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…”
Warnings: SMUT! pls don't interact if you don't feel comfortable.
Summary: their wedding night. female and male virgin, p in v, oral (female and male receiving), basically filth, okay?
The kiss lingers on my lips, soft and searching, as Valarr pulls back just enough to look at me. His dark hair falls in loose on his forehead, as the white streak catches the flicker of candlelight from the bedside sconces. I am relieved we’re in his bedchamber now, the heavy doors of the Red Keep shut behind us, sealing out the echoes of the wedding feast and the watchful eyes of the court. My heart hammers against my ribs, a wild thing I've never quite tamed, and I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks. This is it. The night I knew was coming, the one I’ve been thinking about over the past days, ever since we’ve been betrothed. We love each other, of that I am certain, but love doesn't erase the nerves twisting in my belly like Highgarden vines. The air in the room feels thick, charged with anticipation, the faint scent of beeswax from the candles mingling with the lingering aroma of roasted meats and spiced wine from the feast. My hands tremble slightly at my sides, and I wonder if he can hear the rapid beat of my pulse, like a war drum echoing in the stone walls.
"Alysanne," he murmurs, his voice low and rough around the edges, the sound wrapping around my name like silk. His pretty eyes hold mine, searching for any sign of doubt. He's trying to be strong, I believe, but I see the faint tremor in his hand as it cups my cheek, the way his breath catches when our gazes lock. He's nervous too, though he'd never admit it outright. Valarr's always been the steady one, the heir who shoulders the weight of the realm without flinching, but here, in this intimate space with the massive four-poster bed looming behind us, its crimson drapes tied back with golden cords, the linens turned down invitingly, his mask slips just a little. It makes me trust him more, knowing he's as vulnerable as I am. His thumb traces a gentle path along my jawline, and I lean into it instinctively, the warmth of his skin grounding me amidst the whirlwind of emotions.
I swallow hard, my fingers twisting in the folds of my wedding gown, the heavy white silk embroidered with golden roses suddenly feeling too tight, too confining against my skin. The bodice hugs my waist like a vice, and I can feel the lace of my shift beneath, already damp with a light sheen of nervous sweat. "I'm... I'm ready," I say, though the words come out softer than I intend, laced with the uncertainty I've carried since the septon bound us with those sacred vows. I know what happens on a wedding night.. the mechanics, the whispers from the ladies at court about consummation and the begetting of heirs, the vague instructions from my mother about duty and the pain that comes with it. But details? Those have always been shrouded in mystery, passed in hushed giggles among the handmaidens or stern warnings from the older women about enduring for the sake of the family. And a bare man? I've never seen one, not truly, not beyond the cold marble statues in the gardens of Highgarden or the armored knights at tourneys, their forms obscured by steel and leather. The thought sends a flutter low in my stomach, equal parts fear and something warmer, more insistent, a curious heat that pools between my thighs, making me shift uncomfortably.
He smiles then, a gentle curve of his lips that eases the knot in my chest just a fraction. His eyes soften, crinkling at the corners in that way that always makes my heart skip. "We go at your pace, my love. Always," he says, his voice a soothing rumble that vibrates through me. His thumb brushes my lower lip, tracing the path his kiss just took, and I part my lips slightly, drawing in a shaky breath. I lean into the touch, my body responding before my mind can catch up and a shiver runs down my spine, settling as an ache between my thighs, unfamiliar but not unwelcome. It's as if my flesh knows what it wants, even if my thoughts are a tangled mess of excitement and apprehension. He's so close now, his warmth seeping through our layers of clothing, his scent, the smoke from the feast fires mixed with something uniquely him, sharp, intoxicating and filling my senses and making my head swim.
