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No time for slow

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Gendry woke up startled, almost certain the horns had not sounded yet. He noticed she was gone and a bitterness bloomed in his chest, berating him for thinking their union, in the eve of death, would have meant as much to her as it did to him. Despite his ire, he decided to get up and prepare for his imminent death, but once up, he spotted her, standing in front of him, wearing nothing but his tunic.

"Is that mine?" He asked her, eyeing the piece of cloth for reference, but in reality, staring too intently at her nipples peeking through the thin fabric. It was the cold without a doubt, though he secretly hoped that it was because of him, and the fact that he was not wearing a stitch of clothing.

"It's mine now," she goaded him, leaning back on the narrow table against the wall.

"You want me to go into battle bare-chested? Great, I'll die of exposure instead of the army of the dead," he said, getting close to her. Once in front, he cornered her against the table, placing a hand on each side.

"You'll just have to take it off me then," Arya dared, her magnificent eyebrow rising in defiance.

Gendry wrapped his right hand on the bit of cloth at her hip, and squeezing through the skin there, he said, "tempting, but we have a battle to attend."

"We have time, the horns haven't sounded yet," she informed him.

"Why are you up then?" Gendry asked, burying his nose in the crook of her neck, inhaling deeply, and trying to commit to memory her scent, in case this was his last chance.

"Didn't want to waste whatever time we have left sleeping," she replied with a shrug.

It was all he needed. His hands hooked on Arya's thighs, lifting her and settling her on the bit of ledge behind her. His mouth found hers, and she placed her hands on the back of his head, while one of his stilled her hip and the other pushed his tunic up to reveal her breast.

"We don't have time for slow," Arya warned him in between kisses and bites.

"Aren't you sore?" He panted, his forehead against hers.

"You think I can't take it?" She asked in defiance.

"As m'lady commands, then."

After that, it became frantic, his cock filled her in one swift motion, finding her more than ready. Her legs tightly wrapped around him, and Gendry was reminded of how skilled she had always been at riding a steed bareback, staying on, full gallop, on the sheer strength of her thighs. During their coupling a few hours before he had let her set the tempo, knowing it to be her first time, but if his infuriating girl was going to challenge him, he was going to show her just how baseborn and furious he could be.

Very soon he was driving frantically into her at a punishing rhythm, and she was meeting him thrust by thrust, hair all messy, loose from the half knot she usually wore, teats bouncing free, tinted by a delicious blush, which mirrored the one on her cheeks. Her eyes were wide, and her rosy lips half-open and panting. Gendry was quite sure his own face was the same, and he stole deep kisses from time to time, unable to resist her. He knew they were in the North, and that they were fucking out in the open, but they could be in Dorne, for all he knew, because he didn't feel cold but as hot as the flames in the forge, and his insides pure molten metal.

He knew he had taken her maidenhead just hours before, the proof still staining the sacks of grain where they lay and both their thighs and yet he would have doubted it for how she was matching his pace and seemed to know how to drive him crazy. He may have been the one with the three past lovers, but she was no blushing nervous girl despite having been a maiden just hours before, given the passion with which she loved him.

Since they were children, they've been stubborn and competitive, and now that both were grown it hadn't changed since they seemed to be trying to one-up the other. He doubled the speed and the power of his thrusts, and Arya gave him a seductive smile in return right before gripping him hard with her inner muscles, making him grunt. Gendry was cursing to all seven hells, at her tight cunt, clamping on him like a vise. For a moment he thought he'd combust right then and there, leaving a stain of sooth on the ground where he stood, and he almost laughed knowing that he'd go gladly after loving that marvelous woman of his, and he'd be proud of the songs that undoubtedly would be written of the bastard blacksmith that Arya Stark fucked to death during the Long Night.

He didn't get any more time to entertain his glorious death for a voice interrupted them.

"For fuck's sake!" The booming voice of the Hound distracted them from their vigorous exertion, "did you really have to fuck this pale-arsed twat out in public?"

Gendry tried to dislodge from her, but Arya was quicker, and held on tighter with her legs, "don't you dare, " she warned him, quietly.

"Arya," Gendry panted, conflicted, losing momentum in his thrusts.

"I will not go into battle unfulfilled, and if you make me, you'll wish it was the wights that took you instead of my blade."

He ought to have felt guilty, of how much her aggressiveness enticed him. He was sure he was a sight for the Hound, humping away like an animal, but Gendry had lost his restraint already, and he could no longer care that the Hound kept grumbling and calling him a twat. He didn't care how ridiculous he looked to the tall man, showing him his naked arse, probably as pale as snow, having been in the North way too long, but at least he was pleased Arya was somewhat covered by his tunic and his body, and his hand wrapped around her breast, with his fingers still pinching her nipple.

"We're about to be killed by some dead fuckers, and you've been fucking this twat for hours already!"

"Fuck off, Sandor!" She yelled, her eyebrows knit in concentration.

Gendry was jealous, he didn't want that pretty mouth of hers, with her upper lip barely a line, and the bottom one plump from his kisses, to waste the dwindling time they had saying the Hound's name. He wanted that innocent-looking mouth to curse like a sailor, but using only his name.

"Get the fuck out of here, or I'll bash the good side of your face with my hammer!" He bellowed without missing the beat.

Gendry was not sure where that had come from, but he was done. He didn't have time to dwell on his outburst since Arya seemed to be as susceptible to his fury as he was to hers, and he could feel all around him how she swelled and tightened. Both of them smiling brazenly, sharing a silent conversation regarding the particular trigger of their shared lust. They could hear the Hound grousing as he left the storage room.

"…fucking out in the open! If you live, you should consider doing it in a room with a door for a change! I knew you two had the hots for each other since I met you in that cave! Bet that was why the twat didn't tell your brother he knew you…"

"You met Jon… and you didn't tell him about me?" She asked out of breath.

"…thought… you were... dead… my fault."

Unable to maintain his head or his thoughts, he dropped his forehead to her chest, resting it on the valley in between her breasts. They were both tethering on the edge of oblivion when the roaring battle horns sounded and pushed them into their bliss.

They didn't have time to bask in the afterglow, and instead, they were soon putting on their clothes on in haste, doing an awful job trying to kiss as they dressed, in an eery contrast to their actions hours prior. When they were both clothed, and they had grabbed their weapons, Gendry took one last kiss from her lips pulling her to him with his arm tight around her waist.

"Don't you dare die," she commanded.

"As you wish m'lady," he replied, no mirth left in his words.

He took one more breath to say all the thoughts in his head, and the feelings in his heart, but he only managed an 'Arya, I.'

"I know, stupid," she cut him off, pulling him by the collar for a quick peck, and running away, disappearing from his life as it had happened once before already.

Gendry made his way to the front of the line, suddenly right behind the Hound, who noticed him and gave only a grunt of acknowledgment. 'He is a right twat, alright,' Sandor thought, noting the irony of the smith who armed their hosts walking to the very front of the battle without armor on.

Sandor gave him credit for that though, thinking he was either a brave motherfucker, or a lovelorn twat emboldened only by having just fucked the fiercest woman in the Seven Kingdoms.