♱༺babygirl ♱༺

a headache, an angel, a girl<3 (04), MDNI, she/her Reqs: Open <3

[bbygirlandbeasts]

⊹ ࣪ ˖꒰ঌNavigation໒꒱.⋆˚࿔

Hi! Im bbygirl (she/her) <3 Im 21, a leo, a fangirl of many years and a certified pink thing. Send me an ask, read a bit of my deranged nerdy writings, join me in my yearning.

PLEASE READ MY RULES before requesting <<<<<3333

- Xoxo, bby.

m.list rules

[minswriting]

i’m here to giggle and fantasize about cock and titties while also flirt with my mutuals. moots if u see this, u got nice tits

[bbygirlandbeasts]

hi yall <<33

The Power You Hold, my first full length fic is OUT and i hope u enjoy!!

While i work on my next piece (also daemon x reader hehe), reqs are open! dont hesitate to send me ur thoughts or ideas <<3

xo, bby

[bbygirlandbeasts]

The Power You Hold (Daemon Targaryen x fem!wife!reader)

Wordcount: 3k

Summary: Your husband, the Prince Daemon Targaryen returns from a conquest, of which you do not know the details. All you know is, he is injured. As you tend to the wounds of a man who barely speaks to you, you discover what lies beneath his rough exterior. And he tends to your wounds as well. Different wounds. And in a different manner. 

Genre: Smut, angst, fluff

Warnings: Smut (MDNI!), fingering, making out, a little dry humping i suppose, unhappy marriage, dom!daemon, slight manhandling, riding, creampie

Notes: In honor of s3 <3 I am so feral for him. 

Marriage is a curse. 

You know no greater frustration than that of the illusion that you are above every other person in this castle. An illusion that everyone is aware of, yet intent on upholding. The truth is that you hold no more power than every handmaiden, every servant and every guard. A guard is at least allowed a sword. Your sword, your only chance of protection, is your husband. 

Husband. 

The word holds no meaning. 

Had The Seven been kinder to you, or to your blood, perhaps this gnawing at your dignity could’ve been replaced with something more comforting. A devotee. A shred of compassion, even just friendship, from the man sworn to stand at your side. 

You remember it like it was yesterday. 

The supposed glory of a Prince for husband was nothing short of delicious. You wished so badly to taste it, smell it, feel it. You were hungry for it. That sweet dedication to something.

Someone.

You used to pray for the opportunity, so often and so fiercely your knees were blue for a fortnight. All these wretched years as nothing but a daughter, a girl. You wanted the end of it. The end of bargaining and appealing to men and lords you’d never truly know. Never truly feel loyalty towards, much less love. You wanted something greater. 

You had assumed that the station of the Prince Daemon Targaryen, your then betrothed, meant a future with a brave and chivalrous partner. A former commander of the Kingsguard. A man of honor. Of truth. 

A worthy husband. 

Thunk!

Ah, yes. Reality strikes its mighty sword. 

The doors slam behind you. You need not look away from the goblet of wine in front of you. You simply have to open your ears to the trodding of heavy leather boots, the clash of shiny armour against the marble floors, to know that the Prince is home. 

You had hoped for a somewhat relaxing night. A night where you could drink more wine than appropriate for a Princess, blend in with the crowd of other dancing drunks downstairs, wear one of your best and most scandalous dresses in an attempt to forget the fact that no man is allowed to desire what is underneath. Because you belong to someone else. 

Someone who doesn’t want you. 

“You’re up late”, he sighs. The sounds of his armour hitting the floor has stopped. You turn around to be met with the results. The Prince stands now only in his undergarments, a sweaty tunic and simple linen pants. It occurs to you that you have no idea where he has been. When you awoke to a lonely bed this very morning, you assumed he went into the city, to partake in one of the many sinful enjoyments it has to offer. Drinking, whoring, dancing. Whatever fun you are robbed of behind these golden gates. 

But he was clad in armour? 

That is when you notice the red stains covering his clothes. 

“You are hurt.”

Your instinctual sympathy angers you. This man cares not whether you live or die, and yet you are racing to him at the sight of a drop of blood. As soon as you are close enough to his body, you are peeling the shirt from his body to assess the damage. 

“Eager are we?” 

It seems your husband is more amused with his injuries, rather than concerned, as he keeps his gaze on you, the picture of a smirk painted across his face. 

“Shut up.”

The gashes scattered across his upper body are vile, but not fatal. You gently lay your fingers to them, before a hiss escapes the Prince's lips. Your eyes meet his, and what you are met with is no longer amusement, but discomfort. This prompts you to prance around the chamber for ailments that will alleviate his pain. 

“There is no need, wife. I will call for-”

“The maester? He is old and needs his rest. I have cleansed wounds before, Your Grace.” 

As you retrieve the needed bottles, you witness the man raising his arms in mock surrender, before falling into one of the lounging chairs in front of the fire. He leans forward, reaching for the warmth of the flames, wincing as the wounds pinch at his skin. He shifts his gaze from the fire, to your face, as you kneel before him, pouring the liquid medicine onto a cloth. 

“Careful, this might-”

“Burn?” 

You can’t help but scoff, though you try to hide it as best you can. 

“Right.” 

But you still hear your husband's quiet laughter, as you begin tending to his wounds. He sees through you. You wonder how he manages to know you so well, yet remain a stranger. 

“I have missed a gentle touch.” He leans his head back, and closes his eyes. “I must admit, it does not compare to the thrill of battle.”  

“And what manner of battle do you refer to?” You change your focus to that of his face, as you look at him with a demand for answers. For an explanation. 

His smile fades once again, as he leans into your gaze. Your faces are only mere inches apart like this, his eyes glossed over with something you do not recognize. The Prince is usually frank. Not afraid to cloak his true feelings in velvety niceties. Something has happened. Something unusual, that he is afraid to speak plainly of. 

“Just a thief. You know how it is out there. 

“Quit it.” 

The grit in your voices startles the both of you. You watch the Prince shrink under your changed attitude, as if he is the one currently kneeling. His shoulders tense, his lips transforming into a thin line as he attempts to hold his tongue. 

“You won’t like it.” 

“I’m sure I can handle it.” 

At some point your faces move even closer together, as if given a challenge by something invisible. 

“They were saying things. About you.” 

Your resolve crumbles under the weight of confusion. His answer has only provided you with more questions. 

“Things doubting your honor. Your worthiness, as my Princess. Calling you lowly, powerless, weak. And I will not have the dignity of the woman I have at my side be questioned, for that dignity is shared between us.” 

You rise to your feet.

“So when your dignity is at stake, suddenly I matter? Suddenly I am worthy of defense, of acknowledgement, of the husband I was promised?” 

Daemon is completely unaffected by your raised voice and the rage that is no doubt consuming your entire physicality. He remains leaned back, legs spread and arms resting into the cushion of the chair. Hair loose, messy, the cool light of the moon illuminating the bright white strands. 

“Answer me!”

“You were never promised any of that.” 

It is his turn to rise, stand in front of you. Your bodies are closer than they have been since the consummation of your marriage. It occurs to you that you have only been in your very thin nightgown this whole time. You have been so exposed this whole time. No wonder he sees through you. 

“I understand that it is what you expected, and that I have not met said expectations. That, I will admit. However, I refuse to let mere subjects think they hold any power over you.” 

You choose to ignore Daemon's eyes raking over your exposed form. You choose to ignore his face softening, his calloused fingertips grazing your hand. You choose to not let yourself be comforted by any of it. 

“Well maybe they do. Have you ever thought that maybe, I am treated no differently within these walls, surrounded by servants meant to obey me, than I am out there by scoundrels and thieves? If the entirety of Westeros sees it unfit for a woman to ever be comfortable, whether she wears a crown or shackles, why should it be any different for me, a Princess? If you are not blind, to how I am treated, then the men you have bested were not wrong. You hold all the power.” 

You grab the wrist of the hand that has moved to caress your cheek. 

“So do something.” 

His hand freezes as you hold onto it, along with his eyes on yours. You search them. You search for familiarity, recognition and you are taken aback when you find what you have been looking for all these months. 

Loneliness. 

“If you wish to leave, you may. I would not blame you. I am not made for love.” 

Loneliness, as well as fear. That is what coats his words, what is evident in his longing touches, his dwindling arrogance. The fear of holding something dear. Something binding him. 

A bond that is so fragile. So easily severed. 

You loosen your grip, turn into an embrace. You hold both of his hands, and see the lonesome man in front of you, for all he is. Scarred, undressed and cold. The offer to leave this life behind is tempting for under a second, as you remember what the alternative is: 

Emptiness. 

There is no one beyond this castle, waiting for you. And here is man, who in his loneliness is your twin flame, as well as entirely yours. If you both simply dare to let the other see it. 

“I think we need each other”, you reply in a whisper. Daemon nods. He rubs the pads of his thumbs against the back of your hand. Briefly, the moment feels like routine. Like that of a regular, lovestruck married pair, making a quiet agreement, one made many times before: I am here. And I will always be right here.

You don’t know who kisses who first. It feels as if you are suddenly covered by something dark, but warm. It drowns out the Valyrian words Daemon mumbles against your lips, though you would not have understood them anyway. You shut him up by marrying your lips again. The haze you are in causes you to go faster, harder, the frustration, vulnerability and confusion culminating to the boiling of your blood. Your teeth bite down on his lower lip, your nails scratching his neck, clawing to him like an animal, as you chase the erasure of all things singular, lonely or remotely dim. You wish to feel that there are two people in this room, for once. 

Daemon himself can hardly keep his composure, large hands roaming your form, grabbing and pulling at anything he can get ahold of, and soon enough they find your thighs. There is no need for him to tell you to jump. He is strong enough, and begins swiftly carrying you to bed. 

“I have been a fool”, he whispers into your skin as he kisses you all over, between your breasts, your thighs, through the thin material of your nightgown. Currently you are both quite thankful for the general lack of clothing on both your bodies.  

“Was that what you said earlier?”

Your comment earns you only a questioning hum, as your husband continues his journey over the valleys of your body. 

“In High Valyrian. You said something, a moment ago.”

He raises his head from his latest conquest, your bare neck. 

“No, no. I said something, well…A little filthier, there.” 

Heat pools in your lower stomach. Luckily, you need not tell your husband to continue. This time, he positions himself between your open legs, causing his hardness to rest against your bare cunt. This does not go unnoticed by Daemon, who lets out a strangled groan. 

“Fuck…You already feel incredible.” 

In response you simply grind up into him as you breathe incomprehensible pleas into the confined space between yours and his lips, begging for more. He graciously grants it to you with his fingers trailing down to your cunt, rubbing slow circles onto your clit. You twist and writhe at the sensation, jutting out your ribs and arching your back, but Daemon is quick to press a strong hand to your chest, keeping you still and at his will. 

“There you go, easy for me…” 

Your vocal chords feel as if they have twisted into tight knots, unable to produce a single sound that isn’t a moan, yet you attempt to speak to him. 

“What’s that?”, your husband teases, even daring to slow down his already torturous pace on your sensitive bud. 

“You must use your words, darling. Tell me what you want.” 

The plea that leaves you is desperate in its simplicity. 

“More…Daemon- Your fingers-”. Before you can finish the sentence, Daemon has already pushed his fingers past your entrance. He grunts in delight at the discovery that you are wet enough already, to take two of his digits. 

“I wonder what has made you this needy for me, hm? Was it the High Valyrian?” 

Even with his hand keeping you steady, you manage to grind down on his fingers, though he is not cruel. He helps you along by pumping them steadily against that sweet spot he remembers so well from your wedding night. 

“Or was it something else? You are practically dripping…Must’ve started a while ago, yes? Were you already wet when I came home? When I ridded myself of my armour?” 

You nod, eyes closed as the image of him, stripping himself in the warm light of the candles flashes before you. 

“Look at me.” 

But the sight currently before you? It does not nearly compare to that recent memory. What you see above you is the Prince, your husband, silver locks sticking to his forehead, eyes piercing and mouth slightly agape as he quickens the pace of his fingers inside of you. 

“Your grace”, you moan. 

“No. Try again, love.” 

“...Daemon.” 

He is delighted to feel you clench around his fingers at the uttering of his name. He swears on the gods themselves, he even feels the wetness start to drip into the palm of his hand, flowing down his wrist and onto the sheets. You are so close now. 

“Again”, his fingers speed up once again.  

“Daemon!”

“Come for me.”

Your body goes tense, but the Prince does not halt his movements, aiding you in riding out your high, and admiring the way your jaw goes slack, surrendering to a loud moan. He leaves the comfort of your body beneath him, sitting up, revelling in the complete mess you probably resemble. 

Your chest rises and falls with every rugged breath, your hair is tousled, covering your eyes and when you run a hand through your scalp to see clearly, you are met with the sight of Daemon's hard cock, leaking, awaiting relief. 

“Can you sit up for me?” 

It takes you a moment to register his words. Your distraction does not go unnoticed by your husband, but you no longer care how much you are stroking his ego. With a hand around your waist, he guides you into his lap. 

“I seem to recall you liking this position?” 

You are surprised that he has kept such a memory of your wedding night. You assumed by now, he would have completely forgotten. Or simply not cared to remember. 

“I certainly enjoy it. Seeing you from up here”, you whisper with a caress of his jaw. It’s true. You like having him at your mercy. Or rather, the illusion of it. Of having a shred of control, pretending that the marital bed is your council, your seat in your husband's lap, your chair at the Painted Table. 

The prince moves beneath you, planting the soles of his feet into the silks. You respond by grabbing ahold of his cock, slowly leading it to your warm entrance. 

The moan that leaves his lips as you surround him, is like an apology. The way you roll your hips against his is forgiveness. His hands fly to your hips, urging you to go harder, faster, rougher. 

“Do you know- fuck…How long i’ve been needing you for?” 

“Since I began arguing with you?”, you reply with a smirk, knowing the Prince has a certain weakness for a raised voice. 

Daemon shakes his head. 

“Since I saw those dirtymouthed cunts die at my hand. Since I watched the life leave their eyes, knowing that, gods-” 

He interrupts himself by raising his hips, now fucking up into you and meeting your own thrusts. 

“That you are mine to protect. That to fuck with my wife, my Princess, means death.”

He grabs you by the jaw, redirecting your gaze from the joiningplace between your bodies to his face. He yanks you forward, closer, though you didn’t think it was possible. 

“It made me so fucking hard, that that, is what you do to me. Turn me into a bloodlusting, dirty beast.” 

His relenting pace along with the close proximity of your bodies closens your high. You feel him so deep inside of you, all around you, completely occupying your physical as well as your spiritual form. 

“That, is the power you hold. Over me.” 

You collapse into your climax, falling onto your husband's chest as he fills you with his cum. It falls down your thighs like the pouring rain outside, his final groan of pleasure thundering next to your ear. But what is beyond this room, no, this bed does not concern you. 

Soon enough your thighs begin to ache, and you attempt to peel yourself from your husband's sticky limbs. But he halts you, with a firm grasp of your behind.

“Daemon, I-” 

“I know, I know. Just…”

He adjusts your position, scooting his lower body further down the bed, so you are now laying completely on top of him, his cock still inside you, and somehow still hard. 

“Not yet.” 

Time from then on, is as unintelligible as the wind. You lay there for what could be minutes or hours, losing track of which body is which. The dancing fingers tracing soft patterns along your skin could belong to you, or to Daemon, or to whatever God or entity has replaced the usual hostile air of the room with such affection. 

“I shall save a seat for you at the council, on the morrow.” 

You lift your head to look at your husband. 

Husband. 

Yes, indeed. This is your husband. All tender eyes and mild touches. A different man. 

“There is good to be done”, you answer, with a hand cupping his cheek. His lips press to the inside of your wrist, long fingers wrapping around it, barely putting any pressure on it. 

There is no need for gratitude. This is no gift, no favor. 

This is what you should have had, all along.

[mysticalmoonb3ams]

Fic: A Little TLC

Pairing: Poe Dameron x Female OC

Rating: Explicit 18+

Wordcount: 5.3k

Summary: Poe has a close call on a mission and his mechanic/friend with benefits realizes the true depth of her feelings.

Tags: fwbs to more, sleepy snuggly Poe, inconvenient feelings, worrying about a close call, massage, PIV sex, schmoop

Read on AO3 | My Masterlist

Xan hummed to herself as she sipped her caf and shouldered through the Resistance hangar bay door. The Black Squadron ships were back in their places, she noted - she'd heard them come in early this morning, engines whining in the familiar cadence that pulled her out of a sound sleep.

Now they and their pilots were back, safe and sound and accounted for. The ships were lined up neatly by the maintenance stations and the pilots were nowhere to be found - either still debriefing or raiding the mess for breakfast. Either way, they generally knew better than to hang around and bother the maintenance crew as they worked, not if they didn't want to hear lectures on how roughly they treated their machines.

Xan finished her caf in a gulp and set the empty cup on her workstation as she eyed Black One. It looked pretty battered at first glance, but she knew she'd have to get the panelling off before she could truly assess the damage. Poe was a notoriously risky flyer, pushing himself and his craft to their limits, so this certainly wasn't the first time they'd limped home a little worse for wear, but she still hated to see it.

She'd given him an earful the first time he'd tried to cozy up to her and sweet talk his way into having her rebuild a perfectly good engine just so he could push it a little harder. She'd sent him packing, saying that if he wasn't so hard on his X-Wing, maybe she'd have more time for a long, labour-intensive project like that. 

He was persistent though, and started dropping off little snacks and trinkets at her maintenance station every now and then - to say thanks for her hard work, he said. He kept stopping by too, listening to her complaints about the work he created for her with his flyboy antics and handing her tools when she asked for them with a smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. Despite her best efforts, she softened toward him, little by little, so that when he finally asked her out she said yes, much to her surprise.

They kept things pretty casual, hanging out and hooking up when he wasn't out flying missions for the Resistance. They'd gone out a few times but mostly stayed in, spending long nights in her quarters exploring each other. He was game for anything and was so attentive to her every need that she could feel herself getting addicted to him. It was only the lurking uncertainty of the war that kept her from making the next move.

She grabbed a spanner and got to work, starting with the scraped and dented nose panels - likely only superficial damage from space debris, but she wouldn't know for sure until she saw underneath. Either way, they'd still need to have the dents banged out and the paint touched up. 

She'd gotten the panels off and was replacing a bit of wiring underneath that had gotten stripped from a particularly nasty scrape when she heard the very familiar scuff of a boot on the duraplast floor. Without turning she called, “Did you fly her through an asteroid field, hotshot? You know it costs money to fix her, right?”

A soft chuckle was her answer as the footsteps came closer. “Had to give you something to do,” she heard as a warm body pressed all along her back. His arms wrapped around her waist and he leaned into her with a soft, relieved sigh. 

“Had to - oh, you think you're funny, do you?” she grumbled, but she still automatically leaned back into the hug. Her hand came up and ruffled his curls as she relaxed into his hold, secretly glad that both him and his ship had come back in one piece.

“I'm hilarious, boss,” came the murmured reply. “You know that.” He nuzzled his face into her neck and breathed in a deep lungful of air.

She hummed sceptically - just to ruffle his feathers - but stayed put, soaking in his heat and enjoying his tight embrace. Her head tilted back to rest on his shoulder as she softly asked, “Have you had something to eat yet?”

He nodded and pressed his lips behind her ear in a sweet kiss.

“Been to medical?”

His head shook and he nipped at her earlobe, but before she could tell him off he murmured, “Don't need to, m’ just tired.”

“I'll bet,” she said. She knew what system he'd come from and it was just close enough for the pilots to load up on stims and push home all in one long flight, but that meant that he would start to crash soon, if he wasn't already. “You should go and get some sleep then. Can't imagine they're sending you back out for a while yet.”

In response his arms tightened around her, pulling her back against his chest. “Mmm, sleep,” he murmured. “Wanna play hooky and nap?”

“You know Toowers will kill me if I leave her like this,” Xan said, gesturing to the beat up, partially disassembled X-Wing in front of them. To soothe the sting of rejecting his frankly very tempting offer, she slid her hand along the back of his neck in a gentle massage.

He practically collapsed onto her with a low groan of relief at the careful dig of her fingers into his stiff muscles. She had to plant her feet and brace her free hand on Black One's nose to steady them both but she kept up the pressure, wanting to ease a little of his pain.

“Mmm, that's nice,” he breathed in her ear, coming back to himself just enough to take some of his own weight again. “I get so stiff, cramped in that cockpit.”

“How about a massage later? Work out all the knots,” she offered.

He groaned softly and nuzzled against her neck. “Yes, please. That sounds amazing…”

“Kay, it's a date. But I've gotta get back to work now, flyboy. Fix all this damage.” She reached back and patted his cheek, feeling the prickle of multi-day stubble against her palm as she tried to wake him up a little.

He grumbled to himself but tipped his head back up out of her neck, the first step in letting her go. “She started trying to roll on the way back - had to fight to keep her level. Can you check?”

“Sure. Probably knocked a gyrometer loose or something, with all those flyboy maneuvers of yours. I'll check. In the meantime, get some rest.” She gently nudged him back and then shivered at the rush of cool air when he stepped away. 

“Thanks Xan. You're the best.” He leaned against her tool chest and yawned, so widely that she heard his jaw crack. 

Now that he wasn't plastered to her back she could get a good look at him and what she saw made her heart soften. There were dark bruises under his heavy-lidded eyes. Beneath his golden tan he was pale from exhaustion and the hand he had resting on her tool chest was shaking finely. He needed rest, desperately. Her eyebrows drew together as she ordered, “Bed, flyboy.”

He shook his head and had to grab the top edge of the tool chest as the motion upset his balance. “In a minute,” he murmured once he'd gotten his feet under him again. “Missed you.”

She couldn't be mad. She'd missed him too. His squadron had been gone for a week this time and while she tried not to worry about him while he was away the snippets she'd heard about this mission weren't comforting. She was drinking in the sight of him, safe and whole if exhausted, and couldn't really blame him for doing something similar. 

“Missed you too,” she said softly. A thought popped into her head and she added, “Be right back.”

Before he could do more than furrow his brow in puzzlement she ducked under Black One's wing and hurried across the hangar bay, aiming for another maintenance station. One of the other mechanics liked to work on ships at odd hours and as a result she kept a little folding cot and some blankets at her station. It only took a moment to ask if Xan could borrow them for today, and after some light ribbing about the pilot she was coddling Xan was on her way back.

Poe was right where she left him, only now starting to sway a little on his feet. She popped open the cot, setting it down beside her tool chest and out of the way. A moment later she shook out the blankets and made up the cot into a cozy nest. 

“There,” she said, patting her masterpiece invitingly. 

Poe was already stumbling over. “Oh, is this for me?”

“I figured since you won't go to bed you could curl up here while I work,” she said softly, guiding him to sit down. When he did, she dropped to her knees and started unlacing his boots. “What do you think?”

“Yeah, I guess I could rest my eyes for a minute while you work,” he said, absently watching her tug his boots off and line them up under the cot. 

Once he was in his socks she gave his shoulder a gentle nudge and he toppled over like a felled tree, slowly and with a certain majesty. She covered him with the blankets, tucking them over his shoulders and under his chin with care. When she was done she pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. “There, how's that?”

