two can play at being stubborn. lyonel has said some unkind words so why should you be the one to apologise? instead you decide to give him the silent treatment and see how long he will last.
wordcount: 2.3k
content: angst with a happy ending, very light sexual themes, dual pov, no first name mentioned, english is not my first language i apologize in advance
a/n: thank you anon for the request! do not trust this man he will do it again
─────────────── .✧. ───────────────
"You bore me.", he had said, hand leaving his beard in a wave of dismissal.
He hadn't even looked at you as he'd said it, yet his face had been a closed door. Eyebrows furrowed, lips pursed in annoyance. You had seen the grimace directed at others before. You had even laughed at it on many occasions. But you were not laughing that night, not when it was you he did it too. His own wife.
You felt all the blood drain from your face. Such a small slight and yet such a colossal impact. He had always known how to twist the knife. Lyonel was an adoring, blithesome husband and a charmer. He had always been. Yet his moods were often changing and always at extremes. He didn't dislike something, he loathed it. He didn't find something amusing, it was the funniest thing he'd ever seen. For you to be thrown this insult cut like a jagged blade.
Without a word, you drained the rest of your wine from your cup and rose from the banquet table. Better to leave with your dignity in pieces than no dignity at all. Better to be away from the revels than be called boring again.
It took Lyonel two hours to notice your absence from the feast. He turned to whisper something salacious in your ear but found your seat besides his vacant. His eyes darted over the crowded hall, curious at first then irked. The host's wife was supposed to stay by his side. Yet you had wandered off... What could possibly be keeping you from him? When he couldn't find you in the throngs of people, he simply assumed you had gotten bored and told him you were retiring to bed. Perhaps he had simply forgotten about it.
He would regret this assumption for the days to come.
When the party had died down and he had retreated to your marital bed, you had already been asleep. Rather than waking you, he chose to lay beside you and throw his limbs across your body as was his habit. Sleep came quickly after that, the comfort of your flesh a calming presence for his spinning head.
But you hadn't been asleep. The pillow was wet at the corners of your eyes where you'd spent the better part of an hour crying with sadness and frustration at your own emotions. What a silly thing to cry over. What a small word and yet... Your moods were just as volatile as his own, really. Exhaustion hadn't yet claimed you when you had heard him come into the room and bang around the furniture like a drunken stag. You froze, back turned to him. When he climbed in bed and draped himself over you, you shuffled away from his overwhelming clammy heat. Prick, you thought with venom.
In the late hours of the morning when Lyonel woke, he found your side of the bed to be cold and empty where it should have been filled by your warm body. Ready to welcome him with open arms and open legs. There was nothing he loved more than to close off an evening of mirth by taking his time with you the next day. His quiet reward for a successful night of debauchery.
"My love?", he called out drowsily as he turned his head towards you.
You lifted an eyebrow at him from your seat by the fire, flipping a page of your book. You had been up for an hour now and had taken the time to eat and get dressed. While he snored away his drunkenness, you planned your silent revenge.
"Come back to bed.", your husband purred, his arm reaching out in your direction.
When you rose from your chair so did his lips, parting in a wide toothy grin. Your husband and his big, molten brown eyes. His dazzling smile. His soft, greying curls. His looks had been the first thing you had been drawn to, as many other ladies had been. But his humour and challenging attitude had been what had kept you by his side throughout the years. He didn't care for the Gods or for anything besides the two of you remaining content and amused. And besides, he never failed to make you feel worshipped. Especially in bed. Yet he was thoughtless enough to say what he had said...
One look at his open arms and you almost caved right then. Almost.
Instead, you left him in bed by his lonesome. Quietly, you made for the door which slammed behind you. You weren't there to see his beckoning hand fall flat onto the sheets and the confusion that replaced his joy. But you weren't too far to not hear him shout after you.
"Where the fuck are you going?"
─ .✧. ─
You managed to avoid him for the day but once evening came, he found you at your vanity, brushing through your hair with a comb. You were already dressed in that almost transparent shift he loved. The one he had bought for you from a merchant from Pentos. The very same one he had almost torn to shreds the first time you had worn it to bed. Years had passed and yet the effect of the garment was just as potent. It made him crave you in a illogical, pitiful way. Like a stray dog after its next meal.
"There you are! I almost sent guards to fetch you..."
You watched him in the mirror as he crossed the room and placed his hands on your shoulders, bending to kiss your temple. You recoiled from him, jaws clenched and eyes set forward to watch your own reflection this time. His touch felt like a jolt of pure lightning, burning and shocking at once. You almost hissed at him. Throughout the day, your anger and sourness had only grown, threatening to overtake you.
"What is the matter with you today?", your husband asked with surprise.
"Nothing...", you whispered tiredly.
How like him to move on to another subject like water off a duck's back, the matter settled in that thick head of his. No, not quite. It was as if nothing had ever happened. A passing storm cloud, never low enough for rain. The rumbling of thunder far off in the distance. Just once you would have liked to make him feel like you were feeling right then. Small and pathetic.
"No? Then stop being so fucking, so... so ghastly."
"Boring, you mean.", you said under your breath.
"What?"
"You don't even recall, do you? Too deep in your cups, as it were, to even notice your wife was gone."
"What are you talking about?"
You rose, crossing the room and pacing like a trapped animal. It felt too stuffy, suffocating. You were bursting. Your rage barely restrained. It was stupid of you to have assumed he would rush after you as soon as you had left, to assume he would know why you had been upset.
"Stop gaping at me like a fish! What you said last night, Lyonel.", you hissed at him.
"I said a great deal of things last night if I recall."
He stroked his beard thoughtfully, pouring himself a cup of wine. Your nostrils flared in disbelief, your vision flashed red. Was he really going to act like this was a casual matter? Was it a casual matter to him? Could he not have opened his eyes to the turmoil of emotion you were going through in front of him?
"Yet you don't recall the one thing that seems to upset me at present."
"No, I do not, because clearly I didn't fucking mean it!"
His tone was rising to meet your own. Your voices bouncing off the stone walls. You cringed internally as you knew this was far from the first fight your servants had heard. On one occasion you had even thrown a few cups and shattered a carafe. It was almost as if Lyonel liked to fight you the way he fought on a battlefield or at a tourney, only with words instead of weapons. There was too much love between the two of you for him to ever raise his hand at you, but you could take it out on the furnishings of your home. From the twinkle in his eye after a fight, he clearly delighted in it.
"How can you say you didn't mean it if you can't remember?"
"Because it didn't matter!"
"It matters to me!", you bellowed.
