Untitled

You who had no children of your own, but loved him as if he was. You who were the one to tuck him in every night, to watch his sword lessons, and to speak in a gentle tone when correcting him when he was a wrong.

You were his mother in everything, but blood.

And he never truly knew all you did for him when he was younger. He did not know that you fixed the holes in his tunic from sparring so he did not have to muster up the courage to ask for a new one. The older he got the more he learned and appreciated everything you did for him.

But until Tumbleton, he did not truly understand just how much you took on for him.

Daeron did not understand why you were here with Ormund in the bath, not that he understood why Lord and Lady Footly were here either. Though that was not what put him most on edge. It was the way you seemed so at ease, not even batting an eye at Lord Ormund's current state of undress.

Though it was Lady Footly's blunt word that echoed in his head repeatedly,

'You are sleeping in our bed chambers, with a woman who is not your own wife.'

You yourself did not speak, until they had left. You made your way toward Ormund. His robe hung half open as you pulled it together tying it, "I understand you wanting to be firm with them," you first started with acknowledging his own feeling, "Was that really appropriate to present yourself to her like that?" you then added.

You did not raise your voice, nor shame him, but merely asked him a question. In return the Hightower did not get angry, like he would if any single other person had asked him that his own.

His hand lifted, resting against your cheek. It was far from appropriate. A touch one would give a lover rather his cousin's own wife, "I am sorry. I should have not have presented myself in a sort of way," he agreed.

You smiled at him, and for a moment it looked like the same way you looked at Gwayne. Your eyes shining with love and your lips turned up, but something did not look quite right. Something Daeron could not exactly place was wrong, but he was not given the chance to think on it much longer.

"I do not require assistance dressing!" Ormund suddenly declared, his eyes staying trained on you, and something flashed across his face that made the boy feel uneasy. He could not exactly name it, but he was not a child anymore, and knew exactly what it meant. You did not flinch.

Daeron watched as the servants left, but you remained. You turned toward him with a kind smile, "Why don't you go to your lessons?" you asked, your voice gentle.

His lips did not turn up to match yours, but instead stayed down in a deep frown, "What of you?" he asked, the worry clear in his tone.

A sadness, filled your eyes, but you did not let it last long, "I have other duties I must attend to. I will find you soon. Do not fret," you assured him.

And he left, but he did not go to lessons. Instead he went on with a new fond duty to find out just what was going on with you and Ormund.

You had found him like you had promised, but it had been before he could truly find anything he needed to. Certain knights refused to speak, maids quickly dismissed themselves when the subject arose, and some even pretended they had no clue as to what he was referring too.

You sat kneeled at the alter lighting the candles, as Daeron rat his hands reassuringly against Tessarion, "I am afraid you will have to part form her for a moment. At least to say one prayer," you gently called out.

Daeron let out a sigh, before making his way over to kneel beside you. His beautiful mount, let out a sound of annoyance at the now lack of attention, before laying down, feeling at ease that her rider was safe with you.

"I do not even know what to pray for," he grumbled, looking to you. "What are you praying for?" he then asked.

He watched your shoulders tense slightly, before turning looking around the sept as if you would find someone other then yourself. You swallowed harshly, before turning back tugging at the collar of your dark green dress, "A swift victory for Lord Ormund," you replied automatically, your voice gruff as if there was a vice wrapped around your throat.

"Is that all?" he asked curiously. It seemed like you were hiding something. Though it appeared you hid many things these days from him.

You smiled, almost sad like. Your voice then dropped slightly lower, before you spoke. You appeared afraid someone else would hear, "I pray for Gwayne's health and safety. I always do that first so if the Gods tire from my rambling at least they hear that first."

It seemed wrong that would be a secret. He was your husband. It would be expected of you to wish his return to you.

Though he knew who you did not wish to hear. The same purpose that no one wished to hear certain things. He leaned toward you, "Do you think the Gods listen to our wishes?" he then asked, his own voice dropping low to match your own tone, sharing his own secret thoughts alongside yours.

You thought on it for a moment, tilting your head back and forth, "I think the Gods have long given up on me, but you still have a chance. You are good to your very core," you admitted.

His eyebrows dew together in confusion, "Why would the Gods have forsaken you?" he asked, in disbelief. He would not believe it himself.

You were the same woman who had sung to him as a toddler, the one who read him same stories of dragons time and time again, the one who ran a hand through his head after nightmares, and the woman who loved him unconditionally even if he was not your own blood.

You were his mother. You were kind, you were gentle, and the Gods would be fools to turn against anyone who was remotely as good as you, because he had learned the goodness inside of him from you.

You did not look at him, instead staring at the burning flame. Your lips pushed together, "The things I do to keep the others I love safe," you muttered, before dipping your head into a bow beginning your prayer.

The thoughts sat uneasy with him. It felt as if it had taken its own form a slowly was crawling at his insides trying to escape, like it had known exactly what you meant, because someone you loved deeply, he wondered just what you did to keep him safe.

Though he knew. Even if he had never truly acknowledged it, he knew.

He dipped his head, "I am going to pray that Gwayne joins us soon," he muttered, and watched your shoulders tense slightly. You did not answer, though your own prayers stopped for a moment indicating you heard him, but then continued on.

He stared at you for a moment, his lips turned down in a deep frown, before dipping his own head beginning to pray himself.

The whispers of Tumbleton were loud when you looked in the right places he had discovered. He finally began to hear the stories of Old Town that did not reach his ears until now. Of you. Of Ormund, and how you were the very thing that kept him calm. That on several occasions you had saved maids, squire and even Daeron himself from his wrath.

He knew this was a horrible idea, but he needed to know. He needed the confirmation of what he had already known, but alas stood waiting. He had set a maid in search of you, telling you that he required your presence.

And after he had done so, he sat outside of Ormund's chambers, waiting. He had hoped to be wrong, but he sadly was not. You pushed yourself from the doors, a green robe that Ormund had worn early wrapped around yourself.

You immediately froze seeing the boy, your eyebrows drawing together, "What are you doing up?" you whispered, your head flipping back to the door as if making sure Ormund was not behind you.

"I could not sleep," he admitted, sitting in the dark hallway.

You nodded, looking back at the door once more, before moving to slide down next to him, "Do you remember when you were younger. Gwayne and I took you to watch the sunset on top of the beacon?" you then asked, randomly. You smiled at the thought of Gwayne, and he could tell it was genuine. It was not the same one you gave Ormund when pretending to be something you were not

He nodded, grinning slightly at the memory, "He had to carry me most of the way," he laughed, quietly, still care to not raise his voice too much knowing what laid sleeping just a mere feet away.

He would rather wake a sleeping dragon, then Ormund Hightower.

"When we were younger, much younger still betrothed even we did the same. He ended up having to carry me back the entire way, and he did not complain, not once," your hands moved, spinning the rings on your fingers.

"We do not have any children of our own, but you are our son. You have always been our sweet boy, and there is not anything we would not do for you. There is not a single thing I would not do for you..You know that right?" you asked, dipping your head slightly to meet his gaze.

He nodded, "I know," he confirmed.

The pair of you sat in silence for a moment, both your thoughts filled with the missing Hightower, that you both longed for. "I miss him," he then confessed.

You nodded, "I do as well. He…" you trailed off for a moment, trying to think, "Gwayne has honor in ways most do not…even I included. He is good and he is kind, just like you are," your smile dimmed down into a frown, "I hope to see him again soon."