Slowly, as if afraid to startle a skittish doe, Valarr's hands move to the laces at the back of my gown. His fingers, long and elegant from years of wielding quill and sword alike, work them loose with careful precision. Each tug sends a cascade of fabric lower, the silk whispering against my skin like a lover's secret. The bodice loosens, slipping from my shoulders, and cool air kisses my newly exposed flesh, raising gooseflesh along my arms and the swell of my breasts, still half-hidden by the thin linen shift beneath. I gasp softly, the sound echoing in the quiet room, and my hands come up instinctively to cover myself, cheeks burning with a flush that rivals the candle flames. But he catches my wrists gently, his grip firm yet tender, bringing my knuckles to his lips one by one. He presses soft kisses there, his breath warm and reassuring against my skin. "You're beautiful, Alysanne," he whispers, his eyes lifting to meet mine, filled with such sincerity that my resolve wavers. "Let me see you. All of you. I want to worship every inch."
His words send a fresh wave of heat through me and trust wins over shyness. I drop my arms, letting the gown pool at my feet in a whisper of silk and embroidery. Now it's just the thin linen shift, clinging to my curves in the flickering candlelight, the fabric translucent enough to hint at the shadows beneath. My nipples peak against it, hard and sensitive from the chill or perhaps from the intensity of his gaze and I can feel a slick warmth gathering between my legs, my body betraying my nervousness with its eager response. Valarr's eyes darken as they roam over me, tracing the line of my collarbone, the gentle swell of my breasts, the dip of my waist, and lower still. There's hunger there, raw and primal, but it's tempered with reverence, like I'm a rare bloom from the Reach he's afraid to crush with his touch. My core clenches involuntarily at the sight of him watching me so intently, that slick warmth intensifying, making me shift my thighs together in a futile attempt to ease the growing ache.
Valarr takes a steadying breath, his chest rising and falling more rapidly now and he shrugs off his own doublet next. The fine black velvet, embroidered with the three-headed red dragon of House Targaryen, falls to the floor with a soft thud. His white linen shirt follows, tugged over his head in one fluid motion that reveals the broad planes of his chest. Oh gods. I've imagined this in fleeting dreams, in the quiet hours before sleep when my mind wandered to what it would be like to be truly his, but seeing it is different.. overwhelming and intoxicating. His skin is pale, almost luminous in the candlelight, smooth save for a faint line of dark hair trailing from the center of his chest down over his taut abdomen, disappearing into the waistband of his breeches. Muscles shift under his flesh as he moves, honed from swordplay in the yards, not bulky like some of the brutish knights I've seen at tourneys but lean and powerful, every line speaking of controlled strength. My mouth goes dry at the sight and lower, that ache intensifies into a insistent pulse of need, making me press my legs together again as a flush creeps up my neck. He's beautiful, my husband, like a living sculpture forged by the gods themselves, and my body knows it before I do. My breasts growing heavy and sensitive, nipples straining against the shift, a wetness seeping between my folds that makes me wonder if he can smell my arousal in the air.
He steps closer, closing the scant distance between us until our bodies nearly touch, and I can feel the heat radiating from him like the sun over the Summer Isles. It's dizzying, this proximity, the way his presence envelops me. "May I?" he asks, his voice husky now, laced with a desire that mirrors my own, his fingers hovering at the ties of my shift. I nod, words failing me entirely, my throat too tight to form a coherent response. He unties it slowly, deliberately, his eyes never leaving mine as the fabric parts like a curtain revealing a sacred rite. The shift slides down my body in a silken glide, pooling at my feet and leaving me bare, exposed in the soft, golden light. My arms itch to cover myself again, my small, pert breasts with their rosy peaks, the soft curve of my hips flaring out to thighs that tremble slightly, the dark curls guarding the most intimate part of me, but Valarr's gaze holds me steady, full of awe and adoration. "Gods, Alysanne," he breathes, his voice reverent, almost a prayer, "you're perfection. My wife is perfection.“
Emboldened by his words, by the love shining in those brown and blue depths, I reach for him, my hands trembling as they push at the ties of his breeches. My fingers fumble slightly, nerves making them clumsy, but he helps, his own hands steadying mine as he loosens the fastenings. He kicks off his boots with a quiet thud, then shoves the breeches down his legs, stepping out of them until he's bare before me. My breath catches sharply in my throat, a gasp that I can't suppress. His length stands proud from the nest of dark curls at his groin, thick and hard, curving slightly upward toward his flat stomach, the head flushed a deep pink and glistening with a bead of moisture at the tip. I've heard the crude jests from the stable boys and the bawdy songs sung in the taverns, but this... this is him, attached to the man I have fallen in love with and the sight sends a rush of molten heat straight to my core. My cunt throbs in response, a fresh gush of slickness easing the way as I clench around nothing, imagining, fearing and yet craving how he'd feel filling me completely. Fear mingles with desire in a heady cocktail.. will it hurt as my mother warned? Will I please him, be the wife he deserves? but his hand on my waist, warm and possessive, grounds me, pulling me back to the moment.
