Zuko had tried sleeping. He really had. He had laid in bed for nearly an hour staring at the ceiling, turning over every few minutes, only to end up even more awake than before.
Tomorrow was his wedding day. Tomorrow, you would become his wife. Tomorrow. The thought alone made him grin helplessly into the darkness. Eventually, he gave up.
The palace corridors were quiet as he slipped through them, careful not to attract attention. He wasn't planning on speaking to you. He wasn't even planning on entering your chambers. He just wanted a glimpse. Just one.
Just one before you become husband and wife
When he reached the garden beneath your balcony, he stopped. A warm light glowed from your window above - and there you were. You stood near the open balcony doors, dressed in a simple robe, your hair loose around your shoulders as attendants fluttered around you making final preparations for tomorrow.
You looked tired. Happy, too. The sight made something warm settle in his chest. For a moment, Zuko simply watched from afar. Tomorrow, the entire world would see you dressed in wedding silks and jewels. Tomorrow, everyone would witness the ceremony; but tonight felt special somehow.
Private. Real. The future he'd fought so hard for was right there in front of him. As if sensing something, you glanced toward the gardens. Your eyes landed directly on him. Zuko immediately froze. Then, to his horror, you smiled. A small, knowing smile. You'd caught him. Even from the distance, you lifted your hand in a tiny wave.
His face instantly turned red. But he waved back anyway - and as he stood there beneath the moonlight, watching your smile grow brighter, Zuko decided that if this was what being caught felt like, he wouldn't mind getting caught by you for the rest of his life.
-–—•
A short one for now hehe, anyone else watching the World Cup? Waking up super early to watch Australia VS USA. Hoping Australia’ll win!!
I’ve seen this written a few times but I’m interested to see you’re take. I can totally see Lyonel with a Reader that can 100% match his freak and they’ve been together for a while. Maybe Lyonel x reader with the prompt “Every time you touch me, it feels like the first time all over again. ” but one of them responds “which first time?” all cheekily?
The lightning and the rose
Lyonel Baratheon x Pregnant!Lady Dondarrion
Forgive the random tags but I’m Tagging some phenomenal akotsk babes whose fics gave me life. @the-darklings @jintaka-hane @mynameistocool @lovebugism @maekarsmistress @pearlessance @noxiiousstrawberriies @ingystark @oakleafing @marsrambles @just-some-random-blogger @vhagars-dementia @escapic-mezzanine @tearsweetenedtea @nerdyinfluencertastemaker @adumbgirlinloove @moonlitmaester @silens-oro @feral4youu @s-u-t @happinessisaloadedgun
I did slightly play around with the prompt for this one nonny. I hope it still suits. Also please know this was made very much in collab with a conversation I had with my darling @adumbgirlinloove for which I would like to thank her very much; we were chatting about how much Lyonel would loveeee Highgarden fashions on his dear lady wife.
MASTERLIST - PROMPTS - AO3
Highgarden was a change of air you didn’t know you’d needed. It was virtually the opposite to what you were so used to at Storms End.
Fresh spring air. A sky so blue it makes you wonder how you could ever be so at ease under perpetual cover of grey swollen storm clouds.
The trees brim with ripe fruit, and verdant gardens choking with roses. As far as you can see the fields surrounding the castle are all wheat and grass, stunning gold and emerald green like some patchwork quilt. The Mander runs blue as cobalt ribbon over those fruitful hills.
It is all warmth and ease. Baking you under a sun that only knows how to shine and delight. The keep walls glow white as bone with thorny yellow roses strangling every inch. It’s almost sickening in its perfection. You were so used to sturdier, stormier things.
Mereya is going to be a spring bride. And this place couldn’t suit her more if it tried.
She had a veritable flock of lovely tempered Highgarden ladies at her beck and call for court. Not a bad word to say about her. She was sweet as spring blossoms, you can’t imagine her finding fault with anyone. Or vice versa. Ladies gathered around her who loved nothing more than to talk about their handsome crushes, ribbons, and new dresses.
You and Lyonel travelled with some of your Baratheon bannermen on the rose road. Treasured guests. Arriving a week before hers and Thoren’s nuptials.
You’d dined on low tables in lush gardens with harpists playing nearby, lulled by music and wine, under the spreading reach of peach trees, with the trickle of fountains nearby. Strolled the rose gardens in the golden hour, arm in arm, and taken a leisurely, gentle sail on the sunlit mander. Attended the Spring Equinox masquerade ball, bathed under moonlight, the night sky strung with a net of glittering stars.
And on the bright, dazzling morn of her wedding. The sun rose as golden as the Tyrell sigil. She could think of none better to help her ready for her ceremony, but you. Even when she had a whole garrison of meek, eager handmaids to tend her every whim.
You were stood behind her as she sat to her vanity. Both your reflections in the looking glass. Her dress trailing over the stool, a huge glowing train of gold embroidered roses entwined up her sage green dress.
Not a lightning bolt in sight. Flowers had always suited her far better.
“I hope it’s not been too trying. It’s quieter than Storms End to be sure. Even with the revelries before the wedding.” She supposed.
“Lyonel will always be the loudest thing around here for miles. It is his way. Peace ill suits him.” You grin. Working on smoothing a curl by her temple to help it hang better.
She smirks. Snorts very unladylike laughter. “Is he finding it terribly tedious?” She seeks. Eyes flicking up to find you in the glass.
“I won’t repeat his exact words. But I think it’s just the heat getting to him.” You decide.
Your handsome stag of a husband didn’t fare so well in the polite, cloying and kind gardens of the reach. No wilderness. No tempests to chase. No storm to battle through. Just acre upon acre of polite gardens and roses. You can almost hear one of his rants;
Flowers. Sunshine. More fucking flowers. It’s like the place is made of roses. And what of the air? I can hardly feel myself breathe it’s so humid. Don’t they have rain here? Or clouds? Something that doesn’t smell and taste like it’s been swilled in a fucking rose bush.
Another thing that was getting to your husband; in a different manner, was the somewhat more relaxed nature of fashions in Highgarden. The thick wool gowns and brocades layered with thick cotton shifts won’t serve you well here. You’d boil alive in them.
You’d had several more gowns commissioned to better combat the heat - that, and to considerate the ever growing bump that was your firstborn.
You’d quickened so much over the past moon. Now three moons gone. Belly rounding out and convincing everyone around you that the low hang of it meant for certain you were carrying a boy.
Lyonel was having a hard enough time keeping his hands off you as it was. And now you added a cursed flimsy passel of dresses to the mix. And a pregnancy that had just gotten over the rigid hump of nausea and tenderness.
He was ravenous. Night and day.
These summery climes doing nothing to aid in his discomfort. Air sticking to you both like hot honey. Leaving you both slipping away for a moments repose. Or a cool bath.
You noticed the way he changed his pace to linger. Always in step beside you. Looking for you across a crowd to check you were hale.
When he moved to your side. He was all touch. Hand on the back of your hip like a warm kiss. Arm tucked in his. A brand. Whispering into your ear in a husk that you were dressed in sheer sin, and telling you how that flimsy fabric would make such a satisfying pile on your bedchamber floor.
The dress you are wearing now is a soft, frothy shade of lilac. Harping back to your Dondarrion name. With dark lavender thorn vines woven and crossing in embroidery down the bodice. It is sleeveless, and virtually backless. He hasn’t yet seen it on you this morn; when he does, you reckon he’ll have some sort of heart episode.
Your hair has been carefully styled for the wedding by your maid. Spilling down your back and off your face. The skirts split open over your swollen stomach, with a darker fabric spilling down in a triangle to the floor. Sheer gossamer layered over your hips. Giving a wispy train to the side and back when you walk. These too entwined with more embroidered thorns.
“Please give my apologies to Lord Lyonel for the rude change of scenery.”
You roll your eyes. “He’s a fully grown Storm Lord. I refuse to baby him. He shall have to adjust and remember he is here to pay respects to his dear sister in law. Soon to be Lady paramount of Highgarden.” You answer. Smiling in that clever stern way you do.
She grins. Fidgets with her hands in her lap. Rings on each finger. Pearls and gems and jewels in every colour of green or blue there was. She was twiddling with the gold and stones that shone on each dainty finger.
“To tell you the truth. I am entirely wracked with nerves.” She raises her eyes to you in the mirror.
You meet her gaze. Hands drop to her round shoulders. “About marriage?” You check. Eyes intent and honing in on her shrinking down. Curled shoulders. Hands fidgeting. Nerves.
“About being a great lady. What if I’m not enough. I’ve watched you train and train for years you make it look so natural. So in charge. You do it with iron. You storm through people and you don’t back down. I hope I don’t, disappoint…anyone.”
“Mereya. That is folly.” You tell her.
“I’m not like you. I don’t have the courage. I couldn’t have been the Lady to master storms end. It was too much and not me.” She shakes her head as she speaks.
“You speak like it is you who is lacking. As if it is a fault.” You add.
She fidgets with her hands again.
“Mereya.” You urge. Stern. Your best motherly tone - you’d been practicing after all.
She finally lifts her eyes to meet yours in the glass.
“You are kind. Generous. Gracious. You have been waiting for this role your whole life. There’s none more ready than you. And there is more than one way to be a fine lady. You don’t have to walk with an iron spine, and have a tongue like a sword to command respect. Thoren adores you. Anyone whose seen you two knows of it. It is a love match. You can conquer the whole seven with a good person by your side. You will find your way.” You reach and touch her shoulder.
“Don’t fret about the future now. Just enjoy this lovely day. And this very expensive, very beautiful big wedding.”
She slides her to cover yours where it lay on her.
“I’m so glad you’ve come. I’ve missed your stout advice and hale sense. Some of the ladies here are rather…trite.” She tells. “None of them quite set me straight as you do.”
You snort laughter. If that didn’t sum you up. You don’t know what will. “Nowhere I’d rather be.”
She opens her mouth. Again. Looking mousy and unsure. “What is it like?”
“What is what like?” Your hand stills with a comb through one of her curls.
Her eyes flick down to your belly.
“Oh.”
“Please?”
“That is a whole other conversation.” You warn. One you don’t intend to sully her innocence with.
Stepping back and going to the bed to fetch a ribbon. A gauzy sea froth blue one that she’s going to tie around her neck to wear a heavy round pendant with a rose engraved on. You had one made for her wedding. And one for yourself. Naturally, a stag surrounded by lightning bolts on yours.
“I’m going to be a bride after all. It’s expected to lay with one’s husband.” Whispers close and terrified, like you’ll be overheard. Like the whispers will fly out the window like butterflies and horrify the maids.
“The ladies tell me from their married friends or mothers it is painful at the very first, but it eases after a time. I need to be familiar with the… particulars.”
“I’m struggling to know how to answer that.” You admit.
You’re stuck between a rock and an anvil.
Either you can weild her the plain truth as sharp as a sword. Or you can let her ideals of the marriage bed stay rose tinted and soft.
“What was it like for you and Lord lyonel ? He’s a big, passionate man, is he not?” She states.
You’ve no idea. You quip to yourself. Mouth opening as you gape for a clutch of the right words.
“He uh, is. It was-“
“Was it… brief?” She stumbles.
You blink. Pausing. “I wouldn’t term it as that. No.”
Truth was, Lyonel had kept you abed for nearly a solid week after you married.
Every meal and glass of wine arrived on a tray. Left outside the door for safety’s sake. You were sure the poor maids cursed your name daily-
You had to escape for a ride to the woods or even a walk along the cliffs to avoid cabin fever of staring at your bedchamber walls. Or the window. Or the wall. Over the tub. On the floor beside the hearth. He’d laughed like a storm when you said your thighs were too delicate, love bitter and sore, to take to the saddle. Bastard.
“I imagine it was an adjustment.”
You turn back. Maybe you can half bury the sharp truths in a cotton wrapped cushion for her.
“It was different when I was married to Jacor. It was not a love match. That was brief and loveless. It was for duty. It was so quick, and then he was gone, so I wasn’t granted the time to judge. With Lyonel it’s…” you struggle to find the appropriate words.
Oh, it’s definitely not stiff, dull, duty that draws you to his bed.
“It’s different when you love someone so deeply. When someone truly arouses you, it is like nothing else. You can’t speak when they’re near. The thought of them makes you weaken. Your breath catches when you hear their name. And when you kiss and touch it somehow never seems enough. Wedded passion is just- fucking wonderful.” You laugh. As does she.
She laughs with you. “When he kisses me it does oft make my knees weak.” She admits. “And he’s tender. He’s never rushed me. Or asked for more than I gave.”
You wink at her. “There you are. A good man then. A great start.”
She turns back to the mirror. Places her hands on the vanity edge. “I hope so.”
“Not long now. My sweet.” You smile. Finishing arranging her hair to sit just right. She exhales with nerves. But her grin doesn’t veer from her lips for one second.
You’re interrupted by a flock of her ladies coming into the room. A flurry of wine and gauzy dresses. Skirts like jewel tulip petals swaying on a breeze. Compliments coo off their tongues as soon as they see her like honey-wine. Her beauty. Her dress. The lush style of her hair.
It touches you deep. How much she is beloved.
You take the opportunity to let her be swarmed by their love and attentions. You clasp her shoulder. “I’ll leave you in more capable hands. I’ll go and see how the groom fares.”
“After last night I should think his head will be pounding sore.” One of the dark haired maids, giggles. Grin a bright straight flash of friendly teeth.
“We heard they were up celebrating til near the dawn.” Another pipes up. Helping Mereya tie her necklace. “Dancing on tables. Singing. Rowdy as a pack of wild stallions.”
“I think I can guess who encouraged that.” Mereya beams. Finding your eyes cleverly in the mirror. Grinning.
You give a wry shrug. “What I get for marrying a Storm. And not an apple.” You jest.
She smiles. You pause with a hand on the door to her chambers. Summer air lapping at your heels. Air rife with flowers and sun and every good summery thing.
It suddenly strikes you, in an overwhelming rush, a strong tugging tide, how radiant she looks. A golden rose bride indeed.
You know the gods to be unjust. Mayhaps even cruel. Unyielding. But for today, you’d struggle to your knees, and stay on them for hours to praise them for this fortune. If there was some small gold kernel of goodness in this world, she heartily deserved every glorious scrap of it. And more.
Your search for your husband at first, proved fruitless. A rarity, when usually he can be found by sheer clamour alone.
For all his noise, today it’s not what drew you toward him. You catch sight of him way across the gardens. The sheer dark width of his back. You’d know that broad span of shoulders and storm tossed curls anywhere.
He’s suitably garbed for any occasion. Here is no different. Dripping wealth. A long line leather jerkin in crow black. Pointed out at the shoulders to make him look that much wider. Stroked at the edges with a little strike of Baratheon gold. Antlers on the golden closures down his chest. Golden bracers on his wrists. His usual chunky rings adorning his thick fingers. Chain around his neck tucked under his shirt. Boots buffed to a high shine.
His skin offset with a new sun-kissed glow to it, that made him look entirely too weathered and scandalous from your time bathing in the suns heat up here. He looks so fucking handsome you hardly know what to do about it.
You’ve a feeling it will later involve a locked door, and perhaps riding him til he’s hoarse and your legs can’t take it.
You note he’s in confidence with someone. His hand cupping the back of a golden haired man’s neck as they walk arm in arm. You can’t make out his company from such a distance.
You tread towards him. Shade and sunlight freckle your skin under the pass of the rose arches. Hair swaying down your shoulders.
One thing you had come to appreciate at Highgarden, was its propensity for thorns and mazes. You weave your way through. It awards you the chance to approach Lyonel virtually unseen.
It’s his voice that carries to you first. Dancing on the summer, petal stroked winds.
“I must…. Everyday?” You hear the incredulous tone. A young man’s voice. All wavering uncertainty. Thoren. Your very shortly to be brother-in-law.
“Every day. Boy. If there is one day you do not go down on your wife. Consider it the saddest day indeed.”
That makes you slow your steps. Sandaled feet fall softer on the crackling shingle path. Hiding amongst the roses. So you may better hear. Your mouth falls open. Did he just?
“Trust me. One day you’ll thank me. As will your wife.” You hear Lyonel impress on the lad. You can hear his smirk. Picture the way he’d shot a wink.
They skirt a fountain together. Water arching from its spouts, blue as robins eggs. The marble so ice white in the sun it was blinding.
“How on earth do you think I won Lady Baratheon…. A man, nay, a husband, should always be receptive to his lady’s more, carnal, appetites. Even should she not exhibit such wild behaviour. No woman can turn down a tonguing so good she’ll damn near faint from pleasure with her thighs strangling your neck. Even the sturdiest maiden can be brought to tenderness with a cunning tongue trick.” He cackled.
“But what if I am no good at… uh.” Thoren stammers. Seeking the right words without a vulgar inclination on his tongue.
“That’s what a honeymoon is for. Time to practice. Learn of each other. I don’t believe either me or my wife made it downstairs for at least a week at the start. Married love. Thoren. It’s fucking bliss.”
“A week?” Thoren squeaks.
“Mmmhmm.” Lyonel assures.
“By the end of said week I could make her succumb in a matter of minutes. Like clockwork. I knew exactly how to use my tongue in order to make her melt into my mouth.”
You don’t know how you’ll ever look Thoren in the eye again.
“But surely there is ugh, more than one’s tongue to be thinking about. Surely we will need to… be thinking, well expected, to be producing heirs.”
There’s a shift of gravel. A crackle of it harsh under a boot as your husband spins to round on the man.
“There is more to the marriage than making heirs. Though the making of them certainly is fun.”
“There’s more?”
“Fucking geld me. What do they teach you boys up here?” He asks. Imploring the seven. “Wooing your wife is not merely the act of getting her gown off, and sticking your cock in. Not to mention it’s the height of rudeness, but it would pain her, and it is also increasingly short-sighted.”
“You must arouse her. Excite her. Get her so dripping wet with fingers or mouth before you even consider your own needs. If you can’t satisfy a woman, you don’t deserve a place in her bed, or her trust. Let alone inside her cunt. Of which by the way, I can assure you, will feel like heaven on earth. The closest thing we men can come to seeing our gods.” He laughs. Big and boisterous.
You close your eyes and shake your head. All this he shares with such ease. Fucking seven hells.
“We. Haven’t been left alone enough to try such… attentions in each others company. It wouldn’t be decent.” Thoren explains.
“Well. What have you done?”
“We’ve kissed. And hugged. It’s all very pleasant.”
“Oh dear lord. Sit the fuck down with you.”
He concluded. Shoving poor Thoren down onto a marble bench. His lanky knees give and he sits as obedient as a gangly puppy. Eyes wide with awe.
“Kissing and hugging will not a marriage make. You need passion.”
Lyonel stands afore him. Ready to impart his wisdom.
“These are the rules. And you better heed them. Firstly. Go down on your wife. Lots. It’s not only polite. It is essential. As she is letting you inside her body and lets you finish inside her. And that is of the highest honour. You’d better be deserving of it. And you do not even touch her cunt if she is not slick wet and begging? Understand?”
“Yes. Ser.”
“Secondly. Just because you put your mouth to her, it doesn’t follow she should be required to do the same for you. That’s rotten thinking, boy, and will get you naught. If she wishes to do it, it is the sweetest gift a man can earn from his wife. Trust me. They wrap you like ribbon around their little finger with it. My wife is a certain minx to that particular art.”
You roll your eyes. Now Thoren will definitely be scared of looking you in the eye. If that’s what he will imagine when he next sees you.
“Thirdly. When you do argue and believe me. Not matter how well you’re suited. You will. You get on your knees before the lady. Use your tongue fiercely on her cunt. Then fuck like you hate each other. And go back down on her to make sure everything is fine between you two. You should aim to ensure she has no breath left to chide you with.”
“Shouldn’t we settle the argument with a sound discussion?” Thoren asks.
“Pfft. No” Lyonel bats a hand. “I see no reason to change a good thing. The way me and Lady Baratheon do it has been successful thus far.” He tells. “Nearly broke our bed one time. It was ravenous.”
You’re going to strangle him. You’re unequivocally going to round the rose bush, calmly walk over, and strangle him with your bare hands. Or drown him in the fountain.
They’ll never find the body. You’ll make sure it’s well hidden, and the reek of the corpse shall be masked by the thorny roses.
Thoren gulps. “Be there a fourth, my Lord?” He asks. Querelous.
“I think that’s all the advice I can give a young groom. If there is a fourth it is only this….”He starts.
You dread the filth he’ll spew out next. Maybe he’ll grab a stick and draw filthy images in the shingle dirt. Like a bloody lesson.
“You are marrying a rare and great woman. Thoren. Just as I did. And when you truly, madly, love someone that way, it’ll be the making of you.” Lyonel tells him. Reaching forwards to clap his shoulder again.
That touches you deeply. As did the rest of your husbands, albeit filthy, confession.
“I do love her. I find I am impatient to make her my wife.” He says gently. A smile on his lips. He speaks like he’s giddy with it. Bare and honest.
