a thought: your husband sending you letters while away at war, letters you always have to burn in case of spies and thieves...but not his name.
Never his name, simply initials scrawled at the end of the parchment in black ink.
You always rip that little piece away and save it, keeping the scraps in a wooden keepsake box with a few other tokens. Dried flowers, little trinkets, love notes you had gotten to keep...and scraps of parchment, some stained with your lipstick, his name over and over and over again.
Gwayne Hightower ♡ Ormund Hightower ♡ Tyrion Lannister ♡ Tyland Lannister ♡ Robb Stark ♡ Jon Snow ♡ Cregan Stark ♡ Edmure Tully ♡ Jace Velaryon ♡ Luke Velaryon ♡ Aemond Targaryen ♡ Daeron the Daring ♡ Roderick Dustin ♡
Sweet Interruptions (Tyrion Lannister x Wife! Reader)
SUMMARY: Tyrion's wife tricks him into taking a break.
Notes: Ask and ye shall receive @chatterrbox!
Warnings: Pure fluff!
Bronn dropped a scroll on top of Tyrion's desk with a loud 'thump.' Tyrion jumped slightly before looking up at the darkly dressed sellsword.
"What?" Tyrion asked. He looked as though he could barely keep his eyes open. Papers piled high on the oak desk. Several books and quills were tossed haphazardly about and an empty keg of wine lay on its side. A few drops of wine painted the stone floor.
"You look like shit," Bronn observed.
"An astute observation," Tyrion remarked, rolling his eyes. "Is there a reason you interrupted me?"
Bronn tapped the scroll with his finger. "Some broad said to give you this."
Tyrion snatched up the scroll and unwound it reluctantly. "Some broad?"
Bronn shrugged, shoving a bit of leftover bread into his mouth. "A maid, ah think. I dunno."
Tyrion roled his eyes. Bronn was as perceptive as ever. The imp rolled his stiff shoulders and began to read over the paper. He read about three sentences before he stood quickly. Before Bronn could ask what was the matter Tyrion was marching out the door, calling for Bronn to follow. Bronn grumbled and shoved another handful of bread into his mouth before trotting to catch up with the demon monkey.
Tyrion walked through the busy halls of the Red Keep with impressive speed for a dwarf with bad legs. A few servants paused what they were doing to look at the King's Hand hurrying through the halls. Bronn marched dutifully behind despite having no idea where they were going. He was paid enough to not ask.
Tyrion turned left at the next arch, walking into the eastern gardens. Bronn looks at Tyrion curiously but didn't question the location aloud. It was a fine day and even the mordant mercenary could appreciate the warm spring afternoon. The flowering gardens were certainly more enjoyable than the Imp's stuffy study, no matter how many luxuries the Lannisters filled it with. A slight sea breeze managed to creep over the castle wall and flitter through the azaleas.
Tyrion looked around the garden hurriedly. He caught sight of one of his wife's personal maids. "Elara," he called, hurrying to her side, "where is my wife."
Bronn raised a brow. This was about Lady Y/N?
"She's just over there--"
Before Elara could finish Tyrion was rushing around the corner towards a circle of azalea bushes. The bushes surrounded a small clearing filled with a coreopsis. In the middle of the clearing, among the sunny flowers, you sat on a blue blanket looking perfectly happy and healthy. Tyrion froze. The sun shined in your long (h/c) hair and sparkled in your bright (e/c) eyes. The red skirt of your dress fanned about you on the blanket making you look like a flower yourself. A basket full of bread, cheese, grapes, and figs sat on the blanket beside you along with two glasses and a bottle of Dornish red wine.
"Darling," you smiled, holding your soft hand towards him, "Come sit."
Tyrion did not move. He merely stood blinking at you for a moment. "You are not hurt," he observed.
"No," you smile sheepishly, "I am not."
"That's most curious," Tyrion mused, holding up the scroll, "since the message your maid delivered specifically said you had been greiviously harmed."
You at least have the decency to look guilty for the fib. "Forgive me, my love?"
Tyrion sighed and at last took your hand. He brought your knuckles to his lips and placed a tender kiss to your skin. "And why has my sweet wife deceived me so?" Tyrion mused, brushing a loose strand of hair from your forehead.
