Anew
Fandom: A Song of Ice and Fire
Summary: Tywin lives for the future and the future is now. AryaTywin.
For asoiafkinkmeme, prompt: Even now, with her belly fat and growing, she fought him with bared teeth and bitter claws; this child would be the lion his other children failed to become
Author's Note: Heavily aged up Arya.
Anew
Throughout history, there are examples of pregnancy and motherhood driving women to strange, wild, and irrational deeds. Tywin finds such exaggerated accounts nonsensical - yet, with his lady wife, there is some truth to the superstitions.
Arya rarely rests in the late stages of her pregnancy, her naps short and fitful, stirred at even the lightest disturbances. Tywin runs a hand over her naked flesh as she sleeps, over the curve of her breasts - enlarged, swollen, tender - and hips - figure enhanced from her normally lean shape - before finally they finally rest on her stomach; she will birth soon, within a moon, he knows, and, this time, it will be different.
"My lord. . ." His touch wakes her and Arya murmurs the words under her breath, still dazed from sleep. She searches instinctively with her hand; Arya’s fingers make their way up his body, in the same way his earlier made their way down, until she rests her palm atop his hand on her stomach. The repose slowly fades from her eyes as she looks up into his gaze in a rare moment of intimacy. Her face is plump and pink, her subdued smiles emphasized only by the yellow-brown glow of the candlelight.
Tywin's wife is not a traditional woman; pregnancy only lowers her inhibitions and suppresses her self-control.
The peace shatters an instant later when Arya's fond smile turns predatory. Her hand clenches tightly around his as she moves closer, her lips finding their way over his arms, shoulders, and up his neck. Grey only leaves green during blinks as Arya pulls herself from her previous resting position to press against him - her breasts are much softer than he remembers - and forces her mouth onto his. The woman’s breaths are hot and warm, taste unrecognizable, her kisses too harsh and frantic, too fast and hungry, to allow him time to consider the particulars. After a day of dealing with the ridiculous antics of the court, of games and flattery and utter incompetence, Tywin’s cock easily bends to her will, wanting relief as eagerly as his lady wife.
That will not do at all.
Arya seeks no affection from him; the practice is not uncommon in these last days of her pregnancy as she repeatedly mounts him, over and over, until she is exhausted and sore - on multiple occasions Tywin has denied her, lest his work suffer in efficiency or productivity from lack of sleep. She does not do it for duty, as many young wives would for an older husband, nor is she at all shy; her demands - and they are quite that - often amuse him, as she wants to fuck more often than any hormonal young man. There is nothing kind in the way Arya tugs him down atop her and entwines her legs around his, or how her fingers toy and direct his cock. Despite repeated insistence that their bedplay be more subdued, so that Arya does not overexert herself or trigger an early birthing and potentially harm their child, he takes her often and hard when she requests it, for her sake as much as his.
During the day, Arya paces throughout his chambers, as her larger body prevents her chosen more ‘lively’ daily activities; some fault is his, he knows, as he demands she always have an attendant or guardian of some sort to aid her in the event of an emergency. She is restless and easily agitated with her limited mobility. On more than one occasion he requested Kevan escort Arya through the gardens to wear some of her excess energy away. Tywin's patience has a limit and its capacity only shrinks daily as his wife’s time approaches.
Even what he gives is not enough. Arya attempts to pull him down closer to her, so she can cling and force him faster, to match her feverish pace - a foolish action that Tywin ignores, knowing that she always fails to account for her enlarged stomach in her over-eagerness. Instead he pushes himself into an upward position, balance and power restored, so he can lead her.
"No." She hisses, much like a feral cat - or perhaps a rabid hound.
Before she gives him a chance to reply, Arya flips them over with surprising strength, amusement on her features. For a moment, she sits atop him, rolling her hips into his in such a way that even he cannot suppress his breaths of pleasure, before she begins anew, guiding them both. She's light, despite her added weight, and Tywin pushes himself up to meet her, both at equal height, refusing the position under her. Arya laughs huskily at his reaction and encircles his neck with her arms. She sits hard in his lap atop his cock; her mouth impatiently tastes him and her eyes meet his, open and full of desire. Tywin matches her with equal passion, stirred to action by his lust. Their bodies meet as closely as he dares, their child pressed between them, passion both above and below the roundness of its womb.
He knows what to expect next in this is a familiar, intimate game of theirs. Instead of becoming emotional or weepy, Arya gets angry and determined - dangerously so.