Lyonel cackles. Deep and true. Like the rolling peel of a sept bell.
“Good. Because if you don’t, I’m fairly certain my wife would come geld you herself with her bare hands. and I would be there to hold the knife for her.” He grins. Laughs at Thorens horrified face.
He looks scared again. “Your wife is. Uh. Quite the terrifying woman. Is she not?”
Lyonel smirks. Wide, filthy and so proud.
“I know. She’s a goddamn wild storm that one. It’s so damned fucking arousing.” He leers.
You can take no more of this. You make sure your step is loud. Turning the corner and coming into plain view. Clearing your throat as you round the path from the fountain.
“Lyonel. Let the poor boy go. He’s getting married in half an hour.” You beckon kindly. Smile brushed on your lips.
He spins back. Twists to face you. Smirk climbing across his mouth. “Sweeting.” He remarks with joy. His eyes sweep you. Staying for a long moment on your chest. And then the slit to one side of your dress.
“My lord. I do believe your father was seeking you for a word. I heard he was headed for the Sept.” You encourage his departure. Rescuing the poor boy from your husbands clutches.
Thoren flushes a bright red. Bobs a quick bow to you before taking off quick through the gardens. “My Lady. My Lord.”
You smile as he hurried past. All blushes and wide eyes. When you round on Lyonel you look newly stern. Narrowed eyes, a stern set jaw. It makes him smile. Trouble suits him just fine.
When you come close enough, you cuff your husbands shoulder. “Was it your intention to give the poor boy a hard on for his wedding ceremony.” You chide. Hissing at him.
“I was instructing the lad. He’s greener than grass. Heaven forfend he learns a little cunnilingus goes a long way.” He decided.
He slips a hand to your waist, hooks you in and kisses you firmly on the mouth before you can have a chance to grow truly angry with him. Tugs you in like he knows you’ll melt.
Impresses on you a slow kiss that made stars shoot to your toes. You detest how he keeps that skill in his arsenal to wield against you so often.
When you peel away, his lips chase yours. Tickle of that beard against your mouth. Your hands sink to the cool leather on his chest.
He shakes his head at your dress. Can’t believe he is intended to survive seeing you in this flimsy, expensive, perfect dress with his sexual sanity intact.
“Not you. Gods be good. The fucking roses have got you too. Though in truth to your nature, this place is swimming in them and you choose to wear the thorns.” He leers. Winks at you. “I’ll be sure to tear those thorns off you later.”
You roll your eyes.
He sighs like a man in pain when he skims his hands over your shoulders and finds it virtually backless too. He kisses you again. Nearly devours your lips.
“My savage storm you mean to kill me do you not.” He hushes as he drags his mouth up your neck. Nuzzling your hairline. You smelled like fig soap and that honey nectarine perfume of yours. It absolutely kneecaps him. Weakens him.
“I could. When I overheard what details you so willingly shared with Thoren.”
“You’re not truly mad?” He seeks. Hands resting on your hips. The bones and lush curves of you fitting so decently in his big hands.
“Haven’t decided yet.” You snip. All acid eyes and narrow stares that are supposed to rebuke him.
He’s all smiles. Tucking your hand to his side. Letting you stroll gently under the rose arches with him. The sept bells started to toll. The wedding will not be long.
“You know. Something about all this, reminds me of our first time.” He announces. As you come around the lip of the fountain. The cool spray drifts in the rose scented wind.
You grin. “Which first time would that be, my dear lord husband.”
“Well we do have such an array to choose from now don’t we.” He tells. Merry as ever. Eyes sinking into yours.
“There was our first stolen kiss. Slick from dancing. Under the stars like two fucking poets wrote out our scene. Giddy off too much wine.”He reminisces.
“You were drunk. I merely obliged to try and hold you up.”
“That second, equally as sultry kiss. In the rain. Up against the side of that tent. When you were trying so hard to scurry away after I first learnt how angry you were with me. You were seething like a spitting viper.”
“Yes. But you were being absolutely bold, and stubborn as an ornery ass. So my anger was well justified.”
“Then there was the rather blissful interlude when I paid call on you when you were bathing. You clawed my back so hard I shall never forget the like.” He leans in. The heat of his breath ghosts your ear.
“I will get you back for that one day. You know.” The turn of your head is lethal. You side eye him, dangerously.
“As will I. For that other occasion of making me lose all sense of decency and sanity when you welcomed the attentions of that copper haired, apple, Fossoway cunt.” He snips.
You pull him to a reeling halt. Hand linked in his elbow. Petals and thorns arcing over your head.
That night had ended in him pursuing you as you tried to hurry back to your tent by cutting through the woods. He had followed you. Even though you had bit his head off and warned him back.
He was seething from having to watch you dance with Ser Steffon. To take dinner with him. Ride with him. Watching your family act like you were already sewn into the apple tree family branches.
You were furious from how he kept up the act of trying to be a good suitor to Mereya, when his eyes followed you round the room all night. When he sipped back more wine anytime Ser Steffon took your hand in his.
It could only end in one thing; a screaming match. Which then culminated in you both having angry, fiery hate sex up against a tree. Snarling moans, clawed hands and swearing that you hated each other.
“You won’t let me forget that will you. At my age and station of spinsterdom. It was made perfectly plain to me, by my family, that no such other offer of respectable marriage might come my way. Cider hall was the best option.”
He’s laughing. His hand is warm on the back of your neck before you can finish speaking. Nearly drawing you brow to brow.
“And now look at you.”
“You’ve snared a Storm Lord stag for a husband. And his babe grows everyday bigger in your belly.” He leers.
Hands cupping you so close. Free hand smoothing down the bump through your dress. He would be entirely lying if he said his eyes did not linger on your - now swollen tits. Absolutely not his fault how the low neckline of your dress bared them so well.
You bump your nose to his. Sneak up on tiptoes and press your mouth to his for a brief kiss. He smiles to it. Hand still on your bump.
“That sounds awfully boastful.” You speak out when you pull back.
“It’s what I’m good at.” He leers. Tongue captured between his teeth.
“Come along.” Your hand covers his. Reels him behind you in your path. “I don’t wish us to be late for this wedding. Knowing you, I’ll be dragged somewhere secluded in these gardens for some scandalous activity.”
“Only a little.” He sulks.
You ignore him.
“It’s sure to be the grandest event for many a year. It might even outdo our own.” You explain.
He holds your hand still as you keep your skirts from your feet coming up some marble steps. Hand under yours for support.
“In one measure my storm, it could never top our wedding….” He remarked.
You twist back to face him. “What respect is that?”
He stays below you. Takes your hand and kisses the back of it. The look in his eyes is nothing short of dastardly.
“No way on earth is that Rose boy as lucky as I am.” He grins.
“You will stop gloating when we’re in that Sept? Will you not?” You check.
He shrugs. Like it’s a challenge. You recognise that gleam in his eye. It’s the one that comes from someone telling him to behave. And then he turns around and does the exact opposite-
Draws up to come along beside you. Hand hot across your bare back. He squeezes you close in step.
“Depends…” He answers your question.
“On?” You seek.
“Whether or not we are sat within earshot of one Lord Steffon.” He beams.
“For fucks sake Lyonel.” You can’t help it. You laugh.
You receive a very animated letter from your sister not two weeks after the wedding.
You are back at Storms End. Breaking your fast in bed with Lyonel. Golden morning light streams through the windows in a rare shaft of sunshine. Though the storms will close in later, of that you have no doubt.
You are sat up. A heap of cushions at your back. Covers folded at your waist. A breakfast tray balanced on the bed next to you.
Lyonel lounged on his side. Easily within arms reach. Nearly naked. Golden robe open at his chest. Necklace sat on his sternum. Raven and grey chest hair bared in swirls over his skin aswell as his nipples. His necklines nearly matched yours in plunging nature often.
He leans over and steals a bite of the toast from your fingers. Being sure to suck the jam and butter off your fingertips. You ignore the throb of longing that shoots through you with the way his mouth closes around your fingers.
He sucks till all sweet flavour is gone. You absentmindedly cup the side of his face. Eyes on your correspondence.
“It’s from Mereya…” You sigh happily. Unfolding the golden rose wax seal to read more of it.
“How does Lady Tyrell fare?” He asks.
He watches your eyes skim across the written lines in the letter. The more you skim. The more the smile slowly drops from your face.
Your hands fall to your stomach. Letter in your grip. You turn and give him a spiky look.
“My sister is writing to me to sing your praises.” You state.
“Uh.”
You hold the letter aloft. And read from it. “Please thank Lyonel, in the most sincere and strongest terms for his advice. It has proven most useful this past week.”
You turn at him and glare. “Something to do with the advice you gave Thoren, presumably?”
He chuckles. Slides his hand over your thigh. “I could give you a precise demonstration if you like…”
SUMMARY: A continuation of your wedding night with Pierrot
CONTENT: Pierrot X Fem!Reader, Nsfw
(NOTE: This is the first time I've got the courage to post Nsfw so please be nice)
Part 1
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Pierrot pressed a kiss to the damp lace of your panties, a deep rumbling growl escaping him as he inhaled your scent. “My Lady…Your scent, your very essence is enough to intoxicate me~” He pressed his face further between your thighs growling in a way that vibrated against your clit earning him a soft moan. “My lady, your noises are like sweet music to my ears, from your voice, the heart beating faster and faster in your chest, and the lungs shaking with each breath…I want more…” His teeth gently scrap along the fabric before shredding it away with no difficulty.
He pulled away, staring adoringly. “My Lady, how does every part of you manage to look so beautiful even at its most depraved~” He growls as he gently spreads your cunt with two fingers. “So, so beautiful…” He kisses your clit moaning deeply. “So sweet…” He alternates between gently sucking and kissing your clit.
“Pierrot…” You moan your hips bucking uncontrollably. “Shhhh, my lady I need to prepare you…” He keeps one hand on your hips and the other keeps you spread. “Are you ready?” He mumbles against your clit. You nod, breathing heavy. “I need a ‘yes’ My Lady…” He looks up at you from between your thighs. “Yes, yes please Pierrot.” He keeps his eyes on you, watching your reaction carefully as he gently pressed his tongue into your cunt.
Pierrot moaned deeply as he moved his tongue as if trying to taste all of you. “So good…So, so sweet I can practically feel my teeth rotting…” He growls into your cunt. “Right there Pierrot, right there…” You moan breathlessly gripping his horns as he hits that sweet spot. “As you wish, my Lady.” He groans, relentlessly thrusting and rubbing your sweet spot with his tongue. “Pierrot, I-I cant…” You babble wrapping your legs around his head. “Give it to me My Lady, please, please, please.” He practically begs as he somehow thrust his tongue even faster.
He growls deeply as you cum, lapping at your cunt through your orgasm, making sure not a drop of your essence goes to waste. Finally he pulls away, pressing a kiss to your trembling thighs on the way. “Ha…Ha…Did I do well My Lady?” He panted gently brushing the hair from your face. You nodded, unable to speak as he gently propped you up on the pillows. “Your legs tremble so cutely…” He kisses your collarbone as he unzips the back of your dress, In a matter of minutes your dress was hung on a velvet hanger, and the rest of his clothes tossed aside without care before crawling back in bed with you, gathering you in his arms.
“How beautiful your skin is against silk and roses.” His hand rested on your abdomen for a moment before slipping down and gently prodding your still sensitive cunt. “Please My Lady…May I give you all of me?” He pressed a kiss to your neck. “Yes…” You nodded as he moved between your thighs, holding each one apart. “Please promise to tell me if I overwhelm you, My Lady.” He asked as he lined himself up. “I promise.”
Slowly he pushed the tip in giving you time to adjust. “Ha…Ha…So warm…” He panted as he pushed in more. “You're taking me so well.” He massaged your abdomen as he eased more in until he fit as much of his cock inside you as he could. “So good…So, so good…” He panted practically drooling with his hands trembling on your hips. “Can…Can I start moving My Lady?” You nodded. “So full…” You whimpered softly. “Is it too much, My Lady?” He bent over you to look you in the eyes.
“No, no keep going.” You wrapped your arms around his neck pulling him into a kiss. He growled deeply as his tongue danced against yours, beginning to thrust slowly at first before picking up speed. “Your cunt feels so good, so warm, so tight…Even your body was made for me.” He pistoned his hips against yours awkwardly until he hit that perfect angle. “Oh My Lady, is that where it feels best?” He targets that spot over and over before he sinks his teeth into your shoulder. “Pierrot, I-I can't hold much longer!” Your nails rake down his back. “Yes, yes give me all of you, let me mark you as mine.” He moans into your neck as you spasm legs shaking as he continues thrusting through your orgasm before finally bottoming out inside you. “Mine, mine, mine…inside and out My Love, My Wife all mine.” He slurred as he rested his head on your breasts wrapping his arms around you. “...I love you Pierrot.”
Choose a photo that calls to you and the cards will tell you a message.
As always, this is just for fun. Do not take anything seriously or above legal or medical advice.
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Masterlist
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ℙ𝕚𝕝𝕖 𝟙
You might find yourself really distracted, or overly worried about other people. I heard "Gotta keep everything in order". However, I'm getting that once you get there, you're into it, you know? A little fidgety and nervous at first, but you'll warm up quick and move right in with confidence into your wedding night with your F/S. I keep picturing smiles and lustful giggles, but also talking and hopeful dreams. Your mind might still wander every now and again though, almost like a nagging feeling or a planning energy. I'm not sensing anything bad with your F/S though, maybe you just feel overwhelmed about everything and can't concentrate 100% even though you want to. You may be carefully planning something, like what comes next. Maybe you'll be excited about starting the new chapter of your lives together. You might discuss things that revolve around money, maybe something like moving in together if you haven't already, or getting a better home. You might feel very blessed about your money, or marrying into money and that excites you. Overall, not picking up a negative energy, but definitely a busy mind this night.
ℙ𝕚𝕝𝕖 𝟚
I heard 'Princess'. I keep picturing an image of a woman with her head high and proud. I see her walking around with a deep, slow, and seductive voice, picking things up with a slow elegance and a smirk in the corner of her lips. I also heard "I'm not used to this."
I'm not gonna lie, I'm not feeling like this woman is you or your F/S. I'm getting an ex vibe or someone malicious. I think you and/or your F/S knew that this third party person would start something and one of you just barely diffused it before a mess happens. Regardless, I'm sensing that even though this person is taken care of, it really has you in your feels for the night.
I'm really feeling this might be an ex of your F/S, because you might start feeling jealous and insecure by the time you and your F/S are alone that night and your mood is just really ruined about the whole thing. Having that said, I'm seeing your F/S coax you out of it, and you'll start seeing the bigger picture of why you got married in the first place. This ex might have been a problem throughout the relationship, or a person that you've had a hard time accepting is in the past, and this night, you'll really face the truth about what happened between them. You F/S will explain that them and this ex weren't good for one another and that they have not intention to rebuild with them. Throughout the wedding, your insecurity might make you distant towards your F/S, lowkey kind of ruining the wedding for you, but by the end of the night, I'm seeing that this ex situation will be turned into a passionate, fiery, almost possessive night of them proving to you why you are the one. What you'll remember most about the whole day, was them loving on you in a way that makes you never doubt their love for you again.
This pile's energy was a little confusing ngl, so take it how it resonates. Overall, I got a kind of hazy and unclear feeling while reading this group as compared to the other piles, so be careful y'all.
ℙ𝕚𝕝𝕖 𝟛
I heard "Oh my god, that's big." LMAOO
The other piles were pretty serious, but I can already tell you guys will be a fun couple.
Literally just pulled an oracle card that says "Go deeper" oml. Y'all gonna have fun this night, that's for sure.
Okay so, one, or I guess both of you once you get married, might be RICH RICH. Or maybe this night just feels really elegant and fancy and it's really getting you both into the mood, you know what I mean? You both are gonna be feeling like a million dollars and like nothing's in your way. Just full confidence and fun. This person is loyal, they're mature, they're charming, just frickin perfect. You're not gonna be able to stop smiling cause you'll really feel like you have it all this night.
I'm immediately seeing a real nice and expensive hotel. Thick and warm white towels. You might bathe together after the big night, or maybe you'll be in the bathroom 'getting ready'. Either way, I'm seeing that once the clothes come off, they stay off, no more hiding. I'm getting the picture of you coming out of the bathroom in a towel and them immediately waiting outside the door to and slipping it off. I'm seeing your F/S give you slow pecks, eyes half lidded, and between each kiss they whisper little teases to you as they undress you and lie you down on the bed. There's gonna be tons of smiles and laughs between you, teasing and whispering all night, maybe even throughout the wedding you both were teasing each other under your breath or when no one was looking. I just immediately heard 'when you THOUGHT no one was looking', lol be careful y'all, someone's auntie might joking tease you the day after cause they saw something you thought you hid.
Anyway, your wedding night with your F/S is gonna be real deep and tender, spending HOURS feeling completely beautiful and engulfed in one another.
Hiya! Can we get Lyonel x Dondarrion!reader with the prompt “them looking at you like you're not just a person, but their favorite story. one they’ve been rereading since forever and still keep finding new parts to fall in love with.”
I can see this prompt being used to talk about one of them, either Lyonel or Dondarrion!reader, reminiscing about their love story from the beginning to present. Like how they came to meet before their betrothal, how their relationship grew during their arranged engagement, how they fell in love, the wedding, the wonderful marriage afterwards. Maybe even ending when them having their first child so it’s a part 2 to the “Little Stag” fic? That’s up to you though. I just love how you write a totally smitten Lyonel!
Union writ in storm -
Lyonel Baratheon x Lady Dondarrion - wedding/smut
Forgive the random tags but I’m Tagging some phenomenal akotsk babes whose fics gave me life. @the-darklings @jintaka-hane @mynameistocool @lovebugism @maekarsmistress @pearlessance @noxiousstrawberries @ingystark @oakleafing @marsrambles @just-some-random-blogger @vhagars-dementia @escapic-mezzanine @tearsweetenedtea @nerdyinfluencertastemaker @adumbgirlinloove @moonlitmaester @silens-oro @feral4youu @s-u-t
MASTERLIST - SEND PROMPTS - AO3
A storm was lashing beads of rain sideways across the windowpanes. Rattling them and the glass in their frames. You can feel the cold seeping from the other side of the brick. The furious rap of the rain as it pelted off stone. A Storm whips up on the horizon. Ready to bite.
Mind, it must be said. You couldn’t hear terribly much of it. The familiar rain and riot language of your homeland. You were familiar with the cadence. The push of tides. The swell of clouds.
Tonight, the racket being made by your husband-to-be, drowned out even the sound of thunder and waves crashing in.
It was the eve before your wedding. Night was just begging to fall outside, as if the gods were dropping a gossamer blue curtain. Turning the ocean into a malty, drowsy blue. The spray of salt foam on the whipping wind breaking on Storms End rocks. Every window shone like fresh cut squares of amber with candlelight.
You sit to your looking glass. Smoothing fragrant oil into your hands as your maid tends to calmly brushing your hair with a silver comb.
The cavernous halls below, were very occupied, being assaulted by the noise of Lyonel’s feast. To toast the groom. To rampage, gorge, drink til death, on his last night of bachelordom.
Half the Stormlands were in unruly residence. Every minor Lord, every vassal summoned to break bread at the grand wedding. Lyonel has demanded gifts, baubles, and attendance on pain of gelding or drowning first borns.
They were in fact, roaring so ear-splittingly loud at the ceiling tiles, you suspect they’ll fall down soon. Or crumble of their own accord out of sheer terror of the mere uproar.
Your dress hangs across the room. Shining, hulking, waiting in the far corner like a wheat gold omen. A warm and all too glad one. Of course it keeps catching your eye.
It took near two months to sew. Embroidered with stags, and bolts of lightning, and other prancing, rolling stems flora and fauna on the heavy silk. Sequins and beads wrapped your bodice and skirts like glittering armour. It falls just off your shoulders. Long bell sleeves sweep the floors. Your neck will radiate gold and gems enough to blind all seven kingdoms; Every inch a gold-studded, Baratheon bride.
Your ears catch on the tune of one of the bawdier folk songs - one involving a bear and a maiden fair, as the chorus hammered on to the beat of the drums and stomping feet.
They were having a jolly time. Halls laden with company and many, many women and men. Inundated with painted whores, platters upon platters of food. And enough wine to drown all of Dorne twice over.
You shake your head. Smiling. Sat in your nightgown. The pallid see-through one that flowed over your body like spilled cream. Thick and warm.
You peer up to see your maids struggling to hide their smiles. Biting the corners of their lips to hide grins.
“Do you think anyone will get any rest with that unholy racket?” You enquire. Merrily.
“It’s certainly. Lively…” Mariel, your maid, gets out gently. Never one to fire out a bad word. Oftentimes you wonder if she could ever say boo to a mouse if prevoked.
“Stormlanders. Mariel. And at the heart of them, is their Lord who I’m sure will not lay his head down to rest til well beyond dawn. Maybe not even then.”