Tears were threatening to leak out of your eyes. His face fell as he saw it, a pressing quiet descending upon the room. Just as quickly as he took a step towards you, ready to fold you into his arms, you scurried from the room. Lyonel ran a jeweled hand through his hair in frustration, a long sigh leaving him. The issue would never be resolved if you refused to face it head on. You noted with bitterness, but no shock, that he did not follow you out.
─ .✧. ─
"Won't you tell me what it was?", Lyonel whispered against the skin of your inner wrist.
You had spent the day glaring at each other whenever you entered the same room. The sight of him made your blood boil, fists clenching on themselves as to not reach for his neck to choke the life out of him. For his part, he was angry that you were angry at him. With such a sour mood, he hadn't been afforded a single kindness, a single kiss in almost two days. And he did not even know or understand the reason why. What a stupid fucking thing!
You had sent servants back and forth to relay messages and make demands of each other. But he had finally worn down your resolve when he had come to you with a bouquet of flowers and a cup of wine late in the afternoon, looking sheepish and desperate like a kicked puppy. Curse that bastard and the way he played with your heart. Curse him for being a romantic, for good measure.
While you mulled over whether to tell him the reason for your silent mistreatment of him or not, he was on his knees, pleading as you allowed him to kiss your hands and caress your palm. You recognised the signs of him knowing he had made a mistake. But you would not let his self inflicted misfortune sway you quite yet. No matter how his miserable face tugged at your heartstrings.
"You said I bored you.", you murmured quietly as the words stung in your mouth.
"...Is that it?"
You snatched your hands away from him at the first sight of his smile. He realised his mistake only a beat too late, grabbing you by the waist and pushing you back down onto your cushion as you made to rise. He would not allow you to run from him in the midst of an argument again. Gods knew he could not stand one more day of sulking and solitude.
"I'm sorry, alright? I didn't mean to upset you--"
"But you meant those words?", you cut off before he could try to soliloquy is way out of your ire.
"No, of course not my sweet. I cannot even guess why I said them."
"In jest, then?"
"Yes! Precisely, in jest.", he concurred.
"And you are sorry?", you asked dubiously.
"Deeply so."
"You're dishonest as well as careless."
This time, his hands could not hold you down. You rolled your eyes and moved to the window, distracting yourself with the rain that had begun to pelt against the glass. Lyonel followed you with slow measured steps as if he were approaching a wounded prey for the killing blow. In truth, it was not dissimilar to it. He felt you stiffen when he wrapped his arms around your middle and buried his face in your neck. Knowing better than to kiss you and lavish affection upon you yet, he used his hidden position to speak his truth. No matter how disarmed and bare it made him feel. You had made him feel as such most your marriage. As uncomfortable as it still was for him to open his heart to you, he knew how much it mattered.
"Please. I need... I need you. Every fucking day I wake up feeling like the world is dull until I remember you're my wife.", he breathed against your skin.
"Even if I bore you?"
"In truth? You're the least boring person in the Seven Kingdoms. It's why I married you. It's why I keep you with me at all times, my love."
At last, he placed a kiss upon the column of your neck. You relaxed in his arms, leaning your head back against his shoulder. A single kiss from him could melt away all the ice that had wrapped around your heart. Whether he knew it or not, Lyonel had a soothing effect on you, like a balm on calloused hands.
"I love you."
You turned in his arms, wet steaks upon your cheeks where your tears had fallen. His eyes searched your face to ascertain whether you would strike him or concede to let him console you. You chose the latter.
"I married you for your looks.", you sniffled, allowing him wipe your cheeks free of tears.
He laughed, the sound loud and boisterous in the quiet of your rooms. The Laughing Storm returned. Your husband again. The very fabric of your soul.
"Are my looks enough to be forgiven then?"
"No," you said after a moment, "they are not."
"Tell me what to do.", Lyonel whispered, lips brushing yours.
Did I drop a devastating What If and disappear for a week? - Yes
Did I write three yearning and somewhat smutty stories to make it up to you all? - Also Yes
Spinster Series His POV - Lyonel Part One
Spinster Series Masterlist
Maekar
Baelor
Warnings: Male gaze yearning (he wants that cookie bad) wanking, father is his own warning, drowning, smut - Under 18’s DNI
Storm’s End had seen its share of noble visitors. This family was no different.
Lyonel had been told enough before their arrival to know what was expected of him, a good match and a future heir.
He was told by his lords that the family was in good standing from a great house, and that the daughter would be a suitable match. The younger daughter, in particular.
He had expected beauty, softness, something easy like most ladies in the realm. She was exactly as expected. She was pretty in the way spring was pretty. Bright, warm, eager to please. She smiled often, laughed quickly, and watched him like he was already something to admire.
Her father did most of the talking, guiding her forward with careful pride, laying out her virtues as though presenting a well-bred horse.
The elder daughter stood beside them. Lyonel noticed her only in passing, she did not seem to like him, her eyes sweeping over him in disapproval, but brief enough that he might have imagined it. He did not linger on her, there was no reason to, especially when he was led off with the father and younger daughter alone.
Lyonel listened, nodded where appropriate, offered a charm here, a smile there. It came easily to him, it always had. She responded just as easily.
He walked the grounds with them. Spoke of Storm’s End, of hunts, of weather and ships and small, inconsequential things. The younger girl delighted in all of it. She asked questions that were easy to answer, laughed at the right moments, looked at him like he was already something fixed in her future.
Lyonel played his part well. He smiled, he entertained, he let her orbit him as though it were natural.
It was not unpleasant. It was familiar, comfortable and required nothing of him, but also did not make him feel anything either. He was not disappointed per ser, it was only that nothing about it surprised him. A bit dull if he were honest.
Lyonel had decided that the match would suit. The girl would be happy and seemed content enough with match. Whilst was nothing in it to challenge him, but there was nothing to object to either.It was enough.
Or so he thought.
——————————-
The card game had been meant to pass the time.
Something light, something easy, whilst the your sister tried to get to know Lyonel more. He settled into it without thought, one arm slung easily over the back of the chair, his attention divided between the game and your sister at his side.
She leaned toward him, bright and eager, laughing softly at his remarks, not really playing attention to her own hand of cards. Lyonel had played his part easily. Charm, wit, just enough attention to keep her glowing beneath it.
However, he looked at his hand and decided to be dishonest enough to keep himself entertained. The card slipped easily up his sleeve, a small indulgence, something to amuse himself more than anything else. No one ever noticed.
Until someone did.
“You moved that card”
At first he did not recognise the voice, his head turning to find the eldest daughter, you, staring daggers at the card peeking out of his sleeve.
He did not look at the card, he looked at you. Truly looked at you for the first time since you had arrived, as though someone had dragged you out of the background and set you directly before him.
You were looking at him like you had already judged him and found him lacking. He should have been annoyed at your directness, Instead, he felt something dangerously close to delight
“I did not” he replied easily slipping into a grin, because he wanted to see what you would do.
