“Daario Naharis entered swaggering. He swaggers even when he is standing still.” — A Dance with Dragons (via terryftw)

mess me up so good [asoiaf; gerris/quentyn, r]

The sparring session is more of a war-challenge than a friendly spar between two perfectly capable knights. Quentyn would have felt sorry for Cletus’ awkward rambling about ground rules, deaf in the ears of either knight, if he is not the ultimate prize for the winner in this stupid challenge – of sorts.

Really, it is all Arianne’s fault. He looks behind his shoulder, searching for Arianne’s dark brown eyes, definitely twinkling with mirth by now, finds nothing. Maybe she is too satisfied from breaking out to fits of improper laughter in the court this morning, after Ser Arthur has offered him his help on teaching Quentyn how to sharpen his swords on his own, the corner of his lips tugged in a suggestive manner.

A faraway bell rings, drawing his attention back to present. On the corner of the field, right outside the armoury, Gerris strides back and forth, testing the weight of one wooden sword to another. Bright golden eyes lift to meet his own, and Quentyn inhales sharply then looks away.

Or maybe not, he thinks, frustrated as flashes of memories from this morning – Gerris’ loud snort in the dining table, his too ‘subtle’ hateful scowl, Ser Arthur’s questioning brow – invades his mind. Arianne had already started laughing when the verbal fight ensued, so Quentyn is not really sure.

“Well then,” Cletus announces on the middle of the field. Ser Arthur marches in first, his flowing golden hair an attractive sight compared to Gerris’ curly sandy blonde ones, sharp-looking wooden sword sliding through his fingers. They glower at one another for a heartbeat, until Cletus leans back on his heels, voice screeching “Begin!” before anyone is prepared for what happens next.

Gerris charges forward, hard and sudden, graceful and calculated like the royal arrogant sod he is. He thrusts his sword without hesitation, blocks each attack with elegance most knights are lacking these days, spins around in circle after each merciless attack.

Ser Arthur is obviously exhausted, incapable of handling Gerris on his own. Something like pride swells deep inside his chest, warm and hyperactive under his skin. Quentyn ignores the whispers of ‘mine’ inside his head as he watches, a small smile lilting his face.

But then the worst happens. It has to happen due to Gerris being the arrogant smug bastard he is, has to look at Quentyn on the corner of his eyes then gives him an arrogant charming smirk and the opening Ser Arthur needs to throw him on his back.

The sword hangs low above Gerris’ left hip before it hits him hard, sending him tumbling back across the field. He tries to counter the sword, block the attack like it was before, only to have the sword thrown a few miles away from his hand. Ser Arthur’s foot is on his chest then, the tip of the sword touching the nape of Gerris’ neck. Quentyn’s stomach lurches in disgust at the smile on Ser Arthur’s face.

Read More →

Theon shivered. Baratheon or Bolton, it made no matter to him. Stannis had made common cause with Jon Snow at the Wall, and Jon would take his head off in a heartbeat. Plucked from the clutches of one bastard to die at the hands of another, what a jape. Theon would have laughed aloud if he’d remembered how.

too late, a revelation [asoiaf; archie + gerris/quentyn]

It’s not like he doesn’t notice at first, the mood-swings, the empty stares, the flat yet rather murderous tone of his voice, full of edges he can’t quite put a finger on. While some people have marked him as ‘dumb’ simply because he prefers not to use his head processing unnecessary details his companions can do in a shorter amount of time, Archibald is not so stupid as to think that Gerris remains unscathed, perfectly fine after Quentyn’s death. He and Cletus are probably, possibly the closest people the Prince of Dorne had, has, will ever have. But sometimes, things are not like the way they look on the surface.

They put a stop at a nearby brothel just outside Sunspear, nearly collapsing into the realm of unconsciousness after hours of travelling from the harbour – by foot. Gerris is obviously hurting both physically and mentally. His smooth lightly-tanned skin is blazing red, sunburn marring the exposed skin of his neck, the worst one so far is the condition of his nose. He keeps moaning and bitching and typical Gerris-ish all the way here, and for a fleeting moment, Archibald thinks that perhaps he is alright. Perhaps it’s just Archibald going soft, overreacting things due to his mind finally put to work after such a long time.

