putting the dog to sleep.

pyp. twenty-two, based in london. it's only after we've lost everything that we're free to do anything.

[margy-tyrell]

Tell me your secrets || Margaery & Pyp || 1st August 2012

[margy-tyrell]

[He almost laughs with her and Margaery feels the grin that is threatening grow across her face as Pyp leans in and tucks a stray piece of hair behind her ear. She hides her surprise as he answers her further. He steers the conversation away from himself and towards her. Her grin grows wide as he looks down at where her head is rested against his shoulder.]  Three. [She lifts her head and meets his eye] But you already knew that. [Her tone is playful. Leaning back against the wall behind them she continues.] Willas, Garlan and Loras. Us Tyrells are not ones for common names. [She smirks to herself in the semi darkness of the room. They’d all make Pyp’s life a little bit more difficult in their own little way. Willas would stare at him until he squirmed, Garlan would throw an arm around him and whisper threats into his ear with a smile on his face and Loras would prod a finger in his chest and threaten him with physical harm.] I’m the baby of the family. [She finishes shooting him a look wondering whether he would catch the hint in her words. She suspected that he would.]

[watchpyp-blog]

[He grins at her and reaches to brush her hair from falling into her eyes. He's never been one for pillow talk, but this is different--it's own creation. He and Margaery are probably not the first to talk like this, in a dim-lit bedroom, her thighs still bruised from his mouth and his neck marked dark red from her teeth.

He lets himself talk to her, presses her for more information then he gives--but still. He talks to her.]

Always thought you lot were posh--didn't know you were that posh. [He smiles, teasing her.]

I'll take it you have them wrapped around your little finger then.

[celebritiesandmovies]

[t-baratheons]

i was swinging fists like nails in a board [closed: tommen and pyp] [august 22]

[t-baratheons]

Tommen furrows his brow, staring at the lip of his mug with too much concentration. “What do you mean, you had to feel it?” His voice is quiet when he asks, the words firm but still somehow hesitant. Tommen doesn’t know how to talk to people about loss, but this year, he’s learning. He has no choice. He’s sure the losses aren’t over — he’s known, objectively, that as people get older, important figures in their lives pass away. But violent deaths are different. Tommen doesn’t know quite how to deal with any of it, but especially not the violence.

As the conversation turns toward books, Tommen picks his head up and looks at Pyp with a frown. Then he laughs. “Nietzsche is German! You can’t say he’s ‘not exactly’ Russian. That’s ridiculous.” His laughter spirals, almost hysterical, but it’s genuinely mirthful. Tommen knows he’s more well-read than most, even people who are clearly older than him, but he can’t help it. It’s far too hilarious.

“Of course it’s okay to feel things, though Nietzsche didn’t really believe that, either. Pyp, have you actually read any of his work? It’s all very self-contradictory, but it’s interesting. Formative, for current philosophical thought.” Tommen smiles wide and leans back in his seat. “I’ve never been much for hitting things… I don’t know that I could if I tried.”

[watchpyp-blog]

Pyp blinks, a little thrown by Tommen's question. Objectively, he knows the kid's grown up in a family with the nation's biggest stick up its ass. Of course the kid wouldn't know that you're allowed to act out of decorum, that you can access the hurt that builds like flame under the veneer of pleasantries. "I was hurt--I knew that she'd have a better chance with the family that adopted her, but she was all I had and I was pissed because she left and because I let her leave," he says after a silence, circling the rim of his long-forgotten coffee with the tip of his index finger. "And of course, I hated myself for wanting to keep her all to myself."

The kid has a look of sheer confusion on his face--maybe it's not exactly that he's confused by what Pyp is saying, but what's going on under his own skin, yet Pyp elaborates. "So I got into fights, I fucked shit up and fucked myself up--I was lucky enough to get adopted by a policeman when I was doing my GCSEs or else I would've ended up in jail." 