Arya's nails - they've grown with her less active pregnant lifestyle - dig into his shoulders and tear into his flesh. He grunts heavily into Arya's mouth, but the sound of discomfort only pushes her harder, their coupling heating until his cock nearly burns. Tywin knows his body well; with his blurred thoughts, the way he focuses on little but the hot woman he's inside and his rapid breaths, he knows he'll finish soon - and likely before his insatiable wife.
There is no sentiment in her silent, fierce, willful commands. She makes demands, but pleasures him equally as she pushes herself onto him with all of the snarls and strength of the direwolf she so often claims to be. Tywin leans his head back, finally breaking contact with her eyes. The motion does not sit well with the woman, seemingly enraging her, and she pulls his head up with her hand and bites his lips, hard enough until blood is drawn, until the taste is shared between them.
His wife does not moan beyond gasps of exertion; her jaw is clenched and she hisses Tywin under her breath into his ear even as she nips his neck, enough to bruise. She immediately repeats the name, twice more, each heavier than the last, each sending flares of heat through him. The sounds drone in his ears and he releases his seed in her, his body numb as the world slowly returns to clarity. Her nails continue to dig into his shoulders as she finishes herself with a finger, her own breaths returning to normal as she climbs off him.
With annoyance, Arya picks her long-discarded nightshift from the floor and wipes the seed from her thighs before she pushes herself up from the bed awkwardly. Blood slowly trickles down Tywin's arms and back from her deep scratches, the top layer of his flesh torn away nightly. For what little good it does, he dabs at the wounds with his fingers, so that the fluid does not drip and dirty the bed.
"Allow me." Arya returns a moment later and offers him a sincere smile, not quite an apology, as she sits back down, not caring to cover herself. In her hands is a rag and wine goblet, which she’s taken to keeping in his room particularly for these times. She carefully dips the rag into the wine and runs the cool, damp cloth over the shallow tears to clean and prevent infection. It is not pleasant, nor is it painful, and Tywin relaxes his posture and allows himself to melt into her hands - softer now, a feather's touch instead of a snake's bite. It is in these quiet moments with her, where they both allow themselves to show some small vulnerability, that Tywin feels most satisfied.
Strong and proud, unflinching and devoted - even as his other children fail to uphold his legacy, the future grows anew.
Summary: Tywin lives for the future and the future is now. AryaTywin.
For asoiafkinkmeme, prompt: Even now, with her belly fat and growing, she fought him with bared teeth and bitter claws; this child would be the lion his other children failed to become
Author's Note: Heavily aged up Arya.
Anew
Throughout history, there are examples of pregnancy and motherhood driving women to strange, wild, and irrational deeds. Tywin finds such exaggerated accounts nonsensical - yet, with his lady wife, there is some truth to the superstitions.
Arya rarely rests in the late stages of her pregnancy, her naps short and fitful, stirred at even the lightest disturbances. Tywin runs a hand over her naked flesh as she sleeps, over the curve of her breasts - enlarged, swollen, tender - and hips - figure enhanced from her normally lean shape - before finally they finally rest on her stomach; she will birth soon, within a moon, he knows, and, this time, it will be different.
"My lord. . ." His touch wakes her and Arya murmurs the words under her breath, still dazed from sleep. She searches instinctively with her hand; Arya’s fingers make their way up his body, in the same way his earlier made their way down, until she rests her palm atop his hand on her stomach. The repose slowly fades from her eyes as she looks up into his gaze in a rare moment of intimacy. Her face is plump and pink, her subdued smiles emphasized only by the yellow-brown glow of the candlelight.
Tywin's wife is not a traditional woman; pregnancy only lowers her inhibitions and suppresses her self-control.
The peace shatters an instant later when Arya's fond smile turns predatory. Her hand clenches tightly around his as she moves closer, her lips finding their way over his arms, shoulders, and up his neck. Grey only leaves green during blinks as Arya pulls herself from her previous resting position to press against him - her breasts are much softer than he remembers - and forces her mouth onto his. The woman’s breaths are hot and warm, taste unrecognizable, her kisses too harsh and frantic, too fast and hungry, to allow him time to consider the particulars. After a day of dealing with the ridiculous antics of the court, of games and flattery and utter incompetence, Tywin’s cock easily bends to her will, wanting relief as eagerly as his lady wife.
That will not do at all.
