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summary: gwayne comes to daemon before the battle at tumbleton to barter for the life of his nephew and gets you in return, the last daughter of an unremarkable house fighting for the black army, who's in want of a wealthy husband. (4k)
characters: gwayne hightower / fem!reader, daemon targaryen, ser roderick, mentions of daeron targaryen and ormund hightower
contents: enemies to lovers, arranged marraige, angst, hurt/comfort, not proofread soz cw for canon typical violence, coercion, allusions to smut 18+ (MDNI), and spoilers for hotd s3 finale!! (gif creds)
The morning hangs heavy with the promise of death. It sits thick in Gwayne’s throat and lungs the whole walk to the Black Army’s encampment. He carries with him nothing but a small hunting knife pressed to Lord Corlys’s back and a fear he cannot quite keep out of his gaze, darting wildly every which way as Daemon’s army cages him on all sides — a Winter Wolf on his left, a small Tully boy on his right, and a stranger looming on horseback; with armor fitted close to fit a woman’s frame, and with a face much too pretty for the throes of war.
“Prince Daemon,” Gwayne greets with a curt nod, still winded from the walk over as his chest heaves beneath his armor. “I’m Ser Gwayne Hightower… Well met.”
“Fuck me,” Ser Roderick laughs; a rough, ugly bark as he looks the small, auburn-haired man up and down. “I’ve seen more meat on a butcher’s knife.”
“Daemon, I must say—” Your voice follows, soft and musical and carrying easily over the distant murmur of armed men. It’s the kind of voice that might’ve belonged to a septa or a singer, if it weren’t for the ice running beneath it. “—When you said we were meeting with a Hightower, I expected someone taller than the sigil at least.”
The laughter doubles and strangles Gwayne accordingly, who is completely and utterly out of his element now. He swallows hard through a tightening throat and draws a slow breath through his nose, trying once again to steady himself — because it was not for himself that he was out here in the first place. It was for Daeron, and for the dozen other boys just like him that Ormund had lined along the front ranks to take the war’s first bite.
So Gwayne presses on, forcing an evenness into his voice that he doesn’t exactly feel beneath the death glares all around him. “My cousin, Ormund, has taken leave of his senses. As I’m sure you’re aware. He’d rather die than admit defeat—”
“And you?” Daemon lilts lazily, resting his arms along the hilt of his sword.
Gwayne’s eyes cut across the men arrayed before him, still only a fraction of the true Black host. “Well, I’m not blind… I know we will not survive the day if you attack. So… As a token of good faith… I return your Hand.”
He drops Corlys’s shackles with a heavy clinking sound, but does not take the blade from his side. The silence that follows seems to last for an eternity, until your pretty voice breaks it at last.
“Can he be a Hard with only four fingers?” you joke, tilting your head towards the old lord’s bandaged fist.
The laughter returns again. Gwayne’s icy blue eyes flits once more to you in a quick, assessing pass; he does not mean for his gaze to linger upon you, but he can’t quite manage to look away. Your armor catches in what little light breaks through the clouds overhead, carved with the intricate detailing of your house. And beneath all that heavy steel is your much softer face — beautiful and unbothered by the promise of war simmering in the heavy summer air.
There is something very wrong about you, Gwayne knows; something he can’t quite decide to be afraid of or intrigued by. A bit of both, perhaps.
“I’ve come to sue for peace,” Gwayne announces, louder now, forcing the words out over the laughter. ‘To plead with you at the behest of Daeron Targaryen.”
The amusement in Daemon’s pale eyes flickers at once, a distant warmth running cold as his thin mouth curls into a sharp grin. “The war will end when all the traitors’ heads are mounted on spikes about the King’s Gate,” the older man answers. “And not before.”
“Listen to Daeron’s entreaty,” Gwayne pleads, eyes growing wide behind the silken auburn tendrils swaying over his brows. “Divide the realm. Let the Queen rule over the Crownlands, the North, the Vale, all the lands watered by the Trident… And let Daeron rule from Oldtown—"
“Oh, gods…” Roderick groans in disgust from his left.
“He’s boring me, Daemon,” you tell the silver-haired man standing on foot before you, voice flat with a theatrical ennui that borders on girlish. “Just kill him already.”
“Do you hear that?” Daemon laughs as he turns back to Gwayne. “You’re boring her… And trust me, Ser, you do not want to see how she gets when she’s bored—”
“You jest?” Gwayne spits as his composure splinters all at once. The words seem to spill from his mouth before he can stop them, as he approaches the older man on instinct alone. “You would rather callously cast aside the lives of thousands—”
He does not get another word out before Daemon’s hand closes suddenly around his throat. The world tilts sideways as the man drags him downward in his fist. His metal glove digs hard into Gwayne’s milky white neck, cutting off just enough of his air supply to keep him conscious, though Daemon does not so much as blink at the show of strength.
“No one will rule but Rhaenyra,” Daemon tells him in a casual voice, even as Gwayne’s hands scrabble uselessly for purchase at his wrist. “The ordained Queen of the Andals, of the First Men, of beggars and thieves and cowards, like you. A new Valyria will rise from the ashes of her usurper half-brothers. And of the Hightowers of Oldtown.”
Gwayne can hardly hear him over the thunder of his pulse in his skull as black spots begin to speckle in his vision, like so many drops of ink spreading through water.
“But…” Daemon trails off. His grip on Gwayne’s neck does not loosen, but something in his eyes does. The cold burn of rage melts away into a distant look of calculation. “Since you came under the banner of peace… Perhaps I’ll give you a choice…”
Daemon turns slowly to you, peering up at you from behind the wisps of white hair blowing across his face. Gwayne’s watery, unfocused eyes follow in turn and find you watching the whole ordeal with your head tilted gently to one side. There is no horror in your face, nor an ounce of pity either.
“You said you wanted to live in a pretty castle, didn’t you?” Daemon calls to you, with a sort of fondness creeping into his voice while Gwayne turns purple under his fist. “To twirl around in pretty silk dresses, with a pretty silk husband?”
You had said it half in jest a few months past, in a hall far too to the north for anyone to remember its existence, except for when they needed its sword. You were the last living heir to a name older than most in the realm, ruling alone with more soldiers under your command than servants, when Daemon had come with his dragon asking for whatever men you could spare.
You’d given him what he asked, and when he’d wondered in turn what you wanted for it, you answered him evenly. “A castle… And a few dresses… And perhaps a husband to warm my bed— all the pretty, useless shit people like you worry about.”
You hadn’t expected to be repaid so soon, and certainly not on the battlefield on the very eve of war, with a dead man crumpling to his feet before you.
“What of it?” you say with an arched brow.
“Here’s your pretty husband,” Daemon nods his silver head down toward the man gasping in his grip. “Right here… If you want him, of course.”
