welcome to whatever circle of dante's inferno this is, i'll be your guide. if you came here for quality content, abort mission now - this place is a dumpsterfire. but if you decide to stay, then that's it, you signed your soul away.
i'm a full-time teaching assistant, part-time idiot who loves to paint, colour, read and write. please slide into my dms with any concerns, suggestions, or if you just want to talk about your day, or whatever character you're thirsting for - i'm ride or die, baby
warnings — 18+ NSFW / MDNI angst with a happy ending, smut — a teensy bit of fingering/f receiving oral, unprotected sex, dirty talk, a singular spanking, very lightly sub/dom reader/leon, "good girl," jealous reader, jealous leon. drinking/drunk sex, but not in detail
♪ — picture you by chappell roan [spotify] [youtube]
well, once again this is a request sent in for this prompt list, and once again i got carried away. but i looooved writing this. 5k words of angst and smut. hell yeah brother
1. “Come over here and make me.”
14. “You heard me. Take. It. Off.”
106. “im going to fuck you until you forget that assholes name”
It’s supposed to be a celebration tonight. For your friend.
No matter how many times you remind yourself of it, you can’t help but get more and more depressed. You stare at the empty glass on the bar in front of you, wondering if just one more drink one more time would really hurt that bad. It’d be your third? Fourth? You’re honestly not sure.
You sigh and order another. Fuck it. Not like a hangover could make your life much worse, really.
As you wait for the bartender to replenish your glass, you let your gaze wander across the room. The banner, reading “HAPPY BIRTHDAY,” has fallen a bit, now reading something closer to “APPY BIRTHD.” Jill and Chris are arguing over one of them supposedly cheating at their billiards game. Some other friends are mingling around them, watching and laughing. A few random bar patrons have also joined the ring. Then your eyes land on Leon. And it’s like you lose a little more of your soul.
He’s leaning against the wall next to Claire, the birthday girl, smiling like nothing’s wrong. Like a mere hours earlier, he wasn’t ripping your heart out of your chest. She says something, gesturing to Chris, clearly telling an embarrassing story based on Chris’s indignant “hey!” Leon laughs. You want to throw up. And the fact that you’re this miserable over that man, sulking by yourself during a birthday celebration, makes you feel even more ill.
“Bad day?” You nearly jump out of your skin when a man sidles up to you. He’s not one of Claire’s friends, and no one you recognize from your field.
“You could say that,” you mutter. Fuck it. Might as well tell your woes to this random guy you’d never see again. Even if he’s just interested in a pity fuck, it’s at least a little more care than you feel from the guy you were pining over. He orders a drink and gives you a smile, something pitying, but nice all the same. His light brown hair is tousled, one of those guys who manages to run a hand through it and have it sit perfectly every time. He’s cute, you weren’t blind.
“I just got off work, I have time. Care to share?” He leans toward you. You catch a whiff of his cologne, something that must be called Midnight Musk. A bottle that was cheap, mostly rubbing alcohol, but is good enough for most men. He really is not your type at all.
But it doesn’t really matter. You’re lonely. A little heartbroken over a guy who didn’t even know he had your heart. You lay it all out for the guy.
It’s all your fault, you tell yourself. You remind yourself that Leon doesn’t know. Because you’ve never had the guts to tell him. But it hurts all the same. And maybe you’re being stupid. A little juvenile. But you’re so tired of yearning after him, dropping hints in all his blindspots. The man had saved the president’s daughter, narrowly escaped a virus twice now, and was a top federal agent. Yet he couldn’t see how you were laid out, red and bleeding in front of him.
You inhaled. Exhaled.
Get it together.
“You can’t wear that, Leon,” you do your best to bury the ache in your stomach. Leon turns to you, in an athleisure compression shirt, and what he’d exclaimed were his nicest pants.
“Why not?”
“If you’re trying to impress Claire, I don’t think she’s into half-gym, half-streetwear,” you pilfer through his wardrobe with a grumble. Picking out clothes for him to ask another woman on a date? You really may be at your most pathetic yet.