"It was the only way possible to pull my cunning husband from his brilliant thoughts," you chuckled. You tugged on Tyrion's hand slightly, urging him to sit beside you. "I've missed him the last few days."
Tyrion's face stiffened with guilt. He sighed but sat beside you on the plush blanket. His dark garments contrasted the bright hues of you and the garden. He felt a bit out of place in the spring sun surrounded by beauty and peace. "I'm sorry, my sweet," Tyrion apologized, squeezing your hand. "Joffrey--"
"I know the role as Hand can be... demanding," you interrupted gently. "However I do not see why it should lead you to neglect yourself." You rested your head on his shoulder, purposefully blinking up at him sweetly. "Or your beloved wife."
Tyrion smirked softly. Curse you and your sweet eyes. "I suppose I have been... neglectful. Will you ever forgive me?"
"Hmm... perhaps for a kiss?"
"I would hardly call that punishment," Tyrion smirked. He hooked his fingers under your chin and pulled you into a gentle kiss. As soon as your lips touched his, Tyrion felt the accumulative stress of the week pour out of his body like wine from a bottle. He sighed against your lips and cupped the back of your head, holding you close. You kissed back happily and curled your fingers into his soft hair. His lips were slightly chapped against your own soft ones. He tastes slightly of Arbor Gold. You pulled back with a soft pop. You watched in satisfaction as your husband's eyes slowly fluttered open. For a moment Tyrion seemed frozen in time.
"Perhaps I could use a break," Tyrion whispered huskily.
You laughed loudly, amused by your husband's kiss-drunk expression. "You ought to listen to me more often," you teased, pouring Tyrion a cup of wine.
Tyrion took the glass from you with a chuckle, purposefully brushing his fingers against yours. "Foolish me. I suppose the lack of sunlight has clouded my mind."
"I do not believe anything is capable of doing that," you chortled, taking a sip of wine from your own glass.
"I'm afraid you would be mistaken, my dear wife," Tyrion smiled wryly. "Your beauty clouds my mind daily."
You shake your head fondly. "Since when are you so sentimental?" you ribbed. You plucked a nearby flower and gently placed it behind Tyrion's ear. Perhaps your husband was not the only sentimental one.
"Since I was blessed with a wife so worthy of sentiment," Tyrion replied easily, catching your hand in his. "It would be a crime for me to withhold affection from her."
"Then by all means," you laugh, "shower her with it."
just a quick fic cause I couldn’t get this idea out of my head
Word count: 670
masterlist
You threw your head back with a moan, your skin hot, bare chest heaving. You were sitting on a chair in your shared chambers, the front laces of your gown undone just enough to expose your breasts that Tyrion had taken straight into his mouth. But now your husband had completely disappeared under your skirts and was eating you out ravenously as you gripped the arms of the chair tightly and sweet pants and moans flowed freely from you.
“T-Tyrion…” You panted, teetering on the very edge.
Your hips buck against his face as he fucks you harder with his tongue, your whines grow louder and louder as you get closer and closer until…
There is a sudden a knock at the door that your clouded mind hardly registers until the door swings open and your husband’s young squire walks into the room.
“My lord, forgive me but I-“ He freezes instantly when he notices you, panting heavily in a chair, breasts fully exposed.
“Oh! Please forgive me, my lady…” He awkwardly averts his eyes to the floor as he speaks. “I- I did not know you would be here at this hour. I was looking for lord Tyrion.”
Podrick’s eyes lift and go wide again when he sees your husband climb out from underneath your gown.
“Gods Podrick! Why are you barging in like that?” Tyrion snaps, though there is no true anger behind it.
“I- I am very sorry my lord, my lady… Please forgive me for the intrusion. This is- I- uh, I have urgent news, my lord.” He stutters, trying to keep his eyes on Tyrion or the ground but you notice them quickly flicker to your still bare chest once or twice like he can’t help it.
“Wait outside, Pod. I shall be with you in a moment.” Your husband says sternly, visibly annoyed at the interruption.
“Yes, my lord.” He nods and quickly rushes out the door.
Tyrion turns back to you with an apologetic smile and gently takes your hand.
“Sorry, my love. It seems like we must continue this later.” He says, the disappointment in his voice clear before he places a kiss to your hand.
