking up with a renewed intensity. He had to return a favor. More than that, Criston wanted to see Hightower come undone, he needed it. Criston growled, “Not yet. You’ve got some more to do, pretty boy.”