Chapter Text
It is a secret shame: he likes when she calls him Master.
The title is not meant as ownership, merely acknowledgement of his status as one of the elite Faceless Men. The other acolytes call him this, and they call his brothers and sisters such as well. The girl is not his bedslave, she’s his apprentice: she comes to him willingly, eagerly: she was the one who sought his flesh, who pursued him determinedly despite his citing inappropriateness and turning her away multiple times.
It is not uncommon among their ranks. Faceless Men are still but man and man has needs. Brother and sisters sleep together, Masters and acolytes-- though to sleep with one’s own apprentice is discouraged, it is not forbidden so long as favoritism in training is not shown. She is not pressured into laying with him. It does not influence her teaching, does not grant her any boons that are not unearned by her skill as an assassin.
“ M-master, ” she breathes, her hands in his hair, pulling on the strands as he sets his tongue against her pearl and laps, taking the girlish drink that drips from her into his mouth.
He should not feel guilt for enjoying it. It should not make him hard and throbbing just to hear her call him this. It is his job. As if a man would release in his pants if his wife called him butcher, or tailor, or stablehand.
He rumbles against her cunt, unable to help the moan her voice draws from him. He licks into her slit, feeling the warmth and the wetness, the taste of her lust for him, her Master. She does not lay with any of her fellow acolytes, nor any of his own brothers or sisters, though he knows overtures to her have been made by both. She seeks only him. Her Master. He moans again.
“Please,” she gasps, hands tightening in his hair, hips rolling to push her girlish slit harder against his mouth. “Please, Master.”
He is sure she knows how that inflames him. She is clever, far too clever for her own good: she did not use his title so frequently when they first began their carnal meeting. It was only when she realized how much he enjoyed it that she began to use it liberally. She employs her tricks without hesitation to get her way when they share a bed. If given his druthers he would feast upon her cunt until she was a quivering mess, would bring her to peak over and over and over until she was so strung out that her muscles could not hold her weight.
She’s more straightforward, more interested in being filled immediately. The need of youth for instant gratification. She does not enjoy foreplay so passionately as he does.
“Fuck me, Master, please,” she keens, clenching needily where his tongue spears into her.
How can he deny such a sweet request of his little apprentice? What sort of Master would he be?
The noise she makes when he sinks into her is high-pitched, stuttering with her breath. He thrusts; her breasts bounce; she cries out: “ Master! ”
He cannot help his groan, nor the way his pounding increases in strength and speed. He prefers to work into her, to open her gently, to take his time to make sure that she is comfortable around him. It is a tight fit; she is flowered and a woman bedded but still much smaller than him, petite in stature such that makes his length seem even larger to take. She has told him that she enjoys the stretch, finds it pleasing to feel just shy of pained.
“Master, please,” she whimpers into his ear, grabbing his buttocks and pulling him closer, nails digging into the muscle of his ass. Yes. The little shit knows.
He thrusts harder, skin meeting in an audible slap, punching breaths from her. She is getting closer, already pushed close to peaking from his tongue against her and now standing at the precipice from being filled by his cock. He can tell because she squeezes around him like a vice, gets improbably hotter and wetter. He himself is close as well. If she called him by his favorite and most hated title a few more times--
Her cunt clenches rhythmically, pulsing around him, a gush of fluid pours from her to soak his testicles and make the sound of their meeting skin even louder. When she comes it is not with a cry or a squeal; she breathes, softly, intimately, “ Jaqen. ”
He climaxes inside her in a rush, emptying himself to fill her, seed planted deep inside. Normally he spills upon her thighs or belly, her breasts occasionally, her lips if she is feeling particularly saucy. He does not often come into her cunt. Despite all this, it is dread which fills him, not pleasure.
He grabs her throat and squeezes it, harder than is their usual wont when playing in the sheets. Her gasp this time is not affected or caused by delight. “Jaqen is dead,” he tells her in a whispered hiss, pressing against her windpipe. Her cunt tightens; reactively he twitches another pump of seed into her. “He no longer exists. That name is not to be used.”
They do not bring violence into the bed. They may play at it, but true pain is left for the training room. Bruises take the form of lovebites, not strikes; blood may be drawn accidentally by teeth but rarely on purpose. His cock is still loosening seed and her girlhood is hot and sopping, but there is a chill in his veins nonetheless.
She blinks at him slowly, seeming to have trouble with the thought, likely caused by the sudden lack of oxygen. When he relaxes his grip upon her throat blood rushes to the skin, flushing it red. She will have a bruise where he has grabbed her. Shame fills him, and guilt.
On the other hand, her pupils are blown. She pulls her lips between her teeth to chew. “Yes, Master,” she murmurs, voice demure, but there is not fear on her face at the aggression, but lust.
He feels, wretchedly, as though her wanton moans of Master are now the least of his problems.