CLOSED | prompt eight | RUIN

[dondarrion]

prompt eight | R U I N dressing-room style. closed to rog.

 

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[destrier]

[ The light catches the mockingbird Lord Baelish wears as his collar and the warbird moves swift and sudden down the length of the bed like some magpie drawn by the glint of metal. Her bonds complain with a heavy rattle and then, without warning draw taught against their tether. The noise they make when the chain finally snaps tight is ugly and resounding like the fat toll of a bell. Still, she strains for him, her bare chest arching forward out of the loose confines of her robe, the pale peaks of her small breasts already sheened with some unnatural glow.

Even like this — demeaned as she is, her posture ignoble for such a lofty bird — her voice commands instead of requests and the narrow of her eyes still speaks: you will worship me. ]

Kneel, mockingbird. The warbird still demands your tongue.

[eyed]

As you wish.

[ There's some perverse enjoyment to be had from making love to her like this, with her bound in chains, but he doesn't linger upon it, shedding the heaviest of his robes before climbing up onto the bed, hands settling on her waist as his lips find first her breast, then her belly, then the rise of her hip bones. It's only then that he glances up, a wicked smile curving his lips. (He doesn't usually take these kinds of indulgences, but, well. Who couldn't?) ]

Is this always how you take worship?

[ He doesn't bother waiting for an answer before his mouth follows that trail of red hair down between her legs, a laugh echoing in the back of his throat. ]

[destrier]

[ His mouth is hot and quick upon her and does not hesitate in looking to suckle the sweetness from her human body. It is a voraciousness that marks everything the mockingbird lord does; his smile, his bow, his constant lies, his quickening lord's kiss — they are all symptoms of the hunger that burns deep inside his hollow breast. And it is that same hunger that will make Baelish a true conquerer in the end.

(The thought alone is enough to turn the warbird's own desires into a seething ache.)

Twisting against her bonds, her throat still held fast by the very end of her chain, the whole of her arches, hips leading to find purchase against that silver tongue. ]

I hate this body, [ she hisses through her teeth, the sharp exhalation of air that accompanies the words a mix of frustration and thinly-veiled pleasure. Although the warbird does not say explicitly, the implication hangs between them in the heady air: as much of a prison as her body may be, the pleasure Lord Baelish gives her makes it tolerable (makes it favorable only for passing moment). ] Free me from it. And you shall win your reward.

[eyed]

[ A number of responses immediately spring to life upon his tongue (who will keep my bed warm when you are gone) but he keeps them to himself, humming just once as he continues his ministrations. Cersei would have his head, he knows (and more of him, if she had her way), if she ever found out, and the risk alone is enough to make the act sweet. But then, too, is the pleasure that the warbird takes from it, a demigod at the mercy — though never completely, he is not such a fool as to believe that — of the joys of the flesh.

Each shudder and each twist of her body is enough to send new thrills down his pine, his ardency burning ever more apparent in the way that he kisses her. And yes, he aches, too, but there'll be time for that later on. ]