Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Since asks are open, I’m curious about the 4 staglings. Can we get more information about them? - 🪿
Five little stags-
Lyonel Baratheon x Lady D - Domestic fluff x parenting
MASTERLIST - SEND PROMPTS - AO3
Goosey anon, my beloved 🪿 I couldn’t stop with this couple. This has been in my brain for a solid month. It is so long and rambling I’m so so sorry. It ran off with me- I hope you enjoy it. Fluff enough to rot your teeth.
As the name of the story suggests, they have five little stags (which sounds like a nursery rhyme) and they are as follows; Jorys, Olira, Ceres, Durran and Ormund.
Storm Land beaches are rare, so you’ve been told; you snatch up the opportunity of them when you can.
Ash grey sand that drinks up the colour of the sky. There are no shells intact, just fragments of them. Rocks dashed on the sand, so sharp they could cut your palms to cup them. The land slanting towards the sea, is sparsely tufted with dry dune grass. Even grass struggled to grow here but it relented. It’s just the right kind of Storm Land bleak you’re used too, and you take the chance to use it.
Coves like this come unbidden, in that rare flat gap when the sea isn’t as power hungry or battering as it usually seeks to be.
A calm day. Wind stirs up slow. The sky arrives trying its best to be birds egg blue. You’d taken the golden, gorse-tangled coastal path right the other side of the bay.
A well trampled route, that’s tickled with the bright yellow scent of the hardy shrub flowers that overhang it. Melding with the fierce knife cut and the mineral kiss of the salty winds. Gulls wheeling overhead in high arcs with their cries. Fishing boats and merchant vessels bob on the horizon. Pale square sails stark against the gradient blue-grey. Today the sea fell heavy and dark as blue ink.
You walk to where the jagged corner rounds, smooths, and there a cove hides. A rocky incline down the headland that slopes. Gathered into the land, lays flat the salty stretch of sand that the ocean, for once, isn’t hugging. Gently huddling itself away from the mighty headland rock like the shore had peeled itself away, and was proudly showing you it’s naked beige secret.
The Stormlands are not well known for their gentleness. You should know; you’ve been the Lady of it, near going on twenty years now.
You sit back on the blanket you’d spread on the dry sands. Watching your Stagling’s roam, cause trouble, and grow. Shooting off in different directions. You marvel at the variety.
Spying how Jorys runs as fast as his strong, long legs will take him. A kite in his hands. Prompting the wind to try and take it and soar it high above. A golden diamond of a Baratheon flag ready to swoop far up to the pushed back clouds.
He’s no boy anymore; your oldest, soaring well into adulthood. You can’t believe how time has swallowed away your toddling little boy and brought out a grown man. Jawline as carved as his fathers. Hair a wild sweep, and black as night. Grin equally as devastating. His height nearly towers over Lyonel’s.
He inherited your husbands love for wilderness. For sailing. Hunting. Hawking. Gathering up as much of the world as he could in his hands. Every scar and lesson he earned with hard grit and determination. He ran untamed to Tarth and Lys and had already sailed much of the rest beyond the Stepsones and Tyrosh. Itching to discover more of Bloodstone and the Grey Gallows.
He’s more drawn back than his father. Less of a tempest, more of a sly lightning bolt that lays in wait to strike. Lyonel always tells you with a proud grin that he spies your hand in that side to him. He’s diplomatic, but not weak. Learned how to read a room before he enters. Weights and tests his words with clever strength before he speaks them.
Just like you do, Lady Storm. You’ve taught our stag well. He beams.
Lyonel boasted that his Jory was not far off discovering the joys of wine and women. And then you’d all be sorry; he was like to be the bold devastation of many a noble girl. And the root cause of desolation to many hearts. With a grin as bright as the one Lyonel won you over with; you don’t doubt it. A little part of you dreads it. That soon he will flee the safety of the keep.
He will make his mark in time. He’s been guided wisely. Lyonel was careful to weed out of all his own shortcomings when they cropped up, and made themselves known in his son.
There were many years yet before he’s come to take the Storm Lords seat. He used his every second wisely. He trained with every weapon there was in the armoury.
Had sailed and broken many a mast on some of your ships. He read up on so many topics the master damn near ran out of books to ply him with. He learned his way through languages like running water, Valyrian, the old tongue, and was an avid student of histories like he was training to be shipped off to the citadel. Always studious. Seeking. Laughing and smiling as much as his fathers old namesake.
Durran is Jorys shadow. Running along, always at his ankles like an inky haired burr; had done since the day he was born. He looked upwards to his big brother in every regard. Now Jory was trying to show him how to fly the kite they’d painted together. A messily limbed stag stamped on the yellow. Antlers wonky, legs fat and misshapen like it was club footed. But the special thing about it was the fact they’d been waiting for two moons to come fly it together.
Only just nudging four, Durran was your second youngest. Born during a storm that near deafened the keep alongside your pained cries. Lighting struck the sea, green as wildfire, and flashing powerful.
When the midwife told you it was a boy; You and Lyonel took one look at each other, knowing instantly his name needed to be a devotion to the man who raised those very walls. The ones that were used to the sea throwing themselves at, hard enough to try and knock it back into the land.
Ceres is spinning off wild somewhere. As per her usual stride. If there’s nature to explore, she’d find it. Possibly she had headed up towards the headlands with little Ormund, your youngest, propped like a lumpy, warm weight on her hip.
She scooped him up from where he stood patting and mushing his little hands in the wet sand, making piles of it, and told the little tot they were off to look for smugglers caves, and pirate gold, rum or treasure, hiding in salt flecked caves in the rocks. Bare feet squishing in the sand.
“Please be careful. No rock climbing. Stay where we can see you both.” You call over. Voice dancing and rippling on the wind.
She calls her assent over her shoulder. Hoiking her brother up her hip to hear him laugh. Fingers clutching at a chunk of her hair. She’s looking skywards. Pointing out the path of the swallows that dipped ahead. Letting his little eyes follow her slim finger. “Look at the birdies. Ormund. Look-“
She truly was your adventuress. Your ray of utter sunshine - never dimming. Long, perpetually waving, untamed hair that exactly mirrored your own. Always wrestled back off her face, but never behaving. Forever with pencils or sagging ribbons lost in it. Her face was dotted with a spray of dark freckles. Like sharpened stars scattered across her skin. Eyes silver as the sea. Lightning Dondarrion grey.
She’s combed through every biological book in Storm’s End. Knew everything there was to be known about this natural world. Of animals and nature. Sea creatures. Dragons. Birds. Every walk of wildlife. You’ve never seen a girl so taken with a love of animals and the like.
She had a way with all your stable stock that was almost otherworldly. The only slip of a girl you knew you could stare down and calm a warhorse ten times her size. More comfortable on horseback in boiled leathers and boots, than she ever had been in a dress.