Gwayne’s bleary eyes flit back to you. Through the black in his vision, he finds you studying the whole of him as if he were livestock to be appraised at market. He comes to the rather humiliating realization that he wants very badly for you to say yes — both with a primal despair of wanting to live and with the distant desperation of wanting your approval.
You scrunch the bridge of his nose. “He’s a bit puny, isn’t he?”
“A bit?” Ser Rodrick scoffs.
“Well, what he lacks in height and muscle, he makes up for twice over in wealth,” Daemon tells you. “Far wealthier than you’re like to find anywhere else, to be sure… What do you say?”
You consider for a long moment, then, despite watching Gwayne slowly slip from consciousness. He can no longer tell if it takes you one minute or one hour to decide, which you finally do with one lazy bounce of your shoulder.
“Alright.”
Daemon’s fingers loosen at once. Warm, summer air rushes back into Gwayne’s body as he crumples to his knees onto the dried grass below. The oxygen burns in his throat, his shoulders heaving as he retches. It takes a long moment for the world to come back into focus. And when it finally does, Daemon’s voice finds him again as he looms a long shadow over the kneeling man.
“Do you hear that? I will spare your life — and that of your precious nephew’s, should he bend the knee to the rightful Queen — and you will live out the rest of your days as lord husband to the new Lady of Oldtown… How does that sound?”
It sounds nothing like what Gwyane had walked out here to discuss, to be sure. He’d only meant to save Daeron’s life, and somehow bartered his own for a marriage to a woman he had known for the length of one terribly humiliating conversation. But he is still breathing, at least, and his nephew is too. And for now, that’s enough.
He nods wordlessly in response, and feels an aching in his throat when he does so.
“Thank her,” Daemon scolds like a parent would their child. When Gwayne’s bowed hands snap in his direction to make sure he’d heard him right, he feels the man take a sudden fistful of his auburn hair, wrenching him towards you again. “That was not rhetorical, Ser Gwayne— Thank your new lady wife for saving you. It’s only fair.”
Gwayne swallows hard through a raw throat and peers up at you with bleary eyes from where he kneels on the ground before you. “Thank...” he attempts to speak, but the word comes out strangled. “Thank you...”
“My lady,” Daemon reminds him.
Gwayne coughs. “M-My lady…”
You look down at him from where you idle on horseback. A small smile hints at the corner of your mouth as you hum in satisfaction. “Mm… You’re welcome, lord husband.”
You turn on your horse without so much as a backward glance, gathering the reins in your fist and looking instead toward the gates of Tumbleton — where Ormund’s men prepare their archers for the first wave of battle. “Now…” you say, grinning over your shoulder at your house’s men gathered just behind you. Your voice carries across the length of the plain. “Let’s go win this fucking war!”
The ranks roar a wordless answer in response — a ragged, joyous, bloodthirsty sound as swords beat against their shields. Gwayne hears the battlecry swell all around him, and wonders if his death would’ve been a kinder fate than what is sure to await him when the fight is done.
The wedding was done by evenfall, while smoke rose from the ashes of Tumbleton; the air still thick with the scent of blood and rot.
You exchanged vows while your armor was still splattered with the blood of the Green Army and your hair was still matted with sweat. There had been no sept, no godswood, no seven blessings, no ribbon tied around clasped hands. There was only a shaded tent, a Tumbleton septon kept alive for the very purpose of ceremony, and a scrap of parchment to sign your names — though Gwayne’s hand was still a little sore from the heavy chains wrapped around them.
No feast follows. No song, no celebration, no bedding. Because too many people had died on both sides — Ormund among them, burnt and buried in ash. And though Daeron breathes still, safe and unbloodied by sword, Gwayne wears the cost of that safety in the shackles around his wrist and waist. He was lord now, and a husband, and he did not ask to be.
He only wanted his nephew to live to see sixteen.
“So… That’s it then,” Gwayne said on an exhaled breath while a worse-for-wear Daemon shoved the old septon out by his neck. His pretty face was softened by the candlelight of the war tent, even despite the soot streaked across his face and the flaming tendrils clinging to his forehead with sweat. “Husband and wife, are we?”
“Seems that way,” you said beneath the quiet glugging of the ale you poured. The watered wine spilled slightly over the maps scattered there when you turned briefly to flash him a smile over your shoulder. “Congratulations, my lord.”
Gwayne felt a tired smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, right before a sharp breath escaped him in a sad sort of laugh. “Aren’t you concerned?” he said, pale eyes fixed on your armored form. “I’m not sure how a marriage such as this can be held up by law…”
“Oh, I’m not worried,” you assured him with a shake of your head.
“No?”
“No…” you insisted and turned back around to face him, sporting an old goblet in your bloodied fist. “Because I know you have no interest in being killed— or your nephew, besides… It’s righteous of you, really, so… You’re not going anywhere, Ser Gwayne.”
Your lips curled into a slow, sharp grin as you brought the cup to your mouth, chugging the whole of it until the soft purple wine started to drip down to your chin.
Gwayne still could not yet decide what you had planned for him — if you meant to love him truly or kill him the second you arrived at Oldtown. And a distant, disgusting part of him could not wait to find out.
Oldtown, as you’ve come to find it, smells nothing like the wet cobbles, and horse dung, and rotted wood of the half-forgotten manse you grew up in. Here, everything smells of salt and lemon trees and sun-warmed stone. It is everything you’d asked Daemon for — a large castle, enough silk to drown in, hands that tended to your every want, and a husband to warm your bed. Though you still spend most of your days in the fighting yard, tearing and sweating through whatever fine silk you’d dressed in that day.
Gwayne is still getting used to the presence of you and your men in his ancestral home, and his newfound position within it. Daeron, too, spends many weeks wary of the very sight of you — the reason for the death of his uncle, and simultaneously, the reason for his freedom. You do not ask for his forgiveness; you just put a sparring sword in his hand and ask him to give you all the brunt of the anger you know he keeps hidden.
You and your men put the sweet boy on his back more often than not, but he keeps coming back for more anyway. And somewhere in that routine, gratitude creeps in where the resentment used to live, and Daeron comes slowly around.
“Well… You’ve made a fine swordsman out of him,” Gwayne sighs without turning from the window overlooking the courtyard, where his nephew continues to spar with the northern knights. He hears you waltz by somewhere behind him, your pretty silk gown rustling at your ankles and clinging at the sweaty small of your back. “Ormund would never let the boy train this hard…”
“Daeron has good enough instincts, it seems,” you answer, tugging lazily at the lace in your bodice. “Which I find rather surprising, considering the company he grew up with…”
Gwayne finds himself smiling at the jab, far wider than he realizes. You’ve never run short of witty, merciless quips, he’s found throughout his time with you; and he finds himself taking a strange liking to the way you so effortlessly cut him down.
“And what is that supposed to mean exactly?” he says as he turns away from the window.
