literature

.:Quiet:.

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Literature Text

He couldn't ever remember such a quiet.

There is always a fire roaring in the forge, or the clip-clop of horses outside, or people talking. Never quiet. Never such a quiet as this.

He supposes footsteps will sound outside the door soon, despite that the world is still dark outside the window. The slight breeze wandering through the spaces in the wooden shutters cools the sweat on his skin, flutters the sheets they're both tangled in. His strong arms, corded in muscle from year in the forge, wrap easily around her slim waist, the calloused palms hot on her cool skin. With his cheek pressed into her spine, he can hear each strong, steady breath go into and out of her lungs, and he imagines he can hear her life's blood flow through her veins.

So quiet now, when only moments ago she was alive and writhing and kissing and tugging and teasing and loving him. Moments ago her cool skin was alight with pleasure, burned with passion. Moments ago, when they were one.

He shivers with the cool breeze, and she pays it no mind, turning her head, her braid fluttering and brushing his cheek. She rests her cheek--still flushed, he notes with pride--against the pillow bunched up under her arms, laying on her flat belly.

They are one, he knows. He doesn't have to be in her to know they are one. Looks, long and lingering, quick and fleeting, he knows what's in her eyes, what the set of her shoulders means, when her ghosts are haunting her. She knows, she knows when he's thinking of his mother long-lost, of the father that never claimed him, of the thousands of paths his life could have taken. He wonders if she knows how very blessed he considers himself that it took this one.

She's so cool under him, so cool, while he teeters on the edge of hot and cold, her skin is so cool and so soft. Like snow. Winterfell has made the Starks impervious to cold, he suspects, because she just continues to sleep.

In a couple hours Winterfell will awaken, and everything will return to normal. He'll go to the forge, beating swords and smoothing armor while he thinks of her laugh, her glare, her biting wit, her. He'll have to steal away to see her later when he can no longer stand the distance. Sansa will disapprove. Jon while pretend that he doesn't know, but those soft smiles are not for the ignorant. Arya will practice her bow, swing her sword, roam the woods with Nymeria, and he will pause, once again thanking the old gods and the new that he gets to see her as she was meant to be.

But here, where there is nothing but the flush on her cheeks, her braid dangerously close to coming undone, her soft breath, the coldness outside the window, and the woman made of snow and ice and heat, it's quiet.

It's quiet.
I love Game of Thrones.
I love Gendry/Arya.
And if I don't get these feels out of my system, I'll die, I swear.
© 2012 - 2024 CheshireGrinn
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NeonBasketcase's avatar
Simply gawjuss. Gendrya is for sure my OTP and this was just lovely!!

Roxy Leigh x