“You absolutely did” you say. There was no hesitation in it, no simpering, no attempt to make the accusation easier for him to swallow. It only made him more interested.
You leaned forward boldly, reaching for his wrist, your fingers brushing his warm skin and Lyonel felt it like a spark struck too close to dry kindling. It was certain, as though you had every right to take hold of him.
You tugged the hidden card free from his sleeve, ignoring everything but your purpose and held it up to him defiantly “What is this then?”
He should have looked at the card, but he did not. He looked at you.
Really looked, as though he had been halfblind before and only now understood it. The fire in your eyes, bright and sharp and entirely unimpressed. The set of your shoulders, steady and unyielding. The hard line of your mouth. Gods, he had not noticed your mouth before. He noticed it now, he shape of it, the way it pressed into that disapproving line, the way it drew his eye without permission.
He barked out a laugh, real and unrestrained, because the alternative was to sit there and stare at you like a man who had just been struck “Ah that card! I simply misplaced it” he said, still smiling, taking clear enjoyment in your disapproval.
“Misplaced a winning hand up your sleeve?” you said, keeping his gaze. That sent a rush of heat through him, sharp and immediate, settling low in his chest.
“Exactly” he replied, though he had already forgotten the game entirely, his attention fixed wholly on you.
“Your definition of misplaced is most creative, my lord” you said, spinning the card in your fingers.
“And yours is most severe, my lady” he countered smoothly, though his gaze remained fixed on you now, drinking in every detail he had so carelessly overlooked before “No one has ever accused me of cheating” he admitted, tilting his head slightly, curiosity sharpening into something far more dangerous “Not to my face at least”
“Then I am pleased to be of service” you replied coolly “You are a lord, after all. It would be remiss of your guests not to correct you when you stray”
“Stray?” he echoed, his brows lifting slightly as his fingers came up to take the card from your grasp, his fingers brushing yours, he did not expect to like the warmth of your skin so much.
“From honor” you said. He was not entirely certain whether it was the words themselves or simply the fact that you had said them, but it felt like the most arousing thing he had ever heard.
For a heartbeat, neither of you moved.
For a brief moment, you both held it, a silent, stubborn contest neither of you seemed willing to concede. He was acutely aware of you, of the warmth of your fingers against his, the way you held your ground and the fact that you had not looked away once.
No one spoke to him like this, no one challenged him like this. No one touched him without invitation and then held their ground as though daring him to object.
Yet you did, and gods help him, he wanted to see how far you would go.
Your sister cleared her throat loudly, the sound sharp in the silence, and you withdrew your hand at once, folding it neatly in your lap as though nothing had happened.
He noticed that too. The control of it, the way you could step back so cleanly while he was still very much in it. He found it all the more compelling.
“If we are to continue” you said briskly, though there was a faint quickening beneath your composure that he would not have noticed before, but did now “perhaps we might attempt to do so honestly”
His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth before returning to your eyes, the movement instinctive, unthinking, but he found the sight to be one that made his heart race.
“And if I prefer a challenge?” he asked, his voice lower now, roughened by something he did not bother to hide.
“You have one” you replied without hesitation.
His grin returned, but it was not the same grin he had worn when the game began. This one was slower, hungrier, delighted “Then I shall endeavor to be honourable. I would hate to disappoint you” he replied slipping into easy flirting.
When he dealt the next hand, he did not cheat. Not because of honour, he could care less about honour in a game of cards. No it was because you were watching and he wanted to see what you would do next. He wanted to push you, just enough, just carefully, and see how far that fire in your eyes would go before it burned.
He had only just noticed you and already, he found himself cursing it, because how many things had he missed. How many moments had you stood just out of his notice while he wasted his attention elsewhere.
For the first time since your arrival, Lyonel Baratheon was no longer bored.
He was interested.
—————————————————————
Lyonel was not a man given to quiet curiosity. When something interested him, he pursued it. He leaned back in his chair, cards forgotten entirely in his hand, his sister’s voice drifting past him without meaning.
Why had he not noticed you before? The question lingered.
It did not take long for him to find an answer. Storm’s End was not a place where anything remained unknown for long, and Lyonel was its lord. A quiet word to a servant, another to the steward, and soon enough the pieces fell into place.
The eldest daughter, unmarried, of an age where she should have been settled long ago.
“She has remained with her father, my lord” the steward had said carefully “to manage his household after her lady mother passed”
Lyonel had frowned slightly at that “And no match?” he pressed.
“A few offers in her younger years, I believe” the man said, hesitating just enough for Lyonel to notice “but none accepted. It is said” he trailed off.
Lyonel’s gaze sharpened “Say it”
The steward shifted faintly “It is said she is difficult, my lord”
Lyonel almost smiled at that, of course you were “And now?”
The steward hesitated again, then said it quietly “She is considered a spinster, my lord”
The word sat poorly in Lyonel’s mind. It did not fit, not with the woman who had looked at him like she might very well dismantle him piece by piece if he gave her reason.
“Spinster” he repeated, the word tasting wrong. It sounded like something dull, overlooked, forgotten.
You were none of those things.
He dismissed the steward without another word, but the irritation lingered.
A spinster, what fools.
——————————————————
The first time he found you again, you were in the solar.
Afternoon light spilled through the windows, soft and golden, catching on the edge of the book in your hands. You sat alone, one leg tucked neatly beneath you, entirely absorbed, as though the world beyond the page held no interest.
You did not notice him at first. Lyonel paused in the doorway, watching.
You looked different when you were not watching him. Softer, perhaps, but no less composed. There was something in the way you held yourself, something deliberate, simply existing as though you required nothing from anyone.
It pulled at him in a way he did not immediately understand.
“Does Storm’s End not require governing?” Your voice cut cleanly through his thoughts. You had not looked up, but you had known he was there.
A slow grin spread across his face “It does” he replied easily.
“And yet here you are” you said with almost a sigh, it only made him grin wider.
“And yet here I am” he agreed, pushing himself off the doorframe and crossing the room without invitation, dropping into the seat beside you, as though he had every right to be there.
You did not look pleased. Good, he found he preferred it that way.
You did not ask him why he had come, you did not welcome him, you simply turned a page.
Lyonel leaned back slightly, watching you, utterly unbothered by your silence. His gaze lingered longer than it should have, on the way your sleeve had slipped back from your wrist.
It was ridiculous, and yet he found himself thinking, not for the first time, that he would very much like to see how far that composure of yours could be undone.
Gods, this was better than any hunt, you made him work for it. The thought sent a sharp thrill through him
It irritated him, more than he liked, that you had been here all along. Walking his hall, sitting in his rooms, existing just out of his notice while he wasted his time on something easier.
