Day Nine: Our kisses head back home where they belong (Tywin/Joanna)
Giftee: sternflammenden
Title: Our kisses head back home where they belong
Fandom: A Song of Ice and Fire/Game of Thrones
Pairing/Characters: Joanna Lannister/Tywin Lannister
Rating: M
Word Count: 988
Prompt: Tywin and Joanna's wedding night.
Notes: The title comes from "Love, We're Going Home Now" by Pablo Neruda.
The heavy, lacquered doors slam behind her, and she winces at the clang of brass handles and the muffled laughs of the revelers in the hall outside. She is irked to realize that she still trembles; she takes a slow breath through her nose in an effort to relax, but to no avail.
Although the door has closed, she still holds her forearm over her breasts and uses her other hand to conceal her sex. She has to remind herself to lower her arms to her sides, and it proves laborious work- every muscle resists the exposure.
Joanna Lannister has lived at court for years, and she’s attended more bedding ceremonies than she can count. She felt prepared for the ribald jokes, for the insistent tugging, for the reveal of her nakedness in front of a throng of onlookers. But she never expected the savagery, the harshness of the hands on her body, the ugly smile on the King’s face as he slid his hands beneath her skirts- she had bit down on her lip to keep from screaming, and she nearly cried out for Tywin- but it would do no good to draw attention to Aerys’ indiscretions, for even a deliberate, clever man like her new husband might lose himself to anger and compromise his own future with rash action. And so she kept her counsel, swallowing back the knot forming in her throat, blinking quickly to keep the tears away.
Lions do not weep, she told herself, again and again. And she is a lion in earnest, now- a Lannister not only in name, but in position. When Tywin clasped the cloak around her shoulders, fashioned of thick velvet and embroidered with costly gold thread, fastened with priceless ruby clasps, she had welcomed the weight of it- the girl from the modest, drafty castle at the base of the Rock, who spent her childhood running about with the common folk and lesser Lannisters at the port, who shocked everyone when the Queen selected her as a companion for the Princess...this girl would sit the high seat at Casterly Rock, a great lady and the consort of the Warden of the West.
The thought melts her apprehension away, and she revels in the pleasant tingle that creeps up her spine and along the back of her neck. A smile pulls at her lips as she brings her gaze up from her feet and turns her head to regard her husband.
Here in this room, stripped to his smallclothes with his cheeks glowing and his eyes bright, Tywin Lannister does not look like the stoic, intimidating commander who crushed the Castamere Rebellion and restored the Lannister legacy through any necessary means. Instead, he looks like a boy, every bit as young as he is- there’s something nearly self-conscious in the way he turns his toes in and the way the tip of his tongue darts out to moisten his lips, and a sudden heat encases Joanna’s heart as her smile widens.
As the woman, as the maiden, she knows that she ought to be the timid one. She knows that she ought to wait for him to move to her and claim his rights, but her muscles seem to act of their own accord when she steps toward him and gently touches his cheek. Joanna needs to lift herself up on tiptoe to reach, but Tywin obliges her by bending his knees and resting his hand on the small of her back to steady her.
She cannot say who initiates the kiss; it happens in perfect concert, their lips melding together as though they were made for this, designed to find their fellows in each other. The fine, pale hair on Tywin’s chest tickles her soft skin, and she boldly presses closer, wanting more, more of everything. Her tongue slips into his mouth, and she tastes fruit and a hint of Arbor Gold- he slides a hand into her hair and catches his fingers in her tousled curls. The backs of her knees hit the side of the bed, and he pulls away for a moment, his eyes scanning her face in search of tacit permission. She says nothing, only falls back into the cushions with her arms twined around his waist, pulling him down and over her.
Tywin is a man of patience, of deliberate thought and deliberate action. And yet his hands scrabble frantically over her body, and his mouth bites and sucks with no plan or precision. She has unmade him- she hardly has time to revel in that thought before realizing how desperately she clings to him, how wantonly she moans into his mouth, how sharply her nails dig into his skin- he has unmade me, too.
She does not bleed when he fills her, and she is nearly sorry for it- the silken sheets are gold, and she would have liked the sight of her own crimson blood upon them. Nor is there much pain, just a pinching ache that she knows will become sore in the morning. He kisses her again and again- her lips, her cheeks, her eyes- and she clutches his thinning hair, pulling until he growls his pleasure. His pace quickens, their hips cresting like the tide, and she regrets that this must happen in King’s Landing, in this stale, fetid, poisonous city. She closes her eyes and wraps her legs around Tywin, and she imagines that they are at the Rock, with the waves breaking and the salt air blowing through the window and dancing over their bare, sweat-dampened bodies.
“Take me home,” she whispers into the whorl of his ear- he spills inside her, mouthing her own name against her lips, and they lie tangled together, golden hair on golden linens until the golden light of dawn pours through the casement, a pair of sleeping lions, fiercer and braver and more dangerous for their unbreachable union.