"Have you written to him?" he then asked, before he could stop himself.

Because if Gwayne came back it would change things, for the better? Right? Gwayne would be able to help you in ways he could not, because he was not brave and you would not let him. He was not sure he believed himself, because could anything truly go against Lord Ormund?

You did not answer, instead you stood back to your feet, rubbing the top of his head slightly, "You should get some sleep, sweet boy," you told him, moving to push back into the chambers.

Back to Ormund.

"Why do you do it?" he suddenly, called out, but he knew the answer. It was burning hot in his mind, because he had learned long ago there was a sole cause as to why you did everything, and it was him.

You paused, but did not turn back toward him, "Never you mind why I do this, but know everything will be taken care of," you whispered, before pushing back into your own personal hell.

Daeron stayed back for a moment, hesitating, before he felt his stomach churn in agony wondering just how much of a burden over the years you have taken on to allow him to remain as kind and glad as he was.

And had Gwayne known of this? Surely not. He looked out at the bright moon, hoping his uncle would soon return, not only because he missed him, but for your sake as well.

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If you're out conquests with other knights together, you will find him near constantly around you— silently checking, soothing the worries in his head, making sure you're not too harmed from the ragged terrain or battles.

He won't be overbearing, though; that's not the the type of partner he is. No, he's quiet about his care, his concern. He's gentle. If you're somewhere private or you catch a moment alone together, he's stepping up to your side, gaze as soft as always, his eyebrows furrowed as he, asks are you well? Or, is something the matter?

He's not very big on PDA, I can imagine. He likes to keep those softer moments between the two of you— not out of secrecy, but because he cherishes those moments together so much he doesn't want anything to stain them.

Of course, that doesn't mean he doesn't touch you at all outside of your bedchambers. He's an emotional lover; he cares for you with his hands as much as his heart. He'll ghost his fingers over the back of your palm, curling them to tangle with yours, or offer a small soothing gesture to the low of your spine.

Loves temple kisses, and those short, sweet, corner-of-the-mouth kisses.

On the topic of kissing, he's slow with how he does it with you; again, gentle. He holds any moment with you dear to his chest, and he never wishes to rush— if something happened to him — or God's forbid, you — he'd loathe something rushed being your final moments together.

I think his love languages would be acts of service, quality time, and physical touch. Any time with you is sent from the will of the Gods, easing both his anxieties and his stress with one ghost of your presence alone.

Adores bathing with you— the quietness of it, the vulnerability, the sweetness of cleansing each other from the horridness of the days. He'll lay back against your chest (or you on his), your fingers intertwined over his heart, your arm curled around him, and he'll just… talk. Lowly, earnestly, about anything, whilst running a soothing pattern to the back of your hand.

Cannot hold a secret in his LIFE with you, unless it's to protect your feelings— and even then, he believes you deserve to know anything that might influence your heart.

Writes you letters when he (or you) is away; what he saw that day that you would've liked, what the breeze felt like, what the view was, how the sun laid to rest in a pretty concoction of orange hues and light pinks (that reminded him of the flush along your cheeks, when he'd get you flustered).

Big dancer. Sorry not sorry. Even in silence or draped within birdsong, he'll take you by your hands and lead you into a sway beneath the firelight.

Loves pressing his forehead into yours; the closeness, the eye-contact, how barrier-less it feels; how honest. You cannot lie through the eyes— they'll spill every ounce of feeling you have within the cage of your ribs, and he'll take you all in your worth and understand all of you.

Big cuddler, especially under the tongue of winter. He's not a large man. He gets chilly, so let him steal some of your heat and enjoy the drum of your heart beneath his ear, yeah?

On that note, one of his favorite things in life is listening to your heart beat, and, if he feels so daring, trying to sync your rhythms of breathing into one tune.

LOVES your hands. He'll play with them when he's bored or when you're laying together, talking quietly or trying to fall asleep. He'll even twist any rings or the bracelet daeron made for you as a child.

On the talk of daeron, that boy is practically his son— yours, too, with how he comes to the both of your for solace. Gwayne absolutely adores how much daeron loves you; it makes him happy and glad to know that Daeron has someone else to trust and look to if he's not around.

Twists his mother's ring (the one that hangs from a strip of leather from his neck) when he's lost in thought or nervous. He'll run his thumb on the indents of her name carved into the silver, as it is the only thing that lets him be close to her no matter where he is.

Big sigher. Clothing uncomfortable? Slightly annoyed sighs. Scabbard belt too tight? Sighs. Too cold? Sighs. You get the jist.

EXPLICIT:

Again, closeness. He physically cannot feel good or cum if you're not touching everywhere you can— he wants you draped over him like a snake coiled to prey, he wants to feel your breath, your life, your pleasure.

Kissing. All the way. He wants to kiss when you're inside of him (or he's inside of you), to swallow your moans, to take you in all your honor and your glory. He wants to leave nothing behind, nothing he could miss, nothing at all left unobserved and unattended to.

Mild moaner, I'd say. If you hit one of his sweet spots, his mouth will curl up and he'll moan or whine, but in general, he's more of a panter/heavy breathing clipped with whimpers.

He likes to bury his nose into your throat when he cums— he'll cradle your head, keep you in place gently, and just… breathe you in, let you muffle his noises.

Biting/marking. Suck a bruise into the side of his neck — but not high enough to be truly risky — he'll have to cover later, leave little cuts of the points of your teeth into his hip, nip at the underside of his jaw. He's yours. He likes to feel your touch, the remnants of you, even while you're separated.

He likes to give and receive. Your pleasure is his pleasure, but if he can't make the both of you feel good at the same time (and, thus, orgasm at the same time too), he'll do whatever he can to make sure he can change that. It doesn't feel nearly as pleasurable if he knows you don't feel as good as he does.

Hand holding; hold his hand. PLEASE. The warmth your hands offer — both emotionally and physically — is something that is so sacred and unique to you, it can never be replicated; he needs the reminder that, yes, he (and/or yourself) is a knight that kills people for the crown, but he's also just a man. One that can be gentle. One whose hands that don't just kill, but can cradle, too.

Aftercare is something he cannot live without— the idea that two people connect in such a celestial, vulnerable way, and then just proceed to roll over and go to sleep is blasphemy to him. To him, it's such a level of intense affection and love, that it has to lower slowly. Through the damp swipe of a cloth or the warmth of a bath as you talk about your days, not through something as blunt as sleep.

・Your marriage to Gwayne, even from the beginning, has been a wonderful one. And it was all because of him.

・He's always had your interests at heart, always thought about you first.

・His honor and chivalry follow him everywhere he goes. He is a true knight.

・So when he asked you to go with Daeron to Tumbleton, you were apprehensive. But you knew your husband would never put you in true danger - not unless it was for a good reason..

"My love," he said, holding your hands, "I do not trust those around Daeron. He needs someone he can turn to. And I only trust you."

・You nodded, a bit stunned, but you understood.

・The three of you were close, Daeron has never said it to either of you, but he sees the two of you as his parents.

・And so, of course you would go where Daeron was sent. Especially when Ormund was involved.

・He had a reputation in Old Town.

・But none of that mattered. Ormund had power and he loved to wield it.

・One afternoon, when Ormund had left to do something (you didn't care what, as long as he was away)...he left Daeron alone, and therefore the first thing he did was seek you out.

・There was a knock at your door and you called for them to come in.