From her first stubby rounded pony to her current fine speckled grey palfrey. Forever riding off on her own to the woods in search of a hedgehog, deer, or a fox to study. She was not a lover of hunts. Oft going off to hide so she didn’t have to witness the bloody slaughter of a deer or boar.
Her love of eating meat had declined over the years. She didn’t warm to the cruelty of a hunt. Though she still did have a soft spot for cheese, and any wounded animal she came across.
She has gathered up quite the menagerie back at the keep over the years. A nest of baby starlings in the rookery eaves to watch over. A new clutch of kittens from the kitchen cat. She fed and named the rats in the dungeons. Took in any bird with a poor leg or an undeveloped wing. Orphaned underfed piglets. Chickens. Old mules with missing teeth. A shaggy rust coloured steer with one horn. Strays and runts of litters of all kinds.
You’d no doubt they’ll come back with their hands clutching dried starfish or the broken curl of mussel shells. Cockle and limpet shells too. Dune grass sticking out their hair and sand damp and cloying on their clothes. Smiles bright as any sun.
Ceres told you she wants to gather as many whole shells as she can, to make a twinkling seashell chime to hang over Ormund’s cot. Let it sparkle in the meagre sun with butter yellow periwinkles, the iridescent mottled blue and green of mussel shells, the white and brown of cockles. A starfish or two if they’re lucky enough to reach the tide pools.
Ormund with his wide dark two year old eyes that sparkled in awe at everything new. Wide smiley cheeks kissed with the salty breeze of his home. A taste he was born too and will come to know better than his own name. He was such a smiley baby already. Everything posed to him met with laughter in his milk teethed mouth.
Your eyes scan to find them. Which you do. Dipping in and out of a cave. Ceres letting him feel the wet rock with his little fingers. Sand dusting his soft skin.
You have no fear for their safety. The tide is well out and you have time. Besides which, your dogged old knight, Ser Seldan, lays in wait up on the headland, dark cloak swathing his wide shoulders, with three soldiers.
Your loyal direwolf never lurked far away. Silvered and grey as he was now; hair bolted silver like a dragonseed, but as stocky and resolute as the wall. Age had not wearied him. Only made the old wolf sharper. Especially now he has this rowdy clutch of little stags to oversee.
You sweep your gaze across the beach. Coming past where Jorys and Durran are still running wild. Kite swirling and tugging on the air. Jerking and dropping. Jorys laughter swells and falls, along with Durrans.
You sit on the dryer sand, shoes off, skirt draped to your calves, feet curled into the dry sugar soft grain of the sand. Wind whipped and trickling some of it back across to the ocean.
The waves crawl slow to the shore rather than the usual thrashing it gets. You’d spread a rug out. Woolen and thick under your hands where you sit back. Watching your family bolt to all corners of the cove.
Mostly they gather at the mouth of the rocks ahead where you can see them. A picnic basket lays unopened beside you. A simple fare, soft bread, milk and honey for the little ones, carved thick slabs of ham, some cheeses, hard and soft and blue. Apples and pears to cut with a knife and some berry cordial for the children. A wine skin of red for you and Lyonel.
Your eyes go to your husband. Who is walking along, cutting a dark figure into the white crush of the waves, Olira walks beside him. Skirts held up out the sand so they don’t stain.
He’s got her arm crooked in his elbow. His Doe, he calls her. Soft and sweet as one. Lyonel has promised her, when the day does come, he will solicit ravens from all over the seven, far and wide, for a good suitor for her. They will invite him to Storms End and vet him thoroughly.
They are probably discussing poetry if you had to guess. Or stories. Maybe histories. She liked the nicer ones. Tales of love, duty. The unfailing honour of man.
Your oldest girl, in similar respects to Jory, wouldn’t bear her girlhood much longer. She’s nearly a woman now too. Tall and willowly as you’d been at that age. Seemingly sprouting long legs out of nowhere. Hair long and often worn unbound to her waist. A vision of unquestionably feminine beauty. Brushed and attended carefully.
Her clothes a careful representation of her vanity. She had raised herself to know of every court courtesy and every fashion there was. Demure and quietly respectful. Her head rampant with stories of great loves and famous songs of chivalry. She vowed when she was seven, that one day she’d find a great a love as you and Lyonel had.
She took more kindly to the Septa’s teachings than Ceres. She embroidered beautifully. She sang as sweet as a peeping songbird. She could play a good handful of instruments that she’d taken care to learn over the years. Chided herself if any aspect wasn’t perfect. A little to unfair with herself, you feel, sometimes. And you like that there is a sillier, softer side that being around her brothers and especially her sister, draws out.
You like the duality. One daughter who would never be caught dead at court, let alone in a dress. And another who sees it as her undeniable birthright to be the perfect lady. You love them both unequivocally. You do often wonder what adulthood will make of the both of them.
You watch with a smile. Hand shading your eyes as Durran sprints alongside his brother, but then his path veers out towards his father. Toddling too fast on little legs. Arms outstretched. “This way Durry.” Jory calls. “The sea will get you.”
Lyonel turns and a huge grin takes his mouth. Curls flying out in the sea flecked breeze. He launches down, arms wide. Scoops up his boy, sweeping his feet right off the ground. “Never mind the sea boy. A big bold stag has got you instead. Aha.” He booms.
Cups him up to his chest, torn off the sand, roaring laughter, legs sticking out sideways as Lyonel dips his head low and pretends to eat and kiss his ears. Whirling him around. The sound of his delighted shrieking breaking upon the waves. It makes you smile. Sea splashing out under his boots.
Olira smiles at the sight. Fiddling with a birds feather Ormund gave her. Going to Jorys side to watch the kite spin. Lyonel twirls him round and round enough to make him lose his breakfast nearly. Tickling his ribs til he cries so hard he can scarce breathe.
He hefts the boy up into his arms. Holding him sideways still like a plank of wood and not a boy. Strong arms cupping as he spins him to hear the laughter grow. Taking him up the beach and back toward you. “Go find your mother. Go get her. Pup. She looks lonely. Go go go. Run.”
Lyonel spins him one last time. Before setting him down. Crouching and whispering in his ear with a grin. Letting him loose like a spinning top. One that reels straight for you.
You brace for him. Waiting for the pounce. The bowling of little antlers.
When he gets there, he flattens you with all his four year old barreling weight and might. Hands seeking up for your hair. Giggling as he gets you on your back. Arms around his little body. You clutch him tight. Rolling in the sand. Hair flying out. Cushioned back behind you.
Lyonel laughs at the sight of you. Quite literally bowled over.
Durran presses a slobbery kiss to your cheek. “Got you.” He laughs. Breathless and grinning.
“So you have. What will you do with me now Durry Baratheon?” You check.
“Hug.” He snuggles into you as his answer. Arms over you. He’d just learnt the word.
