an appetite
pairing; lyonel baratheon x fem!reader word count; (i got lost in the sauce a bit) 3k synopsis; your lord husband tends to develop an appetite after festivities. Who are you to deny him? warnings; smut, oral sex (f recieving), mentions of violence, reader is described as afab, drunken folk running around, fluff, readers birth house is undefined so go crazy, lyonel is alluded to being hung, lyonel is a wife lover and a munch and you'll have to pry that headcanon from my cold dead fingers a/n; im chewing on him first written published smut ever im srry i needed it out of my system excuse any typos ill likely find tomorrow
The belly of some men could never be filled. Not properly, anyway. They could shove cheese and fruits and roasted vegetables and venison and turkey legs down their throats for all days and nights, and never be satisfied. They could drink meads, beers, Arbor gold and Dornish red and never satisfy that thirst. They could bludgeon and cut and smash and hit and still crave more.
Your lord husband was one such man. He always had some sort of desire — whether it be for festivities, violence, food or drink. He was insatiable when he got into one of his moods. Drinking until he was the last man standing. Dancing and shouting until everyone else was hoarse and bleary eyed. Lyonel Baratheon was man who took a great deal more to be satisfied than the average man.
You’d watched your husband stomp about for the better part of three hours. When others grew weary he still moved almost feverishly. He’d been amusing himself with that man he’d picked up — a hedge knight who’d quietly wormed his way into your tents for a mere meal.
You found your own excitement and energy couldn’t match him. Even after these years, there was always a rare feast or two he would out pace you. At some point, you’d slipped out silently. You’d tried to tell him but, he seemed to enamored with his new found comrade you were unsure if the words reached his ears or his mind at that. You left the large tent housing the feast for the small, private one meant to house the houses lord and what not nearby. It was quieter here, more peaceful and warm. Lovely in a way only solitude could provide.
You’d undressed yourself — a skill for a lady you were rather proud of, given all the lacing and tying and knots that went into the intricate gowns of a lady of a great house. The fabric of your gown slid off your arms, the bodice drooping. You worked steadily until the entire thing could be peeled away. Each layer laid over one another, settled over the back of a chair. It was not the proper way to store such a thing, but the feast had lasted too late into the evening and the girl meant to tend to such thing was likely asleep, or wrapped up in a man from the feasts tent.
Your shift was soft, comfortable and soothing to wear. Freeing in a way those dresses could not be. As you tugged it over your head, your eyes trailed down to the healing bruises that littered your hips. Not from cruelty. Not from roughness or a refusal of care for you.
The bruises were not from strikes, or slaps, or fingers digging in too hard. The bruising about your hips came from lips. Where you had to pry your husband off your flesh merely two nights prior like he was a drunk surrounded by kegs. He'd bitten and sucked for what felt half an hour alone at the flesh on your hips, your lower belly, your arse especially. You smiled fondly at the memory, and pulled the shift the rest of the way down.
You began to pull pins from your hair, working the various ornaments out gently as you walked to the small loveseat in the tent. You'd sat at it in the morning when you'd readied yourself.
You were sat working your fingers through your hair style when you heard him first. You always heard Lyonel before you saw him.
“Six maids in a spring-fed pool…”
His rendition of the bawdy tune was off-key at best. Offensive at worst. The noise grew louder with each step, each inch crossed of wet earth to your tent. You don’t have to turn around. You hear the loud rustle of canvas flaps, and you know he’s thrown them back with dramatic flair.
For all his bluster and roaring laughter, there was something boyish in the way he came to you now. The song faltered, words dissolving into a pleased hum as his eyes found you sitting there, loose-haired and waiting. Whatever hunger had driven him through the feast slowed, shifted shape. His shoulders dropped. The fevered stamping gave way to a lazy, rolling sway, like a storm finally deciding where to break.
You eyed him over your shoulder, lips tugging upward despite yourself. “You’re drunk,” you said simply, fond and knowing all at once.
Lyonel scoffed, waving a dismissive hand as if batting away an accusation. “I am not drunk,” he insisted, the word stretching a bit longer than it should have. He leaned closer, lowering his voice like he was sharing a sacred truth. “I am inspired.”
Then, louder—far louder than necessary—“I’m sober enough to be, be a fucking High Septon!” He smiled big and wide with a dramatic flourish, as though expecting applause.
You clapped your hands together, laughing, and shook your head. “Aye, if our Septon was delegated to the job of a jester.”
"That is blasphemy," he jabbed a finger at you, sauntering closer. "....I think, anyway. Fuck if I know, my love." He stopped right before you, looking down at you with that stupid grin he always wore when he saw you. He looked like an absolute fool when it came to you — but it seemed that was exactly what he wished to be.