"You're staring, love," he teases softly, a hint of amusement in his voice to mask the tension I see in his jaw, the way his cock twitches under my gaze. His cheeks color faintly, a rare blush.
"I.. I can't help it," I admit, my voice a whisper, eyes tracing the length of him again, from the veined shaft to the heavy sac beneath. It's intimidating, larger than I'd imagined from the vague descriptions, but the thought of it inside me, claiming me as his, sends another wave of arousal crashing through me. My nipples ache, begging for touch, and I feel empty, yearning.
He chuckles low, the sound rumbling through his chest, and takes my hand, guiding it to his length. "Touch me, if you wish. I want to feel you, Alysanne." His voice is strained, breath hitching as my fingers wrap tentatively around him. He's hot, velvet-smooth over steel-hard, and he pulses in my grip, a low groan escaping his lips. I stroke him experimentally, slow and curious, marveling at the way he hardens further, the bead of pre-cum smearing over my palm. It's filthy, this act, yet so very intimate, a shared secret between us.
He guides me to the bed then, the feather mattress dipping under our combined weight as we kneel facing each other on the soft linens. His arms wrap around me, pulling me close until it's skin to shift for him, skin to skin for the brief moment before he tugs the last barrier away- no, wait, the shift is already gone. We're bare now, fully, and I gasp at the contact, my nipples brushing the fine hairs of his chest, sending sparks of pleasure shooting straight to my core. We kiss again, deeper this time, his tongue sliding against mine in a slow, sensual rhythm that makes my head spin and my body melt into his. His hands explore me with reverent care, callused palms skimming down my back in long, soothing strokes, tracing the curve of my spine before cupping the swell of my ass and squeezing gently. The pressure draws a whimper from my throat, unbidden, and I feel his length twitch against my belly, hard and insistent.
"Tell me what you like" he says against my mouth, his voice strained with his own mounting need, breath hot and ragged. "Guide me, Alysanne. I want this to be perfect for you."
I don't know yet, not fully. My experiences limited to my own tentative touches in the privacy of my bath chamber, but I arch into him, showing rather than telling, pressing my breasts against his chest and rocking my hips subtly against his thigh. The friction against my clit makes me moan into the kiss, and he responds by lifting me slightly, settling me astride his lap so I can feel the full length of him nestled against my folds.
We stay like that for what feels like an eternity, kissing and touching, learning each other's bodies with the patience of new lovers. His mouth leaves mine to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses down my neck, sucking lightly at the sensitive skin of my collarbone, marking me with faint red blooms that will remind me of this night come morning. I tilt my head back, giving him better access, my fingers threading through his hair to hold him close. "Valarr" I breathe, the sound half-plea and half-prayer, as his teeth graze the hollow of my throat.
He lays me back slowly then, his body following until he's hovering over me, propped on his elbows to keep his weight from crushing me. The mattress cradles us like a cloud, and I feel safe beneath him, cherished. He kisses a path down my neck again, lingering on each spot that makes me gasp, then lower to my breasts. His violet eyes flick up to mine, seeking permission even now, and I nod eagerly, arching up toward him. His mouth closes over one nipple, warm and wet, tongue swirling around the hardened peak before drawing it deep into his mouth with a gentle suck. Pleasure shoots straight to my cunt like lightning, and I buck against him, feeling the hard length of his cock press insistently against my thigh, leaving a smear of his arousal on my skin.