His second theory of Drinkwater being alright is proven wrong however, approximately three minutes later.

Archie puts the big fat purse of dragons on the counter, dangling it in front of two fair-skin whores with their breasts slipping from their clothes. Their eyes are greedy for nothing but the price in an instant. Now, while Archibald is not big on sharing or anything, Gerris has naught on his pocket. He has insisted on spending his share of wealth to take passage from the Free Cities back here, paying for Archie even though it’s clearly unnecessary, leaving them a large amount of gold to spend on whores and food and wine.

Well, only food and wine for Gerris at least. It’s a miracle he hasn’t thought once, not once did he speak of the soft caresses of a whore’s hands or the way their mouths feel wrapped around his cock. Archibald doesn’t care, usually, doesn’t mean he is not grateful for the deafening silence. His suspicion years ago involving Gerris and Quentyn is confirmed when a rather beautiful boy, around Quentyn’s age, complete with the dark black colour of Quentyn’s hair and the blue eyes. These ones are not as intense as Quentyn’s, he notes.

Gerris wraps his fingers around the delicate skin of the boy’s wrist when he passes. The boy halts, flusters visibly at the searching look on Gerris’ face, squirming uncomfortably when the knight leans closer until their faces are inch apart. He seems quite unsure, the boy. Until Gerris closes his eyes and whispers something into his ear.

He doesn’t want to know what kind of dirty words his friends are giving to whores when they’re planning to fuck, really he doesn’t. But now he is sort of, like really curious as of what Gerris says, because the boy scowls at him now, all sharp teeth and glare-daggers, and the knight’s grin is feral and slightly crazed.

To his surprise, the boy crushes their lips together in a scorching kiss, hips bucking violently against Gerris’ breeches-clad thigh, one hand slipping inside Gerris’ pants. Eurgh. Too much information. Archibald raises his drink up in salute as the girls start working on his lap.

Much later, when he finally decides to take Gerris back on the road, Archibald pauses in front of the boy’s room and listens.

Gerris seems to be having the time of his life, fucking the boy like that. He fucks his cock into the seemingly tight nicely-shaped-round of the boy’s ass, marking the sweat-sex-stained of the boy’s pale neck, fisting the boy’s red-angry leaking cock with his free hand. The boy kneels down on all-fours; face that of pure unadulterated pleasure as Gerris pounds into him so deep Archibald thinks he might finally come, until he realizes that the knight’s fist around the boy’s ball is on purpose, solely not to get him come first. It must be a torture for the boy. Archibald pities him more than anything else.

When he finally comes though, Gerris whines and chokes a needy longing whimper of ‘Quentyn’ from his kisses-swollen lips, and it all clicks. The shared-cabin. Sword-practices in the middle of the night. Visiting brothels together when they’re probably off, fucking, somewhere.

Things are clearer now, and Archibald isn’t sure who to pity more – the boy or Gerris himself.

songsofwolves:

| ASOIAF :Minimalist Character Posters | Quentyn Martell

like sour wine and sweet poison [asoiaf; gerris/quentyn, nc-17]

^{It is weird, Gerris thinks, how the solemn Quentyn Martell can top him despite his shorter height. Often times he finds himself asking the same question over and over again as his prince yanks the collar of his shirt apart, the shattering of his buttons fill the stretched silence before he is pushed back on the worn-out mattress. The laces of his breeches come undone in the care of the boy’s deft fingers, spilling his rock hard cock into the cold air and he moans; ripples of pleasure rush down his spine, his back arches off the bed.}