“Good, yeah,” he breathed. His eyes had fluttered shut and his breathing was already starting to even out. 

She pressed another kiss to his forehead and turned on some soft music before getting back to work. 

Maintenance on an X-Wing was not something that could be done quietly, but every time she glanced over at him he was still out, so eventually she stopped worrying about disturbing his rest. He was clearly so deep asleep that anything short of the raid siren wasn't going to bother him.

She hummed along with the music playing and slowly restored the front of his ship back to its former glory. Thankfully most of the damage was only cosmetic, though she discovered a few holes that had penetrated to the wiring below and needed more effort to fix.

Another hour or so later she found the malfunctioning gyrometer. The panelling above it had come loose and knocked the device out of alignment. She wasn't surprised that Black One kept trying to roll on his journey home, she was only surprised that he'd managed to successfully fight it and stay level as long as he had. It was fully decoupled from its housing. 

She clicked it back into its cradle and added a bit of heat-resistant tape for good measure. Being stuck in a constantly-rolling ship was the best way to make a pilot sick, and the disorientation could be enough to cause an accident. She wouldn't allow that, not on her watch. Not with her pilot.

Once she got that piece of panelling sealed back into place she glanced over at Poe. He was still fast asleep, curled under the blankets until only his hair and a bit of his forehead was showing. She'd never admit it, but it was nice to have him close by while she worked - at least this way she knew he was actually getting some rest.

The rest of the morning went by smoothly - most of the damage was easy to fix and she was able to move quickly through it. It wasn't until almost lunchtime that she ducked under the ship and saw the laser cannon hole that a TIE fighter must have blasted into the fuselage.

She sat down hard on the duraplast floor as her mind charted the trajectory of the shot and immediately went blank with terror. The life support system was behind that panel.

A moment later she scrambled back up, coming to her knees in front of the cot and hugging Poe tight. She needed to feel him, alive and well in her arms, to reassure herself that he'd actually made it back safe - that this wasn't a dream.

He stirred at the tight squeeze of her embrace and automatically reached out to hug her back. “Wassat?” he grumbled.

“You could have died, Poe,” she whispered emphatically. Her face was buried in his neck as she hugged him tighter. The feel of his pulse beating against her cheek and the sound of his slow breathing in her ear helped offset the terror, but her heart was still pounding.

“Didn't, though,” he whispered back, still mostly asleep. “M’ okay.” He patted her clumsily on the back, his hand still wrapped up in the blankets.

She let herself squeeze him for another moment, then took a shuddering breath and let go. Pressing another kiss to his forehead she murmured, “You always have to come back safe, okay?”

He nodded against the blankets and hummed an affirmative sound in response. It was clear that he was already falling back asleep.

She pulled back and then just sat on her heels for a moment, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest and feeling her own breathing start slowing to match it. He was okay, he'd gotten home safe, none of the terrible images her mind had conjured when she saw that hole were real. She was shaken, but tried to remind herself that he'd been lucky so far, and that was the best she could hope for in the middle of a war.

All she could do now was fix the damage.

After another long moment she got up and turned back to Black One with renewed determination. She was going to erase every trace of that laser cannon bolt she could find. It would be like it never happened.

She attacked the repair with new vigour, yanking off the damaged panel and pulling out melted wiring. When she got to the life support system she had to pause and do some deep breathing - if that bolt had landed an inch or two over…

But it hadn't.

Hours later, she'd repaired most of the damage and gotten the panels back on. Black One was space-worthy - Toowers was a hard-ass about that. “What if the First Order attacks in the middle of the night and all our X-Wings are disassembled across the hangar bay?” he'd ask if he caught a mechanic trying to sneak away at the end of a workday without putting a ship back together. He had a point. 

Xan stretched and patted the underside of a wing as she ducked under it to return her tools to her station. Poe was still asleep on the cot, blankets pulled up to his chin. Stim crash had really taken him out, but he somehow managed to look sweet with his face mashed into a balled-up blanket and the dark waves of his hair flopping over his forehead. 

She itched to push them back so she did, gently carding her fingers through his hair. As he made a little sound in response she leaned down and whispered in his ear, “Come on, flyboy - time to wake up.”

His forehead scrunched up and he buried his face in the blankets with an adorable little whine as he shook his head. “Five more minutes…”

“Don't you want to sleep in a real bed?” she asked coaxingly, trying not to be charmed by his sleepy annoyance. Most mornings he was up and out of bed before her alarm had even gone off, being disgustingly cheerful as she slowly tried to get her brain online. It was fun to finally have the shoe on the other foot.

“Mmm, yeah,” he breathed happily, but a moment later shook his head. “Don't wanna get up though.”

She rubbed his back, knowing that the motion, while soothing, would also gently pull him back to wakefulness. “Come on, we can snuggle in my bed. You like snuggling.” He really did - he was the cuddliest partner she'd ever had, spending most nights draped across her body or with her back pulled tight to his chest. She'd never tell him but she secretly adored it.

He hummed a pleased sound and slowly uncurled, stretching languidly and rubbing his eyes. When he finally flopped onto his back and looked up at her he was mostly awake, so she swooped down to press a soft kiss to his lips.

“Mmm, what was that for?” he asked, his voice rough. He tried to pull her back for another kiss but was too uncoordinated to manage it.

“Because you're so cute,” she said, obliging him and leaning down for a longer, more lingering kiss. His lips were soft and warm against hers and his stubble sent shivers racing under her skin. She finally pulled back with a pleased sigh. “Come on, hotshot. Up you get.”

He grumbled but slowly levered himself upright. She grabbed his hand to help him stand up, then quickly packed up the cot and returned it to the other mechanic's station before turning back to Poe. 

He was leaning pretty heavily on Black One, but his eyes were more alert. He clearly still needed more rest, but the nap had done him some good. The sight of him, whole and unmarked beside his restored ship made her throat catch, and she had to look away before she started to tear up.

“Let's get you some food, flyboy,” she muttered, already starting off toward the mess hall.

Thankfully, he followed her, and after a moment she slowed her pace to match his. He was still a little wobbly so she guided him through the mess hall, piling food on their trays while he held their drinks and watched her with a soft look, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

She pretended she didn't see it, but she could feel her heart melting, and it kept melting as he leaned tiredly against her on the long bench. He was subdued during dinner, nodding along as she chatted but not offering much - not his usual sparkling self. He was clearly still exhausted.

When they were done she dealt with their trays before collecting him. He let her lead the way back to her quarters, managing to walk in a mostly straight line once she wrapped her arm around his waist. He was a warm weight all along her side and she relished the feeling.

It only took a minute to get to her room and once she'd keyed the door open she nudged him toward the bed. “Clothes off, hotshot. You still want a massage?”

His answering heartfelt groan was muffled by his shirt as he wrestled it off, but she still heard it. Her lips quirked up in a smile while she dimmed the lights and lit a few candles before rummaging around for some scented oil. She was looking forward to this almost as much as he was - she wanted to take care of him a bit, to wrap him up and keep him safe after he endured such a close call.

When she turned back she had to pause a moment while her good intentions briefly took a backseat at the sight of him. She reminded herself that he was exhausted and stiff and was likely going to fall asleep halfway through this massage but the view right now was exquisite. 

He'd managed to get all his clothes off and had flopped down face first on top of the covers. His hands were tucked under his forehead, making the muscles in his arms bunch up so perfectly that her mouth started watering. He shifted in place and his back rippled with the movement, drawing her eyes down the long line of his spine to the perfect full curve of his ass. It left her stunned for a long moment.

Eventually she climbed up on the bed beside him and smoothed a hand down the sleek, solid muscle of his back. “Comfy?”

He nodded and exhaled in a long, relieved sigh. Even from that first touch she could feel the knots and tense muscles under his skin and knew he needed her care more than anything else. It helped her push aside those other thoughts.

She swung a leg over the small of his back and had just set her hands to his shoulders when he wiggled unhappily under her and turned his head just enough that she could hear, in a drained echo of his charming voice, “You've still got your clothes on, boss.”

“Trying to get me naked?” she teased, leaning down to press a quick kiss on his shoulder. The thoughts resurfaced. 

His hum of agreement came while she tossed her shirt off, and a moment later the rest of her clothes followed. The slide of her inner thighs against his sides had heat curling through her veins - enjoyable, but easy to ignore for now. She settled her hands on his shoulders and began.

The moment she dug her fingers into the tight muscles on either side of his neck he groaned. The next pass had him shuddering under her and going limp as he surrendered to her touch. She kept her hands moving over his shoulders and the sides of his neck, digging into every knot she found until they finally released and the muscles went slack. Poe moaned appreciatively each time, sparking a response deep within her that she ruthlessly ignored.

“That's better, isn't it?” she breathed as she rubbed oil into his smooth skin and pressed firmly on the tense muscles underneath. He was warming under her touch as he relaxed, bit by bit.

He moaned in response, nodding against the bedding. “Kriff, yes. It's perfect…”

She kept going, enjoying the feeling of releasing the knots in his back and the chance to take care of him. As good as he sounded in the throes of ecstasy, she knew he likely wouldn't make it all the way through the massage before he succumbed to exhaustion. But that didn't mean she couldn't enjoy the chance to make him feel good. He deserved it, after all he'd been through.

She slowly moved down his back, leaning on her hands to press hard on the tense, sore muscles and carefully unknot them. He groaned appreciatively into the bedding and melted under her touch, too enraptured at the feel of finally getting relief to do anything more.

Eventually she had to shift down to sit on his thighs so that she could access the small of his back. It had been hard as a rock under her so she now pressed her thumbs forcefully into the dimples where muscles connected and fanned out her hands from there, kneading in short strokes until he shuddered hard and everything released in one intensely satisfying motion.

“Oh, Maker…” he moaned, his voice muffled in the bedding. “You've got magic hands, Xan.”

She smiled at the back of his head and let herself give the solid muscle of his ass a playful slap, pleased that she'd managed to relax him. “Don't you forget it, hotshot.” In a softer voice she added, “Tell me the next time it gets this bad, yeah?”

His breath had hitched at the sting of the slap and now it let out on a low groan as she went back to massaging him. “I won't forget,” he promised, his voice soft but sincere. “I'm gonna ask you all the time. Maker - right there.”

She obligingly dug into the spot, feeling a big knot under his skin. Slowly she rubbed it out until the muscle was lax under her hand. “So I've created a monster, have I?” she asked teasingly, not minding in the slightest. Every knot she soothed was a little victory - he was here, safe and cared for and whole.

“Yes,” he replied, nodding emphatically but not moving a single other muscle. “You have no idea - gets so cramped.”

She laughed softly - fondly - at the relief in his voice. She had done that. He was okay. Something within her relaxed a little.

Now that he lay loose and relaxed on the bed she let herself knead up the slope of his ass, just for her own enjoyment. The skin was smooth and hot under her palms and his breath caught when she pressed his hips into the bedding in a slow, rocking motion. 

She hummed to herself, taking in his lax state and the way he was letting her move him. “How are you feeling?” 

“Good,” he managed, his voice a little choked as she kept kneading the firm globes of his ass. He was starting to shift into the movement too, and her thoughts shifted with him.

“Flip over then,” she ordered softly, levering up onto her knees to give him space to move.

He did, and her breath caught. “Look at you, hotshot. Got some more tension for me to rub out, don't you?”

Her hand curled around the hard length of his cock and gave it a slow, considering stroke as she took him in, pride swelling in her chest. The massage had done him good - he had melted into the bedding in a compact line of muscle that gleamed faintly in the flickering candlelight. His dark eyes glittered, reflecting the small flames as he watched her under heavy lids and his hands slowly slid up her thighs in a soft return caress. He nodded in response to her question and shifted his hips into her touch, silently asking for more.

She couldn't deny him, not when he looked this good and when her heart was so full of a feeling she refused to name. He was hot to the touch and velvety smooth under her fingers, so inviting that she couldn't resist another slow stroke up the straining length of him.

His head tipped back at the caress and a soft moan fell from his lips. The sight made her heart melt even as her body throbbed with want. She could feel his thighs tensing under her with the urge to thrust up, but that was as far as he got as another lazy stroke turned him liquid.

“You want a little more?” She nudged her hips forward, letting him feel how wet she was. Despite her best efforts his sounds and the feel of him under her had gotten to her and now she was tense with need. “Free up my hands to finish the rest of your massage?”

His eyes slid shut at the feel of her against him and he swallowed hard. She watched his throat work before he managed to speak, his voice low and heartfelt. “Yes - Maker - that's what I need. You always know.”

“Yeah, I've got you,” she murmured, levering up over his lap and slowly sinking down on his cock. Her hands braced on his chest as she let him fill her and soothe the ache that had been building between her legs. No matter how many times they did this, that first press of him inside her always took her breath away. Her voice was choked as she continued, “There you go.”

He moaned under her, tossing his head back against the pillow as his hands clenched around her upper thighs. “Oh, that's it,” he breathed. “That's what I need. Kriff, Xan…”

She moved slowly over him, letting herself adjust to the thick stretch of his cock and enjoying the sight of him laid out before her. He was gorgeous - hard and flushed and already so soaked in the pleasure of her touch that he was boneless against the bedding. The fact that it was due to her hard work made it even better.

He looked so good that she had to lean down and press her lips to his in a slow, thorough kiss, reminding herself that he was alive and whole and hers in this moment, and that this moment was the only one that mattered.

While she explored his mouth and took him deep inside his hand slid between them, unerringly finding her clit and starting up the slow, firm circles she liked best. Even exhausted and boneless, he was still trying to make her feel good and she loved him for it.

“Flyboy, that's perfect…” she breathed against his mouth, rolling her hips in a steady rhythm with his touch and letting herself feel everything. He was hot under her and every point of connection between them soothed and inflamed her even further. He was hers to care for and in this moment she wanted nothing else.

The soft press of his lips against her throat had her sighing and tilting her head for more. She couldn't get enough of him. The muscles in her thighs were starting to burn with the effort of moving over him, but she wasn't going to stop. With how closely they were pressed together she could feel him starting to shiver with the rolling thrust of her hips and she knew he needed this as much as she did, so she ignored her tiring legs.

Instead she freed up a hand to roam over his chest, kneading the firm muscle while she took him in deep and kept him there, safe within the cradle of her body. It was the only thing she could do in this moment.

Despite his exhaustion his hips were starting to press up into her rhythm, rocking with her in a slow, building wave that had both of them gasping for breath. It gathered force moment by moment but she didn't let herself pick up speed - she wanted this to last. 

Poe's dark eyes glittered in the candlelight as he caught her gaze and held it, drawing her face down to his with the hand resting on the nape of her neck until they were nose to nose. Their breath intermingled as they moved together, perfectly in sync - working each other up until they were both shivering with the urge to come but holding back, needing to prolong this long, sweet moment where nothing but the two of them existed.

Her eyes started to well up as her palm found the strong, steady beat of his heart and lingered there. He'd come so close this time…

Poe noticed - of course he'd noticed - and smoothed his thumb along her lower lashes, gathering the tears before they could fall and wiping them away. “It's alright,” he gasped, his low voice strained. “I'm okay, I'm here-” he rolled his hips up in demonstration, “-and I'm yours, Xan.”

She shuddered hard, love and fear and the perfect pleasure of his touch all mingling together inside her until it had nowhere to go but out. Her back bowed and her breath stuttered out on a shocked sound as her body took over, filling every cell with light until it whited out her mind with bliss.

Somehow she managed to keep her eyes open and on him as wave after wave of pleasure rolled through her, so she was able to watch it catch him too. The tight, rhythmic squeeze of her inner muscles was too much for him to resist and he went under with a sharp thrust of his hips and a long, drawn out moan. 

His handsome face went slack as he surrendered, but he managed to hold her gaze through it, until they were both panting and shivering through aftershocks.

Xan freed a hand to stroke over his stubbled cheek. “I'm yours too, you know,” she managed once she'd gathered up enough breath to speak. “For as long as you'd like.”

“Forever then,” he replied, and drew her down for a kiss.

She couldn't argue with that.

Taglist: @my-secret-shame

[xx-dinah-writing-xx]

Swollen with Flame (Kinktober pt. 2)

WEEK FOUR

Daemon Targaryen x reader

smut 18+, mdni KINKTOBER 2025 MASTERLIST warnings: explicit sexual content, pregnancy kink, belly worship, slow, intimate sex, sensory worship, breeding kink, praise kink, possessiveness, cradling during sex, creampie, eye contact, tender dominance

A/N: Good evening, people! We’re nearing the end of this wild Kinktober journey, and I gotta say, while writing 20 fanfics was exhausting, I was prepared. Most of them were prewritten during my non-active days (bless that chaotic burst of productivity). ALSO!! It’s Matt’s birthday today 🥳 I cooked up a special little one-shot for him, so stay tuned for that gift😏

The fire in the hearth crackled gently, casting long shadows across the stone walls of their chambers. The evening air outside the tower windows was cool, but the room was warmed by the scent of burning cedarwood and the soft breath of Essosi silks that fluttered at the touch of the breeze. You stood before the mirror, bare feet pressing into the woven rug, fingertips ghosting over the swell of your belly.

The silks Daemon had brought back from Lys wrapped around you like water. Gossamer and sheer, dyed in wine-deep shades that shimmered in the candlelight. They clung to your breasts, heavy and full, the curve of your belly soft and visible beneath the fabric. You had begun to show last moon. Now, there was no hiding it. You carried life beneath your heart. His life. His heir. And the way Daemon looked at you lately, it was as if you had become a goddess carved in the old Valyrian flame.

You heard the door open behind you.

The sound of boots cast aside. Armor clicking to the floor. The soft rustle of fabric being peeled from a war-born body. He was home. And without needing to speak, you felt his presence behind you. Felt it in your spine. In your lungs. In the way the heat of him reached your back before his hands did.

“So,” came his voice, low and biting with fondness. “This is what I come back to. My lady wife dressed like a Lyseni courtesan. Waiting for me. Belly out. And pouting already.”

You rolled your eyes, not turning to look. “I am not pouting.”

“You are. You always do when I am right.”

“You are never right.”

Daemon’s laughter was a rumble in his chest as his hands found your waist. Strong and warm. Possessive in the way only he could be. His fingers spread wide across your hips before slipping around your belly, splaying across the curve with quiet reverence. He pressed his nose into your neck, breathing in deeply.

“Seven Hells. You smell like peaches and silk. Is that what you’ve been bathing in?”

You hummed softly. “I told the handmaid to crush apricot oil into the bath. You said you liked it.”

“I do,” he murmured, trailing slow kisses along the side of your throat. “You are ripe like summer fruit. All mine.”

You turned in his arms then, allowing the silks to shift and fall just slightly, revealing the slope of your shoulder, the top swell of your breasts. His eyes dropped immediately. Greedy. Possessive. Adoring.

He always looked at you like this now.

“You keep staring at it,” you whispered, one hand resting over his on your belly.

Daemon looked up through the curtain of his silver hair. “Of course I do. Look at what you are. Look at what you carry.”

His thumb caressed the taut skin where your navel stretched. He dropped to one knee without warning, dragging his mouth down the center of your stomach. Hot, reverent kisses trailed over the swell. He bit softly, just enough to make you gasp. He smirked at the sound.

“There she is. My lovely little dragon.” He kissed your belly again. “So easily flustered.”

“I am not,” you huffed, heat blooming in your cheeks.

“You are,” he said, licking slowly up your stomach until his breath warmed your chest. “And I love it.”

You sighed, fingers carding into his hair. “You speak like I am your conquest.”

“You are,” he said simply, rising back to his feet. “The only one I’ve ever truly won.”

He caught your mouth in a kiss then, slow and indulgent. He kissed you like a man half-mad with want. Like you were water in the desert. Like you were air. His hands never left your skin, always moving, exploring the newness of you. His wife. His pregnant wife. He touched you like he wanted to map every inch, memorise the growth of your body as you grew the babe inside.

When he pulled back, his voice was softer.

“I have taken many things in this life. Castles. Thrones. Blood. But this…” he glanced down at your belly, then up into your eyes. “This is the only thing I’ve ever helped create. And it terrifies me how much I love it.”

You blinked, heart swelling so fast it hurt. “You are going to be a good father, Daemon.”

He snorted. “That remains to be seen.”

You reached up, brushing hair from his face. “You already are. Every time you kneel like that, kiss me like that, talk to the babe… you’re already doing it.”

He leaned into your touch, but the look in his eyes turned sharp again. Wicked. “You speak like you are not still the same brat I married. Still bickering. Still defiant.”

“And you love that,” you whispered.

He smiled against your lips. “I do.”

You found yourselves falling back into the bed, the sheer silks slipping further as he peeled them down your arms. The way his hands molded to your breasts, the softness of your hips. He handled you with such care. It wasn’t something many knew of Daemon. He was gentle in the way only a man who had been violent for too long could be. Your belly was his altar, and he worshiped it with his mouth, his hands, his murmured Valyrian that sent shivers down your spine.

You lay there in the low firelight, dress pushed up and breasts bare, heavy and full. He pressed kisses between them, teeth grazing along your ribs. His nose brushed your skin like he could not get enough of your scent. You reached for him, and he let you pull him close, settling between your legs. It was only skin against skin. His lips on your collarbone. His hands cradling your hips like you were porcelain.

And perhaps you were. Fragile now. Growing life inside you.

The maester had warned him, nothing quick. No harsh movements. No sudden lust taken without thought. And for once, Daemon Targaryen, rogue prince, disobedient and proud, listened.

Because it was you.

Because it was your body bearing his child. Because he had watched your belly swell day by day, month by month, until he could not look at you without his chest tightening with need and love so thick it scared him.

You lay back in the center of the bed, breasts heavy and bare, belly round and glistening faintly with the apricot oil. His eyes dragged over you slowly, like he had all the time in the world. Like you were his own little dragon hoard.

He ran his hand down the curve of your side, from the underside of your breast to the rise of your thigh. You shivered beneath the weight of it, and he smirked, gently, knowingly.

“I will not hurt you,” he murmured, voice deep and hoarse. “Not ever.”

You nodded, reaching up to pull him back down, wrapping your arms around his neck. His cock rested heavy and hard between your thighs, flushed and leaking. He had been holding back. For hours. For days. Watching you swell with his babe, resisting every temptation. Until now.

“I want you,” you whispered, eyes full of heat and ache. “Daemon, please…”

He groaned low in his throat, brushing his lips across yours, kissing you with aching slowness. His fingers slid between your legs, parting your folds, finding you slick and wet and open. You gasped at the contact, lifting your hips slightly, aching for more.

“Always so ready for me,” he murmured, kissing the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, then lower, his lips ghosted over your throat as he pressed the head of his cock against your entrance. “Little thing.”

You whimpered, spreading your thighs, tilting your hips in invitation. And he pushed in. Slowly. Inch by inch. Filling you.

You gasped again, your back arching at the thick stretch. He was always so big, and your body had become even more sensitive since carrying his babe. Your cunt fluttered around him as he sank deeper, groaning into your skin.

“Fuck… Gods, you feel divine,” he breathed, pressing his forehead to yours as he bottomed out.

He didn’t move for a long moment, just stayed there, buried deep inside you, hands gripping your hips with reverence. Your belly touched his abdomen, round and warm and real between your bodies. He lowered his head and kissed it, even as his cock throbbed inside you.

