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“May the Mother forgive me for the sins I am to commit and the Warrior lend me strength in doing them…”
“Are you done?” Gwayne sighed under him, his body shivering. He stripped down a few moments ago, ready for a quick fuck behind closed doors and then back to normal, as if nothing happened, as it always went. But to his misfortune Ormund was also as he always was and so Ormund’s need for a prayer above his naked body forced Gwayne to stay in this exposed state and annoyingly hard while his cousin knelt upon the bed, hands clutched together and fingers intertwined as he whispered his words to the Seven.
“And thank the Maiden…”
Gwayne's cock twitched at that, his eyes unconsciously straying towards his tunic that laid folded over the chair nearby, he felt a bit of shame and lust with each barely heard word.
Finally it hit him, that warm wet spit landed right over his hole and caused him to jerk forward in surprise, no matter how well Ormund always planned and prepared for everything, he never warned Gwayne and maybe it was on purpose maybe he enjoyed surprising him and watching him squirm while he prolonged the wait for something they both desired so deeply that not even their faith could stop it.
Ormund used to struggle at first, back in the day when they were both young boys, who only knew about pleasure from boisterous stable men, soldiers in the city that talked too loud during patrols and scrolls shown to them by maesters in preparations for the marriage bed with their wives-to-one-day-be, it was that day that Ormund realized his rottenness, when he gazed upon the scroll, his eyes leering over the illustration of a woman on her back and instead of her he imagined Gwayne, his cousin, still a young boy at that time, he saw it in his mind, his short hair fanned out upon the pillows like a halo of gold, tangled up by movement Ormund administered, "back and forth” as the maester described, body nude glistening with exertion exposed for his gaping, he imagined himself pushing the round pillow under Gwayne’s hips for comfort as the ancient scripts recommended. He spent hours at the sept after that, everyday he visited and prayed for the sin to leave his wicked soul and the Mother to take mercy upon him.
It never really worked, even when he tried to force himself into believing that it did, the second Gwayne had him pinned down during a sparring session in the Hightower training yard, all he could think of was the smell of sweat, his eyes locking on the droplet that fell on his neck and mixed with his own, running down his skin to mix with the soil and stay there letting the ground remember this moment forever just like Ormund would, Gwayne’s lips were so close to his own, mouthing something he couldn’t fully comprehend but with time understood he was ordered to yield and he yield he did. He was rarely on the losing side but he could admit this defeat, to his cousin’s sword and his desires towards him.
He pulled him aside right after their baths, once the maids scrubbed them clean and left them smelling of sandalwood and levander, just how he liked it, clean and fresh. He requested to be left alone by the servants before he pushed him onto the bed with strength Gwayne could only dream of having on the battle field and fucked him raw and hard, while reciting prayers engraved in his mind, each word to the mother was accompanied by a thrust into Gwayne’s virgin hole that bled upon his cock, a sacrifice of sorts as Ormund thought of it later, till he finally spilled into his cousin with the pleas for mercy still heavy on his tongue.
They never spoke of that night, of their tears nor the strange emotions born amidst sweat and gasps but it still became a thing, their little ritual.
Behind him Ormund wet his fingers, a trail of spit connecting them to his tongue before he pulled them far enough to tear the string apart. The gesture of his hands meeting with his eyes still closed was familiar, his cousin’s prayer clearly still not done and Gwayne didn’t dare admit that it only turned him on further. He watched Ormund’s every gesture, every small move and twitch, looking like he was kneeling at the altar or praying above supper, which it could be that case if he would finally dare and take Gwayne into his mouth, yet that seemed to be a line that Ormund Hightower was not willing to cross.
He had no problem fucking Gwayne into the feather bed till he was limp and breathless, at the edge of day and the Stranger’s gate but the Seven forbid they dared kiss or let alone pleasure one another with each other’s lips.