You finally stumble upon something noteworthy. A black knit sweater. You remember the last time he wore this. A reconnaissance mission together. Your cover? Two young lovers. He’d been sickeningly good at pretending. You remember every single millisecond of his hand in yours, on your back, pretending to fawn over you like a doting boyfriend. You’d be lying if it didn’t cross your mind often. Leon was much greener back then, sure, but there’s still something left of that softness in him, you think you see it sometimes when he’s with you. But the more time goes on, the more you just think you’re telling yourself what you want to hear.
“Here,” you practically shove it in his arms. Try not to look when he pulls off his current shirt to put it on.
“I forgot I had this,” he mumbles. “Don’t remember the last time I wore it.”
Ouch.
You stay silent, busying yourself with beginning to fold the rejected outfits, putting them back where they were previously. Leon makes a pleased noise.
“Yeah. You’re right,” he sighs. “Thanks.”
“No problem,” your voice cracks, and you swear under your breath.
“Everything alright?” Leon grabs your wrist to get you to look back at him. You only manage a side glance, wiping a stray tear from your eye. You feel so pathetic. Like a rejected teen. “Hey, whoa, what’s going on with you?”
“Allergies,” you croak. You’re not sure you can take Leon comforting you right now. Not with his stupid blonde hair, his stupid soft eyes, wearing an outfit you picked out so he could ask another girl out. On her birthday. At the party you were attending as well.
“You’re terrible at lying,” he sits you down on his bed. You feel sick to your stomach. “Let me help.” You can’t help but laugh, another tear rolling down your cheek.
“You can’t, it’s fine,” you lie. He could help. He could help by looking you in the eyes and telling you once and for all if he’s ever had feelings for you. If the little bit of hope you’d once had has been squashed once and for all, now that he’s recruited you as a behind-the-scenes wingman. But you suppose if that’s the case, that wouldn’t be very helpful at all. “I’ll be fine.”
“That’s not true,” he sees through you so easily. It makes all of it so much worse. You’re sad; angry. At yourself. Misguidedly, at Leon. For not knowing what you can’t seem to be able to tell him. Because you’re not sure you can live without him, even if that means being arms length from each other forever.
“Just drop it,” you finally snap. Red hot embarrassment floods through you at your reaction, but you’ve begun, and now you can’t stop the frustration. “I can’t believe I said I’d help you with this.”
“What?” He says your name, his hand on your shoulder. It feels like a burn. "What's that supposed to mean?" He thinks you're being a dick, insinuating something unflattering. You cover your face. You're just making all of this a bigger mess.
"Nothing, I'm," you look away from him and swallow hard. "You really don't remember the last time you wore that sweater?"
"No," he looks even more confused. "Is that what's wrong?"
"It's not the sweater, it's me, I'm sorry, I'm just gonna go." You stand. Your fists clench, nails digging into your palms so hard you’re almost sure there’ll be imprints for days. “Leon, I-” Your eyes are squeezed shut, you’re not sure you can bear to look at him. “Good luck with Claire. Really. I can’t- I can’t sit here and watch you fall in love with someone else.”
"I'm not in love with anyone," he finally says exasperatedly. His words fall over one another, messy. It shouldn't hurt, but it does. More than if he was in love with someone else, somehow. He's following you to the door as you gather your things. "Tell me what the fuck is going on, please. You are so-" He loses his words, throwing his hands up. "You're so aggravating! I hate this- I hate-" You can't bear to hear him finish the sentence. The door slams behind you.
Of course, you don’t tell this guy every detail. You’re not that intoxicated. But you give him the gist. He grimaces once you finish.
“Yeah, that’s pretty bad,” he’s scooted a bit closer since you’ve started talking. You pretend not to notice. The closeness is nice, even if it’s from a stranger. He glances over your shoulder, and you know exactly who he’s looking at. “He’s that guy over there? Mr. Brooding?”
“Yeah,” you stifle a laugh at his nickname. “I have real good taste, huh?”
“Hey, he’s not my type, but no judgment here.”