His gaze lingered, taking in details he should have seen days ago. The way you held yourself, the quiet confidence in it, the complete lack of performance.
You were not trying to be seen. That only made him want to look harder
——————————————
After that, he stopped pretending meeting you was coincidence.
He found you on the battlements first. The wind was sharp that day, tugging at cloaks and hair alike, the sea below restless and loud against the rocks. You stood near the edge, though not too near, your hands clasped loosely before you as you looked out across the water.
You did not turn when he approached “You favour high places” he observed, falling into step beside you as though he had been invited.
“I favour quiet” you replied.
He huffed a faint laugh at that, glancing out at the sea before letting his gaze drift back to you instead “You could find that anywhere” he said lightly.
“Not here” you returned, your tone mild, though your meaning was not. You did not even try to soften it.
His mouth twitched “Am I disturbing you?” he asked, though there was no real intent to leave.
“Yes” You said it without hesitation.
His grin widened, slow and deliberate, something pleased settling into his chest.
There it was, not politeness or tolerance. Resistance. He had spent his life surrounded by people who yielded to him without being asked.
This was going to be fun.
⸻———————————————————
The next time, it was the gallery.
You were walking slowly along the long stretch of windows, your fingers brushing lightly against the stone between them as you read something in your hand.
He did not announce himself, he simply fell into step beside you.
You did not startle, of course you did not “Do you follow all your guests so diligently” you asked without looking up “or am I afforded special attention, my lord?”
“Only the interesting ones” he replied.
That earned him a glance, albeit a brief one, but it felt like a a victory all the same “You find me interesting?” you asked, quite disbelieving.
“I find you difficult, my lady” he said honestly grinning like it was the greatest compliment he could bestow, because to him it was.
Your brow lifted slightly “And that holds your interest?”
“It does” he said, far too easily.
You made a soft, noncommittal sound and continued walking.
He matched your pace without thought.
⸻——————————————
The solar became a habit.
He would find you there more often than not, seated with a book or a ledger, entirely absorbed in whatever occupied your attention, as though the rest of the castle simply ceased to exist.
The first few times, you ignored him. He would enter, sit, speak, and you would not so much as look at him unless he forced the matter.
No one had ever ignored him so completely, he found it endlessly entertaining “You could at least pretend I am not a nuisance” he said one afternoon, leaning back in his chair as you turned another page without acknowledging him.
“I am not pretending” you replied calmly.
He let out a quiet laugh “You wound me” clutching his chest in faux hurt
“I doubt that” you said lips twitching ever so slightly, his eyes dropping to them immediately. It should not have pleased him as much as it did.
⸻———————————————————-
He began to seek you out more deliberately after that, part of him needing to see you each day, despite the fact the he was still courting your sister.
If you walked the gardens, he appeared.
If you spoke with the maester, he lingered nearby, listening with that infuriating patience of his.
If you tried to slip away unnoticed, he would somehow already be there.
First it had been curiosity, then amusement, Now it was something else entirely.
He did not stumble across you anymore. He looked for you, he measured his day around where you might be, how long it had been since he had last seen you, whether you would look at him the same way you had the first time.
It was not subtle and he did not care to make it so.
⸻————————————-
He realised, at some point, that he was no longer looking for reasons.
No longer justifying it to himself as curiosity or courtesy. He simply wanted to see you, hear you speak, provoke that look in your eyes again and feel that spark when you turned your attention fully on him.
It settled into him, quiet and certain and gods help anyone who thought that meant he would give up easily.
————————————————————-
The walk had been meant for your sister. That, at least, was how it began.
The sky had finally cleared, the sea restless below the cliffs, the wind sharp enough to keep the air bracing rather than cold. Your sister had insisted upon it, bright and eager, slipping easily into step beside him as he led the way along the path.
You followed behind. A few paces back, Lyonel was aware of you anyway. He was always aware of you now.
“I tell you” he said, gesturing broadly as he walked beside your sister “The boar was monstrous! Tusks like swords! It charged straight for me”
Your sister’s eyes widened, just as he knew they would “And you did not run?”
“Run?” he scoffed lightly “I stood my ground”
He heard it then, The words carried on the wind, quiet, but not quiet enough to escape him “Of course you did”
His mouth curved immediately. There you are.
“I beg your pardon?” he called back over his shoulder, already slowing his steps.
“I said” you replied sweetly, though there was nothing sweet in the look you gave him when he turned “that the beast was fortunate to encounter such bravery, my lord”
He slowed just enough that you were forced to draw nearer “It was bravery” he insisted, his eyes meeting yours, holding them.
“I do not doubt that you believe it so” you replied, your head tilting just slightly.
Your sister laughed nervously between you, sensing something she did not understand.
Lyonel did not look at her, his gaze, as always, fixed on you. “And what would you call it?” he asked.
“Overconfidence” you answered without hesitation, stepping ahead.
He followed immediately “And if I told you it charged from the brush without warning?” he pressed, falling into step beside you now, leaving your sister to trail behind for once.
“I would suggest you were making too much noise” you returned.
His jaw ticked, but there was that spark again, sharper now, brighter “And if I told you” he said slowly, leaning just slightly closer as though sharing something meant only for you “that I wrestled it to the ground with nothing but strength and will?”
You came to a stop. So did he. You folded your hands neatly before you, looking at him with that same infuriating composure “I would ask whether the boar consented to such theatrics”
Your sister gasped, Lyonel stared at you laughed, it was not the same careless sound he gave the rest of the world. This one was sharper, pulled from somewhere deeper, because you had met him, matched him, and then twisted it just enough to make it something entirely your own and it delighted him endlessly.
“The truth then” he said, still watching you, still caught in it “the boar charged. I slipped on mud. It ran headfirst into a tree” He held your gaze as he said it. He watched your face for it, for the moment it landed.
There it was, the break in that perfect controlled composure of yours. You searched his face for mockery and found none. And then, you laughed. It burst from you, bright and unguarded, carried by the wind, entirely unladylike and entirely real.
It ruined him. Lyonel did not move, he could not. He watched you, utterly transfixed, as your composure slipped, as your cheeks flushed, as that sharp, cutting woman from moments before simply vanished into something warm and alive and devastating.
Gods, he had never heard anything like it. Never wanted anything like it.
The sound of it hit him low and deep, something instinctive and immediate, something that settled into his bones before he could even begin to make sense of it ‘I want that. I want her’ The thought came without restraint.
You cleared your throat quickly, gathering yourself, your hands moving to smooth your hair back into place “It was the mud then” you said, a hint of laughter still clinging to your voice “a most fearsome opponent”
He did not answer. He was still looking at you, restraining his body from lunging forward and kissing you right there and then “You laugh as though you are surprised” he said at last, his voice lower now, rough.