Tommen throws Pyp a look of horror when he called Nietzsche "almost Russian". Pyp chokes on a laugh, throwing his head back, shoulders shaking with the force of his laughter. "You're too smart for your own good, kid." 

"No but all those bastards were so unhappy and for the large part, I've been rather unhappy so I found kinship there," he offers in explanation. "As for Nietzche, well--let's do a formula type here--an unhappy man, who reads about unhappy men and feels as though there is no existence of mercy or a higher power, why might that person be interested in Nietzche?" He lets the boy mull it over for a moment before continuing, "God is dead. God remains dead. And we have killed him. Yet his shadow still looms. How shall we comfort ourselves, the murderers of all murderers? What was holiest and mightiest of all that the world has yet owned has bled to death under our knives: who will wipe this blood off us?"

He's a little shocked when Tommen says he doesn't think he could hit things. "Everyone can hit things. All that's really in it is conviction and keeping your thumb outside your fist."

[margy-tyrell]

Tell me your secrets || Margaery & Pyp || 1st August 2012

[margy-tyrell]

[He carries on speaking and Margaery holds her breath afraid that any disturbance will stop the flow of words. She wants to tell him there is no need, she doesn’t want to know the dirty little secrets that lurk in his past but he is an enigma that she wants to solve. Her fingers carry on pressing gently at the tense muscles in his back as he breaks her heart with his story. She was still alive. Margaery had assumed that she was dead, hadn’t expected to hear that his parents were dead. She had heard him on the phone to his Mum though?] It must have been tough. [She scoffs at her own words.] Way to state the obvious [She says catching his eye as he chances a look at her. She aims for a look of amusement. Amusement at herself. She tries to pitch away from sympathy despite what she was feeling. Pyp would hate sympathy almost as much as he would pity.]

[watchpyp-blog]

[He smiles, a laugh bubbling against his mouth and he glances over at Margaery. She's got a smile tugging on the corners of her lips and he reaches over, pushing her hair back as it falls over her eyes.] It's... something I've learnt to live with. My adoptive parents are good people.

[He is surprised by his own words. Pyp knows the dark that swims and grows inside him, but this girl--this waif of a girl who has breezed into his life so easily is pushing away all of that with the hint of a smile.]

What about you, you've got brothers, haven't you?

[margy-tyrell]

Tell me your secrets || Margaery & Pyp || 1st August 2012

[margy-tyrell]

Sorry. I didn’t know. [Margaery knew when to press for information and when to lay off. Pyp’s body language was tight and sharp screaming at her to lay off. Lifting a hand to his shoulder she started to knead the muscles there hoping he would just relax a little, that he would smile again. He was much more handsome when he smiled.]

[watchpyp-blog]

[He catches the shift of Margaery's shoulders when he puts the frame down. She curls into him when he finally lets his breath out. She looks sweet, she says and Pyp imagines she still is--a girl with brown hair and blue eyes, she'd be seventeen now, smiling and breaking hearts. This is the most he has thought about her in a long time.]

Our parents died. [This is the first time he's ever told this story; the grave at the bottom of the lake he's buried under years of silt and sand.] I was five, she was just a--she was babe. I haven't seen her in years. 

[God, he fucking wants a cigarette.]

[margy-tyrell]

Tell me your secrets || Margaery & Pyp || 1st August 2012

[The light flickered on in the bathroom and Margaery crawled up the bed. She lay under the covers as she listened to Pyp knock around the small bathroom next door as he cleaned himself up. Normally now Margaery would be either gathering her clothes together or arranging herself sultrily on top of the covers. But tonight she felt too raw, too cut open to play the game. Looking around the room her eyes fell on the heavy silver frame on his bedside. It stood out in the barren room the innocent face of a little girl smiling down at her. Lifting it she smiled down at the picture imagining a mini Pyp running around somewhere. He seemed like the type to have a daughter running around somewhere. Looking up she quirked a brow at him as he wandered back into the room unabashed in his nakedness. She nodded down at the picture now in her hand speaking with amusement in her voice.] Whose this cutie pie? 