“He mustn’t tire himself for the morrow. My lady. It’s a big day.”
You tilt your head. Kindly. Finish rubbing gardenia oil into your hands.
“Mustn’t isn’t a word that appears in Lyonel’s vocabulary. Certainly not one he gives any stock too.”
“I think you are going to have a spirited marriage. My lady.” Exclaims Bertha, with a smile. From where she’s bent at the waist at the table, laying out your jewels on velvet cloths for the morn.
A thunderous chorus erupts below. Men yelling or possibly singing at the top of their lungs. The end of a song. And another begins. You catch both their eyes and laugh.
“I think mayhap you’re right.” You answer blithely. Listening to the hum of the violins. The marching bang of the drums.
“Are you nervous about the morrow my lady? My mother says all ladies have cold feet on their wedding night. She says it is usual. And that the only cure is for the bride to put a penny in her slipper. To pay off the evil spirits.” Mariel tells wisely.
You smile at her fretting. Turn around and reach for her hand gently.
“My feet are perfectly temperate. I thank you though.”
She seems relieved to hear so cross your lips.
“Anything else you need my lady?” Mariel seeks. Laying down your brush.
“I am contented. I have my dinner tray and a book. And hopefully when those rowdy drunkards downstairs settle into a stupor, I will have some peace to sleep, too.” You tell.
They nod. Bob a curtsey. Capped heads bowing. “Goodnight my lady. We’ll be back to wake you.”
You beam back. “Goodnight.” Hair sliding over your shoulder.
The door clicks loudly in the latch. And you are left alone. Save for the distant spin of the flames in the hearth. And despite the storm that riots above and below you, a new serenity lulls.
You cross to the window. Peering out into the gathering dim. Watching the spray of the sea. The churn of the wind. You like to think your wedding day will be accompanied by a storm. It seems most appropriate - to start as you mean to go on.
You settle to eat your modest tray of food. Soup. Cheeses, wine, grapes and some bread. Reading as you ate.
To stifle the cold, you slip into your bed. Get warming under the sheets. Book to hand.
There comes a syrup-slow knock on your door.
In the gap under it you see a shadow chopping up the light. You untangle yourself from the blanket, and slip out of bed and go to it.
“Any lovers you’re hiding in there, Lady Dondarrion, better make themselves scarce.” He speaks through the closed door at a thunderous level that is too Lyonel to ever be considered a whisper. Enough to bring a smile to your face.
Open the door a tiny crack. Letting the whine of its opening settle between you.
“The very well hung Dornishman jumped out the window. And the Lannister is hiding in the armoire.”
“Ugh.” he scoffs. “Lannister? really?”
“I was dazzled by the powerful lion. All that golden hair. Promised me riches and the finest rooms of Casterly rock overlooking the sunset sea.” You tease longingly.
“You’d tire of a blonde lion cunt in ten minutes.” He supposes.
“I don’t know. Maybe the gold jewels he’d lavish on me would be worth it.”
“Open this door properly so I can fucking kiss you.”
“I’m not allowed to see you before the wedding. It’s bad luck to see your bride on her wedding night.”
You can hear the salacious smirk. He lays his hands either side of the doorframe you can hear the clack of his rings on the wood. He speaks like it’s a challenge-
“You truly think I’m going to wait til then”
“Lyonel. It’s what honour demands.” You chide.
“Fuck fucking honour.” He leans closer to the gap. “Woman you’d better come out here or I’m coming in. And I will turn this door to splinters if you don’t let me.”
Never keep a stag from his prize doe.
But you do move nearer the door. You pull your gown from the chair where Mariel left it for the morning. You pull it around yourself and tie the purple sash around your middle in a knot. He can hear the glide of silk. Makes his jaw clench imagining the skin it’s covering. Torture. Sheer torture.
“I’m in my nightgown. What if someone should see…” You smile. Goading his temper.
“Then I’ll throw them into the fucking sea.” He threatens casually.
“And what if we’re bringing bad luck down on our heads for the nuptials. Suppose down the morrow I fall down the stairs. Or spill wine down my dress. Or you decide to elope with one of those painted whores downstairs….” You rattle off.
You hear the clunk of him butting his forehead to the door.
“Suppose someone catches you sneaking in….They might lay claim to a vicious rumour that I’m not virtuous. Allowing a man into my chambers at night.”
“At this rate. Understand me. I will break this door down and won’t let you leave on the morrow to marry me. I’ll be too busy being buried deep inside you making you see stars. They’ll have to come and bless us and marry us in that fucking bed.”
“How novel. Bedding ceremony and a marriage all in one. Didn’t realise you were Dothraki. I hasten to add the cloak bit may prove tricky if I’m on my back…” you suppose.
“For fucks sake. Have some mercy on your long suffering husband and open the door.” He hisses into the gap. Body crowding right up to it.
You do. Appear in the gap. Brows raised. “Yes, my stag?” You blink at him all innocence and carefree.
He storms the door open the rest of the way. Bodily crowds you back into the doorframe. Hands gripping instantly for your hips. Doorframe jamming into your spine. His lips on yours so fast it made your head ache. Hungry mouth devouring yours. All teeth and lips and the red taste of the wine he’d been drinking.
He kissed you like he’d never see you again. Kisses you like you weren’t soon to be his.
Chasing the pull of your mouth where your head tilted. His body pressed into yours. All hard leather and broad strong man. His tongue twirled to yours. Sought out your mouth with ferocity. Left you sagging against the doorway when he released you enough to let you breathe again.
By which time your fingers were tangled in the nape of his neck. Grasping for life at the curls. Nails scraping his skin in a way that made him smirk - and harden in his breeches.
You sigh against his mouth. “Careful. You kiss a woman like that. You’ll ruin her for all others.”
“Oh don’t worry. I fully intend to ruin you.” He nudges his nose to the end of yours. Smiling like a dazed fool.
“I’ve thought of nothing else for weeks. Ruining you on the bed. On all fours. Up against the window. In front of the fireplace on the pelts. Fast. Rough. And then slower, softer. Deeper. When we’re both half delirious from too much pleasure and not nearly enough sleep.” He adds. Hands smoothing over the curves of your hips that fit his hands so nicely.
“Sounds perfectly exhausting.” You smirk. But you can’t help the way your stomach births into a hot wild jungle of butterflies at the mere hint of it.
“I’m not letting you out of bed for a week. All you’re going to see are the bedsheets or the canopy ceiling.”
You cup his face. The other hand still plunged into those curls. “Aren’t you missing a terribly raucous party downstairs? Coming up here to kiss me…”
“I’ve had my fill of all the fun.” He decides with a shake of his head.
“Who are you and what have you done with my husband….” You tease. Whispering into a kiss that he happily, sloppily, returns.
“I tire of their company. I far more needed yours.” He moans.
“You sentimental fool.”
“I’m going to need you to put something on. Cloak and a dress. Gods be good. Something quick.”
You quirk a brow. “Not your usual request. And whatever for?”
The grin he gives you could be bottled sin. Something the High Septons warn about.
“Get dressed and you’ll soon find out.”
“Wait here.” You instruct. Crossing to your armoire. He watches the way the fires light casts copper down your legs. The seethrough nature of the back of it meant he could see from your shoulderblades, right down your spine to that perfect ass.
“The Lannister can help me with my dress lacings.” You jape cleverly.
He’s already in. Shutting the door with his back pressed to it. “Over my dead bones.”
He turns out to be an enormous hindrance with wandering hands. His mouth buried into your neck, goatee scuffing your skin, as you try and stuff yourself into stockings and a dark mulberry dress. A simple one. No fuss or frills. Simply cut. A neckline that means you can still see your shift under. Sleeves that billow at your elbows and tighten again at your wrists.
“There.” You exclaim as you grab your cloak off the top of the trunk. A deep blue. One that matches the colour of the churning grey sea out your window.
“What shall I do with my hair?” You seek. Eyeing the box of pins on your vanity. Your hands with it are clumsy. But you can make do. Not as good as Mariel. She was excellent with hair.
“Leave it unbound. I like it wild.” He winks. Leaning over to clasp his hand to the back of your head. Hair bouncing soft under his palm. It was half undone and feral looking loose when he first met you. He likes that it looked much the same now.
“Then I’m ready.” You state. As you fastened your cloak. Slippers laced on your feet.
He looks at you for a moment. Adoring. Admiring. Dangerous dark eyes brimming with so much. It seemed like pride and love entwined. The way he looked at you oft spoke more than words.
“Perfection.” He seals your hand in his.
He’s looking at you like you're not just a person, not just a bride, or even a woman. But his favorite story. The most captivating one. One he’s been treading over, rereading til he knows the shape of every letter and every word. Still he keeps finding new parts of you to fall deeply in love with
He strides across the room like a man off to conquer an army and toast his victories. You can all but hurry along keep up.
“May I enquire exactly what salacious ideas are running through your head?” You pry. Holding up your skirts and cloak.
“Storms coming.” He smirks. Wide and white. Eyes glow like black coals with the fire light.
That’s all the answer he gives.
“You are mad.” You tell him. Turning your head back to where he seats behind you. Barely hearing your shouts over the storm that’s breaking over your heads. The clouds had cracked open like a grey eggshell, tempests came pouring out.
Lyonel grins. Rain dripping off the blade of his nose. Urging Storm into a canter. Rain shimmers off the great black beast. Air coming snorted out his nose in silver swirls in the cold of the dusk.
Your hair is sticking to your neck and shoulders. Your cloak is near wet through already. Stuck to your skin. Your fingers are ten sticks of ice in your gloves.
Lightning and thunder stirring up on the horizon. Fluffing up the dark bloated clouds that heave more bad weather your way. The wind cuts like Valyrian steel. The rain hammers down in sheets of relentless drops that feel as hard as pearls pelting down on your heads.
The wind whips past your ears. Lyonel’s back is strong and steady against yours. Leather tunic with rivulets of rain streaking down his front. Stuck to your back with how drenched he is. The heat of him burns to your back through the rain and cold, skin hotter than a Dornish sun. As if the storm has set a flame in his very flesh.
He urges his horse round the headland. Riding around the stubby rocky cliffs that surround Storms End. The sea raging away at the rocks below. White foam spat into the air from the cutting waves, like it was frothing with wrath that it couldn’t eat them. Couldn’t crush them down.
But this is the Storm Lands. Nothing is easy to crush and decimate here. The rocks would never crumble and the sea would never give in. Forever, one will butt against the other.
You wish you knew what sinful idea was running through his head.
He seemed seized by it. You do wonder why he is riding the pair of you to the middle of nowhere. Especially in such a howling gale as this.
Through sheets of rain, you struggle to make out the blur of lanterns ahead. If you squint, on the cliffs around where you’re headed, you can make out the apricot snip of a lantern cutting into the dark like an evil eye.
He pulls his destrier to one side when you come to a particular cliff side. Waves rise and kiss over the top. Spray and salt pushed your way. The plants on the cliffs ruffled, clipped and drenched. Little flowers clinging on with all their might.
He dismounts and holds the horse steady. Reaches back for you. Helps you slide down. Wet horseflesh and the scent of cold soil stirs around you. Tinged with the studding of salt coming off the sea.
You sink your feet into wet earth. Rain running down into your eyes. Skirts whipped back to your wet legs. Slippers utterly ruined already. Soggy feet telling you that.
Lyonel chucked Storm’s reins off to someone. Blinking through the deluge you see the stable hand boy holding a swaying lantern. The wiry one. Hair pasted oily down to his head with the weather.
“Mi’lord.” He touched his head in place of a hat. Squinting into the rain. He handed you off the lantern he held.
Lyonel sinks his hand into yours. Pulls you along. Lantern is barely a smudge of light that shows you the way. You try and hold your skirts out the mud as he tugs you along a woven path in the hills. Coming right to the edge. You could hear the roil and flash of the waves just below. Perilously close to the edge.
“You didn’t bring me here to throw me over the edge did you?” You tease. Walking close to him. Body brushing into his arm that clasped your hand.
Taking care to peer over not very far to the left, over the rocks. A long, long fall down into the murky black cauldron of swirling water.
His laugh flows back to you on the wind. Warm honey and brassy. “They’d spin tales of that one my love. The Lady Lightning plucked from the tower and dashed to the rocks on her wedding night. Never to be seen again.” He teases. Turning back to fix an impenetrable gaze on you.
“Now you’re scaring me.”
“Not much further.” Is the only thing he gives you. The only slither of any clue as to his plans.
“How much have you had to drink again-“ you check.
“Just enough.” Is his clever reply. Rain tamped curls keeping their shape. Shaking out drops in front of his eyes.
When he moves aside, moving from your path, you can see three more dark shapes stood clustered on the headland. The very outer lip of the cliff. Three more blurred smudges of light with lanterns these three people are holding.
Through rain streaked eyes, you make out a purple and cold clad figure. A wide bunch of a man hunched against the blowing winds. A gold tippet billowing like twitching swallows tail on his neck. A swinging incense holder bashing into his leg. His robes a deep sapphire blue. The same shade as the night churning around you.
A yellow capped maid with her skirts stuck to her calves. And one of Lyonel’s bannermen. Stood in his boiled leathers, leather bracers and yellow cloak. Dark hair glued in sticky rivulets down his forehead.
Two witnesses. Three - counting the stable lad. And a Septon.
Lyonel turns back to you when you slow your pace. Realisation stilling your feet. Your mouth gapes.
His intentions now crystal clear. Ironically, they strike you very much like the lightning that now flashes over Stormbreaker bay. A shocking sudden vein of white.
“Lyonel…” You sigh. So quiet the wind steals in and snatches it away.
You stop and look to him. And what a sight-
Eyes dark and dangerous as ever. Lightning from the distant sea thrashes in them. Caught in silver bolts. Dashing even in the way he stands. Hair a black pepper grey riot that melds so well with the mad, wild weather. He walks with the surety of step that tells you he’s had storms pelting rain on his back since he was born.
He holds you at arms length. Unsticks a splatted coil of dark hair from your cheek. Folds it back to the dark wet curtain of your hair.
Standing there, in the middle of a world that pelts and hammers its worst weather at you; and he looks so tender, it touches your heart in a pure, flaming arrow of yearning.
“Marry me. Now.” He pleads. Speaking with the iron surety as if he already knows you will.
“Fuck the people. Fuck the rites and passages of honour and all the rest of it. The tedium of ceremonies and the whole grand affair. All I need is this. To make you my wife under the eye of this storm, in the only way that counts.”
You are speechless. You can do naught but step close and cup his face. Cold skin to his hot bristled cheek. His arm comes up to clutch at your wrist.
“I love you. You utterly mad bastard.” You sigh through a laugh.
“Is that yes?” He checks.
You smile back. “Of course it fucking is.”
Only Lyonel Baratheon would have the mad brass balls to steal you from your rooms and marry you, on a cliff top, in a storm. The night before a wedding that nearly four hundred lords and ladies have come to attend. That he could steal you away for himself to make you his wife. The rest of the world be damned-
You sink him into a kiss. Tugging on the ends of his curls. Tasting rain on his lips. It slips over his nose and down into yours.
“Let us not waste a good storm.” You speak when you break from his lips. Smiling like your cheeks didn’t know any other shape.
He grins. Lightning sticks violently in it from over the bay. Your heart flutters in your ribs.
You walk over to the rain swept Septon and your poor shivering witnesses. Their poor, plain souls not made for storms. Not like you and him.
You face the celebrant. Lyonel smirks at him and nods. An impatient flurry of his hand ‘get on with it.’ You stand apart. Facing each other. Hands joined.
He steps and divests you of your gloves. The leather things stick on your skin as it’s revealed. When he tugs them off he throws them away over his shoulder to the wind like they’re confetti. It makes you laugh at his sheer, ridiculous, impatience.
The Septon brings out a white ribbon, encouraged your hands to clasp together. Your cold fingers over his sun bronzed skin. You feel the scars and calluses on his knuckles.
Dripped with rain. Skin cold. Lashed with wind. You’d have it no other way. You were both born in Storms. It made sense you’d be joined under one too.
He ties the ribbon around your hands gently.
“In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity. Look upon one another and say the words.” He encourages. Voice half stolen by the gales.
Lyonel finds your eyes. And you his. Sinking into that private space where the world around you both may aswell melt away. Weather and rain soaking you to the bone, be damned.
“Father. Smith. Warrior. Mother. Maiden. Crone. Stranger. I am hers, and she is mine, from this day, until the end of my days.” He smiles proudly. Listening intently as you repeat them.
“Father. Smith. Warrior. Mother. Maiden. Crone. Stranger. I am his, and he is mine, from this day, until the end of my days.” You beam. Fingers closing tighter over his.
The Septon waves his censur, grey smoke chokes in the trickle out the seven star gaps in the gold. It’s supposed to be waved near you. It never gets a chance. Smoke darts away as soon as it’s out.
“Now you may pledge…” He urges. Bowing his head. Blinking the rain out his eyes. Looking too timid to be out here. But most likely Lyonel paid through the nose to get him to agree to this.
“With this kiss, I pledge my love.” You repeat. Voices overlapping in the tune of the thunder and the rain.
You feel the huge hot spread of his free hand under your chin and jaw. Fingers spreading out wide. Your cold hand hooks into his tunic. Bunch your fingers in it.
He sweeps close and captures your lips to his. Tasting the rain off you. Cold and sharp and soothing your warm lips. Rain crying down both your foreheads and cheeks.
Lightning paints you both in a sudden shock of dove white from the horizon. Water melts between your mouths. Thunder drums and crashes overhead. Rumbling amongst the bloated, chowder thick clouds. As if the sea gods were toasting your union.
The angered lightning mourning the loss of its favoured lady, to the house of the Stag.
You tilt your head back. He stands too close to be proper. Your hand seeks his neck. Up into his curls. Pasted wet to his head. Tasting like rain and sweet wine. Your bound hands hang down. The ribbon crashing into the wind like a white branch. Searing bright in the dim.
When he pulls back, he cards the pad of his thumb down your jawbone. “Lady Baratheon.” He smirks. Rain dipped smug smile. Rippling down those laugh lines by his eyes.
Your smile creases. Cheeks bunching. Rain drops kissing down your temples. Settling there. Blending into your soaking hair.
“You couldn’t even wait til tomorrow could you?” You seek. Flattered and awed.
He laughs. Crowds into you again. Nose nudges to yours. That move he does when he can’t resist you. He pecks a kiss to you after.
“I couldn’t wait another hour. My storm.” He answers. Tucking you close. Hand on your thigh. Eyes struck into yours like he’d be flogged if he dared look away.
He laughs. Loud and true. Forehead to yours. Clutching you like the wind would dare rip you away if he ever let go. Thunder and lightning rioted louder. Crawling closer across the sky. Sneaking through the clouds to come chase you away.
“Let’s get you home. And into the warm…” He supposed. Stroking his hand up your arm. Cupping the round of your shoulder.
Your chamber door is shoved open with the sheer force of the way you kiss your husband up against it.
Mouths joined. A mash of teeth and tongue. And still dripping rain from the storm. You push him inside. Hands to his chest.
He hauls you inside by the skirts. Virtually slings you in. Locks the heavy door. Right back to kissing you after.
Cold fingers burn in the new dry heat of the castle. Wet clothes sticking to you both. Barely taking time to gulp breath the kiss was so wild and violent. Untamed like the weather that raged above you. Tore at the windows and every brick.
You’re tearing at his tunic. He’s got your laces torn to bits in his strong hands. Exposing your back. Ducking his head to kiss your cold neck. Licking rain drops off you. Hair a shock of cold on his face.
You manage to toe your flimsy, muddy slippers off. A wet slopping pile on the floor. Lyonel wrenches your sodden gown open, shoving it down your shoulders to cage your arms as he bites the join of your shoulder.
He gets it to your waist. Cups your tits over the sticky wet of your shift. Nipples poking hard through into his hands. They burn against the friction he incites. You moan when he takes your mouth again.
You manage to tear his dark leather tunic open. Exposing the thin nearly sheer black shirt underneath. Pushing and ripping with your hands until nothing but his skin meets your palms.
He’s laughing. Smiling inbetween the kisses and tongue he sneaks into your mouth. Running along your plump lip. You are smiling too. Chuckling like randy, green adolescents. Ones getting their hands on each other for the very first time. Finding out what bedding the other means; grabbing handfuls. Drowning kisses. As if this is your first taste of laying together.
You run your hands all over that soldier warm chest. Solid. Sturdy. Swirled with raven hair that’s as peppery silver as the curls on his head. He throws his shirts down and off himself. Littered to the floor. Naked to the waist.
His hands slide up your cold sides. Taking the damp shift in big cotton bunches. Wrenching it off over your shoulders. Leaving you now in naught but your pallid ribboned stockings.
He clasps you close - handfuls of your ass crushed in his greedy hot hands. Fingers dimpling into soft of you. Brings you to the bed and casts you into the sheets. Warmed from the fires light. A nest of soft yellow silks and heavy cottons.
