Quote inspired drabbles (2/?)
Title: Violent Young Lovers
Fandom: ASOIAF
Characters/Pairing: Arya Stark, Gendry {Arya/Gendry}
These violent young lovers carry everything their own way - Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice
The blood is still thrumming through his veins, pounding in his ears like a war drum. Arya skulks into the tent behind him and he can picture the look on her face without having to turn around.
She’s more wolf than woman, that one, they say in the camp. He hides a smile and feels the scratches on his back more sharply.
~
Their coupling is all teeth and nails and growls and blood. Blood on his back, on her shoulders, in their veins. Sometimes, she thinks there’s too much blood and in those moments all she can see is red.
~
They’re worth a song, at least, he thinks when Arya falls asleep beside him. Something harsh and vicious, fitting for a battle.
She whimpers, a helpless sound, like a wounded animal and he curls around her.
~
When he was a boy, newly arrived at Master Mott’s forge, he’d dream about how someday he’d be a master, have a wife, kind and fair.
He’s a man grown and he uses the swords he makes. He doesn’t have a wife, but there is a woman, ruthless and dark, who wears chainmail and scars and carries a sword and comes and goes as she pleases.
It’s better than a dream.
~
There’s blood on her hands. It feels warm on her skin, much hotter than the flesh. It’s not just on her hands, she realizes. It’s splattered on her face and she can feel how it must cross her left cheek.
There it is too, she thinks when she looks down, dark and sticky against the metal links. Gendry made these. He was there, too.
He strides into the tent an hour later, the screams of the wounded and the dying behind him. There’s a bandage on his arm and the right side of his face is a mess of purple.
She sends him a toothy grin and the tension leaves his shoulders.
Fandom: ASOIAF
Characters/Pairing: Arya Stark, Gendry {Arya/Gendry}
These violent young lovers carry everything their own way - Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice
The blood is still thrumming through his veins, pounding in his ears like a war drum. Arya skulks into the tent behind him and he can picture the look on her face without having to turn around.
She’s more wolf than woman, that one, they say in the camp. He hides a smile and feels the scratches on his back more sharply.
~
Their coupling is all teeth and nails and growls and blood. Blood on his back, on her shoulders, in their veins. Sometimes, she thinks there’s too much blood and in those moments all she can see is red.
~
They’re worth a song, at least, he thinks when Arya falls asleep beside him. Something harsh and vicious, fitting for a battle.
She whimpers, a helpless sound, like a wounded animal and he curls around her.
~
When he was a boy, newly arrived at Master Mott’s forge, he’d dream about how someday he’d be a master, have a wife, kind and fair.
He’s a man grown and he uses the swords he makes. He doesn’t have a wife, but there is a woman, ruthless and dark, who wears chainmail and scars and carries a sword and comes and goes as she pleases.
It’s better than a dream.
~
There’s blood on her hands. It feels warm on her skin, much hotter than the flesh. It’s not just on her hands, she realizes. It’s splattered on her face and she can feel how it must cross her left cheek.
There it is too, she thinks when she looks down, dark and sticky against the metal links. Gendry made these. He was there, too.
He strides into the tent an hour later, the screams of the wounded and the dying behind him. There’s a bandage on his arm and the right side of his face is a mess of purple.
She sends him a toothy grin and the tension leaves his shoulders.