"Valarr" I moan, fingers tightening in his hair, holding him there as he lavishes attention on first one breast, then the other. Licking, sucking, nipping with his teeth just enough to send jolts of mingled pain and ecstasy through me. He leaves them wet and aching, shining in the candlelight, and I feel the cool air tease the sensitive tips, making me whine for more.
"You taste like honeyed wine" he murmurs against my skin, his voice a gravelly whisper that vibrates through me. "So sweet, so responsive. I could spend the night just here, worshiping these perfect tits." The words are filthy, coming from him, but they only heighten my arousal, making my cunt clench with need. He cups one breast in his hand, thumb flicking the nipple as his mouth works the other, and I writhe beneath him, legs parting of their own accord to cradle his hips.
He moves lower still, his kisses trailing a scorching path over my stomach, dipping into my navel before continuing to the soft skin of my hips. He nips at the bone there, soothing the sting with his tongue, and I laugh breathlessly, the sound turning into a gasp as he hooks one of my legs over his shoulder. His breath fans hot against my inner thighs, so close to where I ache most, and I tense, anticipation coiling tight in my belly. "Valarr.. what-?“
"I want to taste you, Alysanne" he says, looking up at me with those piercing violet eyes, seeking permission as always. "All of you. Let me make you feel good, please. Let me show you how much I love you.“ The endearment, combined with the raw hunger in his gaze, undoes me. I nod, breathless, my hands fisting the sheets as he parts my legs wider, settling between them like he's come home. His fingers stroke my folds gently at first, tracing the slick petals with feather-light touches that make me shiver. He finds me soaked, drenched with arousal, and he groans low in his throat, the sound primal and possessive. "So wet for me already" he rasps, circling my entrance with one finger before sliding it inside slowly. The intrusion is gentle, but it's enough to make me gasp, my walls fluttering around the digit as he pumps it in and out, curling to brush that sensitive spot inside.
"Oh gods" I whimper, hips lifting off the bed to meet his hand. He adds a second finger, stretching me further, his thumb finding my clit and rubbing in slow circles that make stars dance behind my eyelids. It's overwhelming, this dual sensation. His fingers fucking me slowly, deliberately, while his mouth hovers just above, breath teasing my most sensitive flesh.
Then his tongue joins, lapping at my clit in slow, firm strokes that have me crying out. He sucks the pearl between his lips, humming approval as my hips buck against his face, chasing the building pressure. It's filthy and divine all at once, his lips and tongue devouring me, delving into my entrance to taste my essence directly, lapping up my juices like a man starved. "You taste like sin" he growls against me, the vibration sending shockwaves through my core. „This sweet, dripping cunt.. made for my mouth. Fuck, Alysanne, you're going to come on my tongue, aren't you? Let me have it, love." His dirty words, mixed with the tender kisses he presses to my inner thighs between licks, push me higher. I rock against him shamelessly now, one hand in his hair, the other clutching the sheets as the coil in my belly tightens unbearably. Pleasure builds like a storm over Blackwater Bay, crashing over me in a torrent. It's too much, too good, and I shatter with a sob, my cunt clenching rhythmically around his fingers as waves of ecstasy crash over me, coating his chin and hand with my release. He doesn't stop, licking me through it gently, prolonging the bliss until I'm trembling, oversensitive and boneless.
He kisses my thigh tenderly as I come down, nipping at the soft flesh before crawling back up my body, his lips glistening with my essence. He kisses me deeply, sharing my taste, and I moan into his mouth, wrapping my arms around his neck. "Did that feel good?" he asks, forehead pressed to mine, his cock nudging insistently at my entrance now, hot and slick with pre-cum.
"Yes" I whisper, still panting, my legs wrapping around his waist to pull him closer. "Please, Valarr.. I want you inside me. I need to feel you, all of you." The words tumble out, bold and needy, surprising even me, but they're true. The ache is back, deeper now, an emptiness only he can fill.