“Oh no. A veritable blood bath.” Lyonel announces. Walking to your rug and taking to a knee to splay himself out beside you. The sand sighing out under him.
He rests on his side. Up on an elbow. Watching your son fling himself to your chest and rest his head there. Possibly in an attempt at a respite from all the running around. Lungs rattling about in his ribs.
“Come on. Pup. I said cuddle mama. Can’t let her be lonely. Big squeeze.” Lyonel urges.
They attack you from both sides. Pincer movement. Lyonel from the right. You feel him press an army of kisses into your silvery hair. Strong arm coming over your stomach to band you in place. Durry finds it great fun. Cuddling the breath out of you from the left side.
You sit up. Smiling. Watching as Durry shuffles up to better watch Jory twirl the kite around the sky. Over the sand and then jerkily flying out to the sea.
“Was it fun?” You ask him. Eyes on his curious grin. Looking up. “Watching it fly so high.” Swiping a hand through his hair. Dark curls flopping back into place after you brush through them.
He nods quickly. Bobbling his little head. Grin barely contained.
You reach for the food. Amazed this hamper had lasted unmolested so long. Usually the boys attack food like starved orphans and eat twice their body weight. Appetites like gannets. You tear off some of the soft loaf, dip it in a bit of honey. And wedge cheese into it. Durry gratefully curls it into his fingers. Mashes it into his mouth.
He takes off at a run again. Kite in his sight. Yelling for Jory. But the way he said his name hasn’t quite come out right yet. He’s not got a hold of his letters. Sounds more like ‘Gory.’
“Durry! Not with your mouth full. You’ll choke. Slow down.” You call after him. Brushing your hands of crumbs and sand. He only just listens.
“Mercy me.” You mutter.
“A whirlwind that one.”
Lyonel grins like a proud mother hen. Or like a strutting stag. Chest puffed up. Antlers high.
“That’s what happens when you’re a stormborn babe. The maester did warn us.” You grin.
Lyonel smirks. Lip curling on one side. “Good thing we didn’t fucking listen. All his doddery portends and omens.”
Staying by your side. He tilts on a hip. His breath slinks hot and muggy across your ear. “Get over here. Lady Storm.” He smiles like sin.
“Not here with the children belting around.” You sigh back. But you’re moving anyway.
“We’ve fucked in this cove before. On our honeymoon, if my memory serves.”
He gets you between his spread legs. Back to his chest. Chin resting itself on the crown of your head. “Didn’t we manage to dodge out of the rain in that little cave just a way down the beach.”
“That was an age ago. My stag.”
You remember. A sun bleached spectre of a memory. Cold hands. Hot lips. Biting his lip to keep from moaning too loud. Just enough warmth to the air to lift your skirts over your waist so he could shift your smalls aside. Fucked you standing, with your back pressing into jagged, cold wet rock. You’d been too needy to ride all the way back to the keep.
“Aye. Nearly drowned too. Like stupid horny fools we were.” You supplied. “It started much like this. Picnicking on a blanket. Kissing. Then more than kissing…” you tilt your head. His nose runs along the back of your neck. Breathes in the mineral rich sea. The smell of strong stone from the keep. Your perfume living on your hair.
He recalls that blissful interlude; He’d kissed your lips numb. Stuffed one hand up your skirts and made you cum like that. Legs spread to his body. Arching to his hand as he strummed your clit with his thumb and drank in your choking moans. Had you gasping and crying in his arms. Fisting his clothes.
“Did the tide nearly come in before we were done?” He checks.
“Your memory does serve. Yes. We waded out when we were done. You carried me much of the way. I was picking seaweed out my hair and brushing sand out my shifts for weeks.” You explain. Patting your hand on his kneecap. Smoothing it afterwards.
He chuckles. It’s filthy. The sound muffles into your scalp. “Reckon we conceived Jory in that cave…” He simpers.
You tutt to that. Bat at his knee.
“I’d not given it much thought. I think Jorys may have been conceived in several places.” Comes your chuckled answer. You had been voracious at the beginning. And really, you hadn’t entirely stopped all throughout the marriage.
“Don’t let him overhear that. He’s scarred enough already by our amour for each other.” He smiles.
You twist back. Plonking a stern kiss to the side of his bearded chin.
His arm is still banded steady around your waist. Holding over your belly like it was precious and sacred to him. Of course it was, you’d given him five little stags from this body. If you ever wobbled, confidence sinking low, and looking too hard with a pinched face in the mirror, he’d get on his knees and treat you like his altar. Lips pressing to every holy scar or stretch mark. He’d put his face between your legs and then fuck you with such devotion until you yielded.
Whilst the importance of your rowdy family remained steadfastly valuable. You both relished the opportunity sometimes to escape the keep and sail for somewhere warm and exotic, to break up the tiring monopoly of responsibilities as Lord and Lady.
You disappear for a handful of days on a ship, across the narrow seas. Slink quietly to a mansion in Tyrosh or Dorne. For time to yourselves as man and wife.
To soak up the sun like lounging sleepy tigers. Eat nothing but fruit bursting with juice. Sun ripened. Lay in bed all day and do nothing but read books. Wander hand in hand around an unfamiliar city on a warm purple, jasmine-scented, midnight under a yellow moon. Stock up on Tyroshi pear brandy and come home with a new suntan, and a wide never-ceasing smile that makes the children grimace.
You adore the freedom and the quiet. Drinking nothing but strong gold wine and laying around, humid skin sticky, garbed in thin cottons and silks all day - sometimes not even that if you feel so inclined. Oftentimes you’d been mostly alone, just you two, on a mad rare occasion, there’s still some who would join you in bed outright, if asked.
“They all are.” You answer about the children. “You must have noticed how they all make pinched faces when we kiss.” You twist back. Plonking another stern kiss to the side of his chin.
“Apparently from Jorys visits to other castles or keeps. That’s not how other Lords and ladies behave…” You parrot his words.
Warm laughter moves through him.
“Those poor unlucky fucks.” He decides. He can’t imagine not having a wife you’d be head over heels in love with and still horny for. It makes his chest swell in lucky pride. Knowing not every marriage is like yours. More fool them.
“We have the best of it. There’s no denying.” You point out. Sand under your bare feet. Your beloved man at your back. Watching the children grow as you get older and more grey.
It melted away all pithy titles and claims. You could have been just a woman. Small folk. A fisherman watching over the tides and the place he works. Admiring yet another sunset even if it was the thousandth one you’d seen. Still cause for joy-
“Please tell me Ceres has Ormund.” He wonders suddenly. Worry ebbing on his voice. Head tilted as you watch the waves bloat, and shudder, shrinking back. Foam kissing their tips. Wind carving through both your hair, combing it back like the touch of a calm lover.
“She does. Rest easy.” You calm him. Hand over his. “They’re in the caves looking for pirate gold.”