“You are everything,” he whispered to your skin. “My girl. My wife. The mother of my heirs.”

You moaned softly, fingers tangling in his hair, urging him to move.

And he did. Slowly. Carefully. He rocked into you with steady, dragging strokes, every thrust deep and deliberate. The bed creaked beneath your bodies, soft sounds muffled by thick furs and firelight. He kissed you through it all, your lips, your breasts, your throat, the sides of your belly. He worshiped you.

His hands stayed firm on your hips, anchoring you, guiding you. His cock slid in and out with aching slowness, pressing against every tender part inside you, making your walls flutter and clench. You were soaked, mewling beneath him, already trembling from the heat building low in your belly.

“Such a good girl,” he growled, voice cracking with restraint. “Taking me so well. Fuck, look at you. Look how full you are.”

You whimpered, wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. He angled his hips just slightly, and you cried out, the tip of him dragging against that spot inside you that made your vision blur.

“Daemon,” you gasped. “I need... I’m so close!”

“I know,” he murmured. “I feel it. Gods, you’re squeezing me so tight. Come for me. Let me feel it.”

And you did. With a soft cry, your cunt pulsed around him, milking him, soaking him as your release rippled through you. Your belly tightened. Your breasts bounced gently with the movement of your body. Daemon groaned loud and deep, hips stuttering.

Then he spilled inside you. Hot and thick. He stayed buried to the hilt, pressing your bodies close as his seed filled you. He moaned your name like a prayer, forehead pressed to your breast, hand curved protectively around your belly.

He held you there afterward, his cock still inside you, softening slowly. Your breaths slowed together. Sweat clung to your bodies, to the heat between your legs. You were dazed, dreamy, boneless.

Daemon kissed your temple, then your lips. His hands stroked over your body again, possessive and gentle.

“There,” he murmured. “All filled up. Safe. Loved.”

You looked at him through heavy lashes. “You always talk so much after.”

He smirked, brushing his nose against yours. “Would you rather I not? I could always start again.”

You gasped, laughing softly. “The babe would protest.”

“The babe will learn,” he said, nipping your earlobe. “Their father is a man who cannot get enough of their mother. And I will never stop showing you how much I love you.”

And that night, as the fire dwindled to embers, and Daemon wrapped himself around you, his hand cupping your belly and his seed still warm inside you, you believed him. You felt it in your bones. In your womb. In your soul.

Daemon Targaryen would love you until his last breath.

And beyond it.

[daniellewritesfr]

𝐀 𝐓𝐫𝐮𝐞 𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐎𝐟 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐦

─────────── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ──────────

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x f!Reader

Summary: Married off to King Aegon, she endures humiliation and betrayal in silence until his brother, Prince Aemond sees the fire in her that Aegon never could. Bound by resentment and forbidden desire, they forge a dangerous connection in the shadows. But in a court built on lies and whispers, even the strongest secrets cannot remain hidden forever.

Warnings: mentions of drinking, cheating, and other explicit content. 18+ MDI.

Word count: 5.3k

You can’t breathe. 

You stand there. Your fists balling at your sides. Watching as your lord husband coos at a child in its mother's arms no older than a month. There was no mistaking that bastard was his, the silver hair, violet eyes, the blood of Old Valyria plain for all to see. 

When the news of the prince's return from the south was announced, you had your girls put in their finest dresses and rushed them down to the great hall to greet their father, whom they loved dearly despite his lack of attention. You listened as your husband's arrival was announced and watched as the large doors were pulled open. Aegon came into view, and then another young woman stepped from behind him carrying what looked to be a small ball of knot of blankets nestled in her arms. Suddenly, hushed voices filled the room, and you were greeted with nothing more than a sharp slap to the face, one that you refused to show the sting of.

You watch the scene unfold in front of you staring at the woman, a love-sick smile plastered across her face as she watches your husband lavish over her child. Long pale hair frames her sharp-featured face, her beauty like a shadow.  

Anger burns your eyelids, tears threaten to spill but you quickly blink them away before looking down at your own two beautiful daughters who have yet to see their fifth name day. Your eldest tugs on your dress confusion, lacing her features as she mumbles something you don’t quite catch, too focused on controlling your boiling emotions. 

It takes everything in you not to crumble you’d been betrayed, blindsided, lied to, but that wasn’t the worst of it oh no not by far. The humiliation was far superior. You could feel the eyes of those who gathered in court, it felt as though a thousand knives were pricking your skin. 

You ignore the sound of your name too focused on Aegon, gods what you would give to slap that stupid fucking smile off his face one that you’d never had the pleasure of seeing not even when he had the decency of looking at his own daughters. 

Slowly the pieces start to fall into place the frequent and lengthy trips that were ‘none of your concern’, the letters you were warned not to open. You had your suspicions sure, you knew of his numerous visits to the street of silk and had heard the whispers of silver-headed children born to whores, but that is what princes do is it not? They father a dozen bastards and no one blinks an eye. So you’d managed to tuck your feelings away never asking questions for a good wife didn’t pry, you let your love for him blind you. How foolish you were to think that anything outside of wine and whores would ever be enough for your dear husband.          

Aegon lifts his head, eyes drifting from the babe’s face to yours, his expression one of mock innocence. Not an ounce of shame present, in truth you hadn’t expected any. The woman’s gaze soon follows her lover’s. Her eyes locking onto yours, she offers you a careless smile that almost shatters your composer. Pride is what keeps you standing there, stopping your sour words from spilling, replacing them with gritted teeth and clenching fists.     

Aemond was trying his damndest to hide his amusement, he stood to the left of his mother, whose attention was completely occupied by her son and his mistress. Aemond’s attention, on the other hand, was entirely focused on you. His gaze burns into you like a branding iron, observing your every move. His eyes drift down to your hands where your nails dig crescent moons into your palms. He watches as your stare locks onto the child in the woman's arms trying so desperately to keep your tranquility as you search your husband's face desperate for answers that you already knew. If looks could kill Aegon would’ve burst into flames.

Aemond never cared much for the details which involved his brother's intimate life, though he knew his tendencies and how often he indulged in whatever tempting pleasure brothels had to offer and this bastard he had managed to father one of many didn’t surprise him. However, his acknowledgment of the child did. The bastard being a long desired son was sure to have undoubtedly influenced his brother’s hysterical decision for you had only provided him with daughters. That was the jest of it all was it not? A southern whore grants a prince what his own wife could not. Aemond admired your restraint and how carefully you played your hand, you mimicked your uncle in that way never allowing your emotions to spill publicly rather preferring private outbursts in fear of tarnishing your stainless reputation.  

He could remember when you’d first arrived in Kings Landing, how naive you once were. You had not always been Aegon's plaything or the subject of his scorn, once you had been the jewel of your house, a favored niece of Ser Otto Hightower. The old hand raised you in his shadow whispering lessons of power and patience. He had sharpened your tongue with histories, and trained your eyes to see through the honeyed lies of courtiers. Your father, a lesser son of the Hightower line had little to offer beyond loyalty, and so it was Otto who took you under his wing. 

He saw in you what he had long lamented in Alicent, steel where there was softness, calculation where there was obedience. It was he who placed you in King’s landing, at first as a companion to Queen Alicent, then as a lady at court in your own right. And it was he who maneuvered your marriage to Aegon suggesting you as a suitable match for the eldest prince, with hope to weave more of his own blood deeper into a line of kings. This proposition did not go unnoticed by the king and his easy agreeable nature as within a month Viserys agreed for he had long feared that his son’s appetites would be his undoing. 

“A strong wife.” Otto had said, “Might make a strong king.” 

You had not been asked. You had been told. Yet even then, you did not protest. 

At first, you dreamed you might succeed where Alicent had failed, where duty and patience might shape the boy into a man. But Aegon was already lost, a creature of taverns and brothels surrounded by those too fearful to speak the truth. He laughed at your counsels, spurned your bed, and mocked the dignity you tried so desperately to instill in him. In time he came to resent you for the very qualities had praised. 

In time the marriage bed grew cold, while Aegon stumbled from whorehouse to throne. You were expected to smile, to bear it, to endure the whispers. All the while you carried the weight of your uncle's expectations that you should tether Aegon, control him, mold him into something resembling a king. 

Instead you became the target for his failings. “Too proud,” he said of you when the talk of his infidelity was whispered through the halls. “Too barren,” when his drunken seed never quickened in your womb. “Disgraced.” when you only bore him daughters 

And so little by little the jewel you once were became tarnished. You became the woman the court mocked in whispers. Only Aemond ever looked at you and saw not failure but fire.         

The night continued without delay as a feast had been prepared for the prince's return, one that you may have enjoyed if not for the disgusting sight of Aegon and his whore doting on the product of their disgraceful affair. Which resulted in you indulging in more than a few goblets of arbor wine in hopes that it would distract you from your ever-growing anger. 

He’d been glued to the woman’s fucking side ever since he’d arrived refusing to take his eyes off the squirming brat for more than a few moments rejecting anyone's attempt at conversation. Until he calls out to your two sweet daughters beckoning them over to where he stood. Your girls, ever obedient make their way to their father the eldest, sparing you a glance as they pass. Aegon’s smile widens as they approach scooping the babe out of its mother's arms while lowering himself to one knee presenting the child before them as if it were some sort of astonishing trophy.. Bile rises in your throat, your breathing turns shallow as your eyes stalk the scene playing out before you.        

Your hands grip your skirt, the fabric being stretched taut. You want nothing more than to lunge at him, to rake your nails down that arrogant face, remind him of the vows that he has so carelessly cast aside for a mere night of pleasure. Your eyes lock onto the scene as your youngest’s hand slowly reaches for the babes, Aegon’s face beaming with pride. It was if a dark storm was clouding your vision the thought of your perfect daughters touching the product of Aegon's retching desire was almost enough for you to break. 

The sound of your seat scraping across the cold stone floor echoes through the great hall once loud conversations dimming into faint whispers. The silence was deafening so much so that you could hear your own heartbeat drumming in your ears, the hall had become nothing more than a stage, with an audience patiently waiting for your reaction as if this was all some twisted play. Yet you endure. 

Aegon catches your eye then, rising from his knee tilting the babe as to give you a better look.  

“Is he not the very Image of me? A true prince of the realm.” His tone drips with arrogance, his words only feeding the fire that smolders within you.  

The tension in the hall was palpable hanging in the air like a thick fog, the only sound being the soft whimpering of the child curled in your husband’s arms. Your words are caught in your throat replaced by a bitter rage, your composure only a fragile mask threatening to shatter with each passing moment. 

“You are a disgrace. You and your whore. Damn your son who shall never be a king” Gods how you long to scream those words make him feel even a drip of the humiliation you felt, but they never escape your thoughts. Instead, you remove yourself from the hall away from prying eyes, away from the overwhelming pain this day had brought forth. It was too much to bear. Tears begin to spill from your eyes burning your cheeks as you rush through the halls of the red keep desperate to be alone. Guards stationed throughout the hall are dismissed with a mere flick of your hand. 

You find yourself engulfed in a wave of rage even more powerful than the last when coming face to face with the doors which led to the chambers shared with your cunt of a husband. Slamming the large oak doors open you storm inside letting them crash behind you. Never have you felt so belittled, so degraded. Your husband's cruel display of infidelity mocked the loyalty you’d once given, dissolving any ounce of it left turning it into bitter rage. 

The room acted as a shield granting you solitude from prying eyes, a comfort you welcomed. Suddenly with a strangled sob you lash out cursing Aegon, his whore, and his childish games. All rationality leaves your mind as you grab the nearest object, an ornate glass pitcher filled with sweet wine and cast it across the room with a guttural cry. It shatters against the wall sending fragments of glass across the stone floor, dark red liquid splatters onto a nearby rug sure to leave a stain. Blinded by anger you snatch up anything you can reach, tearing the chamber apart piece by piece ripping green velvet curtains from their rod before moving on to a table swiping off all that lays on top. Everything becomes a target, a victim of the hostility you so wished to inflict upon your husband. Each crash and clatter echoed through the room, once beautiful decorations now litter the floor. 

The only thing halting your assault was the creaking of the door causing you to whirl around and hurl a large tome you had unknowingly picked up towards the sound it smacks the wall mere inches from the door, half expecting it to be Aegon you pick up another ready to aim for him when he comes into view. Except it wasn’t him it was his fucking brother instead, you were disappointed to say the least as you were looking forward to seeing that book slam into his smug little face. 

You snarl “Get out.” The demand is simple yet Aemond fails to move causing you to decide that any Targaryen would do as you launch the book directly at him to which he steps aside letting it hit the floor with a disappointing thud. He begins walking towards you making you pick up a miraculously un-shattered goblet throwing it at him not paying much care to your aim. He lets out a low amused laugh while shaking his head watching as the glass shatters when it collides with the ground.  

He takes his time looking around the room, a smile plays at his lips upon seeing the product of your wrath. “I rather like it in here. It seems to hold far more entertainment than the events beheld at the feast.” His words mock your emotions making you scoff. 

“I have no care for your miserable words, Get out!” You make the demand once again praying for his retreat, yet it never comes. Your words only edge him on giving him a sense of competition to which he is more than happy to indulge in.  

“Gods, I will not be your jester Aemond!” You snap, unable to stop tears from spilling, angrily brushing them away as soon as they come. 

He cocks his head. “Did I ask that of you?”  

You throw your hands into the air, your voice holding onto a harsh bite. “Then what? What are you here for? To twist a knife further into a bitter wound? To further my humiliation, is that it? Is that why you have come? 

“Ah, yes, I’d almost forgotten about my brother and his beloved bastard.” He taunts. “Such a pleasant surprise, is it not? I can only assume the mother is more than content, her own little prince being paraded around for all to see.” His words leave a vile sting in their wake.

“How dare you.” You breathe. “How dare you mock my pain!” You make a move, striding across the room in search of yet another object to throw. “You will never fathom what this has done to me; my honor is forever marred by the loins of your vile brother, who will place his bastard child above all else!” You think of your daughters in that moment, their inheritance being ripped away so easily being pushed aside by that little brat. Your eyes stray from Aemond for a second too long, allowing him to catch you off guard. He takes a mere three strides before he has a hold of you, grabbing your wrists, knocking out a candelabra you’d picked up. 

You struggle in his grasp. “Let go of me!” 

“Do you plan on continuing your fit?” He is behind you now with an arm wrapped tightly around your waist, his hand snakes to your jaw, keeping your head in place forcing you to look at the destruction.     

He rests his chin on your shoulder. “Look at the mess you’ve made.”  

“It is your brother’s mess.” You snap, trying again to release yourself from his hold, the back of your head crashes into his mouth. A faint grunt leaves him, as your retaliation is met with a hand clasping around your neck, testing a squeeze which halts your movement.

“My dear, how angry you are.” he tsks while moving to stand in front of you, wiping at the soreness with the back of his hand, his other still settled on your neck as he starts to push forward, stopping only when your back meets the cold stone. “Such a distasteful way for a lady to behave.”  

His gaze meets yours for a moment before glancing to where your breasts rise and fall almost spilling from your bodice, his hand travels from your neck as he reaches for the decorated necklace nestled between them, his fingers trace the intricately woven sapphires molded together with gold. He shakes his head, letting out a short laugh. 

“Such a shame.” His voice was barely audible as if he was speaking only to himself. 

“No.” Your voice is stern. “You will not pity me Aemond,” his name escapes your lips with a crack. 

“Pity you I do not, though I do envy my dear brother.” He is calm with his words not a hint of malice intertwined. 

“Envy?” The word leaves you like venom. “Do you envy him his whore? Or the shame he throws upon his wife? 

Aemond’s lips twist into a faint ghost of a smile tugging at the scar that marred his cheek. “Neither.” He speaks almost softly. “ I envy him you.”  

His words stilled you, more cruel than any jest could have been. His single violet eye burns into yours unflinching. “Aegon squanders all that is given to him. He drinks, he whores, he pisses away the crown's dignity, but you? You are the only treasure he does not even see he owns.” 

His hand still curled loosely around your throat, slides lower until it rests against your collarbone, his touch deceptively light. “The gods mock us.” He murmurs his head tilting slightly, “when a whoremonger like Aegon is blessed with a son, while you..” His gaze lowers pointed and cruel, “you have given him only daughters.” 

The bite of his words pierced sharper than you wished to show. Your jaw clenches as you try and hold your tongue. 

“You think yourself cruel Aemond,” You spit, pushing at his chest though he does not budge “but you are only bitter and jealous, jealous of a life you so wish to live.” This made him laugh sharp and joyless. 

“Jealous? Perhaps. Do you think I can not see it? If my seed quickened in your belly, if you bore my sons, they would not be cast aside for some southern whores whelp, they would sit the throne with the fire and blood to keep it.” 

You should have struck him for such words. You should have spat in his face, screamed, denied him and his vile ideas. But instead you found yourself still, trembling, not with fear but with rage. Rage for Aegon, for his bastard son, for the humiliation you had been forced to endure before the eyes of the court. All while Aemond’s words coiled inside you like a serpent, whispering truths you could not ignore. 

“How dare you speak of such treason!” You force out, though your voice cracked. 

His jaw tightened, his eye set ablaze. “Treason? No. Aegon's reign is a poison against the very crown he wears. You know it to be true and so do I.” Aemond leans closer, his breath hot at your ear. “Better sons might yet be born. Sons with purpose. Sons with claim. Only if you wished it.” 

You closed your eyes. For a heartbeat you saw Aegon’s smug smile, the bastard babe snuggled in his arms, the whispers and wandering eyes of the court. You saw your daughters, your beautiful innocent daughters being pushed aside for a whores child. And in that moment the venom that had been festering within you spilled free.   

When you opened your eyes, they burned with something cold and sharp. “And if I did wish it?” You asked your voice scarcely above a whisper, “If I bore you sons.. What then Aemond?” 

For the first time his composure faltered, a flicker of hunger crossed his face though it faded right as it came. “Then the realm would remember their names long after Aegon’s rule is spat upon and forgotten, your dear daughters would not dare be cast aside. My sons and yours would hold the Iron Throne with dragonfire.” 

You exhale slow and steady. Hatred for your husband churned with a dark thrill at the thought. To wound Aegon as he did you, to shame him as he did you, to replace him with sons of your own making, sons not of his weak, drunken loins but of his brother’s cold steel.     

At last you give a single measured nod. “Then perhaps my prince, we should see to it that the gods are mocked no longer.” 

Aemond’s smile was thin and sharp. “I had wondered when you’d cease playing the dutiful wife.” His voice like venom wrapped in silk. 

He did not leave then, instead he lingered his eyes raking over you in a way that stripped you bare. Slowly, deliberately he reached for your hand lifting it as though he meant to kiss it, but his lips never touched. He only held it, tight enough for you to feel the strength coiled in him, tight enough to remind you that he could take what he wished. 

“You have been wronged,” his voice low, each word deliberate.

“Shamed before the whole court. Laughed at, pitied, scorned, Aegon would see you crawl in the dirt while he struts like a cock. I would see you raised higher than him.” His hand caresses the side of your face, his touch feather-light. 

Your mouth was dry, your throat aching, but you forced the words out. “And what would you ask in return?” 

His lips twitch into a humorless grin. “Only what Aegon squanders. A wife of beauty, of pride, of cunning. And sons to carry my name.” 

The brazier by the hearth crackled, throwing long shadows across his sharp features. For the first time you felt truly seen not as Aegon’s wife, not some ornament in the Hightower scheme, but as a woman in her own right. And yet that gaze was terrifying in its clarity, as if he had already decided your fate. 

When you did not answer, Aemond steps closer. So that your skirts brushed his boots, so close that his breath stirred the loose strands of your hair. His hand came to your chin, tilting your face upward until you were forced to meet his eye. 

“Every time you look upon that whore’s brat in my brother’s arms, you will think of me. And of the sons we might bare.”  

 His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth, a touch light as a whisper but sharp enough to leave you trembling. Instead, you stood frozen, your heart pounding like a war drum. 

His hand fell from your chin only to graze along your jaw down the line of your throat, lingering at the hollow where your pulse beat frantically beneath his fingers.

“Tell me, do you dream of it?” His voice was a whisper now, silk over steel. “Of a throne that should have been yours, of a crown placed on your children’s brows? My children. Our children.”

The fire popped loudly, but neither of you looked away. The chamber was silent save for the hammering of your pulse. His nearness was suffocating, intoxicating, dreadful and yet you leaned the smallest fraction closer, as if drawn into his orbit despite yourself.

Aemond’s lips hovered a breath from yours, the faintest ghost of contact brushing against them before he pulled back, denying you, denying himself. The cruelty of it sent heat rising in your chest, fury and want tangled so tightly you could not tell one from the other.

“I will not take what you do not give,” he said softly, though his eyes burned with the promise that he could. “But you will give in time. You will come to me, begging, and when you do, you will not crawl as you do for Aegon. You will stand.” 

He closed the distance, and something like a bargain was sealed in the space where breath met breath. His hands tangle in your hair as desperate heavy breaths escape him. His mouth moves to your neck licking hot strips that send shivers down your spine, soft moans leave your mouth as his desire grows more vigorous. His hands move to your bodice pulling it low to expose your breasts before dropping his mouth to meet them you tilt your head your eyes squeezed shut, your hands now intertwined in his silver hair silently begging him for more. His mouth leaves your breast with a pop. 

Aemond’s hands begin to work at the ties of your dress quickly untying them letting the fabric pool at your feet, he takes a step back looking over your body with a deep hunger in his eye his hands glide down your waist settling on your hips his head now resting on yours, shallow breathes leave you as his wandering hands go lower. 

“Jorepnon.” The word rolled off his tongue like melted gold, though you have lived among the Targaryens for sometime Valyrian was still so foreign to you. 

The look of confusion on your features makes Aemond release a breathy laugh, his hand now under your chin, the pad of his thumb pulling at your bottom lip. 

“Beg.” His voice was low, the lust rolling in his eye, he yanks your head backwards, firm grip on your hair. “Beg.” The command was sharper this time sending fear through you but it faded as fast as it had come. 

“Please..” Your voice was barely a whisper, only making Aemond’s patience wear thin. “Please Aemond.” Your tone now desperate, desperate to obey him.  

 His face crashes into yours, the kiss more heated than the last, his tongue teases your lips to which you happily let him in your tongues now dancing with each other. His hand moves from your hips to your ass squeezing the soft flesh, your body is heated with desire.   

Somehow in the midst of all of it he had guided you to the bed your legs hitting the soft fabric of the plush blanket that rests on top, before he pushes you to your back he admires you for a moment your hair splayed out before you, your body starting to glisten with a sheer sweat. Aemond starts to sink to his knees, confusing you, making you try and sit up to which his hands push you down, one now laying firmly over your hips keeping you in place the other gliding down your thigh. 

“Gevie..” The word is soft, his eye catching yours as his feathers kisses down your stomach before stopping at your mound. Your head falls back waiting in anticipation though Aemond is never one to wait too long.   

He licks a long strip through your folds making shallow breaths escape you, his grip on you is firm, his free hand moves to your cunt as he pushes one finger inside and then two. Your eyes squeeze shut soft moans now echoing off the walls, his pace grew faster as you got closer the sounds leaving your lips growing louder and louder and then, he stopped. You lift your head angry that he had denied you release yet you say nothing the look on his face was enough for your pleas to subside. 