He joins you down onto the bed. Body over yours. Mouth on your tits right away. Drawing those hard nipples onto his tongue to make you hiss at how warm he is. Your skin still pebbled with goose flesh from the storm.
“How did I get such a perfect wife… the gods must fucking favour me above all others.” He slurs.
Lust drunk against your breast. Warm spit sliding down your skin. His tongue running in a point down the dip of them. To your sternum. And then over as he switches from one breast to the other. Tonguing paths across your skin with his dirty mouth.
You do love his tongue, it must be said. One of his many redeeming features.
“You must have done something to please them. Perhaps they need your thanks.” You smile. Swiping a hand through his drying hair. Bouncing silver through your knuckles.
“I’ve been thanking them since the minute I first set eyes on you.” He pants. Mouth muggy as he bites and kisses your collarbone.
“Love drunk fool.” You urge. Sweetly. He knows you mean it with a tease rolling like honey off your tongue. You’re just as drunk on him.
“I think I need to take that smug look off your pretty face.” He decides. Lips coming to crash to yours.
His hands naturally find their place between your thighs. Your body arches and bucks to him when he teases your wet, swollen cunt with those thick fingers. You sigh his name.
He bites your lip like a rogue. Whispers to you. “You’re dripping. My storm.”
“I need my husband…” You sigh back. Matter of fact. Blunt as a knife. Fingers sliding down his back. Scratching a little in a way that gets him hard. Gets his eyes flashing at you.
You jam your hand into the waistband, shove his breeches down over his arse on one side. You’d rip the falls open yourself if he wasn’t on top of you. Never been ashamed to take what you need.
He kisses you again. Mouth desperate on yours. You sink your hand to his sopping curls. He strokes his cock for a moment before he looks down. Guiding it to where you needed him the very most.
When he sinks deep to you with one curl of his hips, it’s your turn to bite his lip. Moaning as he cries his pleasure onto the bed of your tongue. The sharp edge of a lovers teeth always turned him on.
“Fuck.” He spits. Getting used to the way you ripple along him like hot wet velvet. He has to still a moment or he’ll lose it. He does anyway.
The way you curl your legs around him. Clutching him in. Refusing to let there be an inch of space between you. Nails digging in his scalp. The way that spurned him on, with the burn of them in his shoulders the next morning. He wore them like trophies.
His dark eyes are watching your body sway and tits roll with the thrust of his hips as he fucks savagely into you. Nipples hard as tight rosebuds. His mouth salivates to bite and nip them again. Hear some of those gorgeous gorgeous cries.
You arched your head back to cry his name as he wound a thigh tighter around his hip and started hammering his hips deeper. Grinding you both together.
The way he tilted your hips with his big all knowing hands, made your body yield to him just that tiny fraction more. He snuck his hands under, cupping the soft plump of your perfect ass and adjusts the angle- Perfection.
He writhes and groans loud with it. Long and slow and your little gasps and puffs of breath indicate your pleasure too. He’s taking you so hard and fast.
When you moan your voice is drawn absolutely hoarse with desire. He has to smother his lips to yours to attempt to keep you quiet. In case anyone on the stairs should overhear. Worry you really did take a lover to your bed.
“Please. Don’t stop...” You cry. Cupping his face. So lovely and sweet. Like a sprinkle of sugar on the tip of his tongue. He nods. Heaves for breath.
“I’ll never stop.” He grunts as he delivers a particularly brutal thrust that gets you wailing. Eyes flicking back in your head. You clutched his hair so hard it’s blissful fire that only urges him on.
He huffs and licks and sucks along your corded throat. Biting where he needs. Sinking his teeth in otherwise he’ll shout so loud he’ll wake the whole keep. Growling against your sweaty, rain dotted skin.
He’s slamming all those wonderful spots inside. The ones that flip your stomach upside and and inside out with bliss. Ones that leave you bereft of breath. Edging closer and closer.
“Sweeting. Fuck. You feel exquisite. Cum for me. Please cum loud for me. For your husband.” He sighs as his mouth slants against your collarbones. Sucking and tugging with his smiling mouth. Stinging you with the edge of teeth.
You’re sobbing for him. Whole body feels like it calls to him and tightens when he says your name.
As you both fuck and twitch and rut in tandem. He can feel the new squeeze and swallow of your cunt. He rears up and uses all his strength to pound you into the bed. He sinks home. Deep. Again and again. Cock rooted so deep it’s insanity unfolding in his blood, and it’s the undoing of him.of you both.
Your legs wrap around him tighter. Crushing his waist but he’s past caring. Mouth in the side of his neck. Muggy heat. His own is lost in yours. Low under your jaw.
He cums hard. As do you. Relentlessly so.
Climax came upon him so sharp and frenzied he almost forgets to breathe. He muffles his loud cries as he feels your hands scrabble for his sweat slicked back and leave raw fiery scratches. Bringing blood he’s sure. That makes him shiver-
His hips jerked with each wrenching spasm inside you. His pleasure went on and on. Approaching forever and never seeming to be enough.
He sagged down when he was done. And it’s furious and mad, but he wanted more.
He wanted to stay inside you all night. And somehow fuck another and another load of his cum into you to see if that helps his furious white hot need.
See if it will sate the hungry beast of lust that pounds through his blood demanding more. More pleasure. More rutting. More cumming. More of my wife.
He’d pleasure you til the sun comes up if he had his way. He smiles to think that after tomorrow, that can be his wish fulfilled.
You gasp when he shifts out of you. Tilting back, to see evidence of his seed leaking down your pretty cunt and across the sheets. He grins like a feral man at that. Before he slumps down into your arms. Groaning in ease.
You come to enclose him to your chest. Hearts thudding loud under your skin. Hammering together as if in tune. Arms sticking to his back. Tickling his scratchy beard into the join of your shoulder.
You let the drowsy silence take the room. The spin of the flames and the candles flickering low. Let it wash over you as your breaths even out.
“You better make yourself scarce before the morning. My Lord. I cannot have the maids find you in my bed on the wedding day.” You tell.
Leaning down to kiss a twisted, pulling pink scar on his shoulder.
He heaves himself up. Leans on his elbows over you. Damp hair a curtain over one eye. Curls beginning to dry and bounce to their usual mayhem. Rocks his hips and cock to your cunt, in a way that lets you know another round may potentially be in order.
He hums thoughtfully. Mouth finding your tits again. Enough to make you groan and buck in his hold. Ticklish and squirming.
“That’s hours away yet. Sweeting.” He leers. Right now was the hour of the wolf.
“I can’t have it said of me that I didn’t seed my wife properly on our wedding night.” He nuzzles his nose to your sternum. Winking at you.
He kept you up til an hour from dawns rise. The hour of the nightingale.
Seven knows how you were expected to make it through your wedding day.
Note: MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT. This content is intended for audiences 18+ only.
A/N: Hii guys! I'm so sorry this comes later than planned, but I had a little Family emergency that I had to take care of. Thank you for being understanding! - This is my first canon x canon fic I wrote, and I love Rehman and Ulfat together sooo much, so yeah this is a bit different from the things I wrote before, but I hope you'll still like it! Enjoy!
Warnings; flashback, wedding-night themed, nervous!Ulfat, arranged marriage, instant chemistry between the characters, wholesome!Rehman, a bit of humor, SMUT. body worship, heavy tension, dirty talk, oral (both recieving (kinda), hand job, unprotected sex, virginity loss, overstimulation.
The air inside the upper chambers of the house was thick, not with the breeze from the Arabian Sea but with the suffocating, sweet weight of tradition. The scent of crushed jasmine buds—motia—strung into heavy garlands clung to the velvet curtains, mixing with the sharp, expensive musk of sandalwood incense.
Downstairs, the rhythm of the dholak thudded like a heartbeat against the floorboards, accompanied by the high-pitched laughter of girls singing wedding songs, but up here, in the sanctuary of the bridal suite, the world felt suspended in gold.
Ulfat stood behind Yalina, her reflection a matured, sharpened mirror of the girl sitting before her. At forty, Ulfat carried the stillness of a woman who had survived storms and learned to command them. Her hands, decorated with deep mahogany henna that reached her wrists, were steady as she pinned the heavy, emerald-encrusted jhumar onto Yalina’s side-swept hair.
Yalina’s fingers were knotted together in her lap, twisting the gold bangles that clinked nervously. Her ghungat—the heavy bridal veil of deep crimson—lay pooled like a spill of blood across her shoulders, weighted down by a king’s ransom in gold embroidery.
"He's a good man, really is, Chachi.."
Yalina whispered, her voice barely audible over the distant thumping of the drums. "Hamza... he is honorable. He protects us. But he is so restless. Whenever he sits, his foot is tapping. Whenever he speaks, his eyes are searching the door. He is like a flame that cannot find a wick. I am afraid that when we are alone, that restlessness will turn into... into disappointment.. What if I am too quiet for a man who never stops moving?"
Ulfat paused. She looked at the girl’s reflection— a girl she knew for years, seeing the trembling lip, the eyes heavy with kohl and apprehension. A slow, knowing smile tugged at the corners of Ulfat’s mouth. It wasn’t a smile of pity; it was the smile of a general who knew the secret map to a fortress.
"You think his restlessness is a fire you must fight, meri jaan?" Ulfat asked softly. She picked up a bottle of attar and dabbed a drop behind Yalina’s ears, the scent of earth after rain blooming between them. "You think because he is a man of action, a man of the streets of Lyari, that he requires a woman who is a riot?"
She placed her hands firmly on Yalina’s shoulders, grounding her.
"Men like Hamza—men who live their lives with their hands on the hilts of their swords—they do not need more motion. They are restless because the world demands they be on guard. They are like the sea, Yalina; always churning, always hitting the rocks. But even the sea has a floor. Even the sea has a place where the water is still.."
Ulfat leaned down, her cheek brushing against the silk of Yalina’s veil.
"My Rehman... you see the pictures of him now..you know him long enough.. You hear the stories. They talk about him as the most dangerous man of Lyari.. They talk about the man who broke the law and wrote his own. But they didn't see him when the door of the nikkah chamber closed. They didn't see the man who was young and unsure, with a heart that beat so fast I could see it through his vest.."
She felt Yalina’s tension begin to ebb, the girl leaning back into her touch.
"I was younger than you at my Wedding.. eighteen," Ulfat continued, her voice dropping to a silken hum. "I was terrified. I thought he was a predator, and I was the lamb. But I learned something that night—a secret that has kept me as the queen of that man’s heart until this very day and years to come. Men are easy creatures, Yalina. They are simple in their needs, even the most powerful ones. They do not want a woman who is a soldier.. They want a woman who is their safe place."
Ulfat’s fingers traced the gold border of Yalina’s dupatta. "When he is restless, you do not move with him. You become the anchor. You touch his hand—not with force, but with a gentleness that says,'you are safe here.' You look him in the eye, and you show him that his storm cannot shake you. A man like that... he doesn't melt for gold or for beauty. He melts for the woman who isn't afraid of his silence. He melts under a gentle touch because it is the only thing in this world that he can not fight..and-"
A sharp, rhythmic rapping at the heavy wooden door startled them. "Ulfat Bi!" a voice called out—one of Yalinas Cousins. "The makeup artist is insisting on the final touches!"
The room seemed to vibrate with the sudden influx of excitement. Yalina took a jagged breath, her eyes searching Ulfat’s one last time.
"Go," Ulfat whispered, kissing the girl’s forehead. "Remember. You are the stillness he is searching for. Do not be afraid of tonight."
As the room filled with the flurry of cousins, bridesmaids, and the sharp scent of hairspray, Ulfat stepped back. She watched as they swarmed Yalina, adjusting the heavy fabrics, reapplying the gold leaf to her eyelids, and ushering her toward the mirror for the final transformation.
Slowly, Ulfat backed away, slipping out of the circle of light and toward the shadowed corner of the room near the balcony. She leaned against the cool stone of the window frame, her breath catching in her throat.
The chaos of the wedding—the shouting of the men outside, the cracks of the celebratory gunfire in the distance, the smell of the biryani cooking in massive cauldrons in the courtyard—all of it began to blur.
She was alone with her thoughts now, the noise of the present becoming a muffled hum behind the roar of her own memory. She looked down at her palms. She could almost feel the weight of a different red dress—stiff, new, and smelling of the trunk it had been kept in.
She remembered the way her own breath had sounded in the silence of a room much humbler than this one. She remembered the sound of heavy boots echoing in the hallway, the way the floorboards had groaned under the weight of a man who carried the world on his back.
She wasn't the widow of a legend in this moment. She wasn't the aunt or the matriarch. She was eighteen again, sitting on the edge of a bed covered in rose petals that felt like thorns, waiting for the door to click shut. She remembered the fear, yes—but more than that, she remembered the exact moment she realized she held the power to turn a man like Rehman into melting soft butter in her hands.
The ghost of a young Rehman moved in the shadows of her mind, his eyes dark, his movements jagged with that same restlessness Yalina feared now.
Ulfat closed her eyes, letting the memory pull her under..
"Qabool hai."
The words were so soft they were almost swallowed by the heavy silk of her veil, a mere thimble-full of sound offered into the expectant silence of the room. Ulfat felt her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
She was a vision of traditional beauty, though she felt more like a sacrificial offering than a centerpiece. Her skin, the color of warm honey and toasted almonds, glowed under the soft light of the chandeliers. Every inch of her visible skin had been prepared with the utmost care; her hands and feet were stained with the deep, dark mahogany of henna, the intricate patterns of vines and geometric stars climbing up to her wrists, smelling of sandalwood.
Her hair, those famous long, dark locks that reached her waist, had been braided with fresh jasmine buds and gold thread, though now they were hidden beneath the veil. Only a few stray, silken tendrils escaped to frame her face, clinging to the dampness of her temples. Her eyes, large and almond-shaped, were heavily rimmed with kohl, making the amber flecks in her irises burn like embers. Every time she blinked, the thick sweep of her lashes brushed against her cheekbones, casting long shadows in the glow of the room.
And then there were her lips—painted a deep, bruised red, the color of a pomegranate in late autumn. They trembled slightly, a subtle movement she tried to hide by pressing them together, tasting the sweetness of the sugar cube she had been fed during the ceremony.
"Qabool hai," she repeated, her voice gaining a fraction of steadiness, though her hands shook where they were buried in the folds of her sharara.
By the third and final "Qabool hai," a heavy, masculine voice from the men’s side of the curtain—perhaps an uncle or a loyal friend of the groom—bellowed a thunderous "SubhanAllah!" that seemed to shake the very foundations of the house.
The silence shattered instantly. The house erupted. A tidal wave of cheering, clapping, and the rhythmic beating of the dhol surged through the walls. To the guests, it was a celebration of a union, a merger of families, the crowning of their leader’s domestic life. But to Ulfat, sitting on the decorated takht surrounded by women who were already showering her with rose petals and prayers, the noise felt like the roaring of a distant sea she was about to be cast into.
Beneath the layers of gold jewelry and the suffocating beauty of her bridal finery, Ulfat was a storm of contradictions..
She knew of Rehman Dakait. Everyone in the neighborhood knew the name. It was a name spoken in hushed tones over tea, a name that brought a specific kind of weighted silence to the streets. She had seen him only in glimpses—shadowy, fleeting moments through a cracked door or from a balcony—before the marriage was finalized. He was a man of sharp angles and a gaze that felt like it could strip the skin from a person’s bones.
He was her husband now.
The realization sent a shiver of pure, unadulterated fear down her spine, but right behind it, like a flame licking at the heels of the cold, was a spark of treacherous excitement. She had heard the stories of his ruthlessness, his temper, his unwavering grip on Lyari. But she had also seen the way his men looked at him—with a devotion that bordered on worship.
What does a man like that look like when the world isn't watching? she wondered, her breath hitching. Does he speak in the same tone he uses to command the streets? Does he realize I am only eighteen, and that my entire world has been the four walls of my father's house until this moment?
As the older women teased her, whispering ribald jokes that made her ears burn beneath her heavy earrings, Ulfat felt a profound sense of isolation. They saw a bride—a beautiful, shimmering doll to be presented to the king. They didn't see the girl who was wondering if she would be enough to hold the attention of a man who lived a life of fire and blood.
She was scared of his strength, yes. She was scared that the restlessness Yalina would later describe—that constant, vibrating energy of a man built for conflict—would be too much for her to handle. She feared she would be crushed under the weight of his life.
But then, she remembered the one time their eyes had met during the rasm-e-munh-dikhai, through the reflection of a small, silver-framed mirror. For a split second, she hadn't seen a gangster. She had seen a man who looked... Gentle.. His eyes were full of admiration. The usual dangerous flicker had vanished, replaced by something she could not name yet.
The weight of her veil felt heavier than ever. It wasn't just the gold thread; it was the weight of the unknown. She was stepping into the cage of a lion, and for the first time in her life, she wasn't sure if she wanted to be rescued or if she wanted to see if she could make the beast lie down at her feet.
The cheering outside grew louder as the Nikah-naama was signed and the sweets were distributed. Every "Mubarak!" felt like a countdown.
Tonight, she thought, her fingers curling into the velvet of the cushion, I will find out who Rehman is. And he will find out who I am.
The transition from the communal joy of the courtyard to the private sanctum of the upper floor was a slow, agonizing procession. The "Baraat" was in full swing below, a cacophony of celebration, but around Ulfat, a phalanx of women had formed—a giggling, whispering guard of cousins and other relatives, her own and his- who seemed determined to make her face flush a dozen different shades of crimson.
"Careful, careful!" her cousin chirped, hoisting a handful of Ulfat’s heavy, velvet-bordered lehenga so she wouldn't trip on the marble stairs. "We have to deliver her in one piece. Though, I doubt Rehman will care if a few sequins are missing by morning."
A ripple of scandalous laughter broke out among the girls. Ulfat felt the heat rise from her chest to her hairline, the deep red of her bridal rouge deepening with her embarrassment. She kept her gaze fixed on her feet—on the intricate henna patterns that peeked out from under the gold-hemmed fabric—but she could feel their eyes on her, playful and sharp.
"Look at her," another girl, her sister, teased, leaning in close to Ulfat’s ear so her heavy earrings jingled. "She’s so quiet now. Where is that girl who used to climb the guava trees? Our Bride is suddenly a saint."
"She’s not a saint, she’s terrified," one of his relatives laughed, nudging Ulfat gently with her shoulder as they reached the landing of the second floor. "Don't worry, Ulfat. Men like him... they have a lot of energy, but you just have to give them a little smile, and they forget all their toughness. Just don't let him see you're shaking, or he'll think he's won the battle before it's even begun!"
Ulfat tried to swallow, but her throat felt like it was lined with the same dry silk as her veil. "Stop it," she managed to whisper, though the words lacked any real bite.
"Oh, she speaks!" Her cousin clapped her hands. "Listen to that voice. Save it for later.. You’ll need it when you’re asking him to be gentle with those heavy hands of his. I’ve seen him lift a crate of ammunition like it was a box of feathers—imagine what he’ll do with a girl made of sugar like you~"
The teasing was relentless, a traditional hazing that every bride endured, but for Ulfat, it felt different because the man waiting for her wasn't just any groom. He was a man who lived a life of jagged edges. She pictured his hands—wide, calloused, and powerful—and wondered how they would feel against the soft tan of her skin. The thought made her stomach flip, a dizzying mix of dread and a strange, humming anticipation.
They reached the heavy, dark wood door of the master bedroom. The frame was draped in garlands of white tuberose—gul-e-shabbo—whose scent was so thick it was almost intoxicating..
The girls stopped, forming a semi-circle around her for the final inspection. One reached out, meticulously adjusting the fall of Ulfat’s red dupatta, ensuring it draped perfectly over her shoulder to hide the curve of her waist while still hinting at the shape beneath. Another girl took a small vial of jasmine oil and dabbed it onto Ulfat’s wrists, the cool liquid stinging slightly against her warm skin.
"There," she said, her voice softening for a brief, rare moment of sincerity. She tucked a stray lock of dark hair back into the braid. "You look like a dream, Ulfat. Truly. Any man would be a fool not to worship you."
"But especially a man who has spent his whole life in the dust," an older woman added. "Tonight, he gets to see what beauty actually looks like. Just remember—if he gets too restless, just touch his arm. He’ll go as soft as butter, you’ll see."
The same advice she would give Yalina years later, maybe worded differently, but with the same meaning.
One by one, they kissed her cheeks, their bangles clinking a frantic, cheerful rhythm. They were retreating now, back toward the stairs, leaving her standing alone in the dimly lit hallway.
"Good luck~ " her Cousin called back with a final, wicked wink before they disappeared around the corner, their laughter echoing like fading bells.
Ulfat was left in the sudden, ringing silence. The door in front of her remained closed, but she could sense the space behind it.
Her thoughts raced. She felt the weight of her jewelry—the heavy gold necklace that sat against her collarbone, the nath that tugged slightly at her nostril, the bangles that felt like handcuffs of light. She was eighteen, and in a few moments, she would step across that threshold and leave her girlhood behind the door.