^{There is something very adorable downright erotic in the way the prince looks at the knight’s fully exposed flesh. Gerris is naked save for the ripped shirt that binds his wrists together. Quentyn’s eyes, dark and oh so very intense with pure unadulterated lust, focuses on him like he’s the last meal he will ever have on this mad journey to court the dragon queen. He secretly hopes he is, deep down. Gerris struggles to free his hands from his shirt, but Quentyn only pushes his body harder against the bed with his palm on Gerris’ chest, his other hand pulls at the bind to knot it tighter it’s nearly painful. A startled gasp tears its way out of his throat and he rolls his pelvis against the prince’s knee between his thighs automatically.}

^{Sweat starts forming on the surface of his skin, and his stomach twists and aches and he wants. “Please,” Gerris chants, a bit more desperate than he should, but the look Quentyn throws at him totally worth it. “Queent, please, just –”}

^{The knight almost sobs with need when Quentyn’s hand, that clever and deft and rough hand, wraps around his cock and squeezes hard enough to hurt. It doesn’t though, and he nearly comes when the prince bends down to lick at the head curiously. Quentyn spreads his legs further apart before nuzzling his nose against the sensitive spot behind his balls. Gerris actually cries with happiness this time.}

^{“Be quiet, Ger. Your voice carries across the entire kingdom, like this,” whispers the prince when he moves up to his face, rough and low and smoky into his ears, and Gerris moans and nods and fucks into Quentyn’s hand like a slut he is totally not except when he’s with Quentyn but that’s, that’s different. He mewls when the boy grazes his thumb down his length, eyes focused and fascinated when he trashes on the bed and curses fuck in different kind of language; hips jerking and heart wild beneath his chest and Gerris chokes and pants and he can’t –}

^{“Breathe, Gerris,” he hears as Quentyn mouths at his lobe, nibbling gently. “I’ll make this so good for you, I’ll make it last not like the last time. Just breathe, okay? Breathe.”}

^{Gerris nods and breathes.}

^{Read More}

For pirateassassin - and mostly for myself ;p Oh god, can’t remember the last time I wrote something so long and so damned filthy. Hope You’ll enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it! [ AO3 ]

forgotten the taste of reality [asoiaf; gerris/quentyn]

In his dreams, it is the same. Every night he sees black hair, all tangled and caked with mud and blood and ashes, but there is pulse fluttering beneath the sweat-slicked skin, a heart that beats loud inside perfectly-toned chest, heat that flushes down from the ears hidden beneath the black hair travelling south, far south. Gerris eyes follow the motion in fascination, interest, long until the owner of the black hair squirms uncomfortably under the weight of his gaze.

In his dreams, Gerris always smirks, always tugs at the thick strands of hair between clever-deft fingers and kisses the chapped bloody lips until he is breathless and the raven-haired boy is panting, lips red and swollen and oh so sinful it makes his heart ache.

“Quent,” he whispers, rough, longing, desperate even as he chokes for air. Then it turns into a soft prayer of “Quent, Quent,” between his lips, hands clawing at the front of Quentyn’s shirt before everything burns to ashes.

When he wakes, there is an empty spot on the mattress beside him, tears-streak across his cheeks, and living hell in the place where his heart once was. Gerris thinks he might not survive another day.

oh my god, is it even possible to write a 13k+ fic full of porn without a single plot-bunny or smthng.

my dedication to this pairing, gerris/quentyn, is admirable if i say so myself.

^{Vampire AU: One night, one day, he tells Quentyn of the lovers’ blood exchange. “It is the most intimate, mind-blowing activity than what we can ever hope for in this afterlife of ours, my love,” says Reaper as he runs a thumb down Quentyn’s inner thigh. “Far better than the best sex you have ever engaged in, I will wager.”}

so so, i am currently trying to finish a gerris/quentyn porn? with plot, of course, not all my stories are plain-porn without any plot but uhh, i really don’t… i am not sure, about this? because no one has ever written a single fic of quentyn out there (except for the hetero-ones with myrcella which is a totally boring concept to me by the way) and i’m not sure if people will ever read or like it?

so… do i continue writing or what? .__.