[watchpyp-blog]

[He wakes while she is still asleep--he slips out of bed, his skin goosepricking in the darkness as he slips out of the bed. Margaery Tyrell is naked, a blanket loosely clings to her body and she has her back turned to him. He watches her body rise and fall with her breath and thinks for a moment of how long he has waited for this--the defeat of her in his bed, her quietness as he finally draws her over the edge.

Pyp did not expect it like this, clouded with something else--a darkness over her that she is running from. He shakes himself and slips away to the bathroom, feeling the need to scrub his face and smoke a cigarette. 

He splashes his face with water and rubs his palms over his face until they're raw from the stubble across his cheeks. He grabs his lighter and pack of menthols off the bathroom sink and lights up, pushing open the window to blow smoke out into the London night.

When the cigarette is burning to it's last embers, he snuffs it out and slips back into the room to find her awake, the heavy frame in hand. He stops dead when she speaks and aches for another cigarette. Pyp forces himself to walk to the bed and take the frame from her hands, setting back down on the bedside table, face down, before getting into bed next to her.]

She was my sister.

[t-baratheons]

i was swinging fists like nails in a board [closed: tommen and pyp] [august 22]

[t-baratheons]

The past tense hits Tommen like a bag of bricks and he sinks a little lower in his seat, frowning. “Oh. I’m sorry,” he murmurs.  He watches as Pyp takes a sip of his coffee, unsure if he should keep talking or just slink awkwardly off to his room. It’s not often that Tommen puts his foot in his mouth, but when he does, he feels terrible about it for hours (and sometimes days). He pulls the tea bag out of his mug and sets it on the saucer, careful not to drip on the tablecloth. “I’m the youngest of my siblings. My brother was the oldest,” he volunteers.

Swallowing hard around the sudden lump in his throat, he leans forward to take a sip of his tea and sits up a little straighter. The past tense is only good in fiction, he thinks. In real life, it’s often terrible and tragic and sad, associated with things like death and destruction and past happenings that cannot be rectified no matter what anyone does.

The mention of Jojen makes his heart — which is pounding too hard already — skip a beat. Tommen flushes again and laughs, shaking his head. “We did a poetry unit last year, actually. Though Jojen has made some lovely recommendations.” His cheeks redden more as he thinks about when they first met, when Jojen was still in Scotland and Tommen had a crush on Bran Stark. They’d texted each other poetry and it hadn’t taken long for Tommen to forget about his feelings for Bran entirely.

He took another sip of his tea and grinned. “Tolstoy? Dostoyevsky? Selections from The Brothers Karamazov are on my reading list this year. I might try to tackle the entire book, if the prose isn’t too difficult.”

[watchpyp-blog]

The boy's face goes dark when the past tense registers. Pyp instantly wants to retract the statement, remembers the boy's father and brother's faces blasted across the BBC not a few weeks ago. And then of course, to make the knife twist the kid tries to mention his brother in passing. The hurt's raw and Pyp can see that. "When my sister... when we weren't together anymore I did such stupid shit." He wishes his coffee had whiskey in it. "But, I had to do it--because I had to feel it, you know?" He sighs and circles his thumb over the rim of his coffee mug. 

The silence that hangs between them is awkward and heavy and Pyp drags a hand through his hair. "Tolstoy, mostly. A little Nietzche even though he's not exactly a Russian," he says lamely. He wants this conversation to end or maybe to offer the kid a drink. 

"'S why I read pissed off, drunk Russian men's writing," he says and aches for a cigarette but he's sure Margaery would kill him if he smoked in here. "It's okay to feel like hitting something or being angry." Pyp shrugs. "Or to feel anything at all, really."

[margy-tyrell]

Everybody Hurts || Margaery & Pyp || 1st August

[margy-tyrell]

Read More

[watchpyp-blog]

She is wet and hot and beautiful. She shakes under his mouth and he smiles against the pale, soft skin of her thigh when she does. His fingers curl into the supple flesh of her opposite leg. He's going to make her break. And he loves it. Pyp's thumb slides up her thigh, rubbing slow circles into the junction of where her thigh meets her cunt. She tugs at his hair, pulling him closer still. She's impatient and it makes Pyp smirk as he presses his lips to her cunt. 