“Thank fuck. Thought a seagull had carried him off to nest.”
“Not with the wolf’s eyes on us. Trust me. Naught gets past Seldan.” You assure. You know he’s as bulky as a rock on the headland. Eyes on every one of you.
“Either that or she’s gone full tilt and escaped on a private vessel herself to sail the seas of Myr.” Lyonel proposes.
“Hmm.” You consider. “Maybe after her 14th nameday she can take the foray into piracy.”
“Seems a solid choice. What’s the betting we get down the aisle at any point in her lifetime?”
You shift back and shoot him a look. “Ceres? Marriage? Lyonel. When you and I are withered old crones, she’ll still be an old maid at Storms End with a never ending passel of cats and birds.”
“No chance in hell?” He asks. Brow buoyed.
“Zero chance.” Ceres calls across. Walking back. Ormund babbling happily away. She took care to pluck a cockle shell from his hold before he tried to eat it. Everything went to his mouth first-
“No. Ormund. You have three teeth. You can’t eat shell.” She frowns at the babe.
“Now. Dearest. Even you may find someone you wish to marry.” Lyonel persuades.
“I won’t.” She assures you both. A grimace on her face. Pulling a shell further away from Ormunds seeking hands.
“You have Jory and Olira to wed off. They’re the pretty, talented ones. Leave me out of it.” She scowls.
“I think you’ll change your mind. One blessed day.” You say to her. Leaning forwards.
Lyonel holds his arms open, wordless, she hands off Ormund to him in a crouch.
He lays a kiss into his sons hair with a solid smack. Brushes the sand off his little fingers. Ormund happily gets bounced in his fathers hold. Tries to stuff his pendant necklace in his mouth. Sucking on the gold chain of it.
Lyonel makes a harsh “ah” disapproving sound. Bats it out his gummy mouth. Lets him play with the huge chunky ring on his finger instead. He gums on that too.
She claps her hand of sand. Shells bulging and clinking in her pockets. “Why is that-“
“Because I pledged exactly the same at your age.” You smile easily. “And look at me now—“
“I’m not like you, mother.” She impresses. Firm. Little face so devout in her belief.
“Alright. Ceres. You’re not like me. I yield. I won’t force you into anything. I’d sooner die than see you unhappy. But. Your father and I reserve the right to smile very, very smug if one day, you do decide against those stout wishes.”
She rolls her eyes. “Fine.”
You grin. “Thank you-“
Lyonel catches your eye when you turn around. “Nicely handled. My storm.” He winks. Hand reaching down to pat your hip
Ceres is back to grimacing. “If you’re going to be all kissing and lovey, I’m going back to live in that cave-“
Lyonel’s smile grows. “Funnily enough. We have a story about that very cave… it involves your brother….” He waggles his dark brows.
“Oh don’t you dare-“ you laugh. Chucking a handful of sand at his lap. Let him try and get that out of his clothes for three weeks.
Forgive the random tags but I’m Tagging some phenomenal akotsk babes whose fics gave me life. Let me know if you want on/off the list. I’m new to AKOTSK so forgive my presumptions @the-darklings @jintaka-hane @mynameistocool @lovebugism @maekarsmistress @pearlessance @noxiiousstrawberriies @ingystark @oakleafing @marsrambles @just-some-random-blogger @vhagars-dementia @escapic-mezzanine @tearsweetenedtea @nerdyinfluencertastemaker @adumbgirlinloove @moonlitmaester @silens-oro @feral4youu @whatislovevavy @happinessisaloadedgun @faelinda @crayonbug @celestrys @sallymaywritings @captainfern @theprophaecy @multyfangirl @angstybadger @asterionex @liliac-dreamer
Idea..... Lyonel being dominated and restrained until he simply can't stand it anymore and puts reader in a mating press and doesn't let up until you forget everything but how to moan.
Taking note of the way his arms strain in their bonds. Fingers curling. Testing. The way a storm teases at the horizon before it truly threatens hard pelting showers of rain.
He’s smiling at you. “Now you’ve got me here. You better put me to fucking use.”
“Don’t fret. I intend to.”
You reach back and boldly grab him through his trousers. Make him hiss. An unready stutter tumbles out his mouth. All bit off moan and shudder.
“On the bed.” You issue him an order.
Short. Curt. One that should command his obedience. Leaving simply no room for manoeuvre.
He has to twist himself out of the kiss he’s just locked you in. Teeth scraping to hurt at your lower lip as he pulls away. Rears back to check he’d heard you right. Grin crawling across his lips.
“Feeling bold are we, my savage storm.” He flirts.
Your let your hands answer for you; place both your hands on his warm, naked shoulders. And you shove-
His knees give. Collapsing his body - a tad inelegantly - onto your bed. Mussing the heavy covers. Brocade hangings swing with the juddering movement.
He’s drooling as it is. Was the minute you stepped around the screen in the bedchamber. Wearing a Dornish nightgown that may aswell have been sin in fabric form. Made his cock throb awake in his breeches.
It’s bright gold. Heart of the sun striking kind of gold. And it is so sheer it looks as if you are barely wearing a stitch. It hides nothing and you look like a fucking sex goddess to his eye.
The way you walked towards him made his eyes follow. He had his hands on you the minute he saw you in it.
He can see your tits on vivid display, makes his mouth feel empty. Nipples hard as cherry stones. Glimpse right between your legs at your full bush, hiding that plump and beautiful cunt he knows he will need sat on his face, and soon.
Candlelight travels across the fabric in swirls. Rich organza swirls.
You walk over to your bedside and wrap something around your knuckles. Loop it. Twirl it through your fingers. Cross to his right, to that same side of the bed. He watches you with that predatory yet playful intensity. Eyes following the trail of your hands.
And to the Quarth imported silk ties, he finds in them.
“Remember these?” You ask.
His smile is wider, brighter than sin. Oh yes. My lady.
“I remember.” He nods. His eyes alight with all the salacious things that you’d done with those ties.
You smile. “That was quite the memorable party. Wasn’t it.”
The huge amount of wine you’d drunk together. Poured on naked skin and licked off. Ravenous hunger in your greedy touch for each other. Entwined in the corridor. Nearly caught. But you didn’t care who heard or saw.
“You were voracious as I recall.” He tilts his head. “That Dornish lady we had in our bed… almost as wild as you. She had you screaming the ceilings down. I’m aching hard just remembering all the things you did to each other.”
You straddle him on the bed and his eyes go to that dark, flinty state when something dangerous truly pleases him. All oil shimmer and umber darkness. The one that twinned so well with that bright flash of his grin.
His hips buck under you. His solid weight between your thighs feels good. The heavy heft of his cock too. You can almost grow quietly-drunk off the power of having him under you. Astride your infamous Baratheon stag. A laughing storm between your plump thighs.