“What is your type, then?” You’re honestly shocked that you have the mind to flirt, even if it’s a weak attempt. This guy must be horny, because he eats it right up. He cocks an eyebrow, lays a hand on your leg as he takes the bait, describing his type as exactly you. You try your best not to twitch away. It’s the first time in a very long time that you’ve not denied someone’s advances. Always waiting. Always leaving room for Leon.
Now, that room is locked up.
You convince yourself to be charmed by this guy. Let yourself touch him, let him be a little handsy with you. You’re just a person. You like being touched, and you’re the slightest bit horny, so why not drown your sorrows in some pity sex. He didn’t seem like he’d harm you.
The last thing you remember fully is stumbling out of the bar alongside Mr. Kinda Cute, both of you pretty hammered, and hailing a cab together. You vaguely remember a voice calling after you, but you’re too drunk to care. You need something to cover up any real feeling right now.
The next morning, you wake up in a messy apartment that isn’t yours and sigh deeply.
Well, fuck.
Whatshisname is next to you, still passed out, rolled away from you after you’d had probably the sloppiest sex of your life. It wasn’t bad, but it sure wasn’t something to write home about. You swing your legs over the side of the bed, your feet hitting the floor fast. His mattress is on the floor.
You manage to find all of your clothes without issue, gathering up your belongings to get out of this guy’s life before he can wake and offer you something awkward like making breakfast.
Squinting at your phone, you see it’s already almost noon. Thank fuck it’s a Sunday. You’re not sure you could’ve mentally handled being late for work on top of all the other shit that had transpired in the past 24 hours. Unread messages from Leon, Claire, and a stray one or two from even Chris litter your inbox. You open the last two first.
CHRIS
Just wanted to see if you’re alright. Leon’s out of his mind worried about you.
I told him you can handle yourself if your date gets too frisky. Use protection ;)
CLAIRE
Hey, where’d you go? We haven’t had cake yet :( It’s your favorite
Leon’s freaking out. Please text him.
Hope you’re okay. Something’s weird with you two. Call me?
You frown. You shouldn’t have been such an asshole last night. Moping away at the bar while your friend was trying to celebrate her birthday. She spent half of it worrying about you. You’ll have to take her out to that brunch place she likes soon to make up for it. Maybe you’ll let her teach you to ride a motorcycle like she’s been hounding you to do, to have someone to go on joyrides with.
You stare at Leon’s name on your screen long enough for it to go black. You swear under your breath when it gives you a dead battery notification.
You start making your way towards a main road to hail a cab home.
Turns out whatshisface from the bar didn’t live more than ten minutes from you, so the cab ride was cheap and quick. You sigh as you head up the creaky stairs. You think you might spend the rest of the day moping in bed.
When you unlock the door, you nearly drop your jacket and keys. A familiar blonde head is passed out on the couch, hugging one of your throw pillows like its his childhood teddy bear. It’s a little cute.
You shut the door quietly, kicking off your shoes and dumping your stuff on the breakfast bar to deal with later. You watch Leon rest for a moment, trying to decide if you should let him sleep or wake him up. He must’ve picked your damn lock last night looking for you. Freak. The thought is affectionate.
You don’t have to choose, because in two seconds he’s stirring, sitting up and scrubbing his palms over his face with a groan. You don’t even pretend like you’re not staring at him.
“You’re lucky I don’t have my gun. I should’ve shot you, squatter.” Leon’s shoulders tense, rising as he takes in a deep breath. He looks at you for a second, and the slight glare in his eyes sends a chill down your spine. He’s never looked at you like that before.
“Where were you?”
“Out,” you reply, like a kid talking back to their parent.
“You disappeared, you can’t do that.”
“Why not? I’m an adult.”
“You- Who’s shirt is that?” You frown, and look down at yourself to find out as well. Fuck. You’d grabbed the guys t-shirt instead of yours. Oops. You recover quickly, as if it’s something you did on purpose.
“None of your business.”
“Is it from the guy who you fucked last night?
“How would you know?”
“You’re an adult,” he throws back at you. “I’m not stupid.”
