Saturday, June 11, 2016

A Jon Snow Lemon -- Bewitch

Character: Jon Snow

Fandom: Game of Thrones

OC: Ayanna, golden hair, blue eyes, playful

Inspiration:  Cause Jon Snow is perfect in every way :)

It snowed for three days straight.  On the morning of the forth, the ground was layered with a mountain of white.  There was also twice as much work as normal, as shovels were handed around and pathways were cleared.  Ladies did not do such work; it was the men who labored to move the piles of snow off the rooftops and stairs.  But there was nothing that prohibited said ladies from observing.
Jon Snow made quite the sight, more so because he had taken his fur cloak off due to the intensity of the labor.  He had already worked up a sweat, and had stripped down to his thin gray undershirt.  His musculature was inspiring, though his red nose and cheeks were rather counterproductive in terms of producing a more masculine effect. 
No matter – what he presently lacked in masculinity, he made up for in all other areas, and no one could ever claim that Jon Snow was not a man.  Least of all Ayanna.  Besides, she rather liked the boyish charm that he was achieving at the moment.  It was just as attractive.
Then again, nearly everything he did was attractive to her.
A smirk drifted over Ayanna’s features as she stepped out onto the landing above him.  He was alone, for now – the other men were working on shoving the heavy snow from the roof of the stables on the other side of the courtyard.  Small favors.  She didn’t need anyone else privy to the conversation (or there lack of) that she intended to have with him.
“Well aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” Ayanna called from above, her voice carrying just enough to reach his ears and no one else’s.  Jon paused, frowned, and looked up.  The brooding way his dark eyes locked with hers made her tilt her head in amusement.  Always so serious.
His eyes traveled over her briefly, taking note of her thick woolen dress and the customary fur collar she wore around her neck.  She looked just the same as ever: fresh, mischievous, and shivering.  Her southern blood had yet to get used to the frigid northern winters despite having been in the north for the better part of her life.
As always, the sight of her shivering form gave way to the instinctual desire to hold her and breathe his warmth into her.  He resisted, naturally.  They were, after all, in a very public place.
“Don’t you have chores to do?” he asked instead, leaning against the handle of his shovel as he peered up at her.  She made quite a sight too, with all that golden hair tumbling over her shoulders. 
Ayanna leaned her elbows onto the railing and blinked down at him, not even trying to hide the way her eyes roved over his body.  He pretended not to notice (naturally) and was glad, at least, that the cold air was good for one thing: it did a very good job at hiding the slight blush that spread over his cheeks from her attention.
He wouldn’t normally admit that he sometimes got a little nervous around her.  He’d rather die than give Ayanna any reason to laugh at him.  Her mischievous spirit was just a part of her nature, and she often found amusement in small things.  Still, her interest in him constantly baffled him.  She was highborn, a young woman of considerable status, at least in comparison to him.  And yet she had no qualms with sharing kisses (and occasionally her bed) with a bastard son.  So yes, he did get nervous around her occasionally, because he could never really figure out why she didn’t extend her attention to a man more compatible to her station.
Ayanna smirked and made her way down the stairs to where he stood at the bottom.  As she stepped down to his level, he couldn’t help but think that, despite her rather plain garments today, she looked every bit the lady that she was.  Proud, strong, and lovely – her hot blooded nature could have melted the entirety of Winterfell.
“I finished those hours ago,” she said with a wave of her hand.  His expression turned skeptical.
There was always work to be done.  One was never finished with chores, even a lady such as herself.  He knew from his sisters that a southern lady’s definition of ‘chores’ had more to do with sitting around a warm fire embroidering, but Winterfell was not the south.  The women here had a more active role in day to day life. 
Ayanna paused, no doubt reading his thoughts just from the expression on his face.  She could read him fairly well by now, regardless of his constantly brooding eyes.  Then again, such a degree of understanding often came naturally when intimacy was involved.
She laughed and admitted, “Alright, so I decided to take a break.  Get some fresh air.”  She shrugged.
A chuckle swept passed his lips and he gave her a rare smile.  “Fresh air?  It’s below freezing.” 
The reminder seemed to make her shiver more intensely, and he very nearly reached out to touch her arm, only just barely refraining.
Ayanna’s mischievous smile widened into a downright sinful smirk.  She drawled, “I thought I’d drag you inside for a little while.  I only need…oh, half an hour of your time.  Preferably.”
In hindsight, Jon really should have expected every bit of the reckless mischief that Ayanna was suggesting.  He should have known what she wanted just from the look in her eyes.  But his mind was muddled from the cold and her presence, his thoughts (and common sense) scattered to the frigid wind like so many snowflakes.  And so he agreed, not quite understanding the full extent of her plans for him until they were already inside.
Ayanna led him down the busy halls of Winterfell, not stopping until she reached the north wing, where the bedrooms were.  It was much quieter than the other bustling areas of the estate.  Being the middle of afternoon as it was, no one was in their rooms and the maids had long finished with their customary cleaning.
Understanding was beginning to trickle into Jon the farther she pulled him.
He glanced at her with a raised eyebrow.  “I hope you don’t intend for me to help you clean,” he said dryly, giving her the out.  As expected, she didn’t take it and he didn’t really want her to.
The words had barely left his lips before Ayanna suddenly pushed him rather forcibly against the closest wall, and his next sentence died on his tongue at her unanticipated proximity.  It certainly did have a substantial affect on him, despite this not being the first (or last) of their encounters.
She gave him a small smile and murmured, “I didn’t drag you all the way here to help me clean.”
She was inches from him and he swallowed, fingers tightening reflexively around her waist, where they ended up during her sudden move.  He pursed his lips.
“I don’t exactly have time right now, Ayanna,” he said, but didn’t push her away.
His eyes gleamed with interest, and she knew that no matter how much he complained, Jon would never say no to one of their trysts.  He just liked playing hard to get.
She raised an eyebrow and whispered, “Like I said, I only need half an hour.”
He snorted.  “That sounded like an insult to my stamina.”
Ayanna merely laughed, amused at his words.  She twisted her hands down his body with a smirk, and traced along the edge of his pants.  If she looked mischievous before, she looked downright wicked now.
He narrowed his eyes at her and asked, “What are you planning?” 
His suspicion was not unwarranted: she often got him into situations that he never would have allowed before meeting her, and this particular one seemed to follow the same reckless path.