He reaches for your hips. Rough hands bleeding heat through the fabric. Calloused palms catching on it. You tutt his name. Glaring daggers. Tongue sharp as a smithy’s sword tonight.
He can only hope you intend to cut him on it.
“I think not.” You chide. In reference to his touching you. Without permission.
Linking your fingers in his. You raise both his hair dusted knuckles to your mouth. You kiss them each in turn. Slowly. Rings warm to the touch of your soft lips.
Before placing his arms up over his head. Your body making a fluid arch over him.
His muscles bulging with the new position. The raven nest of hair at his armpits heavy with the male scent of him. Burnt birch and orange clove from the soap he uses. You know you’ll find that flavour on his skin too. You’ll find it when you lick up that handsome jaw later on.
He chuckles. When he realises. The ties weren’t for him to use. They were for you.
“You fucking terror.”
You hold his arms above his head. Slowly. Methodically. Tying the silk around his wrists. One at a time. Looping the ties in the sturdy sailors knot that he taught to you.
You can feel the obnoxiously hard bulge of him through his breeches. Tenting. You’ve no doubt he was leaking in them already. For a man so loud and boisterous, he went where you pleased when pushed. Gave like a soft bellied thing rolling to submission. An animal submitting to its base weakness.
You sit back and let yourself grind to his cock a little. Through the layers. Smirking as you watch his eyelids flutter. Dark sweep of his lashes. The flash of his teeth where he bites down on his lower lip. Chest rising and falling fast. Whorls of his chest hair catching silver and raven in the light.
“Will you be compliant? I’ve only done one wrist.” You tease. Grin sharp as a knife box.
“Will you be nice?”
You smirk. Starting on the other. “No.”
He beams. It’s all kinds of filthy. “Then I should be just fine.”
Now you focus on the other. Making sure you could easily slip a finger between the tie and his skin. The flat bone of his hairy wrist. No risk of turning his hands blue.
He watches you the entire time. Eyes on the sweet smile as it lay gentle on your face. Both his arms now securely tied. Splaying him out across your bed like some doomed, pinned saint.
He won’t lie. He’s not capable of smothering his wants. His eyes do drop to your tits with a hungry longing.
“Your wrists look so pretty in gold. Husband.” You praise. Stroking a fingertip down the side of his cheek. Bristled beard under your fingertip.
Taking note of the way his arms strain in their bonds. Fingers curling. Testing. The way a storm teases at the horizon before it truly threatens hard pelting showers of rain.
He’s smiling at you. “Now you’ve got me here. You better put me to fucking use.”
“Don’t fret. I intend to.”
You reach back and boldly grab him through his trousers. Make him hiss. An unready stutter tumbles out his mouth. All bit off moan and shudder.
Curl your fingers over the rigid length. Run the width of your palm over his hardness. Jerking him through fabric in that hard punishing pace he likes most.
You move yourself down him with a lustful placid smile. Now you have the lusty beast of your husband leashed; you can take your time with him. Savour him.
You start by running your hands over his strong shoulders. Watch his face strain with the unfathomable need to reach out and grip you back; then the tortured flicker of remembering he can’t.
Your caress is slow. In a way you know would usually have him gnashing his teeth. But battling his love to let you do this. To lay down the control so it could be yours-
When you come to his chest, when you rake your nails down over his nipples, he starts to shatter. Bucks his hips up to you. A growl slopes out from between his clenched, grinding teeth. One that takes the shape of a curse. “Fuck.”
His eyes scream at you. Dark as the place between stars. “Touch me. Fuck me. Slap me. Fucking something. Anything. Please.”
You smile. Placing yourself further down his body to straddle his knees. Fingers finally hooking and weaving through the closures on his leathered trousers. Opening them. Yanking them artlessly down his hips. You take the torturous fucking decision of entirely pulling them down to his knees. Over his ankles. And throwing them behind you to the floor.
You have him entirely down to his skin. Pinned out below you like a carcass on a hunt. He makes for quite the tantalising prey.
“Get that pretty cunny on my face right this second. Or I will go fucking mad.” He swears. Promises. Desperation in his wide dark eyes.
You don’t.
He babbles newly above you, all sorts of pleas to every God he’s not familiar with, when you put your mouth on him.
Bedroom hymns or prayers that wouldn’t be out of place in a Sept. Hummed and gasped in that storm-bolting voice that shook the ceiling, and as always, he didn’t care who heard.
He sounds hoarse with the relief. Voice breaking on the first word. “Fuck. Sweeting. Yes fuckk.”
You know well the pattern he likes. You’ve certainly mouthed at his cock enough to know. Wrap your tongue around the cockhead. Tease the slit till his taste unfurls bolder on your tongue.
He thrashes when you sink down to take him deeper. Feeding every inch deeper. Nearly to the base, so your nose brushes that riot of wiry raven curls at the base of his dick. That salty-clean sweat of him strong in your nose. Heat radiating from his inner thighs. His blood ran hotter than a dornish sun.
Your fingers curl around his hair dusted kneecaps. Holding the firm strong legs as he threatens to kick under you like a thrashing, unbroken colt.
Though you suppose this dark horse of a man is more comparable a stallion than anything else.
He’s certainly hung generously like one. Your jaw aches already but you push through the stretch.
When he bumps the back of your throat, he finally lets go. The stormy resolve bleeds out of him.
Chokes on his own debauched moans when his curly head hits the pillow. Shoulder muscles jumping and tensing in his bonds. Fingers packed to tight fists. His rings wink in the gold light.
He sighs like a howling gale. Long and slow as his chest heaves. “Gods. Woman. That mouth of yours. Fucking heaven.”
His hips shift upwards to seek more of your divine mouth.
You punish him for it.
Push him down by the hipbone back to the bed. Stay. Tell him wordlesssly that obedience will get him more than defiance. A lesson you will have to achieve with a little force to get it in his thick, stubborn stag head.
He growls when he’s denied you. Spit shining on his lips where he’s drooling and panting like a beast.
“Fuck.” You hear the snap of silk pulling taut as he tests those bonds. The creak of it as it tightens on the wood. Frustration ebbing on his voice. “want to touch you. Sink my hands in that hair. Rut myself into your face.”
You lean over to better throat him. Sinking your fingers between his legs to cup his balls. The way that made his back arch up with the unexpected touch of it. His hips jolt to your mouth again.
There’s a slick wet slurp where you draw your mouth up and off him. Hollowing your cheeks to make his eyes roll back. A string of spit bridged between you- spit bubbles at the corner of your sinful mouth. He’d give anything to lick it away.
He pants- chin tipped to his chest. Open mouthed to watch you.
When his cock slips out your mouth. It’s weeping, slick and throbbing dark red. Your favourite sight to see. His need for you.
You circle your fingers to meet tight at the base. Squeeze him. Watch his eyes threaten to roll back. Cock pulsing. A bead of pre-cum sliding from his tip. You lean in and catch it with a swipe of your tongue. Flattened wide to suckle at the tip of him.
