song_of_ice | Duplicity Inbox

She has a way of shifting the situation to her advantage, not that this was a loss for him at all. The kiss was a consummation, an agreement that they shouldn't continue deny what they wanted. But all at once, it grew more passionate and hungry. Before he can see it happening, he is against the wall and her thigh is brushing against his hardened cock.

He pulled at her robe, pressing several kisses to her shoulders and neck, a grin clear in his voice. "I told you it needed to be continually reapplied." A thumb brushes over the top of her breast.

"Is yours gone?"

There's not much to pull. The black fabric of the robe is flimsy at best, a poor excuse for anything to really hide what she's wearing beneath from sight. He's teasing her with his thumb, so she curls her fingers around his, hooking them on the top of her nightgown, and gives a tug so he can see for himself.

"Nearly." Her head's still spinning from the kisses to her neck and shoulder. "Whose fault is it for not doing his job?"

He's hard already, his length tenting the pants he wears as it brushes against her bare thigh.

"Wait," she manages, before this gets out of hand. (Too late for that.) "I need you to sit."

He desperately wants to continue, to tear off her flimsy nightgown and bare her skin completely for his greedy gaze. It's almost painful to let her go and harder to move towards his bedroom. They had fucked on the couch before, the time for that had passed. He wanted her in a bed, a place where they could be naked and in each other's arms.

"I'll remember my duty from now on." Thankfully there was no choice between love and duty with her. He perched on the edge of the bed, his hands running down her arms as he looked up at her with wonder and an overwhelming affection. The intensity and the inevitability hitting him at full force as he looked up at her.

"Why sit?" He asked, pressing his head against her belly, his arms moving to wrap around hers.

It is harder to separate, she'll admit to that, but if they don't, she can't do what she wants to him... and she really, really wants to make this up to him. Not because she feels guilty--she'd faced her own troubles with this and needed to come to her realizations--but because up until now, their interactions had been so much taking. She couldn't claim to be in love, but she felt strong enough about him to grow jealous at the thought of him with others. To miss him. To do quite a few things in her spare time whilst thinking about him.

She steps between his legs, fingers fanning through his hair as he presses his head against her belly. She watches him, a faint smile in place.

"Well you can lean back on your bed." A light push to his shoulder. "I need you to be comfortable."

Holding her had been comforting in a way that being with Ygritte hadn't. Laying next to her at night, sometimes he still felt alone. With Daenerys, she consumed so much of his thoughts and being. It was difficult to forget where he was or who was with him, the shadows of their world were dispelled under her attentions. Warmer than moonlight and more luminescent than a campfire.

His legs spread to make way for her. Without objection, he fell back against the bed, his damp shirt raising goosebumps over his skin. His cocked twitched in anticipation, suspecting what she was planning to do.

"And now?"

That was a dramatic flop. It has her grinning as she shrugs out of her little robe, which soundlessly tumbles to the floor by their feet.

"Promise to behave." She presses a knee to either side of his hips. On all fours above him, chunks of hair lightly brushing against his chest, she nudges one side of his shirt away, revealing those terrible, terrible scars.

Having prepared herself, she doesn't stare, but leans down to press a kiss to his collarbone. And the kissings continue: sternum, across his chest, a moment as tongue, lips, and teeth tease his nipple. So close she gets to the worst of the scars, for a moment, she almost forgets. But he'd responded that day, and if what she thinks--

A simple kiss against puckered skin. One, two, warm breaths puffing from between her lips as she showers the scar in kisses, listening and occasionally looking up to she how he's reacting.

"Should I swear by my sword?" He teased her, curling a strand of her hair around his finger. She was so soft, not only her hair and skin, but her kind heart and beautiful smile. They may not be holding each other as they had in her apartment, but every glance at her brought a new image he wanted to burn in his mind.

He leans his head back as her lips travel down his torso. Hands tangled against her nightgown, bunching it into a fist as desire started to grow more in him. Suddenly, he can feel a sharp shock to his scar. The kiss might be small, but the response wasn't. He gasped loudly, feeling his cock twitch excitedly.

The heat combated the natural cold that seemed to emanate from them. Suddenly, the violence and fear of that day was gone, replaced by hypnotizing desire and all consuming lust. His grip tightened on her.

"Fuck," he whispered, biting down on his lip.