Ayanna raised an eyebrow, pressing her body into his with an almost feral smile.  For a lady, she certainly had several less than ladylike qualities, but that was what had initially attracted him to her in the first place.  And now…well, Jon had never much liked fine, aristocratic women.  Ayanna was just reckless enough to fit into an entirely different category.
She was fire enflamed with passion, searing a path straight through to his heart each and every time her presence became a distraction – and every time it didn’t.  And that fire wasn’t just reaching his heart at that moment.
His body thundered to life at the insistent press of hers.  He clutched at her waist and shuddered a heavy breath, wanting nothing more than to kiss her.  But propriety, as always, held him back, and Jon merely blinked at her even as the rest of him screamed for action.  Fortunately, Ayanna seemed to have varying ideas of what propriety was.
She breathed in, and breathed out.  Her face was centimeters from his own, her lips beckoning him forward with each inhale.  She was warm and lovely.  Her hair was gentle gold that simmered from the cold lighting that spilled through the snowy windows; her mouth full and void of the customary rouge that she tended to favor.  He always liked it whenever she forwent staining her lips.  Kissing her bare mouth was a luxury he could hardly live without.
“My plans involve my bedroom and a cup of tea.  Join me, Jon,” she murmured, and then winked as she pulled away.  Her hands delicately smoothed down the front of her dress, as if her teasing was a natural quality that everyone should possess, and expect.
He did expect it, of course, but the contradiction of her words left him reeling against the wall.  Tea?  Did she not drag him all this way to steal kisses and perhaps more?  Had he misread her?  No – he had only read what she wanted him to, and she had stirred his desires with an expert hand in the process.  And just when he was starting to become agreeable to her terms…
“It just came in from the supply wagon,” she was saying as she opened the door nearest to them.  She disappeared inside, voicing something about southern tea or some such thing.  Jon was barely listening.  He was still pressed against the wall, breathing a little harder than normal and wondering if he should contain his sudden desire or allow it freedom.  What sweet revenge it would be, to punish her for her teasing by doing the very thing she falsely led him to believe she wanted.
With a raised brow, Ayanna poked her head back into the hallway and wondered, “Are you coming?”  There was muted laughter growing in her eyes and he scowled at it.
With a sigh, Jon entered her chambers.  He shut the door behind him and locked it for good measure, not yet knowing what his plans for her would be but, as always, wanting to make sure he was prepared for any outcome.  Ayanna was making herself comfortable at the small rounded table by the window that overlooked the courtyard.  Jon lingered for half a moment in the center of the room before joining her. 
As she poured tea into two delicate cups, he couldn’t help but think that this was certainly not what he’d expected from her.  Then again, Ayanna had an (annoying, exhilarating, infuriatingly wonderful) tendency of overturning any and all of his expectations in a way that looked effortless.
“Half an hour?” he wondered dryly, giving her a similarly dry look that made her smirk.
“More than enough time to finish a cup of tea,” she responded with an airy shrug. 
“You are infuriating, you know that,” he muttered, not even bothering to add an inflection to the words.  It really wasn’t a question at all – her ability to send him stumbling, in one way or another, was a valid concern.  And a rueful pleasure, for them both.
She laughed, taking a sip of her fine, aristocratic southern tea. 
“And you are not very good at saying no to me,” she replied.
He glanced up at her and pursed his mouth.  “You lied to me to get me to come up here – “
“I never said why I wanted you.”
“You had that look in your eye.”
A raised brow.  “What look?”
Jon frowned, ever so serious.  “The look you get when you’re about to seduce me.”
Ayanna paused, leaning back and setting her teacup back on the table.  Jon hadn’t so much as touched his.  To be honest, he looked extremely out of place, sitting at that tiny little table set with lace doilies.  His large frame took up most of it, easily becoming a very solid, immovable entity in her chamber.  Not for the first time, and hopefully not for the last.
She tilted her head and glanced down at his attire.  His fur cloak added weight to his shoulders, and the leather doublet he wore was well fitted and hinted at the expanse of his chest beneath.  He had his hair down in his usual style, and by the looks of it, it was freshly washed.  She’d very much like to run her fingers through it.  Preferably as he was bearing down on her, perhaps with his head between her thighs – or, hips connected, thrusting hers into the floor with all the savage desire that she knew he possessed, when he was too far gone to care about gentleness.
“…That’s the look,” Jon murmured, and Ayanna blinked.  She hadn’t noticed that he was leaning forward, staring at her with those intense brown eyes of his.  A shiver erupted through her body, skittering down each limb and making her desire flare to life.  She loved those eyes, that gaze, the way his intensity could so easily awaken her as it was doing now.
She sighed, a slow exhalation that made his eyes flash.  She knew that hers were a puddle of passion, fire spreading from their confines and traveling through the air between them.  She knew that he could see it clear as day.
“It entertains me, sometimes,” she said slowly, “the way you jump to conclusions.”  Her body was beginning to spark with the beginnings of a desire she hoped would be sated before the hour was out.
He stared at her.  “What conclusion have I wrongly assumed?”
She blinked, trying very hard not to squirm in her chair.  Pressing her thighs together didn’t do much good.  She wanted him.  He knew.
“Do you really think I’d invite you into my personal quarters just to have a cup of tea with me?” she asked with a hidden smile.  She suddenly felt invigorated.  Like she could steal the world away – his world, perhaps.
Jon released a heavy breath and immediately stood.  As he closed the distance between them, he muttered, “Thank the Gods.”  A small relief, but clearly a gratifying one.
He cupped her face and kissed her, gentle at first but with a building passion that quickly turned blistering in its potency.  Ayanna moaned as the fire shot through her more intensely, turning her bones to ash.  She always felt weightless whenever he kissed her, but it was always coupled with a feeling of power, as if he was transferring some of his into her.  An equal exchange.
Before long, she was tugging at him, running her fingers through his hair as she had wanted to do and pulling him insistently into her.  The angle was awkward though – she was still sitting and he was leaning over her – and it had to be fixed. 
He seemed to be of the same mind.  With a grunt, he pulled her forcefully from the chair and into him, catching all of her weight as she stumbled into a standing position.  Their lips broke apart in the flurry of movement, and Ayanna laughed against him as she leaned into his strong arms.
“The tea was a prop,” she told him as she began to loosen his cloak.  “I didn’t want the maids to talk.  Too much,” she added just before he leaned in and kissed her again, effectively shutting down any more talk.
“I don’t care if they talk,” he groaned, pressing her body into his.  He grasped her hips tightly, hiking up her skirts and molding his hands over her stockinged legs.  His cloak dropped heavily to the floor and his tunic soon after.