His nose brushes against her clit and he feels her shiver, a full body spasm. She is wet against his mouth and her cunt is silk and he blinks, glancing up as his tongue swirls. He holds her gaze, unblinking as he circumnavigates her cunt, his mouth learning the bits that make her wetter, the bits that make her shiver.

[t-baratheons]

i was swinging fists like nails in a board [closed: tommen and pyp] [august 22]

[t-baratheons]

Tommen fights hard to tamp down on his blush, biting the inside of his bottom lip until he tastes blood. He gently licks over the skin and pops the last bit of toast in his mouth, chewing slowly and carefully. He sips at his tea, frowning when he realizes that he’ll need another cup soon. He should make a note to get more next time he’s out, since he’s fairly certain that they’re running low.

Pyp’s explanation of how he learned to make toast makes Tommen smile, a little. He meets the man’s eyes and tilts his head, reaching up to push his fingers out of his hair. “Is your sister older or younger?” He sets the paper down and drains the last of his tea, standing to get another bag. Tommen doesn’t bother reheating the water, just pours some of the still-warm stuff over the tea bag so he can get back to the table without being too rude. “Sorry.” He steeps his tea and watches the color bloom in the water, hot enough for steam to still rise from the mug. “I only know how to make pasta, because I asked one of the chefs to teach me after school once… I can make other things, like toast, but not in a pan. It tastes better that way, I think.”

He dumps some sugar into his tea and mulls over the question of what he likes to read, glancing at the headlines once more. “I’m a bit of a news addict. I’d like to be a reporter someday. But I also read quite a lot of fiction… And recently I’ve been getting more into poetry.” His cheeks redden and he clears his throat. “Do you like to read, Pyp?”

[watchpyp-blog]

Pyp's glad Tommen leaves when he asks about his sister. His response it automatic. His face falls and his stomach sinks. People don't ask about his sister. Margaery doesn't ask, knows better than to ask. But of course, Tommen doesn't know him. "She was younger than me." he offers up and aches for a cigarette. He takes another drink of his coffee. It's bitter and harsh and he loves it for that. It's the perfect jolt to his system to pull himself together.

Tommen talks about not knowing how to cook and Pyp shrugs. "I'll teach you sometime, if you want," he offers, assuming this is where Tommen was heading. He'd rather not beat around that bush and make things even more awkward than they could possibly be.

Tommen pours sugar into his tea (he likes it sweet, Pyp notes and files the information away) before offering up anything else. He wants to be a reporter. Like Margaery's brother. Of course he would. Because Pyp's life is anything but ironic. Fucking reporters. His cheeks go red when he mentions poetry and Pyp laughs. "Wouldn't have anything to do with that lad of yours, would it?" 

He works his jaw, thinking over what he likes to read. "Russian stuff where everyone is miserable," he finally offers grinning. He takes another drink from his mug of coffee, raising his eyebrows at Tommen over the mug.

[t-baratheons]

i was swinging fists like nails in a board [closed: tommen and pyp] [august 22]

[t-baratheons]

Tommen has interacted with Pyp only a handful of times, but each time, he’s ended up blushing horribly at some innuendo about his relationship with Jojen. Tommen accidentally inhales a bit of toast as he bites into the bread and he coughs when the crumbs hit the back of his throat, face reddening to a deep shade of tomato. He sets his toast back on the plate and reaches for his tea, taking several sips to calm his system, including his nerves.

He glares at Pyp, shaking his head. “Shut up,” he grumbles. “Like you’ve a right to say anything.” His cheeks redden a little more as he tries to give as good as he gets, but he follows through and doesn’t take the comment back. Tommen fights back a grin.