“I know you’re not,” you cross your arms. You’re not sure how you’ve walked into your apartment and immediately pulled into an argument. “I just don’t see how it’s got anything to do with you.”
“It’s got everything to do with me.” You can tell he didn’t mean to say that. But it was out in the open now. Your traitorous heart skips a beat.
“What the hell does that mean?”
“You’re driving me insane, you know that?”
“I literally do not know what you mean.” Your voice is quieter than you intend. You’re catching on to what he does mean. And desire pools in your lower stomach before you can push it away.
“Take it off.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” he rises from the couch. His hands are on his hips now as he stares you down. His eyes drag over you, taking in the untucked shirt hanging over your skirt. In this way, it looked like you weren’t wearing pants. Leon feels something possessive wake in him. It should be his shirt on you. You, with no pants, hanging all over him on this rainy Sunday morning, cozied up on the couch like some domestic sitcom. Not you, in some other guy’s shirt, hair a mess from the night before, and a pout on your lips as you try your best to stay mad at him.
“Take what off?” You have to ask, because you’re sure that you’re making up what he’s insinuating.
“That shirt,” his jaw tenses. “Take it off. Now.” Your body betrays you. You can feel how damp your panties are growing. It’s fast, and far wetter than you’d been last night.
“Come over here and make me.” Your hands are trembling at your side, and you’re not sure if it’s from want or nerves. Leon swallows so hard you can see his Adam’s apple bob.
“Fuck,” is all he says before he’s rushing straight towards you. He backs you toward the front door until he’s towering over you, chest heaving. Your heart is racing, not in panic or fear, but from his closeness to you. The way there’s something dark in his eyes with want. He lifts your arms with gentle force, and yanks the shirt over your head in one smooth motion. The two of you stand there for a moment, your heavy breaths exhaling in tandem with one another. You’re almost sure that you must be dreaming, in a drunk stupor passed out somewhere.
You’re standing underneath Leon in your bra, skirt, and socks, but you’ve never felt more vulnerable. And never been more turned on. He’s got a possessive streak in his eye, and his hands are firm as they grip your hips. Before you know it, he’s on you, drawing a high pitched noise from you with a messy, hard kiss. It’s laced with desperation as he pulls your body into him, and you shiver as the fabric of his sleep-rumpled top, the one you’d picked out just the day before, tickles your bare skin.
You’re not sure how long the two of you stand there, making out heavily and trying your best to get under each other’s skin. It feels like forever, and you kind of hope it is. Leon’s lips stay melded to yours, tongue exploring your mouth, as he picks you up. A noise of surprise falls into your kiss, and you grab onto his shoulders tight. He kicks your bedroom door open and shut, throwing you on your bed. You’re a little stunned, dizzy from his kiss, and don’t move. He’s pulling off his shirt, his pants coming off with it, and you’re staring at every inch of his skin that is revealed.
“Like what you see?” He’s back on top of you before your short-circuited brain can respond. Leon notices your stillness, your uncharacteristic silence. He kisses your cheek, whispers now, a note of gentleness in his voice that was full of frustration a second ago. “Is this okay?” You barely manage to breathe out a yes, please, and he chuckles, low and full of something dirty. “Good. ‘Cause I’m gonna fuck you until you forget that asshole’s name.”
You’re absolutely sure your panties are soaked through, and you’re almost embarrassed when he slips his hand down, down, down and sighs when he feels it.
“Fuck,” he captures you in another deep kiss, rubbing over your wet heat deliciously slow. You moan into his mouth. He’s hard and straining against his briefs, you can feel it brush against your thigh as he presses you into the mattress. “You this wet last night? Hm?”
“No,” you breathe. Leon makes a noise of approval. He pulls your panties to the side to look at you, and you shiver at his fingers against your exposed pussy. “‘s just for you.”