“I am” you admitted, a small smile lingering despite yourself “I did not expect such honesty”
“You prefer it?” he asked, his gaze dropping briefly, traitorously, to your lips.
“I prefer accuracy” you said, though your eyes dropped from his now, something in you shifting as well trying to hide yourself from him again.
“And did I improve my standing?” he asked, trying keep you with him.
“In what regard?” You ask
“As a storyteller” he smiled.
You blinked “Oh. Marginally”
He huffed a quiet laugh, though his attention had already moved beyond the question.
“I am difficult to mislead” you added.
“Yes” he murmured, almost to himself. He had already learned that.
Your sister hurried to rejoin you then, bright and delighted, filling the space between you once more “That was dreadful” she said fondly “You in the mud!”
Lyonel glanced at her and gave her a polite smile Then his gaze returned to you. Always to you.
You turned away first, unaware of the way his eyes followed you. Unaware that something had shifted so completely in him that there would be no returning from it.
Your laughter still echoing faintly in his mind, Lyonel realised something with a clarity that struck harder than any blow.
He had never wanted anything in his life as much as he wanted that sound again.
And he would have it.
——————————————
That night, Lyonel couldn't shake the image of you from his mind. Now, alone with his thoughts, he stripped off his tunic and breeches, his cock already half hard from the memory of your lips curving in that smile.
He settled onto the edge of his bed, the blanket scratching against his bare thighs. His hand wrapped around his thickening shaft, fingers gripping firmly as he gave it a slow, deliberate stroke.
A low groan escaped his lips as he pictured you, your body close to his, the way your breasts had strained against the fabric of your gown.
He imagined pinning you against the cold stone of the castle wall, your defiance melting into gasps as he hiked up your skirts. He thought of your mouth, those lips parting in surprise, as he thrust into you.
“Fuck” he muttered, his free hand clenching the bedsheet. In his mind, you arched against him, your pussy clenching around his cock, wet and hot, your nails digging into his shoulders as you begged for more, begged for him only him.
His breaths came ragged, hips bucking into his hand. He envisioned your arse in his grasp, spreading you wide as he drove deeper, the slap of skin on skin drowning out everything else.
His release built at the base of his spine, tension coiling tight. With a guttural curse, he came, ropes of hot seed spilling over his knuckles, his body shuddering as your imagined moans pushed him over the edge.
Even as the pleasure ebbed, leaving, the desire for the real you lingered.
—————————————————-
The storm had been coming in for hours. Lyonel had felt it before he saw it, in the way the wind shifted along the walls, in the restless pull of the sea below the cliffs. Storm’s End always warned you, if you knew how to listen.
He had not meant to go looking for you. That was what he told himself, at least. He was already halfway along the battlements when he saw you. Walking alone, of course you were.
You walked near the curve of the wall, the wind tugging at your skirts, your hair already loosening from whatever careful arrangement you had attempted earlier. You looked like something that belonged to the storm.
His jaw tightened faintly “You have a remarkable habit of placing yourself where you should not be, my lady”
You turned at once “Lord Baratheon” you replied calmly but he could see that delightful irritation bubbling below the surface.
He approached “You should be inside when weather likes this rolls in” he said, stopping close enough to feel the edge of the wind as it moved around you.
“And yet” you replied “you are our here”
His mouth twitched despite himself “I came to fetch you”
You gave a soft, unimpressed sound “How dutiful”
He grinned “I have my moments”
The rain began then, sudden and sharp, striking stone, catching in your hair, soaking quickly through the light fabric at your shoulders “I am not in need of rescuing” you argue despite slowly becoming drenched.
He watched the rain gather against your skin “That remains to be seen” he replied and before you could argue, he pulled his cloak from his shoulders and set it around you.
You stilled “I did not ask for”
“You were not going to” he cut in, fastening it at your throat before you could shrug it off. His hands lingered, long enough to feel the warmth of you beneath the damp fabric, long enough to register the way your breath shifted, barely, but enough that he noticed. That was becoming a habit.
“I am quite capable of walking in the rain” you said.
“I am quite aware” he replied “I simply chose not to watch freeze to death” he smiled, liking how the irritation brought a beautiful flush to your cheeks.
You turned away from him then. Not toward the castle, instead continuing along the wall.
He almost laughed “You misunderstand” he said, falling into step beside you “That was not permission to continue”
“I did not realise I required permission” you argue
The rain thickened, heavier now, driven by wind that pressed it sideways against stone and skin alike. You pulled the cloak tighter around yourself.
He saw it and felt something sharp and satisfied settled low in his chest at the sight.
“I will return it” you said.
“I did not ask you to” he replied his voice slightly rougher as the image of you wearing his cloak burned into his memory. Something possessive clawing inside him.
“I am not in the habit of keeping things that do not belong to me” you argue
His gaze slid over you, slower now “You may make an exception”
You shook your head faintly “I think not”
He huffed a quiet breath, something dangerously close to a laugh “You are very determined not to be obliged to me”
“I prefer not to be obliged to anyone” you say, despite pulling the cloak tighter.
He did not answer. The doors came into view ahead, servants already moving to open them as the storm worsened.
You stepped inside first, Lyonel close behind you. Warmth hit immediately, firelight and dry stone replacing the cold rush of wind.
You removed the cloak at once and held it out to him “Thank you, my lord”
His gaze dropped to the cloak, then back to you “You will keep it” he said
“I will not” you say adamant.
“You will” he repeated, stepping closer, lowering his voice just enough that it did not carry “If only so I have cause to come looking for you again”
There, that shift again, small and quick, but he saw it. The way your breath caught, the way your composure faltered for just a fraction of a second before snapping back into place.
“I am certain” you said, too smoothly “you could find an excuse without such effort”
“I could” he smiled stepping closer
“Then I see no reason to assist you” you challenged, you voice breather than before.
Something in him tightened at that “Take it” he said once more, his voice lower.
You hesitated for a moment. Then you turned, folding the cloak over your arm instead of placing it back in his hands “Very well” you said with a gulp, he would be a liar if he said his gaze didn’t follow that action down your neck to the curve of your breast.
Then you walked away. He watched you go instead, his gaze following the line of your back, the way the cloak hung from your arm, the way you did not look back.
—————————————————-
He noticed it the moment he entered his chambers, the dark lump folded on his bed
Already knowing what it was. His jaw tightened as he picked it up, the first thing that hit him was the scent. It clung to the fabric, unmistakable.
You.
Lyonel stilled, the cloak still in his hands. For a long moment, he did nothing. Then, slowly, he lifted it and breathed in once.
Something low and possessive settled into his chest, heavy and certain.