“And here — oof.” He dropped awkwardly to his knees, the motion far less controlled than he’d intended, nearly pitching forward. You caught him by the shoulders out of instinct, steadying him. He laughed under his breath as he found his balance again, then tipped his head back, hair falling into his face as he smiled in a way that was meant to be seductive and landed somewhere closer to endearing.
He spread his arms wide, reverent as any Septon in his cups. “And here,” he said, eyes flicking up to yours, “is my altar.”
The tent felt smaller. Warmer. It always did with him. The smell of wine and smoke clung to him, mixed with leather and sweat and something unmistakably Lyonel. He watched you as if the rest of the world had been a poor substitute all evening — noise to endure until he could come back to you. One heavy hand reached out, not touching yet, hovering near your knee. As if waiting for you disproval.
Then, Lyonel seized you. His large hands grabbed a head of your neck and the back of your head, forcing you forward and down to meet him where he was.
He stamped kisses into the flesh of your face. Against your forehead, your cheeks, your nose and jaw and your lips time and time again. His mouth smooshing and pressing right into the skin so hard, you'd imagine he was trying to leave imprints. The kisses were wet, with his spit and the drink still staining his lips.
“Lyonel, Lyonel—!” You’d laughed. Your hands grasped him, fingers worked into his hair on the back of his head whether to pry him off or bring him further.
“Mmph— my wife,” he slurred uselessly, still kissing over and over. “So pretty, so sweet, so patient,” He kissed your temples, your nose, your cheeks, the flesh just below your eyes. His lips pressed to the corner of your mouth once, twice, a third time before he grasped your face in one hand and turned it to kiss you properly. It was suffocating in a way. You reciprocated it with an eagerness to match his own.
His tongue pushed it's way into your mouth. You'd have recoiled had it been any other man bullying his way into your mouth, but only Lyonel had found a way in your marriage to make you crave such a thing.
Lyonel's fingers found the top laces of your shift, tugging on the strings.
"Lyonel," you murmured against his mouth, your own voice now slurred. His hands slipped them open, and slid under the fabric against your bare flesh. He pried himself off your lips, leaving them flushed and bruised from his affections. He continued his venture to kiss you absolutely everywhere, now content to press sloppy and biting kisses down your neck. As Lyonel's hands pushed and explored and rubbed, they forced your shift further and further down your shoulders. The fabric strained in protest.
Finally, he peeled himself off of you for long enough to outright pull the fabric down to expose your chest entirely to him. The flesh painted with a golden hue in dying candle and torch light looked like a feast he would happily gorge himself on.
His hands rubbed up and down your ribs, between your breasts and collar bones. He cupped them both, one in each hand, fingers gently pressing into the fatty tissue.
“Just a bit,” he had slurred, bending forward to moving kiss along your chest. “Come now, grant me just a small taste.”
There was nothing ‘small’ when it came to Lyonel. Your laugh was breathless, something between amusement at his sloppiness and a sigh he was coaxing forward. Either way, the sound was for him, so he adored it. His hair was jutting every way, dark strands grazing the bottom of her neck and your neck as he worked his way lower and lower.
“Lyonel, this feels like more than—“ you sucked your breath in sharply. His tongue laved in a stroke over your nipple, just to feel it harden. He sucked the peak in between his laps, teeth barely grazing the flesh. Likely due to how drunk he was rather than true intent.
He pulled off with a satisfied pop, groaning. Lyonel pressed his face against the flesh between your breasts, hands messy in the way they moved all about you, squeezing whatever bare flesh he could get his hands onto. He pressed a kiss to the inner side of each breast.
Then, he was moving lower. When your shift could not be tugged down further, he grabbed the hem and drug it upwards. The fabric bunched up just above your navel, where he planted the first of the line of kisses. He hadn't even spread your thighs yet, and could feel the heat coming off. Could see the faint twinkle of arousal on the hair there. Gods, how he loved it.
He loved you.
“Come on,” he panted as he kissed below your navel, sliding lower on his knees. “Don’t be shy. Not like I haven’t spent hours with you seated upon my face before.” He mocked, laughed as you swatted at his head.
His hands firmly, but gentle enough to let you resist should you wish, pulled your knees apart. You were soaked, glistening like the ripest fruit and begging for his attention. He groaned.
“All for me? How thoughtful of you, sweeting.”
He kissed just above, against the hair. Then, with little more pretense, he began his proper worship. His face smooshed against you, eyes rolling back and closing as his tongue at first began clumsily and uncoordinatedly lapping at your flesh. He wasn’t trying to please you — this was all for him. He found a rhythm in time that made you squirm, and pant, and writhe.
There was a mess underneath you by now — you were dripping down yourself, your inner thighs, your arse cheeks. Not to start with the lower half of his face — which, if he could separate from your weeping cunt, would be smeared from the tip of his nose to the bottom of his beard with saliva and and you. His hands couldn’t stay still, grasping yours, grabbing at your belly and the flesh there, pawing at your breasts. He favored more than any though sliding his hands underneath you, grasping handfuls of your ass and kneading it.
