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They were like a fever that needed to be sweated out.
When two people were as alone as they were, sometimes need became magnetic. She was a woman and he was a man, and eventually they had discovered it with their hands and their lips and their hungry mouths. Their stars had been crossed and their fates had been sealed back when he was just a stupid bastard blacksmith boy and she a lost princess in a borrowed dress with dirt on her knees.
They’d lost control, patience, their resolve for anything or anyone other than him and her. Gendry hadn’t meant for it to happen, neither of them had. But some things were just elemental, chemical, transcendent, and the universe didn’t wait for them to figure it out. Their indiscretion had been a smear on her thigh before either of them had stopped to ask what they were doing. It had just… happened.
Sometimes the look in her eyes scared him, the grey gone hard and molten like steel in a flame when she’d force herself down on his cock, to take the last fractions of his length and then demand more, deeper, harder. This need was frightening and consuming and he wondered if there’d be anything left in the end.
~
Sometimes it scared her. Not Gendry, never Gendry. He’d never hurt her, even when she begged him to in a gasp, just a little bit. But sometimes during she’d cry anyway, the pleasure so keen that the tears would form at the corners of her eyes and she’d have to bury her face in the pillow to hide them. Sometimes she’d have to think herself someplace else when there was too much, too much ecstasy, too much of him when he’d pound into her relentlessly and drive the fires higher instead of quenching the heat.
And afterwards she’d weep because she felt a bit raw when they had finished, the emotional sting sharper than the one between her legs, where her rough fingernails had made it sore when she tried to make it stop. It made her feel empty and alone, the loss of him from inside of her. There was something to be said about not letting go of all of yourself the way that they had. But they didn’t know, didn’t know it was going to be like this. No one had warned them about what it meant to be in passion’s clutches, taken up completely with nothing left to give after. But when being alive hurt you learned to take what good there was in the world when you found it, and they had made this discovery together and it was theirs. No one could ever take it from them. Nothing would ever hurt as good as this.
So she wore him on her skin and kept him in her heart. His ardor dried on her breasts, the smooth white skin near her navel, and the dimples at the base of her spine. Her teeth left kisses on his neck and his shoulder, where she bit him to muffle her scream when he’d wring out one last climax. The scratches on his back striped him like whip marks, but she served the same master and Arya needed to feel Gendry’s fingers knotted in her hair and his hands bruising her hips more than she had ever needed anything before.
After the rapture they’d lay in each other’s arms boneless and exhausted but not yet sated.