“Sweeting. Please your mouth- give me, huh. Put your mouth to me again. Now.”
“That doesn’t sound like obedience. Lyonel.” You warn.
“Fuck obedience. Get that devilish tongue on me before I lose it.” The silk chafed and twisted again. His fists clenched so hard his arms shook.
You pull away. Let him slap down. Flushed and leaking, with a heavy thud, to his own stomach. He jolts with it. A curse grit out between his pearly teeth.
You take him in hand. Stroke your spit up and down him. Thumb over the head. Watch him shiver. Stroking up and slowly down. You drop your lips to his thighs.
The scent of pure male and musk in your nose, tender skin and salt, as you nudge at his inner thighs. Soft and silky skin dusted with hair.
You lay your lips there. Draping wet kisses across his skin. Heading to those soft inner thighs. Your nose nudges his sack.
When you bite and suck- his hips lift clean off the bed crush themselves to chase the sting of your teeth.
You gaze up and see how affected he is becoming- cock leaking and throbbing to his abdomen. Nipples aching in hard points on his chest. You know he’ll cry out loud when your nails rake and swirl at those. Veins in his arms bulge. Every part of him strains. Pulled like leashed hound.
His neck glimmers where he stretches back. A long, tanned expanse of skin made for biting. He loves beyond measure when you sunk your teeth in. You could rip him apart with teeth and tongue, and he’d laugh and thank you as you sit back to watch the bruises form.
When you’d had other lovers in bed with you, he always angled to get the marks as a reminder. A trophy happily collected. Another man’s strong hands. Or another woman’s mouth or scratches.
He was delighted by the kind of love and lust that left its mark. Of crimson twin brackets of teeth set bloody in his shoulders. Marks of love bites anywhere they could get their mouth. Black and yellow lovely bruises over his collarbones and neck. Fingertip bruises deep deep purple on his thighs and hips. No matter what they did to him, he’d grin and ask for it harder.
But your marks? He treasured those the most. Valued them more than all the coin in the realm. More than gold.
So you take your sweet time. Bent to him. Ass pushed in the air. Lips on his inner thighs. Sure enough to leave a marching trail of red mouthed marks. You keep on until he was fully squirming. Hissing out every foul curse he knew.
“When I get out of these ties…Ugh shit. Fuck. I’m going to bend you in fucking half. Press your knees to your ears and—hmmm.”
You lick and lap and suck. Wet sounds reaching his ears like manna. Even taking a second to curl your tongue at one of his balls.
“Woman. You fucking- vixen…” He brokenly groans.
You rise up on your knees when you reckon he’s had enough. His tongue has run dry of insult.
Align your hips over his. Drop a little and let him feel the heat and weight of your cunt. Placing yourself just over where he needs you.
Rubbing yourself on that hard cock you love so much. The wet slick of you bleeding through the thin fabric. For him? The most cruel taunt.
You make sure he sees the way you lift your nightdress. Fingers crawling the fabric into bunches of yellow wrinkles at your hips. Keeping it on. Pushing it up to your waist. Saddling yourself on his lap. Still smearing your wet cunt and dragging your pussy lips over him to make him feel what having all this power did to you.
“Gods. You’re dripping wet. Seeing me all bound like this really does something for you, huh?” He huffs.
You smile. You can’t not. His eyes take to it like pure devastation. One he’ll beg endlessly for.
“One more threat. And I will gag you.”
He tilts his head at you. Dangerous. It makes you shiver. Hair standing on end at the back of your neck, that exquisite breed of danger.
“Try it.” He dares with bite. Eyes fixed on you.
“I will consider it if you’re not capable of keeping quiet for me.” You explain. Shifting up again.
“When I’m inside you, my storm? All bets are off-“
“Really?” You seek. Circling your hips in a wide arc. One hand holding your skirts at your belly. You watch his jaw clamp. Teeth grinding like he wants to turn them to dust.
He goes to answer you but you take the words right off the bed of his tongue.
Your hand strokes through the raven pelt of sweaty hair on his chest. Hand clasping over one of his nipples. Your other sought out his hard cock. And in one swift move, you line him up and sink down.
You flutter and clench around the size. But glide down smooth. Wet enough to take him all the way. Balls fucking deep.
He shivers so much, whole body gone with it like you’d flooded lightning though his veins. Mouth falling open, jaw wide and gaping. Lashes flutter onto his cheeks. Casting spidery shadows down them in the sultry gold candlelight. Such a beauty your husband.
The pleasure isn’t entirely all yours to be smug with.
The fierce final knock of him leaves you gasping out a cry that bleeds loudly out your mouth. Joining the crackle and hiss of the fire. The rap of wind and rain knifing on the window panes. That spot he curves into deep inside, had your belly flipping over. Eyes rolling over with bliss.
“Fuck— “ he hums. Spitting with it. Lips wet. “There it is. That the spot isn’t it, my love? Fuck me. When your eyes roll back- my favourite part.”
You shift your knees. Adjust your stance. Starting to get the hang of the rythmn that gets so good, you dig your nails to his chest. Hair sticking and slapping down your sweaty shoulders and back. Your cunt well and truly slick. Squelching with each lift of your pelvis.
You feel every throbbing inch of him moving deeper and deeper as you ride him properly. It’s strenuous work to take him like this, and you are soon slicked and beaded in sweat in no time. Dripping with it. But you can’t deny how delicious it is-
The bed is creaking where it hits the wall and the floor. The hanging sway with the tremble, and buck of your hips. The mattress sinking soft, pushed under your knees. He spears you so deep you have to be careful not to lose your breath.
His moans may be the most delicious part of all.
Loud. Unabashed. Husky out his throat. Nothing about Lyonel flourishes quietly.
His eyes are hazy. Dazed and fixed hungrily on your bouncing tits. His mouth waters for them. Even through the fabric right now he’d suck them if he could. You know his hands are itching- impatient to burst free. He wants to touch your hair. Hips. Your neck. Wants to grab. Despises that he can’t.
You angle yourself just right. Cock catching that magnificent place inside. You clench and rock and get lost in how good it feels to use him.
You can touch him everywhere. Everywhere you’re greedy for. Everywhere you like. His chest. His neck. Running up the tensed muscles of his arms.
When you cup his cheek. Leaning lightly over. Other hand braced on the bed near his ribs. He surprises you. Turning and tugging your two closest fingers into his mouth. Sucking them deep like he wanted to take skin off the bone.
He growls when that makes your cunt clamp down on him. Squeeze tighter than a fist. Makes you realise how close you’re getting.
You alter. Make your pattern faster. Riding him harder. His cock spears so deeply you momentarily get your mind wiped blank with pleasure. So fucking soaked already and you must be dripping down over his body to his balls with it.