“But Tyrion…” You whine as you grab onto his doublet and pull him closer, your lips pressing needy kisses along his cheek and jaw. “I was so close, please…”
“I know, my love, I know. But Podrick said it was urgent, apparently so urgent that the exceptionally polite lad forgot his manners. He is waiting for me. I must go…” He tries, the sound of his name from your mouth always had him weak in the knees.
“But it shan’t take long now, my love, please! Please, I need you. I need you now. Please husband, please.” You were desperate to finish after coming so close. You were certain if you had to wait until his return to feel him again you would surely go mad.
Tyrion lets out a low growl, your begging completely shattering his restraint. How could he possibly tell you no now?
“Very well, wife.”
You smile triumphantly when he climbs back under your skirts, disappearing into your gown once again. Unlike earlier he does not take his time slowly building you up. Instead, he shoves his face right between your legs and begins to eat you like a man starved. He pushes his fingers in and with the feel of his tongue swirling wildly against your bud as his fingers pump into you had you barrelling towards release.
It takes no time at all for you to reach your peak, already so worked up from before. Your hands frantically grasping anywhere on the chair you could cling to, your husband too hidden to hold onto him like you normally would in these moments. The air is knocked right out of your lungs until it turns into a cry so loud and guttural it hurts your throat, completely uncaring that Podrick was right outside the door. Maybe that shall teach him not to interrupt.
a long-requested tyrion blurb to test the waters, based on an ask sent by my 🐏 anon !!
table of contents; handmaiden!reader, oral sex (f!receiving), edging, fingering, overstim, possessive!tyrion (bro literally claims you)
unsought tears force themselves through the slits of your tightly-sealed eyes, hands alternating between scrunching the sheets and the mousey-gold head of hair that goads you through a second climax.
you’ve been with men. quite your fair share of them, actually. but never have they tended to your needs with such intricate and meticulous care.
“i’ve seen you with the lady sansa,” he says, lifting his face, probably for air. you whine at the loss of his tongue, but before you can get a word in, he’s replaced the tactile muscle with an equally skilled digit. “you’re new to her service, aren’t you?”
you nod, scarcely capable of lifting your head from his pillow. “you seem comfortable. content, even.” he crooks a second finger inside of you, bending it once it’s sunk to the knuckle. “do you like it?”
“yes, yes, please—”
“i meant your job.” he smirks, then pecks a kiss to your slick. “but thank you for the ego-boost, it’s much appreciated.”
you let out a breathy groan, his dexterous fingers stroking you slow and deliberate. “i do, milord.”
he hums at that, then dips his head back down, nose bumping at your clit when he drags the flat of his tongue through your puffy folds, damp with remnants of your previous release.
“pray tell, how would you like to work for the king’s hand?” he asks against your centre, causing your thighs to flex and twitch either side of his head.
“but— mmf! but you’re the king’s hand, milord.” you gasp when his tongue finds your cunt again, easing it open. his thumb meanders upwards until he feels you tighten around his palate, stomach hollowing beneath his splayed hand, and toys with the engorged little bud.
just as you feel your coil verge on unspooling, he retracts his mouth, grinning up at you like he intends to torture you like this forever. “indeed i am.” he says, manoeuvring his free hand to apply pressure to your sticky, puckered rim with the pad of this thumb. “how would you like to be placed on my service?”
you part your lips to answer him, only for a throaty moan to pour from them instead when he latches to your clit, pursing his lips around it to suckle and nip. the point of his tongue flicks and circles the swollen cluster, then licks heavily back down to where his thumb holds you open.
“does that sound like something you could get on board with?” then he laps at you again, allowing his question to linger, lathering you with a mixture of his spit and your own spent juices.
“i— gods.” you tug at his hair, sandwiching him between your quaking thighs. “is that why you sent for me, milord?”
“of course,” he smiles against your cunt, his five o’clock shadow itching at the sodden flesh. “why else?”
you peer down at him through a teary-eyed daze, mouth hung open as you pant and mewl.
“okay, i’ll admit,” he smirks, regarding you the way he does everyone — vain and charming. “i have wondered how you’d taste.” his green eyes flit to marvel at you, flourished and soaked and visibly throbbing for him. “but in my defence, i never would have expected you to actually let me sample you. most women would sooner arm wrestle the hound.” he lifts a finger to your clit again, rubbing her sloppily. lazily. and yet somehow it utterly debilitates you. “i have to pay for the luxury of cunt, you know.” then he raises his head to look at you. “i do hope you weren’t expecting gold for this.”