Whatever quip had been sitting on his tongue then, turns to ash in his throat at the sight of you — with your gown abandoned in a pile on the cobbles, and you slouched at your vanity stool in nothing but the thin slip beneath it. The fabric rises from your knee, revealing the soft canvas of your thighs. You’ve slid one arm free from the thin sleeves to bare a shoulder painted a darker shade from the fresh bruises blooming there.
Your skin is littered with scars from battles past, and he struggles to look away from any of it. His chest stings with the thought of you ever being hurt, then warms twice over at the sight of your breast threatening to spill over from where the slip had gone askew.
“You needn’t look so scandalized, husband,” you laugh as you reach for the clay pot of healing ointment, which never strays too far from your side. “Surely, you’ve seen worse than a woman’s shift… Handsome as you are.”
Gwayne’s face flushes at the compliment, and he hates how boyish he feels.
He clears his throat and averts his gaze, folding his clammy palms behind his back. “I only find myself surprised, I guess, at how… little you seem to mind it, is all.”
“Mind what? The bruises?” you scoff, dabbing the ointment along your shoulder and hissing at how tender the skin has gone. “I’ve had far worse from far better fights, I assure you. Maybe one day I’ll show you the scar on my—”
“Modesty,” Gwayne blurts before you can finish. “I meant modesty…”
“Oh…” you hum, face screwing faintly as you work the earthy salve in slow circles. “I never had much use for modesty, I suppose… A keep with more soldiers than servants doesn’t have much of it, in truth…”
You reach back then, trying hopelessly to work the balm into the worst of the bruise along your shoulder blade, but the angle is not so forgiving. You huff and twist and achieve nothing but a fresher ache for the trouble.
Gwayne exhales a sympathetic sigh from across the room. “Here…” he huffs as he crosses the distance between you, reaching out an expectant hand when he looms just behind your chair.
You consider arguing for a moment, if only out of habit, but place the clay pot into his pale palm regardless. “Try not to enjoy it too much,” you joke with a small grin tugging at your mouth.
“I make no promises, my lady,” he quips in a low deadpan.
But even his sarcasm cannot mask the tenderness he holds in his hands when they find your shoulder, working the ointment in with a care you didn’t know he was capable of — a care you didn’t know you were deserving of. The pad of his thumb smooths slowly over the worst of the bruise, and you feel something soften in your chest.
“You’re better at this than I would’ve guessed,” you tell him, if only to fill the suffocating silence pressing hard on either side of you.
“I’ve had ample practice with bruises of my own,” Gwayne confesses, lifting his eyes to peer at you through the smudged looking glass. “I didn’t come into this marriage entirely unmarked, if you recall…”
“Mm… I do recall,” you croon lowly, as though amused by the memory. Your head tips back to grin up at him with a fond reminiscence. “You were very purple. And very sore… For weeks… It was delicious…”
Gwayne shakes his head. “Well, you’ll forgive me if I don’t find the memory as amusing as you do…”
“I find everything amusing,” you scoff.
“I know you do,” he huffs a not-quite laugh. “Honestly, it’s among the things I’ve come to… appreciate about you, I suppose.”
Your eyes narrow in suspicion of his compliment. “Careful, Ser Gwayne… A lady could get ideas, hearing you talk like that…”
“Really?” the man hums, still working gently at your bruised skin. “And what ideas are those, I wonder?”
You do not answer him with words. Instead, you rise slowly from the creaking vanity stool until you’re stood just before him. Then you reach for the remaining sleeve of your slip and trail it down your arm until you’re free of it; until the thin fabric falls to your feet in a forgotten piece of cotton; until you’re stood utterly bare before him — made of warm skin, soft curves, and faded scars. There’s one at your sternum, a longer one at your hip, and a darker one along your ribcage.
Gwayne’s breath catches audibly in his throat. The composure he’s spent weeks holding onto — full of dry wit and careful distance and a week’s worth of telling himself this was a political arrangement and nothing more — seems to abandon him all at once. His glassy eyes drift over your naked form, and he feels some warm, boyish feelings sparkling somewhere deep in his chest.
It takes everything in you not to cower — not because you are ashamed at his staring, you’ve never been ashamed of anything, but because you have never once been looked at with so much reverence.
“Do you get the hint now, Ser Gwayne?” you quip drily as you close the scant distance between you. Your palms splay over the chest of his emerald coat and drift slowly upward until they settle cold along his warm neck, dragging him down with a little more force than necessary.
You kiss him then like you’ve kissed him a thousand times over, like you’ve kissed a thousand men a thousand times over. There is little reservation in the way you slot your lips against his, or in the way you lick into his mouth and sigh hard through your nose at the taste of him — like mint and wine and whatever fruit he’d been snaking on before you found him here.
His mouth is far softer than your own, you realize, a far gentler touch than you think you’ve ever felt before. He spreads one wide hand along your back, pressing your bare chest flush against his clothed one, while his other trails down down down the ladder of your spine.
Your breath nearly catches when his calloused palm settles warm along the plush of your ass; you lose it completely when he grabs a fistful of the skin to pull you closer.
You rise onto the tip of your toes, curling your arms around his neck while your noses knock under the weight of your searing kiss — which breaks only when Gwayne’s knee slots between your thighs, and when the rough fabric of his trousers brushes the most sensitive part of you.
His rosy mouth curls into a slow grin at the pretty sound you make for him then.
“Yes. To answer your question…” the man quips through panted breaths, with the tip of his nose brushing the bridge of yours. “I believe I am starting to get the hint, my lady.”
summary: gwayne comes to daemon before the battle at tumbleton to barter for the life of his nephew and gets you in return, the last daughter of an unremarkable house fighting for the black army, who's in want of a wealthy husband. (4k)
characters: gwayne hightower / fem!reader, daemon targaryen, ser roderick, mentions of daeron targaryen and ormund hightower
contents: enemies to lovers, arranged marraige, angst, hurt/comfort, not proofread soz cw for canon typical violence, coercion, allusions to smut 18+ (MDNI), and spoilers for hotd s3 finale!! (gif creds)
The morning hangs heavy with the promise of death. It sits thick in Gwayne’s throat and lungs the whole walk to the Black Army’s encampment. He carries with him nothing but a small hunting knife pressed to Lord Corlys’s back and a fear he cannot quite keep out of his gaze, darting wildly every which way as Daemon’s army cages him on all sides — a Winter Wolf on his left, a small Tully boy on his right, and a stranger looming on horseback; with armor fitted close to fit a woman’s frame, and with a face much too pretty for the throes of war.
“Prince Daemon,” Gwayne greets with a curt nod, still winded from the walk over as his chest heaves beneath his armor. “I’m Ser Gwayne Hightower… Well met.”
“Fuck me,” Ser Roderick laughs; a rough, ugly bark as he looks the small, auburn-haired man up and down. “I’ve seen more meat on a butcher’s knife.”
“Daemon, I must say—” Your voice follows, soft and musical and carrying easily over the distant murmur of armed men. It’s the kind of voice that might’ve belonged to a septa or a singer, if it weren’t for the ice running beneath it. “—When you said we were meeting with a Hightower, I expected someone taller than the sigil at least.”