He felt ashamed that a mere kiss was something he dared desire more than a good proper fuck, of course he tried the other ways to fulfill this need, a harlot that would smile sweetly and pretend to be a pure maiden. But her lips never tasted as sweet as he imagined Ormund’s would. Yet that was all he could get, a cock, a prayer and the knowledge that no matter how many times Ormund would repeat it, the Seven hells would still greet them when their time came. He was certain that Ormund believed he would get to the heavens but Gwayne was not that naive, he knew what awaited him, still he would visit the sept, especially when Alicent requested he join her, it were only rare moments he frowned upon the statues for making him the way he was and forsaking him for it in the same breath, he knew each being was flawed yet it seemed the gods were too, each of their sinful thoughts they turned into eternal sin and granted to a mortal, just to judge them for it when the day came.
“Have the maids bathed you properly?” Ormund muttered, leaning closer to press his nose into the crook of Gwayne’s neck “have you prepared yourself for me after?”
“I have, we agreed upon this hour, I ensured that I would be washed and prepared.”
“You were always so good at taking orders.”
“Never as good as you,” Gwayne turned onto his back just to look Ormund in the eyes and pull the older man into his arms. He knew Ormund didn’t like it when he took control, he was always so obsessed with having everything his way and he could turn cruel the second someone else took over. He hated being forced out of his comfort zone but that didn’t stop Gwayne from doing so, needling his dear cousin, was something he came to enjoy in his later years, even the consequences.
“What does that mean?” Ormund questioned, sliding a firm hand right under Gwayne’s chin, tensing his fingers light over the carotids. Gwayne's eyes fluttered closed at that, a grin curving his lips, he could feel the tinkling spread from under Ormund’s fingers down his body and go right to his crotch.
“You were always a good soldier, am I wrong?” He looked up at him again, Ormund did not seem as amused as he was, instead keeping the tight lipped frown.
“Don’t toy with me. I am no fool, cousin.”
Gwayne actually scoffed. He didn’t mean to but the little wine warming his blood gave him the boldness.
“Oh please, no fool yet you believe the gods will forgive you for our sins?”
“The Mother has mercy in her soul.”
“If she even truly is.” Gwayne sighed, starting to get up slightly only to be roughly pushed back down with the hand still at his throat that now squeezed him to the point of taking his breath away and cock leak precum on his abdomen. It was shameful how turned on he got from such rough handling.
“Don’t speak so foully of our gods, not now when you’re spread like a harlot of silk street, not when you’re pretending to be man on the battlefield, not ever,” Ormund tightened his hand even more, pressing on the trachea and Gwayne couldn’t do more than moan and nod.
Ormund finally grinned, a sinister expression that would get anyone else scared for their life but in Gwayne’s hazy brain it only stirred excitement. He will have to cancel his sparring with Daeron at the morrow, he won’t be able to walk when Ormund is done with him by the looks of it.
He tried to angle his head to look down, see if the moment had gotten his cousin as aroused as he was but instead he was once again reminded of his place. This time more clearly than before, flipped on his back, head forced into the pillow and hips held up by Ormund’s strong hands. He already missed the bruising grip on his throat and the sight of madness in Ormund’s eyes that he proudly awakened, but the hardness pressing against his backside made up for it all and he knew Ormund didn't like to see his face during the act, looking into the eyes of his greatest sin.
Ormund did not waste much time in preparing him, such thing was clearly beneath his station and made it all feel too real. He always liked him on his stomach or on all fours, he would hold him by his hips and never utter his name from the second he inserted himself. He rarely spoke dirty and when he did it sounded more like facts being said then words meant to arouse Gwayne. Still it worked, Gwayne got used to it, began to like it so now ‘You’re so tight’ spoken with mild annoyance like one would say ‘It’s raining’ got him dripping.
Gwayne prepared himself, the act was arranged and from the years he knew what to do and how. How much to spread himself with his own fingers to fit Ormund’s length just enough, which scent Ormund liked, which he currently had in his pomander, so Gwayne requested the very same to bathe in and as perfume oils to pat on himself, that way every time his cousin sniffed his pomander he would think of Gwayne coming undone on his cock instead of some relaxation the herbs offered normally.