“no. . . only, i’d wish the chance to—”
“what? cum on my tongue again?” he frowns, puzzled, then presses his mouth to your centre again. you try to hold him there, but you’re much too weakened by his persistent feasting. “as i trust you’re aware, your position isn’t one that’s rewarded financially.”
his tongue greets you again, greedy and practiced. “but i can promise you that your time will be rewarded by other means. you’ll be just as happy with me as you are under the service of lady sansa.”
your toes curl when he shovels into you again, probing and delving. “m’lord, i—”
“it’s settled, then.” he decides on your behalf, hands kneading the flesh at your thighs’ apex, and he returns to his artful torment.
"Everyone loves Tyrion!" I call BULL SHIT. Why are there literally no show!Tyrion fics popping up anymore💔 (I say show because book Tyrion is a huge no, I hope he falls off a cliff.) I have the biggest crush on him and have read like every fic UNLESS THEY'RE JUST NOT SHOWING UP FOR ME??? Last fic post was in like... October or before that or at least that's what I'm seeing
And suddenly I remembered I already made a post like this like 3 weeks ago
Would it be possible to write something for a Tyrion x Stark fic? The Lannisters are staying at Winterfell, Tyrion and Ned's daughter form a friendship founded on a shared love of literature. One of the first times they meet he finds her reading a book on Southern law in the library just because. When he asks about why she's not reading Northern law she simply states that she's read several already. After Ned is executed, she and her sisters are held captive by the Lannisters and Tyrion tries to use his influence to protect her. Tywin marries her to Tyrion to stop the Tyrells from laying a claim to the North through her.
If this interests you at all. Thanks
The Last Stark Lady
Requests are closed
- Summary: A story where the lion and the wolf find common ground.
- A/N: The plot has been purposely altered from the books to fit the narrative of this short story.
The Lannisters arrive with all the pomp and swagger of the South, their crimson banners blazing against the pale Northern sky like fresh blood spilled across snow. The courtyard of Winterfell thrums with activity as the procession winds through the gates—guards in gilded armor, proud horses tossing their heads, and noble ladies in silks that shimmer like firelight. At the front rides the King with Robert’s easy grin, beside Eddard Stark, tall and quiet as a shadow in the midst of the southern grandeur. But it is the lion-banners that catch your attention most—more pointedly, the golden-haired twins and the imp who rides a squat pony and surveys his surroundings with quick, darting eyes and the twitch of a clever smile.
You linger at the edge of the crowd, quiet, unreadable, your hands folded before you in the proper way your lady mother taught. Your siblings are scattered nearby—Arya wriggling impatiently, Bran watching from Catelyn's side with bright curiosity—but you have eyes only for the peculiar figure of Tyrion Lannister. There’s something different about him, something apart. It isn't just his stature or his mismatched stride, but the way he looks around with interest instead of arrogance. When he meets your eyes for the briefest flicker of a second, his smirk does not mock—it intrigues.
It is not until two days later, with the court settled and the feasting begun, that you find him again—not in a hall or a yard, but in the quiet sanctuary of Winterfell’s library. The great stone chamber is dimly lit by sunlight struggling through narrow windows. Dust motes swim in the golden beams, caught like whispers in the air. You sit alone beneath one of those windows, curled into a carved wooden chair, a thick book resting on your lap. The spine is cracked, the vellum pages worn from generations of hands, but you turn them gently, reverently, as though each word matters.
“Southern law?” comes a voice like dry wine and sharp wit. “How bold. Or is it heretical to say so in these parts?”
You glance up slowly, already knowing who it is. Tyrion Lannister stands in the doorway, short and solid, leaning heavily on the carved lion-headed cane he favors. His tunic is dark green velvet with lion clasps of gold at his shoulders. He grins, head tilted like a fox sniffing the breeze. “Most Northern ladies prefer embroidery to legal statutes.”
You raise a brow. “I prefer things that make sense.”
He chuckles, the sound low and oddly pleasant. “And yet you choose Southern law? Surely you jest.”
“I’ve read three books on Northern law already,” you say simply, turning the page without looking up again. “This one is older. Less poetic. More precise.”
Tyrion walks further in, his boots soft against the flagstones. “You read for leisure, I gather? Not because your father insists upon it?”