“That’s what I thought,” he murmurs. “So good for me.” He places a kiss on your chest, just over your heart. The movement seems purposeful, and it sends a white-hot streak through your body. Leon slips his free hand under your back. “Lift up, wanna see you,” you obey immediately, his nimble fingers undoing the clasp of your bra without much fanfare. He throws it across the room and devours you again, hands roaming over the now exposed skin. He’s mumbling words like beautiful and want you so bad and you try your best to compartmentalize your racing thoughts to fully enjoy this moment. His hair tickles your skin the further he moves down, taking your skirt and ruined underwear with you.
You let out a long, animalistic whine when he licks a single, long stripe up your pussy. Leon’s fueled by it and repeats the movement again, stopping at your clit to suck it into his mouth. You bite your lip to hold back another loud noise, twitching against his steady hands as the move upwards to caress your breasts. He clocks your silence within seconds and is pulling away. You give him a confused look at his sudden change.
“Get on your knees,” he yanks your ankles with one hand towards the end of the bed. You feel like ants are crawling beneath your skin with how badly you crave his touch again. Leon’s got a face of concentration you’ve only seen on missions; a serious set in his brow, a commanding tone lacing his words. It’s unbelievably sexy. You’re not one who takes orders easily, but with his handsome face and rough hands manhandling you, you’re melting in his grip. Obedient. You want nothing more than his praise, to please him.
Your eyes nearly bug out of your head when his palm lands on your ass with a loud smack.
Oh. That’s new.
You’d be lying if you didn’t like it.
“What happened to all those noises?” He leans over your back, rubbing where he’s just surely left a red handprint. “I liked them,” he presses kisses down your spine. You shiver against his touch, gentle movements are a soft undertone to his otherwise firm words. “I want you to be loud for me, baby.” Baby.
If this is all horniness, and nothing else, you think you may die after this. Because you’re not sure you can ever get this out of your head. It’ll be etched like an epitaph in your brain.
“Okay?”
“Yes, okay,” you agree, breathless. “Please just fuck me, Leon. I can’t take it.”
“Yes, you can, sweetheart. I’ve got you,” you can feel the head of his cock brush your thigh. “Since you asked nicely.” He rubs his shaft against you, coating it in copious slick that was nearly dripping down your legs at this point. “This how you were last night? Underneath that guy?” You don’t answer, just huff and grind your hips back into his. He kneads your ass roughly in his big hands. He pulls you upward, back into his chest so he can breathe into your ear. “Or was it more like this?”
“More like I was doing all the work,” you mumble. You can still feel the soreness in your thighs from trying desperately to get yourself off the night before. It never came. Or, rather, you never did. Maybe that’s part of why you’re so desperate right now. Leon’s behavior certainly isn’t helping.
He scoffs, squeezing you tight to him.
“Yeah? Fucking yourself on him? You make yourself cum all on your own?” You almost blanch at what you’d have to confess next.
“No,” you inhale sharply when he begins rubbing at your clit. “Never- never got there.” Leon makes a noise of disapproval and you feel like you’re floating when he flips the two of you on your backs. He curls around you with a protective hold. His knee knocks your legs open, and he returns his throbbing length against your wetness. Without any niceties, he pushes inside you, and the groan that leaves your lungs is high. A whine of relief, of what’s to come.
"He never fucked you like this?" He slams his hips into you, and you shake your head.
"No," you mumble. "Wanted me to suck him off, then ride him. Barely even moved."
"My poor baby," he croons, a layer of sex heavy in the tone of his voice. "So neglected. I'll make you forget he ever even touched you." Another sharp thrust against you, followed by the grind of his hips.
"Please," you beg. Not only for him to fuck you so good you forget about your one night stand, but to move his goddamn cock within you. You feel like you're walking a tightrope, dangled so close to pleasure that the lack of it was hurtful.
"Love hearing you beg for me."
You can feel his chest heaving behind you as he stills. His arm wraps around your stomach tightly and he uses the other hand beneath you to turn your head toward him. His sharp blue eyes bore into yours, and you’re struck by the sudden intimacy of the position, of the way he’s looking at you like he’s finally got the one thing he’s always wanted in his arms. The small glimmer of hope that hadn’t died within you yet burst, and your heart pumps in your ears. A careful hand reaches up to brush the hair falling in his eyes away, so you could keep admiring him.