“I’m always up early,” he continues, taking another, calmer bite of his toast. He chews thoughtfully, eyes grazing the headlines on another paper almost casually. “I’ve never been able to sleep late. I used to get up and hide in the family library to read before everyone woke when we were still at No. 10…” He swallows hard, flicking his eyes away from the paper to look at Pyp. Tommen hasn’t said much about his family to his flatmate’s (boyfriend?) friend. It feels a bit odd, if he’s honest.

“The toast is good,” he murmurs. “How’d you learn to make it in a pan?”

[watchpyp-blog]

Pyp throws his head back and laughs. He has a knack for making people uncomfortable but he knows Tommen can throw it right back because the next thing he's doing is looking down at his plate. Pyp rolls his neck and shrugs. "Well I certainly wasn't getting any like that when I was your age." He'd lost his own virginity at fifteen--but not to a partner, nothing like that. He'd spent most of his fifteen year getting in trouble instead of dating. He's sure he'd just barely managed to escape jail thanks to his father.

Tommen picks up the paper as he eats and Pyp briefly entertains the idea of saying something about it. Tommen's more an adult that Pyp is and, if Pyp is being frank, the thought worries him. (Though if he's worried for himself or for Tommen he's unsure.) "What do you like to read?" he asks, curious. Guessing by the number of books that litter the flat now that Tommen has moved in, he is curious. Granted, Pyp only reads dry philosophy and if he's feeling adventurous McCarthy--but he supposed he should ask. (Pyp's guess is poetry. He's seen the cummings and the Neurda enough to know a romantic.)

Tommen asks him about the toast and for the first time, Pyp doesn't quite have a comeback. He takes a breath and runs a hand through his hair. "My mum taught me... when I was young," he says and takes a drink of now-cold coffee. "Used to make it for my sister in the mornings."

[margy-tyrell]

Everybody Hurts || Margaery & Pyp || 1st August

[margy-tyrell]

Read More

[watchpyp-blog]

She lets him lead the way into his room. It's spartan, bare of wall hangings or any other decoration. There's a nightstand with an industrial lamp, a silver-framed photograph and an old Kant book. His bed is unmade but everything else is clean. She kisses him when he closes the door, harsh and possessive. He matches her, hungrily biting her mouth open as his tongue curls around hers. He kisses the breath out of her, feels her body sing as he lets one hand drop to grasp the curve of her ass.

They back into the room, her hands curling into his hair. She sinks down onto the bed and the kiss breaks. Pyp grins at her, wicked. He knows what he wants and what she wants. She wants to get out of her own head; he wants to get in her knickers. It works in both their favors. Pyp drops to his knees before her. He wraps his fingers around the hem of her dress, tugging upwards. He leans in as she lifts her arms and takes the dress off. He presses a kiss to her hipbone; it's more of a bite, blossoming into a bruise. When the dress is tossed aside, discarded by his pillows, he hooks his fingers around her knickers--they're fragile, lacy things that he briefly considers ripping but figures he should save that for another time. He holds her gaze as he tugs her panties off. He leaves her heels on. (They're kind of sexy, in a weird way--all dangerous spike heels.)

He nudges her legs open, prostrating himself between her thighs and as he turns his head to kiss the inside of her knee and up her thigh, leaving a trail of deep reed marks, he hums as her body trembles.

[t-baratheons]

i was swinging fists like nails in a board [closed: tommen and pyp] [august 22]

[t-baratheons]

Tommen nods and smiles when Pyp offers to make him toast, going for the kettle once the water is done boiling. He pours it almost to the lip of his mug and dunks the tea bag over and over, steeping it, watching as the liquid darkens with each slide of the string into the water. Tommen yawns again and shakes his head, laughing a bit. “S’what I get for being up so late, I guess.”

Pyp asks if Tommen wants anything on his toast and he goes into the fridge, pleased to find just enough blackberry jam in the jar for breakfast. He pulls it out and slides it across the counter. “Just spread the rest on, yeah?” Tommen pours some sugar into his tea and drops the bag in the trash bin, then takes it and Pyp’s coffee and takes both cups to the table. He expects Pyp will follow with the toast; this isn’t the first morning they’ve had breakfast together after Margaery’s headed to the office.

