Bracing herself against the rough wood of the headboard, Asha lets out a sharp gasp as he enters her, thrusting against her from behind, hands gripping her waist so tightly that she knows that tomorrow she will find bruises in the shape of Victarion’s fingers decorating her body. From her position, she cannot see his face or the way that he clenches his teeth when he lies with her, but she can hear his breath hissing through his tight jaw, harsh with the effort and the sensation, and she can picture his face, a hard mask, more suitable to the battlefield than the bedroom. But Asha doesn’t mind. She’s not quite sure how this whole thing with her nuncle started and doesn’t really think about it much. Just that one day she was a niece, a girl who could heft an axe as well as any man on Pyke, and the next, she was a lover.
But she scorns Greenlander words like that, Greenlander mooning over lords and ladies and their affections. She rather likes how rough and ungainly things are, enjoying the sweat that dampens her hair, the way that her muscles tense and cramp as Victarion threatens to crush her between his body and the bed. She shivers as his hand wanders from her waist to her throat, only lighting there for a moment, looking for a better place to rest as they move together in the dark.
And when it takes hold of her hair, tugging almost too hard, pulling her head back, she forgets herself, forgets where they are, and lets out a moan so loud that she knows that someone surely heard it. But Asha doesn’t really care about that either and lets it echo as she feels him pull out, spending himself elsewhere so as not to beget some abomination only fit to cast down to the Drowned God.
They fall to the bed and Victarion admonishes her.
“Hold your tongue, woman,” he mutters, face dark now with disapproval, but Asha only laughs, lolling on her side, enjoying the discomfort on her nuncle’s face.
“Don’t you want everyone to know how well you please your lovers, nuncle?” she asks, smirking, a bold hand reaching out to toy with his hair, unbound, lying tangled in his face, over his chest, covering the broad muscles that she loves to touch so well.
He grabs her hand then, pinning it to the bed, and a few stray hairs still remain clutched in her fingers. “You would do well to keep silent, niece,” he blusters, “for if your father were to discover what we do-” He doesn’t finish the thought but Asha can read his thoughts well, and can well imagine the cold look on Balon’s face if he were to discover them as they are, the swift fist that would likely rend her nuncle’s pleasing yet harsh features, the voice that would cast them both out, exiles, and what good would that be.
She enjoys getting the best of him, but is far too practical to risk a good thing. Still, her father? There are better things to think of when they are naked, their muscles singing from the exertion, and Asha sighs, rolling her eyes, and climbs on top of him, ready for another go, stifling her laughter when he shoves her to the mattress.
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timeasmymeasure
Practicality, Victarion/Asha
Date: 2013-01-29 03:02 am (UTC)But she scorns Greenlander words like that, Greenlander mooning over lords and ladies and their affections. She rather likes how rough and ungainly things are, enjoying the sweat that dampens her hair, the way that her muscles tense and cramp as Victarion threatens to crush her between his body and the bed. She shivers as his hand wanders from her waist to her throat, only lighting there for a moment, looking for a better place to rest as they move together in the dark.
And when it takes hold of her hair, tugging almost too hard, pulling her head back, she forgets herself, forgets where they are, and lets out a moan so loud that she knows that someone surely heard it. But Asha doesn’t really care about that either and lets it echo as she feels him pull out, spending himself elsewhere so as not to beget some abomination only fit to cast down to the Drowned God.
They fall to the bed and Victarion admonishes her.
“Hold your tongue, woman,” he mutters, face dark now with disapproval, but Asha only laughs, lolling on her side, enjoying the discomfort on her nuncle’s face.
“Don’t you want everyone to know how well you please your lovers, nuncle?” she asks, smirking, a bold hand reaching out to toy with his hair, unbound, lying tangled in his face, over his chest, covering the broad muscles that she loves to touch so well.
He grabs her hand then, pinning it to the bed, and a few stray hairs still remain clutched in her fingers. “You would do well to keep silent, niece,” he blusters, “for if your father were to discover what we do-” He doesn’t finish the thought but Asha can read his thoughts well, and can well imagine the cold look on Balon’s face if he were to discover them as they are, the swift fist that would likely rend her nuncle’s pleasing yet harsh features, the voice that would cast them both out, exiles, and what good would that be.
She enjoys getting the best of him, but is far too practical to risk a good thing. Still, her father? There are better things to think of when they are naked, their muscles singing from the exertion, and Asha sighs, rolling her eyes, and climbs on top of him, ready for another go, stifling her laughter when he shoves her to the mattress.