You’re still staring at each other when he thrusts, slowly, but all the way in you. Hard. You bite your lip. His gaze narrows again. He thrusts even harder as punishment.
Well, something that feels this good is hardly punishing.
You don’t hold back your moan this time.
“Good girl,” the phrase sends shockwaves over your body. Another new discovery. Leon notices the goosebumps on your arms, the way your breath hitches. He presses his nose into your cheek, keeping his slow, hard pace. It has your body wracked with tingles of pleasure. “You like that, huh?”
“Maybe,” you manage to mumble, messily finding your way to his mouth. He chuckles into the kiss, the hand previously on your jaw moving to cup your breast. His pace increases to a steady tempo. You angle your hips so he hits your g-spot just right, letting out a gasp the first time he thrusts into the spongy spot. Once he hears the change in your pitch, the way your pussy tightens around him, he’s off like a racehorse.
Over and over again, he’s pounding you, panting in your ear from the effort. Your hands are touching him everywhere you can reach, and he’s letting out something close to whines at the feel of your fingertips being so gentle with him. Like he’s something precious, not a hardened creature meant for war and violence.
You grind your hips back desperately into his, wanting to help, wanting to show him you want him as desperately as he’s fucking you. This sends him into a spiral, and he’s teething at your neck, tightening his grip around your waist so hard it feels like he’s the one moving you back and forth on his cock.
“‘M not gonna last long if you keep doing that,” he grunts, and you smirk.
“That’s kinda the point,” you look up at him, and he stares at you, mouth open in pleasure. Your eyes are dark, lids heavy with pleasure, and you’re giving him a smile that he’s not yet seen before. It’s something a little filthy, your lips twisted upwards just so. Faded lipstick from the night before is smudged at the corner of your mouth, and he feels a rush of satisfaction that he’s the one who’s ruined it, because it wasn’t like that when you first walked in.
That guy didn’t even have the nerve to kiss you.
“Fuck, gorgeous.”
“Wanna make you cum-" he cuts you off with a sloppy, wet kiss, all gnashing teeth and whimpers. He finds himself going even faster somehow, chasing the high in your warm, wet pussy like it’s his salvation. “Fuck, you feel so good inside me. Wanted this for so long.”
“Yeah?” The confession encourages him further. He feels so fucking stupid all of a sudden. You’d wanted him this whole time, and he’d been off trying to get himself to fall in love with someone new just to ease the pain. “You wanted me?”
“So bad,” you kiss him again. You can feel yourself approaching your end, your moans becoming more staggered, breath more shallow. Leon picks up on it fast, and is already running his hand down your body to circle your clit. It’s the perfect pressure, a precise circle that’s hitting you somehow exactly where your own fingers fall when you’re thinking of him. “I’ve thought about this for so long.”
“Fuck, I’m-I’m cumming, ffu-” he can’t even finish the last word before he’s releasing into you with something close to a deep whine, a grunt of spent effort, a pleasure so profound in his bones that every muscle in his body tenses still. You can feel the mix of your release slowly leaking out from you, and you’re practically shaking with need. You’re so close.
Leon knows this.
His frozen hand returns to rubbing at your clit, gritting his teeth through the sensitivity as he fucks you half-hard, desperate for you to cum. To show you what you deserve.
His teeth pull at your earlobe as he pushes you over a little so you’re laying half on his chest, and he’s thrusting up into you. He gropes you roughly, the callouses on his fingers sliding over your soft skin so pleasantly. The friction of that, combined with the deep thrusts of his spent cock, his fingers rubbing you… there’s not much more you can take.
He feels you tighten around his cock, and makes a noise of a approval.
“C’mon, angel, I can feel you,” he pants. “Cum all over me, please. Wanna make you feel good.”
“You make me feel so fucking good,” your voice is rising, higher than usual, out of your control. “Leon. Fuck- shit, I’m-”
“Yeah? Tell me, baby. Talk to me, let go for me.”
“I’m- fuck, I’m cumming,” you say, a little louder than you mean, but by the way Leon increases his speed to fuck you through it, it’s exactly what he wants. You’re swearing into his mouth as he kisses you again. “Leon.”