Aemond moves to shed his own clothes quickly untying his tunic and then his trousers fumbling with the lacing before finally pulling them off. You can’t help but stare, his skin was like porcelain almost completely untouched, it was as if the gods had sculpted him themselves. 

You rise to your elbows as he crawls over you, his manhood now resting on your stomach while his lips trail hot kisses down your neck, before they settle on yours. It was different than before, he was softer. The kiss was slow, intimate, one could almost cry.

He shifts his weight to one arm, the other sliding his member through your folds, soft grunts leave him as your hand comes to tenderly touch his face. 

“Aemond..” Your voice was light, your eyes pleading for more. “Let me bare you sons.” 

In one quick motion he sinks inside you, letting out a low moan. His pace is agonizingly slow at first one hand on your shoulder the other with a grip on your hip lifting your leg to his shoulder. His eye meets yours for a single moment, the hunger now more evident than ever. 

He begins pounding into you, his fingers digging into your flesh sure to leave bruising. Your soft moans growing louder, if you weren’t so sure that your dear husband was fucking his whore you would have feared him stumbling upon the scene oh what a sight that would be. 

Your nails rack down his arms making him hiss, the vulgar sounds of your skin meeting fill the air. He flips you over then pounding you from behind his hand now pushing your face into the bed, your moans muffled by the lush blankets. Aemond’s pace grows sloppy, hinting at his release, yours not too far behind. His hand slips to your clit rubbing delicious circles, making you fall over the edge with a lewd moan. He continues to pound into you furthering your high, it was too much. You cry out, the pleasure to great though his pace never falters as he chases his own release. He cums with a low groan, his seed spilling inside you he continues to slowly pump in and out desperate for his seed to quicken in your womb. 

Aemond leans down his breath hot at your ear, his hand now cupping your belly. “Our son shall rule.” His voice was dangerously low. 

─────────── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ──────────

Weeks had passed since that night, and in time your belly began to swell. The king was deep in his cups when you found him. Wine slicked his lips, and the stink of it hung about him like a cloak. He was slouched upon the chair by the fire, crown crooked upon his pale brow. Aemond lingered at the far wall, silent, one hand folded neatly behind his back as though he were carved from stone. 

“Aegon,” you said softly, smoothing your skirts. “I have news.”

He squinted at you, then laughed, clumsy and half-slurred. “Gods, don’t look so solemn. What? My lord father risen from the grave to scold me? Or did some septon choke on his prayers?”  

A small smile adorned your lips “I am with child.” 

The words filled the chamber like a bell tolling. Aegon blinked, then lurched forward nearly spilling his cup. “A child?” His grin cracked wide teeth stained red with wine. “By the gods my heir! Mine!” He staggered to his feet, seizing your hands in his clumsy grip. “You’ve done your duty at last wife. My son, my prince! At last.” 

You let him hold you, let him kiss your knuckles with wet careless lips. Your face was serene, though your belly clenched with something colder than fear. 

Behind him, Aemond’s eye gleamed in the firelight. He had not moved, not spoken but his gaze found yours, and in it you read the truth unspoken. His mouth curled, the barest shadow of a smile so fleeting Aegon never saw it. 

“My son,” Aegon repeated, swaying as he spoke. He clutched you as though you were a prize he’d won in some drunken game. 

“He’ll be king one day. Aegon the Third! Or perhaps Jaehaerys, eh? A name to make the histories tremble.” He threw back his head and laughed, wild and graceless.    

You only nodded, eyes lowered. A dutiful wife. A dutiful queen. 

But when you raised them again, they found Aemond’s. He had not looked away.

And you thought, Not his son. Yours.

“Iā drēje dārilaros hen dārion.” Aemond’s voice was low as he spoke, Aegon looked at him, confusion lacing his features, Aemond then repeated his words this time so his daft brother could understand him. 

“A true prince of the realm.”    

[sweetplea]

robb stark adores his wife so much that it terrifies him.

truthfully it was not a union built on love. it was about alliance, power and everything in between if the gods were pleased enough. robb studied you as any smart, dutiful husband would. regardless of personal feelings and the lack of affection in the beginning of your marriage, your comfort was his priority. so he watched— and watched.

he found himself noticing things. memorizing them, even.

the crinkle of your nose when you’re displeased with someone’s presence, the way your eyes widen the moment you’re the smallest bit shocked or confused, the reach you make for his hand when you’re walking alone in the halls. except your fingers never grab onto his, they only brush together. a minuscule touch, a hint of a promise. it makes his heart rate pickup more than he ever knew was possible, and suddenly it all comes together. it’s no longer about obligation or courtly responsibilities. it’s festering into something so pure and innocent that he’s not sure if he deserves it. it’s warm as it blooms in his chest, as he watches you smooth your hands over your gown with grace.

robb feels blessed when it amounts to you being under him, just like he knew he would. it’s not for the sake of an heir. it has never been about that. his hands tremble. he can taste you and your kisses on his tongue— you’re sweet like freshly harvested honey. and you’re clawing at him, gasping and sinking into the furs and fabrics keeping your now shared bed warm as he presses into you with purpose like he has dreamt about night after freezing night.

he chokes on a sound that tears through his throat like a claw. it harmonizes with your own whimpers. his eyes are half lidded, his gaze is reverent as his hands glide over your soft skin. he feels you struggling to take him. one palm settles on your lower stomach while the other presses into the back of your thigh, making you gasp at the new angle. your cunt flutters over every inch of his cock, each vein that’s buried in your silky heat. it’s where he’s always belonged. he could’ve savored you this entire time instead of being too afraid to take what’s his by right, he realizes. at that, he curls over you.

“my sweet, sweet lady wife.”

he breathes into your open mouth, his arms slipping underneath your back so suddenly, forcing you to arch up into him with a moan falling from your lips that he swallows up. just so he can press you against his chest and keep you safe beneath him while he has all of you at last.

[catbayunthestoryteller]

Truce

Daemon Targaryen x f!reader (Modern AU)

Summary: Tensions arise during a Targaryen family vacation, which prompts Daemon to step up as a husband and agree to relocating. Warnings: family drama, humor, angst, fluff, smut.

a/n: In honor of Daemon's comeback in ep2. He's so maniacal but he made me laugh so many times.

The first time you mentioned divorce, Daemon had laughed. Not a cruel laugh, more like the sound someone makes when a child insists they’re running away to join the circus. Dismissive. Almost fond. He’d kissed your forehead and told you to spend the weekend at the spa, his treat, and the next day a black card arrived by courier with a note in his sharp, slashing handwriting: For whatever you need. —D

That had been four months ago. The card was still in your wallet. You’d used it exactly once, to pay the retainer for a divorce attorney.

Now you stood on the balcony of the hotel suite in Pentos, watching the Narrow Sea churn itself into a gray-green froth as a storm rolled in from the west. Behind you, through the open doors, you could hear the muffled sounds of your sons arguing over a video game and the lower, smoother cadence of Daemon’s voice as he settled whatever dispute had arisen. Aegon, at six, was already developing his father’s talent for theatrical indignation. Viserys, barely four, just wanted to be included.

The Targaryen family vacation. Two weeks in a luxury resort that Daemon’s brother Viserys, the elder Viserys, had booked for the entire clan. A chance to “reconnect,” Viserys had said in that ponderous way of his, as if family bonds were something you could schedule into a Google Calendar and tick off like a board meeting.

You’d tried to get out of it. You’d tried to tell Daemon that going on a family holiday while you were actively meeting with lawyers was absurd, farcical, the kind of thing that would make you the villain in a made-for-TV movie. He’d listened with that infuriating half-smile of his, the one that said you’re adorable when you’re worked up, and then he’d informed you that the flights were booked, the boys were excited, and he’d already told Viserys you’d be there.

“I’m not discussing this with you,” you’d said, standing in the kitchen of your King's Landing townhouse, hands braced against the marble island. “I’m telling you. I’m filing for divorce.”

“You’re not.”

“Daemon...”

“You’re not filing for anything.” He’d crossed the kitchen with that predatory grace he’d never lost, even in a cashmere sweater and trousers. His hands had settled on your hips, his thumbs pressing into the small of your back in a way that made your body betray you with a shiver. “You’re tired. You’re stressed. You’ve been dealing with my brother’s wife and her...” He’d paused, searching for a word that wouldn’t quite cross the line into outright insult. “Her ambitions. Let me handle it.”

“You can’t handle this, Daemon. You can’t throw money at me until I forget I’m unhappy.”

Something had flickered in his eyes then, a flash of genuine confusion, perhaps even hurt, before it was swallowed by that practiced Targaryen hauteur. “Unhappy,” he’d repeated, as if tasting a foreign word. “I’ve given you everything.”

“You’ve given me things. There’s a difference.”

He hadn’t answered. Instead, he’d done what he always did when a conversation veered into territory he didn’t want to explore: he’d withdrawn, not physically but emotionally, the drawbridge coming up behind his eyes. “We’ll talk about this later. The boys need to be put to bed.”

And that had been that. The next morning, suitcases had appeared in the foyer, and Daemon had been all brisk efficiency and paternal warmth, directing the children, consulting with the nanny, and you’d found yourself swept along in the current of his will, as you always did, as you had been since the day you met him at an event ten years ago.

The storm was moving faster now. Lightning split the sky to the west, a jagged white scar that illuminated the darkening sea. You started counting automatically, a habit from childhood: one, two, three, four, five, and the thunder rolled across the water, a deep, bone-rattling growl. Five seconds. About a mile away.

“Storm’s getting closer.”

You didn’t turn. You’d felt him before you’d heard him, that particular awareness you’d never been able to shake, the way your body seemed to know when Daemon Targaryen was in a room. He stepped onto the balcony beside you, close enough that his shoulder brushed yours, and you saw that he was holding two glasses of wine.

“Red,” he said, offering one. “The Pentosi varietal the sommelier recommended. Viserys ordered twenty cases for the cellars.”

“Of course he did.”

Daemon’s mouth twitched. “He’s planning a gala for the autumn. Apparently, Alicent has been nagging him about entertaining more. Networking.” He pronounced the word with a particular disdain, the way another man might say vermin.

You took the wine, mostly because you needed something to do with your hands. “Alicent’s networking is called ‘securing her position.’ She’s smart.”

“She’s a social climber with a spreadsheet and a prayer book.”

“Daemon.”

“What? It’s true. You know it’s true. Even Rhaenyra knows it’s true, and Rhaenyra is pathologically incapable of thinking ill of anyone her father deigns to marry.” He took a long drink of his wine, his eyes fixed on the horizon. “I still don’t know what Viserys was thinking. Otto Hightower’s daughter. It’s like bringing a fox into the henhouse and handing it a napkin.”

You wanted to argue, mostly on principle, but you were too tired. Three days of enforced proximity to Alicent’s brittle smiles and Viserys’ oblivious paternalism and Rhaenyra’s increasingly desperate attempts to play peacemaker had worn you down to a nub.

Rhaenyra was the only one of Daemon’s family you genuinely liked, she was fierce and funny and surprisingly self-aware for a woman who’d been raised to believe she was the center of the universe, but even she had been grating on you today. She’d cornered you at breakfast to ask if everything was “okay” between you and Daemon, her violet eyes too knowing, too sympathetic. You’d deflected, but barely.

It was Daemon’s fault. All of it. If he hadn’t insisted on moving the family back into the Targaryen ancestral pile, if he hadn’t dragged you into his obsessive crusade against Alicent’s influence, if he hadn’t treated your unhappiness like a software glitch that could be patched with shopping and sex and those devastating smiles he deployed like weapons...

“You’re thinking very loudly,” Daemon observed.

“I’m thinking about divorce.”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink. “The storm’s getting worse. We should go inside.”

“Daemon.”

“The boys are waiting for dinner. Viserys wants to eat at eight, which means Alicent wants to eat at seven-thirty, which means if we’re not in the dining room by...oh, the look on her face.” He grinned, sharp and wicked. “It might almost be worth being late.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I. Her face goes all pinched, like she’s sucked a lemon. Rhaenyra and I used to have a drinking game around it.”

“Daemon, I want a divorce.”

This time, he did react. A tightening around his jaw, barely perceptible. The way his fingers flexed against his wine glass. But his voice, when he spoke, was perfectly even. “We’re not having this conversation on a balcony in Pentos while our children are inside.”

“We’re not having this conversation anywhere. That’s the problem. You refuse to engage with it. You act like if you ignore it long enough, I’ll forget.”

“Will you?”

“Will I what?”

“Forget.” He turned to face you, and there it was again, that flicker of something raw beneath the arrogance, gone so fast you might have imagined it. “Will you forget that you love me? That we have a life together? That we have two sons who adore you and a home and a history and...” He stopped himself, jaw working. “No. You’re right. We’re not doing this here.”

He drained his wine and walked back inside, leaving you alone with the storm.

Dinner was excruciating.

The dining room was all white tablecloths and soft candlelight and sweeping views of the coastline, the storm pressing against the windows. Viserys sat at the head of the table, beaming benevolently at his assembled family as if he’d personally arranged the weather for their entertainment. Alicent was at his right hand, her auburn hair pulled back in an elegant twist, her expression one of careful serenity that you knew from experience masked a constant, low-grade anxiety.

Rhaenyra and her husband Laenor were visiting from their place in Spain, their three boys seated between them in various states of restlessness. And then there was your family: you, Daemon, and the two small boys who were currently attempting to build a fort out of bread rolls.

“Aegon, stop that,” you said quietly, removing the roll from his hand before it could be added to the precarious structure. “We don’t play with food.”

“Uncle Laenor said the Pentosi build forts to keep the sea monsters away,” Aegon protested.

“Did he.”

“It’s true,” Laenor said, his expression perfectly solemn. “Ancient maritime tradition. Very sacred.”

Aegon turned to you with the triumphant expression of a child who had just been validated by an adult, and you made a mental note to have a word with Laenor later. Probably with a heavy object.

“How are you finding the resort?” Alicent asked, her gaze fixed on you with an intensity that suggested she was already composing a report for some internal database. “The spa here is supposed to be excellent. I booked a hot stone massage for tomorrow morning, if you’d care to join.”

“That’s kind of you,” you said, “but I think I’ll pass.”

“Oh, you should go,” Rhaenyra said, leaning forward. “I went yesterday. There’s a sauna and everything. Very relaxing.” She caught your eye and added, with just a hint of emphasis, “Good for stress.”

You smiled tightly. “I’m sure it is.”

Daemon, seated beside you, had been uncharacteristically quiet throughout the meal. He’d exchanged a few barbed pleasantries with Alicent, agreed with Viserys about the superiority of Westerosi wine, and otherwise devoted his attention to his plate with the air of a man who was planning something. You knew that look. You’d seen it before board meetings, before confrontations with business rivals, before the night he’d decided to move your family into Dragonstone Manor without consulting you. It was the look of Daemon Targaryen marshaling his forces.

It made you nervous.

“I heard the most interesting thing today,” Alicent said, and something in her tone made the entire table go quiet. “About the Ashford deal.”

Viserys looked up from his lamb. “My dear, perhaps business at the dinner table...”

“It’s just that I understood we weren’t pursuing Ashford anymore. The board voted on it, I thought. And yet I received a rather curious email from our legal team this afternoon suggesting that Daemon had reopened negotiations.” Her smile didn’t waver. “On his own authority.”

Daemon set down his fork very carefully. “The board voted to table the discussion, not to abandon the acquisition entirely. There’s a difference.”

“Is there?”

“There is to anyone who actually understands corporate governance.”

“Daemon,” Viserys said, a warning note in his voice.

But Daemon was already leaning forward, his eyes glittering in the candlelight. “The Ashford portfolio is worth forty million pounds. Their logistics network alone would give us a foothold in three new markets. I wasn’t about to let it slip away because the board is too risk-averse to see past next quarter’s earnings report.”

“The board is risk-averse because we’re still recovering from the Dornish expansion,” Alicent said, her voice cool. “Which you also championed. And which went significantly over budget.”

“It went over budget because we were sabotaged by incompetents you personally recommended for the project.”

“I recommended no one. I suggested a shortlist of candidates, which Viserys approved.”

“After you’d spent three months whispering in his ear about how essential they were.”

“That’s enough,” Viserys said, and for a moment he sounded like the patriarch he was supposed to be, his voice carrying the weight of decades of authority. “We’re not discussing this here. We’re on holiday. There are children present.”

Everyone looked at the children. Aegon had abandoned his bread fort and was now trying to teach Viserys the younger how to balance a spoon on his nose. Neither of them had appeared to notice the adult tension crackling around them.

“I’m just saying,” Alicent said, her tone now one of wounded reasonableness, “that it might be wise to keep the family informed of major business decisions. For the sake of transparency.”

“Transparency,” Daemon repeated. “Rich, coming from someone whose father just happened to acquire a significant stake in the shipping company we use for all our Narrow routes. Purely coincidental, I’m sure.”

Alicent’s face went stone cold. “My father’s investments are his own business.”

“Are they? Because from where I’m sitting, it looks an awful lot like a conflict of interest. Or would, if anyone were looking.”

“Daemon.” This time it was Viserys, his voice heavy with disappointment. “We talked about this. Otto’s investment was vetted by our ethics committee. There’s no conflict.”

“The ethics committee that reports to you. And that you appointed. After Alicent suggested the members.”

The silence that followed was the kind that made you want to crawl under the table. Rhaenyra was studying her wine glass with intense fascination. Laenor had developed a sudden interest in the storm outside. Even the children seemed to sense something was wrong; little Viserys had stopped his spoon-balancing attempts and was looking at his father with wide, uncertain eyes.

You reached for your wine and took a very long drink.

“I think,” you said, into the silence, “that we should perhaps change the subject.”

Alicent’s gaze snapped to you, and for a moment you saw something ugly there: resentment, perhaps, or suspicion. It was no secret that she considered you an extension of Daemon, his ally in whatever Valyrian power struggle was currently consuming the Targaryen family. The fact that you’d spent the last several months trying to extricate yourself from precisely that role was not something you could exactly explain over lamb and roasted vegetables.

“You’re right, of course,” Alicent said, her smile returning like a curtain falling back into place. “I apologize. This was entirely inappropriate dinner conversation.” She touched Viserys’s arm with practiced tenderness. “I’m sorry, darling. I let my concerns get the better of me.”

Viserys patted her hand. “No harm done. Daemon, we’ll discuss the Ashford matter tomorrow. Privately.”

“Can’t wait,” Daemon said, in a tone that suggested he would rather have oral surgery.

The rest of dinner passed in a haze of forced small talk and barely concealed hostility. By the time dessert arrived, some elaborate chocolate confection that you ate without savoring the taste, you had a headache building behind your eyes and a desperate longing to be anywhere else. Alone. Away from Targaryens and their endless, exhausting drama.

You caught Rhaenyra’s eye across the table, and she gave you a small, sympathetic smile. She, at least, understood. She’d grown up in this family. She knew what it was like to be caught in the crossfire.

But even Rhaenyra’s sympathy couldn’t pierce the cold knot of resentment that had settled in your chest. Because this, this dinner, this family, this entire suffocating situation, was exactly why you wanted out. Not because Daemon was a bad man. Not because he didn’t love you, in his way. But because being married to Daemon Targaryen meant being constantly, endlessly embroiled in Targaryen affairs.

The feuds, the power plays, the ancient grudges dressed up as business disagreements. Alicent’s machinations. Viserys’s willful blindness. The way the entire family seemed to orbit around some invisible sun of their own making, pulling everyone else into their gravitational field.

And Daemon, for all his talk of protecting you from it, was the worst of them all. He didn’t just participate in the drama, he was the drama. He generated it, cultivated it, fed on it like some kind of chaos vampire. And now he’d dragged you back to the family estate, back into the heart of the storm, and expected you to just…endure it.

You couldn’t. You wouldn’t.

After dinner, you put the boys to bed in the adjoining room of the suite. Aegon went down with minimal protest, exhausted from a day of swimming and running and terrorizing his cousins with a water pistol. Viserys was fussier, clinging to you with sticky fingers and demanding a third bedtime story, but eventually even he succumbed to sleep, his small face slackening into that angelic expression that always made your heart clench.

You stood in the doorway between the children’s room and the master bedroom, watching them sleep. Aegon had kicked off his blankets already, sprawling across his bed like a starfish. Viserys was curled around the stuffed dragon he refused to sleep without, the one Daemon had bought him when he was born, its silver wings worn soft from years of clutching.

They were the reason you’d stayed this long. The reason you’d tried so hard. Every time you’d been ready to walk out the door, you’d looked at their faces and thought: I can endure a little longer. For them.

But you were starting to wonder if enduring was actually doing them any favors. If growing up in a house with parents who were slowly, silently falling apart was any better than growing up in two houses with parents who were, at least, honest about what they were.

Behind you, the door to the suite opened and closed. You didn’t turn.

“They’re asleep,” you said.

“Good.” Daemon’s voice was quiet, stripped of its usual sardonic edge. “I’m sorry about dinner. Alicent has a talent for getting under my skin.”

You turned then, leaning against the doorframe. He was standing in the middle of the room, his jacket discarded, his shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal the tattoos that snaked up his forearms, dragons, of course, and something in High Valyrian that he’d gotten in his twenties. His silver-gold hair was disheveled from running his hands through it, a nervous habit he’d never been able to break.

“She gets under your skin because you let her,” you said. “You seek her out. You look for fights.”

“Someone has to. Viserys won’t.”

“It’s not your job to protect your brother from his own wife.”

“It’s not about protecting Viserys. It’s about protecting the family. The company. Everything our forefathers built.” He moved closer, and you caught the scent of his cologne, woody and dark and infuriatingly familiar. “Alicent and her father are parasites. They’ve been trying to sink their hooks into Targaryen holdings for years, and Viserys is too besotted to see it.”

“And what does that have to do with us? With our marriage?”

He stopped. “Everything. You’re part of this family. What affects us affects you.”

“I don’t want to be part of this family.” The words came out harder than you intended, but you didn’t take them back. “That’s the point, Daemon. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life watching you wage war against your sister-in-law over business deals. I don’t want to raise our sons in the middle of a battlefield. I want a normal life.”

“Normal.” He laughed, but there was no humor in it. “What does that even mean? A house in the suburbs? A nine-to-five job? Bake sales and PTA meetings? That’s not who we are. It’s never been who we are.”

“Maybe it’s who I want to be.”

“No.” He was close now, close enough to touch, his eyes burning into yours with that intensity that had first drawn you to him all those years ago. “You think you want that, but you’d be bored within a month. You’d miss this. You’d miss me.”

“You arrogant...”

“I’m not being arrogant. I’m being honest. You married me knowing exactly who I was. You knew what my family was like. You knew what you were getting into.” His hand came up to cup your face, his thumb brushing across your cheekbone. “You’re just tired. It’s been a long year. Let me take care of you.”

“I don’t need you to take care of me. I need you to listen to me.”

“I am listening.”

“No, you’re not. You’re waiting for me to stop talking so you can tell me why I’m wrong.” You pulled away from his touch, stepping back into the children’s room and pulling the door partially closed behind you. “I’ve been trying to tell you for months. I’m done, Daemon. I want a divorce.”