・Daeron stood there, with a shy smile on his face.

"Hello my darling!" You said as you saw him. Your heart warm.

・He lit up when he saw you, alone in your rooms, native flowers surrounding you.

"Lady Hightower," Daeron said formally, with a bow. It made you smile.

・You motioned for him to come closer, and patted the seat next to you.

"How are you?" You said with a smile, taking one of his hands and holding it in your own, "And be honest with me. You know you can be."

・You gently held his hand in yours. You noticed it was starting to get bigger and a tear nearly sprung. Little Daeron was growing up.

"I-I feel guilty to say, but I feel better when Ormund isn't here..."

・He could barely look at you, thinking he was going to get a lashing of some sort.

・All you said was, "Me too." And he looked so relieved to hear that.

・You spent hours together, laughing, reminiscing, eating, and not worrying about Ormund or his reactions.

・And that's why Gwayne sent you to keep an eye on his nephew.

・He trusted you. Loved you utterly and completely.

The walk from the quiet armory tents to the Red Keep took scarcely ten minutes, though it felt considerably longer thanks to the weight of your gown, the ache in your feet, and the endless list of grievances you had apparently been saving for Ser Gwayne Hightower.

Your deep burgundy silk was beautiful, certainly. It was also currently your greatest enemy. The boning of your corset dug viciously into your ribs, the petticoats dragged at your ankles, and you were beginning to suspect your maid had laced you with the express intention of killing you before supper.

"I am going to strangle my brother before the feast is over," you announced, your silk fan fluttering with unnecessary violence as you rested your hand on the crook of Gwayne's arm. "I swear to you, Gwayne, if he makes one more remark about the Arbor Gold harvest or my 'improper posture' in the grandstands, I will pour an entire carafe of wine into his lap."

Gwayne looked like a man who had just been crowned King of the Seven Kingdoms.

He walked beside you with an effortless, infuriatingly pleased stride, his green cloak sweeping behind him. There was still a scrape along his cheek from the joust, and a darkening bruise beneath the collar of his linen tunic, but neither seemed to trouble him in the slightest.

"And my cousin," you continued. "She spent the entire morning whining about potential suitors from the Stormlands, as though I have any desire to spend the rest of my life in a castle where it rains nine months of the year."

"A terrible fate."

"My feet are aching. My corset is trying to kill me. And the servants served the wine lukewarm."

Gwayne glanced down at you. "That," he said gravely, "is unforgivable."

You snapped your fan shut. "And then there is you."

"Ah, finally."

"You paraded around those lists like a man determined to get himself executed, and now half my family has been asking me why a Hightower knight was wearing Redwayne silk over his heart."

"You could have told them the truth."

You halted as Gwayne took one more step before noticing, turning right away to look down at you with an expression of innocence.

"The truth?" you repeated.

"The truth."

"The truth would have my father drag me back to the Arbor on the next ship."

"Would he? How unfortunate..."

You stared at him. He grinned—not his usual arrogant one, but something gentler, almost silly, and so openly pleased with himself that you could hardly stand it.

"Gwayne," you sighed. "Are you even listening to me?"

"Every word."

"Then why are you smiling like an absolute simpleton?"

His blue eyes dropped briefly to your hand resting upon his arm. "Because you've been talking to me for ten minutes."

"That is your answer?"

"It's an excellent answer. I would happily listen to you complain about your family, your gown, the weather, or the entire bloody court until dawn," his thumb brushed slowly over your knuckles. "So long as you keep talking to me."

Your cheeks warmed, and you looked away before he could see the smile threatening to betray you. "You are a sick man, Ser Gwayne."

"Devoted," he corrected, giving you that radiant smile once again. "The word you're looking for, My Lady, is devoted."

The Great Hall greeted you with a deafening roar of music, laughter, and conversation. Flutes trilled beneath the high stone arches while servants hurried between the tables carrying platters of roasted meat and fresh bread.

At the high table, King Aegon was already several cups deep into his wine, surrounded by young lords shouting over one another.

Gwayne, being on duty as a Hightower knight, could not sit beside you at the Redwayne table. That did not stop him from becoming a nuisance.

Every few minutes, he found some flimsy excuse to wander past.

First, he intercepted a servant and sent him back for a bottle of properly chilled Arbor Gold. Then he appeared beside your seat while you were reaching for a lemon tart.

"Would Her Majesty like me to provide a softer cushion?"

You kicked him under the table. He barely moved—chuckling beneath his breath as he returned to his post near the stone pillars looking unbearably pleased with himself.

Your cousin watched him go, then glanced back at you. "Honestly, I don't know how he puts up with you."

You frowned. "With me?"

"He has spent the entire afternoon listening to you complain."

Across the hall, the redheaded knight happened to glance over. "I find it rather adorable," he mouthed, barely moving his lips.

Your cousin raised an eyebrow as you rolled your eyes at him.

Then Ser Lucamore of House Tarly arrived to ruin everything.

He was a pleasant knight from the Reach, broad-shouldered and well-spoken, with the easy confidence of a man accustomed to being welcomed wherever he went. He approached your table carrying a small silver box filled with candied plums.

"Lady Redwayne." He bowed. "I noticed you sitting here while your knight keeps watch. I thought a lady of your refined tastes shouldn't have to endure the feast without proper company."

You blinked, caught off guard. "Ser Lucamore. That is very kind of you."

Down the hall, Gwayne went stiff.

He tried very hard not to stare. He took a slow drink, looked toward the high table and back at you...Lucamore was still standing beside you.

Gwayne's fingers tightened around his goblet. Beside him, Lord Commander Criston took one leisurely sip of wine.

"Something troubling you, Hightower?"

"No."

"You look murderous."

"I am observing the room."

"You're observing aggressively."

Criston's eyes dropped to the goblet in his hand. "You're crushing your cup."

Gwayne looked down to find that the silver had indeed begun to buckle beneath his fingers. He loosened his hold and placed the damaged piece on the nearest ledge. "Poor craftsmanship," he mumbled.

At the Redwayne table, Lucamore was still smiling. "Would you honor me with the first dance of the evening, My Lady?"

You opened your mouth. Before you could answer, a shadow fell across the table.

"Ser Lucamore."

Gwayne stood beside you. He had not run—that would have been undignified—he had simply arrived with suspicious speed.

"Forgive the interruption."

Lucamore looked up. "Ser Gwayne. Is something wrong?"

The knight paused. For one terrible moment, it was obvious that he had absolutely no idea what to say. Then, with the confidence of a man willing to lie directly to the King's face, he said, "His Grace requires the Redwayne party at the royal pavilion."

"Does he now?"

His blue eyes remained firmly on Lucamore. There was a long beat of silence.

"He might..."

Lucamore stared at him, then at you, before a grin laced his lips. He rose, looking thoroughly amused. "My apologies, Hightower. I didn't realize the lady's dance card was already so fiercely guarded."

He bowed to you and disappeared into the crowd.

You waited until he was out of earshot, then glared at Gwayne.

For perhaps the first time that evening, the knight had nothing clever to say. He merely exhaled, caught your elbow gently, and guided you through the nearest archway.

The courtyard outside was still and cool beneath the moonlight.

Gwayne walked three paces away from you before stopping, his hands settling on his hips, his head bowed.

You leaned against the balustrade, watching him with a smile you were making no effort to hide. "Were you jealous, Ser Gwayne?"

"Pardon me?"