He still groaned when Ormund pressed the tip against his hole with the same firm pressure with which he did everything, then he pushed in, wasting no time in fully sheathing himself inside his warmth. The pain came quickly, not strong but enough to have Gwayne huffing into the pillow and squeezing his eyes shut. It was comforting. He tongued at the fabric, sucking it in between his teeth and imagining it was Ormund’s skin.
“Don’t cry, you’re not some meek woman,” commented Ormund, moving one hand from his hip to run it across his spine and push down right above his pelvis to force Gwayne to arch into him.
Ormund loved to mock him since they were boys in the training yard. In hindsight little has changed since those days, still here they were Gwayne pinned under Ormund, held down with no escape and trying to hide his pained sounds.
Maybe they knew their places from the very first sight.
Ormund didn’t give him more time before slowly pulling out halfway and thrusting right back in.
Maybe the gods were real and they dictated their places, Gwayne has won a few of their sparring matches just so they could test him, find out where he truly fit.
He repeated the movement, a little faster.
Maybe they saw them then and made it so they always stayed as such, just on the feather bed instead of rough ground intertwined with training swords beside them.
“Relax,” came from above him and he forced himself to shift and take a deep breath. Instead of gratitude or praise he got an approving huff and a buck so harsh, the bed shifted.
Meant for one another. Made to fit and find comfort in the hurt.
His own breath was growing heavier, Ormund knew him too and with every other move seemed to hit that spot inside him that got white stars flying across his vision.
Made to cradle each other in the seven hells they were condemned to for the sins the gods bestowed upon them.
He snaked one hand down, grabbing his own cock and stroking it in time with Ormund’s thrusts, switching between squeezing at the base and thumbing the slit every once in a while to allow himself the bit more pleasure he needed to inch closer to his release. His eyes closed again and a moan left his lips, he squeezed around Ormund, he needed to hear his dear. He already couldn’t see his face, it was unfair that the elder tried withholding him from hearing his voice as well.
A choked out noise rang out right by his ear and if it wasn’t for his fingers wrapped so tight around the base of his manhood he would’ve surely came in that very moment.
“Like a whore, cousin,” He commented with a breathless grin. He couldn’t help it. Once again he was forced down face first into the pillow, nose right over the wet patch he had to have caused by drooling on the fabric before.
“Shut your insolent mouth or I will leave. My wife would never dare speak to her lord husband as you do,” his efforts redoubled, fucking Gwayne into the feather bed with the vigour of a rabid dog.
“Y-yet it is my bed you’re in and my body you’re about to spill into.”
He decided to let go of his cock, letting the stimulation of it rubbing against the sheets do the work instead.
His words only seemed to spur his cousin on further, he held Gwayne’s head down by the back of his neck, restricting his breathing by how hard he pushed him into the pillow, that way a muffled moan was his only warning that the man under him was about to release and soil the sheets. They were Gwayne’s sheets anyway, therefore none of Ormund’s business. Yet the way Gwayne’s hole squeezed his cock so tight he doubled over his lover's body was his business, The warmth enveloped him and without meaning to he reached his own peak, spilling inside. He was a righteous, holy man therefore he resented doing so, his seed was meant to be cradled in a womb or wiped off of soft skin not sheathed in a willing hole, such sin belonged to a brothel, not a royal keep. A prayer was already leaving his lips as he spilled.
Gwayne didn’t register a single word, his mind swimming in the post orgasmic haze. Once he collected himself enough, Ormund was already getting off of the bed wiping his hands and cock into a cloth nearby with a face wrinkled with disgust. Gwayne’s own face imitated the grimace when he realised the moist patch of his seed sticking to his abdomen and bed and the sensation of Ormund’s dripping out of his sullied hole.