“Good girl, I love it when you say my name,” he praises as you near-scream, the thread inside you snapping deliciously. Your arousal leaks further around him as he slams deep in you one final time, rubbing your clit fast to ensure you feel every last bit of your orgasm. He watches your face as it stills in pleasure, a silent scream followed by gasping breaths. He squeezes your waist and slows his fingers. “That’s it.” He only ceases his rubbing when he feels your legs twitch a little violently at the overstimulation. His hand finds its place on your cheek, and he pulls you into a hazy, dizzying kiss. He’s fully softened inside you now, but it doesn’t stop the shiver that runs through you when he pulls out. You know you’ve ruined the sheets, but it’s hard to care when he’s running his hands over your curves.
You take a minute to enjoy your bodies stuck together like this. Breath synchronized as you catch up to the moment, coming back down to each others arms. You really just want him to hold you, but the mess leaking from between your legs is growing into a small puddle too fast to be comfortable. You shift and begin to move towards the bathroom. Leon's grip on you tightens for a moment.
“Where’re you going?” There’s something in his expression similar to a dejected puppy when you’re pulling away from him.
“Just cleaning up real fast, I’ll be back,” you promise. His hands stay on you until the very last second, flopping lifelessly once you’re fully out of his grasp. It’s very cute.
You clean yourself up with a damp washcloth and do your best not to stare too long at your flushed cheeks in the mirror. You’re coming to terms with the fact that Leon Kennedy had just given you the best sex of your life, and he was currently waiting, wrapped in the sheets of your bed like he’s always belonged there. And maybe he has.
You bring a washcloth with you back to the bed, cleaning him up as well, since you were kind of responsible for the mess that had spread to his own thighs. He catches you by the waist before you can return to the bathroom with the washcloth, practically ripping it out of your hands and throwing it aside. He hauls you into his lap, hungrily kissing you, this time something lazier, more chaste. You eagerly press yourself into him. His face is still cradled in your hands when he pulls away. His eyes aren’t blown with a sexual desire, they’re something warmer, a misty fog dragging you into him. You leave a kiss on the corner of his mouth for good measure.
“How’d it go with Claire?” Only now could you pull that joke from you, sitting on Leon’s lap, his eyes on you like you’re the sun shining down on him. You feel more like a moon; reflecting back his own happiness in your eyes, because that’s what’s responsible for why you’re so sure about all of this. He scoffs at your comment.
“Fuck you.”
“Maybe later,” you push him back towards the headboard and straddle his thighs so he could lean back. You trace a small heart on his chest, and he notices immediately, not hiding the smile on his face. “Sorry for blowing up on you. It wasn’t fair.”
“I think I can forgive you,” he muses. “We were both pretty stupid.”
“Yeah,” you murmur. “Love does that, huh?” Leon’s cheeks flush pink, not from exhaustion or his spent energy, but from your words.
“Love.”
“Oh-” You realize the implication and begin to backtrack. “Well, I-”
“Shut up. I love you.” It’s your turn to blush. You’re not sure how to respond so you just hug him. He squeezes you tight to his chest, and it feels like your heart is expanding faster than you can take. You feel so, so warm.
“You wanna know something funny?” You suddenly say into his shoulder. He hums, and begins to scratch pleasantly across your back. You sigh. “I didn’t even know that guy’s name in the first place.”
warnings ; age gap ( leon’s 51, readers in her 20’s ), dirty talk, dirty talk of age gap, unprotected sex, creampie, slight hair pulling, praising, breeding kink undertone, slight aftercare
your bent over the counter, skirt flipped up, panties shoved to the side. his pants are half way down his thighs, zipper down just enough so thick cock is already out and leaking. he’s staring down at where your pussy’s swallowing him, jaw clenched.