His expression shifted. The mask slipped, just for a moment, and you saw what lay beneath. Fear. Then it was gone, and he was the Daemon Targaryen everyone saw, the charming rogue, the untouchable prince.

“We’re not discussing this tonight,” he said. “The boys are right there.”

“They’re asleep.”

“I said, we’re not discussing this.” And then, softer, almost a plea: “Not tonight. Please.”

You had never heard Daemon Targaryen say please before. Not like that. Not as if the word had been dragged out of him against his will.

The storm was directly overhead now. Lightning flashed outside the window, bright enough to cast the room in stark white relief, and you started counting instinctively, one, two, and the thunder cracked so loud and so close that the windows rattled in their frames. Two seconds. Right on top of you.

In the children’s room, Viserys whimpered in his sleep. You slipped back inside to soothe him, stroking his silver-blond hair until he settled, your heart pounding from more than just the thunder.

When you returned to the master bedroom, Daemon was standing by the window, watching the storm with his hands in his pockets. He didn’t turn when you approached.

“Do you remember our honeymoon?” he asked quietly. “The villa in Myr. There was a storm like this on the third night. You said you’d never seen lightning so beautiful.”

You remembered. You remembered everything, the way the rain had hammered against the shutters, the way the candles had flickered every time the thunder rolled, the way Daemon had pulled you onto the bed and made love to you until the storm passed and the sky cleared and the stars came out like scattered diamonds. You’d thought, lying in his arms afterward, that you’d never be happier than you were in that moment.

You’d been right.

“That was a long time ago,” you said.

“It was eight years. That’s not so long.”

“It feels like a lifetime.”

He turned then, and the look on his face made your breath catch. He looked older, suddenly. Tired. The weight of all those years pressing down on him, on both of you.

“I know I’m difficult,” he said. “I know I’m not…easy. To be married to. I know I drive you up the wall.” A ghost of a smile crossed his lips. “You’re not the first person to tell me that.”

“Daemon...”

“Let me finish. Please.” He took a breath. “I know I’ve been…distracted. The situation with Alicent, with the company, it’s consumed more of my attention than it should have. More than you deserved. I can see that now.”

“It’s not just the company. It’s everything. The way you handle things. The way you handle me.”

“I know.”

“You throw money at problems and expect them to go away. You treat my concerns like they’re inconveniences to be managed. You make decisions that affect our entire family without consulting me.” The words were pouring out now, a dam finally breaking. “You moved us to Dragonstone Manor without even asking me. You just...announced it. Like it was a done deal. Like my opinion didn’t matter.”

“I was trying to protect you. All of you. Viserys was already changing, Alicent was already getting her hooks in, and I needed to be closer. I needed to be able to watch what was happening.”

“And what about what I needed? What about what our children needed? Aegon had just started at his school. He had friends. I had a life in London. And you ripped it all away because of your paranoia about your brother’s wife.”

“It wasn’t paranoia. Everything I suspected has turned out to be true.”

“That’s not the point!” You were almost shouting now, and you forced yourself to lower your voice, acutely aware of the children sleeping in the next room. “The point is that you didn’t talk to me. You never talk to me. You just…act. You decide what’s best and you do it, and I’m supposed to just fall in line.”

Daemon was silent for a long moment. The storm was moving past, the thunder growing more distant, the lightning flickering further away. Rain drummed steadily against the windows.

“You’re right,” he said finally.

You blinked. “What?”

“You’re right. I should have talked to you. About Dragonstone. About everything.” He ran his hand through his hair again, and this time the gesture seemed less nervous than helpless.

“I’m not asking you to stop being who you are. I’m asking you to include me in it. To treat me like an equal instead of an accessory.”

“I know.” He moved toward you, slowly, as if approaching a wounded animal. “I know. And I’ll try. I swear to you, I’ll try.” He stopped in front of you, close enough to touch but not reaching out. “You want to leave Dragonstone? Fine. We’ll leave. We’ll move back to London, or anywhere else you want to go. You want me to step back from the family business? I’ll step back. Viserys can handle his own mess. You want me to stop antagonizing Alicent at every family dinner?” A wry smile. “That one might take some practice. But I’ll try.”

You wanted to believe him. You wanted it so badly it was a physical ache in your chest.

“I’ve already spoken to a lawyer,” you whispered.

Something flickered in his eyes, but he didn’t look away. “I know.”

“You...how?”

“The retainer on the new black card. I’m not an idiot. You think I don’t check the statements?” He shook his head. “I’ve known for months. I’ve just been…hoping you’d change your mind.”

“Daemon…”

“I’m not going to make this easy for you.” His voice was steady but hollow. “I’m not going to sign papers and smile and pretend this is what I want. It’s not. I want you. I want our family. I want to grow old with you and watch our sons become men. I want all of it. Every messy, frustrating, complicated part of it.”

“Then why didn’t you say that? Instead of just...ignoring me and hoping I’d give up?”

“Because I’m a coward.” He laughed shortly. “I was terrified. Terrified that if I actually talked about it, if I actually acknowledged what was happening, it would become real. And I couldn’t bear that.”

Another flash of lightning, further away now. This time you didn’t count the seconds.

“I’m not saying I’ll withdraw the petition,” you said. “I’m not saying everything is fixed. There’s too much damage for one conversation to repair.”

“I know.”

“But I’ll…think about it. About whether there’s something left worth saving.”

His eyes lit up. “That’s all I’m asking.”

The storm was dying now, the thunder reduced to a distant grumble, the rain softening to a gentle patter against the glass. The room felt different than it had an hour ago. As if the lightning had cleared something in the air.

Daemon reached for you, and this time you let him. His arms came around you, pulling you against his chest, and you felt the steady thump of his heart beneath your ear. He was warm and solid and so familiar it made your eyes sting.

“Come to bed,” he murmured against your hair. “We don’t have to sort out everything tonight. Just…come to bed.”

You should have said no. You should have slept in the children’s room, or on the sofa, or anywhere that wasn’t wrapped in Daemon’s arms. But you were tired, and you were sad, and despite everything, you still loved him. You had never stopped loving him. That was the problem.

“Fine,” you said. “But I’m still angry with you.”

“I know. You should be.”

“And I’m still thinking about divorce.”

“I know that too.” He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “Let me try to change your mind.”

The hotel bed was vast and soft, dressed in linen that smelled faintly of lavender. Daemon undressed with his usual careless grace, tossing his clothes onto a chair in a way that would have annoyed you if you hadn’t been so tired. You changed into your nightgown in the bathroom, taking longer than necessary, staring at your reflection in the mirror and trying to decide if you were making a terrible mistake.

Your reflection stared back, offering no answers.

When you emerged, the room was lit only by the intermittent flashes of lightning and a single lamp on Daemon’s side of the bed. He was already under the covers, propped against the pillows, watching you with an expression you couldn’t quite read.

“Get in,” he said. “You’re letting the cold in.”

You climbed into bed beside him, keeping a careful distance between you. The sheets were cool against your skin. Outside, the storm was circling back, the thunder growing louder again, the lightning more frequent.

“Remember how we used to count?” Daemon asked quietly. “Between the lightning and the thunder. When we were first married.”

“I still do it,” you admitted. “I can’t help it. It’s automatic.”

“Me too.” He turned onto his side, facing you. “What do you think? How far away is this one?”

As if on cue, lightning split the sky, illuminating the room in stark white. You counted, one, two, three, and the thunder rolled, a low, grumbling bass note that vibrated through the windows.

“Three seconds,” you said. “About more than half a mile.”

“I think it’s closer. Two seconds at most.”

“You’re wrong.”

“We’ll see.” Another flash, brighter this time. One, two, and the crack was immediate, sharp and loud. Daemon smiled. “Two seconds.”

“That one doesn’t count. It was a different bolt.”

“Lightning moves. It’s getting closer.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“You love me anyway.”

You didn’t answer that. You couldn’t. Because he was right, and you both knew it.

The next flash came almost immediately, and this time the thunder followed so fast it was nearly simultaneous, a tremendous crash that made you jump despite yourself. Daemon’s arm came around you, pulling you closer, and you didn’t resist.

“Right on top of us,” he murmured. “The hotel probably has lightning rods.”

“That’s not as reassuring as you think it is.”

His hand was moving on your back now, slow circles that were probably meant to be soothing but were doing something else entirely. You could feel the heat of him through your nightgown, the familiar geography of his body, the way you fit against him.

“Daemon.”

“Hmm?”

“This doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven you.”

“I know.” His lips brushed your forehead. “This doesn’t mean anything. We’re just two people in a bed, waiting out a storm.”

“Is that what we’re doing?”

“For now.”

His hand slid lower, tracing the curve of your spine, and you shivered in a way that had nothing to do with the cold. You knew what he was doing. You’d always known. Daemon Targaryen had many weapons in his arsenal, and seduction was one of his favorites.

You should have stopped him. You should have pulled away and reinforced your boundaries and reminded him that nothing was resolved, that you were still furious, that sex wasn’t going to paper over the cracks in your marriage.

But his hand was on your hip now, his thumb pressing into the hollow there with expert precision, and you were tired of fighting. Tired of being angry. Tired of the endless, exhausting distance between what you wanted and what you had.

“Come here,” he said, and it wasn’t a command but a plea, raw and honest in a way Daemon rarely allowed himself to be.

You went.

His mouth found yours in the darkness, and it was like coming home after a long, lonely journey. Familiar and strange all at once, the taste of him, the way his hand cradled the back of your head. You’d kissed him thousands of times, millions, maybe, but this kiss felt different. Desperate. As if he was trying to pour everything he couldn’t say into the press of his lips.

“I love you,” he breathed against your mouth.

“Daemon...”

“Let me finish. Please.” He pulled back just enough to look at you, his violet eyes dark in the dim light. “I know I’ve failed you. I know I’ve been selfish and arrogant and dismissive. I know you have every right to walk out that door and never look back. But I’m asking you, begging you, to give me a chance. Not because of the children. Not because of the family. Because of us. Because what we have is worth fighting for.”

Thunder crashed outside, shaking the windows, but neither of you flinched.

“I’m so tired of fighting,” you whispered.

“Then stop. Stop fighting me. Stop fighting this.” His hand cupped your face, his thumb brushing away a tear you hadn’t realized you’d shed. “Let me take care of you. Let me love you. Let me prove to you that we can be better than we’ve been.”

“And if we can’t? If we try and it’s still not enough?”

“Then I’ll let you go.” The words seemed to cost him a lot. “If we try, really try, and you’re still unhappy, I won’t fight the divorce. I’ll sign whatever you put in front of me. Just please, let's strike a truce for now.”

Part 2: coming soon...

a/n: Comment if you'd like to be added to the taglist. Also, I lowkey hate the title of this fic, so if anyone has a better idea, let me know.

a/n: Voluntary donations are accepted on Ko-fi, your support helps me write more: https://ko-fi.com/catbayunthestoryteller <3

[lis-likes-fics]

In Beauty

Pairing: Oberyn Martell x wife!Reader Word Count: 2.9k words Prompt: Breeding Warnings: NSFW, smut, breeding, creampie, multiple orgasms, fingering, oral (f!receiving), unprotected sex, swearing... A/N: I love this man, he's so scrumptious. Thank you and enjoy!

Your hand gently squeezes Oberyn’s arm as you walk beside him, the vendors on the street giving a bow of their heads as you tread through the busy market. You are surrounded by the people of Sunspear, fruits and vegetables and all kinds of goods everywhere you look beneath the blazing sun of Dorne.

You are happy with the sun as it warms your skin, the gold of your gown glowing under its light. Oberyn gazes at you, a smile on his face as he admires your beauty.

“I can feel you looking, my love,” you smile, guiding him toward a booth of oranges. You pick one up and smooth your thumb along the dimpled skin.

“How can I resist when you are as beautiful as the Dornish shores?” He kisses your temple, and you preen under his affection as you fish a coin from your purse and hand it to the vendor with a grateful smile.

Before you can even begin to peel it, he takes the fruit from your hand and pierces the skin with his thumb. You chuckle, looking up at his face and admiring the curve of his nose. “My husband, the poet.”

He laughs, discarding orange peels aside as he walks to feed the earth. “You flatter me, my dear.” He hands you an orange slice, and you take it gratefully. It bursts in your mouth, its juice rich and sweet.

You hum, “I tell only the truth.”

You hear the giggle of some kids as they run through the streets. A few people grumble as they bump into a few things along the way, but they care little, continuing to run wild.

Upon seeing you, their eyes widen in wonder and their faces split with awestruck smiles.

“Princess!” a tiny voice chirps, and the others join in the excitement as they rush over.

Boys and girls surround the two of you, laughing and gasping as they admire you. “Hello, princess!” “You are so beautiful!” “Move! I was here first!”

You laugh excitedly, bending down to pick up one of the girls. She has soft, curly hair and a button nose, with dark eyes that look brown in the sun. You set her on her hip, smiling as you look around at them.

“Look at how beautiful you all are!” You exclaim. She giggles, covering her face with her palm. “Are you behaving, my darlings?”

They all shout their agreements, nodding their heads. Oberyn steps aside to give you their attention, watching with stars in his eyes. Another girl holds out a tiny hand, clutching onto a pretty flower. “Here, princess!” she says. “For you!”

You gasp, taking the flower from her. “Thank you very much, lovely girl.” She giggles, holding her hands behind her back. You turn to the girl on your hip. “Would you be so kind and put this behind my ear?”

She does so gladly, taking the flower and setting it there with a slightly clumsy hand. She smiles widely. “So pretty,” she coos.

You tilt your head. “Oh, thank you. You know something?” She watches you imploringly. “You are so, so gorgeous, and I want you to remember that. Can you do that for me?”

She nods emphatically, her hair bouncing with each movement. “Yeah!”

“Good,” you hum, tucking some hair behind her ear. “Now all of you do me a favor, will you?” They all agree immediately.

“Each of you take one of these,” you reach for your purse, opening it and holding it out for them, “and go buy yourselves something really nice. Can you do that?”

They gasp as their eyes light up, happily reaching in and grabbing a coin with loud thanks and goodbyes. You set the girl on her feet, kissing her forehead before letting them all go with a wave.

Oberyn’s arm curls around your waist as you replace your purse. “You are quite good with them,” he muses, staring down at you lovingly. “The children always love you.”

You turn toward him, your hands on his as you smile. “Maybe one day one of our own will love me?” you quip, raising a teasing brow.

He chuckles. “My dear, I intend to have a litter of princes and princesses running around Dorne with your smile.”

You chuckle back to him, twirling out of his hold with your hands clasped together. You pull him gently along the path, your head high and your heart pounding.

“Well, it is never too early to start trying.”

~

Oberyn has your back against a wall in no time, tucked between your legs with one over his shoulder and the other struggling to hold yourself up. His hands stroke your thighs, pulling your hips closer to his mouth as you grab at his hair and his broad shoulders for something to hold onto.

“Oberyn,” you moan, your jaw twitching as it falls open in bliss. “You are so good.”

You can feel the curve of his smile against your folds, his tongue darting out to lick between them as he tastes the sweetness that leaks out of you. “That is it, my love,” he purrs against your cunt. “Tell me how good you feel...”

You grind your hips lightly into his face, not bothering to stifle any moans, especially in the comfort of your chambers. Your legs feel weak, like butter melting under the heat of his touch. His tongue delves inside of you as his nose nudges your pearl, needy and pulsing for more of him.

A breath catches in your throat. “Oh, fuck. Keep going.” He answers you with a flicking tongue at your sensitive pearl, licking and sucking and trying his best to pull you closer and closer to the precipice.

“Let me taste you,” he pleads, his voice strained as he continues to work at the pleasure coursing through you.

Your back arches and your hips buck against his mouth as the pleasure snaps like lightning, shocking your system as you gasp his name. He devours you, hungry for every part of you that you have to offer. His hands grip at your flesh as you shudder against him. You moan helplessly, his insistent licking driving you toward oversensitivity until your shudders are quick jerks that make pull his head back by his curls.

Oberyn paints you in loving kisses, all over your thighs and your knees and your folds as he waits for your eyes to crackle open once more to take him in. You look down at him, smiling hazily and running your fingers through his soft hair.

“You always enjoy that far too much, I think,” you chuckle, catching your breath still.

Oberyn presses a long kiss to the bend of your knee, standing to his feet and stroking your sides as he goes. “I do not believe that would be possible.” He envelopes you in a deep kiss, one full of passion and desire as he grabs at naked skin.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders, breathing him in with a content sigh. You feel his hands dip down and brace yourself as he hoists you up with your arms wrapping tightly around his waist. You smile, continuing to press kisses into any skin your lips can find.

He carries you away, only to lay you down on the bed. His body never leaves yours, pressed flush against you as you share in each other's heat. You taste his lips, humming and sighing as he loves on you, letting his warm hands roam your warm body until you feel pliant beneath him.

“How many were you considering for the first carry?” he whispers against your throat. With a gentle kiss, he smiles. “I was thinking two or three.”

You throw your head back into the plush bed, letting out a hearty laugh. Your hands wrap around the back of his neck and the muscle of his bicep. “Only one,” you insist. “The first will already tear me apart, I don't need to be torn twice as much.”

He kisses along your jaw, painting you in them and warming you from the inside out. “No matter,” he says. “Either way, I shall give you a Martell baby that will be as beautiful as you and I.” He slips a hand down your thigh, dipping between them as he drags a finger along your slit.

Your breath hitches, caught on his touch. His mouth parts as yours does, curving into a lustful grin that breaks off with another hum.

He curls them within you, pumping them slowly as your arousal gathers on his fingers. Your brows furrow, and he cannot help but to admire your beauty as you lay beneath him, eager to feel everything he has to offer.

“I hope you do not mind if I wish for it to take a few tries,” your words break off into a whimper as he retracts his fingers. He sets them between his lips, sucking them clean. “I would very much like to continue enjoying you for as long as possible.”

He lifts his head, dragging his hand to your hip and encouraging your leg around his waist. “Oh, my paramour,” he purrs, hissing through his teeth as he strokes his cock two slow times. “Do you really think a bigger belly will stop me from having you?”

You breathe in shakily as he slowly pushes his cock inside of you, filling you inch by glorious inch. Your head tips back, hands tangled in his hair. You relish in the feeling of the stretch, drunk on the feeling.

He rocks his hips slowly, staring at your face and watching the way it twists and shifts through your pleasure. “I intend on fucking you over and over and over again.” His voice is soft and soothing, but deep in his chest. You listen to him with breathless moans.

“Oberyn.”

“I will watch you grow round with my babe. I will watch this belly swell until you can do no more than sit all day.” His thrusts slowly increase in speed and strength, spurred on by his own words and his own thoughts. “I will continue to touch you, and taste you, and fuck you until the babe comes. And once you've healed, I will take you again and again until you are pregnant once more.”

By now, he's holding you still as he fucks into you. You are dizzy with pleasure, with racing thoughts all swarming with Oberyn and his intoxicating words. One of his hands plays over your belly as he thrusts into you with stifled grunts, the other holding you close to him as he watches you dissolve.

Your lips graze one another, too hazy to make full contact but too eager not to touch. You wrap your legs tightly around his waist and let him have his way with deep, fervid thrusts.

“Oh, my love,” you moan, back arching, fingers numbing. “Keep fucking me, put your child in me.”

His voice is deep, rougher now with the growing lust circling his throat. His thrusts are so deep that you see glistening stars behind your eyelids with each stroke. His hands continue to travel along your body, eager to hold you and to feel you and to enjoy the way you shudder and fall apart.

“I am going to breed this delicious cunt,” he promises. His words drop lower, a darker intent that has gooseflesh rising along your skin. “I am going to fill your womb with my cum and keep fucking it into you to ensure you become pregnant with our child.”

His thrusts are faster, filling the air with slick sounds made of the intense smacks of skin against skin. You hold him close and moan in the short space between you, nearly choking every time he drives his cock so far into you that you feel like you can no longer breathe. His hands caress your skin, groping your breast just to roll and flick your nipple between eager fingers.

You are breathless, struggling to keep up as the pleasure swarms in your head and in your bones, coursing through your veins until you feel like the sandy beaches of Dorne, letting the tides lap over you in large, consuming sweeps.

Oberyn lifts one of your legs onto his shoulder, the other following quickly before pressing his thumb to your clit. The new angle allows him to go deeper, the blunt head of his cock punching against a place that makes your lips part, open moans flooding the air.

“Oh, fuck,” you gasp. “S-so deep, so good.”

He leans down, essentially folding your body in half. He gathers your wrists in one hand and lifts them over your head. “Take it, my love. Take it all for me,” he rasps.

You flutter around him as he coaxes you closer and closer to this blissful high. Your hips buck into him, meeting his thrusts with an eagerness that matches his rhythm, which slowly becomes less and less nuanced as he gets closer to reaching his own high.

Your lips form an “O”, and he watches your eyes screw shut, watches your body arch and your brows pinch. He leans farther down, his lips hovering over yours.

“Look at me,” he says, a quiet purr upon your skin. “I want you to see me when you come apart. I want you to see me as I fill you so full of my cum that it leaks down your legs when you walk the streets of Dorne, so everyone knows that you are mine and I am yours.”

His words are sending you into a frenzy. You can hardly think straight as you imagine it—him holding you close, dressed as a royal, skin bathing in the sunlight as the people around you bow down while his seed leaks from your womb.

“Oberyn,” you moan, your lashes fluttering as you struggle to keep your eyes open. He is so beautiful, especially like this: with flushed skin and parted lips and lust-blown eyes. “So close. I’m so close.”

“Keep watching me, darling. Keep looking me in the eyes,” he huffs. He lets go of your wrists in favor of brushing his fingertips along your jaw as his thumb keeps circling your clit, tightening that knot in your belly so ready to snap.

It catches you by surprise—which catches him by surprise. You gasp, your lips parting in a wide shape as you stare into the depths of his eyes. He breathes in with you, mirroring your desire with all the love included. The pleasure is a rolling tidal wave that drowns you in ecstasy until you cry out.

His hips stutter as they fuck into you with a few last thrusts, filling you to the brim with his love for you. “Perfect.” His voice is strained, heightened by a pitch or two as the bliss chokes him. He pumps you full, the warmth spreading through your body until all you know is heat.

He mutters something or another under his breath, caught on the moment and the pleasure as you both ride your eyes together with the occasional sloppy kiss, breathing each other's air and sharing each other's desires.

Your body aches and shudders as you finally come down, the clenching and the tightening and the crashing settling into something bearable. You lay against the bed, finally noticing the sheen of sweat coating your flesh and his as you continue to soak in the other's heat.

He stays inside you, letting your legs off his shoulders and easing them instead around his waist. He leans some of his weight on you, a comfortable amount that has you sighing longingly and limply holding him close.

When you tilt your head tiredly, he guides it back. “No, no, keep looking at me. I want you to remember this.” His voice is soft, a loving lull as he smiles down at you. “I want you to remember the moment we made our first child. How good it felt,” he presses a kiss to your collarbone, “how close we were,” he kisses your neck, “how well you did for me,” a gentle, slow kiss to your lips, “how much I love you.”

You smile lazily, pulling him back in for another long kiss. If he focuses hard enough, he can still faintly taste the orange on your tongue. “I love you, my heart,” you whisper against his lips, giving another chaste kiss.

