You guys did not disappoint. My ask box looks DELICIOUS right now. I can’t wait to get started. Super hectic week at work but trust me— I will be thinking plenty of thots to fill those lovely reqs— (to the nonny who suggested Lyonel x Lady D mirror sex I’m actually snogging you with tongue)
girl (gender neutral ofc) i felt so blessed to find a blog that writes for my man lyonel AND has a bunch of eddie munson fics and then you followed me back ??? ilyyy
Welcome to my brain rot babes 💕💕 I do hope you enjoy— Lyonel Baratheon is currently driving me actually insane with lust so do expect some more on that. And I’m always open for any reqs for him too— let’s be mentally unwell together 💕💕
i loved your lyonel story. i'm in love. i want to read and request so much about him, but it's so much, i can't think of anything. i'll just silently check and recheck your tumblr for any new content. god bless u for the work you do
Babes that’s so kind of you. Thank you so much. There’s a handy list here should you need any inspiration- you know where to find me.
If any of these prompts (or these and these or these) tickle your fancy for Lyonel x Lady Dondarrion, please hit up the old inbox. I’m ready to get freaky about this guy- (if you use a prompt put the while sentence in there otherwise I may never find them again)
These too, and these. And these ones also, and for fun these ones, & uh this, and these ones and yeah these ones too. & more of this stuff. And oh yes these are terribly saucy too. And this. And then some of this.
Holy shit, I read Storm Kissed — Lightning Stung and I aM IN LOVE! HOW DID I NOT FIND YOU BEFORE???
If you don't mind, please add me to the taglist ^__^
It's oku if not as well!
Omg of course I can tag you. Thank you so much for reading and enjoying! It also goes without saying that if you have any Lyonel reqs or HC’s for him and Lady Dondarrion please come chat to my inbox. I’m currently in the feral mood for him-
Summary; Lyonel spots you dancing in the crowds in his Pavilion- and something about you makes him curious- and doomed.... silly little one shot I wrote in an hour. Be kind ! My first time attempting to write this guy
Forgive the random tags but I’m Tagging some phenomenal akotsk babes whose fics gave me life. Let me know if you want on/off the list. I’m new to AKOTSK so forgive my presumptions @the-darklings @jintaka-hane @mynameistocool @lovebugism @maekarsmistress @pearlessance @noxiousstrrawberries @ingystark @oakleafing @marsrambles @just-some-random-blogger @vhagars-dementia @escapic-mezzanine @tearsweetenedtea @nerdyinfluencertastemaker @halerune @adumbgirlinloove @crayonbug @celestrys @targlocket @faelinda @captainfern @fayefayefay
any reblogs or comments are greatly appreciated -
For a man so used to the boisterous nature of storms, it’s amazing how gently you come to his notice.
Another night. His Pavillion raised. Gold as the heart of the burning sun. Wine and ale flow like rich strong rivers through this place. Every cup kept full. Air alive with the iron of roasted meat and the sugar tang of fine sweet delights.
Candles burn at every corner. Spitting gold up the sagging cloth walls. Stag antlers protrude proud from every inch. Enough to take eyes out. As he would hope.
The house Baratheon is not designed to fall gently upon this world.
You creep to his notice. Rolling to a slow boil. And for a man used to things that bellow and roar just for a slither of his attention, it stays under his skin. Catches him the wrong way.
You make him curious. That’s dangerous.
You’re dancing when he spies you first. Skirts flying. Eyes bright, like freshly struck lightning bolts in the yellow dim. The way you move, fluid like a river around rocks, with a smile on your lips. The arch of your arms and the turn of your neck. Your partner is enchanted. He can well understand the addiction.
You bow and dip. Hair swinging in its braids down your shoulders. The gossamer of your sleeves as light and artful as your touch as you round the cleared space to the musician’s drums.
He doesn’t recognise your face. No obvious colours which tie you to any house. It’s itching at him. He wants to place you. He can’t place you. Your clothes are fine enough to suggest rank. But you move and laugh and slip through small folk like you were born to it.
He does what he always does when something sneaks under his skin like a clever knife. He drinks until he can scarce stand.
Then he dances about it-
Feet stomping. Clapping his hands like thunder claps themselves. Coiled hair shaking. His tunic flying. Black and gold flashes like an animal warning before poison comes. The rhythm turned to liquid gold in his drunken veins. The drums take his heartbeat.
The dance leads him to you. Inelegantly so.
You catch him when he bodily collides with you. Warm black leather and sweat on his bronze skin. His tunic seeps warmth onto the plum velvet of your dress.
Careful, calm hands. Steady as rock. Smile like a siren. Joy flowing out of you in the glow of your cheeks and the excellent flash of those clever, devastating eyes.
You’ve caught the laughing storm in your hands. That’s a feat no one can hold claim too.
He yanks you close. Too close for propriety. A hand like steel on the small of your back.
He spins you. Spins along with you. Watches your skirts whirl. The bend of your hair when you twist. Your laughter like warm sugar poured on his ears. He almost curses how loud the music is so he can’t hear it’s plain simplicity for himself.