She thought of his restlessness—the way he paced when he was thinking, the way his eyes never seemed to stay still. She wondered if she had enough stillness within her to calm him, or if she would simply be swept away in his wake. Her hand hovered near the door handle, her henna-stained fingers trembling.
She wasn't just entering a room, she was entering a life she didn't yet know how to lead.
The heavy wooden door creaked open with a groan that seemed to echo the thudding of her heart. Ulfat stepped inside, her breath catching as the scent of a thousand crushed roses hit her like a physical wave.
She had expected a room, but what she found was a sanctuary. The girls had outdone themselves. The traditional charpai had been replaced with a massive, dark wood bed, every inch of its headboard draped in thick, fragrant garlands of motia and red roses. But it wasn't just the bed that drew her eye; it was the sheer, breathtaking detail of the space.
Ulfat forgot, for a moment, that she was a bride. She was eighteen, and she had never seen anything so beautiful.
Moving with a soft hiss of silk against the floor, she drifted away from the door. Her henna-stained fingers reached out to touch the heavy velvet drapes that covered the windows, their deep emerald hue a perfect contrast to the crimson of her dress. She noticed the small silver bowls placed on the side tables, filled with water and floating jasmine heads that looked like fallen stars.
She turned in a slow circle, her long, dark braids swaying behind her. The floor was almost entirely obscured by a carpet of rose petals. She looked down, watching her gold-tipped shoes sink into the velvet soft layers of red. It felt like walking on a cloud.
She wandered toward the vanity, mesmerized by the way the candlelight flickered against the crystal perfume bottles. She picked one up—a heavy, hand-cut glass flacon—and sniffed the stopper. Pure, sweet gulab. She set it down and noticed the way the light caught the gold leaf on the ceiling.
"SubhanAllah," she whispered to herself, her eyes wide and enchanting.
She moved to the center of the room, far from the bed where she was supposed to be sitting like a demure, veiled statue. Instead, she was hunched over a low table, examining an intricate brass lamp, her back turned completely to the entrance. She was lost in the craftsmanship, her mind spinning with the beauty of it all, wondering how many hours it must have taken to string all those flowers.
She was so absorbed in the curve of lamp that she didn't hear the door open. She didn't hear the heavy, slow thud of boots on the rug.
It was only when a floorboard gave a soft, rhythmic creak—a sound that spoke of a man’s weight—that reality crashed back into her.
Ulfat froze. Her spine turned to ice. She was standing in the middle of the room, her veil pushed back slightly, her hands full of a brass trinket, looking like a curious child rather than a dignified bride. According to every tradition she knew, she should have been on that bed, head bowed, waiting for him to lift the fabric and see her face for the first time.
She had ruined it. She had ruined the most important moment of her life.
She stood paralyzed, her back still turned, her heart hammering so hard she feared it would burst through her silk bodice. She waited for the reprimand. She waited for him to be annoyed by her lack of decorum.
But there was only silence. A long, heavy, vibrating silence.
Slowly, agonizingly, she turned her head just enough to see him over her shoulder.
Rehman was leaning against the doorframe. He had already shed his heavy wedding jacket; his white cotton shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, showing the restless pulse at the base of his neck. But he wasn't angry. To her utter shock, there was a ghost of a smirk on his face. He looked... amused.
He didn't move. He just watched her, his dark eyes tracking the way the candlelight hit her tan skin and the deep red of her lips. He looked less like the man who ruled the streets and more like someone who had just found something he hadn't expected to own: a surprise.
"It is a lot of flowers," he said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrated in her chest.
Ulfat felt her face go hot enough to burn. "I... I'm sorry. I was just... the room is so pretty, I forgot myself.."
She moved to scramble toward the bed, her jewelry clashing loudly in her panic, but he raised a hand—a large, calloused hand that looked capable of crushing stone, yet stayed perfectly still in the air.
"Stay," he said. The command wasn't harsh; it was soft, almost a request.
He took a step into the room, his eyes never leaving hers. He looked around at the roses, then back at her, standing there in the middle of the floor like a startled deer. He let out a short, dry huff of a laugh—a sound so rare it made her blink.
"You're shaking," he noted, his voice dropping an octave.
"I ruined the moment," she whispered, her eyes filling with a sudden, nervous moisture. "I was supposed to be waiting. I was supposed to be... proper-"
Rehman walked closer, stopping just a few feet away. He didn't reach for her. He just stood there, letting her get used to his presence, his restless energy seemingly tamed by the quiet of the room.
"Proper is for people who care about what the neighbors think," he said, his gaze softening in a way she had never seen. "Do I look like a man that cares what anybody thinks meri jaan?'" He smirked, looked at the door, then back at her, and a glimmer of mischief entered his dark eyes.
"Tell you what," he murmured. "I’ll go back out. I’ll stand in the hallway for exactly two minutes. You go sit on that bed, put that heavy cloth back over your face, and pretend you’re a very bored, very proper bride."
Ulfat stared at him, her mouth parting in surprise. "You... why-?"
Rehman tilted his head, a corner of his mouth twitching. "It must be important to you if it brings tears to your eyes."
He turned on his heel, but before he stepped out, he looked back at her over his shoulder. "Though, for the record? I liked the girl looking at the lamp better."
With a soft click, he stepped out and closed the door, leaving her alone once more in the scent of roses.
For a few seconds, Ulfat stood frozen in the center of the room, her heart performing a frantic, rhythmic dance against her ribs. The silence he left behind was even louder than his voice had been. He had actually left. The most feared man in Lyari was standing in a drafty hallway like a scolded schoolboy just to give her a chance to save her dignity.
A small, breathless giggle escaped her—part terror, part sheer disbelief.
"Oh, what the -" she whispered, her hands flying to her burning cheeks. She scrambled toward the bed, the heavy gold bangles on her arms clashing like miniature cymbals. She nearly tripped over a particularly thick pile of rose petals, hitched up her lehenga with a frantic rustle of silk, and practically dove onto the edge of the mattress.
She smoothed the crimson fabric, crossed her ankles precisely as she had been taught, and pulled the heavy, zardozi-encrusted veil down over her face. The world turned into a blur of red and gold through the fine mesh. She tucked her henna-stained hands into her lap, lowered her head, and tried to slow her breathing.
One minute passed. She could hear the distant thump-thump of the celebration downstairs, but in here, there was only the scent of jasmine and her own frantic pulse.
Then, the door opened.
This time, his footsteps were deliberate. They were heavy, confident, and slow. She watched the tips of his polished boots through the bottom of her veil as he crossed the rose-strewn floor. He stopped directly in front of her. The air between them seemed to crackle, thick with the kind of tension that made her skin tingle.
He didn't speak. Slowly, his large, calloused hand entered her field of vision. His fingers were slightly rough, the skin darkened by the sun and a life of hard work, but as they reached for the edge of her veil, they were incredibly steady.
He lifted the fabric.
The light hit her face, and for the first time that night, Rehman took a "proper" look at his wife. The flickering candlelight caught the amber flecks in her dark, kohl-rimmed eyes and the soft, tan curve of her jaw. She looked like a painting—the kind men went to war over.
But as he stared at her, his expression intense and unreadable, Ulfat’s composure began to crumble. She looked up at him, seeing the way his hair was slightly mussed from his jacket-shedding earlier, and remembered him standing by the door with that ridiculous smirk.
A snort escaped her. It wasn't elegant. It wasn't the soft, melodic sound of a shy bride. It was a genuine, high-pitched burst of amusement.
She quickly pressed her hennaed palm over her mouth, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "I... I'm sorry-" she managed to squeak out through her fingers.
Rehman froze, his hand still holding the veil aloft. He looked at her, then at the bed, then back at her shaking shoulders. The corners of his mouth, usually set in a grim, hard line, began to twitch uncontrollably.
A low, rumbling chuckle broke from his chest—a sound that felt like warm velvet. He let the veil drop completely behind her head and sat down on the edge of the bed, the mattress groaning under his weight.
"Well," he said, shaking his head as he leaned his elbows on his knees, a boyish grin finally breaking through his rugged exterior. "That was much more 'proper.' Truly. I was almost convinced you were a statue until you started snorting."
Ulfat dropped her hand, her face flushed a deep, beautiful rose. "It’s just... you standing in the hallway... it was so silly- Rehman."
He laughed again, a real, hearty sound that filled the room and chased away the last of her fear while waving her hand. "I'll tell you one thing, Ulfat," he said, turning his head to look at her, his dark eyes sparkling with an unexpected softness. "I’m a man of many things, but I am not a man of great patience. I’m staying in this room now. I won’t be going out to try a third time, no matter how many brass lamps you want to inspect."
He chuckled with her before he reached out, and this time, his hand didn't go for her veil. He tucked a stray, dark lock of her hair behind her ear, his thumb grazing the soft skin of her temple. The restlessness that usually defined him seemed to settle into a quiet, focused heat.
"I think I like the version of you that laughs better anyway," he murmured, his voice dropping to that gravelly, intimate hum. "It suits you."
The touch of his thumb against her temple was like a spark on dry silk.
Ulfat’s breath hitched, not out of fear this time, but from the sheer, staggering weight of his attention. Up close, the man didn’t look like the legend the neighborhood whispered about; he looked human. His skin was lined with the exhaustion of a life spent looking over his shoulder, even at his young age, and his eyes—so often described as cold—were burning with a quiet, appreciative heat.
She didn't pull away. Instead, she leaned almost imperceptibly into his palm, her skin warming against his callouses.
"You are so quiet now," Rehman murmured, his gaze tracing the arch of her brow and the deep, pomegranate red of her lips. "What is going on in that head of yours, Ulfat? Are you still thinking about the flowers, or the Lamp?"
Ulfat looked down at her lap, her fingers idly tracing the gold embroidery on her knee. "I was thinking," she began, her voice small but steady, "that I didn't expect you to be... funny. Or patient. The girls told me you were like a storm that never rests. They told me I’d have to be a shadow just to keep from being burned."
She looked up at him then, her enchanting eyes searching his. "But you’re sitting here in a room full of roses, waiting for me to finish laughing at you. It wasn't what I prepared for..your patience."
Rehman’s expression softened into something profoundly tender. "The world gets the storm," he said simply. "You get the man. I didn't bring you into this house to be a shadow, Ulfat. I brought you here to be the light I come home to."
He reached into the pocket of his discarded vest, which sat on the edge of the bed, and pulled out a small, velvet-wrapped bundle. He didn't just hand it to her; he took her henna-stained hand in his, his fingers dwarfing hers, and placed the weight of the gift in her palm.
"They say beauty like yours is a gift from Allah," he whispered, his voice dropping to a gravelly, intimate register. "But I think it’s a test for a man’s heart. I’ve seen the way the light hits your skin, the way your hair holds the scent of this room... I’m not a poet, Ulfat. I’m a man of the dirt. But looking at you tonight... it’s the first time I’ve felt like I was standing in a holy place."
With trembling fingers, Ulfat unwrapped the velvet. Inside lay a heavy gold haas—a traditional choker—encrusted with uncut diamonds and a single, teardrop-shaped emerald that glowed like deep water. It was a traditional gift, but to her, the way he was looking at her was worth more than the gold.
"It’s for the girl who likes beautiful things," he said, his eyes fixed on her face. "But it will never be as bright as your eyes when you were looking at that lamp."
Ulfat felt a lump form in her throat, a mix of affection and an overwhelming sense of belonging. The restlessness she had feared in him was there, but it wasn't a threat; it was a fire he was using to keep her warm.
"Help me?" she whispered, lifting the heavy necklace and turning her back to him, the Veil slipped down her head, exposing the nape of her neck and the dark, silken tendrils of her hair.
She felt him go still for a heartbeat, his breath warm against her skin, before his large, steady hands reached out to fasten the gold.
As he fumbled slightly with the clasp of the gold haas, a low, teasing rumble started in his chest.
"You know, Ulfat.." he murmured, his fingers grazing the sensitive skin of her neck as he finally clicked the lock into place, "this is very backwards. In every house in Lyari tonight, a groom is busy figuring out how to get the gold off his bride, not adding more weight to her."
He didn't pull his hands away once the necklace was secure. Instead, he let his fingertips linger on her shoulders, the heat of his touch seeping through the thin silk of her blouse. "Perhaps I should start the real work. I’m a man who likes to see what he’s actually won, without all this metal in the way."
He shifted, moving to sit directly in front of her again. The playfulness was still there, but it was being rapidly overtaken by a focused, heavy intensity.
He reached for her face first, his thumb hooking gently under the gold chain of her nath—the heavy bridal nose ring that pulled slightly at her nostril. His touch was incredibly light, a stark contrast to the strength she knew he possessed. With a slow, practiced patience, he unhooked the tiny clasp near her ear and slid the ring free.
He held the gold piece in his palm for a second, feeling its weight, before setting it on the bedside table with a soft clink. "There," he whispered, his eyes fixed on her face. "I can see the curve of your cheek better now.."
Next came the jhumar and the teeka. One by one, he navigated the pins buried in her dark, silken hair. Each time his fingers brushed against her scalp, a shiver raced down Ulfat’s spine. She felt herself becoming lighter, yet more exposed, under his unwavering gaze. As the headpieces were removed, the heavy veil finally lost its anchor on her shoulders as well and slid back, pooling in a crimson heap on the rose petals behind her.
Now, her long, dark hair, neatly braided, were free, spilling over her shoulders like a curtain of night. Rehman reached out, opening the braid carefully, running a hand through the strands, his expression one of pure, unvarnished wonder.
He moved to her arms next. He took her right hand in his, his calloused palm supporting her wrist. The gold bangles—dozens of them, interspersed with glass ones—chattered together as he began to slide them off, one by one.
The sound was rhythmic, a metallic music that filled the silence of the room. Clink. Slide. Clink. He was methodical, his eyes tracking the way the candlelight danced on the tan skin of her forearms as it was slowly revealed. When the last bangle was removed, he didn't let go; he pressed a slow, lingering kiss to the pulse point of her wrist, his eyes locking onto hers.
"Your skin," he muttered against her pulse, "is softer than the silk you're wearing. Why would I want you covered in gold when I can have this?"
He repeated the process with her left arm, his movements slower now, as if he were savoring the way she trembled under his touch. The pile of jewelry on the table grew—a small fortune in gold and stones, discarded like common pebbles.
Lowering himself to the floor, he knelt amidst the rose petals at her feet. Ulfat felt her breath hitch as he reached for her ankles. He unclasped the heavy, bell-fringed pajeb. The silver bells let out a final, tiny chime before they went silent in his hand. He didn't stop there; he used his thumb to trace the intricate henna patterns on the arch of her foot, his touch sending jolts of electricity through her entire body.
Finally, he stood back up, looming over her. Only her earrings remained.
He reached out, his hands framing her face. He worked the heavy gold jhumkas free from her lobes, his breath warm against her ear. "No more gold," he whispered, his voice a ragged, dark caress. "No more weight. Just you."
Ulfat sat there, stripped of her bridal armor. Without the jewelry, she felt vulnerable but also strangely powerful.
Her tan skin glowed, her dark hair was a wild halo, and her red lips were parted in anticipation. She was no longer a decorated doll; she was a woman, bare and beautiful, in the presence of the man who had claimed her.
Rehman looked down at the pile of gold on the table, then back at her. The restlessness was back in his eyes, but it was no longer the restlessness of a man looking for a fight. It was the awe of a man that found a woman that shined brighter than the moon, even without any jewels.
Ulfat felt the sudden lightness of her body as if she were floating, yet the air around her had never felt more substantial. Stripped of the clinking gold and the heavy, stiff drape of the zardozi veil, she felt the cool evening air brush against the bare skin of her neck and arms, heightening every sensation.
Rehman did not pull away. He remained close, his presence a towering shadow that radiated a heat more intense than the flickering oil lamps.
She looked down at her bare arms. The dark mahogany of the henna stood out sharply against her tan skin, looking like intricate lace sleeves now that the metal was gone. She felt his eyes wandering over her, not with the hurried gaze of a man taking what is his, but with the slow, agonizing appreciation of a man who had waited an eternity to see the sun rise.
Her heart was a drum in her ears. She felt the coolness of the air on the skin of her neck, the nape now exposed where her hair had shifted. She felt beautiful, yes, but it was a terrifying kind of beauty—one that elicited a hunger in him she wasn't sure she knew how to feed..yet.
"Rehman?" she whispered, her voice trembling just enough to betray her.
He hummed in response, a low sound that seemed to vibrate from the floorboards through the soles of her feet. He was still standing close, the scent of him—something like tobacco, expensive sandalwood, and the heat of the night—filling her lungs.
"What... what are you thinking?" she asked, her eyes lifting to meet his. She wanted to know wy he haf gone quite suddenly."Now that the gold is gone. Now that I’m just... me. Is it what you expected?"
Rehman took a half-step closer, his shadow falling over her, large and imposing. He reached out, his fingers catching a lock of her hair and winding it slowly around his hand, pulling her head back just an inch so she had to look up at him.
A dark, slow smile spread across his face—a look that wasn't hiding anything, It was the look of a man who had stopped pretending.
"You want the truth, meri jaan?" he murmured, his voice dropping to a rasp that made the hair on her arms stand up. "I’m thinking that the gold was a nuisance. I’m thinking that I’ve spent the last three hours downstairs shaking hands with men I’d rather shoot, all while imagining exactly how much of this red silk I’m going to have to tear through to find out if your skin tastes as sweet as it looks."
Ulfat’s breath hitched, a sharp gasp catching in her throat.
"I’m thinking," he continued, leaning down until his lips were a mere breath away from her ear, "that I didn't marry you to look at you like a painting on a wall. I married you so I could feel you come apart under me. I’m thinking that if you don’t stop looking at me with those big, enchanting eyes, I'll loose myself in them."
The sheer, raw boldness of his words hit her like a physical blow. The shyness she had managed to push aside came roaring back, a tidal wave of heat that turned her face, her neck, and even the tips of her ears a deep, frantic crimson. She looked down at his chest, unable to hold his gaze, her fingers clutching the rose-covered bedsheets until her knuckles turned white.
"Oh," was all she could manage to whisper, her voice barely a squeak.
Rehman let out a low, dark chuckle at her reaction, clearly enjoying the way he could make her bloom and wither with a single sentence. He released her hair, but only to slide his hand down to the small of her back, drawing her just a fraction closer to the edge of the bed where he stood.
"Don't get all shy now jaan" he teased, his thumb tracing the curve of her spine through the fabric. "The lamp-inspecting girl was much braver than this."
Ulfat bit her lip, the pomegranate red of her mouth deepening. She felt the urge to hide her face in his shoulder to escape the burning intensity of his stare, yet she didn't pull away as he got closer. Much, much closer.
Rehman leaned in, his nose brushing against the curve of her jaw, inhaling the scent of her fear and her jasmine-soaked skin..
"The silence is over, Ulfat," he growled, his voice a jagged edge of desire. He dipped his head, his lips grazing the shell of her ear as he switched to the raw, unfiltered tongue of the streets, the language that sounded like a threat and a prayer all at once..
"Bohat pyaari lag rahi ho... par ye laal libaas boht chub raha hai mujhe," he whispered, his breath scorching her skin.
Ulfat’s eyes flew shut. The roughness of his voice, the way he rolled the words, made her stomach drop in a dizzying freefall.
"Iraada toh ye tha ke itminaan se pesh aaon," he continued, his hand sliding from her back to her waist, his grip tightening until she felt the heat of his palm through the layers of silk. "Magar tumhari ye khamoshi, aur ye kaajal bhari aankhein... ye mujhe pagal kar rahi hain. Dil kar raha hai ke abhi isi waqt tumhe is bistar par gira kar dikhaon ke Rehman Dakait jab apna haq leta hai, toh kaise leta hai.."
A soft, broken moan escaped Ulfat’s throat. She had never heard a man speak like this—so bold, so strippingly honest. The shyness was a fever now, making her feel lightheaded. She reached out, her henna-stained fingers clutching at the front of his shirt just to keep from collapsing.
Rehman didn't let up. He relished the way she trembled, the way her chest heaved against his. He was becoming bolder, his movements jagged with a predatory grace. He moved his hand from her waist, his fingers splaying across her ribs and moving upward, dangerously close to the swell of her breasts
"Kaanp kyun rahi ho?" he murmured, his teeth catching the lobe of her ear in a sharp, playful nip. "Abhi toh maine tumhe chua bhi nahi thik se. Abhi toh sirf bataya hai ke mere dimaag mein kya chal raha hai. Jab ye kapde zameen par honge, aur mera haath tumhare badan ke har hisse ko pehchane ga... tab kya haal hoga tumhara?"
He pulled back just enough to look her in the eye. His gaze was dark, heavy with a dominance that demanded she acknowledge him.
All she could do was stare back- wordless, with crimson red painted cheeks as her breath hitched at each word leaving his lips.
He let out a low, dark chuckle, his hand now firm and possessive..yet- it was a pleasant, warm touch.. one she liked alot.