“Mm…you would once we’re finished,” Ayanna said, and gasped when she felt his hands cup her ass and drag her ever closer.  She ran her fingers over his chest, over the dark hairs and down the path they made along his abdomen.  She couldn’t feel him properly, not yet, but imagined him to be hot and hard – as aroused as her, and more than ready for what she had planned.
Jon gave a throaty chuckle and murmured, “I suppose they’ll talk anyway.  This’ll take a lot longer than half an hour.”  If he had his way, he’d spend the rest of the day up here, cloistered away from the rest of the world. 
He lifted one hand to tug at the laces of her gown, not even considering the thought of removing both hands from her ass.  She was wearing nothing beneath her dress but her stockings, and the mere thought of it had his arousal peaking against the constraints of his trousers.  It was such an unladylike thing for a lady to do that he felt even crazier.
To his surprise, though, Ayanna stopped his fingers in their quest to remove her gown.  She clenched his hand in hers and said, “If you do that, then it’ll take me forever to put it all back on without help.”
Then the maids really would talk.
Jon frowned at her.  “I can help you.” 
Ayanna just chuckled and murmured, “You’re far more adept at taking my clothes off, Jon Snow.”
He considered her for a moment, building up a strategy in his head.  Such things weren’t only good for war, and he often thought in such a manner, planning everything out to the letter before making a move in any direction.  This time, he was thinking about how long they’ve been up here already, and if anyone has noticed yet, and if he would have time to have her as completely as he wanted to and wrangle that (confusingly complicated) dress back onto her figure before the hour was out.
In the end, he decided to think with his cock rather than his head, as most men did when they were faced with such an impossible choice.  (Because this was certainly impossible, and he wanted to see her bare and writhing and feel her against him and - )
“Jon!” Ayanna exclaimed with a startled gasp as both his hands joined together at her front and tore open the bust of her dress.  Her cleavage spilled out of her gown in the most savagely unladylike manner imaginable, and at once Jon was ducking his head down and capturing one pert nipple between his teeth.  His other hand was not merely massaging her breast; it was practically clutching it for dear life.  Yet the grip was not uncomfortable. 
If anything, Ayanna felt a very stark, raw need burn through her at his adamant touch.  Desperation made her tip her head back and moan throatily as he devoured her breast.  The scratch of his stubble felt heavenly against her skin, as did the way his tongue twisted over her.  She nearly forgot that she was supposed to be angry with him for his little move.  Nearly.
“Jon,” she attempted to say, hoping to sound more berating than she actually did.  Instead, her voice came out as more of a plea than anything, and Jon groaned at the sound.  He gave her a harsh suck and moved his mouth to her other breast, exchanging teeth and hands as she drowned against him.
He made her feel insane.
“Make no mistake, Jon Snow,” she panted as he tore the rest of the laces away and tugged the fabric of her gown over her hips.  “I will get back at you for this.”
His face split into a grin that took her breath away.  There was a rare, mischievous glint to his eye that had her shivering.  He was so rarely reckless – that was her job, after all – but when he found it in him to be such a man, just the sight of that boyish smile could undo her.  And so it did.
“I will take that as a promise,” he muttered, returning to his worship of her, which naturally required his total attention, because Jon never did anything halfheartedly.
He kissed her stomach, bared for him as her dress became a puddle on the floor.  His stubble scratched against her as his lips drifted over her body, kissing her hips and thighs as he slowly sunk down to his knees before her.  She knew what came next, but Ayanna was wholly unprepared for it when Jon finally cupped her ass with one hand and spread his fingers over her core.
The breathy noise that left her lips then had him moaning against her abdomen, where his mouth still lingered.  Her stockings were the sort that extended to the tops of her thighs but no further, and they allowed him complete access to her core as his fingers spread her folds and touched her in places no gentleman would dare.  But this was not a circumstance that required gentility, and though Jon was one of the most honorable men she knew, he was also passionate when he had a mind to be.  This was one of the many situations where his mind was exactly where she wanted it.
“Mm…don’t stop, Jon,” she pleaded, grasping his hair and wishing that his mouth was where his fingers were now.  Soon, she told herself.  Soon.
He exhaled deeply and murmured throatily, “I couldn’t stop even if I wanted to.” 
She laughed, in relief or pleasure, she didn’t know.
He slid his hand over her thigh and nudged it open, guiding her leg over his shoulder without any complaint.  She stood before him, hanging over him as tremors rocked through her – and they only increased as he kissed his way down to her dripping cunt.
“Jon!” she gasped, his name leaving her lips before she could rein it in.  He no doubt enjoyed the sound of it though, because as his mouth descended upon her, he took her ass in both hands, pulling her hips against his face with a devouring groan.  She nearly fell forward at that, only managing to save her fall by clawing at his shoulders and head.
“Oh,” she murmured, rocking against him just a little as his tongue delved against her.  The position didn’t allow him to truly taste her in the way he wanted to, but he made up for it by suckling at her with all the rabid desire of a man overcome by passion. 
“Let go, Ayanna,” he gruffly muttered, barely coherent as his words tangled into a muffled, unintelligible fog.  But she heard, if only because he helped her along by roughly pulling her hips forward yet again.  Her face twisted into an expression that was half desperate, half alarmed.
“But – oh!” 
Her complaints died as he dragged her into his mouth for the third time, and Ayanna really couldn’t help it.  He was intent, it seemed, on stripping her of the last of her ladylike tendencies.
She couldn’t argue with that, not when her desire was so strong.
Her hips surged forward on their own and she began to rut against his face with all the rawness of mad passion.  His name became a gasping, repeated sound that left her lips with every pass of his tongue.  His hands squeezed her ass hard, but he did not control her movements.  No – the rocking, the grinding, the rutting – that was all her.
She would have blushed a bright red if she had imagined doing this in any other moment.  These were not the actions of a lady at all.  They bordered more upon the fringes of a brothel whore, who treated such base acts as wild, lascivious hunger to be embraced without a thought.  But Jon – his mouth.  His eagerness.  It was so, so exquisite.
Her toes curled into his back, catching her weight as she gasped and writhed above his kneeling form.  He was giving pleasure just as easily as she was taking it.  His tongue stroked her cunt with hot intent, and she had no doubt that his fingers would have joined in if their position was more stable.  As it was, every second of it was torture just as much as it was pleasure, because of that reason entirely.
There was a danger to this.  She felt as if she could fall at any moment.  Just a tilt of her body, a little too far, a little too wanton, and she would stumble.  But Jon grounded her, gripping her tightly, molding himself into a platform for her passion.  He would not let her fall.
