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End of Days

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The lad's arse is tight around Bronn's fingers, and the noises he's making could wake the dead. First timer, no sense of self preservation. Not here in the woods where any manner of straggling farmhand or wandering septon could come and find them. The wars are raging around the whole of Westeros and yet all some men care about is where another man chooses to put his prick.

Podrick is moaning and whimpering, body tense and taut from where he can feel Bronn's digits moving inside of him, knocking sparks of pleasure out of his prostate. They're fucking against a tree, the least ceremonious of all places for Bronn to take this boy's virginity, but it serves its purpose, providing Podrick something firm and immovable to cling to.

Bronn doesn't bother with boys - or men - really. Too much work, really, even if you were to go ahead like some of the men of the Night's Watch have done and rape their way into any willing or available hole without a thought for preparation. Bronn is that considerate at least. He doesn't want to hurt the lad.

His fingers are coated in spit and some Tyroshi oil that was acting as the closest thing to lubricant, and he's done. Bronn's cock has been straining through the fabric of his trousers for a good ten minutes now, getting steadily closer to the edge as he works Podrick something fierce.

He's glad he picked him up. The lad - no more than fifteen - had been found wondering after the attacks on Kings Landing, lost and lonely and desperate for a master. For a friend. Bronn had been aching for a good fuck and someone to help carry supplies and if he'd rather it'd been Alayaya or Jade, it doesn't matter now.

Bronn slicks his cock with the oil once he's freed his prick from the confines of his garments and begins to slowly push his way into Pod's arse, slick and hot and tight and everything good in this rotten world. Pod's own cock is rising to attention once more, pink and slick with Bronn's spit because he likes to work his partner up, man or woman.

He begins to fuck into Bronn, hands gripping the boy's hips as he works up a pace, cock jutting into Podrick's prostate so that the lad's moans increase, loud enough to be heard by anyone within a mile, Bronn reckons.

When the war is over, and Bronn is secure in a land he'll call his own, he's going to keep Podrick. Of that much, he's sure; the lad is loyal and sweet and not a terminal fool and not to mention blessed with a mouth perfect for sucking cock as he's learned over these past few days. He might even take him on as a husband or such like - it all depends on if they can survive this war, these blood red skies and rumours of dragons.

Yes. He likes the sound of that.

Bronn reaches around Podrick's hip to grasp his cock and starts to stroke him, his mouth biting a brand of ownership into the pale skin of Pod's neck.

Bronn intends for them both to survive, and his word is law.