IF THE WORLD WAS ENDING (YOU’D COME OVER, RIGHT?)
post-break up modern au/gendra/explicit smut/ao3
“I come here with no expectations, only to profess, now that I am at liberty to do so, that my heart is and always will be…yours.”
― Jane Austen, Sense and Sensibility
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Gendry wakes up on a rainy March morning with phantom pain in his chest and the vague memory of the pleasant dream slipping from in-between his fingers.
It’s already more than hazy and he can barely recall its plot, if it even had any – but that doesn’t matter anyway, cause his brain remembers other things, the things it can use to fill the gaps and torture him. He does not need any details to know who he was dreaming about.
I miss fighting with her.- crosses his mind before he can stop the thought from formulating.
He does miss the fighting, as sick as it sounds. The screaming, the slamming door, all because she was jealous and he was possessive, and neither of them felt they are good enough for the other one. Her lips and teeth on him and the way she would push him on the bed and crawl on top of him, determined to win the argument one way or another.
And how he would easily roll them over and cover her body with his, pounding into her until all the rage between them quieted down, transforming into sweetness, and moans, and wet kisses, and her fingers in his hair.
The laughter afterward, light and warm like a summer breeze.
With a groan, Gendry presses his face to the pillow. The alarm clock rings relentlessly, but he makes no move to hit the snooze button. Let it ring.
There’s no one else it would wake up anyway.
Arya wakes up on Friday with her throat dry and cheeks wet.
For a moment or two, she’s just laying still, listening to the raindrops splattering on the skylight above her bed, counting the seconds down in her head.
Fuck, just leave, okay? Go away and don’t come back, I don’t want to see you ever again!
At times like this, she wishes she didn’t move out of Jon’s, didn’t insist that she needs her own place. She misses hearing all those small, mundane sounds that signify somebody’s presence; the flushing toilet, the clattering pots, the sharp ping of the microwave. In silence, her mind works against her and supplies the sounds by itself.
With her eyes closed, she can almost hear his loud, heavy steps in the kitchen - the ones she was listening to countless of times while laying curled in the bed, still warm and sleepy and comfy, waiting for him to make himself a cup of coffee and come back to her. Letting him wake her up with his hands and his lips, with his smell and his low, warm voice.
With a sigh, she sits down on the mattress and pushes the covers off her legs, instantly shivering when the cold morning air attacks her exposed skin. When she pads towards the bathroom, her steps are nearly soundless on the floor, drowned out by the falling rain.
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