You mark your place with a strip of cloth and close the book slowly, looking up to meet his gaze with an appraising calm. “Lord Father values learning, but he never forced it upon me. I’ve a mind for words, not blades.” You gesture to the chair beside you. “If you’d like to sit, ser.”
“I’m no knight,” he says, but he sits anyway, resting his cane against the side of the chair. He peers at the cover of the book. “Tales of the King’s Peace. Dull as dirt. But you’re still reading it, which makes you more interesting than most of the court.”
You glance at him, head tilting slightly. “You’ve read it?”
“Once, under duress,” he says, with a dry smile. “A maester at Casterly Rock hoped it might cure my ‘frivolity.’ It did not.”
You stifle a smile. “A shame. You might have made a good judge.”
He laughs again, more genuinely this time. “Gods forbid. No, I’d rather argue before the court than preside over it. You strike me more as the judge. Reserved. Clever. Quiet enough to see more than most.”
You flush faintly, surprised by the sharpness of his insight. “And you see that after two minutes?”
He leans forward, steepling his fingers. “I observe. It’s how I survive.”
You look at him then—truly look—and find in his eyes the quicksilver flicker of thought, the restless intelligence that mirrors something in yourself. You recognize, then, not the drunken imp of rumor, but a man carved out of quick wit and hidden steel. And in return, he sees a Stark girl who does not need to speak loudly to wield power.
After a moment, you speak again. “There’s a volume on Oldtown’s municipal structure in the back row. The maesters rarely lend it out.”
Tyrion brightens. “You’re hoarding the good ones already, I see.”
“I might be persuaded to share.”
From that moment, something shifts. You begin to find each other more often—quiet corners of the castle, the gaps between courtly obligations, the dim hush of the library, or stolen walks near the godswood where the southern heat does not reach. You speak of books, of history, of riddles and governance. He tells you of Casterly Rock and quotes Valyrian poets over wine; you recite lines from the Old Tongue and challenge his logic with Northern proverbs. There are no titles between you in those moments, only minds meeting across an invisible bridge.
And he makes you laugh—openly, unguardedly. That, more than anything, surprises you.
In the depth of winter’s stronghold, you did not expect to find warmth in a Lannister. But here he is. And already, you suspect you’ll miss him when he leaves.
The days after your father's death bled into one another like ink spilled on parchment—dark, endless, and impossible to erase. There was no day or night in the Red Keep anymore, only a long, bitter twilight, interrupted by the cries of your younger sister or the shuffle of silent maids too frightened to speak your name. They did not call you “Lady Stark” now. You were simply the North girl, and though your chamber overlooked the city and its golden sprawl, you were caged just as surely as the ravens in the rookery. Winterfell was far behind you now. So too was your father, and every sliver of innocence you had clung to in your girlhood.
Sansa wept every night, whispering apologies into her pillow, and Arya—Arya was gone. Vanished like smoke. You prayed she had escaped, though dread gripped your chest tighter with each passing moon. The court moved on as though nothing had changed—banquets, hunting feasts, whispered plots beneath marble arches. Queen Cersei smiled like a blade, and her son, who now sat on the Iron Throne, wore your father’s death like a crown.
You had expected the worst from the Lannisters. You had not expected Tyrion.
He came to you not long after the bells tolled for your father, not with condolences—he was too sharp for that, too honest—but with quiet understanding. You were seated by the narrow window of your chambers, staring at the sprawl of King’s Landing, your fingers twisting a length of your mother’s embroidery thread. When the door opened, you did not rise. You did not flinch.
“I came to see how you fare,” he said, his voice measured, careful.
You turned slowly to regard him, your eyes hollowed by grief, your mouth silent.
He sighed. “You look as though you haven’t eaten in days.”
“I haven’t.”
“Then we shall fix that.” He crossed the room and placed a small basket on the table beside you. Warm bread. Soft cheese. A bottle of Arbor red that glinted like garnet in the light. You stared at it blankly.
“You’re not like the rest of them,” you said quietly, at last. “You’ve never been.”
“No,” Tyrion replied with a rueful smile. “That’s why they hate me too.”