The laughter doubles and strangles Gwayne accordingly, who is completely and utterly out of his element now. He swallows hard through a tightening throat and draws a slow breath through his nose, trying once again to steady himself — because it was not for himself that he was out here in the first place. It was for Daeron, and for the dozen other boys just like him that Ormund had lined along the front ranks to take the war’s first bite.
So Gwayne presses on, forcing an evenness into his voice that he doesn’t exactly feel beneath the death glares all around him. “My cousin, Ormund, has taken leave of his senses. As I’m sure you’re aware. He’d rather die than admit defeat—”
“And you?” Daemon lilts lazily, resting his arms along the hilt of his sword.
Gwayne’s eyes cut across the men arrayed before him, still only a fraction of the true Black host. “Well, I’m not blind… I know we will not survive the day if you attack. So… As a token of good faith… I return your Hand.”
He drops Corlys’s shackles with a heavy clinking sound, but does not take the blade from his side. The silence that follows seems to last for an eternity, until your pretty voice breaks it at last.
“Can he be a Hard with only four fingers?” you joke, tilting your head towards the old lord’s bandaged fist.
The laughter returns again. Gwayne’s icy blue eyes flits once more to you in a quick, assessing pass; he does not mean for his gaze to linger upon you, but he can’t quite manage to look away. Your armor catches in what little light breaks through the clouds overhead, carved with the intricate detailing of your house. And beneath all that heavy steel is your much softer face — beautiful and unbothered by the promise of war simmering in the heavy summer air.
There is something very wrong about you, Gwayne knows; something he can’t quite decide to be afraid of or intrigued by. A bit of both, perhaps.
“I’ve come to sue for peace,” Gwayne announces, louder now, forcing the words out over the laughter. ‘To plead with you at the behest of Daeron Targaryen.”
The amusement in Daemon’s pale eyes flickers at once, a distant warmth running cold as his thin mouth curls into a sharp grin. “The war will end when all the traitors’ heads are mounted on spikes about the King’s Gate,” the older man answers. “And not before.”
“Listen to Daeron’s entreaty,” Gwayne pleads, eyes growing wide behind the silken auburn tendrils swaying over his brows. “Divide the realm. Let the Queen rule over the Crownlands, the North, the Vale, all the lands watered by the Trident… And let Daeron rule from Oldtown—"
“Oh, gods…” Roderick groans in disgust from his left.
“He’s boring me, Daemon,” you tell the silver-haired man standing on foot before you, voice flat with a theatrical ennui that borders on girlish. “Just kill him already.”
“Do you hear that?” Daemon laughs as he turns back to Gwayne. “You’re boring her… And trust me, Ser, you do not want to see how she gets when she’s bored—”
“You jest?” Gwayne spits as his composure splinters all at once. The words seem to spill from his mouth before he can stop them, as he approaches the older man on instinct alone. “You would rather callously cast aside the lives of thousands—”
He does not get another word out before Daemon’s hand closes suddenly around his throat. The world tilts sideways as the man drags him downward in his fist. His metal glove digs hard into Gwayne’s milky white neck, cutting off just enough of his air supply to keep him conscious, though Daemon does not so much as blink at the show of strength.
“No one will rule but Rhaenyra,” Daemon tells him in a casual voice, even as Gwayne’s hands scrabble uselessly for purchase at his wrist. “The ordained Queen of the Andals, of the First Men, of beggars and thieves and cowards, like you. A new Valyria will rise from the ashes of her usurper half-brothers. And of the Hightowers of Oldtown.”
Gwayne can hardly hear him over the thunder of his pulse in his skull as black spots begin to speckle in his vision, like so many drops of ink spreading through water.
“But…” Daemon trails off. His grip on Gwayne’s neck does not loosen, but something in his eyes does. The cold burn of rage melts away into a distant look of calculation. “Since you came under the banner of peace… Perhaps I’ll give you a choice…”
Daemon turns slowly to you, peering up at you from behind the wisps of white hair blowing across his face. Gwayne’s watery, unfocused eyes follow in turn and find you watching the whole ordeal with your head tilted gently to one side. There is no horror in your face, nor an ounce of pity either.
“You said you wanted to live in a pretty castle, didn’t you?” Daemon calls to you, with a sort of fondness creeping into his voice while Gwayne turns purple under his fist. “To twirl around in pretty silk dresses, with a pretty silk husband?”
You had said it half in jest a few months past, in a hall far too to the north for anyone to remember its existence, except for when they needed its sword. You were the last living heir to a name older than most in the realm, ruling alone with more soldiers under your command than servants, when Daemon had come with his dragon asking for whatever men you could spare.
You’d given him what he asked, and when he’d wondered in turn what you wanted for it, you answered him evenly. “A castle… And a few dresses… And perhaps a husband to warm my bed— all the pretty, useless shit people like you worry about.”
You hadn’t expected to be repaid so soon, and certainly not on the battlefield on the very eve of war, with a dead man crumpling to his feet before you.
“What of it?” you say with an arched brow.
“Here’s your pretty husband,” Daemon nods his silver head down toward the man gasping in his grip. “Right here… If you want him, of course.”
Gwayne’s bleary eyes flit back to you. Through the black in his vision, he finds you studying the whole of him as if he were livestock to be appraised at market. He comes to the rather humiliating realization that he wants very badly for you to say yes — both with a primal despair of wanting to live and with the distant desperation of wanting your approval.
You scrunch the bridge of his nose. “He’s a bit puny, isn’t he?”
“A bit?” Ser Rodrick scoffs.
“Well, what he lacks in height and muscle, he makes up for twice over in wealth,” Daemon tells you. “Far wealthier than you’re like to find anywhere else, to be sure… What do you say?”
You consider for a long moment, then, despite watching Gwayne slowly slip from consciousness. He can no longer tell if it takes you one minute or one hour to decide, which you finally do with one lazy bounce of your shoulder.
“Alright.”
Daemon’s fingers loosen at once. Warm, summer air rushes back into Gwayne’s body as he crumples to his knees onto the dried grass below. The oxygen burns in his throat, his shoulders heaving as he retches. It takes a long moment for the world to come back into focus. And when it finally does, Daemon’s voice finds him again as he looms a long shadow over the kneeling man.
“Do you hear that? I will spare your life — and that of your precious nephew’s, should he bend the knee to the rightful Queen — and you will live out the rest of your days as lord husband to the new Lady of Oldtown… How does that sound?”
It sounds nothing like what Gwyane had walked out here to discuss, to be sure. He’d only meant to save Daeron’s life, and somehow bartered his own for a marriage to a woman he had known for the length of one terribly humiliating conversation. But he is still breathing, at least, and his nephew is too. And for now, that’s enough.
He nods wordlessly in response, and feels an aching in his throat when he does so.