Ulfat felt her knees go weak. The dominance in his tone, the way he claimed her with his words before he had even fully claimed her with his body, was overwhelming. She looked up at him, her red lips parted, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps.
She saw the hunger in his eyes—a raw, carnal need that made her feel like the most important thing in his violent world. The restlessness she had feared was now a fire she wanted to be consumed by.
"Rehman..." she breathed, his name a plea she didn't know how to finish.
He didn't wait for her to find the words. He leaned down, his hand cupping the back of her head, his fingers tangling deep into those long, dark locks he had been admiring all night. He leaned down, and when his lips finally met hers, the world outside the rose-scented room simply ceased to exist.
It was a kiss that began with an almost agonizing tenderness—the cautious greeting of a man who knew he held something fragile. He tasted of the sweet sugar she had been fed at the Nikah and the dark, lingering spice of the night. But as Ulfat’s eyes fluttered shut and she let out a soft, shaky breath against his mouth, the gentleness ignited.
The kiss deepened, becoming a slow, rhythmic pull that made her head spin. It was her first—a dizzying introduction to the heat of him—and as he tasted her pomegranate-stained lips, his tongue swept against hers with a possessive, velvet demand. He wasn't just kissing her; he was inhaling her, claiming the very air in her lungs.
His other hand slid to the nape of her neck, pulling her closer until there wasn't a breath of space left between them.
As he slowly guided her back against the pillows, his weight pressing into her for the very first time, Ulfat let out another, breathless moan against his lips.
The bed groaned under his weight as he hovered over her, his body a solid, radiating wall of heat that seemed to anchor her to the earth.
The kiss didn’t break; it evolved, turning into a feverish, rhythmic exchange that tasted of desire and pomegranate. Ulfat’s heart was drumming a frantic beat against her ribs, but as her initial shock faded, a new, intoxicating realization took its place.
She felt his breath hitch—a ragged, uneven sound—when her small, henna-stained hands climbed up his chest to tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck.
Rehman, the man who moved through the world with the cold precision of a blade, was trembling for her.
When she tilted her head to give him better access to her throat, he let out a low, guttural growl that vibrated against her skin. When her nails accidentally grazed the sensitive skin behind his ears, his entire frame shuddered.
"Ulfat..." he groaned against her neck, his voice a broken rasp. "Kya kar rahi ho... jaan nikaalogi meri?"
She didn't answer with words. She was too lost in the sensation of his heavy body against hers.
She felt the rough texture of his cotton shirt, the hardness of his chest, and the way his heart was racing just as fast as her own. She became bolder, her hands wandering down his back, feeling the skin beneath the fabric burn in anticipation.
Every time she moved, he reacted—a sharp intake of breath, a tightening of his grip, a muffled curse in that dark, low voice that made her skin burn.
She saw it then, in the way his eyes stayed hooded and dark: he was undone by her. The girl who had been terrified of his restlessness now saw it for what it truly was—a hunger that only she could satiate. She had the power to make this man, who feared nothing, bow his head to her.
He reached for the first of the heavy gold hooks at the side of her bridal bodice.
His fingers were rough, used to the weight of steel, yet they worked the delicate fastenings with a surprising, gentle precision. As the first hook gave way, the silk loosened, allowing the cool air of the room to hit her heated skin.
She gasped.-
Her eyes flying open to see him looking down at her. His face was a mask of raw, unfiltered desire. He looked like a man who had found his only reason for breathing..
"Tumhe pata hai," he whispered, his hand sliding inside the loosened fabric to cup the warm, silken curve of her waist, "Maine poori zindagi sirf jung dekhi hai. Khoon aur matti dekhi hai. Magar tumhare is badan ki mehak... ye mujhe kisi aur hi duniya mein le jati hai. Jahan sirf sukoon hai."
He leaned down, his mouth catching hers again, but this time it was different. It was deeper, more desperate.
As he worked the rest of the hooks, his touch became more possessive, his palms sliding over the tan expanse of her stomach, making her arch her back against the rose petals.
The red silk was slowly being discarded, falling away like the petals of a flower being stripped in the wind. Piece by piece, the heavy, embroidered armor of the bride was being replaced by the raw, shivering reality of the woman. And as he moved his hand to the tie of her lehenga, his eyes never once left hers, demanding she stay with him in this fire.
Slowly, the last of the crimson silk fell away, joining the sea of rose petals on the floor in a heap of forgotten gold thread. The room was silent, save for the frantic, shallow breathing of two people who had finally run out of barriers.
Rehman went absolutely still. He was perched on his knees above her, his hands still resting where the fabric had just been, but his gaze... his gaze was a physical weight. He looked at her as if he were a starving man seeing food for the first time, or a blind man suddenly granted the sun.
His eyes traveled from the dark, silken tangle of her hair down to the soft, honey-tan curve of her shoulders, lingering on the rise and fall of her chest and the delicate line of her hips.
"Ya Allah," he breathed, the words a jagged, reverent exhale. "Maine nahi socha tha ke zameen par jannat aisi dikhti hogi."
He reached out, his hand trembling—actually shaking—as he let his fingertips barely graze the skin of her thigh. He looked up at her face, his expression one of such raw, unshielded worship that it made Ulfat’s heart ache.
"Poore shehar mein shor hai ke Rehman Dakait ne sona jeeta hai," he whispered, his voice thick and rasping. "Magar unhe kya pata... unhe kya pata ke mere paas kya hai. Ulfat, tum... tum khuda ka karam ho mujh par. Itni haseen, itni paak... mera dil chah raha hai ke bas tumhe dekhta rahoon, aur kabhi apni nazar na hataon."
Ulfat felt the heat of his praise like a physical flame
. She felt exposed, her bare skin glowing in the amber candlelight, but the way he looked at her—as if she were a miracle—made the shame melt into a heavy, pulsing pride.
She saw the sweat glancing off his forehead, the way the muscles in his arms were taut with the effort of holding himself back.
She looked at him, really looked at him. He was still half-dressed, his shirt hanging open, his presence so massive and dark against the white pillows. A sudden, bold spark of curiosity flickered in her chest, fueled by the power she felt over him.
She reached out, her henna-patterned fingers shyly catching the edge of his unbuttoned shirt. She didn't pull, but her intent was clear.
"Rehman..." she whispered, her voice like velvet. She swallowed hard, her eyes fluttering up to his. "Aap... aapne toh mujhe dekh liya. Magar... main bhi dekhna chahti hoon. Main apne shohar ko dekhna chahti hoon."
The request seemed to stun him. He let out a low, shaky breath, a dark smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Mujh jaisa gunehgaar insaan...aur tumhari ye masoom farmaish.." he murmured, though he began to shrug the shirt off his shoulders.
As the fabric fell away, revealing the rugged, scarred, and powerful expanse of his chest and the sheer restlessness of his lean, yet muscular form, Ulfat felt her breath leave her entirely.
He was a landscape of a life lived in the sun and the shadows, he was no man of raw muscle- but he was powerful, so much so she forgot what she wanted to say.
Instead, her hennaed fingertips, dark and intricate, finally made contact with the warm, solid expanse of his chest.
He was like living marble, but burning. The skin was rougher than hers, mapped with the faint white lines of old scars and the dark hair that dusted his sternum. The moment her skin touched his, a visible jolt went through him. His stomach muscles rippled and tightened, his breath hitching in a way that made her feel a sudden, intoxicating surge of feminine gravity.
She didn't pull away. Emboldened by his reaction, she let her palm slide upward, tracing the heavy swell of his shoulder, feeling the frantic, heavy thud of his heart against her wrist. It was a rhythmic, violent sound—
"Rehman," she whispered, her voice gaining a silken edge of hunger she hadn’t known she possessed. She leaned up, her bare chest brushing against the heat of his skin, a contact that felt like a lightning strike.
Rehman let out a sound that was half-groan, half-growl, his eyes darkening until the irises were swallowed by the black of his pupils. He grabbed her waist, his large hands sinking into her soft skin, anchoring her against him with a sudden, possessive force that stole the air from her lungs.
The last barrier fell away as Rehman discarded the rest of his clothing, his movements no longer slow or patient, but driven by a primal, focused necessity. For a heartbeat, they stood—and then lay—in the raw, unfiltered truth of the night. Two bodies, as different as the sun and the moon: his, dark and hardened by the grit of Lyari; hers, glowing like polished amber against the deep crimson of the discarded silks. Skin to skin- heart to heart..
Rehman’s obsession, however, found its anchor in the curve of her hips... he was rubbing his thumb against her hip first, a groan escaping him..
He got on his knees between her legs, his large, calloused hands sliding beneath her waist to lift her slightly toward him. He looked at the flare of her hips, the soft, tan dip of her stomach, and the way her skin seemed to catch every flicker of the candlelight. He looked at her not just with desire, but with a terrifying, silent possessiveness.
"Ye sab mera hai," he muttered, his voice so low it was almost a vibration.
He leaned down, his face pressing into the hollow of her hip bone. His hot lips were a sharp, electric contrast to the softness of her flesh.
He began to kiss her there—not the gentle, tentative kisses of the earlier , but deep, lingering marks of ownership. His mouth traced the line where the sun had missed her skin, his tongue tasting the salt and the lingering scent of the bridal oils.
Ulfat’s head fell back against the pillows, her fingers knotting into the rose-covered sheets as a sharp, breathless cry escaped her.
The sensation was overwhelming; the roughness of his hands holding her steady, the heat of his mouth moving lower toward the curve of her thigh, and the sheer, overwhelming weight of his presence.
"Rehman... please," she gasped, her voice breaking. She didn't even know what she was asking for, only that the fire he was building was becoming too much to contain.
He didn't stop. He moved his kisses to her waist, his teeth grazing the soft skin there in a way that made her entire body arch off the bed. He was obsessed with the way she felt—the way she yielded to him, the way her breath hitched every time his hands moved a fraction higher...or lower~
His hands, wide and powerful, slid beneath the backs of her knees, drawing her closer until she was completely open to him, exposed to the amber glow of the candles and the raw intensity of his gaze. He didn't look away, not even for a second, as he lowered his head..
She was perfect- head to toe. Each inch of her skin, from her perfectly shaped neck to the curves of her soft tits, down her sides and wide hips, to her honey glazed, parted thighs and awaiting, wet pussy glistening almost teasingly perfect under the candlelight- She was a dream.
He began to kiss her stomach, his mouth moving in slow, agonizing circles around her navel, his stubble a sharp, electric contrast to the velvet softness of her tan skin. Ulfat’s breath came in broken, jagged hitches, her fingers tangling frantically in the rose-strewn sheets. She felt like she was dissolving, her bones turning to liquid under the sheer weight of his attention.
Then, he moved lower.
His kisses became deeper, more deliberate, as he traced the delicate line of her inner thigh. He moved with the patience of a man who had finally found the treasure he had been promised in another life. Every time his tongue grazed her skin, Ulfat’s hips bucked instinctively, a soft, high-pitched whimper breaking from her lips. She was in a heaven she hadn't known existed—a place where the fear of him had been entirely replaced by a desperate, clawing need.
His lips finally found the way to her Pussy, carefully placing open pouted kisses from the most sensitive top, stimulating her clit, over her wet lips and to her enterance.
Her reaction was breathtaking to him- a moan of his name that sounded more beautiful and poetic than any song he had ever heard.
"Rehman... aap... please..." she sobbed out, her eyes squeezed shut, her head tossing back and forth against the pillows.
He didn't pull back. Instead, he gripped her hips tighter, his fingers sinking into her soft flesh as he claimed her with a carnal, unyielding hunger.
He was a man who took his time, savoring the way she shuddered, the way her breath caught in her throat, and the way her entire body seemed to hum like a live wire under his touch. He was thorough, his mouth exploring every hidden inch of her pussy, his devotion expressed in the silent, heated language of his lips and tongue.
And my did he know how to use it.
He rolled his tongue over her clit, a growl escaping his lips adding vibration to the slow sliding and tapping of his tongue- a vibration that send shock waves of pleasure through Ulfat's body so powerful her hips instinctively shot up, pressing herself closer aching for more.
Ulfat felt her world narrow down to the sensation of him. The "restless" man was gone; in his place was a man who was perfectly, dangerously still in his purpose.
She felt a wave of overwhelming pleasure crash over her, a tide of gold and fire that made her cry out his name into the silent room.
He looked up at her then, his face flushed, his eyes dark with a triumphant, primal heat. He saw her—completely undone, her hair a wild halo, her skin glowing and damp—and a slow, possessive smirk pulled at his mouth.
He was a man who understood the power of a slow burn. He held her hips with a crushing, possessive grip, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh of her waist as if to pin her soul to the mattress, all while his tongue was lapping up all her juices, slowly adding two fingers to explore her pussy.
"... please, Rehman..." she begged, her voice a broken thread of sound.
He let out a low, dark chuckle that vibrated against her most sensitive skin, a sound of pure, masculine triumph. He looked up at her for one brief, scorching second, his eyes hooded and predatory.
"Maang rahi ho?" he rasped, his Hindi raw and filthy, dripping with the dominance of the streets. "Itni jaldi haar maan li, meri jaan? Abhi toh maine shuru bhi nahi kiya. Dekhna chahta hoon ke tumhari ye 'haaye' kitni oonchi jati hai jab main tumhe wahan tak le jaon jahan tumne kabhi socha bhi nahi tha.."
He returned to her with a renewed, carnal focus. He was thorough, his tongue tracing her folds with a rhythmic, agonizing precision that made the world behind her eyelids explode in bursts of gold and crimson. He wasn't just pleasuring her; he was consuming her- eating her up.
Ulfat couldn't answer. Her mind had splintered. All the "proper" teachings of her life, the shyness, the weight of the veil—it all burned away in the heat of his mouth. She felt a pressure building deep inside her, a coil of white-hot tension that was winding tighter and tighter until she thought she might actually die from it.
"Rehman! Main... main..."
"Haan, hone do," he commanded, his voice a dark, encouraging rumble as he increased the pace, his hands sliding under her to lift her even higher so his face was burried in her wetness. "Sab nikaal do. Mere liye... mere saamne cheekho, Ulfat. Mujhe dikhao ke tum meri ho.."
The coil finally snapped.
It wasn't just an orgasm; it was a violent, total surrender. Ulfat’s entire body went rigid, her toes curling into the rose petals as a high, keening cry tore from her throat. It felt like her very spirit was being pulled through her skin, a wave of overwhelming, paralyzing pleasure that crashed over her again and again. Her vision went white, her fingers clawing at his shoulders, pulling him closer as her world dissolved into pure sensation.
She collapsed back into the pillows, her chest heaving, her eyes glazed and wet with tears of pure shock. She had never known the body could feel such a thing. She felt shattered, hollowed out, and utterly reborn.
Rehman pulled back slowly, his face damp with sweat, his lips bruised and dark. He looked at her—at his wife, undone and trembling in the aftermath of her first peak—and the look in his eyes was one of terrifying, absolute devotion.
He leaned up, claiming her lips in a breathless kiss that forced her to taste herself on his lips.
"See.." he started, his voice dropping into something far more dangerous - dripping with arousal as he pressed his hard cock against her thigh "This is what you do to me.. This is how much power you have over the most powerful man of the city.."
Rehman moved over her, a dark silhouette against the flickering candlelight, his presence a physical weight that pinned her to the silk.
He was no longer the patient man who had stood in the hallway. He was a man of the earth and the streets, and as he settled his weight between her thighs, she felt the undeniable, rigid proof of his desire pressing against her soft skin.
He wasn't trying to hide it; he wasn't being delicate. He wanted her to know exactly what he was feeling.
His hands, wide and calloused, didn't just touch her now—they commanded her. He reached down, catching her wrists and guiding her hennaed hands toward his throbbing cock.
"Don't go shy on me now, Ulfat," he growled, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that seemed to rumble deep in his chest. "I’ve shown you every inch of what you’ve done to me. Now, I want you to feel it. I want you to know exactly how much I've been aching for this."
He wrapped her small, delicate fingers around the heavy, pulsing length of his cock, Ulfat’s eyes went wide, her breath hitching in a sharp, jagged gasp as she felt the sheer, hot reality of his body..
"Yes, just like that," he whispered, his eyes hooded and dark as he watched her hand against him. "Look at it.. Look at how hard you make me. Do you think I’m the one in control here? Look at what your touch does to a man like me.. "
He leaned down, his mouth grazing the sensitive shell of her ear as he spoke.
"I want you to start using your pretty hand.." he commanded, his breath scorching her . "I want you to feel the way my heart is beating through my Cock.. You’ve spent the whole night being the bride, being the doll everyone wanted to see. But right now, you’re just mine. And I want you to learn every part of me..I want you to know how it feels when you make me lose my goddamn mind."
He began to move his hips against her hand, a slow, torturous rhythm that made a low, guttural sound break from the back of his throat. He was instructing her with the movement of his body, showing her how he wanted to be handled, how he wanted to be taken.
She closed her hand around his shaft, tracing the skin up and down with her fingertips shyly, feeling hin twitch and throb at each of her movements.
"Stroke me," he rasped, his teeth nipping at the hollow of her neck. "Up and down ngh..just like that-" he praised as her hands started to pump his cock up and down, slow and careful at first- but the more he encouraged her to keep going the more confident she grew in what she's doing.
Ulfat felt a surge of terrifying, beautiful power. She watched his face—the way his jaw tightened, the way his eyes squeezed shut in a grimace of pure, agonizing pleasure—and she realized she wasn't just his wife. She was his ruin..
She moved her hand the way he wanted, gaining a sudden, bold confidence. Precum dripped down from his tip, feeling wet and sticky against her skin, making wet sound as she pumped his cock.
The "proper" girl was gone, burned away in the heat of his dirty, honest words. She looked up at him, her red lips parted, her eyes enchanting and dark with her own rising hunger.
"Like this?" she breathed, her voice a silken challenge.
Rehman let out a ragged, broken curse, his grip on her waist tightening until she thought her bones might melt. "God, Ulfat... you’re going to be the death of me. And I’m going to love every second of it."
Ulfat’s heart was no longer a flutter; it was a rhythmic demand. She looked at him, seeing the way his sweat-dampened hair clung to his forehead and the way his eyes—those dark, restless eyes—seemed to be searching for something deeper than just her skin.
Emboldened by the low, dirty promises he had whispered into her ear, Ulfat did something she hadn't known she was capable of. She leaned forward, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders like a silken veil, and let her lips graze the tip of his cock.
The first touch was hesitant—a ghost of a kiss against him, But as she tasted the salt and the fire of him, her curiosity turned into a desperate, focused hunger- it turned her on, his reaction, the act itself, pushing her tongue against his tip and twirling it against the hot skin to taste his precum.
Rehman’s entire body went rigid. A sound tore from his throat—a jagged, agonizing growl that was half-prayer and half-curse. His abdominal muscles rippled and locked under her touch, and for a second, the power dynamic of the room tilted entirely on its axis.
But as she moved to take more of his length into her mouth, to truly explore the depth of his desire, his large, calloused hands suddenly shot out.
He didn't pull her away with force, but the grip he took on her shoulders was firm, unyielding, and trembling with a frantic kind of restraint.
"No," he rasped, his voice a broken, guttural shadow of its former self.
He pulled her upward, his strength dragging her body up the silk sheets until she was pinned beneath him once more. His face was inches from hers, his chest heaving as if he had just run a marathon through the alleys of Lyari. His eyes weren't just dark; they were scorched.
"Not that. Not yet," he panted, his forehead dropping against hers as he struggled for air. "You have no idea what you're doing to me, Ulfat. If you keep that up, I’m going to lose it before I even get inside you. I’m not a saint, and I’m damn sure not patient enough to let you play with me like that tonight..not before i made you mine.."
He looked at her bruised red lips, his gaze dropping to the way her chest rose and fell in short, panicked gasps.
The shift in him was profound.
The raw, jagged dominance of a moment ago didn't disappear, but it submerged beneath a layer of deep, protective patience. He could see the slight tremor in her hands, the way her eyes—wide and enchanting—flickered with a mix of anticipation and a bride’s natural instinct to retreat.
Rehman didn't rush. He settled his weight between her thighs, but he supported himself on his forearms so he wouldn't crush her. He looked down at her, his face softening into an expression that was almost unnervingly tender for a man of his reputation.
"Look at me, Ulfat," he whispered, his voice a low, soothing hum. "Just look at my eyes. Nowhere else."
He reached out, his thumb tracing the line of her lower lip, which was still damp and swollen from his kisses. He placed his cock against her clit, teasing it with slow thrusts against her most sensitive spot, sliding his tip in between her wet folds positioning himself.
"I’m going to be slow," he murmured, his breath a warm caress against her cheek. "I’m not going anywhere. You’re my wife, the most precious thing in my Life. If it’s too much, you tell me."
As he started to press against her, slowly burrying his tip into her Pussy, Ulfat’s breath hitched, her fingers digging into his shoulders. She felt the she size of his cock- a pressure that felt impossible. Her body instinctively tensed, her eyes welling with a sudden, sharp moisture.