He doesn't receive an answer for that, merely a Look. There and gone as she focuses on her kisses, intermittently watching as he tilts his head back. She thinks the hands fisting the thin and flimsy fabric of her gown is enough encouragement to continue.

That gasp must be. Maybe? It's difficult to tell when he's cursing--something she's not heard uttered past his lips much. She's not settled on his lap, she she doesn't feel the way his cock twitches, or how hard he is. If she did, she wouldn't be lifting her head to look at him.

"All right?" she whispers, voice throatier.

He wasn't able to fully answer, the curse taking the last of his ability to talk. He nodded fervently, staring at her with eyes that had shifted from brown to an inky blackness. His breathing was rapid, eager and excited for more.

He loosened his grip on her nightgown, worried about suddenly tearing it if she should continue these attentions. His head leaned back against the mattress again, his body heavy and tense with desire.

"Yes." He managed to whisper.

She watches him a moment longer, eyes darting over his features, memorizing this look of his. Those scars were ugly, terrible things--but the way he reacted to her touching them had been curious. Not flinching away, but responsive.

Never in all her years of life would she have believed a man to grow aroused by attentions lavished to battle wounds. She presses another kiss to his skin, tongue darting out to trace the edge. Then she moves to the next.

It continues, her taking her time covering each in kisses and licks, with the occasional grazing of her teeth. By this point, she's felt his cock as she's moved down his body; it's his reactions, however, the noises he makes, which has her body responding in kind. An aching heat between her legs, the first beginnings of arousal as she grows wet listening to him, feeling him beneath her hands and mouth.

Lower, and he hooks her fingers to the waist of his pants and coaxes them down his hips. A quiet tut when she sees her mark is missing.

"You need a new one," she murmurs, tracing his hip bone with her nails.

It wasn't something that he had considered or even believed could arouse him. He disliked that side of himself, the soldier and swordsman, the man that had taken so many lives that they had all begun to blend together. It exhausted him, drained him of feeling and simply left him numb. He never thought his scars would bring any good feelings. They were born from ugliness and violence.

Yet she had managed to find away to take away the cruelty and malice, warming his skin with her lips. It was almost as though she were drawing out the ice that lingered, the steel that had been embedded and buried in him.

He's responsive to each kiss, touch and breath that caresses him. While he doesn't curse like he did before, he does murmur encouragement and struggles to catch his breath. His fingers flex and release as he wars between gripping her tightly and trying to preserve her nightgown.

He grinned as she pulled down his trousers, tracing where his mark was before. "It's been unattended for some time."

"What're we to do about that..." she murmurs, swirling her tongue in the dip where his bone juts out. "It's the same with this one."

She arches her back enough to drag her fingers along the outline of her gown, which has ridden down, baring the rise of a breast. Her look is exaggeratedly sad. No mark, she seems to say with her eyes.

Instead of leaning in to mark him, she sinks lower. He's slipped out of his pants, the head of his shaft damp with precum. Ignored as she presses a kiss to the base of his cock, her fingers curling around his length. Another kiss. Higher, higher. The same sort of attention paid to this part of him as she had his scars, until she reaches the head of him.

"Has this been unattended to?" she asks, stupidly, regretting the question instantly. So she wraps her mouth around his head, dragging the tip of her tongue along his slit.

"What can be done?" He asked, giving a huff as her tongue swirled about his skin. She was teasing him, taunting him with the promise of another mark and the blemish that he hadn't looked after for some time. He would be sure to bite deeper and harder than before. If she disappears for another two weeks, it would at least stay.

He expected her to kiss his hips again, but instead she shifted towards the more pressing matter between his legs. He suspected this was what she was planning, though it had never been done to him before. He always gave the lord's kiss, but this...no one had bothered.

Another chuckle. She was treading into a topic that was dangerous for them both, given their tempers and jealousy. And with her holding his cock, he wasn't about to risk anything. Fortunately, he didn't need to lie. "No one has kissed there before. Not here, not Westeros."

The taste of precum is enough to have her exhaling sharply through her nose. Instead of stopping, she greedily laps the taste of him up, giving one long suck to the head of his cock before releasing him. No one's showered him in attentions like this? "Good."

She's no qualms with voicing that possessively. And almost as if she's rewarding him, she returns her attentions back to his cock seconds later. Wrapping her lips around him, pressing her tongue flat along the base of him as she takes him a touch deeper, a hand wrapping around the base of his shaft.