Because it was his and now, whether you intended it or not, it carried you with it.
————————————————————
The feast had been arranged for your sister, an opportunity to announce the betrothal.
The hall was full, bright with candlelight and music, voices rising and falling in easy celebration as wine and ale flowed freely and the household gathered in anticipation of the announcement to come.
Lyonel should have been pleased. The match was suitable, the family respectable, the evening proceeding exactly as it should.
And yet he found himself searching the room. Not for the girl at the centre of it all. For you.
He spotted you at the edge of the hall. Of course you were there. Removed from the centre, from the light, from the attention that your sister wore so easily. You stood where you could observe without being observed.
His gaze caught. The colour struck him first, deep and rich beneath the candlelight, clinging to you in a way that made it impossible to look anywhere else once he had noticed.
It was not the dress, It was you in it.
The bodice fitted close, drawn tight at your waist, shaping you in a way that made something low in his chest pull hard and sudden.
He found himself thinking, with a flicker of irritation that had no clear target, that you should not be standing at the edge of the room at all.
You should be at the centre of it, with him.
———————————————————————
You startled when he approached. His mouth twitched, he liked that he could still do that “My lady”
You turned, and there it was again, that look, that sharp, assessing awareness that settled over him like a challenge issued without words “You seem determined to hide” he observed lightly, unable to stop his gazed flicking over you.
“I am not hiding” you replied, not quite meeting his eye “I am simply observing”
He stepped closer, the scent of your perfume surrounding him, sending heat through him “You have observed enough” he said, extending his hand without hesitation “Dance with me”
You blinked. For the first time since he had known you, you looked uncertain.
“Surely my sister would be a better partner” you said, hesitating.
His jaw tightened, just slightly “She is otherwise occupied” he said smoothly, not giving you time to refuse as he took your hand.
Your hand in his felt different than your sisters, like it belonged. That made his grip tighten instinctively as he led you into the centre of the hall.
He was aware of the attention immediately, the watching eyes. None of it mattered, only the way your hand rested in his mattered, the way your other hand came to his shoulder. His hand settled at your waist and for the first time since he had known you, you did not pull away. You fit there perfectly.
That alone was enough to make his grip tighten.
You were warm beneath his hand, real in a way that struck harder than anything he had imagined in the quiet of his chambers, your body moving with his as the dance carried you both through the hall. He had held women before, none of them had felt like this. None of them had made him aware of every inch of contact as though it mattered
“You are quiet” he murmured, his voice lowering without thought as the dance began.
“I am focused on not tripping” you replied, your gaze fixed somewhere near his shoulder.
A faint smile touched his mouth, but his hand flexed slightly at your waist all the same “I would not let you fall”
“You are very confident” you muttered.
Gods, if only you knew “You think me arrogant” he said.
“I think you certain of yourself” you replied, finally looking at him.
That was a mistake. For him. Because now he had your full attention again, and it did something to him, something immediate and consuming. He noticed everything at once, the colour in your cheeks, the way your lashes lowered just slightly, the softness that lingered at the edges of that sharp composure when you were this close.
“And you are not?” he challenged, resisting every instinct in his body that told him to pull you closer and not let go.
“I am not” you said, with a twitch of your distracting lips.
His grip tightened, just slightly. The dance turned you, drawing you closer. Close enough that your bodies brushed. Close enough that the tight line of your bodice left no space between you, your chest pressing against his for a fleeting moment that lingered far longer than it should have.
His breath caught, you shifted with the movement of the dance and it only made it worse, the contact repeating, softer this time, but no less devastating. He became acutely aware of everything. The warmth of you, the shape of you. The way you fit against him as though there had never been meant to be distance at all.
“You must be glad” you said after a moment.
The words dragged him back to reality distracted by the scent and feel of you in his arms “Glad?”
“That tomorrow everything will be settled” you continued, your tone light, polite “When my sister becomes your betrothed”
Something in him went still.
“When we return home after the wedding” you added, your smile practiced, distant “You will have peace again. No more interfering sisters”
Return home. The words struck harder than they should have “You mean to leave Storm’s End” he said, the question sharper than he intended.
“Of course” you replied, brows drawing together faintly.
The thought hit him like a blow, and that same reckless instinct rose again, sharper this time, more insistent. For one reckless, unguarded moment, he thought of it, his chambers, the door closed, you beneath him, moaning his name whilst he made you his, consequences be damned. You would not leave. He could not, would not, simply watch you walk out of his life as though you meant nothing.
As though you could simply walk out of Storm’s End and take that fire with you like it did not belong here now. Like it did not belong to him
“And then?” he pressed.
You blinked, confused “And then nothing” you said simply.
Nothing. You said it so easily, like life here without you in it would be just as easily endured.
“I shall manage the household as I always have. There is no shortage of work for an unmarried daughter past her prime” you added lightly.
His jaw tightened. There it was again, that dismissal of yourself “You are not past—” he started, sharper now.
“It is hardly a tragedy” you interrupted gently. “Not everyone is meant for grand romance”
The music shifted, drawing you closer again.
“You speak as though it is decided” he said, his voice rougher now
“It is decided” you replied “My sister is the beauty. It was always my duty to see her settled”
“And you?” he asked again.
“I am content”
He did not believe you. Not for a single second. Something in him rejected it entirely.
You would not leave, you were his as he was yours.
The thought came too fast, too certain, and he did not stop it.
The music came to its final note. You stepped back immediately, slipping from his hold before he could stop you.
He felt the loss of you immediately.
You dipped into a quick curtsey and withdrew before he could say anything further.
Before he could stop you, before he could act on the impulse still lingering, dangerous and insistent, at the back of his mind. He stood there, the space where you had been suddenly, painfully empty. ‘Return home’ the thought swirled in his mind. This was your home, with him.
He turned sharply, his gaze already searching for you and then he saw your sister leave and watched you follow. He did not hesitate. Because whatever this had become, whatever you had become to him. He knew one thing with absolute clarity.
You were not leaving him.
Not without a fight.
—————————————————-
He saw it happen.
Your sister too close to the edge. Your stride, sharp and immediate, already moving to get her down. The slick stone beneath your feet, the way the wind pulled at your skirts.
Your hand caught her wrist, the force of it nearly dragging you over with her, your body straining, your feet scrambling for purchase on stone that offered none.
The knight seized her, pulled her back and the force of it took you instead.
He saw it. Saw the moment your footing gave way. Saw the way your body tilted, the sharp, sickening slide as you toppled.
“No!!!” The word tore from him, but you were already gone.
Over the edge, vanished into the dark.
There was no thought, no pause, he just ran at battlements at full speed and did not slow, did not look, did not measure the distance.
He jumped.
⸻————————————-
The cold hit like a blow.