This trust propelled her forward until her orgasm was ripping through her at a force too strong to ignore, and Ayanna was desperately calling his name again and again even as it tripped past her tongue into incoherent mumbles.  He kept her steady throughout, even as she cried one last time and crumpled above him.  He guided her down onto her knees, where she collapsed with a heaving sigh and threw herself against his body.
Cooing beneath his breath, Jon murmured to her, sliding his hands over her body as Ayanna gripped his shoulders with fingers that still trembled.  Her face was buried against his neck, and the warm calluses of his fingers slowly brought her back to earth.  The world was still tilting with surreal pleasure when she lifted her head to look at him.
“Oh Jon, that was…” she trailed off.  There was no way to describe the immense satisfaction he had just given to her.  No way to explain how savagely beautiful it was, to grind herself against his mouth like that. 
The corners of his eyes crinkled up into a rare smile and he chuckled.  The expression drew her eyes down to his lips, which still gleamed with the remnants of her.  She traced a thumb over his bottom lip curiously, then leaned in to press a kiss against his mouth.  She tasted herself on him.  That alone would have been enough to make her crazy once more, but then she shifted her body and felt the insistent hardness of his erection press up against her thigh, and the world was lost yet again in tides of misplaced color. 
He breathed out hard when he felt her rub against him.  Pleasure shot through him; a desperate clawing effect that had him more on edge than ever before.  He could not remember a time where he was as lustful as he was now.  He seemed to get harder with every second, until it was an almost painful pressure riding up against the clinging fabric of his trousers.
“Ayanna…” he murmured, unsure if he was warning or encouraging her.  When she reached down to press her hand against his clothed length, he decided that encouragement was definitely better.
With a surge of muscle, Jon was on his feet.  He all but heaved Ayanna into his arms before walking to the bedchamber across the room.  Ayanna could only grasp at him and giggle, feeling luxurious as her bare skin pressed against his.
Jon was gentle even in the moments when he’d rather not be.  He lowered her onto the mattress carefully before cupping her face and following her onto her back.  His lips had sunk against hers before her head even hit the pillow; his hands already fumbling with the laces of his trousers.
Her legs were shucked wide open, baring herself for him even before he slid the fabric from his hips and kicked them to the floor.  She sighed out when he came to her, nestling between her thighs and pressing a kiss against her mouth.  Jon was still gentle even now, even as he slowly slid into her.
“Mm…” she breathed.  She wrapped her legs around his waist and rocked her hips into his, immediately sending him into a flurry of murmured groans as he quickened his pace.  She liked his gentleness, the way he treated her as if she were something to be respected – but there was a time and a place for such things, and Ayanna found herself craving the others sides of him now.  The desperate, clinging fire of his passion.
He gave it to her, whether because he knew she longed for it or because he couldn’t stop it from coming anyway.  His hips surged forward, meeting hers with a force that sent her eyes rolling back into her skull and her legs trembling.  Every thrust had her clinging to him tighter, every kiss deposited upon her face made her come to life. 
“Ayanna…Gods…” he mumbled against her neck, breathing out hard.  She was hot and wet, so wet; she clung to his cock like she couldn’t bear being parted from him.  Perhaps it was that which sent him over the edge.  He couldn’t say.  Perhaps it was everything, all rolled into one – the mewls of her moans, the way his name edged over her voice, her hips which continuously arched up, her nails that dug into his back in a vice-like grip – yes, it was everything, he decided.
He groaned as he thrust once more, quick and deep, before jerking out of her and pumping himself in his hand.  His seed shot out over her prone form, decorating her body in ways that made him pleased just for the sight of it.  She was marked with him.  She was also in need of another orgasm.
The thought became his beacon – he clung to it as he shuffled down her body, jerked her legs open once more, and buried his face against her cunt.  The suddenness of his touch had Ayanna keening loudly and arching her body down into him.  Her reservations from earlier seemed to have long disappeared, because the way she rocked against his mouth was almost wanton.  She didn’t seem to care, and Jon would be lying if he claimed that it wasn’t the sexiest thing he’s ever experienced.
“Jon!” she cried, tumbling over the edge so fast that he barely even had time to enjoy it himself.  But she was already close, and his actions stimulated her in such a brutally pleasant way that all Ayanna could do was grasp his hair and the sheets and lurch into an orgasm that clouded her entire world.
Jon stayed there between her thighs until her breathing calmed down.  He laid his hand on her stomach and sighed out, closing his eyes.  He could easily have laid there for hours, days even, and never leave this sacred space.  But the world kept moving on, time kept rolling forward, and he knew that they had run out of it.
He heaved himself up onto his forearms and shuffled forward, laying his body out over hers and kissing her soundly on the mouth.  Ayanna sighed into the kiss, drifting her fingers over his bicep with a quiet sort of reverence.  He kissed her softly, gentle once more.  She loved the kisses he gave her after sex.  They were always so beautiful and surreal.
“I have to return to the courtyard,” Jon murmured against her, layering kisses over her cheek and jaw and neck.  His ardency spoke the words that he would not: that he didn’t want to leave her now for anything in the world.  But Ayanna knew enough about duty to know that such a thing was inescapable.  She knew enough about Jon Snow to know that it was even more so.
“Mm,” she agreed, humming out her answer because he was kissing her lips again, and she didn’t want to break it.
“Will you come to me tonight?” she asked as he sat up and reached for his discarded trousers.  He paused, and looked back at her.  She didn’t miss the way his eyes traveled over her bare form, lingering on the sheen of his release that still painted her abdomen.
“…If I can,” he murmured, and then said, “There should be a rag around here somewhere…” 
Ayanna just sat up and shook her head, “You’re late as it is, Jon.  I can clean myself up.”
He sent her a soft nod and leaned down to kiss her once more before whispering a goodbye into her hair.  She watched as he walked out of the room, intent on finding the rest of his clothes before leaving.  She fell back onto the bed with a pleased sigh and smile.  It wasn’t for several lingering minutes before Ayanna realized something.
Jon had left.  Which meant that she didn’t have anyone to help her get back into her gown.
“…Seven hells,” she muttered, rubbing a hand over her face.
She knew he hadn’t left her like this on purpose.  He was an honorable man and would have made sure that their secret trysts didn’t reflect badly upon her in public.  She suspected that he merely had no idea how damned hard it was to tie up those dresses by yourself.
“I will get you back for this, Jon Snow,” she swore. 
He could take that as a promise.