Some might say a queen shouldn't pleasure men with her mouth. Some might even say it's beneath her to do so. They might be right--about most men. But just like fire is power, so is pleasuring a lover. There's nothing submissive about this as she begins a slow bob of her head, her hair tumbling over her shoulders and against his thighs. Nothing submissive at all about bringing a lover pleasure with one's mouth.

Doreah might've taught her about the eyes, but it was making men like Drogo and Daario break that taught her what real power was like.

And yet, she's not so concerned about making Jon break to exert her power over him....so much as she is about him enjoying this.

His heart sprints in his chest, racing ahead of his breath as he felt her lips wrap around his cock. He had only known his hands there before, but the softness of her mouth was a sharp contrast. There were no callouses, no heat of the skin, only breath against his shaft and the wetness of her tongue.

He shivered, swallowing as he gave himself over into her hands. There was no greater power he could give her than the ability to bring him greater pleasure than he had known before, no control of his own, lying back and letting her decide pace and whether he could cum at all.

She would make him break just by this alone. It wasn't lost on him that she was doing this, not as a queen but as a lover, someone who viewed him as enough an equal that she would be vulnerable like this with him.

"Dany..." he whispered as his chest and stomach tightened, pressure building in him. His hips rocked up eagerly, careful not to fill her mouth completely, but needing more.

She's slow at first, adjusting to his length in her mouth. A slow and steady pace as she skirts the lines of how deep she can try to swallow him down before it becomes too much and she gags. The patience to her is near surprising, even to herself... but there's a need to do this properly, if there even is a way to go about it so.

Just as she listened when she lathered his scars in attention, so too does she listen now, taking note of the ways he reacts. That eagerness is still restrained as he rocks up into her mouth, and he's rumbling something. Dany. She presses her free hand down against his hip to control how much he's able to move, and in return, tightens the hand around the base of his cock, giving a long and hard suck.

And then she's sucking him even more eagerly, her saliva coating more of him the more she sucks him off, her hand, the base of him. The ache between her legs is near unbearable with her need to have him fill her, to feel his hard and unforgiving thrusts and his teeth on her tit. It goes ignored as she hums around him when she dares to take him a little deeper in her mouth.

The smell of her is strong in the air. He can sense her shifting, his senses heightened for any sign or move that points to her arousal. A clench of her legs, a rock of her hips, anything. It only serves to make his cock twitch more, dribbling at the thought of her needing and wanting him as much as he needed and wanted her.

She hums around him, adding further friction and sensation. He groans louder, reaching for the hand that is against his hip. Fingers tangle with her hers, clinging to her as more and more of his footing was lost. His eyes were clenched shut, giving himself over to feel, that ache between his leg and the throbbing heat that was building in his groin.

He doesn't want it to end, he doesn't want to finish yet. He wants to take her and drive into her again and again, but it's too much, she's too much. He can feel his body warning him, struggling to maintain its hold. "I'm close."

There's a point one reaches--one she's reached multiple times--where all else falls away save the sensation of nearing orgasm. It's as if the entire world's been frozen in place: no wars, no duties, just the evasive sensation of relief crashing over the body. When he tangles their fingers together, his groans so loud and delicious, she knows he's soaring straight to that point.

And yet he still tries to warn her. She pumps him with her fist, his cock slipping out of her mouth as she looks him in the eye. "Cum then."

Simple as that, she's wrapping her lips around him again, falling back into that pace, squeezing him, pumping him, sucking him harder than before. She wants him to shatter, to roar, to fill her mouth with the taste of his seed. It takes her a moment to coax their hands up his body, and it won't be the largest, ugliest scar she drags her nails against, but one of the smaller ones.

If her words weren't enough, it's her nails on his scars that does it. He tries desperately to keep still, but the sensations are overpowering and his hips rock up instinctively, unable to remain in place with that burning, powerful force shooting through his groin.

He cries out a mix of words, all of them running together in a rush. Her name, the Seven Hells and even the old gods and new are jumbled together as he trembles, shooting fully into her mouth. The ringing in his ears is louder and his hand grips hers tightly. He's riveted in place, unable to move under the force of it all.

When finally he's finished and the last of his orgasm is ridden through, he lies back against the bed, struggling for breath. Slowly his hearing returns, his breaths defeaning in the silence. He reaches for her, tugging her towards the bed so he can hold her again.

