Lust hit him like the biting lash of a whip, an instant flare of burning need that twisted his belly into a writhing, aching knot, every muscle held tight as if expecting another blow to fall on flesh made tender and raw.
He had not thought she would come. Had not dared to hope.
Though he had dared thinking to force her, when news had reached him that she’d finally surfaced in Whiterun, but it had not come to that.
She was here, of her own accord, making her way past the long central table of the throne room, which was filled more than usual considering the dinner hour was upon them.
Silence followed in her wake, and then, murmurs and whispers and heated exchanges. When she finally stood before the base of his throne, all eyes were upon her.
And none more intent than his own hungry gaze, as he drank in her features, changed but so achingly familiar. They had no right to be, but he had long ago stopped trying to figure out his absurd desire for her.
Her hair had been cut to no longer than the length of his fingers. With the heavy mass of waves removed, the remainder seemed to take joyful abandon in new-found freedom, framing her gamine features and the heart-like shape of her face in a tangle of silky curls.
The overall effect might have left her looking achingly young, but her eyes shattered that illusion. Their haunting depths, usually glittering with fury and other, darker emotion, were as cold and untroubled as the frozen waters of a mountain puddle.
They were empty, and thwarted any attempt at the reading of them.
She did not wear armor, only a simple tunic and breeches and an overlarge cloak that dwarfed her small frame. A new scar, swiping over the bridge of her nose to extend across her cheek, provided the only visible reminder of her status as seasoned, well-tested warrior.
The hall had grown silent during his study of her, and he stood to greet her.
“Warm hearth and welcome, Dragonborn. Long has it been since a queen has graced the Palace of Kings, and never one such as this.”
His pronouncement garnered additional loud murmurs of assent and greeting, but she did not seem to appreciate the sentiment, nor the attention.
He watched as she quickly angled her body so that her back was less exposed, keeping careful eye on the noise behind her. She was tense and ready to strike, her nostrils gently flaring.
He almost expected her to bolt, so much did she looked like a creature of the wilds in that moment, but those eyes, so vacant and unsettling, swung back to his face as she hissed, “Can we not have a private conversation?”
She was not one for the waxing of words, his wife and queen. He might have smiled, if his raging lust was not making speech difficult for himself as well. At the moment, he was more than happy to oblige her request.
He descended the stone dais of his throne and preceded her to the lower room of the wing leading to his personal quarters, gesturing to Galmar to remain behind.
He felt her close on his heels, and as soon as she was past the swing of the door he shut it behind her, closing them off from the throne room. And then he pushed her against it, pressed his body into the smaller length of hers, and covered her mouth with his.
She did not protest, or perhaps did not have opportunity, because at her small gasp he pressed his advantage, plunging his tongue between her lips. He was desperate to get closer, his mind lost to all thoughts but the need to mark and claim and fill her.
He felt her body snap taut like the tightly drawn string of a bow, an instant before she arched into the curve of his own. He could not say if it was simply surprise at his aggression, or her own need that moved her, but at the feeling of her response he could have wept.
Wept, as he was certain his hard and throbbing cockhead wept, pressed too tightly within the constraints of his breeches. He wedged his thigh between her legs and pressed the heat of his arousal against her belly, not caring if she could feel the full extent of his desire.
Let her know what she did to him.
For he knew he did the same to her. He could feel it, in the way she melted against him and shifted her body and exhaled a please on a soft whisper of sound.
Never Our Tenderness (F!/DB Imperial/Ulfric Stormcloak) – 11a/?
Lust hit him like the biting lash of a whip, an instant flare of burning need that twisted his belly into a writhing, aching knot, every muscle held tight as if expecting another blow to fall on flesh made tender and raw.
He had not thought she would come. Had not dared to hope.
Though he had dared thinking to force her, when news had reached him that she’d finally surfaced in Whiterun, but it had not come to that.
She was here, of her own accord, making her way past the long central table of the throne room, which was filled more than usual considering the dinner hour was upon them.
Silence followed in her wake, and then, murmurs and whispers and heated exchanges. When she finally stood before the base of his throne, all eyes were upon her.
And none more intent than his own hungry gaze, as he drank in her features, changed but so achingly familiar. They had no right to be, but he had long ago stopped trying to figure out his absurd desire for her.
Her hair had been cut to no longer than the length of his fingers. With the heavy mass of waves removed, the remainder seemed to take joyful abandon in new-found freedom, framing her gamine features and the heart-like shape of her face in a tangle of silky curls.
The overall effect might have left her looking achingly young, but her eyes shattered that illusion. Their haunting depths, usually glittering with fury and other, darker emotion, were as cold and untroubled as the frozen waters of a mountain puddle.
They were empty, and thwarted any attempt at the reading of them.
She did not wear armor, only a simple tunic and breeches and an overlarge cloak that dwarfed her small frame. A new scar, swiping over the bridge of her nose to extend across her cheek, provided the only visible reminder of her status as seasoned, well-tested warrior.
The hall had grown silent during his study of her, and he stood to greet her.
“Warm hearth and welcome, Dragonborn. Long has it been since a queen has graced the Palace of Kings, and never one such as this.”
His pronouncement garnered additional loud murmurs of assent and greeting, but she did not seem to appreciate the sentiment, nor the attention.
He watched as she quickly angled her body so that her back was less exposed, keeping careful eye on the noise behind her. She was tense and ready to strike, her nostrils gently flaring.
He almost expected her to bolt, so much did she looked like a creature of the wilds in that moment, but those eyes, so vacant and unsettling, swung back to his face as she hissed, “Can we not have a private conversation?”
She was not one for the waxing of words, his wife and queen. He might have smiled, if his raging lust was not making speech difficult for himself as well. At the moment, he was more than happy to oblige her request.
He descended the stone dais of his throne and preceded her to the lower room of the wing leading to his personal quarters, gesturing to Galmar to remain behind.
He felt her close on his heels, and as soon as she was past the swing of the door he shut it behind her, closing them off from the throne room. And then he pushed her against it, pressed his body into the smaller length of hers, and covered her mouth with his.
She did not protest, or perhaps did not have opportunity, because at her small gasp he pressed his advantage, plunging his tongue between her lips. He was desperate to get closer, his mind lost to all thoughts but the need to mark and claim and fill her.
He felt her body snap taut like the tightly drawn string of a bow, an instant before she arched into the curve of his own. He could not say if it was simply surprise at his aggression, or her own need that moved her, but at the feeling of her response he could have wept.
Wept, as he was certain his hard and throbbing cockhead wept, pressed too tightly within the constraints of his breeches. He wedged his thigh between her legs and pressed the heat of his arousal against her belly, not caring if she could feel the full extent of his desire.
Let her know what she did to him.
For he knew he did the same to her. He could feel it, in the way she melted against him and shifted her body and exhaled a please on a soft whisper of sound.
And then, more forcefully, “…stop.”