He positions himself carefully, rubbing the broad head of his cock along my slit to ease the way, coating himself in my wetness. "I'll go slow, my love" he promises, his voice thick with restraint, a fine sheen of sweat on his brow. "Breathe with me. You're safe. I love you." He pushes in slowly, just the tip breaching me, and there's pressure, intense, stretching pressure that borders on burn. I wince, nails digging into his shoulders, a sharp sting radiating from my core as my maiden walls resist the intrusion. It hurts, more than I expected, like being split open from the inside, and tears prick my eyes.
"Breathe, love" he soothes immediately, stilling completely, his body trembling with the effort to hold back. He peppers my face with soft kisses.. forehead, eyelids, cheeks, lips.. whispering endearments between each one. "You're doing so well. Just relax for me. I've got you. This pain will pass, and then it'll be nothing but pleasure, I swear it." His hand slips between us, fingers finding my clit again and rubbing gentle circles to distract from the discomfort, reigniting that spark of arousal.
I take deep breaths, matching his rhythm, focusing on the love in his eyes, the tenderness in his touch. The pain ebbs slowly, replaced by a fullness that's more ache than hurt now, my body adjusting to him inch by inch. He rocks forward minutely, giving me time to adapt, murmuring sweet nothings. "That's it, love. Feel how well we fit? Your tight cunt was made for me, gripping me like a vice. Gods, you feel like heaven, Alysanne." The dirty praise, laced with affection, helps, making the stretch feel less like invasion and more like union.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity of careful advances and pauses, he's seated deep inside me, our hips flush, his cock buried to the hilt. The fullness is intense, a mix of lingering ache and burgeoning bliss, every nerve alight with sensation. I rock my hips experimentally, testing, and it draws a guttural moan from him, his head dropping to my shoulder. "Fuck, Alysanne" he groans, voice raw. "So tight and wet."
He moves then, a slow withdrawal almost to the tip before sliding back in, the friction igniting sparks along my walls. We both groan at the sensation, and he sets a gentle rhythm, hips rolling into mine with measured thrusts. Our hands link above my head, fingers intertwined, eyes locked as breaths mingle. It's romantic, our bodies moving as one, souls entwined, but as passion builds, it turns more urgent. He drives harder, the slap of skin on skin echoing in the chamber, his cock hitting a spot deep inside that makes stars burst behind my eyelids with each plunge. "Take me, love" he growls, losing some of that composure, pounding into me with raw need while whispering how good I feel, how he loves me, how my cunt milks him so perfectly.
I meet him thrust for thrust, legs locked tight around his waist, urging him deeper, nails raking down his back. Sweat slicks our skin, the bed creaking rhythmically beneath us, and I feel another climax building, coiling tight in my core. "Valarr, I'm close" I pant, voice breaking on a moan, and he reaches between us, thumb circling my clit with firm pressure. "Come for me, love“ he whispers, even as his eyes shine with love. "Let me feel you shatter around me."
That's it. I come undone, walls fluttering and clenching around him in powerful spasms, milking his length as ecstasy rips through me. I cry his name, arching off the bed, and he follows moments later, burying himself deep with a roar, hips stuttering as he spills hot inside me, pulse after pulse of his seed flooding my womb. Our releases mingle in that intimate flood, sealing our bond.
We collapse together, tangled and spent, his weight a comforting blanket over me for a moment before he rolls to the side, pulling me into his arms. He kisses my temple, my forehead, murmuring, "I love you, Alysanne." His fingers trace lazy patterns on my back, soothing the faint scratches I've left.
"I love you too" I reply, sated and secure, the initial pain faded into a warm glow of contentment. My body hums with aftershocks, sore but satisfied, and I nuzzle into his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart. This is just the beginning, our night stretching out with promises of more, all ours in this sanctuary we've claimed together.