“Thank her,” Daemon scolds like a parent would their child. When Gwayne’s bowed hands snap in his direction to make sure he’d heard him right, he feels the man take a sudden fistful of his auburn hair, wrenching him towards you again. “That was not rhetorical, Ser Gwayne— Thank your new lady wife for saving you. It’s only fair.”
Gwayne swallows hard through a raw throat and peers up at you with bleary eyes from where he kneels on the ground before you. “Thank...” he attempts to speak, but the word comes out strangled. “Thank you...”
“My lady,” Daemon reminds him.
Gwayne coughs. “M-My lady…”
You look down at him from where you idle on horseback. A small smile hints at the corner of your mouth as you hum in satisfaction. “Mm… You’re welcome, lord husband.”
You turn on your horse without so much as a backward glance, gathering the reins in your fist and looking instead toward the gates of Tumbleton — where Ormund’s men prepare their archers for the first wave of battle. “Now…” you say, grinning over your shoulder at your house’s men gathered just behind you. Your voice carries across the length of the plain. “Let’s go win this fucking war!”
The ranks roar a wordless answer in response — a ragged, joyous, bloodthirsty sound as swords beat against their shields. Gwayne hears the battlecry swell all around him, and wonders if his death would’ve been a kinder fate than what is sure to await him when the fight is done.
The wedding was done by evenfall, while smoke rose from the ashes of Tumbleton; the air still thick with the scent of blood and rot.
You exchanged vows while your armor was still splattered with the blood of the Green Army and your hair was still matted with sweat. There had been no sept, no godswood, no seven blessings, no ribbon tied around clasped hands. There was only a shaded tent, a Tumbleton septon kept alive for the very purpose of ceremony, and a scrap of parchment to sign your names — though Gwayne’s hand was still a little sore from the heavy chains wrapped around them.
No feast follows. No song, no celebration, no bedding. Because too many people had died on both sides — Ormund among them, burnt and buried in ash. And though Daeron breathes still, safe and unbloodied by sword, Gwayne wears the cost of that safety in the shackles around his wrist and waist. He was lord now, and a husband, and he did not ask to be.
He only wanted his nephew to live to see sixteen.
“So… That’s it then,” Gwayne said on an exhaled breath while a worse-for-wear Daemon shoved the old septon out by his neck. His pretty face was softened by the candlelight of the war tent, even despite the soot streaked across his face and the flaming tendrils clinging to his forehead with sweat. “Husband and wife, are we?”
“Seems that way,” you said beneath the quiet glugging of the ale you poured. The watered wine spilled slightly over the maps scattered there when you turned briefly to flash him a smile over your shoulder. “Congratulations, my lord.”
Gwayne felt a tired smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, right before a sharp breath escaped him in a sad sort of laugh. “Aren’t you concerned?” he said, pale eyes fixed on your armored form. “I’m not sure how a marriage such as this can be held up by law…”
“Oh, I’m not worried,” you assured him with a shake of your head.
“No?”
“No…” you insisted and turned back around to face him, sporting an old goblet in your bloodied fist. “Because I know you have no interest in being killed— or your nephew, besides… It’s righteous of you, really, so… You’re not going anywhere, Ser Gwayne.”
Your lips curled into a slow, sharp grin as you brought the cup to your mouth, chugging the whole of it until the soft purple wine started to drip down to your chin.
Gwayne still could not yet decide what you had planned for him — if you meant to love him truly or kill him the second you arrived at Oldtown. And a distant, disgusting part of him could not wait to find out.
Oldtown, as you’ve come to find it, smells nothing like the wet cobbles, and horse dung, and rotted wood of the half-forgotten manse you grew up in. Here, everything smells of salt and lemon trees and sun-warmed stone. It is everything you’d asked Daemon for — a large castle, enough silk to drown in, hands that tended to your every want, and a husband to warm your bed. Though you still spend most of your days in the fighting yard, tearing and sweating through whatever fine silk you’d dressed in that day.
Gwayne is still getting used to the presence of you and your men in his ancestral home, and his newfound position within it. Daeron, too, spends many weeks wary of the very sight of you — the reason for the death of his uncle, and simultaneously, the reason for his freedom. You do not ask for his forgiveness; you just put a sparring sword in his hand and ask him to give you all the brunt of the anger you know he keeps hidden.
You and your men put the sweet boy on his back more often than not, but he keeps coming back for more anyway. And somewhere in that routine, gratitude creeps in where the resentment used to live, and Daeron comes slowly around.
“Well… You’ve made a fine swordsman out of him,” Gwayne sighs without turning from the window overlooking the courtyard, where his nephew continues to spar with the northern knights. He hears you waltz by somewhere behind him, your pretty silk gown rustling at your ankles and clinging at the sweaty small of your back. “Ormund would never let the boy train this hard…”
“Daeron has good enough instincts, it seems,” you answer, tugging lazily at the lace in your bodice. “Which I find rather surprising, considering the company he grew up with…”
Gwayne finds himself smiling at the jab, far wider than he realizes. You’ve never run short of witty, merciless quips, he’s found throughout his time with you; and he finds himself taking a strange liking to the way you so effortlessly cut him down.
“And what is that supposed to mean exactly?” he says as he turns away from the window.
Whatever quip had been sitting on his tongue then, turns to ash in his throat at the sight of you — with your gown abandoned in a pile on the cobbles, and you slouched at your vanity stool in nothing but the thin slip beneath it. The fabric rises from your knee, revealing the soft canvas of your thighs. You’ve slid one arm free from the thin sleeves to bare a shoulder painted a darker shade from the fresh bruises blooming there.
Your skin is littered with scars from battles past, and he struggles to look away from any of it. His chest stings with the thought of you ever being hurt, then warms twice over at the sight of your breast threatening to spill over from where the slip had gone askew.
“You needn’t look so scandalized, husband,” you laugh as you reach for the clay pot of healing ointment, which never strays too far from your side. “Surely, you’ve seen worse than a woman’s shift… Handsome as you are.”
Gwayne’s face flushes at the compliment, and he hates how boyish he feels.
He clears his throat and averts his gaze, folding his clammy palms behind his back. “I only find myself surprised, I guess, at how… little you seem to mind it, is all.”
“Mind what? The bruises?” you scoff, dabbing the ointment along your shoulder and hissing at how tender the skin has gone. “I’ve had far worse from far better fights, I assure you. Maybe one day I’ll show you the scar on my—”
“Modesty,” Gwayne blurts before you can finish. “I meant modesty…”
“Oh…” you hum, face screwing faintly as you work the earthy salve in slow circles. “I never had much use for modesty, I suppose… A keep with more soldiers than servants doesn’t have much of it, in truth…”
You reach back then, trying hopelessly to work the balm into the worst of the bruise along your shoulder blade, but the angle is not so forgiving. You huff and twist and achieve nothing but a fresher ache for the trouble.
Gwayne exhales a sympathetic sigh from across the room. “Here…” he huffs as he crosses the distance between you, reaching out an expectant hand when he looms just behind your chair.