It almost seems as if he'll fly off the bed. His cry is a garbled number of words combined into something unintelligible. Sharp and loud, a promise to draw anyone who might've been in his apartment straight to his room. None come.

And she's swallowing the taste of him down, relishing even that one and simple taste of him. His cock is soft when she leans back. A kiss is placed to the warm flesh, and she wipes the corners of her mouth from any remnants of her saliva. Watching him all the while.

She's half a mind to finger herself to the sight of him like this. Already, her nipples are stiff little buds pressed against the smooth red fabric of her nightgown... which has ridden up her legs. Before he's with it enough to tug her to him, she readjusts the fabric.

Beside him, she gently traces the edge of a scar, watching him. "I didn't think they'd be so sensitive."

His arms wrap around her as he pulls her close. Her nipples are like pebbles against his side, hard with arousal. It was such a small, simple thing, but it still gives him a surge of pride. His fingers brush against her hair, caressing her cheek with his thumb, staring down at her with reverence and a swell of emotion. There wasn't a name to it, only the strength and power that rolled through him.

His naked legs are still dangling off the edge of the bed, but he didn't bother to shift or move. It was likely beyond his power anyway. He wasn't certain he had muscles anymore, only a sense of peace that he had briefly glimpsed before, now surrounding and cradling him close.

He shivers under her touch, nuzzling against her temple as any satisfied wolf might. "They still haven't healed completely." It was hard to say the reason that they were so sensitive, but even the scrape of fabric against them made goose flesh rise along his skin. "I don't really touch or look at them, so they don't get very much stimulation."

It's a gentler thing when he pulls her closer. Not the impatient tug of a lover wishing to fuck further, or a man whose desire has been slaked and wishes to sleep. The way Jon strokes her cheek is a gentle touch she's not had in some time. He nuzzles her. It's his eyes, though--

They seem to look straight through her, deep into her core. They're soft and kind, the same as in her apartment two weeks ago, and she feels that same need to move. It could be that she's still aroused over him making her wish to squirm as well, but that look... She presses up to her elbow, looking down at him. Briefly in the eye, and then her gaze dips lower as she studies his scars, still smoothing her fingers against them.

Only when he mentions their lack of healing does she quickly pull her hand away. "Should I not touch them?"

He grabs hold of her hand, urging it back to his chest. It was a strange thing to wish for someone to touch them. There was so much pain, anger and violence connected to his scars, but under her hands, they weren't as terrible to bear. He had been embarrassed and afraid for her to see, but now that she had, he felt whole. As though she truly saw him.

"It will take time for them to heal fully. They're too deep." But she wouldn't infect him, he meant. If the Battle of the Bastards hadn't left them oozing with pus, then her gentle touch wasn't going to do that. He'd rather have her hand stroking against his chest than the cold air tickling against his drying sweat.

"Stay tonight."

It's not as reassuring as he might hope. He gives his answer, and perhaps they won't become infected; he's gone this long, his chest not wrapped either now, or back in her room. That doesn't mean he doesn't wrap them, though. And what if they did get infected? He might've been resurrected once, but there was no Red Priestess here to do it a second time.

He eases her hand back to his chest, but she's curling her fingers into a fist on an unblemished part of him. No Red Priestess, and she wouldn't allow another magic user to try and heal him if those scars became troublesome.

"Do you think that's wise?" she asks him, voice quiet. She meets his eyes again.

He never had someone worry over him like this before. Even in his childhood, he had to look after himself. Any fevers, scarps or bruises weren't fussed over the same way they were for the Stark children. The Wall had taught him self reliance, pushing him to seek healers when they were needed, otherwise he couldn't carry out his duties. While he had visitors, they didn't hover or show the sort of concern that Dany did now.

It was surreal and overwhelming, giving him the same fluttery anticipation that she seemed to experience. He could always charge ahead into battle without thinking about someone waiting for him. Even at Winterfell, he knew Sansa was determined to look after herself. There wasn't the same sense of someone relying on him, not in that way...

He gave her wrist a squeeze, trying to be reassuring. Another thing out of his experience. "I rolled in mud, blood and shit. I was covered with bodies while men climbed over me in an effort to escape Ramsay Bolton's men. Nothing happened to these scars. They have closed as much as they will for now. Your fingers aren't going to make them worse."

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