Wednesday, June 1, 2016

A Pietro Maximoff Lemon -- Love, The Fall

Character: Pietro Maximoff

Fandom: The Avengers

OC: [Name]

Inspiration: I do plan on opening requests soon, guys!  I just got a new job so I’ve been busy lately.  Also, my email account has been giving me problems lately, so if you’ve emailed me within the last two or so weeks, please resend it.  I’ve fixed the issue and will definitely try my best to get back to everyone! Love you all and hope everyone is enjoying the start of summer :)

You wake up in a blaze of heat, body pounding to the dream that lingers in your head – skin on skin, endlessly strewn against a halo of sheets, pulsing thrusts and moans that could shatter even the thickest silence.  For a moment, you think the dream is reality, and reach over to the other side of the bed to reenact it.  But the place beside you is empty, just as it has been for the past two weeks.
“Damn…” you mutter, and sit up.
The sheets cling to you and you kick them off, reaching up to rub the back of your neck.  One glance at the clock tells you that it’s two in the morning – a ridiculous time to be awake, considering your busy schedule the next day.  But sleep would not come easily; your body still thrums, impatient for another’s touch.  And the man you long for isn’t due to return for another two days.
Pietro’s missions are the worst, at least in your mind.  They often last several days, at most, but this one has dragged out longer than usual.  What was supposed to be a simple recon mission had turned into something bigger, postponing the team’s return date by nearly a week longer than scheduled.  Besides the constant worrying over your boyfriend’s safety (Pietro can be very reckless), there’s also one other side effect of his absence, and it has everything to do with that damned dream.
You’re horny as hell.
With a grumble, you slip out of bed and turn the lamp on.  The room immediately washes with color.  You need to do something about this.  Your body is practically screaming at you.
You haven’t had to deal with your own problems in ages – Pietro is very satisfying and always makes sure you’re beyond pleased.  But Pietro isn’t here, so you frown and shuffle out of your nightshirt and panties before falling back onto the bed, naked.
Only one thing to do, then.
Closing your eyes, you get comfortable against the pillows.  Your hands drag over your body, from the dash of your collarbones over the pillow of your breasts.  Your nipples are rock hard already, and as you pinch them you imagine Pietro’s tongue circling each pert bud. 
Your imagination runs wild.  Thankfully, the dream has already put a clear image of him into your head, and it’s easy to imagine him touching you, staring down at you with his expressive, lustful eyes.  With a moan, you roll over and shuck your knees up, pressing the side of your face into the mattress as you reach down between your legs.  Your hips roll against your fingers, and you try to imagine that you are actually moving against his length – hot and hard as he presses himself against your folds.
“Pietro…” you moan, your voice a whisper of desire.  You wish you had your vibrator to help you along, but when you had moved into the Avengers Tower, the poor thing hadn’t made the cut.  It’s still in the drawer of your nightstand back at the apartment, which you still haven’t gotten rid of because it’s a great place to go when you need to be alone.  It can get rather stressful, living with a group of superhumans.
“Mmm…” you sigh, circling your fingers around your folds.  You’re already so wet but it’s not enough.  This desire is paltry in comparison to the blaze of fire that Pietro stirs within you. 
It’s a good thing, then, that Pietro arrives just in time to turn that desire into passion.
His powers are good for many things, but the most prominent of them all (in his opinion) is that they allow him to return to you that much faster.  While the other Avengers trudge into the tower at their own pace, exhausted and sleepy, Pietro is a wide eyed tornado that gusts passed them.  He’s tired too, of course, but he knows he’ll only be able to sleep once he’s got you curled up around him.
He’s already half out of his shirt by the time he reaches your door on the sixth floor, and lets himself quietly inside your suite.  He doesn’t want to wake you up. 
Of course he doesn’t realize is that you’re already awake until he silently opens the bedroom door.  The sight that immediately greets him is absolutely mouthwatering in its intensity.
You’re still on your knees, face pressed against the bed as your fingers work at your core.  Soft little moans spill from your lips every few seconds, and between the wedges of sound Pietro can hear the faint but telltale sign of his name, dredging up the edges of your voice.  His pants immediately tighten, as does his grip on the doorknob. 
Desire is quick to weave its way into his veins.  He watches, gaping, as your fingers slid in and out of your core.  He’s got the perfect view – the way your hips are angled means that it’s the first thing he’s noticed the moment he opened the door.  He honestly doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything so hot in his life.
The thought shatters the moment he hears you moan, “Pietro…” into the sheets, and his cock twitches with desire.
Yes, the fact that you’re touching yourself whilst thinking of him is even more amazing.  His body seems to agree, because the hardness growing between his legs is quickly becoming a very singular problem.
He steps forward and pulls his shirt the rest of the way off.  He leaves the rest of his clothes on (for now).  All he can think about is replacing your fingers with his tongue.
You don’t even notice his advance into the room.  Your eyes are closed, thrumming up images of him.  You’re so far gone that you hardly even feel the depression of the mattress as another person kneels on it.  But you definitely feel the press of warm hands against your ass, the lingering kiss that brushes over your lower back, the hot breath that pools over your folds.
With a surprised jerk, you gasp and try to wrestle away, but the mystery touch has tightened around your thighs and you can’t move.  It takes you two seconds to realize who, exactly, has crept up on you – and those two seconds are filled with shocked paranoia before a voice you know only too well chuckles.
The voice drawls, “Shh…relax, люблю. [1]” Another kiss is dropped against your thigh. 
“Pietro – “ your voice is a mix of surprise and curdling desire – because Pietro doesn’t waste any time at all.  Not that this comes as a shock.  A moan quickly fills you as his tongue licks a path against your core.
Your fingers drop away and clench into the sheets, and your hips thrust against his face.
“Mm – so eager,” he chuckles, spreading you with two fingers as his tongue makes quick work of you.  You’re keening into the mattress before you even know what hit you.
“Were you thinking about me?” he wonders, nibbling gently on your folds.  He eases his finger inside you and curls it.  A heady flash of desire shoots through him as you clench down around him.
Instead of answering his question, you ask one of your own.  “I – oh – I thought you weren’t…supposed to be back…till Tuesday – mm!”
He sucks hard against you, lapping at you like he can’t get enough.  How long has he wanted to do this!  Two weeks isn’t very long, but to a man who doesn’t abide by the same time constraints as his peers, it is an eternity.  Truthfully, he’s wanted you since the moment he left you two weeks before.
“Change of plans,” he murmurs, sliding his finger out of you to suck on it.  You taste amazing.  He could do this all day.  Unfortunately, he doesn’t have all day, and he’s already ridiculously hard.
He pulls away, smirks at your impatient moan, and flips you onto your back before you have the chance to keep up.  You’re met with the sight of him – bright eyes and messy silver hair, bruised lips that shine with your juices.  He’s bare chested and it’s a beautiful sight, but even moreso is the fact that he is so obviously hard.  You stare at his tented pants for all of two seconds before reaching for him, wanting nothing more than to grasp his erection in your hand. 