Arya seeks no affection from him; the practice is not uncommon in these last days of her pregnancy as she repeatedly mounts him, over and over, until she is exhausted and sore - on multiple occasions Tywin has denied her, lest his work suffer in efficiency or productivity from lack of sleep. She does not do it for duty, as many young wives would for an older husband, nor is she at all shy; her demands - and they are quite that - often amuse him, as she wants to fuck more often than any hormonal young man. There is nothing kind in the way Arya tugs him down atop her and entwines her legs around his, or how her fingers toy and direct his cock. Despite repeated insistence that their bedplay be more subdued, so that Arya does not overexert herself or trigger an early birthing and potentially harm their child, he takes her often and hard when she requests it, for her sake as much as his.
During the day, Arya paces throughout his chambers, as her larger body prevents her chosen more ‘lively’ daily activities; some fault is his, he knows, as he demands she always have an attendant or guardian of some sort to aid her in the event of an emergency. She is restless and easily agitated with her limited mobility. On more than one occasion he requested Kevan escort Arya through the gardens to wear some of her excess energy away. Tywin's patience has a limit and its capacity only shrinks daily as his wife’s time approaches.
Even what he gives is not enough. Arya attempts to pull him down closer to her, so she can cling and force him faster, to match her feverish pace - a foolish action that Tywin ignores, knowing that she always fails to account for her enlarged stomach in her over-eagerness. Instead he pushes himself into an upward position, balance and power restored, so he can lead her.
"No." She hisses, much like a feral cat - or perhaps a rabid hound.
Before she gives him a chance to reply, Arya flips them over with surprising strength, amusement on her features. For a moment, she sits atop him, rolling her hips into his in such a way that even he cannot suppress his breaths of pleasure, before she begins anew, guiding them both. She's light, despite her added weight, and Tywin pushes himself up to meet her, both at equal height, refusing the position under her. Arya laughs huskily at his reaction and encircles his neck with her arms. She sits hard in his lap atop his cock; her mouth impatiently tastes him and her eyes meet his, open and full of desire. Tywin matches her with equal passion, stirred to action by his lust. Their bodies meet as closely as he dares, their child pressed between them, passion both above and below the roundness of its womb.
He knows what to expect next in this is a familiar, intimate game of theirs. Instead of becoming emotional or weepy, Arya gets angry and determined - dangerously so.
Arya's nails - they've grown with her less active pregnant lifestyle - dig into his shoulders and tear into his flesh. He grunts heavily into Arya's mouth, but the sound of discomfort only pushes her harder, their coupling heating until his cock nearly burns. Tywin knows his body well; with his blurred thoughts, the way he focuses on little but the hot woman he's inside and his rapid breaths, he knows he'll finish soon - and likely before his insatiable wife.
There is no sentiment in her silent, fierce, willful commands. She makes demands, but pleasures him equally as she pushes herself onto him with all of the snarls and strength of the direwolf she so often claims to be. Tywin leans his head back, finally breaking contact with her eyes. The motion does not sit well with the woman, seemingly enraging her, and she pulls his head up with her hand and bites his lips, hard enough until blood is drawn, until the taste is shared between them.
His wife does not moan beyond gasps of exertion; her jaw is clenched and she hisses Tywin under her breath into his ear even as she nips his neck, enough to bruise. She immediately repeats the name, twice more, each heavier than the last, each sending flares of heat through him. The sounds drone in his ears and he releases his seed in her, his body numb as the world slowly returns to clarity. Her nails continue to dig into his shoulders as she finishes herself with a finger, her own breaths returning to normal as she climbs off him.
With annoyance, Arya picks her long-discarded nightshift from the floor and wipes the seed from her thighs before she pushes herself up from the bed awkwardly. Blood slowly trickles down Tywin's arms and back from her deep scratches, the top layer of his flesh torn away nightly. For what little good it does, he dabs at the wounds with his fingers, so that the fluid does not drip and dirty the bed.
"Allow me." Arya returns a moment later and offers him a sincere smile, not quite an apology, as she sits back down, not caring to cover herself. In her hands is a rag and wine goblet, which she’s taken to keeping in his room particularly for these times. She carefully dips the rag into the wine and runs the cool, damp cloth over the shallow tears to clean and prevent infection. It is not pleasant, nor is it painful, and Tywin relaxes his posture and allows himself to melt into her hands - softer now, a feather's touch instead of a snake's bite. It is in these quiet moments with her, where they both allow themselves to show some small vulnerability, that Tywin feels most satisfied.
Strong and proud, unflinching and devoted - even as his other children fail to uphold his legacy, the future grows anew.