“Plant your feet. Brace your knees- now“ You gasp.
He does as you ask. Arching his strong knees. Knocking himself upwards. Thrusting his pelvis to meet you. The pace turns from a ride to gallop.
Your fingers still in his mouth like he wants to gag on them. Spit wet. Your cunt is being pounded so well you actually think you’ll go fully insensate when you cum.
“Yes. Lyonel. Oh my-fuck, Yes.” You cry. Loud and needy. Barrelling towards your completion. Nails leaving five little moons in his hairy chest. Using him like some convenient toy.
You draw your fingers from the hot drench of his wicked tongue. He was starting to lick up between the webs of your fingers. Desperate for any touch and taste he could get.
You don’t need to tell him you’re going to cum. He can read it off you. Can fucking feel it. You’re flooding his lap like a spouting geyser. The way your face pulls and stills. Brows rising in the middle. Mouth wide. Head completly gone on the perfect plunge of his cock.
You swirl and drop your hips so fast, it feels like chasing insanity. When it does finally break, when your orgasm reaches out and seizes you. It comes as the most terrifying wave. It breaks you to pieces. Methodically. Disjoints you piece by wicked piece-
The pleasure blooms from your legs, your toes. Travels up your spine. Slowly takes your arms. Up your neck. You throb. You cry. You squirm and roll your hips until you gush. Clit throbbing where it met the sopping wet skin of his groin. Smeared to the bristled hair at the base of his cock.
You sag low over him to catch your breath. Gasping for air that comes too close and too hot.
“Fucking here. Come here-“ He sighs. Still grunting out orders.
Panting still he pushes his head to mash his lips to your own. Tongue seeking the cup of your mouth. Like a dying man who needed a drink. And instead chose your lips. He kisses you hungrily. No finesses. All spit and teeth.
When you pull away, his teeth scrape your bottom lip in a bite. You spy a wince of pain cross his face-
“What’s the matter?” You seek. Coming back to the room. Head still fluffed with cotton and daze, spinning like a top. Pleasure still twitching through you. Bleeding like a slow struck lightning bolt.
Words fall choppy under his breath. “My love. Can you.. check this tie- I think I twisted it- fuck. Tighter than hell. Hurts.”
You let your hands focus on the knot you tied. Brain stumbling as your fingers fumble. You untwist and unloop it as best you can.
Therein lay your mistake-
The minute he felt the tie go slack. He struck.
The ripping of silk gives way. Once. Then twice. In such quick succession you can hardly register what’s happened. All you soon know is that you’re on your back. He’s wrenched himself out from under you, and knocked you flat. A ruse of being captured. The bloody cheat.
The first thing you can register is both hands squeezing your tits hard. Before he’s wrenching that yellow gown at the neck with his fingers curled into the opening, ripped down the middle. Tearing, shrieking fabric. Baring your body to him.
Your arms he quickly binds, knot around your wrists, with the one ruined tie. The other flaps off his wrist. He can’t even be bothered to remove it.
“My turn.” He sneers down at you. Smile bright. Eyes alive with a wicked gleam. His sweat soaked curls in his eyes as he looms over you. You feel caught. He’s dangerous at the best of times. This was entirely unleashed. Feral Lyonel. Batting at his true full Baratheon, hedonist strength.
Before you can think to protest or fight, his hands sought your thighs. Looping them into his arms. His hips smack flush to yours. He grabs his cock and drapes the head of it. Slapping it to your cunt to watch you shiver. The love taps smearing your own sticky slick all over you. You groan. Twisting. Breasts jolting. Body turning. Glistening in the light.
He slams into you so hard you choke. Head tipped back on the pillows like his was. Cock rooted so deep it’s impossible to tell who was throbbing more. Him or you-
He tips his eyes to the heavens. “Seven. Your cunt was made for me.” He sighs. Only allowing himself a seconds indulgence.
When he tips his head down. He set about arranging your limbs to his satisfaction. Pushing your legs open. Wide and spread. Thighs cushioned plump to your body. His hips bracketing your own. Cock notched right were he needed it. Deep in your soaking cunt.
He’s trapped you in a mating press. The realisation draws a soft cry from your thick throat. Tears quiver at your lashes.
He means to punish-
His hands are hot and wide on your skin. Sweating and kissing your skin like a brand. He’s keeping you folded back as he likes.
“Hope you had your fun. My lady. I’m going to fuck every last noise I can out of you. For all I’ve suffered tonight. Watch you scream yourself silent for me.” He urges.
When he started to pound you, the wicked sloshing of your bodies meeting is the most savage, filthy sound you’ve ever heard. Entirely debauched. The exact language he spoke fluently and so well. Ruination.
You cry his name. Nails scratching the wood already and he’s barely begun. He heaves himself to you deep, each thrust seating from his back and hips. He grinds a pattern that gets you ready to sob.
When you open your eyes, he rears over you like his namesake. Like a storm. Dark. Immovable and ready to decimate all in his path. The look in his eyes is lightning, silver-strong, and frightening in its potency.
Sweat slicks every bit of him. Down his chest. Slipping to his stomach. Shining in his chest hair. Dewy in trails over the hills of his shoulders. His muscles strain and bulge and you feel them everywhere. The necklace he wears slams to his sternum like a pendulum.
“I’m going to ride the hell out of you til you gush all over my cock like a damn fountain. And that’s just for starters.” He grins. Voice ragged. “Understand me?”
You can barely respond. You gasp a nod but he rips it off you.
Your legs bouncing and jolting with the force of his thrusts into you. He keeps his brutal momentum. Feeling you wetter and tightening around him like a living pulse. You’ve cum once. And now this relentless drive is your punishment. The savage punch of his cock to your g-spot that makes your mind and body tremble.
“Lyonel.” You cry out. A plea. Desperate. Voice slipping into a sigh after. Long and drawn. Like a pulled arrow.
His fever hot mouth drops to your neck. He nibbles, bites. Sucks your collarbones. Tastes the furious hum of your pulse. It pats his tongue like a raindrop endlessly falling off the roof.
“You can take the storm. Can’t you, my lady.” He smugs. Teeth taking your neck in a way that pinches. Made you thrash in his hold. His searing body crushed to yours.
He tilts his hips. Drawing his cock right out of you to stuff himself right back in. No space spared. Adoring the way it makes your throat hiccup with the need. The vicious grind against your spot that feels like it’s filing you with mean, hot wet pleasure. The kind that hurts when it finally breaks- itching to pulse free out of you.
Your cries come louder. Faster. Threatening to break across the bedchamber. The way the sea scatters itself to ruin across the hard rocks below your window. Climax gains on you with all the intensity of a knife twisting in your gut.
“Please-“ you beg. Though if he grabbed your face in a sweat slick hand, and outright asked you what you begged for, you’re not sure you’d be able to unstick your tongue, and tell him.