Tommen reaches for one of the daily papers stacked on the end of the table and browses the headlines, furrowing his brow at some and sighing at others. He gets somewhat involved in a human interest story when Pyp appears in his periphery and Tommen puts the paper down, grinning at him. “Thanks,” he says softly. “How’s your morning so far?”

[watchpyp-blog]

Pyp shrugs, flipping the toast over in the pan. He doesn't look at Tommen, only watches the toast. He doesn't want to burn it. "Not really," he offers, sliding one of the pieces of toast onto a plate. He nearly had a fit when he first saw Margaery's china. It was floral. Tyrell indeed, he thought with a smirk. "She gets up a bit too early, if we're being honest." It's hardly even eight o'clock and Margaery's already left. He'd have rather had her to himself for a while longer. He takes the jam from Tommen and smiles. The boy looks exhausted. Isn't he supposed to be on summer holidays? He should be sleeping until noontime, if not tea time. 

As he spreads Tommen's jam over his toast, he turns to the boy. "How's things with your lad?" he asks and smirks as he passes the plate to Tommen. "Keeps you up, doesn't he?" Not that he's one to talk, as he's sure Tommen's been accidentally privy enough to his own nights with Margaery. He takes his own toast and follows Tommen over to the table, sitting down across from him. He takes a long drink from his coffee. It's already started to go cold.

"S'alright, you know," he shrugs again. He's already made the boy uncomfortable enough, why should he dare give away he got off with the kid's flatmate. "I'm awake before mid-afternoon " He takes a bite of his toast. "Speaking of, why are you up so early? Aren't you on hols?"

[margy-tyrell]

Everybody Hurts || Margaery & Pyp || 1st August

[margy-tyrell]

For all her education and training Margaery could be so stupid. Olenna had always called her impulsive but Margaery had thought that she had outgrown it years ago. The moment she had waited outside his door, her hand lingering over the door before she had knocked she should have walked away. Resting a hand against the wall she bent down to tug her shoes on desperate to get out. She needed fresh air in her lungs and she would only get that once she was out of the flat. Making her way towards the door she is stopped in her tracks by a single word rumbling low and firm across the hallway towards her. She should leave; she should push the door open and leave. Walk home with her head held high and not look back she thought as she turned on the spot. She  watched him through her lashes as he approached her. He looks so concerned it almost makes her lose her cool, it almost makes her meet him half way. But she doesn’t. She stands rooted to the spot as he closes the space between them and curls a hand around her hip before he kisses her. She should be ashamed at how easily she wraps herself around him her fingers burying themselves in his hair trying to tempt the delicious little noises out from the back of his throat. Instead he manages to suck the air from her lungs and the fight from her stomach. She doesn’t want to leave, she wants to stay here and let Pyp carry all of her worries on his shoulders. She wants to share her load with him, just for tonight. She pulls back resting her forehead against his biting on her lip as she felt his hand on her thigh his thumb rubbing a lazy pattern against her skin that sent electricity shooting up her spine. Closing her eyes she sighed softly, “Sorry.” She whispers her apology into the small space between them letting it float around in the air. Opening her eyes again she lifts a hand to cup his cheek waiting for a response. 

[watchpyp-blog]

She curls around him like a cat and he hums, low and deep, into the kiss, tugging on her bottom lip with his teeth. The hand he has slipped under her skirt hugs the curve of her thigh, thumbing slow circles into her cunt through the thin fabric of her knickers. She wraps her fingers in his hair and tugs. He makes a low, soft sound, somewhere in his chest, pressing her flush against the door.

They pull apart and Pyp slips his hand from her dress as she presses her forehead to his. Sorry. He knows it takes a lot to say that--so he chooses to ignore it. He grin and kisses the tip of her nose and cards his free hand from her hair. "Why don't we go to bed, Margaery Tyrell?" he asks, familar smirk played across his face.