"You dented a goblet. Followed me halfway across the hall and lied about a royal summons." You laughed, and Gwayne's expression softened despite himself.

"You nearly glared a hole through poor Ser Lucamore's head."

"He was standing too close to you."

"There were three feet of space between us."

"Exactly, My Lady."

You let out a groan."That makes no sense."

"It made perfect sense to me." He stopped closer. The moonlight caught the scrape along his cheek—the same one she had cleaned for him in the armory tent—and suddenly he looked less like the smug knight who had been tormenting you all afternoon.

You tilted your head. "You know, Ser Lucamore was actually rather charming."

Gwayne's smile fell instantly. It happened so quickly that you almost burst out laughing.

"Do not say that...please."

"Why?"

He looked away. "Because I don't want to hear it." There was no teasing in his voice now. Only honesty.

You watched him for a moment. Then you stepped closer and lifted your hand to his cheek, your thumb stroking over the little cut near his eye.

His eyes closed for a fleeting second as he leaned instinctively into your palm.

"I wasn't looking at him, Ser Gwayne."

His eyes opened. "No?"

"No," you said with a smile. "I was waiting for my very foolish, very dramatic knight to come and take me away from the feast."

Then the tension left his shoulders, and a slow smile pulled at his mouth. "You needn't wait any longer," he murmured, covering your hand with his. "I am taking you away."

"That sounds awfully suspicious."

"Somewhere no one else can ask you to dance, and somewhere I can have your attention all to myself."

Your heart gave a traitorous little flutter. "Is that so?"

"It is." He leaned closer, his voice melting into a murmur meant only for you. "Her Majesty has been neglected terribly tonight."

You laughed softly. "Have I?"

"Abominably."

And with that, Gwayne offered you his arm again. You took it—leaving the noise of the feast behind, stepping out into the shadows of the Keep together.

The night air was crisp, scented with blooming jasmine and salty tang of Blackwater Bay. Moonlight flooded the graven paths, turning the stone archways and manicured hedges into a labyrinth of silver and shade.

You hesitated at the edge of the terrace, looking down at the quiet greenery. "Where are we going, Ser Gwayne?" You looked back at the glowing windows of the Great Hall, where the faint sound of flutes still echoed, then back at him. "What if someone notices we're gone?"

Gwayne unbuttoned the high collar of his tunic with one hand, looking unbothered as he said, "then I'll tell them Her Majesty ordered me to escort her."

"And if they ask where?"

"I'll lie," he spoke plainly, a shameless little grin flashing on his lips.

Once again, your heart did a silly, treasonous flip. He was standing there looking so incredibly proud—as if he had just won the realm, instead of walking a lady out into the garden.

"You are far too pleased with yourself," you teased.

"Then punish me for being so." His blue eyes gleaming with playful mischief.

"How?"

His smile widened, bright and wicked. "Make me catch you."

Before he could even finish the sentence, you slipped your hand out of his, pivoted on your heel, and took off down the gravel path.

"Oh, you little—" Gwayne gasped out behind you.

You didn't look back. Even weighed down by your heavy petticoats, you knew the layout of the Royal Gardens far better than a knight visiting from Oldtown. You darted around a massive marble fountain, slipped behind a towering wall of clipped ivy, and let out a breathless laugh as you heard his boots crunching against the gravel somewhere behind you.

"You know, for a knight who claims to be so devoted, you're terribly slow!" you called out over your shoulder, deliberately letting the edge of your skirt trail into the light before ducking down another winding path.

"I am pacing myself, My Lady!" Gwayne's voice echoed back, rich with amusement. He wasn't even rushing; he was trailing you with the easy patience of a man who knew how this game was going to end. "A proper knight does not rush a victory."

You rounded a tall rose trellis, cutting into a secluded courtyard surrounded by stone hedges. You stopped, pressing your back against the wall, holding your breath, and listening intently.

...

Nothing but a rustle of leaves and the distant crashing of waves against the cliffs below.

You let out a sigh, a smug little smile curving your lips. You smoothed down your skirts, stepping out into the center. "Looking for someone, Ser Gwayne?"

"As a matter of fact, I am."

The voice came from right behind you.

Two strong arms wrapped tightly around your waist, pulling you backward until your spine was pressed against the solid, warm chest of his before you could even take a gasp.

A startled laugh escaped your lips, instinctively bringing your hands up to grip his forearms as he held you fast. "Gwayne!"

"Caught," he murmured against the crown of your head, his chest rising and falling on your back, vibrating with triumphant laughter.

"You cheated!" you gasped, trying and failing to pry his hold from your waist. "You let me think I got away!"

"I am a knight of Oldtown, My Lady. I used superior tactics."

"Then why chase me?"

Gwayne leaned down, his chin resting lightly on your shoulder, his breath fanning across the skin of your neck, sending a shiver straight down your spine. "Because I wanted to catch you."

The laughter halted in your chest.

The playful energy in the quiet garden shifted, turning thick, and sweet. Gwayne didn't loosen his hold, but his grip changed—softening, his hands resting over your ribs, pulling you a little closer to his heat.

He turned his head to press a soft kiss to the curve of your neck. Patiently, he turned you around in his arms until you were facing him.

Gwayne's mocking armor had vanished in the pale gloom. His hair was slightly tousled, collar open at his throat, exposing the subtle bruise beneath his collarbone. His eyes were so dark and hopelessly smitten that it made your knees weak.

His hand came up, his long fingers trailing up your arm, resting gently at the side of your neck, his thumb over your jawline.

"No more running?" he asked.

Your eyes raised up to meet his—at the arrogant, proud, lovesick knight who had teased you, flaunted himself for you, and glared at other men all day to keep your attention.

"No more running," you whispered, reaching up to lay your palm against his chest, right over his hammering heart.

"Good girl."

He leaned down, closing the distance between you, and finally—finally—pressed his lips to yours.

The change from that long-awaited kiss to raw desperation happened in a fraction of a second.

Gwayne's mouth was hot and sweet over yours, his tongue gliding against yours with a ragged groan. For all his knightly composure and clever banter, the moment he finally had you tasting of wine and yielding in his arms, his restraint fractured.

He backed you against the secluded hedge, his hands dropping from your waist to the heavy silk of your dress.

The knight didn't bother with the dozens of delicate pearl buttons. Nor with the petticoats. He was entirely done playing the patient, dignified gentleman.

With a harsh breath, his long fingers bunched up the thick layers of burgundy, dragging the fabric up past your knees and your thighs, until the night breeze hit your bare skin.

You gasped out against his lips, your breath hitching as his rough hands slid up the inside of your bare thighs, spreading your legs wide. "We are in the garden—anyone could—"

He didn't give you a second to process. Before you could even draw another full breath, Gwayne dropped straight to his knees in the grass.

"Gwayne—!"

He hooked your legs over his sturdy shoulders, anchoring your hips firmly against the wall behind you, his hands gripping the back of your thighs like a starving man clinging to a lifeline.

"You've been tormenting me all day," he muttered breathlessly, looking up at you from between your legs, his blue eyes wide and utterly blow out with desire. "Complaining, scolding me, wearing that silk...I'm going to make you forget your own name, Her Majesty."

Right away, he buried his face right into your wet cunt.

Your knees weakened as his hot tongue swept over your clit, slow, soaked, and agonizingly deep. You let out a helpless gasp, your hands moving to his head, your fingers tangling frantically into his auburn hair to keep your balance.

