Work Text:
Arya gathers herself in preparation for the Longest Night within the bowels of Winterfell. She can feel it coming, like a roil of sickness festering in her gut. Her training and her faith in what remains of House Stark keeps her mind focused on the task at hand. There is a slight nagging in the back of her mind as to what she has yet to experience in life, and what she has experienced takes precedence at the moment over what could have been for her.
Footfalls bring her attention to Gendry carrying her freshly forged weapon. “That for me?” She feels the weight of it in her hand. “This will work.”
“Last time you saw me, you wanted me to come to Winterfell. Took the long road, but…”
She turns with readied words poised at the tip of her tongue. “What did the Red Woman want with you?”
Uneasy, he answers, “she wanted my blood—some kind of spell.”
Arya listens as he shifts in his weathered boots. She questions him further with silence as her body familiarizes itself with his handiwork.
“I’m Robert Baratheon’s bastard,” he offers openly, stopping her dead in her tracks. “I didn’t know until she told me. Then she tied me up, stripped me down, put leeches all over me…”
Arya’s stunned, yet not all that surprised at another turn of of events from long kept secrets of the past. Realizing that more was being omitted, she presses him. “Was that your first time?”
She feels his eyes on her as she moves past. “Uh, yeah, I’ve never had leeches put all over me.”
“Your first time with a woman,” she cuts in, terse and slightly stung by the fact that she has yet to have a first with a man.
“What?” Gendry swiftly stands behind her. “I-I didn’t… wasn’t with her.”
She spins around, locking her brown eyes onto his swirling ones. “Were you with other girls before that, in Kings Landing?” A sudden ache twinges between her thighs at the thought. “Or after?” She wants him to see her as more than just a naive, dirty faced child dressed as a boy. That girl is long dead.
Her decision in what to do next is instantly made as she tugs at her gloves.
With a tilt of her head, Arya watches him struggle to gather truths and attempt to convert them into what suits his comfort level.
“You don’t remember?”
“Yes, I was,” he admits.
“One, two?” Arya stares him down, ready to read him like an open book if she must. “Twenty?”
Flustered, he scoffs, “I didn’t keep count.”
She stops, pins him with a challenging look. “Yes you did.”
He huffs, relenting. “Three.”
Pleased at his truthfulness, her eyes flick down to his groin and her decision to pursue her need to fulfill her late night fantasies of experiencing the caress of a man is only confirmed with realization donning his face, and with the twitching of his pants.
“We’re probably going to die soon,” she says, stepping closer. “I want to know what it’s like before that happens.”
Silence reigns as their eyes dance together in the fire light.
“Arya,” he blinks,” I—”
She lunges to capture his lips with hers. Her chest brushes along his and her pelvis bounces along his waist, feeling his need for her grow between them.
Not wasting another moment as their mouths glide along one another, their hands fumble and yank at each other’s clothing as her arousal gains momentum. Frantically, she strips Gendry down to his chiseled, warm skin and claims him as her own, shoving him down onto the stacked bags of supplies.
Emboldened, Arya grasps the bottom of her tunic and tears it up over her head, baring herself to him. She knows he sees her battle scars—knows he finally sees her as more than just little Arya Stark playing warrior at the feet of men.
“I’m not the Red Woman. Take your own bloody pants off,” she orders, smirking as he hurriedly complies while she freely drops her own. She’s seen men naked before. Not sexually, but has had enough visual knowledge in passing as no one of what a man stiff with want might look like up close and personal.
Without more than a glance to his hardened cock bobbing along his belly, she straddles his hips and looks him straight in the eye as her lips hungrily devour his once again.
Tongues roll and hands roam along one another’s exposed bodies, exploring what had been hidden until tonight. Just as Arya slides her hand down to wrap her fingers around his velvety length, Gendry deftly snakes a calloused thumb through her slick folds and rubs her sensitive bundle of nerves.
“Ahh, shit!” she yelps, tossing her head back, feeling her gut cringe at the sensation.
“Sorry,” he mumbles along her breast and sucks a raspberry nipple between his teeth.
Gasping she tells him, “Feels good, but I need more.”
The combination of his touch and the scent of their excitement mixing together heightens her impulse to take him inside her. Impatient now, she bats his hand away and slips the swollen crown of his cock around her center and begins to sink down slowly.
“This might hurt, you know,” he grunts in warning.
She welcomes it. “Good. I want to feel before…”
Two soot stained fingers cover her parted mouth. “Don’t… don’t say it.”
With an arch of a brow, she counters back, “Don’t say anything at all.”
She watches the cords of his neck strain as she lowers herself down, inch by glorious inch, filling herself completely with a twinge of pain and pleasure. He groans and she holds her breath as her nails bite into his shoulders. Rising up on her knees, she swirls her hips and rocks along the thick of him. It is awkward at first, uncoordinated, until she relaxes her tensed muscles enough to accept him.
Together: The stag and the wolf, racing wildly toward pleasure.
Gendry holds her hips as she moves up and down in his lap as if she were riding a horse. The ache and sting fade quickly and the sleekness of her sex makes his cock slide through her walls like silk, hitting a pleasurable sweet spot with every downward plunge into her body. “Oh!” she gasps as his hips jerk up to meet her faster now.
This is what she had been wondering about ever since she heard the mewling cries of women and the creaking of beds while sneaking around the halls after dark as a young girl with nothing but mischief on her mind.
Her head falls to his forehead as her taut nipples drag along the sparse hairs of his chest and their bodies crash into each other with building force. Sweat dapples her back and along her hairline as she succumbs to Gentry’s rhythm. Arya moans open mouthed as a tingling in her womb climbs quickly. She has never felt so much in such a short amount of time and it’s completely overwhelming her.
Her whimper is stifled by the sudden force of her climax, and she shatters above him, bursting like rays of light cutting through the trees of Winterfell. His name tumbles from her lips in an unbidden mantra.
“Ugh!” Gentry stiffens beneath her, jerking with fingers digging deeply into the tender flesh of her backside as he thrusts up rapidly inside her, prolonging the rapture singing through her veins.
As the final waves of pleasure wash through their bodies, she collapses over him, sprawling across his damp chest. She trembles with the aftershocks from her first orgasm that was not induced by her own curious fingers touching herself in the middle of the night.
His hands tentatively run up her spine as she buries her nose in the tendons of his neck. He smells of sweat, fire and smoke—earthy, like wood and freshly fallen snow through crisp winter air. He smells of a man, and she a woman.
For the first time since her return home, Arya Stark feels like a woman equal among men, feels as tall as Sansa. And tonight, very well may be her first and last night revelling as one who has taken a man.
Gendry turns and nuzzles his forehead along her brow as they both regain their breath.
“Rest now,” she whispers and cups his jaw to place one last kiss along his soft lips. Rolling gingerly off of his dwindling erection with a hiss, she lays on her back, staring at nothing as a thick covering of animal skin blankets her naked and trembling body.
The flickering of golden flames above and their mingling breath sounds fill the silence around them as their shared scent permeates the air. Of all the times she had thought about her first time, she had never imagined it being on the dirt laden ground of her childhood home with a boy she had known for years just hours before the battle of a lifetime.
“Arya…”
“Shh, just sleep.” She grabs his hand, gives it a reassuring squeeze, and watches his heavy lids flutter shut as sleep claims him.
Turning away with a soreness new and savored, she can’t bear to let herself fall into slumber with him. Having a man isn’t what makes her a woman, she thinks. Yet, having the choice to take one is. And the last and ultimate choice Arya is now left with is one she plans to carry out as no one, with her family fighting by her side.