He hums, finally, reluctantly pulling out of your sopping cunt with a sigh. He eases onto his side wrapping his arms around you. “You must stay in your back a little while longer, my dear,” he says. He pulls you close to him, nuzzling into your neck as his nose presses into your shoulder.

You hum. “It still might take a few tries,” you whisper. “We must be certain it has taken root...” You smirk over at him, raising a tired hand to push a lock of dark hair from his forehead.

His hand falls to your belly, his thumb stroking lightly. He smiles when you clasps your hands together, holding them there and staring at each other like the world no longer exists outside of the other.

“Believe me,” he says, “we will not stop trying even after our maesters know for certain that you hold a babe in your beautiful belly.”

Your smile is almost as devious as his. “Oh, well… If it must be done.” Your noses nudge before joining him in another kiss.

Pedro Pascal taglist: @watercolorskyy @queermaxwooo @papichulo120627 @kmc1989 @the-nerdy-goddess @minigirl87 @notzammm @motopoppp @lover-of-books-and-tea @feyresqueen @quickslvxrr @hc-geralt-23 Ice and Fire taglist: @divinearchangel @alexxavicry @katsukis1wife @kmc1989 @the-nerdy-goddess @urmomsgirlfriend1 @ireallydontcareanymorebrooo @lover-of-books-and-tea @avalyaaa @rozendiors @seabasscevans @hc-geralt-23

[wholoveseggs]

Grey Wind will not allow reader and Robb to have even a moment of time alone together. Every time Robb even so much as kisses reader, Grey Wind wiggles his way in between the two and whines. When they are already in bed the wolf will jump onto the bed and pad around to annoy them both. If they’re trying to cuddle? He puts himself in between them too. Robb understands, he’s obsessed with reader too but he misses his wife so one night- he boots Grey Wind from their chambers so he can have time with his wife.

Paws Off

18+ ---- {Masterlist}

{Robb Stark x f!Reader} Grey Wind is almost as obsessed with you as your husband is... almost.

♡♡ You have the most beautiful mind anon!!! && this is also for @babyvamp-tw in her time of grief ♡♡

1.9k words - Warnings: smut, riding, cozy winter night in winterfell, robb being obsessed with you and grey wind related cockblocking...

The wind howled outside the tower, rattling shutters and setting the fire to crackle and spit as Robb fed it another log.

Behind him, the bed creaked softly as you shifted, burrowed deep beneath the furs with a book balanced on your knees and Grey Wind curled heavy and warm at your side. His tail flicked once with lazy contentment, thumping softly against the mattress.

Robb turned, brushing ash from his hands. "It’s freezing. Move over."

He crossed the room, tugging off his tunic with chilled fingers, but the moment he lifted the covers to slide in beside you, Grey Wind’s head snapped up.

A low whine. Then a growl, he wasn't angry, just... possessive.

"Don’t start," Robb warned, already half in the bed.

Grey Wind stood.

Robb froze as the stubborn beast stepped right into the spot Robb had been aiming for and promptly sat.

You snorted behind your book.

"Oh, you think this is funny?"

"A little," you murmured, eyes still on the page.

Robb glowered. He wasn't about to share his wife tonight, and especially not with his damn wolf. He gently pushed Grey Wind out of the way and crawled into the bed.

You giggled as Robb pulled the book out of your hands and tossed it across the room. He leaned down and nuzzled into your neck, trailing kisses over your bare shoulder.

"Robb," you gasped, "Your hands are freezing."

He hummed in response, pushing the covers down, so he could slip his hands beneath your nightgown. He kissed his way up your neck, his fingers tickling up your thigh.

You arched toward him with a breathy sigh, and Robb smiled against your skin, his voice low and thick with want.

"I’ve been waiting all day to have you like this," he murmured, lips brushing your jaw. "Warm and soft and all mine."

Your hands found his hair as leaned over you, the weight of him delicious, grounding. His mouth found your collarbone, your throat, your lips…and just as his fingers slipped beneath your nightdress, brushing over your soaked heat-

Whump.

Grey Wind jumped back onto the bed.

Pushing himself right between the two of you.

Robb groaned loudly, dropping his head to your chest as the direwolf circled once, then flopped down directly across your hips.

You let out a startled laugh, half breathless, half annoyed. "He’s so dramatic."

Robb sat up, shoving at the direwolf’s massive shoulder. "Off, Grey Wind."

The wolf blinked. Didn’t move.

"Down," Robb repeated, sterner this time. "Go lie by the fire."

With an exaggerated sigh, Grey Wind heaved himself off your legs and padded a few steps away... only to sit again at the end of the bed, watching. Judging.

Robb gave you a look that said ignore him, and you tried…really tried…as he lowered his head between your thighs and drew a slow, deliberate lick up your center.

You moaned, hand flying to his curls, hips canting toward his mouth. "Oh…Robb-"

Before either of you could register the sudden shift in weight on the mattress, all eighty pounds of fur and misguided concern landed directly on Robb’s back.

"Seven hells!" Robb sputtered, dragging himself up off you with an exasperated huff as Grey Wind walked over him, sniffing at your face, licking your cheek like you were the wounded party.

You couldn’t help it, you burst into helpless laughter.

Robb looked murderously betrayed.

"That’s it."

He stood, hoisting Grey Wind from the bed. The wolf let out a startled huff, clearly offended as Robb stomped to the chamber door, flung it open, and deposited the menace into the hall.

"No more interruptions. No more chaperones. You are banished."

Grey Wind sat outside the door and howled.

Robb slammed it shut and locked it, turning back to you with hair tousled, chest rising and falling, and a look in his eyes that made your thighs press together.

"Where were we?" he breathed, already climbing back over you, hands sliding up your sides.

"Hmmm," you hummed, grinning as you wrapped your legs around his waist. "I think you were about to make me forget my own name."

Robb smiled, a real, proper smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "My favorite thing to do."

He reclaimed your lips, one arm braced by your head, the other pushing your nightdress up, helping you pull it over over your head. Your skin tingled in the firelight, the cold air a shock before the heat of him returned.

He kissed down your stomach, and your hands tangled in his curls as he settled between your thighs again. His gaze met yours over the plane of your body, dark and adoring, and then he lowered his head, and the world narrowed to the point of his mouth on you.

His hands gripped your hips, holding you steady as he worked you with his tongue, slow, languid strokes that built a tight, aching knot deep inside you. Every flick, every suck, every breath against your slick heat was deliberate, practiced. He knew exactly what you liked, exactly what made your breath hitch, exactly what made you arch off the bed.

He murmured something against your skin, a low, satisfied sound that vibrated through you. Your whole body tensed as he sped up, a relentless rhythm that made your toes curl, that made your own moans sound distant, unfamiliar. His name was a prayer on your lips as he pushed you over the edge, your entire body shattering in a wave of blinding, perfect release.

He stayed with you through it, gentling his touch as you came down, pressing soft kisses to your stomach until you were trembling and pliant, blinking back stars.

When he finally moved back over you, you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him down for a kiss, tasting yourself on his lips. You could feel him, hot and hard and insistent against your thigh, but he made no move to hurry, content to just kiss you slow and deep, stroking your hair back from your damp forehead.

You pressed your hands against his chest, a gentle push that he answered easily.

You rolled with him, settling on top, straddling him. He looked up at you, firelight catching in his hair, his blue eyes soft in the dim light. He watched you as you positioned him, watched you as you slowly sank down, taking him inch by inch.

You both groaned at the connection, the familiar, perfect stretch of him. You began to move, a slow, rolling rhythm that had him fisting the furs, his breath coming in ragged bursts.

His hands came up to grip your waist, guiding you, encouraging you.

"There you go," he rasped, his head thrown back. "Just like that, my love. You're perfect."

You leaned forward, changing the angle, and the friction shot straight through you, pulling another moan from your lips. He sat up then, wrapping an arm around your back, pulling you flush against his chest. The new position left you breathless, every thrust deeper, more deliberate. His face was buried in your neck, his hands gripping your ass, moving you against him.

"Robb," you gasped, your own hands fisted in his hair.

"I know," he breathed, his voice ragged. "I know. Come with me. Come with me now, love."

And you did. It was a slower, deeper wave this time, a crest that broke again and again as you continued to move together, your bodies slick with sweat, your breath mingling in the frigid air. He followed you over, a choked groan against your skin as he pulsed inside you, filling you with his warmth.

After, you stayed tangled, a mess of limbs and heavy breaths. He kissed your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth, small, soft kisses that made your chest ache.

Then, from the hallway, came a loud, mournful howl.

And then another.

Robb stilled, then started to chuckle, a low, rumbling laugh that vibrated through your chest. You couldn't help but join in, burying your face in his shoulder, your body shaking with laughter.

"I'm going to skin that wolf," Robb said, but there was no heat in it. "Make a lovely rug for our chambers."

"He's just protective," you mumbled against him.

"He's a menace," he corrected, but he was smiling. He rolled, pulling you with him so you were curled against his side, your head on his chest. The fire crackled, the only other sound in the room besides the occasional, pathetic whine from the other side of the door.

He drew patterns on your back, a slow, lazy path up and down your spine. "Maybe we should just leave him out there. A night in the cold might teach him a lesson."

"Now you are being cruel," you chided, sitting up to look at him. "He'll think we're angry with him."

"I am angry with him," he said, though he pulled you back down for another kiss, this one slow and sweet. "He interrupted his king."

You laughed, a soft, happy sound. "Well his queen has granted him mercy."

You slipped from the bed, pulling your discarded nightgown over your head. You padded to the door, unlocking it and pulling it open just a crack.

A huge, furry head pushed its way in immediately, a wet nose nudging your hand and a low whine rumbling in Grey Wind's chest. You knelt, scratching him behind the ears. "You are a troublemaker," you whispered.

He wagged his tail, thumping it against the stone floor and began to lick your face.You laughed, shoving gently at the wet nose now pressing insistently against your cheek. "Stop, stop-"

Grey Wind did not stop.

Behind you, the bed creaked. When you glanced back, Robb had pushed himself up on one elbow, watching you both with an expression caught somewhere between exasperation and something unbearably soft. The furs had slipped to his waist. Firelight painted warm lines across his chest.

"You're too soft on him," he said, but his voice had gone quiet. Tired. The good kind of tired.

"You're too hard on him." You crawled back onto the mattress, and Grey Wind followed immediately, settling his considerable weight at the end of the bed like he'd never been banished at all.

Robb opened his mouth. You raised an eyebrow.

He closed it.

You smiled and curled into his side, your head finding its place on his chest like it had a thousand times before. His arm came around you immediately, hand finding your hip beneath the furs.

Grey Wind sighed. A great, rumbling sound, and then flopped down across your feet.

Robb huffed a laugh against your hair, his hand tracing slow patterns on your skin. His breathing evened out first. Then Grey Wind's, a low rumble you felt through your toes.

You were almost there yourself when Robb's lips brushed your forehead.

"Love you," he whispered. Half asleep already.

You smiled into his chest. "Love you too. Both of you."

Grey Wind's tail thumped once against the mattress.

And the three of you slept.

[fourthcrow]

── MORNING GLORY.

pairing: robb stark x wife!reader

summary: robb wakes up needy for his wife. good thing she's right there to help.

warnings: slight somno, fingering, spooning to prone bone, breeding kink (it's required), biting, lazy morning sex idk, this was written so quickly I just really needed to post something, not proofread cause I'm too lazy right now, mdni.

notes: this is not what I planned on posting today but I didn't get a lot of progress done on what I initially wanted to do, so enjoy this in the meantime. I woke up horny and I'm ovulating this week and this is the outcome. also regular text size won the poll!! I'm just keeping the notes and stuff small text.

word count: 1.5k

The ache between Robb's legs was the first thing he noticed when he awoke. The morning light was just beginning to filter in through the curtains, rays bathing the bedchambers in hues of orange and yellow. Even with the thorough love-making from the night before, his body ached for more before he was fully conscious.

Your soft form was curled beneath the furs, silky hair sprawled across the pillow, your lips parted ever so slightly as you slept. You were surely a pretty sight, one that only served to make him grow harder in his smallclothes. It was almost pathetic, Robb thought, that the mere sight of his wife could make him ache. He hoped the feeling was mutual. Your body was so warm and pliant against his own, one firm arm slung over your waist as he held your back to his chest.

Robb didn't want to disturb your slumber, not when you slept so peacefully, but his need for you was getting harder to ignore. He would make sure your abrupt awakening was well worth your while. His lips found your neck, planting gentle kisses over the marks he had left the night before. He could feel the shift in your breath, even if it was unconscious, your body responding to his familiar touch in your slumber. His hand, once splayed over the soft plane of your stomach began to dip lower, fingertips gliding across the skin of your thigh that was left bare from the way your shift had tugged up on the night. He savored the warmth of your skin and the subtle shift of your hips as you began to wake.

Robb's touch grew bolder as his fingers moved to the honey between your legs. He groaned softly at the wetness he found there, eyes squeezing shut as his calloused fingers found your clit. The little nub was already slickened with your arousal, two fingers easily gliding over it in tight circles. The whine you let out was so soft, so needy, it had your husband throbbing.

“Shhh, my lady,” he murmured, voice rough from disuse, “I've got you.” The scratch of his stubble against the delicate shell of your ear had you shuddering, hands clutching the bedsheets as you began to come back to reality.

“Robb.”

The breathy call of his name had his fingers speeding up on your clit, and it was then that he realized he was rutting against your rear, too desperate to stop himself like a dog in heat. His mouth found your neck again, teeth gently sinking into the sensitive skin before he soothed it with his tongue. It had you gasping, and Robb took the opportunity to slide a finger into your welcoming heat. “You're soaked, love,” the smirk was practically audible in his words. His hips rolled slowly, grinding the hard outline of his cock against your ass. “Were you dreaming about me?”

“Mhh… perhaps,” you replied, eyes fluttering shut with a small pinch of your brow. Your walls clamped around his invading digit, already wanting for more as you subtly rocked against his hand.

In tune with the tells of your body, and the soft little sounds that escaped you, Robb slid a second finger inside of you. He scissored his fingers for a few long moments, stretching you out for what was to come. “I hope it was a good dream,” he spoke huskily, lips still planting open-mouthed kisses along your neck and behind your ear until your skin glistened with his spit. “But never better than the real thing. I am here, my wife, let me love you.”

He withdrew his fingers from your cunt, reveling in the whimper of protest you let out, ready to be filled again. He made quick work of shoving down his smallclothes, his cock springing free. It was hard and aching, leaking with his need for his wife. One hand tugged up your shift in a haste, revealing the swell of your rear and the shape of your hips. His fingers sunk into the supple flesh of one of your cheeks, spreading you open for him. He grasped his cock, guiding the leaking tip through your folds. He watched, enraptured, as your folds parted around him, his length gliding easily through your arousal.

“Husband!” You gasped when his head caught on your clit, the delicious drag sending heat through your core as your body tensed.

“Shhh, my lady wife,” he repeated. Without more preamble, Robb lined himself up with your entrance. He groaned as soon as he slid inside, your warmth pulling him in further as he dropped his forehead onto your shoulder. His hand slid from your ass to your hip, fingers clutching onto you as he bottomed out. The moan you let out had him exhaling shakily, and it took all of his strength not to move until you adjusted.

Slowly, agonizingly so, Robb began to rock his hips. He dragged out of your clenching cunt until only the tip remained before pushing back inside. The pace was slow and deep, and he reveled in the soft moans he could draw from your lips, he reveled in the feeling of your warmth around him. It was what he had been aching for, and now he was lost in the pleasure. His hand slid up your body, arm looped over your waist, as his hand cupped one of your breasts through the thin fabric of your shift. He kneaded the soft mound, thumb circling your pebbled nipple as he sped up. Robb's hips slapped against your ass, the sound of flesh against flesh mingling with his grunts and your moans.

“So pretty,” Robb gasped, words falling from his lips without rhyme or reason, “so perfect. My lady. My wife. My heart."

As his thrusts grew more erratic, he eased you onto your stomach without missing a beat. His chest was flush against your back, body covering your own as he continued to run into you. “Robb!” You cried out, the noise strangled as his weight pressed into you. He pried open the tight grip you had on the pillows, fingers locking with your own. The other hand slid up your body, finger wrapping around your chin to tilt your head to look at him. His lips found yours in a messy kiss, though it was far too quick for your liking.

“You feel so good beneath me, my darling,” Robb panted, eyes glued to the way your brows furrowed, your hair clung to your sweaty forehead, your lips parted around soft gasps and whines. He felt his balls begin to tighten, threatening with his incoming release. He dropped his head upon your shoulder again, teeth biting at the bare skin he found. “My love, my lady, I'm close.”

“In… inside!” You managed to gasp.

That was all it took.

“You want me to cum inside, darling? Want me to fill you up and fuck you full of my seed?” The words were ragged as his hips stuttered, his hand sliding away from your jaw to clutch your hip. Robb squeezed your hand, and though his next words were spoken in a daze of lust, he meant them. “I can't wait to see you round with our babe. Let the whole North know you're mine.”

With a few punishingly hard thrusts, Robb stilled, and spilled inside of you. He felt your walls clench and spasm around him, a shrill cry falling from your lips as you met your orgasms together. He screwed his eyes shut, lips parted around gasping breaths and raspy moans. His hips stuttered as he rode out the waves of his climax, each pulse of his cock sending jolts of pleasure shooting up his spine. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the last spurts of his release dribbled out.

You were both panting, trembling with the aftermath of pleasure. Robb rolled his hips lazily, feeling his softening cock still nestled inside you. He could feel their combined releases starting to leak out around him, dribbling down your thighs. Marking you. Claiming you. He let go of your hip, hand propping himself up so he did not fully crush you with his weight. Nuzzling against the crook of your neck, he placed a reverent kiss to your skin.

“Are you alright, love?”

His question was almost laughable.

“Never better, husband. Only.. tired.”

Robb grinned against your neck, peppering kisses up the expanse of it until he met your jaw, your cheek, your forehead. “Well-spent, hm?” He hummed. He hissed as he slipped his softening cock out of you, rolling onto his back to gather you on his arms. He didn't miss the way you clenched your thighs together, an attempt at keeping his warm seed inside of you. It made his heart stutter, not entirely with lust, but hope. Hope that it would take.

“Sleep, wife,” he whispered, placing a final, lingering kiss upon your forehead as you rested on his chest. “I will be here when you wake.”

[sorcerousundries]

Let me wrap my teeth around the world

Pulling Robb and Jon’s curly hair

Warnings: P in V sex, hair pulling(obv), cunnilingus, fingering, unprotected sex(wrap before you tap), slight marking if you squint(Jon),

A/N: I’ve read their blog for so long and I think @dipperscavern would like this.

Jon’s hair falls around your face while he pounds his hips into yours, the dark curls messy with sweat and exertion, you can’t tell if your hot or cold. The cold air of winterfells snowy winds drift in through the window and bite at your skin but the heat that courses through your cunt and abdomen make you sweat.

He groans when you thread your fingers through the dark tresses and tug at his scalp “careful” he grits a warning through his teeth, his hips slowing to roll in a circle hitting the soft spot inside you with every roll.

Squelching plaps echo the room as his hips sped back up again, it has you moaning and dragging your nails along his back.

That’s gonna hurt in the morning yet he can’t bring himself to focus on that, his senses have zeroed in on the way your snug cunt wraps around his cock. as he looks down to where your connected, those curls fall infront of his face, making you tuck them behind his hair so that you can look upon him as you cum all over his cock.

Robbs hair isn’t as long as Jon’s but that doesn’t mean you can’t grip onto it while he’s knuckle deep in your cunt.

You can grip the auburn curls to ride his face while he smirks up at you, his tongue curling and lapping at your clit. Your legs are hiked over his shoulders, heels digging into his back as your toes curl, he’ll even give you his fingers if you ask nicely, “yeah?, y’ like that?” as he curls them into your g-spot.

Your jaw falls open in a silent scream as your stomach twists and turns with as if filled with molten lava.

Your fingers curl around the auburn strands, providing even a small amount of grounding as your orgasm rushes towards you. Your thighs clench and twitch as he shakes his head, the friction almost mind-numbing as black spots start to dot your vision.

And you know he’ll smirk at you as he rises from between your legs, the scratchy hair on his chin that leaves your inner thighs red raw is soaked in your juices. he pops his fingers in his mouth, sucking them before he encases your mouth with his.

The taste of yourself tart on his tongue.

Even when he pushes your legs up to your chest to sink himself into your cunt, you can’t help but grip at the curls.

[wholoveseggs]

Robb needs to continue to plan the war but reader is desperate for him. They come to a conclusion, she’ll sit in his cock while he looks over everything. Basically just cock warming with Robb.

Seat of Power

18+ ---- {Masterlist}

{Robb Stark x f!Reader} The war room is littered with maps and scrolls, and your husband hasn't come to bed in nearly a month. You've tried patience. You've tried understanding. Tonight, you try something else.

♡♡ Happy Game of Thrones day! ♡♡

1.4k words - Warnings: smut, riding, cockwarming, war planning & aftercare ...

The fire crackled low in the hearth, shadows stretching long across the war room. Maps and raven-sent missives cluttered the table, flickering under candlelight. Robb sat at the head, brows furrowed in that stern, brooding way he wore so well, studying the placement of men like they were chess pieces.

You stood in the doorway, wrapped in nothing but one of his tunics, watching him.

He hadn't come to bed.

Again.

"Robb…" you murmured, stepping closer.

He barely looked up. "One moment, sweetling. Lord Karstark’s reply arrived. If we move by dawn-"

You cut him off, wrapping your arms around his neck from behind, your lips brushing his ear.

"The hour grows late, husband." You could feel the tension in his shoulders and it only fueled your want. "You can attend to this tomorrow."

He let out a heavy breath, fingers curling on the table.

"There isn't time."

"Then make some," you urged, kissing his jaw.

"You know I can't. This has to be finished."

Your grip tightened, your fingers combing through curls, pulling his head back. He groaned and you caught the way his eyes slipped closed, the way his teeth dug into his lower lip.

"I miss you."

"And I you." He turned to kiss your lips, his beard tickling you. "But the war doesn't wait."

You pulled back, frustrated. "The war has kept you from your wife for nearly a month. Is that what you want?"

His brow furrowed and you knew he was about to launch into his spiel of duty and honor and the greater good.

So you did the first thing that came to mind.

You slipped into his lap.

His hands landed on your hips, a startled look on his face. You leaned down to kiss him, your lips insistent, fingers tugging at his hair.

"Please my king," you murmured, nipping at his lips.

"You shouldn't distract me," he said, though his tone was already growing ragged.

"No?" You reached between your bodies, undoing his breeches without ceremony. "I’m not asking you to stop. I just need to feel you inside me. Please, Robb…"

His jaw flexed when you guided him out; half-hard, responding to your touch. He let out a soft groan as you rolled your hips against his, stroking his cock to fullness.

"Fuck," he breathed. His hands roamed your thighs, his cock twitching under your palm.

You stroked him slow and steady, letting his cock rest between your thighs, teasing his tip in your palm.

"You need to relax," you whispered, pressing a kiss to his cheek. "Let your queen take care of you."

"It's not… ah-" he sucked in a sharp breath when pulled open his tunic you were wearing, revealing your lack of smallclothes, "not that simple."

