#this really is barely kink this is just self-indulgence lol this one is for kee! that's me

[vroombeams]

Possessiveness & Public/Semi-Public for Oscarmark :)

Oscar goes to one knee before the throne.

He's magnificent, Mark thinks, this creature that has come to him from the sea. A gift from the Drowned God, surely.

"Rise," he says, and Oscar stands, body poised in that careless way he has—deceptive in its looseness, shoulders dropped and face bored.

Mark starts to unlace himself. Oscar stays, impassive. He waits for his command, like a good dog should.

"Another job well done," Mark says, absent as he pulls himself from his breeches, finds himself thickening already.

Oscar dips his head in some approximation of a bow. "My lord." Barely an acknowledgment. His eyes, when he lifts them, are like the rest of him. Feigning disinterest like silk over a sword.

Mark gestures him over, one-handed.

Today, Oscar's brought a bounty; things he's taken from merchant ships out at sea, paid the iron price for. Weapons, and gold, of course. Lush fabrics that Mark has no use for but will trade well with the greenlanders.

Oil, from Dorne. Oscar offers him this personally.

When Mark pours it into an open palm, the oil is deliciously thick, slicks his cock with ease. Smart boy, that he's brought this today.

Mark only has to pat his thigh for Oscar to move. To unlace and climb up into Mark's lap. The throne is wide enough to fit them both. Oscar's knees and thick thighs, snugly bracketing Mark's hips.

Oscar tugs down his trousers just enough for Mark to find what he wants, and he sits obediently when Mark presses against him.

He doesn't speak. In one motion, he braces his hands on the armrests and sheathes Mark inside of him, and Mark settles back in his chair. The only sign he's been breached at all is the pink on his cheeks, stark against bone-white flesh.

He's as tight as the first time, and just as quiet. Quiet even in the times when they've no oil to ease the way, when Mark knows it's spreading him beyond what a body should be able to take. Things that don't matter. Not to Mark, and so not to Oscar.

Oscar doesn't move until Mark smacks sharply at his hip.

He is a vision. Fucking himself on Mark's cock, pale face gone blotchy red. His lips part and he pants with the exertion. Mark has no use for pretty things, but he can appreciate how Oscar is lovely the way the sea is. Dangerous. Merciless. Like salt-water pulled into the shape of a boy, with the loyal heart of a dog.

Oscar shuffles forward on his knees and grips the back of the throne for more leverage. Mark allows it. From here, now, Mark can watch Oscar's lashes flutter as he finds his own incidental pleasure.

He whispers Mark's name, sometimes, when it's like this. No my lord. No title at all, and Mark allows that as well. Because he is in every other way perfection; stone and salt, blood and steel. Everything an Ironborn should be.