[t-baratheons]

i was swinging fists like nails in a board [closed: tommen and pyp] [august 22]

He finds Pyp in the kitchen making breakfast, a pan on the stove and a cup of hot coffee on the counter. “Good morning,” Tommen mumbles, carefully moving around his flatmate’s — boyfriend? — to get to the kettle. He fills it with water and puts it on the burner, then digs a mug out of the cupboard. Tommen scrubs his fingers through his hair, pulling his phone out of the pocket of his pajama pants to check his messages. He sends Jojen a good morning text, just a bunch of x’s and some gibberish about cuddles, and then turns his attention to the tea selection.

The smell of toasting bread and coffee makes him feel hungrier than he thinks he’s ever been this early in the morning. He’d opted to stay up late and finish his book last night, but this morning his body clock had told him it was time to wake up and function regardless of how tired he felt. Tommen yawns and scratches at his hipbone. "Does coffee actually wake you up better than tea, or do you just drink it for the taste?" he asks, glancing at Pyp over his shoulder. Something sizzles in the pan and Tommen realizes Pyp is making toast; he considers making some of his own, wondering if there's any blackberry jam still in the fridge. Then he reaches for a bag of black tea and drops it into his mug.

“Is Margy still here or has she run off to work already?”

[watchpyp-blog]

Pyp's up when Margaery leaves the bed. He wakes with the sound of the shower turning on at some ungodly hour and he feels like he's crawled out of Satan's arsehole. Still he finds himself padding into the bathroom and slipping in with Margaery. They finally leave once the water runs out and she absolutely has to go to work. He sends her out, pressing toast and jam into her hands before she goes and kisses her sweetly.

The energy of the flat quiets down after Margaery leaves and Pyp starts on his own breakfast. He doesn't bother with Margaery's fancy toaster, instead opting to fry up his toast in the pan like his mum. He lets his coffee sit, black and bitter. Tommen finds his way into the kitchen soon enough. He's in flannel pants and an old band t-shirt that's a little too big for him. Pyp assumes that, like most of the pop culture related things Tommen has, the shirt actually belongs to the boy's boyfriend. They've only met a handful of time. briefly, but each time the boy's shirts had gotten progressively more pretentious with each visit. "Morning," Pyp says with a smile and lifts the pan in Tommen's direction. "Toast?"

Tommen inspects Pyp's coffee as he wanders in, looking as though he's still half-asleep. Pyp shrugs, buttering another piece of baguette. "You don't really drink it for the taste," he says and watches Tommen opt for the tea. "She left just before you came out," he says, flipping Tommen's toast in the pan. "D'you want anything on this?"

[margy-tyrell]

Everybody Hurts || Margaery & Pyp || 1st August

[margy-tyrell]

Pyp is pliant beneath her fingers and she swells with confidence. Margaery is in control again and she is enjoying it, so is he if the groans are anything to go by. He can barely tear his eyes away from her as she moves and she feels as though she is ten feet tall. Margaery watches through hooded eyes as his eyes are pulled away from her face and lock on her arm. Smiling she looks across at where he’s looking and feels as though someone has poured a bucket of cold water over her head. She hadn’t thought Renly had held her tightly enough to leave a mark.  She had assumed it would be safe to pull her jacket off, she had been expecting to take a lot more off after all. In a split second all of the bravado she had breezed in with dissipated into nothing and was replaced with visible panic. Pyp manages to wrap a hand around the mark almost tenderly and looks up at her eyebrows drawn together. She should find it endearing but she just feels as though her heart has fallen into her stomach. Tugging her arm out of his (gentle) grip she wraps an arm across her chest. She’d been foolish to think that he would help her forget what she had been a part of less than an hour ago. She stands quickly and dances away from his grip with an easy grace she possesses even as she is filled with panic. “I should go.” She says quietly not meeting his gaze as she disentangles herself from his grip. The urge to get away was overwhelming. She pulls her jacket on to cover her arm again, relaxing a little as the bruise is out of sight once again. She grabs her shoes from the floor and makes her way towards the front door not bothering to put them on. 