He likes the way your scent envelopes him this close. Nectarine blossoms and honey. Like a deep pull of a violet evening in the spring. The sweet nudge of petals and warm fruit.
He halts the dance. A mere second. Stares deeply into your eyes. In a way that cuts. In a way that makes most men scared when they smell a storm brewing.
“Would you give me your name?” He demands. Iron and thunder stroked on his voice.
Your smile grows. Unfettered. Silky and bright as a summer song.
“And what would you do with it, Ser?” You tease. Voice tinged a little breathless with the way you’ve been whirling around.
“Flatter it. Speak it often and loud so that I might learn the shape to whom it belongs.”
“If I do not wish to offer it? What then?” You test.
He lands his eyes on your mouth. Stands with his hand not leaving your hip. It strips you bare. How his touch sinks beneath the fabric of your dress like a warm hot brand.
“You would deny a Lord...” He threatens.
There’s no sharpness in it. It’s all grinning flirt, and playfulness under the shade of his hair falling over his eyes. Wine like heavy dark opium spice in his breath. His smouldering cologne comes with him as you sway together. Dark leather. Charred birch wood from the fires. Intense and hypnotic. Breathing him in, this close, is like wandering through a spiced forest.
He’s nearly crammed hip to hip with the crowds reel on around you.
“If it pleases me. Yes.” You cheek. Stepping forwards. Right up to the stag. Bracing antlers with him. Without fear of being struck.
You duck out of his touch and spin away. Like sand through his fingers. Onto the arm of another. Flying away. Feet taking elsewhere. “I must find my amusement somewhere. My lord. “ You call back. Tormenting him further.
He grins and dances on. Eyes catching yours over bobbing heads and weaving figures.
He stands there. Trying to catch his breath. Laughing true and loud like the wild man he is. Feeling like you’d turned him inside out.
He follows you in your mania and smiles, dances on and on. Chasing you through the steps til the soles of his feet hurt.
~
Truth be told. He came outside to take a piss.
He staggers out of the Pavillion for air that doesn’t claw. Isn’t smogged with drink and body heat and the fug of soot and acrid smoke.
Relieves himself up against the side of some ash tree. Hand braces to it. Rings glitter fat hungry gold in the moonlight. He opens the neck of his tunic. Sweat is sheeting down his chest like a river. Sticking to raven curls of chest hair.
He turns and attempts to trudge his way back to the dying party. The music softened to a lull. Drunks slumped in the corners, drooling. Food scattered in crumbs and bones left on platers. Wine stains from clumsy, drowsy hands splotch every table top.
He finds you here too. Between the canvas of the tents. The glow of the torches lit from within touch the muddy earth like jewels, warm orange, purple, red.
You are simply stood. Beneath the moonlight. Bathed in it. His dancing beauty. His steady rock that even chaos like him carves around.
He struggled to stand upright. But let it not be said of him he didn’t hold his drink like a warrior.
“My lady.” He slurs. Treats your name like spun glass in a thugs grip.
“Laughing Storm.” You greet back. Walking towards him. Hands steady like you’re worried he’ll topple.
The sour eye of the moon catches in those eyes of yours like molten silver pools. Threaded into your hair and made you like some dragon queen.
“You won’t let me know of you, will you?” He states. Honesty falls off him like heavy rain.
Your answer guts him. Clean and true. The slight pinch of your face makes him want to haul you close and soothe the ache away.
“I fear it won’t do any good.” You offer.
He frowns. Never a man. To smother down his passions. He staggers a step closer. Swallowing. Trying to find the words that churn in his chest.
“Would a lady let me kiss her?” He asks. Voice chafed to a drunk whisper. “Just once.”
Your breath hitched. Mouth gaping. For the first time tonight, he’s finally caught you out. It feels like hooking a prize animal in a hunt.
“I fear that wouldn’t do any good either.” You warn.
But you’re coming closer. Edging in the way one would approach a stag on a hunt. No attempt to spook or spoil.
His eyes settle on your soft, sultry mouth. Yours gaze to his. To that salt and pepper goatee. The way that stupid golden earring dangles like a glittering gold bug into his curls you want to lose a fist in.
“What use is good. My lady. When the opposite is so much more fun.” He charms. Eyes like liquid devastation.
Because he always did seek out danger. The viper in the forest to see the flash of its fangs. The swelling bruised clouds of a storm that he sails his ship directly into. The melee of a fight - he aims right to the heart of where the fighting hits the thickest.
You reach for him first. Boldly. Stroke a fingertip over the sharp of one cheekbone. Eyes falling to his mouth. He shifts. Leaves his hand carefully over your hip. Stroking the velvet and the even finer grain of the feel of you underneath.
“Fun. But ill advised. Seldom recommended.”
“Fuck your ill advised.”
He reels you in. Right to his chest. Just like the way you danced earlier. Arms coiled around each other. All close and intoxicating body heat.