He stayed with you that night, not out of obligation but because neither of you could stomach being alone. He spoke of books, of politics, of irony so dark it nearly made you laugh. Nearly. And in return, you allowed your grief to crack just enough to speak. You told him of the godswood at Winterfell, the sound of snow falling through pines, the rasp of your father’s voice when he read aloud by the fire. He listened with an attentiveness that softened something in you, something fragile you had thought long buried.
So it continued, over the moons that passed. Tyrion visited when he could, brought books when the maesters would not, and shielded you where possible from the worst of the court’s cruelties. But his influence was not endless, and you both knew that even his wit would not hold Cersei or her mad boy-king at bay forever.
When the letters came from Highgarden—delicately worded, sweet as honey but poison beneath—everything shifted. The Tyrells were seeking a match. Not for Margaery, not yet, but for you. The last true Stark daughter of age. A claim to the North, if taken by Southern hands.
Tywin Lannister did not hesitate.
You were summoned before him in the Tower of the Hand, the air thick with incense and the rustle of parchment. He sat behind the great carved desk like a god of judgment, his pale eyes hard as polished emerald. Tyrion stood nearby, arms folded, gaze unreadable.
“You are to marry my son,” Lord Tywin said, without flourish.
The words struck like frost, sharp and sudden. You stood still as stone, your hands folded tightly before you.
“And if I refuse?” you asked.
Tywin’s mouth curved downward. “Then the Tyrells will take you, and through you, the North. I will not allow that.”
You looked to Tyrion then, expecting defiance, perhaps protest. But he only watched you, silent, shoulders tense. Not eager, not pleased—but trapped.
“I did not ask for this,” he said quietly, when the chamber had emptied and the weight of your fate hung between you.
“I know.” You turned to him, breath unsteady. “Neither did I.”
And yet, two nights later, beneath the flicker of a thousand candles and the judgment of a dozen false gods, you were wed. The gown they gave you was white and silver, embroidered with direwolves and lined with sable, as though someone thought it would make you feel less like a prisoner. Your hair was braided in the Northern fashion, though your tears never fell. You kept them locked behind your ribs.
Tyrion’s hands were gentle when he took yours. His voice steady as he spoke the vows. He did not kiss you afterward, only looked into your eyes and murmured, “If you wish me to sleep elsewhere tonight, I will.”
And you nodded. Grateful. Confused. Heartbroken.
You lay awake long after, in a bed too large and too cold, staring at the shadows cast on the ceiling. You were a Stark. You were a wife. You were a pawn.
But in Tyrion, you had a strange sort of ally. Perhaps even—someday—a friend.
18+, 1.2k words, golden shower, piss kink, piss, there really isn’t much more to say than piss like nothing else happens it is 12 hundred words of piss
⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎
You had been nestled in your lover’s arms for what felt like an endless, drowsy eternity, the two of you drifting somewhere between laughter and languor. The air was thick with the scent of wine and skin, warm, heady, and faintly sweet, as the fire beside the bed sank into a deep orange glow. Tyrion’s laughter came easily, rich and unrestrained, and each time it did, you felt your own laughter spill out after his, helpless and light. The goblets between you never stayed full for long. He poured, and you followed, matching him cup for cup, until the wine blurred the edges of everything, his voice, your thoughts, the flicker of light on his face.
You lay against his chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breath, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your arm, as if he could draw words there that only you would ever read. The warmth of the wine pooled low in your body, spreading in a slow, delicious ache. Then, as he told a story, something wicked and clever that made you laugh until you gasped for air, you became aware of a tight, insistent fullness in your bladder. It was a small discomfort at first, but it grew with every passing heartbeat, pressing sweetly against you. You shifted a little in his arms, your body caught between pleasure and unease, the awareness of it sending a faint flush up the back of your neck.
He noticed your movement, though said nothing, only smiled that knowing smile, the one that always made your pulse quicken. The sound of his voice grew softer then, his words melting into the firelight, into the warmth between you. You felt drowsy and alive all at once, tangled in that fragile space where laughter turned into sighs and time seemed to forget itself.
Eventually, the warm haze of wine and laughter gave way to more insistent pressure, a small, physical urgency that pulled you from your languid comfort. You shifted, hesitant to move, unwilling to break the fragile spell that had settled between you and Tyrion. But you were sure if you waited any longer you’d wet yourself.. With a soft murmur, you began to ease yourself from his embrace, your hand brushing his chest in apology.