"It can be. For now."

Your fingers curled around the base of his cock as you raised your hips, then sank down slowly until he was sheathed fully inside you. Your breath caught in your throat as your walls fluttered around him, already slick from how long you'd been wanting this.

He exhaled slowly, trying to keep his composure.

You stayed still, chest pressed to his, arms wrapped around his shoulders as he gripped your thighs in a bruising hold.

"Gods," he muttered against your shoulder, trembling just slightly as he forced himself not to move. "You’re so fucking warm."

"I told you," you whispered against his ear, "you needed to relax."

He didn’t answer.

Just set his jaw and reached for the nearest parchment.

You smiled, because he thought he could resist you. That he could sit here, thick and hard inside you, while you clung to him like he belonged to you ... and somehow focus. Like you weren’t dripping for him. Like your cunt wasn’t fluttering around his cock every time you shifted the slightest bit.

You kissed just below his ear, letting your lips graze over the edge of his jaw. "Do you know what I was thinking about while I waited for you?" you murmured.

His eyes flicked toward you. Warily. "What?"

"How good you feel when you’re spilling inside me." Your hips rolled, just slightly, and he hissed through his teeth. "So deep… So hot… I think about it every night you’re not there."

"Darling..." he warned, but you were already kissing his neck, soft and slow.

"I want to be full of you again," you said sweetly. "I want to be dripping down my thighs when I walk back to our chambers. I want to lie in our bed with your seed inside me, hoping it takes."

His grip tightened, knuckles pale.

"I want to be round with your child," you whispered, hips barely shifting, your cunt squeezing around him. "I want the court to whisper behind their hands that the queen swells quick with her king’s heir because he fucks her full every night-"

A strangled noise escaped him and suddenly he was clutching your ass, lifting you and placing you on the table. His palms landed flat on the surface, the parchment beneath crumpling, his lips crashing against yours in a heated kiss.

"You talk too much," he growled.

You grinned, reaching up to cradle his face. "Only when it makes you fuck me."

He groaned, spreading your thighs wider, sinking into you as deep as he could go. The table shook, ink spilling and quills scattering. You moaned, wrapping your legs around him, holding on as he moved slowly, almost lazily, dragging his cock along every inch of your cunt.

"Is this what you wanted?" he asked, breathless, hips rolling against yours.

"Yes," you gasped, nails raking through his hair. "More, Robb, please..."

He chuckled, kissing your lips once more.

"My lady demands too much."

"You'll give it to me."

"Aye," he agreed, pulling back enough to press his hand to your belly, rubbing soft circles. "I'll give you everything."

Your heart clenched at the words, a smile forming on your lips. But it was hard to keep focus when his hand slipped down between your bodies, his thumb pressing tight circles against your clit.

The pressure built steadily, coiling hotter and hotter as he worked his hips in tandem with his thumb. It wasn't long before the sensation broke, washing over you like waves on the shore, leaving you boneless and trembling beneath him.

You felt him spill inside you, heard him groan your name, and smiled to yourself.

He slumped forward, spent and boneless, bracing his arms on either side of your head.

"Better?" you asked, a grin forming on your lips.

He nodded, brushing his lips to yours. "Better."

"Good," you said, kissing him again. "Now, my king, if you've quite finished, I would like us to return to our chambers."

He hummed, pressing his lips to your shoulder, hands skimming down your sides. "I suppose I can allow a small reprieve."

"Small?" You raised a brow.

"The war waits for no man," he said. He adjusted his clothes and tucked himself away, helping you down off the table.

You pouted, straightening your tunic and reaching up to wrap your arms around his neck. He looked down at you with a knowing smirk.

"But I can at least carry you back to bed," he said softly, scooping you up and carrying you from the war room.

You giggled, clinging to his shoulders. "That's better."

The fire in your chambers had long since gone to embers, but the bed was warm with thick furs. Grey Wind was curled up at the foot like a guardian carved from shadow and smoke. Robb laid you down carefully, brushing a kiss to your temple as you burrowed into the blankets.

You reached for him, hopeful, sleepy. "You’ll stay?"

He hesitated. His eyes lingered on your face like he hated himself for what he had to say.

"Grey Wind," he said quietly, running a hand through the direwolf’s thick coat. "Watch her for me."

The beast let out a low, affirming rumble.

Robb leaned down one last time, brushing his lips across yours. "Rest," he whispered. "I’ll be back before you wake."

And just like that, the king was gone. Back to his war.

But his warmth lingered on your skin, and Grey Wind stayed, his head resting on the pillow beside yours. And deep in your belly, you imagined something new beginning to stir. The quiet promise of a child. Of a life after the war.

It was all that kept you sane, in the lonely hours without him.

[wholoveseggs]

Emergency Contact

18+ ---- {Masterlist}

{Daemon Targaryen x f!Reader} You find yourself held for ransom by a minor lord and his idiot son, and the only thing worse than your current situation is the knowledge that your husband probably won't even notice you're gone...

♡ dragon daddy is back on my screen and so I'm back writing ~xo ♡

8.4k words - Warnings: smuttt, kidnapping, blood and gore, captivity, threats of sexual assault {not carried out}, cliche heroic rescue, descriptions of violence, daemon being daemon, caraxes lil squeaks, && dragon riding in more ways than one...

You probably shouldn't have wandered off, but you were bored. The Red Keep was dreadful and you had long since run out of places to explore. So you took a secret little stroll outside and hoped you would be back before anyone noticed. Your husband certainly wasn't going to miss you, he was too busy whoring and gambling off in some far distant city. Doing whatever deplorable thing suited his fancy that day.

And now you were sitting at a dingy table, in a castle that was so run down it was more like a ruin, being held for ransom by a bunch of morons. They seemed to think they were getting some great prize by holding you hostage. As if your husband would ever lift a finger to get you back.

The chains around your wrists and ankles were heavy and uncomfortable, your skin chafing from their weight. It was difficult to lift your goblet of wine to your lips, your hand shaking from the effort.

"Drink up, Princess." Lord Byrch said from across the table, chewing on a turkey leg with the sort of vile gluttony that would make even a pig nauseous. "I won't have the Prince thinking I've mistreated you."

Your hair was tangled and your dress torn and dirty, your face bruised and bloody from the initial fight. You hadn't let them take you easily, and you were quite proud of the fact that you had managed to scratch Lord Byrch's son right across his ugly face.

You raised your goblet towards him, lifting it as high as you could, keeping your eyes locked on his before you poured it all over the floor. He watched you in silence, chewing, chewing, chewing, until a slow smile spread across his lips.

"Fiery." He commented and you narrowed your eyes, "I see why the Prince married you."

He married me because his brother and my father told him he had to. You didn't say it out loud. You wouldn't give Byrch the satisfaction of hearing your marriage reduced to its ugly, political truth. Instead, you leaned back in your chair as far as the chains would allow and let your lips curl into something cruel.

"My husband will come for me," you said, your voice surprisingly steady and confident. "And when he does, he will kill every last one of you. He'll feed your entrails to his dragon and string up what remains as a warning to any other fool who thinks they can touch what belongs to him."

Inside you only had doubts. Will he, though?

You remembered how excited you had been when the betrothal was announced. The Rogue Prince. The most dangerous man in the Seven Kingdoms, and he was to be yours. You used to dream of him sweeping you off your feet, of dragon rides and passionate nights, of a love story that would make the bards weep. You thought of your wedding night, the way his body had felt, so warm and firm, pressing you into the bed. How he had been so gentle with you, so tender. How he had called you wife and kissed your mouth as if he were trying to drink you down and drown in you. 

You actually thought, for a brief, beautiful moment, that the fairy tale was real. But a year of marriage had shown you a very different side of your husband. One that was cruel and cold. One that cared only for himself.

But Byrch didn't know that, so you were satisfied when a flash of fear crossed his features and he put that bloody turkey leg down.

"Father."

Byrch's son strode in behind you, you looked over your shoulder to see the scratch you gave him still looking a little swollen, raw, and definitely not healing well…You quickly turned to face his father again before he could see you smile. But it didn't matter, the son’s hand came down hard across the back of your head. The force of the blow made stars burst across your vision, a cry tearing from your throat.

The son chuckled as he walked past you and towards his father, clapping a hand on the back of his own chair. "What have you learned?" Lord Byrch asked, gesturing for him to sit.

"King Viserys has responded to our ransom demand. He's willing to pay. Fifty thousand gold, just as we asked. He's sending envoys to negotiate the exchange."

Your stomach dropped.

Viserys. Not Daemon. Of course.

"Your good-brother is a reasonable man," Byrch said, taking another bite of his turkey leg. "He understands that gold is cheaper than blood... I knew Daemon wouldn't risk open war with his brother over a woman." He tilted his head, enjoying your silence. "You see, my lady? Your husband is on a leash, just as I predicted."

The son's smirk widened. "From what I hear, the Prince has been in Pentos this past week."

Pentos. Fucking Pentos. Of course he was in fucking Pentos. Probably so deep in his cups he forgot his own name let alone yours.

Some small, foolish part of you had hoped. But you knew better, you had always known better. It was always going to be Viserys, probably by the urging of your father... And of course the reputation of the Targaryen name. It was his duty to try and bring you back. He would pay, and send the envoys. Perhaps you would get to wear some of the better royal jewels at the next public event, a consolation prize for your suffering.

Lord Byrch waved a hand. "Take her back to her cell. No point letting her sour the wine."

The son grabbed your arm, his fingers digging into the bruises already blooming there, hauling you to your feet. You stumbled on the chains, but he didn't slow. He dragged you down a cold stone corridor with a rough hand, until he reached the heavy wooden door of your cell.

He shoved you inside and you hit the damp stone floor hard, the impact jarring through your knees and wrists, the chains clinking loudly. The door didn't close behind you, instead a shadow fell over you, the son's boots crossing the threshold, his foot landing dangerously close to your head.

"I'd watch that mouth, if I were you." He crouched down and grabbed your chin, forcing your gaze upward. His thumb pressed into the bruise on your jaw, and you bit back a hiss. "I'm sure the gold is coming," he murmured, almost thoughtfully. "But if it doesn't..." He smiled. "Father said I get to fuck you first. Might even scratch up your pretty face to match mine. Would you like that?"

Your stomach turned to ice at his words, but you didn't give him the satisfaction of a reply. Instead you held his gaze, you wouldn't look away. Wouldn't give him an inch of your fear.

He squeezed your jaw tight enough that tears welled in the corners of your eyes. "No? You don't look so pretty anymore, anyway. Not much a man would want."

He shoved your head down, pushing you into the ground before turning and walking out. The lock clicked heavily in the quiet.

You lay there for a long moment, face pressed into the floor, the taste of blood and dirt on your tongue. The son's words echoed in your mind and your whole body began to shake.

Slowly, you pushed yourself up and leaned against the wall. Your wrists were raw. Your head throbbed. And somewhere deep in your chest, a sob was building.

Daemon wasn't coming. Daemon was in Pentos, drunk, probably with a whore on each arm. And these men were going to-

You pressed your palms to your eyes and bit down on your lip until you tasted copper. You couldn't cry. You wouldn't. You were stronger than that.

But the tears came anyway, hot and humiliating, the kind you hadn't cried since you were a girl. You curled in on yourself, forehead to your knees, and let them fall. You cried for the girl who had dreamed of a gallant dragon prince. You cried for the wife who had once reached for her husband in the dark and found only cold sheets. You cried because he had been gentle once, and you had been stupid enough to believe it meant something.

He's not coming.

The thought was a cold stone in your gut.

He's not coming. He was never going to come.

Your honor and safety would be traded for gold and Daemon Targaryen would continue to forget he ever had a wife at all.

You cried until your throat was raw and your eyes burned, until you were shivering and weak.

Finally, you took a shaky breath and looked up at the small, barred window. The sky was darkening, the sun sinking beyond the distant hills. You were exhausted, the weight of your chains a terrible burden, your eyes drooping and heavy.

Sleep took you before you could think to fight it. Your head fell back against the stone.

You didn't see the small black dot that appeared on the horizon. So small one might mistake it for a distant bird. But it grew. Larger. Faster. Until the beating of wings echoed through the walls.

And the screams began.

Flames. Everywhere. But they didn't burn. They cradled you, lapped at your skin like warm water. Is this what dying feels like? It wasn't so bad. Not as bad as what Byrch's son had promised.

Screams.

You stirred. The dream flickered.

Screams. Real ones.

Your eyes cracked open. Smoke stung your throat. The cell was awash in orange light. Outside the small window, the world was nothing but flame. The castle was on fire.

And then you heard it. A sound you would know anywhere; a long, stretched-out shriek that was half roar and half scream, and yet all dragon.

Caraxes.

Something like relief washed through you, even as your heart beat faster. If the castle was on fire and Caraxes was outside, then that could only mean-

Footsteps. Heavy. Unhurried.

You scrambled backward, pressing yourself against the far wall. The lock scraped, the mechanism groaning, and you held your breath as the door swung open.

Byrch's son filled the frame. His face was streaked with soot and blood, his eyes wild. The smug cruelty from before was gone, burned away by fear. Fear of dragonfire and its vicious rider.

"You-" His voice was high and shaky as he grabbed a fistful of your tangled hair, yanking you to your feet. "You're coming with me. Now. H-he'll gut me if he finds me, but I'll make sure you-"

His words stopped, because the tip of a blade punched through the front of his throat.

He released you. Stumbled. His hands flew to his neck, but the blood was already pouring, too fast, too much, and his eyes went wide. Confused. Then dim. Then he collapsed at your feet. The last thing he ever heard was you screaming at the sight of his throat gaping open. 

You stood there, shaking, staring down at the body in shock. He had been threatening you a heartbeat ago. Now he was just meat.

And then you saw him.

Daemon stood in the threshold, his dark armor was slick with crimson, his face streaked with ash. His pale hair was braided and he held a dagger in one hand, blood dripping from its edge.

For a moment, neither of you moved. Your gaze locked. The crackle of flames and distant screams filled the silence.

"Wife."

He sheathed the dagger and crossed to you in three quick strides. You couldn't speak, couldn't move, but you let him take your face in his hands. His fingers were gentle as he tilted your chin this way and that, inspecting the cuts and bruises, a muscle in his jaw jumping as he did.

You lifted your wrists to show him the heavy shackles. He stepped back and unsheathed his sword and brought it down upon the chains. They fell from your limbs and clattered to the ground.

"I thought you were in Pentos," you managed, your voice hoarse and raw.

He tilted his head. "Why would I be in Pentos?"

"They told me-"

He chuckled, low and humorless, and reached up to push a loose lock of hair from your face. "Pentos?"

You opened your mouth to yell at him. To demand he tell you where he'd been and why you'd spent days believing he'd abandoned you. But a shout echoed from the corridor, followed by the clash of steel.

Daemon's hand found your wrist. "Stay behind me."

He pulled you through the doorway, and the corridor was chaos. Smoke billowed, thick and choking. Two of Byrch's guards rounded the corner, swords drawn, their faces twisted with panic as they laid eyes on your husband.

Daemon moved before you could breathe.

He met the first guard head-on, his sword singing as it caught the man's blade, disarming him in a single twisting motion. The second guard lunged, aiming for Daemon's exposed side, but Daemon spun, driving his elbow into the man's face, then burying his blade in his chest before he could fall.

The first guard tried to scramble for his fallen blade, but Daemon's boot came down on his wrist, and the crack of bone made you feel sick. Then Daemon swung and the guard's head rolled away.

It took seconds. Less.

"Come." He didn't look back, just reached out his arm for you to grab.

There were three more guards in the next passage. Daemon didn't slow. He shoved you backwards, his body a wall between you and the attackers, and then he struck them like a viper. His blade was a blur. Parrying, slashing, driving through armor like it was parchment. One man fell with a gurgle. Another dropped his sword and tried to run; Daemon's dagger found the back of his head. The third lunged, aiming for you, and Daemon caught him by the throat as he tried to rush past him, lifting him off the ground, driving his sword through the man's gut before letting him crumple.

The corridor was slick with blood. Daemon's chest heaved as he retrieved his dagger from the guards head. Then he stalked towards the exit.

"Keep moving."

You stumbled after him, past bodies, past flames licking at tapestries and wooden beams. The heat was suffocating, but Daemon's pace was relentless. He kicked open a side door and more guards spilled out and Daemon carved through them without hesitation. 

And then he pulled you onward.

Finally, the great doors to the courtyard loomed ahead. Daemon didn't slow. He raised his boot and kicked them open.

The smell outside hit you like a wall. Fire raged across the courtyard walls, and the air was thick with smoke and the stench of burning flesh. 

But the fighting was over.

Byrch's men were on their knees.

Dozens of them. Lines of them, forced onto the cobblestones with gold cloaks behind them, swords at their throats. Targaryen household guards stood at attention, their armor black and red, their faces hard and grim. And above it all, perched on the broken walls like a god of old, was Caraxes. His long neck craned toward the sky, and when he opened his maw, a plume of flame burst forth.

The heat made the air shimmer. Byrch's men flinched. Some wept.

Daemon walked you through them.

His hand wrapped around yours, and he led you past the kneeling men with a slow, deliberate stride. He wanted them to see. He wanted them to know. That the prince's wife was alive. That he had come for her. That this wreckage, this blood, this brutality; was the price of touching what belonged to him.

Your bare feet left bloody prints on the stone. Your dress was torn, your hair tangled, your face bruised. But you walked with your chin held high, because Daemon was holding your hand, and you would not let these men see you break.

At the center of the courtyard, Byrch knelt alone. His face was pale, streaked with sweat and ash, and his hands were bound behind him. Two gold cloaks held him in place.

"Byrch."

Your husband's voice was like silk, calm and smooth, his arm came around your waist and pulled you against his side. He kissed your temple gently before letting you go, gently guiding you to a waiting gold cloak. The guard wrapped you in a clean cloak, the targaryen sigil stitched into the fine material. It struck you in that moment, that this was all for you. His men. His dragon. The blood on his hands. Every corpse in this courtyard was a gift laid at your feet.

The lord's head snapped up. His eyes darted to you, then back to Daemon. "Mercy, my Prince. Please. You've already taken everything. Mercy."

Daemon cocked his head. "Everything?"

"Mercy," Byrch begged again. "I beg you-"

"Begging," Daemon said, chuckling to himself before he placed the point of his blade against Byrch's throat. 

Byrch's eyes were wide, his breath coming in short, desperate gasps.

Daemon leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Why should I show you mercy?"

"Because I- because-"

"What's done is done," Daemon smiled, and it was the cruellest thing you'd ever seen. 

Then he drew his sword back. And plunged it straight down Byrch's throat.

The gurgle was wet, horrible. Daemon pushed the blade deeper, through flesh and bone, until the tip emerged from the back of Byrch's neck. He held it there for a long moment, staring into the lord's empty eyes, before he wrenched the sword free.

Byrch's body slumped. Daemon wiped the blade clean on the dead man's clothes.

Byrch's remaining men cried out. Some begging, some cursing, a few trying to rise. The gold cloaks drove them back down to their knees.

Daemon looked at the prisoners, then at his men. He nodded once.

A flash of steel. A spray of blood. And without a single word, one by one, the kneeling men fell.

You watched, frozen, as the courtyard became a slaughterhouse. It was over in moments. Dozens of bodies lay sprawled across the cobblestones, their blood pooling together, running in dark rivulets between the cracks.

Daemon turned to you.

He crossed the distance to you in an instant, his hand finding yours again. His fingers were slick with blood, but you didn't pull away. He lifted your hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to your knuckles. 

"Burn it," he said, loud enough for everyone to hear. "I want no trace left of this place. Take everything of value and bring it to Dragonstone."

"Yes, my Prince." His men shouted out in unison.

He pulled you away, past the bodies and towards where Caraxes waited. And that's when you saw the way he was favoring his right leg, barely, but you saw it.

"You're hurt," you breathed.

He didn't slow. Didn't respond. But you knew he heard you.

You wanted to argue, to grab his arm and make him stop; but then you were at Caraxes's side, and the dragon's heat washed over you, and your words died in your throat.

A sudden base instinct to flee gripped you, the sight of the great red dragon enough to freeze your limbs. But Daemon's grip was firm, his pace steady, and before you could process what was happening, he was lifting you up onto the dragon's back.

He climbed up behind you, a grunt escaping him as he swung his leg over. His arms came around your waist, and you felt the warmth of him, solid and real.

"Sovès" Daemon yelled.

Caraxes roared, a long, high sound, and lifted his wings. For a brief, terrifying moment, you were weightless.

And then the dragon launched itself into the air.

You didn't scream, didn't even cry out. You couldn't. Your mind was still catching up, your thoughts a jumble. Your mouth fell open, and your hands grasped at the saddle, your fingers digging in so hard your knuckles turned white.

The air rushed past, and you looked down, and the sight made you dizzy. The castle shrank beneath you, the bodies, the smoke, the flame. Everything was so small. The world was vast and the sky was endless and you were soaring.

A laugh bubbled up, the thrill of it filling your lungs. Then tears. Tears because you were safe and Daemon had come for you and it wasn't a dream and your chest was so tight and you were gasping for air-

You leaned back against your husband and sobbed, tears streaking down your cheeks, the sound swallowed by the wind.

Daemon's arms tightened around you, and the feeling of him there, his heartbeat against your spine, made you cry harder.

"Paghā" he whispered against your ear, the word rumbling through his chest. You didn't know Valyrian, but the tone was clear.

It was alright.

You were safe.

At first you thought you were going to Dragonstone, you could smell the salt in the air, the tang of the sea.

But no, Caraxes moved south, along the coast leading to Dorne. Daemon kept a firm grip on the reins, his arms wrapped tight around your waist. He was silent.

Your sobs faded as you flew over the waves, and you settled in, watching the water, and the horizon, the sky painted in shades of red, orange and purple as the sun sank beyond the distant peaks.

Finally, Caraxes began to descend. He landed gracefully near a stone tower that looked out over the ocean, his body shuddering and his claws digging deep into the ground.

Your heart was still beating wildly, and you were grateful when Daemon slid down first and offered his hand. You took it, his warm touch bringing you back to earth, and let him guide you down.

Caraxes snorted and shook his wings, the gust of wind nearly knocking you off your feet. Daemon chuckled, pulling you against his side as the dragon's tail swished and he launched himself into the air, his huge wings beating so hard that dust billowed.

"Where are we?" you asked.

"A place I keep," he said, already moving past you toward the tower door.

You followed, watching the way he favored his right leg, the slight hitch in his stride he was trying to hide. He shouldered open the door and held it open, gesturing for you to enter.

The tower was not what you expected. Not the cold, damp ruin it looked to be from the outside. It was well furnished, with a large bed in the corner piled high with furs and pillows, a table bearing wine, bread wrapped in cloth, a basin of clean water. The hearth was cold, but fresh wood was laid and waiting.

This wasn't some abandoned hole he used for hunting. This was meant for something far more intimate.

"Is this where you bring your whores?" You didn't mean to say it, but the words escaped anyway, the bitterness in them a surprise.

"Why would I do that?" He crossed the room and grabbed a flagon, filling a cup with wine.

"Because they're easier than a wife," you snapped.