He didn't just taste you; he devoured you.

He worked his tongue over you with a fierce pace, licking you clean, sucking hard on your clit until you were crying out into the quiet night. Every time you tried to squirm or arch away from the overwhelming sensation, his hands squeezed your thighs, holding you pinned, two of his fingers sliding effortlessly deep inside your tight heat to fuck you in rhythm with his tongue.

"Look at me," Gwayne pleaded, his voice muffled against your wet pussy as he raised his eyes at you through his lashes. He loved it—loved hearing you whimpering in the open air, loved watching you roll your eyes back while he tasted your cunt like a king kneeling before his queen.

"Look at your knight."

You gripped his hair tighter, pulling his face against you as he sped up his pace, his tongue flicking expertly over your sensitive core while his fingers pumped inside you, until a violent crash of pleasure ripped straight through you.

Your thighs clenched against his shoulders as you came, a stifled sob breaking from your throat as you hid your face against your arm, your pussy pulsing hard around his fingers.

"Oh—ffuck me, I'm comin—"

Gwayne drank in every drop of your release with a low moan. The sheer sight, sound, and taste of you unraveling on his face was too much—his own breath hitched hard, his body going rigid between your legs as he brought himself to a shuddering release right inside his breeches, coming completely ruined by you without even touching his own cock.

He pressed one last, sloppy kiss to your dripping folds and the inside of your thigh before rising up off his knees. His hair was a mess, his collar thoroughly wrecked, and his mouth glistening wet with your slick.

He didn't look remotely embarrassed. Rather, he looked insufferably proud of himself.

Gwayne smoothed down your skirts back with care, resting his forehead against yours, his eyes heavy with a promise.

"Now," he whispered, a wicked smirk curving his bruised lips as he hooked his arm through yours once more, "shall we find a proper room so I can put my cock where my mouth just was, My Lady?"

The mattress beneath you creaked under his weight, the velvet canopy above casting shadows across the bed, but Gwayne was nowhere near quiet.

He was making the most embarrassing, pathetic, impure sounds you had ever heard a sworn knight make in his entire life.

His head was resting in the crook of your neck, his face burning hot against your collarbone as he let out another long, ruined groan. Every single time his hips rolled forward, driving his throbbing cock all the way to your cervix, Gwayne sounded like he had died and gone to heaven.

"Gods...gods, you're so wet," he choked out, his voice wrecked and devoid of any dignity. "You're fucking killing me, my love."

It had been an absolute, chaotic scramble from the moment he dragged you into his quarters.

He hadn't even made it three steps past the oak door before he had you backed against the panel, his mouth bruising yours while his hands tore at the suffocating laces of your corset. He had been practically overflowing with impatience, muttering curses under his breath as the boning resisted his fingers, until he finally ripped the silk free, letting your gown tumble to the floor in a heap of burgundy.

He had carried you to the bed like a madman, stripping off his tunic and unbuckling his soaked breeches with hands that were visibly shaking.

And then came the moment he actually pushed inside you.

When he had lined the gleaming head of his cock up against your dripping entrance—still drenched from where he had eaten you out in the garden—Gwayne had paused for one brief second. He had looked down at you, his forehead slick with sweat, his jaw clenched so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek.

"Tell me it's me. Say my name." His hips hovering above yours, hands trembling where they braced beside your head.

"Gwayne," you had moaned, reaching up to wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him down. "Put it in. Now."

He hadn't needed to be told twice.

Gwayne had nudged his entire length inside you in one unrelenting thrust. The sheer heat of your tight cunt clamping around him had sent his head snapping back, a ragged sob ripping from his throat as he froze, overwhelmed by how impossibly good it felt to finally be buried to the hilt inside you.

Now, he was setting a punishing pace, his thighs sliding against yours as he fucked you deep and slow, his hands locked around your wrists, pinning your arms above your head.

Gwayne whimpered against your lips, his hips stuttering as he dragged his cock almost all the way out before slamming back inside you, making you gasp out his name. "Look at what you do to me. I haven't...fuck—I haven't been able to think about anything else for months."

"Harder, Gwayne. you're so good."

"Every time you scolded me...all I wanted was to fuck this pretty cunt," he babbled helplessly, his chest heaving as he pumped into you, his rhythm becoming faster, harder, more sloppy as he felt your walls pulsing tightly around his shaft. "I'm yours. I'm so fucking yours—"

His thrusts were coming in short desperate bursts. He was past the point of holding back, his eyes half-lidded and glossy with tears of pure pleasure as he voiced his love against your jaw.

"I can't—I can't hold it, please," Gwayne whimpered.

That milking rhythm triggered his release, sending him crashing over the brink. With a guttural sob, Gwayne slammed his hips, sinking himself to the root as his cock surged wildly inside you, shooting hot, heavy spurts of cum deep into your cervix.

You cried out, the sensation of his thick release filling you pushing you right over your own, your cunt rippling and contracting frantically around his tip.

That was his undoing.

Instead of easing off, the clenching of your climax caused a second, involuntary wave of pleasure through his body. Gwayne's legs almost gave out, his cock throbbing once more, releasing more cum into your tight heat as his eyes widened in disbelief.

"Gwayne—gods—" you moaned, nails digging into his bare back, overstimulated by the endless, intense sensation.

"I'm sorry—I'm so sorry, I can't stop—" He was at the mercy of your body. Every tiny twitch of your pussy sent another pulse through his reddening cock, keeping him locked in a continuous release that left him sobbing softly into your skin.

Completely undone, drained, and utterly ruined for anyone else forever.

A = Aftercare

Gwayne is truly amazing at aftercare and he prides himself in being able to provide it. No matter who he is with, he always cares for them. With you, especially you, he would hold you close to him and intertwined your fingers while murmuring sweet things in your ear about how well you were for him.

B = Body Part

On himself, Gwayne loves his hair. It's something he prides himself in and he loves when you tug on it when he goes down on you. He keeps it the perfect length, not too short or too long, so he can manage it. And he loves when you comb through it leisurely. On you, I think Gwayne would absolutely love your tits. He'd be the type to massage them, rest is hand on a titty while he's simply holding you, suck on them when he's rutting into you. He just loves your tits so much.

C = Cum

When Gwayne cums, he's cumming as beautifully as he is. His eyes closed, his mouth parted in a pretty "o" shape, and your name falling from his lips in a broken moan as he buried himself deep inside of you. For him, his mind clears and he thinks of nothing else except the feel of your cunt wrapped around his cock.

D = Dirty Secret

Much similarly to Ormund, I think Gwayne has a religion kink. But for him, it's out of pure worship for you. How can the seven faced god exist when you are right there for Gwayne to get on his knees and pray between your thighs? You were sent from the Heavens to bless Westeros with each breath you take. And he is fortunate that you had chosen him.

Another dirty secret? He would totally have a threesome with you and another man where he's getting fucked while also fucking you with his cock. But he would never admit it outwardly.

E = Experience 

With women, likely not that much. But with men, he would certainly be quite experienced. However, he is not a selfish lover in any way, shape, or form and I think Gwayne would love to learn your body and what exactly you like.

F = Favorite Position 

Gwayne's favorite position would be anything where he can maintain eye contact with you and smile at you in times of intimacy. He’d take you missionary, have you ride him, any position where he can rest his forehead against yours. I think Gwayne would be a very sweet lover and would look upon you as though you were a god sent to him. He’d worship your very being and intertwine your fingers as he fucks you, praising you constantly.