He sips the breath from your dry lips. Sups a kiss of your wearied mouth. “Fuck. Woman. You’re bloody strangling my cock.” He chuckles.
“You’re there aren’t you? It’s right there—“ he plunges his hips. Swills his cock into the absolute wet, agonising mess of you. The noises coming out you are too wet to be believed.
He hammers himself to you. Gripping fistfuls. Hunting down your pleasure.
Your whimper is like something that’s been torn to shreds. Throat clicking with a swallow that near chokes you. A delicacy frayed to bits on a Storms Ends strongest gale.
Sweet relief streaks of climax rushes and swells through you again. Flushing from your groin and shattering up in sharp arrowheads of pleasure. Thighs shaking hard. Cunt clenching. You cum viciously. Brilliantly.
“Yes.” He sighs. “Yes. That’s it my love.”
He slows the roll of his hips to languid. Slow as warm honey. Drawing it out of you.
You squeeze him so hard he can’t fathom it. A trickle of liquid seeps around him. Brightens that grin of his to no end. He always kept his promises when they involved you gushing-
So dazed by the force of it. You can barely hold your eyes open. But he grips onto you tighter. Bodies crushing. Sinking to a pace that has you ready to cry and bring your hands up to push his chest off you. Your nails scratch his chest- but he grabs your bound hands and lays them to his shoulder to cling on for dear life.
“Easy with the claws. You can maul me later.” He pledges with an easy wink.
Your eyes roll back. It makes his cock pulse to see it.
His hold has tightened and you feel the intense need mounting on him too. It’s in the sway of his hips. Impatient. Fast. Chasing pleasure that seems just a fingertip shy of his reach.
You feel compressed. Choked. Clawed shut. A soft, wet cunt for him to use until he cums. One long throbbing nerve. Left out. Exposed. Until he plucks you raw.
“Got another I can wring out of you?” He checks. Eyes lidded. Smug.
The broad fat of his thumb pushes through your slippery lips to seek your clit. You cry - choking, but no sound comes. He swirls his thumb and cruelly nudges you into a third spasming crux of pleasure.
“There you go—fuck“ He urges. Before he has to slam his hand and arch over you.
Your sex ripples along him again. His spine goes iron rigid when he pushes and spills himself deep inside. Hands on your hips for sheer balance. Or he’d fly off this bed. Knees ground tight. Sweaty groin packed tight to yours. Your orgasms meeting in a sticky, slick puddle in the middle.
He finally goes boneless. Flooding himself deep into your cunt. Hips wetly slapping yours one final time. Body bowing. Sagging onto your spent body. Sweat comes off you in strips. Dripping to the bed. The meeting musk of sweat and cum soaking to the sheets. Heartbeats hammering together like thudding metal clockwork.
Your bound hands come up to loop over his damp hair. Hooked to his neck. He pauses before you can rest. Shifting up. Catches the golden tie in his straight pearly teeth. Pulls his head to one side to untie it. Yanking said silk away from your wrists. Spitting it across the bed with a “puh” noise.
He’s careful when he nudges his soft cock out of you. The warm rush that follows and beads down afterwards, makes him bite his lip. He smirked to see it. The most carnal method of possession.
Your arms crash over your head like tonne weights. “Fuck—“ you decide on.
“You’re telling me. I can’t feel my legs. Gods. Love. Your cunt is good.” He chuckles. Meanly.
He gives one stout, sweet kiss to your nipple before dropping to the side. Sweat dripped off his beard as he did. He flopped on his belly.
You lay there in a cooling puddle of sweat. His cum sliding out of you. Before shifting your gaze up above your head. Looking to where the definitely not twisted tie lay hooked on the poster.
“Was that a ‘no’ to the silk ties then?” You check.
“Definitely fucking not.” He leers.
You tilt your head. “You lasted longer than I thought.”
“Be warned. Lady Lightning. Us storms cannot be tied down for very long.” He grins. Rolling over to kiss your shoulder. Taste of salt and sweat on his tongue. He wanted to bathe every inch of you clean with his tongue.
“I’ll try and remember that.” You sigh.
Stretching your legs. He captures them with his own. Slinks and knots them together.
Captures your fingers again. Draws them towards his mouth and naughtily puts them on his tongue. Sucking and twirling his tongue around them. Enough to make you shiver-
“Good god. Not again-“
He seems to disagree. “Some wine. And round two?” He checks. All sparkling eyes and impish grin.
Your hand slides to find the silvery disarray of curls at the nape of his neck. Your favourite thing to wind, and tug your fingers through.
“You enter me again, tonight Lyonel. I will have no choice but to take your balls off.”
“Kinky.” He winks. “Save something for the next round my lady—“
Forgive the fandom tags but I’m Tagging some phenomenal akotsk babes whose fics gave me life. Let me know if you want on/off the list. I’m new to AKOTSK so forgive my presumptions @the-darklings @jintaka-hane @mynameistocool @lovebugism @maekarsmistress @pearlessance @noxiiousstrawberriies @ingystark @oakleafing @marsrambles @just-some-random-blogger @vhagars-dementia @escapic-mezzanine @tearsweetenedtea @nerdyinfluencertastemaker @adumbgirlinloove @moonlitmaester @silens-oro @feral4youu @whatislovevavy @nerdyinfluencertastemaker @happinessisaloadedgun @faelinda @crayonbug @celestrys @sallymaywritings @captainfern @sconniebelle
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
unpopular opinion; the infantalization of women in stories is getting so much worse ugh. i get that artistic freedom exists but you‘re writing a sex scene about a woman who doesn’t even know the concept of sex or the concept of genitalia (i read one where she didn’t even know what a penis was) just to make them seem more innocent while the man literally abuses that innocence. and then she also just speaks and uses the vocabulary of a fucking child.
I am so tired of short-attention-span, trim-the-fat culture.
All writing advice these days is for how to write like Chuck Palahniuk. "Cut 'think', cut 'feel', cut 'wonder' - only action, only pushing forward, show and move and move and move." What if I could emulate this style, and still don't want to? What if I want to write like Henry James, with three paragraphs of introspective musings between each dialogue line?
The music advice is, "make it shortform, make it Tik-Tok compatible, make it punchy, hit the refrain as soon as possible." What if I want that 10-minute prog rock piece? What if I want that symphony? What if I want it slow and luxurious and lazy?
Movies. Series. Poetry. Bodies. Everything is "trimmed trimmed trimmed trimmed, stripped bare, you have three seconds to win me over, make it airport chic." I don't want to win you over, then, I guess.
I want the fat left it.
I want the pleasure and the indolence and the indulgence.
Fuck this art-advice that's always "your art needs Ozempic."
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
If you take the time to leave comments on every single chapter of a multi-chapter fic, I can guarantee you that there's at least one author out there who thinks you are the greatest person in the history of people.