[watchpyp-blog]

The look of panic that spreads across her face is immediate. Her eyes go wide and her mask slips--everything changes in an instant. If the room were organic, responding to each other as a body would--her breath would be cold, visible. The warmth is gone from the room. She looks like the floor has fallen from underneath her. He knows she's going to bolt before she does; her body pulling from his liquid-quick. She spins from him, tugging her jacket on.

Pyp doesn't say anything but moves with her. He leans when Margaery backs away, a mirror to her every movement. It's not conscious choice and in the moment, it's not something he thinks about--he's suddenly very unaware of his body and his presence in this space. It is only Margaery Tyrell--she commands that from him, even when she's slipping her feet into her pumps, her panic radiating in waves. He watches her, brow furrowed and eyes dark as she tries to orient herself. 

When she finally makes for the door, he follows. He knows she's not going to leave, that she won't. Her back is toward him. "Margaery," he says, low and firm. Margaery Tyrell turns her eyes still spooked and beautiful. He reaches for her, curling a hand around her hip and kisses her. Pressing her back against the closed door, they kiss and he dominates now. Pyp's mouth is firm against hers as he pushes his free hand up her thigh, running humb against the edge of her knickers, the crease where her thigh meets hip.

[margy-tyrell]

Everybody Hurts || Margaery & Pyp || 1st August

[margy-tyrell]

She smiles into the kiss as he shifts his body against hers and feels victory flare in her chest. He moves against her causing a delicious kind of friction to roll through her body. She visibly shudders and lifts a hand to his head, scratching across his scalp as she did. His blue eyes watch silently as she moves above him her chest hitching slightly as she catches her breath. His gaze runs over the contours of her face reading every shift and twitch in a way that leaves her feeling utterly exposed. She has only known him for less than a month and it was as though he could look straight into her soul. As he speaks she smiles gently hiding a kiss at the side of his mouth and running her fingers through his hair again. She can feel his fingers flex around her thigh as more of her dress gets bunched up in his hand. The muscles in his stomach are twitching against her fingertips and she revels in the sense of power. She could get up and leave now. Leave him aching for her and desperate. But where would the fun be in that? She is suddenly too hot and needs to shed a layer, reaching behind her she pulls her jacked off exposing more creamy skin. He has worked, she had all but forgotten about her meeting with Renly despite the red mark that was now clearly visible around her bicep. It is nothing too violent looking but there are clear finger marks. Moving her lips to his neck she smiles against the soft skin behind his ear and whispers her reply, “You don’t have to be anywhere tomorrow do you?” She asks her voice all velveteen as her fingers work their way to the fly of his jeans.

[watchpyp-blog]

Margaery Tyrell is a force of nature and Pyp can never quite tell if he is the ship lost in the storm or the tropic of cancer, the warm lull where such storms are cradled and grow. They've met enough times that he knows the way she can shiver when he presses his lips to her neck but doesn't know things like her favorite foods (not that he's sure why it's important to him to know that).

He lets out a low hum as she tugs her fingers through his hair. She has control here; she is the dominant and he the submissive in this moment and it feels good. Not right, because he wants (aches) to roll her over and fuck her into the cushions, but good nonetheless. She kisses the side of his mouth and tugs on his hair once more as he speaks and he keeps the low groan in the back of his throat. Her hair falls down in waves like a dark curtain. 

Margaery pulls back to shed her jacket and Pyp watches her carefully. She moves with a liquid grace he never knew a woman to possess, it's not only a familiarity in her body but a familiarity in her soul. She knows who she is and what she wants and it shows. He locks onto the bruise that is beginning to blossom on her arm, just above the elbow. He pauses, frowning with concern and gently  lays his fingers over the marks. They're tender. "What's this?" he murmurs, looking up at her.

[dancingonthetiles]