G = Goofy

I think Gwayne can be quite goofy during sex. He will crack a joke here or there and tease you. But he'd never be too goofy during sex.

H = Hair

Gwayne definitely keeps himself well groomed. Never hairless but definitely well groomed. His bush always tamed. But on you, I don't think he'd care all that much whether you're trimmed, hairless, or have a full bush. He will go down on you regardless.

I = Intimacy 

Gwayne can be so intimate with you. He craves intimacy. When he's bedding you, Gwayne will hold your hand as he pounds into you, murmuring the sweetest and dirtiest things in your ear as he looks into your eyes. You are the only being that matters to him in that moment.

J = Jack Off

Gwayne isn't someone that jerks off often but when he does, he does it to the thought of you. His cock in his hand, his head resting against a wall or his bed, and he conjures the dirtiest images of you.

K = Kink

Gwayne has a religion kink, he likes to be choked, he loves his hair being pulled, he loves giving praise but receiving degradation, and so many other fun sexy things hehehehehe.

L = Location 

He will always prefer the privacy of a bed chambers on a feather bed but he will take you almost anywhere. He would rather take his time with you but he's not picky at all.

M = Motivation 

Gwayne's motivations are simply that he's in love with you. I think adoration and affection are important to him and his motivations to sleep with you are tied to his emotions.

N = No

I don't think Gwayne would have many no's. I think he would want to try anything and everything once. And if he doesn't like it, then he won't do it again. If something interests you, he would try it out with enthusiasm.

O = Oral

In the manner of giving or receiving head, Gwayne does love both. But he will always be down to down on you. He's the type to kiss all along your thighs, worshipping your skin before pressing kisses onto your cunt. And then he'd bury his tongue inside of you. He loves going down on you and pleasuring you.

As for receiving, Gwayne is always down for you to give him head and when you do, he's an absolute wreck. He's whining and whimpering, eyes fluttering shut but also opening because he wants to watch you go down on him.

P = Pace 

I will always stand by the fact that pace depends on the mood of the situation but Gwayne loves to start slow and let it build up before pounding into you hard and fast.

Q = Quickie

He prefers to take his time but he will 100% do a quickie. He will finger you in the libraries of the Hightower or take you in a storage closet because gods, you just look so beautiful.

R = Risk

I don't think Gwayne would want to take you in a place with too many people. Like I said, he prefers the bed chambers but he isn't picky on location as long as there aren't a lot of people around in the moment.

S = Stamina 

I think he has a lot of stamina but usually only lasts about one or two rounds. He can last a long time though which he uses his stamina for.

T = Toys 

In a modern world, Gwayne loves toys. He would want you to have your own collection as well as a small collection of his own. He would want straps for you to peg him, vibrators to use on you, dildos for you to use. Anything that you'd like, he would like too.

U = Unfair

I think Gwayne would be someone who teases you quite a bit and would pretend as though he were unfair but would give into your every whim. He couldn't be unfair to you during sex, not unless he was overstimulating you.

V = Volume

Gwayne doesn't shy away from making noises when he's with you. He'll talk you through it, moan, groan, and occasionally even whine when he's with you. I think he'd be a communicative lover.

W = Wild Card

Gwayne is very versatile and he can be dominant sometimes and submissive another. So his ideal partner would be the same way. Pulling his hair is a major trigger as he can be dominating you in bed but the moment you tug on his locks, his eyes gloss over and he's ready to do whatever you want him to.

X = X-Ray

Gwayne would be slightly above average. His cock would be 6-7 inches and not too girthy.

Y = Yearning

Gwayne isn't someone that always needs sex but he likes it, especially if it's with you. And so, he'd almost always be down to have sex with you as long as it doesn't get in the way of the things he absolutely needs to do.

Z = ZZZ

Tears welled up in your eyes at the words echoing through your head, at the feeling of being so uncomfortable in your own skin. You turned your face downward to spare yourself from the sight of your own revolting figure. You crossed your arms, your shoulders pulled together and hands rubbing over your arms.

"Babe, you ready to go?" Frank said as he walked into the room, halting his steps when he saw your teary eyes. "Darlin, what's wrong?" he asked, worry dripping from his voice.

"Can we just stay home tonight?" you replied, your gaze to the floor.

"Why?" Frank frowned as he walked up to you.

"I..." You bit down on your lip, forcing your tears back. "I don't have anything to wear."

Frank looked puzzled. "What are you talking about? You're wearing a dress right now."

"I...I look hideous," you whispered, still avoiding looking at him.

"What?" Frank looked confused at you, then he heard your quiet sniffle and saw your trembling lip. "Hey," he spoke softly and cupped your face, forcing you to look at him. "Don't ever say that again. You're beautiful, babe. I love every part of you.” You glanced up at him, your insecurities still clinging to your heart like thorns. You were met by Frank's warm smile and instantly felt a swirl of warmth in your chest. He was always so good at that, at making you feel better with a single look.

"I love everything about you. Your nose," he crooned and leaned in, placing a soft kiss on the tip of your nose. "Your eyes," he continued as he kissed each of your eyelids. He draped his hands around your hips, a low groan rumbling in his chest as he squeezed your soft curves. "Your body... Let me show you how sexy you are, baby."

Frank pushed the straps of your dress down your shoulders and slid it down your body, letting it pool at your feet.

"Frank...," you whispered embarrassingly and felt your cheeks flush with heat.

"Shhhh," Frank hushed you and unhooked your bra, his eyes blown dark as his gaze landed upon your full, heavy breasts. Frank let out a soft growl and cupped your breasts, alternating between squeezing them and pinching your nipples. Closing your eyes, you embraced the pleasure and let Frank's adoration sweep away all your doubts. Next thing you knew, you were underneath him on the bed, his hands and mouth mapping out every inch of your body, kissing the soft mounds of your breasts and down your soft belly until his lips found the treasure between your thighs. He buried his face between your legs, his tongue bringing you to your first orgasm within seconds. Your fingers curled into his hair, your plush thighs gripping his head as you bucked against his face. Frank's mouth latched onto your pussy as you came, his brown eyes fixed on your face as he greedily indulged on your juices as it flooded his mouth.

"You look so beautiful when you come," he hummed softly against your folds, sending vibrations through your core. You blushed at his words, still, after months together with him, trying to embrace the fact that he actually found you attractive.

Frank stood up next to the bed and stripped out of his clothes, his hard cock curved upward and beautifully carved with pulsing veins. You licked your lips, wanted to taste him so badly. But Frank had other plans.

"See what you do to me, baby?" Frank crawled on top of you with a serious gaze in his eyes. "You're the only one who makes me feel this way." He aligned himself with your entrance, sliding the tip of his cock up and down your slick slit before pushing through your puffy folds. A breathy, trembling groan left his lips as he pushed inside you, feeling your tight walls engulf him. You gasped, moaned as he filled you up so deliciously deep. Frank lifted your thighs and wrapped them around his waist, gripping the soft flesh tightly as he started thrusting into you.

You moaned, clutching at his back. The rhythm built quickly, your bodies moving in a familiar dance, your  thighs tightening around him, his forehead pressed to yours, your breath mingling.

Your orgasm came in a rush, your nails digging into his shoulders as your body convulsed around him. Frank groaned, thrust harder, and then stiffened. You felt it; the hot pulses, the jerks of his cock as he came inside you. Then his seed leaked warm between your thighs, trickling onto the sheets. 