___
The next morning
Sunlight filters through the heavy crimson drapes of the bedchamber, casting a warm, golden glow across the tangled sheets. I stir slowly, my body heavy with the languid satisfaction of deep sleep, but as awareness creeps in, so does the ache. A tender soreness between my thighs that reminds me of every moment from the night before. Valarr's arm is draped possessively over my waist, his chest pressed warm and solid against my back, his breath steady and even against the nape of my neck. We're still naked, our limbs entwined like vines on a trellis. I shift slightly, testing the soreness, and a soft wince escapes my lips. It hurts, yes, but it's a good hurt, a mark of the love we've finally consummated, the barrier broken between us.
Valarr stirs behind me, his arm tightening instinctively, pulling me closer. "Alysanne?" His voice is rough with sleep, that Valyrian lilt even more pronounced in the morning haze. He nuzzles into my hair, inhaling deeply, and I feel a flutter in my chest at the simple intimacy of it. We're married now, truly bound, and this, waking in his arms, feels like a dream I never want to end.
"I'm here," I murmur, turning in his embrace to face him. His eyes open slowly, heavy-lidded and soft. He looks younger like this, less the composed prince and more the man I confessed my love to last night again, vulnerable and real. A lazy smile curves his lips as he takes me in, his gaze roaming over my face, my bare shoulders peeking from the sheets. "Good morning, my wife."
The word sends a thrill through me, warming me from the inside out. "Good morning, husband." I lean in, pressing a soft kiss to his lips, tentative at first, testing the waters of this new day. His mouth is warm, tasting faintly of the wine from last night, and he responds with equal gentleness, his hand cupping the back of my head to deepen the kiss just a little. Our tongues brush, a spark igniting low in my belly despite the soreness, and I feel him harden against my thigh, his body waking faster than his mind.
We kiss like that for what feels like hours, lazy and unhurried, our hands exploring familiar territory with renewed wonder. His fingers trace the curve of my spine, dipping lower to squeeze my ass gently, mindful of any discomfort. I whimper into his mouth, the sound turning to a gasp as I shift my leg over his hip, the movement pulling at the tender muscles between my legs. "Sore?" he asks, pulling back slightly, concern etching his features. His thumb strokes my cheek, eyes searching mine.
"A little," I admit, cheeks flushing. "But it's.. nice. A reminder." I bite my lip, emboldened by the morning light and the privacy of our chamber. The soreness is there, a dull throb that speaks of his thickness stretching me, claiming me, but it's overshadowed by the fresh wave of desire building as I feel his cock twitch against me, hard and ready.
He groans softly, his forehead resting against mine. "I don't want to hurt you, love." But even as he says it, his hips rock subtly, seeking friction, and I know he's as hungry as I am. After all we are newly married, bodies attuned after one night of discovery, eager for more.
"You won't," I whisper, kissing him again, deeper this time, my hand sliding down his chest to wrap around his length. He's hot and velvety in my grip, pulsing with need, and he hisses against my lips. The memory of last night floods back. His mouth on me, bringing me to shattering release and a sudden urge grips me. I want to return the favor, to taste him, to make him feel the same ecstasy he gave me. But nervousness twists in my gut. I’ve never done this, never even seen it up close in the light of day. What if I do it wrong? What if I can't please him?
I pull back, my hand still stroking him slowly, and meet his gaze. "Valarr.. I want to.. to make you feel good. Like you did for me. With my mouth." The words tumble out, awkward and bold, my face burning.
His eyes widen, darkening with lust, but he doesn't laugh or push. Instead, he smiles that tender smile, cupping my face. "Alysanne, you don't have to-„
"I want to," I insist, my voice steadier now. "Please. Show me how."
He searches my eyes for a moment, then nods, his hand guiding mine away as he rolls onto his back, pulling me with him until I'm straddling his thighs. "Come here" he murmurs, voice husky. "I'll guide you. Just follow what feels right." He props himself on the pillows, his cock standing proud against his stomach, and I slide down his body, settling between his legs. My heart races, a mix of nerves and excitement, as I take in the sight of him- thick, veined, the head glistening with pre-cum. He's beautiful, even like this, and the thought of taking him into my mouth makes my cunt clench, a fresh trickle of wetness despite the soreness.