Tyrion lifted his head, eyes gleaming in the dim glow of the fire. He rose to his knees, the movement fluid and unhurried, his hand finding your hip through the delicate layers of your dress. His touch lingered there, warm and grounding. “Why are you slipping away so soon, sweetness?” he asked in that low, teasing tone that always carried the edge of a smile. His thumb traced a slow circle at your waist, coaxing rather than restraining.
You drew in a breath, caught between amusement and exasperation, your lips parting in a quiet sigh. “I’ll only be a moment,” you whispered, your voice softened by laughter and something tenderer still. “I just need to relieve myself.”
He tilted his head, studying you with a kind of playful reverence, that knowing smile deepening as though he already understood more than you’d said. His hand lingered a heartbeat longer before he released you, eyes following you as if memorising the shape of your departure.
“You needn’t leave the room,” he murmured, his voice low and velvet-soft, the kind of tone that seemed to brush against your skin as much as your ears. His hand came to press against your bladder, a gentle but deliberate pressure that made your breath catch. The touch was feather-light, teasing rather than restraining, yet enough to send a ripple of warmth through you that left your composure trembling.
“You’re terrible,” you managed, your words breaking on a laugh that sounded more like a sigh. “I’ll be hardly a moment, please.” The plea came softer than you meant it to, threaded through with a kind of helpless affection.
Tyrion’s head tilted slightly, his eyes gleaming with amusement and something deeper, more reverent. “You’re so easily embarrassed,” he murmured, his voice rich with fondness. “Don’t be.” His fingers brushed against the fabric of your skirt as he lifted it, a whisper of motion that made your pulse stumble. The firelight painted everything in gold and shadow.
“You aren’t suggesting… not here… in front of you—” you began, your voice faltering under the weight of his gaze.
“Oh, but I am,” he said softly, every word drawn out as though savouring the taste of it. “I adore you. Worship you. I want to know every part of you, especially this, the things you find shameful.” His tone was tender, not commanding but coaxing, heavy with affection that warmed more than it burned.
His hand lingered between your thighs, stroking gently at the wet arousal he found, and when he whispered, “Be good for me,” the words carried the softness of devotion, an invitation, not an order. “Let yourself go.”
His smile was disarming, the kind that stripped away resistance before you even realised you’d surrendered it. His hands were gentle, sure, and the brush of his thumb over your needy clit made it harder to say no. Beneath his gaze, all your scattered thoughts seemed to dissolve until only sensation remained. You let your eyes fall shut and tried to loosen the tension inside you, to simply exist in the moment and trust the safety of his closeness. But all your desperation to relieve yourself seemed to hide away under the expectation of his gaze.
Tyrion’s low chuckle vibrated softly against your skin before he pressed a lingering kiss to your hip. “Stop thinking so hard,” he murmured, his voice almost playful but weighted with affection. “You can let go a little, can’t you? Go all dumb and pretty for me. Dumb, pretty girls piss themselves when they’re told to,” he teased.
The words settled over you like a spell. You nodded, unable to answer in anything but breath, the embarrassment only increasing at his teasing. When it finally came, it started as a small trickle, a few golden drops running down your thighs. You gasped at your body’s surrender, and then relief crashed over you and you wet yourself above your lover’s eager smile.
He drew in a quiet breath as the hot liquid splashed against his face, as though awed by your surrender, then leaned forward to press his mouth to your cunt, hungrily slurping at the mix of your arousal and release. His tongue was insistent, making you moan as you relieved yourself then and there. When you opened your eyes again, he was watching you from below with a look that held nothing but reverence.
“Good girl,” he murmured, his voice low and threaded with affection. The words carried a quiet reverence that made your heart stutter. He brushed another kiss against your cunt, slow, unhurried, filled with a kind of gratitude that made the air between you hum.
“Such a good girl, letting go all over me,” he whispered again. His lips lingered a heartbeat longer before he pulled back, studying you with eyes softened by warmth and a flicker of awe. The firelight caught the edges of his smile, glinting off the faint traces of wine on his mouth.
He reached up then, wiping his lips with the back of his hand in a simple, tender gesture before straightening to his feet. His movements were unhurried, almost careful, as though he didn’t want to break the fragile calm that had settled over you both. Extending his hand, he offered it to you with a small, crooked smile that was equal parts mischief and care.
“Come,” he said softly. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