"I love you, darlin," he mumbled out of breath, softly kissing your shoulder before burying his nose into your neck. 

Smiling, you wrapped your arms around him and closed your eyes, embracing his warmth and love, knowing that no matter what, he would always love you. 

~

You're mind was wiped clean of anything but when did he get so hot?

The George Weasley you remembered was a beanpole, always a bit too tall for his slacks, arms a bit too long for his shirts. He was always exuberant, borderline manic with his endless pranks and games. Sweet, always sweet, but too eager.

Now, he was practically dripping with confidence. An ease about himself you definitely don't recall him having.

Now, you were the one fumbling over your words. Palms slick as you wiped them on your mini skirt.

“I've been good, really good—like, yeah, uh—how are you? How's the shop?”

“Can't complain,” he said, dipping his head down to hear you better over the din of the bar. His cologne wafted over you. Musky and warm. You noticed that the friends who dragged you out had abandoned you. “How’s McLaggen?”

His distaste was evident even all these years later. You couldn't really blame him. Cormac was an asshole more often than he wasn't.

You shrugged a shoulder. “Fine, I guess. We split a few months ago.”

“Oh, I didn't—I’m sorry.” And he actually looked it.

“It's alright. There's no hard feelings.”

His eyes flitted over your face. Searching for something. Then—“can I get you a drink?” He lifted a hand to flag down the bartender before you could answer, crooking two long fingers in the air.

You felt the gesture down to your toes.

“Espresso martini?” He glanced back at you.

“How'd you know?”

“I remember that match against Slytherin. You and your friends were drinking dorm coffee and vodka—”

“Oh my god, you do not remember that!” Heat scorched your cheeks.

He laughed, a sound like a summer storm. “Of course I do. You were drunk before you even made it out to the pitch. You used my broom like a walking stick.”

You groaned and hid your face in your hands, mortified.

Warm fingers circled your wrists, urging your hands back down. “Don't be embarrassed. Even sloppy drunk, you were still the coolest person in the stands.”

“Yeah, right—”

“I thought so.” Those eyes were molten, soft with sincerity, but something burning underneath. A kindling flame.

His crush on you had been apparent from the moment you stepped off the train that first year, and as far as you knew, never quite left him entirely, even when you started dating McLaggen in fifth year.

The breakup was most of the reason your friends had dragged you out tonight. They thought it was time for you to get back on the horse, so to speak.

And now, you were thinking it hadn't been such a bad idea after all.

The bartender set your drink on the bar, along with a frosty pint nearly as dark. You took a long drink, trying to rally your nerves. George did the same, watching you over the rim. His throat worked as he swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing, and you had to stop yourself from staring.

“Still do,” he added, setting his beer down, “if I'm being honest.”

You almost choked. Saints sake, you needed to get a grip. This was George Weasley. You've known him for more than a decade. Sure, he's like Adonis-level hot now, shoulders straining the seams of his shirt, forearms thick and tanned—

Get. A. Grip.

“You've always been honest, Weasley,” you teased. A feeble attempt at gaining some control of the situation.

You didn't think he could lie if he tried. It was a trait of his that once embarrassed you, the vulnerable, raw way he used to look at you. But now, after years of failed dates and fakes, you found it quite endearing.

He chuckled, eyes flinting. “And you've always made a fool out of me.”

“I think you managed just fine on your own.” You let your eyes wander over him now, hoping he caught your double meaning.

He did, his chest puffing up just the tiniest bit, and your heart squeezed.

Your friends and his chose that moment to descend upon you once again, filling in all the charged space between you with chatter and laughter. You let them buoy you away, but kept an eye on George as the night wore on. He did the same, your eyes meeting across the room countless times. Even when you looked away, you could still feel him watching, tracking you from the bar to the dance floor and back again. Like a cord had fastened you together, a connection that thrummed with energy even when you were physically apart.

The old George would have clung to your side, seeking any attention you could give him, but this George let you wander, let the distance stretch and pulse. Like he knew you'd find your way back to him when you were ready.

And you were about to do just that, anticipation quickening your steps, when some stranger stepped into your path.

“Hey, babe. Want to dance?”

This dude was greasy and reeked of light beer, and you didn't appreciate being physically blocked.

“No thanks.” You tried to move around him.

He blocked you again. “Aw, why not? I’ll be good to ya’—”

“I said no.” You shoulder checked him, pushing harder to get around him.

He grabbed your wrist, yanked you back around in a dizzying whirl. “Watch it, bit—”

“She said no.” A long-fingered hand grabbed around the guy's wrist, knuckles going white as it squeezed. George.

The guy cursed, releasing you immediately. George shoved him backwards. Put his body between the two of you. The stranger stumbled, then fell onto his ass. He muttered something unintelligible, then scurried away into the crowd.

Your head was spinning, heart pounding as you rubbed your wrist. The man hadn't exactly hurt you, but the echo of the unwanted touch burned.

“Come on, love.” George lifted his arm, and you tucked into his side without thought. Easy and familiar as settling into a favorite chair. He smelled like herbal tea and cinnamon, with something like gunpowder lingering on his clothes, and you wanted to wallow in it. “Are you hurt?” He asked once you made it to a quieter corner of the bar.

“No, no—thank you, George.” You looked up at him, and the spark of electricity that ignited nearly blinded you. The interaction from a moment ago completely forgotten.

God, had his lips always been so gorgeous?

“No need to thank me,” he said, eyes holding yours before flicking downwards. His tongue darted out, whetting his lower lip. “I, uh—”

“Hm?” You hummed, turning to face him. Bodies barely an inch apart. The racket of the bar fell away, drowned out by the thump of your hearts, shallow pants of breath.

“I always liked looking out for you,” he murmured, the arm around your shoulders slipping down your back. Bracketing your waist to pull you a bit closer.

“Yeah?” You lifted a bit onto your toes. Even in heels, you barely cleared his chest.

“Got detention once for wailing on that Hufflepuff that knocked your books out of your hands.” He shifted his weight forward. Your back bumped against the wall.

You leaned against it, gliding your hands up his chest. Fuck, he really has been working out. “I never knew that,” you said, breathless.

He melted into you, nose brushing along your temple, hands growing heavy on your hips. “Didn't want to embarrass you.” He nosed behind your ear, breath hot against your cheek. “I knew you didn't feel the same.”

Your heart panged. You cupped his jaw, lifting his face so you could look at him. Tried to push away the thought of how his stubble would feel scarping along your inner thighs.

George was—saints, it was like you were seeing him for this first time.

“George, I—”

“It's okay,” he reassured you with a soft smile. “You were always nice about it. It was a long time ago.”

He was always nice about it, too. Never once made you feel pressured, or uncomfortable, or like an object. His affection always seemed sincere, respectful, almost innocent.

Almost.

“D-do you still, um—” Your brain stuttered, struggling under the intensity of his gaze, the closeness of his body. Overwhelming you.

“Not sure I ever stopped.” The words fanned against your lips, honey-sweet.

You just had to taste them.

You pulled him in the final inch, pressing your lips to his in a slow, experimental kiss. He returned it eagerly, molding his lips to yours. Dizzyingly natural, like you'd been kissing for years, instead of seconds. Your mouths moved instinctively together, pressing and pulling, his tongue teasing along your lower lip, your teeth nipping back. His hands found their way into your hair, tilting your head back so he could kiss you deeper. Harder. Your body purred.