You consider arguing for a moment, if only out of habit, but place the clay pot into his pale palm regardless. “Try not to enjoy it too much,” you joke with a small grin tugging at your mouth.
“I make no promises, my lady,” he quips in a low deadpan.
But even his sarcasm cannot mask the tenderness he holds in his hands when they find your shoulder, working the ointment in with a care you didn’t know he was capable of — a care you didn’t know you were deserving of. The pad of his thumb smooths slowly over the worst of the bruise, and you feel something soften in your chest.
“You’re better at this than I would’ve guessed,” you tell him, if only to fill the suffocating silence pressing hard on either side of you.
“I’ve had ample practice with bruises of my own,” Gwayne confesses, lifting his eyes to peer at you through the smudged looking glass. “I didn’t come into this marriage entirely unmarked, if you recall…”
“Mm… I do recall,” you croon lowly, as though amused by the memory. Your head tips back to grin up at him with a fond reminiscence. “You were very purple. And very sore… For weeks… It was delicious…”
Gwayne shakes his head. “Well, you’ll forgive me if I don’t find the memory as amusing as you do…”
“I find everything amusing,” you scoff.
“I know you do,” he huffs a not-quite laugh. “Honestly, it’s among the things I’ve come to… appreciate about you, I suppose.”
Your eyes narrow in suspicion of his compliment. “Careful, Ser Gwayne… A lady could get ideas, hearing you talk like that…”
“Really?” the man hums, still working gently at your bruised skin. “And what ideas are those, I wonder?”
You do not answer him with words. Instead, you rise slowly from the creaking vanity stool until you’re stood just before him. Then you reach for the remaining sleeve of your slip and trail it down your arm until you’re free of it; until the thin fabric falls to your feet in a forgotten piece of cotton; until you’re stood utterly bare before him — made of warm skin, soft curves, and faded scars. There’s one at your sternum, a longer one at your hip, and a darker one along your ribcage.
Gwayne’s breath catches audibly in his throat. The composure he’s spent weeks holding onto — full of dry wit and careful distance and a week’s worth of telling himself this was a political arrangement and nothing more — seems to abandon him all at once. His glassy eyes drift over your naked form, and he feels some warm, boyish feelings sparkling somewhere deep in his chest.
It takes everything in you not to cower — not because you are ashamed at his staring, you’ve never been ashamed of anything, but because you have never once been looked at with so much reverence.
“Do you get the hint now, Ser Gwayne?” you quip drily as you close the scant distance between you. Your palms splay over the chest of his emerald coat and drift slowly upward until they settle cold along his warm neck, dragging him down with a little more force than necessary.
You kiss him then like you’ve kissed him a thousand times over, like you’ve kissed a thousand men a thousand times over. There is little reservation in the way you slot your lips against his, or in the way you lick into his mouth and sigh hard through your nose at the taste of him — like mint and wine and whatever fruit he’d been snaking on before you found him here.
His mouth is far softer than your own, you realize, a far gentler touch than you think you’ve ever felt before. He spreads one wide hand along your back, pressing your bare chest flush against his clothed one, while his other trails down down down the ladder of your spine.
Your breath nearly catches when his calloused palm settles warm along the plush of your ass; you lose it completely when he grabs a fistful of the skin to pull you closer.
You rise onto the tip of your toes, curling your arms around his neck while your noses knock under the weight of your searing kiss — which breaks only when Gwayne’s knee slots between your thighs, and when the rough fabric of his trousers brushes the most sensitive part of you.
His rosy mouth curls into a slow grin at the pretty sound you make for him then.
“Yes. To answer your question…” the man quips through panted breaths, with the tip of his nose brushing the bridge of yours. “I believe I am starting to get the hint, my lady.”
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Summary: Irritated by your behaviour, Mike initiates a steamy encounter in the locker room.
Word count: 1.3k
Warnings: MDNI, NSFW, smut, explicit, minors and ageless do not interact, no physical description of the reader, mentions of female genitalia, AFAB reader, she/her pronouns used, vulgar language, dom/sub themes, mentions of dacryphilia, rough sex, p in v, unprotected sex, creampie, oral (m receiving), mouthfuck, tittyfuck, dirty talk, free use kink, porn without plot, plot what plot, first draft yolo, no beta
Notes: This one uses a more vulgar wording because I felt like it. Keep in mind this is much more of written porn than my other works.
Continuation of Penalty and Double Penalty.
For days after tensions between you and Mike finally died down, some of your teammates would openly try to goad you into verbal arguments with him or try to stir some non-existent drama between you two. So much so that sometimes you wondered if they somehow knew about the ongoing affair between you two. Perhaps someone saw him enter your room?
When you asked Mike about it, he looked at you with stern seriousness.
“I’m not jeopardising this,” he spat out, his hand wrapping around your neck before he fucked you into the mattress again.
“You’re mine, angel,” he’d whisper in your ear night after night, growling before emptying himself deep inside you, more often than not, your pussywalls fluttering around his fat cock.
The shrillish laugh spilling through the locker room brought you back to the present; you bit your lip nervously.
You promised Mike you would keep your mouth shut, but you talked back - not to him, to one of the other coaches. You knew you were correct, and your input would eventually be incorporated, but you lacked tact and diplomacy.
Sometimes, you knew how to say things; slowly, softly, sophisticatedly. Today was clearly not one of those days, emotions getting the better of you.
“I knew you wouldn’t be able to hold your tongue for long,” one of your teammates sneered.
A second-rate player who was warming the bench, your mind immediately formed a venomous strike, but contrary to Jessica’s words, you were able to hold your tongue. This time.
Instead, you smiled, a wide, obviously forced expression.
“Thank you for your observation, Jessica, I’m sure that without your observation, no one else would notice.”
To Jessica’s dismay, your silly remark that was also poking fun at you caused a wave of laughter.
You were the last to leave the locker room, half of the lights in the hallways already off. You were so tired, mentally and physically, you didn’t even shower, looking forward to the long bath back in your hotel room.
Well, at least until a familiar hold on your wrist pulled you into one of the unoccupied locker rooms.
His hands were on your face in seconds, pulling you into a wet, sloppy kiss, pushing his tongue so deep down your throat you felt it in your pussy too. But his grip was firm, firmer than it was lately.
“I’m sorry, Mikey,” you whispered with puffy lips as Mike’s hand pushed you down on your knees.
“I know, angel,” his thumb slid over your lips, “but we need to make this lesson stick, don’t we?”
He watched as you slowly pulled his shorts down, your eyes going wide at the sight of his hard, leaking cock. It was so warm and heavy in your hand that just handling it sent jolts of pleasure to your pussy.
Pleasing Mike would often overwhelm you so much you’d lose yourself completely in it, this situation confirming this all over again. Cold tiles against your knees, the flickering lights overhead, unlocked door of the smelly locker room…
All of it faded as you kept kissing his cock, licking it from the tip to the base, tasting Mike’s precum on your tongue.