Title: Our kisses head back home where they belong
Fandom: A Song of Ice and Fire/Game of Thrones
Pairing/Characters: Joanna Lannister/Tywin Lannister
Rating: M
Word Count: 988
Prompt: Tywin and Joanna's wedding night.
Notes: The title comes from "Love, We're Going Home Now" by Pablo Neruda.
The heavy, lacquered doors slam behind her, and she winces at the clang of brass handles and the muffled laughs of the revelers in the hall outside. She is irked to realize that she still trembles; she takes a slow breath through her nose in an effort to relax, but to no avail.
Although the door has closed, she still holds her forearm over her breasts and uses her other hand to conceal her sex. She has to remind herself to lower her arms to her sides, and it proves laborious work- every muscle resists the exposure.
Joanna Lannister has lived at court for years, and she’s attended more bedding ceremonies than she can count. She felt prepared for the ribald jokes, for the insistent tugging, for the reveal of her nakedness in front of a throng of onlookers. But she never expected the savagery, the harshness of the hands on her body, the ugly smile on the King’s face as he slid his hands beneath her skirts- she had bit down on her lip to keep from screaming, and she nearly cried out for Tywin- but it would do no good to draw attention to Aerys’ indiscretions, for even a deliberate, clever man like her new husband might lose himself to anger and compromise his own future with rash action. And so she kept her counsel, swallowing back the knot forming in her throat, blinking quickly to keep the tears away.
Lions do not weep, she told herself, again and again. And she is a lion in earnest, now- a Lannister not only in name, but in position. When Tywin clasped the cloak around her shoulders, fashioned of thick velvet and embroidered with costly gold thread, fastened with priceless ruby clasps, she had welcomed the weight of it- the girl from the modest, drafty castle at the base of the Rock, who spent her childhood running about with the common folk and lesser Lannisters at the port, who shocked everyone when the Queen selected her as a companion for the Princess...this girl would sit the high seat at Casterly Rock, a great lady and the consort of the Warden of the West.
The thought melts her apprehension away, and she revels in the pleasant tingle that creeps up her spine and along the back of her neck. A smile pulls at her lips as she brings her gaze up from her feet and turns her head to regard her husband.
Here in this room, stripped to his smallclothes with his cheeks glowing and his eyes bright, Tywin Lannister does not look like the stoic, intimidating commander who crushed the Castamere Rebellion and restored the Lannister legacy through any necessary means. Instead, he looks like a boy, every bit as young as he is- there’s something nearly self-conscious in the way he turns his toes in and the way the tip of his tongue darts out to moisten his lips, and a sudden heat encases Joanna’s heart as her smile widens.
As the woman, as the maiden, she knows that she ought to be the timid one. She knows that she ought to wait for him to move to her and claim his rights, but her muscles seem to act of their own accord when she steps toward him and gently touches his cheek. Joanna needs to lift herself up on tiptoe to reach, but Tywin obliges her by bending his knees and resting his hand on the small of her back to steady her.
She cannot say who initiates the kiss; it happens in perfect concert, their lips melding together as though they were made for this, designed to find their fellows in each other. The fine, pale hair on Tywin’s chest tickles her soft skin, and she boldly presses closer, wanting more, more of everything. Her tongue slips into his mouth, and she tastes fruit and a hint of Arbor Gold- he slides a hand into her hair and catches his fingers in her tousled curls. The backs of her knees hit the side of the bed, and he pulls away for a moment, his eyes scanning her face in search of tacit permission. She says nothing, only falls back into the cushions with her arms twined around his waist, pulling him down and over her.
Tywin is a man of patience, of deliberate thought and deliberate action. And yet his hands scrabble frantically over her body, and his mouth bites and sucks with no plan or precision. She has unmade him- she hardly has time to revel in that thought before realizing how desperately she clings to him, how wantonly she moans into his mouth, how sharply her nails dig into his skin- he has unmade me, too.
She does not bleed when he fills her, and she is nearly sorry for it- the silken sheets are gold, and she would have liked the sight of her own crimson blood upon them. Nor is there much pain, just a pinching ache that she knows will become sore in the morning. He kisses her again and again- her lips, her cheeks, her eyes- and she clutches his thinning hair, pulling until he growls his pleasure. His pace quickens, their hips cresting like the tide, and she regrets that this must happen in King’s Landing, in this stale, fetid, poisonous city. She closes her eyes and wraps her legs around Tywin, and she imagines that they are at the Rock, with the waves breaking and the salt air blowing through the window and dancing over their bare, sweat-dampened bodies.
“Take me home,” she whispers into the whorl of his ear- he spills inside her, mouthing her own name against her lips, and they lie tangled together, golden hair on golden linens until the golden light of dawn pours through the casement, a pair of sleeping lions, fiercer and braver and more dangerous for their unbreachable union.