He snatches your wrists before you have the chance, mouth upturned into a shit eating smirk.  (Probably due to your eagerness.)
Tsk.  Not so fast, [Name],” he murmurs, and you frown.
“Never thought I’d hear you say that,” you mutter, and settle for a different tactic.  A quick rearrangement of your legs around his hips, and you’re pushing your very wet, hot core against his clothed member.  He clearly doesn’t expect this, and the groan that passes through his lips is probably the hottest thing you’ve ever heard.
“Not fair,” he grumbles at you through clenched teeth.  He can’t help it when his hips thrust forward, grinding against you.  He can’t stop himself from doing it again, and again, until you’re both moaning and he’s leaning over you and bearing his
weight against the entirety of your body.
“Never claimed to be fair,” you gasp, clutching his shoulders with tight fingers. 
He rolls his hips against you again and groans, “You don’t even know what you’ve done to me, do you?  The sight of you like that…touching yourself…whispering my name…” 
He groans again and sits back, thinking only of one thing.  He’s got to get these fucking pants off, now.
You lay there, chest heaving as his words trickle through you.  You can only watch as he pulls his erection out, pumps himself once against his hand, and forces your legs apart without preamble.
Usually he takes a bit more time with you, but it’s very clear that you really don’t need it, nor want it.  And being without you for two whole weeks has clearly done a number on him, too.  You can’t find it in yourself to complain when all you really want is to have him fill you up.
The feeling of him stretching you is heavenly.  Your back arches up, hips pushing down against his as he enters you.  He is absolutely rigid.  Searing hot flesh burns with yours, and that very first thrust rattles you like none other.
You whimper his name, and his mouth crashes down against yours in a tempest of teeth and tongue.  The kiss is a perfect match to the tumultuous nature of his thrusts. 
His fingers drag your hair back, tangling into it as his mouth fights yours.  Truthfully, it isn’t much of a battle.  You are prone beneath him but for your hips, which eagerly meet his at every turn.  Desire sears you, shattering like mosaics over your skin until you can hardly breathe.
“Pietro, Pietro – “ you gasp, whimper, clutch at him.  His name is a muffled mantra that is quickly swallowed by his demanding mouth – until he starts to move his lips down, down, down to taste more of you.
You barely notice his distraction until he’s giving your breast a harsh suck, and the breathy moan that leaves your lips has him muttering a curse and all but steamrolling into you.  There is an animalistic nature to his movements now that tell you how close he is.  You don’t want this to ever end, but you are probably even more far gone than he is and you know you won’t be able to hold out for much longer.
“Oh my God – “ you moan, grasping his hair tightly.  The attention he’s giving to your breasts is amazing, and coupled with the furious nature of his thrusts, you think you might shatter at any moment.
Until he suddenly stops.
Your breath hangs in the air, a harsh panting.  Glancing down at him, you frown and blearily wonder, “What’s wrong?”
He can’t stop now.  You need to come.  You’ve only been waiting for this for two whole weeks!
Pietro merely smirks and slowly slides out of you.  The feeling of his cock brushing so deliberately against your inner folds has you biting your lip hard.  You could honestly come just from that, at this point, but you hold yourself back with earnest. 
As he lifts himself up onto his forearms, Pietro murmurs lowly, “I want to fuck you on your knees…like you were when I first came in.” 
He pats your thigh and chuckles at the expression that immediately clings to your face.  It’s such a strange mix of lust and surprise that he can’t help but laugh.
You sit up with a burst of determination.  “Well if that’s all,” you say hurriedly, and quickly clamor up onto your knees without a second thought.  All you can think about is having his cock inside you again.  Nothing else matters.
You nearly moan aloud when you feel his warm hands slide over your ass.  He chuckles again and lines himself up, nestling against your thighs with a smirk.
“I think I like this side of you,” he muses as he pushes himself into you once more.  “Maybe next time I’ll delay my return to another week.  See how crazy I can make you.”  He slaps your ass for good measure.
His words register slowly, because you’re a little distracted by the amazing feeling of him fucking you into the mattress.  When you do register those words, you huff and tightly grasp the sheets. 
“You’d…better not…” you somehow manage to say, though each word comes out very breathlessly.  Your voice is on the edging of a moan.  You hold it in for about as long as it takes Pietro to thrust very deeply into you, which really isn’t long at all.
He lets out a long breath and quickens his pace, dragging his hands all over your back and tracing your spine.  He loves the sight of you like this, face pressed into the sheets and hair splaying out everywhere.  The ridges of your spine stand out starkly against your skin, and he’d like to kiss every one of them.  Another time.  After he fucks you into oblivion.  That sort of gentle romance has no place in this room quite yet.
“Don’t think I could last that long anyway,” he grunts, and grasps your butt tighter as he increases his pace yet again.  He’s practically ramming into you now at a speed that is rather fitting for someone dubbed Quicksilver, but you can’t complain.  There will probably be some bruises tomorrow, but his pace is thrilling and your moans keep pouring from your throat.  He makes you feel amazing.
“Mmm!” you gasp, feeling the coil within your lower body begin to snap.  You’re going to come.  It’s inevitable.  You can’t hold back any longer, and neither, it seems, can he.
“Pietro – “ you cry, clutching the sheets so hard that your knuckles turn white.  He seems to understand your message, and moans when he feels your inner walls contract around his cock.
Мой Бог  [2],” he groans, grasping you hard as you come around him.  “Oh fuck – “
You come with a loud cry, bucking your hips backwards into his and nearly sobbing at the intensity of it all.  Fire burns you, licking at your skin as you hurtle into what you can only describe as pure bliss.  Your mouth opens around your continuous moans, and Pietro clenches his jaw tightly as he spills himself into you with several long thrusts.
His pace turns sporadic after, but he keeps thrusting until your whimpers stop and the buzzing of his high dims.  And then, with one very satisfied sigh, he pulls out of you and lays himself down onto the bed, huffing as his head hits the pillow.
You stare at him for a moment, face set in fuzzy pleasure.  The smile he sends you is gentle and tired, and you remember suddenly that he has traveled a long way to return to you.  He must be exhausted.
“Come here,” you whisper, rolling onto your back and reaching for him.  He comes willingly, pressing his cheek against your chest and humming peacefully as he hooks his arm around your waist.  You curl your hands into his hair and gently start to massage his scalp in small circles, and he sighs languidly.
люблю тебя  [3],” he murmurs, pressing his lips against your chest in soft kiss.  Your body fills with warmth at the foreign phrase, muttered so rarely from his lips.  You know it by heart all the same, and smile.
“Love you too,” you whisper, then reach over to flick off the light.
Sleep comes as naturally as your love making, and as you curl your body around his, you dream only of his smile – the way his eyes light up, the way he tells you he loves you in a language that is not your own.  