I lean in tentatively, my breath ghosting over him, and he shudders. "Start slow," he says softly, one hand threading gently through my hair, not pulling, just resting there. "Lick the tip, taste me." I do, my tongue darting out to lap at the bead of pre-cum, salty and musky on my taste buds. He groans, low and deep, his hips twitching. Emboldened, I swirl my tongue around the head, exploring the sensitive underside, and he praises me, voice strained. "Yes, like that, love. Gods, your mouth is heaven."
I take him deeper then, lips wrapping around the head, sucking gently as my hand strokes the base. It's awkward at first, my jaw stretching to accommodate his girth, but I focus on his reactions, the way his breath hitches, the soft curses falling from his lips. "Fuck, Alysanne, you're going to make me lose my mind." His hand in my hair guides me subtly, showing me the rhythm, how to hollow my cheeks, to use my tongue along the vein. I hum around him, the vibration drawing a sharp moan from him, and I feel powerful, cherished, as I bob my head, taking more of him each time. Saliva slicks my chin, the wet sounds filthy in the quiet morning, but it's intimate and loving, me on my knees for him, eager to please.
He's trembling now, thighs tensing under my hands, and I look up through my lashes, seeing stars in his eyes, his face contorted in ecstasy. "Your mouth sucking my cock so carefully.. like it's the most precious thing. Gods, you're perfect. Don't stop- I’m close." His words spur me on, and I suck harder, hand twisting at the base, until he comes with a roar, hot spurts flooding my mouth. I swallow what I can, the rest spilling over my lips, and he pulls me up immediately, kissing me fiercely, tasting himself on my tongue. "That was incredible," he pants, eyes shining with awe. "You have no idea how good you made me feel."
I smile, wiping my mouth, a swell of pride mixing with the lingering taste of him. But we're far from done. As my breathing evens, I feel him harden again against my thigh, his cock twitching with renewed interest. "Already?" I tease softly, a giggle escaping despite the tenderness between my legs.
He chuckles, the sound vibrating through me. "For you, always" His hand slides down to cup my breast, thumb teasing the nipple back to hardness, and I arch into him, desire stirring anew, my body aching for more despite the soreness. "I want to ride you," I say boldly, surprising myself. "Let me be on top this time."
His eyes light up, and he nods, lying back fully. "As you wish, my love. Take what you need." I straddle him, positioning his cock at my entrance, slick from my arousal. Slowly, I sink down, the stretch burning a little with the soreness, but easier now, fuller. We both moan as I bottom out, his hands on my hips steadying me. I rock gently at first, sweet and slow, our eyes locked, hands linked on his chest. "You feel so good inside me," I whisper, rising and falling in a languid rhythm, savoring every inch.
He thrusts up subtly, matching me, his voice turning dirty even as his touch remains tender. "Ride me, Alysanne. Gods, your tight cunt.. I'm going to fill you up again, love. Pump you full of my seed, breed you like the queen you are. Give you so many babies-" The words send a shiver through me, igniting something primal, my hips grinding harder as I imagine it.. his cum taking root, our children with his eyes and my hair.
"Sweet and slow," he murmurs, one hand cupping my breast, thumb teasing the nipple. "Let me watch you come undone. I’ll fuck a babe into you, watch your belly swell with our heir." His dirty talk, laced with love, pushes me higher, and I ride him with building urgency, the soreness forgotten in the bliss. We come together, my walls milking him as he spills deep, whispering promises of family and forever. We collapse, cuddling close, the morning stretching before us in sated bliss and I wonder if we are ever going to leave this chamber.
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tag list: @gknj9495 @hydracassiopeiadarablack @062292 @white-olive @xxvelvetxxxx
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I havent written smut like this in so long so I hope its to your liking! if you want me to write more scenes like this, let me know! Anyways, epilogue coming next
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.