He laughed, and you bristled, but didn't respond. You watched him let out a quiet groan of pain as he knelt in front of the fire. It made something twist in your chest. He grabbed the wood and flint, struck a spark, and coaxed the flames to life. You watched as the flames licked up the dry wood, slowly consuming it.

"Your leg," you said, when he didn't speak.

"It's fine."

"No, it isn't."

He didn't answer. He was staring into the flames.

"Daemon."

He glanced over his shoulder at you, and then rose to his full height, turning to face you fully. He looked tired. Dark shadows hung under his eyes , and there was a pallor to his skin beneath the ash and blood. You hadn't noticed it before, when you'd seen him in the castle. He must have been riding all day, flying, killing...and he hadn't stopped. Not for rest, not for food, not until he had you back.

"I'll live," he said. "Sit."

You stayed standing. "Let me at least help you with your armor."

His lips twitched, but he nodded, sitting down heavily next to the table. You crossed to him, your hands reaching for the buckles of his pauldrons before you could second-guess yourself. He watched you, silent, his eyes tracking your movements as you worked the leather straps free.

The first piece of armor clattered to the floor. Then the second. Each buckle you loosened revealed more of him. The sweat-dampened tunic beneath, the way his shoulders sagged slightly without the weight of the steel.

"Did they hurt you badly?" he asked, his voice a soft rasp.

"They wanted to," you replied. "They said a lot of things."

You weren't sure why you told him. Perhaps because you wanted him to know what had happened. What might have happened if he hadn't come. Or maybe you simply needed to say it. To put the words into the air.

He reached up to where your hand was struggling with a strap at the back of his shoulder. He wrapped his fingers around yours, stilling them for just a moment before he helped you work the rest of the buckles free.

"I should have killed them slower."

"And more creatively." You smiled despite yourself.

He returned the smile, but it didn't reach his eyes.

You stepped back as he rose and began stripping the rest of his armor. Greaves, gauntlets, bracers, until finally he was free. His white underclothes were stained red, blood seeping from the wound in his thigh.

"That needs stitching."

"I'm not some green knight who needs tending." He pulled a dagger from his belt and cut the fabric away, revealing a jagged cut down the outside of his thigh, the edges dark with blood. "See? It's not deep. It'll heal."

"Fine." You threw up your hands and turned away, anger simmering beneath your skin.

You could hear him moving, and you imagined him grabbing his sword and leaving. You wouldn't care. Let him leave. Let him go fly off wherever the hell he pleased.

But he didn't. Instead, his hands came around your waist, his warm breath tickling the shell of your ear.

"Paghā," he whispered, his voice low and soothing.

"What does that mean?"

"It means," he murmured, kissing your shoulder gently, "breathe."

"Breathe," you repeated.

"Aye, you're shaking."

You hadn't noticed, not until his hands slid over yours and took hold, his chest warm against your back. He brought one of your hands to his mouth, pressing his lips to your knuckles, looking over the raw flesh around your wrists.

"You look to be the one who needs tending," he said.

"I'm fine," you echoed his own words.

"Not yet." He led you over to the basin and guided you to sit on the bed, and then he dipped a cloth into the water, and began to clean the wounds.

His touch was gentle, the water soothing. You watched him in silence, your gaze tracing the line of his brow, the sharp angles of his face. Flashes of him fighting Byrch's men filled your mind. You'd never seen a man kill before.

"Why did you come for me?" you asked.

He paused, before dripping the cloth into the bowl.

"Because you're my wife."

"Am I?" You couldn't keep the bitterness from your voice.

"Do you think I'd have gone through the trouble otherwise?"

You didn't know what to say to that.

He finished cleaning the last of the wounds, then wrapped a bandage around each wrist, the feeling of his fingers on your skin sending a shiver through you.

"It doesn't mean anything," you said. "Being your wife."

"Make meaning then."

He rose and crossed the room, his movements stiff, and filled another cup with wine. He drank it quickly, then refilled the cup and came back to where you sat.

"Drink."

You took the cup, and sipped. The wine was rich and sweet, and after a few swallows you felt warm. You let out a slow breath and met his gaze.

"I didn't think you would come."

He said nothing.

"They told me Viserys was to pay a ransom," you went on. "I thought-"

"I'd let my brother handle the responsibility of saving my wife?" He smirked.

You looked away. The room was warm now, the fire roaring and the heat suffocating. You rose and went to the door, opening it, and the cool air rushed over you, making you sigh.

The sun was nearly gone, the stars bright in the sky, and the waves lapped gently against the cliffs below. It was beautiful, and quiet. It made the fear of the past days feel distant.

"If I matter so much, why have I not seen you since our wedding night?" You kept your gaze on the horizon, too afraid to look at him, all the pent up emotions you'd held inside threatening to spill over. 

He let out a quiet laugh, a short, derisive sound, and rose, coming to stand beside you. He leaned against the door frame and looked out at the night sky.

"What do you want me to say?" he asked.

"The truth."

"You won't like it."

"That doesn't change it." You finally turned to look at him, a sudden surge of anger rising. 

"I don't know how to be a husband." He said simply, his jaw tense. "I didn't want a wife. I didn't choose this. So, what should I have done? Made empty promises? Made you think you were special? That I was besotted? What was the point?" 

He pushed off the doorframe and walked down the steps, and you stood frozen, staring at his back.

"You are right," he called over his shoulder. "This is where I bring my whores."

He kept walking. Away from the tower, down the path towards the shore.

Your heart was pounding. Anger, pain, frustration, relief; they were all warring inside you, and it made your head spin. Your feet carried you after him, the grass soft beneath them, the path winding down to the sand.

By the time you reached the beach, he had already stopped at the water's edge. He didn't turn around. Didn't acknowledge you. He just reached for the hem of his tunic and pulled it over his head in one fluid motion, the fabric stained dark with blood and ash. His boots followed, then his breeches, until he stood bare in the moonlight, the waves lapping at his feet.

He walked into the sea without a word.

You stood frozen on the sand, watching him wade deeper until the water reached his waist. He stopped there, facing the horizon, letting the surf wash over him. The cold didn't seem to bother him, or if it did, he didn't show it. He just stood there, washing the gore from his body.

You should have let him be. Should have turned around and gone back to the tower, wrapped yourself in furs, and waited for him to return... or not return. But something in you refused to let him walk away again.

You reached back and worked loose the ties of your dress, letting the fabric pool at your feet, the night air raising goosebumps across your bare skin. The shift followed a moment later.

The cold hit you like a slap as you stepped into the surf, the water shocking and sharp against your cuts. You hissed through your teeth but kept going, wading out until you were beside him, the water lapping just below your ribs. He still didn't turn, but you saw his jaw tighten.

The waves rolled in, cold and rhythmic, pulling at your legs. Neither of you spoke for a long moment. Just the sound of the sea and the distant cry of gulls.

"What was your plan?" you asked finally. "To come, rescue me, and then ignore me again? Go back to drinking, fighting and whoring?"

"Something like that."

You crossed your arms over your chest, though it did little to ward off the cold. You weren't sure what to say. He had given you no false promises, no declaration of love. But your wedding night was etched in your mind, a memory you couldn't let go.

"Then why did you treat me so kindly on our wedding night? Why were you..." You trailed off, your face suddenly warm despite the cold.

He laughed, a short, loud bark that echoed across the water. "Would you rather I have hurt you? Is that what you're asking?"

"No!" You scowled, feeling foolish. "I mean...you were gentle."

He finally turned to face you, the moonlight catching the sharp lines of his face. "What would you have preferred? A whore's treatment?"

"Shut up."

He laughed again, a rich, deep sound that made your stomach flip. His hand came up, brushing a lock of hair from your cheek.

"If it makes you feel better, my wife," he said, his voice dropping lower, "I enjoyed our wedding night very much." He shifted closer, his hand sliding around your waist, pulling you against the warmth of his chest. "Maybe I'll enjoy it again tonight."

You shoved his shoulders, but you were smiling despite yourself. "I don't even like you."

"I just saved your life. I'd say you should start liking me."

"You are a terrible husband."

"I'm the worst." He kissed your jaw, his mouth moving along the line of your neck, his breath warm against your cold skin. "Tell me how terrible."

You let him kiss along your skin, a soft sigh escaping.

"You're selfish."

"And?"

"A cheater."

"Keep going."

"Infuriating."

"More."

"Unkind."

"Very."

He tilted your chin up, and you let him, his lips were a breath from yours, and then you turned your face away. Not hard. Just away.

He went still. The water lapped against your ribs. You felt his breath on your cheek, unsteady. His hand didn't leave your jaw, but he didn't force you back.

"So what am I, then? Just another whore you'll leave in the morning?" you asked, the question quiet in the night. You weren't sure you wanted an answer. You were already regretting the words. They made you feel weak, desperate. But they were the truth.

He slowly let go of your chin, letting his hand drop back into the water. He looked at you, really looked at you, and you saw something there in the moonlight, something raw and unguarded.

"A cage," he said. "My brother. Your father. This marriage."

He paused, then reached up, his thumb brushing over the bruise on your cheekbone. "And you," he added, softly. "It was-" He broke off, looking away across the water. When he spoke again, his voice was rough, almost angry. "It was good. And I didn't want it to be."

You stared at him.

He turned back to you, and his eyes were dark, unreadable. "I don't get given things."

"Well this might surprise you," you said, a sudden surge of boldness washing over you. "But I am not a thing."

He looked at you for a long moment, then let out a short, sharp laugh. "I'm aware." His gaze dropped to your lips. "That's the problem."

"You've never once asked me what I want."

He tilted his head. "What do you want?"

You didn't know what to say, your mind was racing. The answer was on the tip of your tongue, but you were scared to say it. Scared he'd laugh, or worse, agree. But you were tired of being scared. And you were standing naked in the sea with your husband who had just slaughtered a castle for you.

"I want a husband who doesn't ignore me," you said, your voice barely a whisper. "One who maybe, occasionally, eats dinner with me. I want to not feel so alone in my own chambers."

You paused, gathering your courage. "And I... I want you to stop being a stranger to me."

"Anything else?" he asked, and you couldn't tell if he was mocking you.

You took a shaky breath. "I don't know... I didn't hate that ride on Caraxes... It was thrilling."

A slow, genuine smile spread across his lips. "No?"

You shook your head, a small smile of your own. "Perhaps the occasional dragon ride."

"I can arrange that," he said, pulling you close again. His hands were on your waist, and yours rested on his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart. "Is that all, wife?"

"I'm freezing," you admitted, shivering now as the cold seeped into your bones.

He let out a soft chuckle, his arms wrapping around you, lifting you effortlessly. You wrapped your legs around his waist, your arms around his neck, and he started wading back to the shore.

You should have protested. You should have told him to put you down, that he was still wounded, that you could walk. But his eyes were fixed on yours, and you were in his arms, and all you could think was how safe he made you feel.

"Better?" he asked, his mouth close to your ear.

"Getting warmer," you murmured.

He carried you back up the path, into the warmth of the tower, and set you gently on the bed. The furs were soft, and you sighed, letting your body sink into them. A real bed. Clean. Safe. The feeling was so overwhelming that for a moment you just lay there, eyes closed, breathing.

When you opened them, Daemon was kneeling by the hearth, feeding logs to the fire. You watched him through the haze of your exhaustion. The broad plane of his back, the way the firelight caught the edges of old scars, the careful way he stacked the wood.

He rose, and you saw him favor his right leg again. A hitch he smoothed over almost instantly. Almost.

"How's your leg?"

"You will probably be a widow by morning," he deadpanned.

"I doubt that." You couldn't hide your smile, and his answering grin sent a flush of warmth through you.

He crossed to the bed and sat on the edge, not touching you, just… there… and you realized he was waiting. For you to sleep. For you to speak. For something. He didn't know what to do with a woman in his bed who wasn't there for his pleasure.

You propped yourself up on your elbows, the furs pooling around your waist. The fire had warmed the room enough that the air no longer bit at your bare skin. You were acutely aware that you were both still naked, but the awareness didn't feel urgent. It just felt… present.

"You're very far away," you said.

He glanced down at the small space between you. "This is far?"

"For a man who just saved my life and carried me naked up a cliff…yes."

His lips twitched. "I was giving you room to breathe."

"How considerate."

"I have my moments."

You shifted, sitting up fully, letting the furs fall away. He watched you move, his gaze steady but unhurried. He wasn't going to reach for you. You understood, suddenly, that he was waiting for you to decide. If you wanted him, you'd have to give him something. The realization was terrifying and thrilling in equal measure.

You reached out and pressed your palm flat against his chest. His skin was warm from the fire. You felt his heartbeat, steady and slow, under your hand.

"What are you doing?" he asked, his voice low.

"I don't know," you admitted. "I've never done this before."

"Done what?"

"Take what I want."

Something flickered in his eyes. Surprise, maybe. Interest. His hand came up and covered yours, pressing it more firmly against his chest. "And what is it you want?"

You swallowed. "I'm figuring it out."

He laughed, short and rough and utterly charmed. "Take your time, then."

You moved before you could talk yourself out of it, shifting onto your knees and then, carefully, deliberately, climbing into his lap. It wasn't graceful. Your knee caught his injured thigh and he grunted, but his hands came up to your hips anyway, steadying you.

"What's all this for?" he murmured.

"Because I want to."

"Not because I rescued you?"

"No." You met his eyes. "Though… you are owed thanks."

His grin was slow and sharp. "And you want to thank me with your-"

You pressed your fingers to his mouth before he could finish. "Do not say it."

He kissed your fingertips.

"I don’t like crude words. I am a lady."

"You are a lady who is currently sitting naked in my lap."

"Then stop talking and let me concentrate."

He leaned back on his hands, the picture of obedience, his eyes dancing. "By all means."

You glared at him, but it was hard to maintain, with the way he was looking at you like you were the most entertaining thing he'd seen in years. You were suddenly, acutely aware of your nakedness. The way your thighs bracketed his hips, the heat of him, the fact that you had no idea what to do next.

Your cheeks flushed.

His smile turned knowing. "I recall how shy you were on our wedding night."

"I recall you being rather drunk."

"That, I was." He sat up, his chest now a breath from yours, one hand coming up to brush the hair from your shoulder. "You were prettier than I expected."

"Is that meant to be a compliment?"

"It's the truth."

You looked at him, the sharp lines of his face, the pale lashes, the mouth that had just confessed more in the sea than you'd heard him say in a year. He was still a stranger in so many ways. But he was yours. And he was here. And he wasn't running.

"You're still too far away," you said.

"I'm right here."

"Then kiss me."

His eyes held yours for a long moment, searching. Then, slowly, he leaned in and brushed his lips against yours. It was deep and unhurried and certain, his mouth slanting over yours like he'd been waiting for you to ask. His hands slid into your hair, tilting your head back, and you made a sound against his lips, a soft, needy thing you didn't recognize as your own.

When he finally pulled back, you were breathing harder than you wanted to admit. He looked far too pleased with himself.

"You're very good at that," you said, a little accusatory.

"Years of practice," he smirked.

You shoved at his shoulder, but you were smiling.

"I don't want to hear about your practice."

"Then don't ask."

You wound your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, your hands tangling in the soft hair at his nape. "I want to be the only practice."

His smirk faded. His gaze was serious now, searching your face. Something in your chest tightened, an old, familiar fear. You'd said too much. But then he was kissing you again, and this kiss was different. Deeper. Possessive. It wasn't a question or an answer; it was a statement. Mine.

Your body responded before your mind could catch up. You shifted in his lap, trying to find a better angle, and the movement brought your bodies flush together. He was half-hard beneath you, the heat of him pressing against your thigh, and the contact made you gasp against his mouth. You'd done that. The thought sent a sharp, unfamiliar thrill through you.

His hand slid down your chest, over the swell of your breast, the pad of his thumb brushing against your nipple, which pebbled instantly at the contact. He moved lower, tracing the curve of your hip, the dip of your waist, until his fingers found the heat between your legs. He paused there, a feather-light touch against your seam, and you held your breath.

"Daemon," you whispered, the name a plea against his lips.

He answered you with a touch, a slow, deliberate glide of his fingers through your wetness. Your hips jerked, a moan escaping your lips. He found the small, hidden spot at the apex of your thighs and circled it once, twice, a gentle pressure that made your toes curl. He was watching your face, absorbing every flicker of pleasure that crossed your features, and the intensity of his gaze was almost as intoxicating as the pleasure itself.

You tried to kiss him again, needing the anchor of his mouth, but he pulled back slightly, his focus entirely on the movement of his hand. He slid one finger inside you, a slow, deliberate intrusion that stretched you, filled you. Your head fell back, your neck arching as he began to move, a steady, maddening rhythm that had you rocking against his hand. He let you move with him, let you find a pace that built the tension in your core, a hot, tightening coil. You were losing yourself, the world narrowing to the sensation of him touching you. The sounds you made were uninhibited, wanton, and you didn't care.

Just as you felt the precipice of your release, he pulled away. You made a sound of protest, your eyes flying open to meet his. He was smirking, that infuriating, handsome smirk that made you want to hit him and kiss him in equal measure.

"Why did you stop?" you demanded, your voice embarrassingly breathless.

"Impatient," he chuckled, not ungently. He shifted you in his lap, adjusting your position until you were straddling him, your knees on either side of his hips, your core flush against his hard length. "I thought you wanted to be in charge."

Your breath hitched. The reality of him, hot and heavy against your most sensitive flesh, was a shock. You could feel your own wetness slicking him. The power was yours to take.

"I am," you said, though the claim felt less certain than you wanted it to be. Your hands on his shoulders trembled.

"Then take what you want, wife."

The challenge was clear in his eyes. You braced yourself, your hands flat on his chest, and lifted your hips. He held himself steady for you, one hand gripping the base of his cock, guiding the head to your entrance. The slow press as you began to lower yourself was a sweet, aching stretch. Your body welcomed him, a familiar, perfect fit that you remembered from your wedding night, but it felt different now. More intense.

When you'd taken him to the hilt, you paused, adjusting to the feeling of him. He was breathing hard, his eyes locked on where your bodies joined, the muscles in his neck taut. His self-control was admirable, and you wondered what would happen if you pushed it.

You started to move. Tentative, at first, just a slow roll of your hips that made you both gasp. You found a rhythm, unpracticed and a little unsteady, but it was yours. His hands stayed on your hips, but he let you lead, his head falling back slightly, his fingers digging into you tighter and tighter. The sight of him undone beneath you sent a surge of confidence through your veins.

"Does that feel good, husband?" you asked, and the word came out teasing.

His laugh was half groan. "You're a fast learner."

Your pace quickened, your thighs burning with the effort, but the pleasure was building again, that tight coil low in your belly. His thumb found that spot once more, pressing in time with your movements, and the combination shattered your rhythm. You cried out, your nails raking down his chest, and he sat up suddenly, one arm banding around your waist to keep you steady as you came apart around him.

He let you ride it out, your face buried in his neck, your body shuddering. Then, gently, he shifted. You felt yourself being lowered onto your back, the furs soft beneath you, his weight a warm, solid anchor, his forearms braced on either side of your head.

"Look at me."

His voice was rough. You opened your eyes, and the firelight caught the sharp lines of his face, the vulnerability he was letting you see. His thrusts stayed slow, deliberate, his gaze never leaving yours.

"You're beautiful."

The words were whispered against your lips, and for a moment you thought you imagined them. But he said it again, and again, each repetition timed with a deep, rolling thrust, until the pleasure crested and broke and you were falling apart beneath him, his name a broken cry on your lips.

He followed moments later, a low groan tearing from his throat as he spilled inside you, his forehead pressing to yours. For a long moment, neither of you moved. The fire crackled. The sea whispered against the cliffs below.

He pulled out gently and rolled to his side, but he didn't let you go. He pulled you against his chest, tucking your head beneath his chin, and you felt his lips brush your hair.

"Still hate me?" he asked, and you could hear the smirk in his voice without needing to see it.

"A little less," you whispered, running your hand down the side of his face. He caught it and pressed a kiss to your palm.

It should have felt strange to lie naked in the arms of a man who had, up until this afternoon, been little more than a stranger. But instead it felt comfortable. Safe. Like something that had been waiting for you both to stop running.

"Perhaps I was hasty," you mumbled, the words slurred and soft with exhaustion.

"In what regard?" His voice rumbled under your ear.

"I do think you could be a good husband, after all."

His arm tightened around your waist. "I can try."

"You'll be here when I wake? You won't run off?" You murmured sleepily. "If you're going to run, just tell me now."

"I'll be here, little wife. Sleep."

Sleep took hold before you could say more. Your last conscious thoughts were of how safe you felt, in this man's arms, in this strange little tower on the edge of the sea. And the strange realization that he was no longer a stranger. He was yours, and you were his.

He was still there in the morning, wrapped in furs and snoring softly beside you, your legs tangled with his. You smiled against his chest. It was a good beginning.

[bbygirlandbeasts]

Ancestral tongue

Daemon x fem!wife!reader

Summary: You ask your husband for help learning his ancestral language <3

Genre: fluff, suggestive (MDNI)

Warnings: Suggestive, cursing, that’s it

Notes: Hiiiii, just a little short something while i finish up some of my longer works <3 Reqs are open!!! xo, bby

“Darling?”

You call for your husband, as you turn a page in your book. Daemon turns to you, wrapping his arms around your shoulders and pressing a kiss to your cheek. 

“What is it? I thought you didn’t need me to teach you?” 

He gestures to the book's title written in letters that remain strange to you. 

Tales of Old Valyria. 

You roll your eyes, playfully, smacking his arm with the very same book. He winces in mock pain, but can’t keep his hands off you for too long, as he returns to a tighter hold around your shoulders.

“I am perfectly capable of learning on my own, thank you. No, I was simply curious about something”, you continue, as your husband attempts to squeeze in beside you on the small chaise lounge. He plops down, resting his head in the crook of your neck to look at the words written on the pages. 

“Ask away.” 

Your eyes remain perfectly focused on the text. 

“How do you say fuck, in High Valyrian?” 

There is no need for you to look over at your husband, to know he is smirking and has fixated his gaze on you. 

“The curse, or the action?” 

“Both.” 

“I think you only need to know the latter, love.” 

Finally, you turn your head towards him, meeting his eyes. He is so close, you can feel his breath against your face. 

“Is it so wrong for me to wish to curse out my incompetent husband in his ancestral tongue?” 

“I’d rather you ask me to fuck you, in my ancestral tongue”, he whispers, before swiftly closing your book, and throwing it over his shoulder. 

You smile. 

“And I'd rather have that ancestral tongue down my throat.”

[bbygirlandbeasts]

Masterlist ♡₊˚・₊✧𐦍

s = smut

f = fluff

sg = suggestive

a = angst

GOT:

coming soon...

HOTD:

Daemon Targaryen:

Ancestral tongue (f, sg) [0,2k]

You ask your husband for aid in learning his mothertongue.

The Power You Hold (a, s, f) [3k]

Your husband, the Prince Daemon Targaryen returns from a conquest, of which you do not know the details. All you know is, he is injured. As you tend to the wounds of a man who barely speaks to you, you discover what lies beneath his rough exterior. And he tends to your wounds as well. Different wounds. And in a different manner. 

NARCOS:

Javier Peña:

coming soon...

STAR WARS:

Din Djarin (The Mandalorian):

coming soon...

Poe Dameron:

coming soon...