"Shh... stay with me," Rehman crooned. He stopped immediately, his forehead resting against hers, his nose brushing hers. He stayed perfectly still, letting her get used to the weight, the heat, and the slow stretching as he pushed into her. "Breathe, Ulfat. Just breathe. Look at how well we fit together. Like you were made for this. Like you were made for me."
He began to talk to her in a low, constant stream of words—praising the softness of her skin, the way her hair smelled like a garden, the way her heartbeat felt against his chest. He was building a bridge of trust with his voice, guiding her through the threshold of pain into something deeper.
"That’s it... just like that," he whispered as he felt her muscles slowly begin to yield, her body finally accepting him. "You’re doing so well, jaan. So brave."
When he was finally, fully within her, he didn't move. He waited, his chest heaving with the effort of his own restraint, his eyes locked on hers until he saw the tension leave her jaw and the tears in her eyes turn from fear to a dazed, shimmering wonder.
"Are you okay?" he rasped, his voice thick with a vulnerability he only showed to her.
Ulfat nodded slowly, her hands sliding from his shoulders to wrap around his neck, pulling him down. The initial sting was fading, replaced by a heavy, pulsing fullness that made her feel more alive than she had ever been. "I'm okay," she whispered, her voice a silken thread. "Rehman... don't stop."
That was the permission he needed. The patience didn't vanish, but it began to melt into a needy, rhythmic passion. He started to move—slowly at first, then with an increasing, desperate hunger. Every thrust made her pussy clench his cock inside her, causing him to gasp at each time.
The room, the roses, the world outside—it all vanished, leaving only the sound of their skin meeting in wet slapping sounds and the ragged, joined rhythm of their breathing.
"Ulfat," he groaned, his voice breaking as he buried his face in the crook of her neck, his movements becoming faster, more frantic. "You're mine. You're finally, finally mine."
The sounds in the room changed—from soft whispers to the heavy, rhythmic thud of the headboard against the wall and the frantic hiss of breath. Rehman’s hands were no longer just steadying her; they were possessive, digging into her hips to tilt her upward, meeting every one of his deep, passionate thrusts with a desperate, bone-deep hunger.
"You like that, don't you?" he rasped, his voice dropping into a dark, gritty low as he increased the pace. "Tell me, Ulfat. Tell me how it feels to have me deep inside you. I want to hear it. I want to hear you say my name while I'm taking everything you have."
Ulfat was lost, her head tossing back against the pillows, her tits bouncing up and down, her eyes glazed with a feverish, golden light. The shyness was a distant memory, replaced by a raw, vocal honesty she didn't know she possessed.
"Yes... Rehman, please," she sobbed out, her fingers digging into the muscles of his back, her nails leaving faint red crescents on his skin. ".. it’s perfect- ahhh- don't stop... don't you dare stop! More-"
He let out a low, predatory laugh at her command, his movements becoming faster, harder, possessing her.
He was a man possessed himself, his sweat dripping onto her chest, his eyes locked on her face as she came apart beneath him. It made his cock twitch inside her, it made him want to pound her perfect, wet pussy and fill her up with his cum- the thought alone almost broke him.
"You’re taking me so fucking well.." he growled, his breath hot against her mouth. "You’re just as greedy as I am.. You want me to go faster? You want me to fuck you harder? Tell me youre mine.. tell me and ill fuck you senseless as a reward.."
"I'm yours!" she cried out, her voice breaking as the tension began to coil again, tighter and more violent than before. "Only yours... always yours! Rehman, please!"
The dirty talk became a blurred, frantic exchange of needs and promises. He wasn't holding back anything now, pounding into her perfectly tight pussy passionately. Each time he pulled out to meet her hips in another, deep raw thrust- she was sucking him back in- like she felt empty without the size and thickness of his cock.
The pace reached a breaking point—a frantic, sweating, heart-stopping speed that made the air in the room feel like it was vibrating. Ulfat’s legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper like that, like this his cock was pressed so deeply inside her she saw stars, her body arching like a bow ready to shot as she got close.
,,Oh god- fuck- Rehman!-"
"I've got you," he groaned, his voice a ragged, breathless command as he felt her begin to peak again. "Cum all over my Cock- make it all yours Jaan, fuck- cum!" He hissed.
The moment he felt her walls contract around him even more- to a point he could barely pull out of her, Rehman’s restraint didn’t just break—it disintegrated.
He saw her eyes roll back, the whites showing as she lost focus on the room, her body becoming a live wire of pure, unadulterated sensation. He loved this woman more than anything in this forsaken world.
"That’s it... give it to me, Ulfat," he growled, his voice a dark, gravelly vibration that she felt in her very marrow.
She came with a violence that shocked her, a tidal wave of heat that made her scream his name until her throat went raw. Her body arched so high off the bed she was forcing him inside her- his cock pressing against her g- spot. Her fingers clawed at his sweat-slicked shoulders as the pleasure shattered her into a thousand pieces. It was a long, rhythmic pulsing that seemed to go on forever, leaving her gasping, her vision swimming in white sparks.-
But as she tried to collapse, to sink back into the pillows and let the world go still, Rehman didn't stop.
He didn't pull away. Instead, he gripped her thighs even tighter, pinning her knees toward her chest, and continued to fuck into her with a relentless, heavy rhythm.
"R-Rehman... !" she sobbed, her voice a broken whisper of overstimulation. Her skin was so sensitive now that every touch felt like a lightning strike.
"Shh~ take it for me, meri jaan" he rasped, his eyes burning with a terrifying, endless stamina.
He looked down at her—at her flushed face, her swollen lips, and the way she was shivering under him. "I'm not done with you..i have a bit more stamina than you my pretty, pretty wife~ and ill teach you to be abls to keep up with it~"
He leaned down, his mouth catching her sensitive nipple, his tongue swirling in a way that made a fresh, unwanted jolt of pleasure shoot straight to her pulsing clit.
Ulfat let out a helpless, high-pitched wail, her head tossing back and forth. She was beyond the point of reason; her body was a raw nerve, vibrating with a sensitivity that was almost painful in its intensity..
"You're so perfect like this," he muttered against her skin, his movements becoming faster again, more demanding. "Look at how you're shaking.. youre so incredible, my love. Youre a sight to behold.."
He praised her through the heat, his words a stream of dark, possessive adoration. He told her how incredible she felt, how he loved the way she couldn't stop reacting to him, how he was going to keep her in this fire until the sun forced them apart. He pushed her further and further with each deep, soul crushing thrust- past the point of exhaustion, into a realm of sensory overload where every breath she took was a moan and every move he made felt like it was carving his name into her soul.
She was drowning in him, overstimulated and overwhelmed, her body a frantic instrument he refused to stop playing. And as he finally felt his own peak rising to meet hers for a second time, he leaned into her ear, his voice a final, ragged promise.
"You're never going to forget this night. I'm going to make sure you feel me inside you for the rest of your life.."
"Ulfat? Meri Jaan, where are you hiding?"
She didn't turn immediately. She remained at the window, the silver glow of the Karachi moon bathing her face, catching the fine lines at the corners of her eyes—lines carved by twenty-two years of laughter, worry, and a love that had never once gone cold..
"Still standing there?" Rehman’s voice had deepened with age, turning into a rich, sandpaper rasp. He walked up behind her, no longer the restless youth but a man who moved with the slow, deliberate weight of a king. He stopped just inches away, his presence still a warm, magnetic force.
"What is it this time?" he teased, a familiar glint of mischief in his dark eyes as he leaned slightly on his cane. "Are you looking at the lamps again? Planning to run off and inspect the brass-work while theres a Nikkah down there?"
Ulfat finally turned, a soft, knowing smile playing on her lips. She looked at him—at the silver at his temples and the strength in his jaw that time hadn't been able to touch.
"..I was..distracted..by the moon. I'm looking at the Moon, Rehman," she whispered, her voice a silken echo of the girl she had been.
Rehman stepped closer, his hand—still large, still calloused—reaching up to cup her cheek. He tilted her face toward the light, his gaze as intense and focused as it had been on their wedding night.
"The moon?" he scoffed gently, his thumb tracing her cheekbone. "The moon is your face, Ulfat. That thing up there in the sky? It’s just a cold rock. It’s jealous of you. It’s been trying to mimic your glow since the day I brought you home, and it hasn't managed it yet."
Ulfat let out a soft, melodic laugh, leaning her head into his palm. "You’re still a liar, Rehman Dakait."
"I'm a man who knows his treasure," he corrected, pulling her into a slow, firm hug.
He held her there for a long moment, the two of them a solid island in the middle of the wedding chaos.
The distant sound of the dhol and the cheering for Yalina drifted up to them, but for now, they were back in their own world. He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of her ear, his voice dropping into that low, dangerous register that still made her pulse skip.
"Don't look so sad that the party is starting," he murmured. "We'll be the respectable wedding guests for the new couple.. But once we reach home... I promise you a much better time than any of these guests are having. I might be older, but I haven't forgotten how to make you scream my name."
Ulfat flushed—a deep, beautiful crimson that proved she was still his bride at heart. She swatted his chest playfully, but she didn't pull away.
"Chalo," she said, tucking her arm into his, her fingers brushing the expensive fabric of his suit. "They are waiting~"
Together, they turned away from the window and the moonlight, walking side-by-side toward the door to join the celebration, two legends moving as one.. as they always did.
Pairing: Charles Brandon x Reader (Y/N)
Setting: Historical Romance / Period Drama AU
Rating: Explicit (18+)
Word Count: ~6k
Tropes: Enemies to Lovers, Arranged Marriage, Angst to Comfort, Rake Redeemed, Wedding Night, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Found Family, Smut, Reader Insert
Warnings: Explicit sexual content, period-typical sexism, jealousy, mention of pregnancy/childbirth, strong emotions
Summary: A viscount’s daughter is wed to the infamous Duke of Suffolk, but nothing prepares her for the way Charles Brandon undoes her—body and soul. Through nights of burning devotion, sharp jealousy, and aching tenderness, she learns what it means to truly belong. When old scandals return to threaten their happiness, she must decide: is her husband still a rake, or the only man she could ever trust with her heart?
A/N: Finally a sequel to my first Charles Brandon fic "bethroted" !!! This one got away from me, it was supposed to be 2k but ended up a whole novella. If you catch any typos, let me know, my brain is fried from all these Charles feelings!!
Morning broke, and the manor woke with it, sunlight crawling between ancient beams and dust motes floating in the hush of early hours. Y/N barely slept, too full of last night’s memory—his body, his voice in the dark, the shattering pleasure that left her bones hollow and her skin feverish. She lay in the cradle of her sheets, wide-eyed, hand pressed to lips swollen from his kiss, thighs pressing tight to hold in the pulse he’d left between them. Each echo of his name made her ache anew.
Beyond her door, the world returned to routine: the clatter of porcelain, voices hushed and urgent as servants rushed about, the distant hammer of carpenters building the wedding dais. But in her chamber, time stood still, every second stretched thin and quivering. She didn’t move, lost in the soft ache of being known so intimately, haunted by the image of Charles kneeling between her legs, the hunger in his eyes, the way he worshipped her like she was the last light before a storm.
She touched her collarbone, remembering the rasp of his stubble, the weight of his mouth, the sound he made when she let herself open, vulnerable and raw. A part of her wanted to be angry still, to armor herself in bitterness and keep him at arm’s length, but the truth was sharper, more dangerous: she wanted more. More of his hands, more of his voice, more of whatever he had done to her soul.
A gentle knock startled her, softer than last night’s—cautious, almost reverent. “Come in,” she called, though her voice was little more than a breath. She pulled the sheet up, heart pounding as the door swung open and Charles entered, dressed for the day in crisp linen and velvet, but wildness still clinging to his dark hair, shadows under his eyes betraying a night as sleepless as hers.
He closed the door with a whisper of sound, leaning back against it, eyes traveling over her with a look that was all hunger and no apology. “Did you rest, sweetling?” he asked, the familiar mocking tilt to his words now threaded with something softer—hope, maybe, or the ghost of fear. He looked at her like she was the only thing that could ruin him.
She meant to greet him with icy silence, but the sight of him—broad shoulders, the careful gentleness in the way he held himself—melted her resolve. “Barely,” she confessed, voice husky. “Your fault, I think.”
A lazy grin crept across his face, but he didn’t approach—not yet. “If I have kept you from sleep, I will have to make amends, won’t I?” His gaze darkened as he took her in, the thin nightdress twisted around her hips, her bare legs tangled in linen. His voice softened: “You are so beautiful in the morning.”
She flushed, caught between modesty and the thrill of being wanted so openly. She sat up, pulling her knees close. “Charles, if anyone sees you here—”
He shook his head, eyes never leaving hers. “Let them. I’ll face your father, your sisters, the entire kingdom if I must.” He stepped forward at last, kneeling by the bed so their faces were level, his thumb stroking her cheek, careful and slow. “I’ve never wanted anything the way I want you.”
He leaned in, kissing her softly—first on her forehead, then her temple, then the edge of her lips, each touch reverent and aching. “Last night wasn’t nearly enough. I need to see you come apart in daylight, see your eyes in the sun while you moan my name.”
She whimpered, a sound caught between protest and hunger, unable to summon any anger now. His hand slid down, fingertips grazing the hollow of her throat, lingering where her pulse thundered. “Charles,” she whispered, letting him pull the sheet from her grip, baring her further.
He pressed her back, mouth chasing the line of her collarbone, slow kisses melting the last of her resistance. His hands were everywhere—cupping her breast, rolling her nipple between finger and thumb, breath hot on her skin. She arched into him, the morning light painting them both in gold, the world beyond the door shrinking to nothing.
“Let me taste you,” he murmured, voice low, threading his fingers through hers as if asking permission—though they both knew she would give it. She nodded, unable to find words, only a desperate, “Please—”
He kissed down her body, pausing to lavish each inch of skin with tongue and teeth, every kiss a slow, searing promise. When he reached her thighs, he spread them, gentle but firm, eyes flickering up to meet hers, and then he leaned in, mouthing her through the thin cotton of her nightdress until it clung damp and transparent.
“Ah—Charles—” Her hips rolled helplessly, every nerve burning. He slid the fabric aside, baring her to the cool air, then lowered his mouth, tongue flicking her clit, drawing circles until she was gasping, nails clawing at the sheets. He sucked her, slow and rhythmic, lips wrapping around her swollen flesh, his groan vibrating against her—“Mmm, fuck, you taste like heaven, sweetling—”
She shattered under his mouth, hips jerking, a cry spilling from her lips, shameless and raw. “Ahh—ngh, Charles—please—don’t stop—” He didn’t, tongue and fingers working in tandem, pushing her higher, riding each wave of pleasure until she was sobbing his name, boneless and undone.
Only when she was trembling, sweat-slick and breathless, did he pull back, his lips shining, eyes dark with triumph and adoration. He crawled up beside her, cradling her face. “You’re mine, now and always.”
She pulled him close, tasting herself on his lips, devouring his mouth in a kiss that was all hunger and promise. She reached down, hand finding the hard, desperate shape of him beneath his breeches, feeling him twitch against her palm. “Let me—” she started, but he caught her wrist, his grip gentle but unyielding.
“Not yet,” he growled, voice broken with need, “if I let you touch me, I’ll take you now and damn the wedding. I want you aching for me, want you to remember this every hour until you’re my wife in name and body both.”
She bit his lip, defiant and needy. “Cruel man. I’ll haunt you all day.”
He laughed, the sound bright and wild, pressing his forehead to hers. “Haunt me, then. I deserve it.” He kissed her again, long and slow, as if memorizing her taste. “Tonight, we’ll find a way. Or tomorrow. Or the hour after our vows. I don’t care. I won’t stop until I have you—truly, wholly, every inch of you calling my name while the whole world listens.”
She trembled, heat surging through her at his promise, knowing she would give herself to him again and again, let him ruin her without regret. They lay tangled together, morning slipping by unnoticed, hearts thundering in the hush. Eventually, when the house was fully alive and scandal threatened to find them, he rose, smoothing her hair, kissing her forehead.
“We’ll face them together, darling,” he whispered, voice soft as a prayer. “Whatever comes, I am yours.”
As he slipped from her room, she pressed her hand to her heart, breathless, already aching for the next time. Downstairs, the world waited, but upstairs, in tangled sheets and sunlight, a promise had been made and sealed, sweet and burning as the hunger that would never quite leave her bones.
The wedding day rose on a tide of pale gold, every bell in the village echoing across the hills, each peal dissolving the last shadows of night. By dawn, the manor had been transformed—a place she had always known now dressed for celebration, every lintel draped in garlands, every window flung open to the singing breeze. The halls brimmed with the scent of roses and bread, laughter trailing from kitchens to drawing rooms as servants hurried, their faces flushed with anticipation and a thousand secret smiles.
Y/N woke before the world, her heart fluttering like a bird’s wing against her ribs, the hush of her chamber broken only by the faint song of a robin outside her window. She lay still a moment, feeling the weight of everything that was about to change pressing against her skin. Her hands drifted over her belly, the memory of Charles’s touch blooming hot and tender beneath her nightdress. She ached for him—not just his mouth or his hands, but the way he looked at her in quiet moments, as if every laugh, every sigh, every shiver belonged only to him.
Her father came to her in the hush before sunrise, the worry lines around his eyes softer than she had ever seen. He sat beside her, took her hand in both of his, and for a time they simply breathed together, father and daughter on the edge of newness. “You are brave,” he said, not as a compliment but as a simple truth. “Your mother would be proud. I am proud.” Tears stung her lashes, but she blinked them away, squeezing his hand until she could speak. “I will make you happy, Papa. I will try.” He smiled, pressed his lips to her knuckles, then rose, shoulders squaring as he left her to the gentle chaos of women who soon swept into the room—maids and sisters, aunts and cousins, all bearing pins and laughter, ribbons and secrets.
The house became a living current, sweeping her along. They dressed her in white and green, the bodice snug around her pounding heart, the skirts falling like water to the floor. Jewels glimmered at her throat, a gift from her mother’s own wedding, a strand of pearls so delicate it trembled with every breath she took. Her sisters circled, their excitement bubbling, plucking at her sleeves and hair, fussing until even the most stubborn curl fell into place.
“Are you nervous?” one whispered, eyes wide and shining. She almost laughed, almost wept—she was not sure where one feeling ended and the other began. “Yes,” she said honestly, “but I want this. I want him.” Her sisters grinned, squeezing her hands, teasing her until the nerves melted into laughter and the room rang with hope.
The procession to the chapel seemed to stretch into eternity—each step, a memory, every face in the crowd a witness to her transformation. She caught sight of Charles at the altar, resplendent in dark velvet, his hair tamed for the occasion but his smile wild as ever, eyes fixed on her with an intensity that made her knees weak. She tried to look away, to focus on the vows or the priest’s solemn voice, but Charles’s gaze pulled her in, undressing her with every glance, promising the world with nothing but a crooked smile and the twitch of his mouth.
She heard her own voice answer his, vows trembling but sure, her fingers threading with his as they sealed a promise in front of all creation. His thumb brushed her knuckle, and it was as if he spoke directly to her soul: mine, always. When the priest announced them husband and wife, Charles bent and kissed her, reverent and claiming all at once, a thousand eyes watching but the world shrinking to just the two of them. The crowd erupted in cheers, petals raining down, her father’s arm around her shoulders as Charles led her back down the aisle, his hand warm and strong in hers.
The feast that followed blurred into laughter and song, plates heaped high, goblets flashing. Charles was everywhere—at her side, at her back, a whisper in her ear or a broad hand at her waist, always anchoring her when she felt the room spin. He toasted her with wicked glances, stole kisses behind doorways, found her hand beneath the table and squeezed until she could hardly swallow for want of him. They danced beneath garlands, his arm locked at her back, spinning her through a dozen well-wishers, and all she could see was him, all she could taste was the promise of nightfall, the hunger stoked with every brush of his thumb along her spine.
Later, as the guests tumbled out into the gardens for wine and fireworks, Charles caught her wrist, tugging her away from the laughter and song. He led her through quiet corridors, the hush deepening with every step until the distant music faded to a single heartbeat—hers, wild and unsteady, echoing through every bone. He paused at the door to their chamber, eyes sweeping over her, voice low and rough as gravel. “Are you afraid?” he asked, as if the question held the world between them.
She stepped into him, her hands fisting in his shirt, mouth finding his jaw, her answer a trembling confession against his skin. “Only of wanting you too much.” He laughed, the sound softer than she had ever heard, his arms folding her close, his lips in her hair. “Let me show you what forever feels like, darling.”
He opened the door, and the room welcomed them—petals scattered over the bed, candles pooling honeyed light across the sheets, the night trembling with anticipation. Charles closed the door, turning the key, his eyes never leaving hers as he crossed the space between them.