It stole breath, stole sense, stole everything but the single, driving instinct burning through him ‘Find her’
He forced his eyes open against the sting of salt, scanning the dark water, the violent churn of the sea. There a pale shape beneath the surface, sinking.
His heart slammed hard enough to hurt. He drove himself downward, cutting through the water in powerful strokes, reaching out. Your dress billowed around you like something ghostly, dragging you down, your body already too still, your movements slowing.
His hand closed around you, one arm hooking tight around your waist, pulling you against him as he turned and kicked for the surface with everything he had.
He broke through with a violent gasp, dragging in air, your body heavy in his arms, unresponsive, your head lolling against him.
“Stay with me” He did not even realise he had spoken.
He shifted his grip immediately, one arm under your thighs, hauling you higher against his chest, keeping your face above the water as he fought the current.
Above, voices. Your sister’s sobs. All of it meaningless. He saw only you, cared for only you.
He forced himself toward the rock face, toward the narrow outcrop he knew was there, boots scraping stone as he found purchase and dragged both of you from the water.
You did not move “Breathe” He dropped to his knees beside you, hauling you onto the stone, his hands already on you, already searching, already trying to force life back into you by sheer will alone.
“Breathe” he ordered again, voice breaking. Your gown clung to you, soaked, your bodice tight, restricting your breath.
He did not think. His dagger was in his hand in an instant, slicing through the laces with one sharp motion, fabric parting beneath the blade as he tore it open.
“Breathe!” The word ripped from him now, no longer command but plea.
You coughed, water spilling from your lips as your body jerked in his arms.
He froze. For one impossible second, he could not move, could not breathe, could not even understand what had just happened.
A sound tore from him, something broken and relieved all at once, almost a laugh, almost a sob as he pulled you tighter against him, holding you upright, his hand pressing firm against your back as though you might slip away again if he loosened his grip even slightly.
“Easy” he murmured, though his voice still shook, his forehead pressing briefly against your temple, his breath unsteady against your skin “I have you. I have you”
He had you and he was never letting you go again.
———————————————-
He did not wait, he did not call for servants nor trust anyone else to carry you.
You were in his arms before the world had even fully come back into focus, your body still trembling faintly from the cold, your breath uneven against his throat as he hauled himself up from the rocks and onto the path.
His grip tightened instinctively, one arm braced beneath your legs, the other locked around your back, holding you flush against him as though the space between you might somehow steal the breath from your lungs again.
He had lost you, twice, in one night. His jaw clenched hard enough to ache. Not again. Never again.
“Move” he barked as he reached the castle doors, his voice carrying through stone and air alike, sharp enough to cut through the chaos that followed behind him.
Servants scattered instantly. Doors opened before he reached them.
You shifted faintly in his arms, a weak sound catching in your throat, your fingers curling against his tunic as though searching for something solid.
“I have you” he said immediately, the words low and fierce, more vow than reassurance as he adjusted his hold, bringing you closer still “You are not going anywhere”
If your breath stilled again, he would tear this castle down, stone by stone.
⸻——————————————-
He did not take you to the guest chambers. He took you to his.
The door slammed open beneath his shoulder, echoing through the room as he crossed to the bed and laid you down with a care that did not match the violence of everything else about him.
“Maester!” someone shouted.
Voices moved around him. He barely heard them, his attention was fixed entirely on you. Your skin pale beneath the remnants of your soaked gown, your bodice cut open, your chest rising unevenly as you fought for breath.
His hand came to your face without thought, too firm at first before softening, his thumb brushing water from your cheek as though he could erase the memory of it entirely.
You stirred. Relief hit him like a second wave, just as violent as the first.
Behind him, your sister burst into the room, her voice breaking with sobs, words tumbling over one another “I did not mean— I never meant—”
He did not look at her, she did not exist. Not when you lay before him like this.
The maester arrived in a rush of robes and orders, ushering hands away, directing movement, calling for warmth, for cloth, for space.
Lyonel did not move, nor would he leave. He stood there, close enough to touch you, close enough to see every breath, every flicker of life as it returned.
The your father arrived “What has happened?”
Your sister tried to speak, the words breaking apart under her own guilt “She slipped— I went to the battlements— she followed— she saved me—”
Lyonel spoke over her “She went over the edge” he said, his gaze not leaving you “I pulled her from the water”
Your father’s eyes sharpened, flicking over you, taking in the state of your gown, the cut laces, the bed you now lay upon “I had intended” he said slowly “to announce my younger daughter’s betrothal this evening”
Lyonel’s jaw tightened. He knew what was coming, he did not care.
“But instead” your father continued, voice hardening, “my eldest is now compromised”
The word landed like a strike. Compromised, as though that was what mattered. As though the fact that you still breathed beneath his roof was not the only thing that should matter at all.
Lyonel’s gaze flicked from you then “If there is any question of your daughter’s honour” he said, his voice low, steady, leaving no room for interpretation “it rests with me”
Your father held his gaze “And how do you propose to answer it?”
There was no hesitation. The decision had already been made the moment you caught him cheating at cards “She will be my wife” The words cut clean through the room.
Lyonel did not look at either of them. He looked at you.
“I was to wed her sister” your father said.
“I was” Lyonel agreed, the past tense deliberate, unyielding. Because that had already changed, everything had already changed.
Your father exhaled slowly “Then we will correct the announcement”
Lyonel did not respond. He did not need to. His attention had already returned to you, to the faint rise and fall of your chest, to the proof that you were still here. As he stood there, watching you breathe, something settled into him with a certainty he had never known before.
He had almost lost you. Twice. He would not survive a third.
And so he did the only thing a man like Lyonel Baratheon knew how to do when something mattered beyond reason. He claimed it. You were not leaving him. You were not returning to nothing. You were not fading back into a life that did not see you.
You were his.
And he would burn the world down before he let you slip through his hands again.
Do any of you want to surrender to men who fear you? Lay down arms in a battle that we are winning? Neither do I. Fuck Benjamin Hornigold, his king, and their pardons. This war isn’t nearly over.
I don't think Tolkien is a good fantasy writer because he scored the highest at some objective Best Fantasy Book Test that every fantasy writer has to take, I think he's a good fantasy writer because he created a world based on things that he was interested in. I feel like a lot of fantasy writers think that they need to create a whole language for their world because Tolkien did and obviously his books are the best so they have to emulate him, but Tolkien did that because he was a linguistics nerd. I think the lesson to be learned from him is not that you have to include elves and deep history and new languages, but that you have to write endlessly about the things you are a huge nerd about and use those things to create your fantasy world
cw: nsfw, intoxication, unhealthy coping mechanisms, emotional dependency, nightmares, self destructive behaviour, vulnerability, fear of abandonment, rough/impulsive intimacy, explicit sexual content (18+),mdni
the metallic scrape of keys against the lock sounded like a serrated blade dragging over bone. you didn’t turn from the flickering glow of the television, though your heart did a slow, painful roll in your chest. the door swung heavy on its hinges, thudding against the stopper with a dull, bruised sound.
