to knives, to daggers, to clawsbloodofpykeMarch 19 2012, 22:57:16 UTC
She was drunk, or close enough, and Gendry was giggling at some lame home video show hosted by that hug-crazed weirdo from Full House. She snapped her fingers in front of Gendry’s face, bringing him out of whatever haze he’d fallen into. “Hello? We were supposed to be playing a game and it’s your turn to drink, idiot.”
And then Gendry was turning his grin on her, and she wanted to tear her hair out, wanted to tear his hair out. “Stupid fucker,” she mumbled as she kissed him, tangling her hands in his hair, anything to wipe that stupid grin off his face. It took him a minute to respond--he was always a bit slow on the uptake--but then he was grabbing her shoulders and kissing her back, and fuck what was he doing with his tongue?
Gendry’s hands slipped down to the small of her back, pressing her against him until his heartbeat mixed with hers, and she climbed on top of him, untangling from his mouth, from his hair, long enough to slip his shirt over his head, to pull hers off. She kicked her jeans off and shoved Gendry’s down, and then it was skin on skin, all flushed and feverish and too close too hot, but she kept going, kept pushing.
She could feel Gendry underneath her, in her, and she bit back a moan, turning it into a savage kind of kiss, smashing her tongue into his mouth and dragging her nails across his skin until he was biting back a moan of his own. Her heart was racing, and she could hear her blood pumping, and her mouth moved to his neck, to his collarbone, and she bit at those too, leaving red blossoms in her wake. She could feel Gendry’s heart beating too, underneath her fingertips on his chest, and her hands stilled on him for a moment, then turned to daggers, to knives, to claws, and he was hissing as the blood pricked on his skin, as she bent and kissed the droplets away, teeth scratching at the tenderness.
“Fuck,” Gendry was muttering, hands moving to her hips, trying to guide her, but she slapped his hands away, rolled her hips until she thought she might break apart, but still she wanted more more more.
And then it was over, and Arya’s breathing was ragged, full of spurts and kicks, and she rolled off of him, stretching out on the couch, glancing up at him through half-lowered lashes.
“I guess that’s it for the game then?” he wanted to know, and she almost smacked him. That was the game, stupid, she wanted to tell him, and you just lost, or won, or tied, I don’t fucking know. But her hands had already found her glass, and her mouth was already full of whiskey, so she settled on just kicking him square in the leg.
And then Gendry was turning his grin on her, and she wanted to tear her hair out, wanted to tear his hair out. “Stupid fucker,” she mumbled as she kissed him, tangling her hands in his hair, anything to wipe that stupid grin off his face. It took him a minute to respond--he was always a bit slow on the uptake--but then he was grabbing her shoulders and kissing her back, and fuck what was he doing with his tongue?
Gendry’s hands slipped down to the small of her back, pressing her against him until his heartbeat mixed with hers, and she climbed on top of him, untangling from his mouth, from his hair, long enough to slip his shirt over his head, to pull hers off. She kicked her jeans off and shoved Gendry’s down, and then it was skin on skin, all flushed and feverish and too close too hot, but she kept going, kept pushing.
She could feel Gendry underneath her, in her, and she bit back a moan, turning it into a savage kind of kiss, smashing her tongue into his mouth and dragging her nails across his skin until he was biting back a moan of his own. Her heart was racing, and she could hear her blood pumping, and her mouth moved to his neck, to his collarbone, and she bit at those too, leaving red blossoms in her wake. She could feel Gendry’s heart beating too, underneath her fingertips on his chest, and her hands stilled on him for a moment, then turned to daggers, to knives, to claws, and he was hissing as the blood pricked on his skin, as she bent and kissed the droplets away, teeth scratching at the tenderness.
“Fuck,” Gendry was muttering, hands moving to her hips, trying to guide her, but she slapped his hands away, rolled her hips until she thought she might break apart, but still she wanted more more more.
And then it was over, and Arya’s breathing was ragged, full of spurts and kicks, and she rolled off of him, stretching out on the couch, glancing up at him through half-lowered lashes.
“I guess that’s it for the game then?” he wanted to know, and she almost smacked him. That was the game, stupid, she wanted to tell him, and you just lost, or won, or tied, I don’t fucking know. But her hands had already found her glass, and her mouth was already full of whiskey, so she settled on just kicking him square in the leg.
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