[1] люблю  … love

[2]  Мой Бог … My God

[3]  люблю тебя … Love you

Saturday, April 9, 2016

An Eomer Lemon -- Recompense

Character: Eomer

OC: Sylvanas, works as a guard, confident

Fandom: The Lord of the Rings

Inspiration: Technically this is the last xmas request that’s been stubbornly refusing to let me finish it.  Sorry for taking so long!  The ending feels a bit rushed to me, but I wanted to post it and get it out there.  Might go back to edit it later :)

Sylvanas isn’t sure what she minds more: that she has to guard the front of the palace while she gets snowed on and slowly turned into an icicle, or that she’s missing the festivities within said palace and everything that accompanies them. 
She’s shivering in her fur lined cloak that she’s clasped right below her neck, shivering in her thick leather boots – shivering even beneath the chainmail coat of her armor and the gloves that aren’t stopping the cold from sinking into her fingers.  And despite her position at the bottom of the stairs, she can still hear the loud twist of old Aldith’s fiddle careening through the air; hear the sound of drunken laughter and the clank of toasting cups.  She can easily imagine the swinging gait of bodies dancing to the caustic music.  The drop of the fiddle just…there, just before it picks up again – that’s when the men gather the women and lift them into the air in a delightful spin that makes the world seem like it falls away entirely…but for the sight of the man himself, the warm honey eyes, the dusty blonde hair, the broad shoulders –
Syl clears her throat and turns, making her way back up the stairs for little reason other than to preserve warmth.  Movement makes the cold bearable, and so does the thought of the hot bath she’s going to draw for herself after her shift is over.  She sighs at the thought, but her mind doesn’t wander very far from the honey-eyed man that spins her around to the sawing impatience of a fiddle.
He’d apologized profusely for putting her on the evening watch.  Unavoidable, he’d told her – I’ll make it up to you.  And then, pressed against the shadows and the stone, Eomer had buried her neck with kisses, leaving her with a firm idea of how, exactly, he meant to do so.  More than the thought of a bath and a heavy mug of ale, Syl wants the fortress of his body, the warmth he gives so easily.  If she’s being truthful with herself, it is those thoughts that stave the cold away.
With a wispy sigh, Syl tries to turn her mind away from such distracting thoughts.  She leans against a pillar by the entrance of Meduseld.  There is no use getting over eager about the many ways Eomer will make tonight up to her.  She’s quite sure that whatever feeble images she attempts to conjure will not do the real thing justice anyway.
An hour passes in much the same manner, with Syl struggling to keep her head clear of her constantly tempting thoughts as she slowly freezes into that icicle.  By the time a guard comes to replace her, Syl can actually only think of that bath and how nice it will feel.  She rushes through the still festive main hall and darts into a side hallway, casting one feverish glance over the swarm of people but not seeing Eomer in the crowd.  A quick visit to the armory, and she wrestles the chainmail and heavier articles of clothing from her body.  It’s warmer in the palace, and as she hurries back into the hallway and casts one more glance into the main hall, the cold feels less poignant. 
Eomer is still nowhere to be found.  Bath first, then.  Except she never gets the chance to call for one, because the moment she steps into her chambers, she catches sight of a hulking form taking up practically all of her bed.
Her first instinct is to gasp and draw away, even though she knows who it is.  Surprise and warm happiness shoots through her.  Eomer has never stolen into her room to wait for her before – it is rather a lovely sight.  Which is why her second instinct is to whisper-shout, “Eomer!” and hurry to the bed with a grin.
He lifts himself up with a chuckle and swings his legs over the edge of the bed, just in time for Syl to throw herself into his arms.  And then he’s rolling her over, pressing her into the mattress and darting his fingers over her stomach.  She gasps in chocked laughter as he tickles her breathless.
“You’re freezing!” he exclaims barely a moment later, withdrawing his fingers and replacing them with his whole body.  He tucks her against him, and she sighs with a giddy sort of happiness that comes from being so close to the man she loves.  He really is like a furnace – within seconds, she feels so much better.  But the chill has traveled into her bones, and it will take more than an embrace to rid herself of it.
“Standing in the snow for three hours straight doesn’t exactly make someone warm,” she mumbles against the skin of his chest.  He runs his fingers through her hair and lets out a rumbling sigh.  It sounds like he’s laughing at her just a little bit, and she glowers up at him petulantly.
“Have I not apologized enough for that?” he inquires.  There’s a mischievous light in his eye that makes her squirm.  Maybe it’s on purpose, who can tell?  He sighs against when he feels her move against him, and she hides her smile into the crevice of his shirt, which is perfectly tousled in a half-undone way.
“No,” she immediately responds, “you absolutely haven’t.  I believe I was promised at least a few heartfelt kisses for my suffering.”
His response is even more immediate.  The teasing lilt of her voice fades away when Eomer drops his head and presses his mouth against hers in a sudden kiss.  He’s very thorough.  He’s always thorough, no matter what he is doing, but the way it translates into passion is astoundingly beautiful, and Syl lets out a breathless little whine when he pulls away before she is ready.
“I promised much more than that,” he tells her lowly, sliding a hand over the curve of her back and lingering at her stomach.  His fingers idle on the stays of her leggings, just provocative enough to make her squirm again, but this time in anticipation and not teasing. 
They share a little smile that sends her heart racing against her chest, which suddenly feels constricted in the tunic and tight breast band she’d thrown on that morning.  Freedom will taste perfect tonight; she can already feel it ghosting through the air around her.
He sits up, hovering over Syl with a small smile and eyes that gleam with mischievous desire.  “…I always keep my promises,” he murmurs, voice dropping low into a tone she recognizes as surely as if it were her own.  It is filled with a passion that makes her smile even as her body erupts with subtle desperation.
“Glad to hear it,” she gasps as he slowly starts to undo the ties of her tunic.  The leather stays by her neck are pulled away one by one.  The anticipation lengths as Eomer reaches the last, resting just between her breasts.  He pauses only a moment before flipping the fabric to the side and sliding his palm beneath the tunic to where her breast heaves beneath.  It is still covered with that tight band, but she can clearly feel the heat of his skin sinking into her.  And, already cold from her shift outside, she is taut and hard beneath his hand, pebbling even more with the extra incentive.
“Mm…” he breathes with a chuckle, “Looks like it might take me a while to warm you up.”  The words are as much a warning as they are an observation, but she disregards them and breezily says, “I’ve got all the time in the world.”
His lips twist up into a boyish smile.  “You’re right about that.  Since I’m in charge of your schedule, I’m giving you tomorrow off.”
Being a high ranking general and the nephew to the king definitely has its perks, it seems.
Syl giggles.  His hand moves to the bottom of her tunic.  As he pushes it up, she mumbles, “Hopefully you’ll give yourself the day off, too.”  Even just the morning would be nice, she amends.  Eomer rarely takes full days to himself.
She sits up so he can tug the tunic over her head and he raises an eyebrow, musing over her words as he works on the band around her chest.  “That will depend entirely on you, my Lady,” he murmurs after a beat of contemplative silence.  The breast band flutters away before she can respond, and when his hands cup her chest, Syl momentarily forgets why she wanted to speak in the first place.
She leans into him with a sigh, head tilted back.  His mouth converges on her neck in gentle kisses, which only makes her head spin all the more.  She could forget the entire world if he keeps this up.
“Is that a challenge?” she finally manages to say, humming pleasantly as his fingers spread warmth against her breasts.  She hears him chuckle into her ear, then his lips brush over her earlobe and she shivers brilliantly.  This time, it is not from the cold.
“It’s whatever you want it to be,” he tells her quietly, and suddenly her back in pressing into the mattress, having been pushed there gently by the man that is now hovering above her. 
She watches appreciatively when he pulls his shirt off.  His bare chest is a sight to behold, rippling with hard muscles.  She could worship his body and never want for anything in return, but Eomer won’t have it tonight.  He’s made it clear already that the next few hours are hers alone.
He reaches for her leggings, fingers flying over the ties and loosening them faster than he had her tunic.  Impatience now colors him, setting him alive with shades of passion that Syl could get lost in.  She lifts her hips for him, helping with the process of tugging her leggings down her thighs.  The determination she loves so much about him comes back in full force as Eomer wrests the fabric from her body and tosses it almost nonchalantly behind him.  The sight makes her laugh.
“You are very impatient tonight,” she says between the pauses of her laughter.  Eomer gives her a crooked smile and shrugs, bringing his fingers to his trousers and beginning to work them off his hips.  Syl stares at him as he reveals inches more of his skin, carved and sculpted from countless hours in training.  The sight of his bare upper body really doesn’t even hold a candle to the sight of him entirely bare.  Impressive doesn’t quite cover it.
“Shall I go slower for you?” he asks with a teasing lilt.  His pants join the pile of clothing on the floor.  Sitting before her, completely bare, she thinks that if he goes slow she might actually die.
She props herself up onto her elbows, “I never said it was a bad thing.”  She reaches out a hand for him, pressing her fingers to his wrist and pulling him forward.  He goes without complaint and fits himself against the curves of her body.