You whined uselessly, your hips trying to rock forward into his mouth further. You laid back, propping yourself up on your elbows. The sight up your body was nothing short of glorious, for when Lyonel’s hazed and glassy eyes opened for a moment to look his mouth momentarily stopped its sloppy minstrations. Then, he resumed.
He spoke against you, not able even to seperate himself from your cunt.
“All the women in the realm, and my wife is the most beautiful of them.”
Your mouth hung open when he sucked the swollen pearl in between his lips. It admittedly almost hurt, but it toed the line between the two so well it did not register to you. Your hand grasped a fist full of hair, tugging and pulling and keeping his face buried against your heat. His words were sweet, and —
"With a fucking perfect set of tits—"
Had you not been being devoured alive by pleasure, you’d likely have slapped him. His tongue dragged from bottom to top in three, broad strokes meant to gather as much on his tongue as he could. Lyonel's hands grasped your thighs, and shifted them up and properly over his broad shoulders. This was all for him. With a particularly cruel suck, you were coming apart. Fast and easy, like some simple dockside whore.
You tugged his hair hard. Not by purpose, merely reflex.
Goosebumps raked up your arms and legs, a pleasure so sweet and deep you felt it in the arches of your feet and in your shoulders.
"Could die in your cunt—" His words vibrated against you. Lyonel pulled away from your weeping cunt, taking his right hand and rubbing his fingers over the hooded peak at the top. Then, he drug his hand down, panting right over it all the while.
He watched his lewd interest as he smeared your slick about, coating his fingers and the flesh around your heat with it. He brought two of the fingers to his lips, slowly sucking them clean before bringing them back to your slit. He gathered more, and reached for you. Leaning over your sweat glistened body, he cupped the back of your neck and brought his fingers to your mouth. He opened his own, as if having to show you how to suck your own slick off of his hand.
You parted your lips, licking them once before he pressed the fingers against your tongue. You sealed your lips around, eyes fluttering shut as you sucked. You tasted salty, some unique flavor that was hard to describe beyond the faintest hint of salt. He murmured encouragements, his nose nudging yours as he watched. His fingers would pull free only to be replaced with his mouth crushing to yours. You tasted yourself, smelt yourself, all over him. Then Lyonel broke free, and returned to between your legs like the second course had been served at a feast.
He buried his head there again despite your weak protests — “Lyonel, Lyonel, let me — let me care for you now—“
“This is caring for me,” he’d simply reply, pulling his mouth off again. He brought his hand back to your slit.
He traced it once, twice, nearly sinking his fingers in in a show of failing restraint. Finally, he did just that. Just shallow, fucking you only up to the first knuckle of his fingers. That would change, soon enough.
Lyonel groaned, watching his fingers slowly vanish and reappear slicker with each pass. He watched it with the reverence of a worshipper before their god made flesh. Your body was clamping down rightfully on the intruding digits.
"Now this is a fucking sight," his voice rumbled, grinning as he did. "I do believe the maiden made your cunt by hand for me."
"Don't say such — Lyonel!" Your protest was knocked from your tongue by the press of his thumb against your clit, working in small tight and light circles just the way he knew you'd liked. He laughed, warm and pleased at this. Then his pulled his thumb away and leaned back forward to suck gently on the pearl. Lyonel’s tongue laved against it, two fingers still inside you dragging along, pumping slow in a way that drove you mad.
Tears pricked the corner of your eyes. You couldn’t pry him off of you if you had the strength of the warrior behind you. You could only lay there, letting his shoulders keep you pried open, and take it.
Your legs shook. Your voice tilted. Your hands turned punishing in how they gripped him. You pressed your palm flat to the crown of his head, and forced his face tight and still as your climax crashed over you. You shuddered violently, your head tipping back and exposing the sweat slicked line of your throat as your lips formed a silent shout. A high pitched whine was all you could muster, the air properly punched out of you by the intensity. His mouth stayed sealed tightly to you as you came, as if he didn't breath oxygen but breathed you.
His fingers made a dipping motion, before coming to his mouth. The they returned and did the motion again, and he sucked his fingers clean again. He did this three times, you think. You weren't sure.
You let your head hang back, panting for air. You lifted your head as you felt the whisper of fabric, and heard him grunting with frustration.
Right as you raised your head, he managed his breeches. He'd lost the outer pieces of the ensemble he'd worn, long tossed aside. His belt was also tossed away nearby. You caught him just to see him shove his breeches down, and his cock pop free, bobbing under its own weight. Furiously red, leaking, and weeping for your attention.
Seemingly, your evening had merely just begun.