He lifted her veil, fingers gentle, mouth finding her brow, her cheek, her lips, each kiss deepening until she melted against him, hands rising to frame his face. He unfastened her dress with aching slowness, every button a vow, every inch of bared skin a prayer. The silk slid to the floor, pooling at her feet as he stepped back, drinking her in, his hunger open and unashamed.
She reached for him, trembling but sure, tugging at his jacket, his waistcoat, his shirt, until at last he stood before her as vulnerable as she, bare and beautiful in the candlelight. He swept her up, laying her down in a nest of petals, his mouth worshipping every freckle, every trembling breath, every plea for more. He whispered her name, voice thick with devotion and need, and she answered with hands and lips and gasps, drawing him down, down, until there was no space between them but breath and heartbeat and the long, slow ache of fulfillment.
He claimed her, body and soul, moving within her with the patience of a man who had waited a lifetime. Their cries tangled in the darkness, soft at first, then fierce and wild, every thrust a promise, every moan a blessing. She clung to him, nails raking his back, mouth finding his shoulder, his throat, his lips, the taste of him as sweet and necessary as air. He held her through every shiver, every wave, every cresting pleasure, never looking away, never letting her forget—she was his, and he was hers, forever.
When at last they lay tangled in the hush, breath slowing, sweat cooling between them, Charles brushed a strand of hair from her damp forehead, his thumb tracing her cheek. “Was it everything you feared?” he teased, voice hoarse with tenderness.
She laughed, spent and dizzy, curling against his chest. “Everything and more.”
He kissed her—slow, lingering, endless—his arms anchoring her to a world remade. And as the stars wheeled outside their window, Y/N closed her eyes, safe in the certainty of his love, and let the night carry them both beyond fear, beyond doubt, into the wide and wondrous forever that had always waited for them.
The chamber doors clicked shut, soft as the hush that followed every vow, and suddenly the world narrowed to just the two of them—no laughter, no music, no watchful eyes, only the slow tick of the mantel clock and the wild thunder of two hearts unmoored. Candles burned in golden constellations across every surface, their scent mingling with rose petals strewn over the coverlet, and she could taste the anticipation—sharp as longing, honeyed as the hope in her veins.
Charles did not speak at first. He stood by the door, gaze sweeping over her in her wedding finery, every inch of her traced and savored with a reverence that made her breath stutter. His jacket was already gone, hands lingering at his collar, and in the flickering light, he looked almost untamed—every line of his body drawn tight with want, the mask of the rake utterly gone, replaced by a man who saw nothing but her.
She moved first, hands trembling as she lifted her veil, letting it fall with a whisper to the carpet. The hush stretched, heavy and sweet, as she reached for the tiny pearl buttons at her back. Charles was there in an instant, breath catching as his fingers replaced hers, working slow, deliberate, each button a promise. The dress slid from her shoulders, green and white silk puddling at her feet, and she stood bare before him in a cloud of lace and candlelight, trembling beneath his gaze.
He traced her cheek, calloused thumb warm and careful, then bent to kiss her—a kiss that started soft, a gentle tasting, then deepened, heat rising, until she clung to his lapels, dizzy from the rush of him. He stripped her with hands that shook, not from nerves but from a hunger so sharp it almost hurt, every inch of bared skin worshipped with lips and tongue and murmured endearments that tumbled from him in a rough, reverent stream.
“God, you are perfect—” he breathed, voice ragged, mouth tracing the line of her collarbone, down the swell of her breast, pausing to flick his tongue over her nipple until it tightened, his name spilling from her lips in a choked, “Charles—please—” He suckled her there, gentle, then greedy, groaning low when she arched, her hips rocking helplessly, all pretense burned away.
His hands skimmed her waist, her hips, her thighs, fingers kneading muscle and bone until she felt boneless, weightless, nothing but want and sensation. He dropped to his knees, worshipping her with a devotion that made her tremble, pressing kisses to her belly, her thighs, his stubble scraping tender flesh. He nudged her legs apart, mouth finding the slick, aching heat between, and he tasted her as if he’d been starving—his tongue slow and insistent, tracing every secret fold, his moan vibrating against her as he drank her in.
She gasped, knees buckling, clutching his hair, hips bucking against his mouth, the sound of her pleasure rising unabashed—“Ah—nngh—oh, Charles—” Every pass of his tongue, every flick and circle, pushed her higher, higher, until she sobbed his name, her world reduced to the heat of his mouth and the clever pressure of his fingers sliding inside, stretching her wide and full. He brought her to the edge, again and again, never letting her fall, drawing it out until tears streaked her cheeks, her cries sharp as the snap of fire—“Please, please, let me—”
Only then did he let her tumble over, shattering around his mouth, hips trembling, thighs clamping tight as wave after wave of pleasure tore her apart. He licked her through every aftershock, slow and thorough, until she sagged against the bedpost, boneless and gasping, heart battering against her ribs.
He stood, eyes wild, face glistening with her release, and she reached for him—no shyness now, only hunger, only need. She pulled at his shirt, yanking it free, hands sliding over hard muscle, tracing every scar and freckle as she pushed his trousers down, freeing him at last. He was heavy and hot in her palm, and she wrapped her fingers around him, marveling at his hiss, the tremor in his arms as she stroked him, thumb circling the flushed, weeping head. “You’re beautiful,” she whispered, wonder threaded with want, and he groaned, hand covering hers, guiding her to pump him slow, then faster, his hips thrusting into her fist.
“Enough—” he rasped, voice hoarse, “I need—oh, God, I need—” He caught her up, pressing her back into the bed of petals, covering her with his body, his mouth finding hers in a kiss that tasted of desperation and forever. He lined himself up, pausing, eyes meeting hers, the world balancing on a knife’s edge.
“Tell me you want this,” he said, barely more than a breath.
She answered with a lift of her hips, a breathless, “Yes—God, yes, I want you—please, Charles—”
He pushed into her, slow, unhurried, letting her feel every inch as he filled her, stretched her, claimed her. They gasped in tandem, bodies shivering, the first thrust a blaze, the next a flood, and then there was only friction and heat, the slide of skin on skin, the world reduced to pulse and sweat and the soft, keening sound of her pleasure.
He rocked into her, deep and steady, bracing her hips, mouth locked to her throat, her breast, her jaw, whispering her name like a prayer, like an oath—“Y/N, my darling, my wife, my love—” She wrapped her legs around him, taking him deeper, every thrust sending pleasure blooming outward, bright and endless. Their bodies spoke in a language older than words—her whimpers, his curses, the slap of skin, the liquid rush of need.
He shifted, rolling her hips, his thumb finding her clit and rubbing tight, burning circles, sending her rocketing toward the edge once more. “Come for me,” he begged, voice rough and broken, “let me feel you—let me—”
She shattered, wild and glorious, nails raking his back, her cries filling the chamber—“Ah—Charles—oh, God, yes—” Her body clamped around him, drawing him deeper, and with a final thrust, he spilled into her, hips stuttering, his own shout breaking loose—“Fuck—Y/N—mine—” They rode the wave together, every shudder, every aftershock shared, hearts pounding, bodies tangled.
After, he collapsed beside her, dragging her against his chest, burying his face in her hair. “You ruin me,” he whispered, voice thick with awe, “I am yours, forever.”
She smiled, sated and trembling, trailing her fingers over his heart. “And you, mine.”
They drifted together, the night wrapping them in warmth and light, every vow fulfilled, every promise sealed in the press of skin and the hush of breath, the world outside fading to nothing but the sweetness of forever in each other’s arms.
The months after their wedding unfolded in a golden haze, days and nights braided together so tightly that sometimes Y/N hardly knew where one ended and the next began. Charles was insatiable—hungry for her laugh, her touch, the shape of her mouth around his name, their passion burning so fiercely that the servants blushed and looked away when they passed, and the sheets were never cool between dawn and dusk. She ached from loving him, and yet wanted him more each morning. She felt herself opening under his hands, blossoming with every secret kiss, every wordless promise breathed against her skin. In those days, the world seemed simple—just him, just her, just the fire that never dimmed, no matter how often it was stoked.
But love, she had learned, was not a spell to hold the world still. The season changed, days shortening, the air gone crisp with the hint of autumn, and with it came responsibilities that could not be outrun. Charles’s business in the capital summoned him back—letters arriving with royal wax and crests that meant nothing to her but made his brow furrow and his jaw tighten. For days, he paced the house, restless, packing and unpacking, kissing her until she was breathless and he was laughing, then promising, always promising, “Only a week, darling. I’ll come home to you as soon as I can.” The last morning, he held her longer than necessary, nuzzling the hollow of her throat, and for a moment she felt something brittle in his hold, as if he hated to let go.
The house was emptier than she’d ever known it, and Y/N wandered through the corridors, trailing her fingers over windowsills, the world outside gray and distant. But even in solitude, hope flickered inside her—soft, secret, and terrifyingly new. She was late. Her body felt different, fragile and alive in a way she couldn’t quite explain, and when she pressed her palm to her belly, her heart thundered with a joy so bright she almost wept. She wanted to tell Charles in a way he would never forget, to see the shock and wonder on his face, to make him drop all his worldliness and remember—he was hers, she was his, and now there would be more.
She planned every detail—a surprise journey into the city, a basket packed with his favorite cheeses and pears, a bottle of the honeyed wine he liked to pour for her late at night. She pictured the moment she would find him, the private garden she had arranged, how she would press his hand to her belly and whisper, “We’re not alone anymore, my love.”
The city was a roar of noise and color—coaches rattling, vendors hawking, ribbons snapping in the wind. She felt shy and out of place in her best dress, hidden beneath a borrowed cloak, but she pressed on, heart buoyed by hope. She made her way to his offices, the places where he met with merchants and barons, her steps quickening at the prospect of seeing him, of feeling his arms around her once more.
She arrived earlier than expected, pausing in the shadow of the courtyard, catching her breath, smoothing her hair. And that was when she saw him—Charles, her Charles, not alone but leaning close to a woman she did not know. The woman was beautiful, older perhaps, dressed in the severe elegance of the city, a tumble of dark hair pinned high, lips curled in amusement. Charles was laughing—laughing in that way that had always been hers alone, his hand on the woman’s arm, the two of them so close their heads nearly touched.
The world spun. The sounds of the city faded, replaced by the thud of blood in her ears. Y/N could not move, trapped behind a pillar, watching as Charles leaned in, murmured something that made the woman’s cheeks flush, his thumb brushing her wrist in a gesture so intimate Y/N felt it as a betrayal deep in her bones.
Every rumor she’d heard, every whispered warning, thundered back—he’s a rake, he’ll never change, don’t give him your heart, don’t trust a man who knows the taste of every woman in the city. She pressed a fist to her mouth, swallowing a sob, the picnic basket trembling in her grasp. She tried to turn away, tried to remember the nights he’d held her, the vows he’d made, the way he had looked at her on their wedding night—but the image burned: Charles with another, relaxed, smiling, his touch too easy, too familiar.
She almost fled. Almost turned and ran, the urge to disappear so fierce she thought her legs would fail her. But something kept her rooted—a stubborn thread of hope, or maybe just the need to know the truth before she surrendered to the dark.
Charles glanced up, sensing eyes upon him, and for a heartbeat their gazes locked across the crowded square. He stiffened, surprise flickering over his face, then a wild joy that nearly undid her—“Y/N!” he called, voice ringing clear, breaking the spell. He broke from the woman without hesitation, striding toward her, arms wide, a grin lighting his face. The woman behind him faded into the bustle, and Charles’s entire focus narrowed to his wife, his love, as if no one else existed.
He caught her up, spinning her in the air, basket and all, pressing kisses to her cheeks, her hair, his voice tumbling over itself. “What are you doing here, darling? Have you missed me so much you’d cross half the kingdom just to see my face?” His laughter was thick with happiness, his touch anchoring, but she was trembling, searching his face for something—anything—that would tell her what she needed to know.
She tried to speak, to push the words through the tightness in her throat, but all she managed was a broken, “Who was that woman, Charles?”
He sobered instantly, arms still around her, eyes searching hers with a kind of frantic intensity. “That—” He glanced over his shoulder, a look of bewilderment crossing his face. “That’s Lady March, an old family friend. Her husband and I have been settling an account—nothing more. I promise you, Y/N. She’s nothing to me but business. I swear it on every breath I take.”
She wanted to believe him. Oh, how she wanted to. The longing in his voice, the open desperation in his eyes, made her heart ache with both hope and fear. “You swear it?” she whispered, the question trembling between them.
He drew her closer, pressing her hand to his heart, letting her feel the wild hammer of his pulse. “I swear it. There is no one for me but you. I was lost before I found you—no woman has meant what you do. I am yours, now and always, in every city, every room, every hour of my life.” He kissed her then, not just with hunger but with a reverence that melted her from the inside out, a promise sealed in every press of lips, every trembling breath.
Tears spilled down her cheeks, a mix of relief and shame, and she let herself sink into him, letting his certainty replace her doubt. She remembered why she had come—the secret in her heart, the hope blooming in her belly, the life they had made together. When she finally drew back, she cupped his cheek, smiling through tears.
“I brought you a picnic,” she whispered, laughter trembling on her lips, “and I have news.”
He grinned, his thumb brushing away her tears, the old mischief returning. “Is it good news?”
“The best,” she whispered, pressing his palm to her belly. “I think we are not alone anymore, my love.”
For a moment, he stilled, wonder sweeping over his face like dawn. Then he dropped to his knees, pressing his lips to her belly, his hands shaking as he cradled her. “You—my God, Y/N—” His voice broke, eyes wet, laughter and tears mingling. He looked up at her, his devotion so clear, so fierce, that it burned away every doubt she’d ever harbored.
He rose, kissing her as the city swirled around them, promising her again and again that she was his beginning and end, the only woman he would ever love. And in that moment, with sunlight spilling over the square and the future blooming bright before them, Y/N knew—his reputation would always haunt them, but his heart, messy and wild and true, belonged to her alone.
The city had faded to dusk by the time they returned to their rooms above the capital’s din, dusk flowing into candlelight and the hush of heavy curtains. Charles led Y/N in by the hand, never straying more than a breath away, as if afraid she might slip from his grasp and vanish with the next shadow. She could still feel the bruised edges of doubt beneath her skin, but stronger was the memory of his joy—his voice trembling with awe as he kissed her belly, his promise, fiercely repeated, that no one but her could ever matter. She wanted to trust, wanted to believe, but the last shreds of insecurity clung tight, curling cold in the hollow of her chest.
He saw it in her eyes, the storm not yet spent, and gathered her into his arms, holding her not with fever or haste, but with the slow, boundless tenderness of a man who would do anything—anything—to make her whole. “Let me show you,” he whispered, lips at her temple, his breath a vow in the hush. “Let me prove I am yours, and only yours, for all my days.”
He pressed her back to the bed, their basket forgotten at the door, the city fading behind drawn velvet. He undressed her with aching care, unfastening each button as if it was a petal, his hands reverent, worshipful, never rushing, never claiming. Each inch of bared skin he touched with his lips, not hungrily but with devotion, as if writing poetry into her body with every lingering kiss. Her breath caught, shivers chasing up her spine as he mapped her with tongue and hands, murmuring endearments that spun the world to a hush—“My heart. My miracle. My only, only love.”
He stripped himself just as slowly, never breaking her gaze, letting her see the truth in his eyes—no games, no rakish laughter, just the man she’d married, all his edges softened by longing, by need, by the tenderness she called from him like a tide. He slid into the bed beside her, gathering her into his lap, cradling her as if she were glass, as if she carried not just his child but every hope he’d ever dared.
His mouth found her throat, her jaw, her lips, moving over her with a patience that undid her, his hands sliding up her back, spreading warmth through her aching bones. “Do you feel it?” he whispered, voice thick with need. “How you have ruined me for all others? How nothing else could ever touch me, not now, not ever?” She nodded, tears burning at the edges of her vision, and he kissed them away, his thumbs gentle, worshipful, until she felt her heart slow, her doubts softening into trust, into longing.
When he finally pressed her down, joining their bodies with a slowness that left her trembling, it was not with fire but with honeyed devotion—inch by inch, he filled her, pausing to let her breathe, to let her feel, his mouth finding her ear, her throat, her lips, as he whispered, “I am yours. Every heartbeat. Every inch. I swear it.” She wrapped herself around him, pulling him deeper, letting him anchor her in the present, their bodies moving in the oldest rhythm, sweet and slow, every thrust a promise, every moan a blessing.
He held her through every wave, his hands never letting her drift, his words a lullaby—“Mine, my darling, my heart, my home”—until she broke apart for him, soft and shining, sobbing his name into his shoulder, her body shattering and re-forming in his arms. He followed her into the dark, his own pleasure blooming, quiet and raw, and as he emptied himself inside her, he wept, not from sorrow but from joy, from the unbearable sweetness of being so loved, so chosen.
They lay tangled in the hush, limbs entwined, breath slowing, the city outside a distant dream. He stroked her hair, pressing kisses to her brow, her cheeks, her lips, never letting go, never ceasing his gentle worship. “There will never be another,” he vowed, voice barely more than a tremor. “You are my only, my always, the mother of my children, the keeper of my heart.”
She smiled, pressing her palm to his chest, feeling the wild beat beneath her skin, and in that moment, every doubt, every fear, melted away, leaving only sweetness—warm, endless, and sure as dawn. They drifted into sleep, wrapped in each other’s arms, certain at last that love, when true, is not a gamble or a risk, but a shelter, steadfast as the hand that holds yours through every storm.
The seasons tumbled forward, each one passing with a hush of anticipation, the world brightening and narrowing as Y/N’s body blossomed with the fullness of new life. Charles became both more attentive and more ridiculous with each passing day—fussing over her shoes, pressing his hand to her belly at every opportunity, inventing excuses to linger at home rather than tend to business in the city. He read aloud to her in the evenings, poetry and nonsense alike, his voice slow and soft, stopping every so often to press a kiss to her fingers or laugh at her mock impatience.
Their home grew gentle around them, sun slanting gold through nursery windows, and at night, Charles would hold her close, his hands a living promise across her swelling stomach. “A son, I think,” he whispered once, lips warm against her ear, “with your stubbornness and my charm.” She laughed, shaking her head. “Or a daughter—clever enough to keep you humble, my love.” They argued playfully about names, colors for the crib, and whose nose the child would inherit, but underneath it all was the quiet, pulsing certainty that nothing could ever shake the foundation they had built.
And then, just as the world was softening toward spring, the baby decided to arrive—suddenly, insistently, under a sky mottled with clouds and wild birds. Y/N clung to Charles’s hand, sweat beading at her brow, the midwife’s voice a distant drone, pain and hope warring in her blood. Charles refused to leave her side for even a moment, kneeling at her head, brushing sweat-damp hair from her face, whispering encouragement through every wave of agony.
“You’re stronger than any man I’ve ever known,” he murmured, voice breaking as she pushed, as she fought, as she screamed. “I love you—I love you—” She laughed and cursed him all at once, sobbing as her world spun apart.
And then: a final, desperate cry, and the sharp, astonished wail of new life filled the room.
“It’s a girl,” the midwife announced, voice thick with awe and laughter, “a perfect, beautiful girl.” The babe was placed in Y/N’s arms, slick and warm and impossibly small, fists curled, mouth open in outrage at the sudden brightness of the world. Y/N stared at her daughter, tears slipping down her cheeks—every ache, every fear dissolved in that moment, the weight of love so fierce it threatened to break her apart and rebuild her from nothing but wonder.
Charles looked down at them both as if he’d seen the face of God. He knelt beside the bed, hands trembling, and pressed his lips to Y/N’s forehead, then to their daughter’s crown, his breath shuddering with relief and devotion. “She is perfect,” he whispered, voice thick and rough. “Just like her mother.”
Y/N drew him close, their little family a knot of warmth against the world’s uncertainties. The baby blinked up at them, eyes dark and solemn, as if she knew every secret between heaven and earth.
Later, when the house had quieted and the sun was dipping low, Charles lay curled beside Y/N, their daughter swaddled between them, tiny fist clutching his thumb. The fire cast a gentle glow over the three of them, and outside, spring rain tapped the window, the earth readying itself for every bright and beautiful thing to come.
Charles stroked the curve of his daughter’s head, eyes shining. “Thank you, my love,” he murmured, voice soft as dusk. “You have given me everything—home, heart, and now, a family.” Y/N nestled closer, exhaustion and joy folding her into the warmth of his arms. “You gave me forever, Charles,” she answered, her voice steady and full.
Their daughter stirred, a small, contented sigh, and Charles and Y/N both laughed, wonder blooming between them once more. The past—the scandals, the doubts, the loneliness—were all ashes now, swept away by love’s steady flame.
As night deepened, Charles kissed his wife and his daughter, whispering every promise the heart can make. And in the hush, with the fire flickering low and new life breathing quietly in the cradle of their arms, Y/N drifted into sleep—certain, at last, that she was cherished, chosen, and home.
And so their story, once fraught with uncertainty, settled into the endless, hopeful hush of beginnings, where love, sweet and wild, would carry them forward—together—into every tomorrow the world would give.