Kissing Cormac had never felt like this, and you actually had been kissing him for years.

George pressed closer to you, crushing you against the wall, and you squeaked, arching into him as his tongue finally plunged into your mouth. His left leg parted yours, thigh pressing up against your core.

The pressure zipped straight to your head. You gasped into his mouth. He smiled, breaking the kiss to nibble at your ear, down towards your throat.

“Even better than I thought,” he said.

You could barely hear him over the buzzing in your veins. “What is?”

“The sounds you make.” He sucked your skin between his teeth, biting a bit harder, and you moaned again, hips rocking involuntarily over his thigh. You could feel how soaked you were, and imagined leaving a damp spot on his slacks. A thrill ran through you at the thought of making a mess of him. Marking him.

He grabbed your hips again, dragging you forward, grinding his leg into your sensitive clit. Pleasure shot up your spine. Sparkled behind your closed lids. You dragged him by the hair for another kiss, teeth scraping together in your urgency.

You needed him. Now.

“Shop is up the street,” he panted.

You shook your head. “Too far.” You grabbed his hand and dragged him down the hall towards the bathrooms.

Together you stumbled into the ladies, startling two girls who were fixing their makeup. They were gracious enough to leave you be, and George locked the door behind them before tossing you up onto the counter. The chill bit into your heated skin, but did nothing to dampen the burn. His hands found your knees, pushing them apart as he dove in for another fervent kiss.

You moaned into his mouth. A lingering suspicion you'd had wormed its way into your addled mind—a rumor from your Hogwarts days. You dipped a hand between your bodies, fingertips grazing the thick bulge in his pants.

He hissed at the contact, his cock pulsing as you palmed it. Well, some of it.

Because he was fucking huge.

“Find what you're looking for?” He teased, a little breathless as you started to stroke him through the fabric. Mentally calculating just how big he was. Already, you knew he was bigger than anyone else you'd ever had. By a long shot.

Beater, indeed.

You hummed, popping the buttons of his slacks while guiding his hand between your legs. “Hard to miss.”

He chuckled, gliding his fingers over the soaked gusset of your panties. “All this for me?” He pulled the fabric up, drawing it tight against your aching clit, and you whimpered.

“I could say the same.” You pulled him free of his boxers, feeling the full heft of him in your palm. Your fingers just barely touched as you pumped him lazily. Precum smeared on the inside of your wrist. He was practically weeping for you. “The rumors were true.”

“Rumors?” The tops of his freckled cheeks tinged scarlet. From the pleasure or embarrassment, you couldn't tell.

“Yeah, that your Beater bat wasn't the only big stick you carried around…” A surprised moan swallowed the end of your sentence as his fingers dipped beneath your underwear, dipping into the pool of honey at your entrance before gliding up to your clit.

“You’ve already got me in the palm of your hand, love. There's no need for flattery—” You squeezed him gently at the base, and he grunted, thrusting once into your fist.

“True. You’ve been so patient, Georgie,” you cooed, dragging your hand up again and twisting the slickened head. Watched as his eyes started to glaze over. Lips parted as his jaw went slack.

He recovered quickly, though, and took your wrist, moving your hand away from his dick. “I have,” he said, catching your other hand from where it was fisted in his shirt. “So, you'll forgive me for wanting to enjoy myself.” He pinned your wrists to the mirror behind you, grip tight but not painfully so, and forced your back to arch upwards. Tits pressing hard against the fabric of your shirt.

He didn't waste a second. Diving down, his lips closed around one of your nipples poking through the fabric while he plunged one finger inside you. You cried out, writhing in his hold as he devoured you. Pleasure coursed through you, clenching your toes in your heels and making you arch even further into him. He quickly added a second finger, curling them just right to stroke the place that made your eyes cross.

“George—oh, fuck—” your head fell back against the glass as he coaxed you open. The wet sounds of his fingers fucking in and out your sopping pussy echoed around the tiny bathroom.

“So pretty like this,” he breathed, lifting his head to look over your body. All stretched out and heaving for him. The air was cold against the wet spots he'd left over your nipples, making them tighten even further. “Tell me how pretty you are.”

You just moaned in response as he did something with his thumb on your clit that made your legs start to tremble.

“Tell me.” He slowed, fingers still pressing against your g-spot, but no longer moving. A torturous high-note that he refused to break.

You squirmed, desperate for relief. “I'm pretty—so pretty—please—”

“Good girl,” he praised, resuming at an even faster pace before, and your pornographic cries were obscene even to your own ears.

You were unraveling at an unprecedented rate, and you didn't even care. Just wanted it—wanted him—so badly it hurt.

He released your wrists, bracing his palm flat against the glass. “Touch yourself,” he ordered, and you obeyed instantly, hand flying down to circle your clit while he finger fucked you into oblivious. “That's it, love. Squeezing me so tight I can barely move.”

“Close—” you whined, grabbing his shirt and dragging his mouth to yours for a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss. This more dominant, confident side of him was going to be the death of you.

“Yeah? Go on, baby. Come for me.”

The knot in your belly wound impossibly tighter, static screaming under your skin, roaring in your ears until finally—

It burst like a dam, crashing through you in wave after wave of bliss. You convulsed in his arms, and he held you tight to his chest while he continued fucking you through it. You were drowning in it, gasping for air until finally, he withdrew his fingers to let you catch your breath. He peppered kisses anywhere he could reach, hand wet where it gripped your thigh, murmuring praise to guide you back to him.

Then, as the waters receded, you realized what had just happened.

“Oh my god—did I—” A hand flew up to cover your mouth when he stepped back to show you what happened. He was completely soaked to the wrist and at the waist. And grinning ear to ear.

“Make a mess of me? Yes, yes you did,” he said, smug as anything.

You had never squirted. Not once in your life, despite yours and Cormac's best efforts.

George managed it on the first fucking try.

“I—I’ve never—”

His whole expression changed, smugness dropping away instantly as he wrapped his arms around you again. “Oh fuck, really? Are you okay? Was that okay—”

You buried your head into his shoulder to hide your expression, unable to stop yourself from giggling as aftershocks quaked through you. “No, no, it felt—it felt really good.”

“Yeah?” He lifted your chin, eyebrows creased with concern. “You promise?”

You answered him with a kiss, slow and sweet. He relaxed, sighing contentedly against your lips.

Knock knock!

Someone banged on the bathroom door.

“We should get cleaned up…” George muttered between pecks.

“Mhmm.” More pecks. You didn't want this to end. This perfect little moment of bliss. Of relief. Of finally.

“…and then maybe I can take you out on a real date?” He pulled back to meet your eyes, a nervous smile tugging at his lips.

“How about breakfast?” You asked, dragging a finger down his abdomen.

His eyes lit up. “I know a place that makes some mean pancakes. Delivered to you in bed and everything—” he leaned down to kiss you again, though you were both smiling too big for it.

“Oh yeah? That sounds perfect.”

He cleaned you both up quickly, and you ducked out of the bar amid whoops and cheers from all your friends.

“You think they set us up?” You asked George over a plate of pancakes the following morning.

He paused while chopping strawberries. “You know, Lee was the one that convinced me I should go out last night.”

Huh. “…Lee's dating my best friend. She was the one that talked me into it.”

You met each other's eyes across the kitchen island and burst out laughing.