“Good,” he murmurs, sounding a little hoarse now that he can feel every inch of her pressed up against every inch of him.  It is a glorious feeling.  “Because I don’t think I could even if I tried.” 
She doesn’t have a chance to respond – which is good.  Talking is definitely not something she wants to participate in right now.  And don’t actions speak louder than words anyway? 
Kissing Eomer definitely feels better than talking to him.  At least in this moment, on this day – a day that had been spent with only the warmth of her thoughts to stave off the cold.  She needs this.  She needs him.  And every part of him feels a thousand times better than ever before.
She does not see the bigger picture, at first.  Syl is caught up between the intricacies of him, the push and pull of all his pieces fitting together with hers.  The details stick out to her the most – honeyed mead sweet on his tongue, rough fingertips surprisingly soft, every subtle shifting drag of his skin that would raise goosebumps over her flesh.  The gentle lilting brush of his mouth against hers, the way he kisses her so deeply yet so reverently, as if he is asking permission with each pass of his lips. 
“Eomer…” she breathes, a jilted sigh that escapes her before she can reign it in.  Has she ever felt this relaxed with other men?  Not that there had been many, but the thought still remains.  Eomer shows her that passion burns even brighter when it is not rushed.  It’s a little strange, considering how impatient Eomer can get.  Perhaps that’s why it feels so special.
She wants him to feel that too, so she whispers quietly, “I thought of you constantly today.”  The words are muffled against his lips, drowned in his kisses – which slow and pause when he hears her.  A boyish smile spreads over his face.  He raises a hand to push a strand of her hair away and she bites her lip.  “…You kept me warm out there.”
A chuckle leaves him, dragged over the dark contours of his voice, creased with that happy lowlight that often gravitates over the familiar pleasure of being with the one you love. 
“I’m glad to hear it,” he murmurs, turning his attention down to her neck and layering kisses over her skin.  “Those thoughts must have been very wicked, to keep you so warm.”  Ah.  He wants to hear them in full.  She is only too eager to share.
With a shift of her hips, a subtle grinding motion that moves over his erection, Syl breathes, “Very wicked.  More wicked than what you’re currently doing.”
Another chuckle, but this time it’s just as breathless and full of desire.  He continues the motion she’d started, grinding his hips slowly against hers.  She is so wet, and every pass of his body makes him crave more.  Always more.
“I think I can fix that,” he mumbles, and his mouth tumbles to her breast at the same time as his fingers find her core.
It’s such a sudden touch that she gasps brokenly and arches into him; a wild mess that lurches straight into pleasure without a backward glance.  She’s thankful for those rough calluses on his fingers.  The way they gently scrape over her – the tangible friction - it all makes her clench her hands around his shoulders and moan. 
He lets out a swift curse and against her breast, mutters, “You make me want to go insane.”  If insanity tastes as sweet, he’d gladly delve right into it.
She lets out a breathless laugh that goes right to his groin and has his gritting his teeth.  With a sigh, he nuzzles against her.  The rough feel of his stubble makes her skin feel hyper sensitive and raw, like she’s exploding into so many pieces.  She can only hope that he will put her together again after he takes her apart.  Then again, Eomer has a particular penchant for doing just that.
“Then go insane,” she whispers, curling her legs around his waist.  His fingers feel good, but she is empty of him and needs to change that.  The feeling of him breaching her, filling her – that physical tie that connects them – that is what she needs.
He decides that he will.  Go insane that is.  With her.  He needs to be inside her just as desperately as she needs him.  A twist of his wrist and his fingers leave her core, only for Syl to drag them suddenly to her lips.  With heavy desire, Eomer watches her tongue curl around his digits, feels the silken way she sucks herself off of his skin.  And because he can’t possibly take that sight without doing something, anything, Eomer groans and leans down to kiss her properly. 
She’ll be the death of him, he thinks.  Rather than finding his end in a glorious battle, he’d rather find it in her arms strong around him. 
Lining himself up, he fills her.
“Mmmm…” Syl gasps, arching against him.  It’s a little rough, at first – the scrape of him against her inner walls.  She isn’t as ready as she could be, but Eomer is slow and gentle with her.  He watches her face carefully, pulls back from his insatiable desire to ensure that she is okay. 
His thumb brushes over her cheekbone and he bends down to kiss the corner of her eye.  A moment is spent shivering beneath him, but not in pain.  The feeling of connecting with someone on such a deep level is staggering, and because it’s Eomer, the feeling is even more so.  She pushes her hips up to take him deeper, and he groans against her neck at the way she so easily steals his breath.
The dulled pain changes, then, into something astoundingly beautiful.
Their hips begin to move at a steady pace.  Shallow breaths are exchanged, lips brushing over skin and some of Eomer’s long hair falls down over his shoulder and tickles her cheek.  She reaches up to thread her fingers into the blonde strands, tangling into them and pulling his head close to hers.  The kiss she bestows upon him is gentle, a little sloppy but adequate in its purpose, and he all but sinks into her (in so many ways) as he kisses her back.
Syl is no longer cold.  The chill that had followed her inside has long dispersed, morphing into a heat that can only come from another’s body pressed diligently against hers.  She wraps her legs around his waist and her hands flutter down from his hair to his shoulders.  She’s always loved his shoulders.  Broad, muscled, tanned from the sun.  She grips them now with almost possessive fingers, caught up in the intense desire to get closer.  Always closer.
“Syl,” he breathes, just a short little sound that barely registers.  But she hears it and the sound of her name threaded through with that raw passion makes her feel like she’s combusting beneath him.  Of course, that feeling cold also be the result of the way his hand shifts up her body, from hip to breast, and lingers there as he palms her.
The gentle thrusting of his lower body propels hers into subtle shifts, and with his hand cupping her breast, every movement seems to spur on the rough calloused feeling of his skin against hers.  She arches into him, pushing her chest against his hand and moaning softly as he rolls his fingers over her taut nipple.
He buries his head into the crook of her neck and sighs, a deep satisfying breath that is accelerated with every pass of his hips.  He fills her like no other, more than just physically, until she is gasping beneath him and pleading for him to go faster, take her harder.  His gentleness is endearing and lovely, but she craves the force of his passion even more.
He does not disappoint.  A jolt of skin and he all but pushes her hips into the mattress as his pace picks up.   She lets out a desperate moan and grips his upper arms tightly, moving one hand to travel across his back to grasp his rear.  Every thrust he gives is accompanied by the insistent pull of her as she drags him closer, deeper.
“Eomer – “ she mumbles, her voice pitched somewhere between desperation and satisfaction.  She is so close – just a little more and she’ll be there.  She’s got a feeling he is in a similar position, because the sound of his name has Eomer groaning and thrusting even faster, moving one hand down between her legs to spur her on even more.
The press of his thumb against her clit is enough to send her completely over the edge, and Syl lets out an immediate moan that holds the traces of his name.  Her body throws itself into an arch and suddenly she can’t control herself as she spins fast over the edge of her own desire and into the rough undercurrents of his.
“Oh!” she cries, the only indication of her finish.  But it is enough.  Eomer watches with passionate smoky eyes as she succumbs to the fire, shivering against him as her eyelids flutter and her body quakes.  And the feel of her squeezing him, every contraction of her inner walls, makes him shiver in a similar way as he falls forward to follow.
The heat of his release does not fill her though.  Eomer is nothing if not careful.  He pulls out of her at the last moment and spills himself against her abdomen with a groan.  The sight of him pumping himself to his finish is almost enough to make her want to start all over again, but the exhaustion of the night seems to have caught up with her, and all Syl can do is watch him with half lidded eyes.
He pushes a breath past his cheeks as he looks down at her, no doubt finding the sight of her covered in his finish satisfying in a way only a man could.  She feels satisfied as well, wearing it against her skin.  In some strange instinctual way, she rather thinks of it as a mark that she is his, and vice versa.  But still, Eomer looks a little guilty about it.  He always does.
“I’ll get a rag,” he murmurs, voice hoarse from the intensity of the night.  As he clamors off her, Syl sits up to admire the way the moonlight caresses every curve of muscle.  He is truly handsome, more so tonight.
After he cleans them up and joins her in bed, Eomer pulls the blankets up to their chins and they share amused laughter.  The cold has returned, but vanishes just as quickly once he has gathered her up against his chest and has tangled their legs together.
“Your verdict, my lady?” he wonders as he nuzzles her face into her hair.  She laughs softly.
“Hmmm…I don’t know,” she murmurs with a mischievous gleam in her eyes, “I think maybe you’ll need to make it up to me more.”
His eyebrows raise into dry surprise, but he doesn’t look displeased by any means.  A smile plays at the corner of his mouth.  “Well I’m sure we can do something about that.” 
As he leans down to kiss her, she sighs in contentment against him.  What had begun as a not so pleasant day has transformed into a dream.  And like a dream, the night gently crushed itself into a stillness that softly dragged them down into sleep.