He kisses you then. And it shatters you to fragile sharp little pieces.
A stunning kiss. Not gentle or kind in any way. There’s the sting of teeth. The mess of shared spit. His moans sink to the bed of your tongue and you nearly cannot comprehend the enormity of the passion that strikes clean through you.
His hands are big and rough, battle scarred, warm skin on your face as he takes this kiss off you like he needs it to live, but vehemently doesn’t want it.
You taste his moans. His tongue curls to seek out yours. Your hand heaps into his hair like you’re trying to keep tethered to this earth.
You claw his neck when he bites your lip. He hisses a smile at the sting. Breaking the kiss to rest his forehead to yours. Utterly drunk on you. Hands on your lower back. Resisting the urge to drag you closer by the plump of your ass.
“Forgive me.” You whisper like warm honey sin onto his lips.
“Shan’t.” He sneers. Then he grins. Tries to hold you closer once again.
You cup his face. Then you turn. Slip away like smoke dissipating under the moonlight. Torchlight turning your hair to spun flame. Cloak lapping your heels.
He watches you leave. Something like grief wrapped its stinging barbs around his heart.
~
He sinks into a sober misery come the rise of the dawn. A determined grit in his jaw. He hunts. He was born with a storm at his back. A shield and sword in his other. This will not best him.
He flays every banner man he can get his hands on, in the hopes someone the night before managed to get the taste of your name on their tongue.
His luck runs dry. No one knew you. Plenty remembered your beauty. Plenty remembered dancing with you. Too drunk to have gathered your name. All spinning skirts and smiles. No name.
He must ride to the tourney field. Gilded in his fine yellow armour that screams Baratheon from a mile away. Like the sun had chewed him up and spat him out in it’s colours.
He rides into that mud bogged field. A shining smile and a laugh tucked in his throat as always. Parades like a prize stag with balls made of iron, in front of the nobility. Antlers high and proud.
He was negotiating for the hand of some Lordling’s daughter. It was high time the heir paramount to Storms End tied himself to someone who would settle him. Someone who could quell and soothe the rising tides and madness of his hurricane temper.
In truth, he does not look forwards to any match that promises him some trembling noble girl whose being sold on like chattel, for bartering grain, swords or livestock from the heir to Storms End.
He rides his horse to the stands where the nobles sit. Some plain, small little Blackhaven lords daughter had been offered to him. Of marriageable age. He would not even touch nor entertain the idea of a child bride with a ten foot lance.
He recalled her fathers letters. A girl borne of the storm lands. Used to the fierce lashings of the sea. Learned the shape of the waves the same way he’s been raised too. Familiarity to the way the wind could break ships masts. Someone weather worthy. Ready to stand alongside him and spit into the eye of the storm.
She’s a pretty thing. He’ll give her that. Frail as the first snowdrop in spring. But she looked like one breath of wind, or even a mere necklace of heavy gems would flatten her.
She’s excellently educated in the way she preens and moves and beams just right. Every action angled and taught to perfection. He’s never been able to stand anything as stifling and neat as affection.
She hands him her favour with a mousy promise. A token she’d embroidered herself. She wishes him good fortune on the field. He takes it with a bowed head.
He winks boldly at this small girl. Because he’s nothing if not bold. He can talk charm and flirt with almost anyone he wishes. That is his grace. “With your luck, my lady, it is as good as promised.”
His horse shifts. His attention comes to the person sat to the right of this small tepid creature they’re offering up to him. Like a mouse to a falcon. He can’t pretend he looks on the match with any great enthusiasm. A slip of a girl will not withstand the hurricane that is being the Lady of Storms End.
When his eyes take the shape of the person sat behind his intended bride. It was like someone ripped the golden earth out from below his feet. Tore out his spine and left him to bleed. A flayed man.
It’s you.
Your father, a heavy set man. Plump off pies and port. All jewels and formality and frown lines from worry. Stumbles to bring you forwards. He cowers beneath Lyonel’s gaze. Wheedled and made sure nothing but courtesy and flattery fell off his tongue.
You stand. Slow and steady. Hands crossed. The very picture of a tempest smothered deep into your bones. Stormborn. Iron surety in the way your hold yourself. Your eyes find and fix on him with all the sharp wicked charm of lightning. He feels stung by it.
“Pray may I introduce my eldest daughter, Lord Lyonel…” He speaks your name.
Lyonel tests the weight of it on his tongue in a whisper. He finally gets the flavour of your name. And it’s devastating. It falls like a slip of honey laudanum. Or some sweet violet petal. Melts on his tongue.
He’s taking you in like he can’t quite believe the gall of you.
“Lord Lyonel.” You greet. And there’s a small stroke of cleverness, and muted pain, tucked in the corner of your smile. All poise and dread.
You turned out to be Lady Dondarrion of Blackhaven. Cousin to the crowned princess. Older sister to the meek young woman he’s being promised to in marriage.
It enraged him how much it made sense.
After all, what better companion for a storm, than a bolt of lightning?