“Good, angel, good,” Mike’s hands were tangled in your hair, already holding your head in place. “Get it nice and wet, all of it, hm?”
Although at first, you could hear the squelch of your mouth sucking on Mike’s cock, his moans filled your ears, his fingers pressing on your skull.
It was always a stretch, either when he was fucking your pussy or your mouth, his fat, veiny cock pushing in and you struggling to accommodate him. Tears formed in your eyes and a little bit of snot dripped down your nose, but you didn’t bother anymore; Mike wanted it rough and dirty, wanted you straining yourself to please him, watching the signs of it on your body.
He loved when you’d moan and whimper and even cry, and he especially loved when you gagged.
“Again, angel,” Mike’s voice was breaking already. “Gag on it again, coat it nice and thick, c’mon now.”
You obeyed, immediately swallowing again, feeling his throbbing cock glide on your tongue, your face muscles too tired to even hollow out your cheeks. More spit coated Mike’s cock, and he allowed you a short moment to catch your breath, his thumbs wiping the tears from your eyes.
“I need you now,” he said, “to open your mouth and stay still, yes, angel?”
He was smearing the tip of his cock over your burning lips, watching you enthusiastically nod.
“Good girl. Be a good fucking hole for me, hm?”
Both of his hands returned to your head, and he pushed all the way in, your nose hitting the little fat of his stomach. He kept it there for a while, the sweaty scent of him overwhelming your senses.
“Hands on my thighs. Breathe through your nose, let’s go, angel,” he kept instructing, his voice anchoring you.
Then, Mike started face fucking you.
He promised already he would, but you had no idea it would feel so good for you too; not the act itself, but Mike’s moans and his obvious desperation to claim you, mark you, made you dizzy in the head and hot in the cunt.
Suddenly, he pulled at your shirt.
“Take it off,” he helped you as you put your arms up, suddenly missing the taste and scent of his cock against your face.
Before he could say anything, you swallowed it all again, making yourself gag by accident, looking up to Mike as you pushed your head as close to his happy trail as possible.
“Angel, wait,” he pulled out again, his fingers caressing your pouty lips.
“Take the bra off too, c’mon darling,” he guided you further. “And sit over there,” he said, chuckling at how weak your knees were as you stumbled to take even those three steps.
The cold air made your nipples harden immediately, as you braced against your own thighs. Mike leaned in to kiss you and nibble at your lips.
“Take them in your hands,” he kept instructing, standing between your legs, cock in hand.
With his other hand, he slapped your tits as you were pressing them close, before he smeared more of his precum and your saliva over them. His cock was still coated like he wanted, and he now pressed it between your tits.
Mike moaned hard immediately, at the sight and the feeling, his cock nestled in between your gorgeous tits, as he started to grind and snap his hips, fucking them.
“Oh, angel,” he moaned. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
You watched his face, mesmerised, happy that Mike could find a use for your whole body, happy that he could satisfy himself with you, on you.
“I’m close, angel,” Mike groaned not even a couple of minutes into this whole adventure.
“Where do you want to cum?” you asked him, your fucked out throat straining under your voice.
“Tits,” Mike breathed out, his hips still dragging his cock against your soft, sticky skin.
He took a half step back, one of his hands immediately grabbing his cock; you expected at least a little of a jerk action, perhaps even Mike to change his mind and fuck you senseless against the wall.
Instead, you watched his warm cum shoot out, landing immediately onto your tits, long white ropes painting your skin as Mike moaned like a madman.
He kept standing, trying to catch his breath, his hands once again tangled in your hair as you licked the last drops of his cum from his softening cock.
Slowly, like in a dream haze, you moved onto scooping his cum with your fingers of your tits, licking them immediately.
“I thought this was supposed to be a punishment?” you teased, looking up through your lashes, catching Mike’s smirk.
“Not my fault you like to be used, angel,” he muttered back. “Would you like me to ignore you? Give silent treatment?”
“No, please,” you answered quickly, too quickly, shakily standing up.
So Mike knew how to properly punish you after all, he just chose not to.
“Of course not, angel,” he kissed you slowly. “But don’t tempt me.”
If you like my writing, all interactions are greatly appreciated-`♡´-
Summary: Irritated by your behaviour, Mike initiates a steamy encounter in the locker room.
Word count: 1.3k
Warnings: MDNI, NSFW, smut, explicit, minors and ageless do not interact, no physical description of the reader, mentions of female genitalia, AFAB reader, she/her pronouns used, vulgar language, dom/sub themes, mentions of dacryphilia, rough sex, p in v, unprotected sex, creampie, oral (m receiving), mouthfuck, tittyfuck, dirty talk, free use kink, porn without plot, plot what plot, first draft yolo, no beta
Notes: This one uses a more vulgar wording because I felt like it. Keep in mind this is much more of written porn than my other works.
Continuation of Penalty and Double Penalty.
For days after tensions between you and Mike finally died down, some of your teammates would openly try to goad you into verbal arguments with him or try to stir some non-existent drama between you two. So much so that sometimes you wondered if they somehow knew about the ongoing affair between you two. Perhaps someone saw him enter your room?
When you asked Mike about it, he looked at you with stern seriousness.
“I’m not jeopardising this,” he spat out, his hand wrapping around your neck before he fucked you into the mattress again.
“You’re mine, angel,” he’d whisper in your ear night after night, growling before emptying himself deep inside you, more often than not, your pussywalls fluttering around his fat cock.
The shrillish laugh spilling through the locker room brought you back to the present; you bit your lip nervously.
You promised Mike you would keep your mouth shut, but you talked back - not to him, to one of the other coaches. You knew you were correct, and your input would eventually be incorporated, but you lacked tact and diplomacy.
Sometimes, you knew how to say things; slowly, softly, sophisticatedly. Today was clearly not one of those days, emotions getting the better of you.
“I knew you wouldn’t be able to hold your tongue for long,” one of your teammates sneered.
A second-rate player who was warming the bench, your mind immediately formed a venomous strike, but contrary to Jessica’s words, you were able to hold your tongue. This time.
Instead, you smiled, a wide, obviously forced expression.
“Thank you for your observation, Jessica, I’m sure that without your observation, no one else would notice.”
To Jessica’s dismay, your silly remark that was also poking fun at you caused a wave of laughter.
You were the last to leave the locker room, half of the lights in the hallways already off. You were so tired, mentally and physically, you didn’t even shower, looking forward to the long bath back in your hotel room.
Well, at least until a familiar hold on your wrist pulled you into one of the unoccupied locker rooms.
His hands were on your face in seconds, pulling you into a wet, sloppy kiss, pushing his tongue so deep down your throat you felt it in your pussy too. But his grip was firm, firmer than it was lately.
“I’m sorry, Mikey,” you whispered with puffy lips as Mike’s hand pushed you down on your knees.