“i’m here,” daeron’s voice drifted in, thick with the weight of too much wine and not enough sleep.
you heard his shoes hit the floor, one then the other, followed by the soft rustle of his coat sliding off his shoulders.he stumbled, a soft curse catching in his throat, before his shadow stretched across the carpet toward you.
“you promised, daeron," you said, your voice a flat line of exhaustion.
“i know,” he rasped, moving into your line of sight. he looked hauntingly beautiful in the dim light, his dirty blonde hair falling over his face, his pale blue eyes were bloodshot, glassy with a desperate, pitiful sheen. “i’m a liar. i’m a coward. i’m everything you should have locked the door against tonight.”
“you need to stop doing this to yourself,” you whispered, looking at the way his hands trembled.
“i can’t stop the dreams,” he said, his voice cracking as he reached the edge of the couch. “they were burning again. all of them.dragons made of red shadow, tearing the sky apart. i just wanted the world to be quiet. i just wanted to forget the fire.” he didn't wait for an invitation.daeron sank to his knees on the floor between your legs, his movements heavy and uncoordinated. he looked like a kicked puppy, his long hair falling forward to shroud his face. “don’t look at me like that,” he murmured, his forehead resting against your knee. “please. scold me. tell me i’m pathetic. just don’t be silent.”
“you aren’t pathetic," you said, reaching down to brush a lock of hair behind his ear. “you’re just drowning, and you won’t let me pull you out.”
“i don’t want to be pulled out,” he groaned, his hands sliding up to grip your ankles. bis touch was light, tentative, as if he feared he might bruise you just by existing. “i want to drown in you instead. you’re the only quiet place left in the world. everything else is screaming.” he looked up then, his eyes searching yours with a hunger that was almost frightening. “am i making you upset? tell me i haven’t ruined it yet. tell me you still want me here.”
“i always want you here, daeron. that’s the problem.”
“god, you’re so good,” he whispered, his hands sliding further up your legs, hooking behind your knees to pull himself closer. he buried his face in your lap, breathing you in like air after a long submersion. “i don’t deserve the way you smell. like something sweet.like home.” you cupped his face, forcing him to look at you. his skin was hot, feverish against your palms. “you’re drunk, daeron. you’re going to regret this in the morning when the headache sets in.”
“i regret the wine,” he said, his fingers tightening on your thighs, “but i will never regret the way you look at me. kiss me. please. i need to know i’m still alive. i need to feel something that isn’t this.”
he didn't wait for an answer, lunging upward with a needy, desperate groan. his mouth crashed into yours, tasting of bitter juniper and sweet, fermented grapes. it wasn't a gentle kiss.his tongue pushed past your lips, searching, frantic, as if he could drink the very soul out of your lungs. you felt yourself being pressed back into the cushions of the couch, his weight following you, heavy and insistent. “i need you,” he panted against your lips, his hands moving to cup your face, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones with a bruising pressure. “i need to be so deep inside you that i can’t hear the dragons anymore. shut them out for me. please.”
“daeron, slow down,” you breathed, but your own hands were already tangled in his hair, pulling him closer.
“i can’t,” he whimpered, his face dropping to your neck. he began to trail wet, hot kisses down the line of your throat, his teeth grazing your skin just enough to leave a mark. “i’ve been starving for this all day. every glass i drank was just me trying to find the courage to come back and beg for you.” he shifted, his knee forcing its way between your thighs, spreading you wide. he was hard against your hip, a solid, pulsing heat that made your stomach flip.
“do you want me?” he asked, his voice a low, gravelly vibration against your skin. “tell me you want me even when i’m like this. tell me i’m yours.”
“you know you are,” you said, your breath hitching as his hand slid under your shirt, his palm rough and warm against your ribs. “say it,” he commanded, his eyes dark and swirling with a manic intensity. “tell me you want me inside you. tell me you want me to ruin you tonight. please.”
“i want you, daeron. i want all of you.”
he let out a ragged sound, half-sob and half-growl, as he reached for his belt. “then hold onto me. don’t let me go, no matter how much i shake.” he fumbled with his trousers, his movements frantic until he freed his length. it was thick and angry, weeping a bead of pre-cum that glistened in the television's blue light. he didn't use a condom; he didn't wait for finesse. he shoved your underwear aside, his fingers slicking your folds with a rough, hurried efficiency. “you’re so wet for me,” he choked out, his eyes locked on yours. “even when i’m a mess, you’re ready for me.”
he guided himself to your opening, the broad head of his cock dragging over your clit before he pushed. he was thick, the entry tight and demanding a slow stretch.he softly moved forward, burying himself to the hilt in one singular, devastating thrust.you gasped, your back arching off the couch as your body accommodated his intrusion. the sound of flesh meeting flesh was a wet, heavy slap that echoed in the room.
“god,” he groaned, his eyes rolling back as he remained buried deep within you. “you’re so tight, love. i can feel your heart beating against me.” he began to move, a frantic, uncoordinated rhythm that spoke of his desperation. every time he withdrew, there was a wet, shlicking sound as the suction broke, only for him to plunge back in with enough force to make the couch creak. his balls slapped against your skin, the friction creating a building heat that threatened to consume you both.
“look at me, please” he commanded, his voice breaking. “don’t close your eyes. i want to see you. i need to see you.”
you looked up at him, seeing the sweat beading on his forehead, the way his lips were parted in a silent scream of pleasure.he was beautiful and broken, a prince of a fallen house finding his only kingdom between your legs. “i’m going to come,” he gasped, his thrusts becoming shorter, sharper. “i’m going to... fuck, i’m going to fill you up. please— please my sweet, my dream.”
his hands gripped your waist so hard you knew there would be bruises in the morning. he gave one final, violent shove, his body locking up as he spilled himself deep inside you. you felt the hot, rhythmic pulses of his release hitting your cervix, a thick, internal flooding that made you cry out his name. he collapsed onto you, his chest heaving, the smell of sex,sweat and alcohol in the air. he didn't pull out. he stayed there, trembling, his face buried in the crook of your neck.
“don’t leave me,” he whispered, his voice small and terrified. “the dreams will come back if you leave me.”
“i’m not going anywhere, daeron,” you said, stroking his hair. “i’ve got you.”
turnnoffyourmind
jbbartram-illu
baratheonpilled
theartofmadeline
origamiaround
snowghoul
kianamaiart
stormborns
dededos