“I know, angel,” his thumb slid over your lips, “but we need to make this lesson stick, don’t we?”
He watched as you slowly pulled his shorts down, your eyes going wide at the sight of his hard, leaking cock. It was so warm and heavy in your hand that just handling it sent jolts of pleasure to your pussy.
Pleasing Mike would often overwhelm you so much you’d lose yourself completely in it, this situation confirming this all over again. Cold tiles against your knees, the flickering lights overhead, unlocked door of the smelly locker room…
All of it faded as you kept kissing his cock, licking it from the tip to the base, tasting Mike’s precum on your tongue.
“Good, angel, good,” Mike’s hands were tangled in your hair, already holding your head in place. “Get it nice and wet, all of it, hm?”
Although at first, you could hear the squelch of your mouth sucking on Mike’s cock, his moans filled your ears, his fingers pressing on your skull.
It was always a stretch, either when he was fucking your pussy or your mouth, his fat, veiny cock pushing in and you struggling to accommodate him. Tears formed in your eyes and a little bit of snot dripped down your nose, but you didn’t bother anymore; Mike wanted it rough and dirty, wanted you straining yourself to please him, watching the signs of it on your body.
He loved when you’d moan and whimper and even cry, and he especially loved when you gagged.
“Again, angel,” Mike’s voice was breaking already. “Gag on it again, coat it nice and thick, c’mon now.”
You obeyed, immediately swallowing again, feeling his throbbing cock glide on your tongue, your face muscles too tired to even hollow out your cheeks. More spit coated Mike’s cock, and he allowed you a short moment to catch your breath, his thumbs wiping the tears from your eyes.
“I need you now,” he said, “to open your mouth and stay still, yes, angel?”
He was smearing the tip of his cock over your burning lips, watching you enthusiastically nod.
“Good girl. Be a good fucking hole for me, hm?”
Both of his hands returned to your head, and he pushed all the way in, your nose hitting the little fat of his stomach. He kept it there for a while, the sweaty scent of him overwhelming your senses.
“Hands on my thighs. Breathe through your nose, let’s go, angel,” he kept instructing, his voice anchoring you.
Then, Mike started face fucking you.
He promised already he would, but you had no idea it would feel so good for you too; not the act itself, but Mike’s moans and his obvious desperation to claim you, mark you, made you dizzy in the head and hot in the cunt.
Suddenly, he pulled at your shirt.
“Take it off,” he helped you as you put your arms up, suddenly missing the taste and scent of his cock against your face.
Before he could say anything, you swallowed it all again, making yourself gag by accident, looking up to Mike as you pushed your head as close to his happy trail as possible.
“Angel, wait,” he pulled out again, his fingers caressing your pouty lips.
“Take the bra off too, c’mon darling,” he guided you further. “And sit over there,” he said, chuckling at how weak your knees were as you stumbled to take even those three steps.
The cold air made your nipples harden immediately, as you braced against your own thighs. Mike leaned in to kiss you and nibble at your lips.
“Take them in your hands,” he kept instructing, standing between your legs, cock in hand.
With his other hand, he slapped your tits as you were pressing them close, before he smeared more of his precum and your saliva over them. His cock was still coated like he wanted, and he now pressed it between your tits.
Mike moaned hard immediately, at the sight and the feeling, his cock nestled in between your gorgeous tits, as he started to grind and snap his hips, fucking them.
“Oh, angel,” he moaned. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
You watched his face, mesmerised, happy that Mike could find a use for your whole body, happy that he could satisfy himself with you, on you.
“I’m close, angel,” Mike groaned not even a couple of minutes into this whole adventure.
“Where do you want to cum?” you asked him, your fucked out throat straining under your voice.
“Tits,” Mike breathed out, his hips still dragging his cock against your soft, sticky skin.
He took a half step back, one of his hands immediately grabbing his cock; you expected at least a little of a jerk action, perhaps even Mike to change his mind and fuck you senseless against the wall.
Instead, you watched his warm cum shoot out, landing immediately onto your tits, long white ropes painting your skin as Mike moaned like a madman.
He kept standing, trying to catch his breath, his hands once again tangled in your hair as you licked the last drops of his cum from his softening cock.
Slowly, like in a dream haze, you moved onto scooping his cum with your fingers of your tits, licking them immediately.
“I thought this was supposed to be a punishment?” you teased, looking up through your lashes, catching Mike’s smirk.
“Not my fault you like to be used, angel,” he muttered back. “Would you like me to ignore you? Give silent treatment?”
“No, please,” you answered quickly, too quickly, shakily standing up.
So Mike knew how to properly punish you after all, he just chose not to.
“Of course not, angel,” he kissed you slowly. “But don’t tempt me.”
If you like my writing, all interactions are greatly appreciated-`♡´-
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
i am so so sorry for the delay in lady arryn posts… i have been going through such a gnarly mental block and decided to write this to get out of my slump
whenever cregan has you spread out for him on your marital bed, writhing and moaning around him all cock drunk, you’ve noticed that he doesn’t hold back with his innate northern roughness, nor does he stray away from performing more… adventurous tasks.
more times than not, his big palms have eclipsed your wrists, holding them firmly together above your head as he thrusts menacingly into your heat. cregan’s lips never leave your skin, either being burrowed in your neck, pulsing down your chest and stomach, or hovering over your own mouth, panting perversely into the open cavity and spewing words of filth that would leave a maiden blushing.
“look at you, so needy around my cock.” cregan would grunt, gathering a decent ball of spit on his lips before slowly dropping it into your awaiting mouth. “a nasty girl you are. fucking filthy for her lord husband.”
in other moments, the mass of the northern brute would bend you over his knee, lifting up your woollen skirts and heavy furs so he could smack your ass raw. cregan would grin at the feeling of your trembling chin and the slick of your wet pussy, his one finger sliding through your folds while his other hand left harsh red hand prints on your ass cheeks, words as biting and chilled as the winds that blew around winterfell.
“such a tease you are,” he would say if your behaviour bordered on too tantalizing during a feast. “do you like seeing me angry? does it make you wet knowing i will punish you in secret?” cregan’s voice always held weight, a heavy feeling that left you sighing and squirming in pleasure.
cregan’s favourite punishment was to have you on your knees, eyes watering and wide as you choked on his cock. his hands would always be nestled in your hair, holding the strands in a firm fist so he could bob your head up and down to his liking. there was no soft kitten licks or dusting kisses when it came cregan. no, you would deep throat him until your lungs screamed for air, drool pooling around your lips in a mosaic of spit that left the man grinning. he always told you he had no time for southern pleasure, more rough and demanding than soft and coaxing.
in better words, if cregan could tie you to your bed and ravish you until your cunt was overfilled and dripping with his seed, he would. it would be surprising if he didn’t once keep you locked away for a days time, cursing at any servant who dared enter for he was too busy fucking his wife, too busy showing her the northern way of breeding.