“fuck…look at that,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “so pretty baby… such a pretty little pussy.” you whimper, pushing back, nails scraping the counter. “leon—harder, please” he snaps his hips forward, thrusting in deep, makes your whole body jolt. “shouldn’t even be inside you. too fucking young for me to be ruining this pretty little cunt.”
you moan louder, clenching around him on purpose. “i love it, when you fuck me like i’m your dirty secret”
he groans, one hand threading through your hair from behind, pulling your head back so you’re arched perfect into him. “yeah? like knowing i’m old enough to be your dad while i’m balls-deep in you? like knowing i’m corrupting you every time i cum inside?”
“yes, fuck yes—” you’re babbling now, thighs shaking. “your so much older, your cock’s so big, it stretches me so good, makes me feel so small”. he speeds up, pounding you stupid, your whole body shaking. with every thrust.
“should be ashamed of myself. fucking a girl half my age like this. but you keep begging for it and squeezing me like you want me to breed you.” you cry out, pushing your hips back harder. “do it, fill me up please…” he moans low, hips snapping non stop till he cums hard with a choked “fuck—baby”. he pumps you full, hips jerking as he empties inside you. you cum right after, pussy milking him dry till your legs give out.
he stays buried inside you, his heavy breath on your neck. his cock twitches inside you one last time before he pulls out of your fluttering pussy. his thick cum drips out almost immediately, running down the counter. he almost lets out a moan as he watches and reaches out to push it back in your pussy. you lay there whimpering and dreading to have to clean up the sticky mess.
You are a princess on the road, traveling through hills and forests that would swallow lesser women whole. Beside you walks Ser Duncan the Tall, a hedge knight larger than life, sworn to keep you safe.
He is your shield. He is your protector. He is your secret, your desire, the man who should never cross the line. Yet every stolen glance, every brush of hands, every quiet night beside the fire pulls him closer to it. One night, the two of you are forced to stay at a small inn together, and the firelight brings secrets, closeness, and desires neither can deny.
If the gods are kind, Dunk will only break his oath once.
The road has been empty for miles, and still Ser Duncan the Tall walks close to your horse, as if something might leap from the tall grass and drag you down.
He is too big for the path. His shoulders brush low branches, and his boots leave deep prints in the dust. Every so often, he glances toward the treeline, hand resting near the hilt of his sword. No one told him to walk there. He simply placed himself between you and the world.
“Ser Duncan,” you say at last, “you need not glare so fiercely at every bush.”
He startles, as though you struck him. “Begging Your Grace’s pardon. I only meant…” He clears his throat. “There are wolves in these hills.”
“I have never seen one.”
“That’s how they like it.”
You smile at that, turning in the saddle so your silver hair slips over your shoulder. “And you will fight them all alone?”
“If need be.”
The answer is too quick. Too sure.
You ride in silence after that. The sun warms your skin, and the wind tugs at your cloak. You watch him from the corner of your eye: the long stride, the creak of his armor, the faint scar along his jaw. He looks like a storybook knight, if the book had been written by someone who knew hunger.
“You walk as if you expect the world to strike me,” you say softly.
He slows, then stops altogether. “It will, if it can, Your Grace.”
You guide your horse to a halt beside him. Up close, he is taller than you remembered, even from the saddle. When he looks at you, his face reddens.
“You do not speak to me like other men do,” you say.
“I don’t know how other men speak to princesses.”
“And how do you speak to me?”
He thinks for a moment. “As someone who must not fail you.”
Something tightens in your chest.
“You cannot guard me forever, Ser Duncan.”
“I know.”
“But you wish you could.”
His jaw works. “Yes, Your Grace.”
That is when you understand it is not only wolves he fears.
The sun was bleeding out across the horizon, painting the clouds in strokes of rose and gold when you finally stopped to make camp. As a princess, you were used to pavilions and featherbeds. Here, there was only the hard ground, a small fire, and the vast, indifferent sky.
Dunk moved with a quiet efficiency that spoke of years on the road. He unsaddled your horse, rubbed it down, and then began gathering wood for the fire, his large hands breaking branches as easily as you might snap a twig. He never once asked you to help, treating you as if you were made of precious glass.
You watched him, the way the firelight caught the planes of his face, the dust on his boots, the worn leather of his sword belt. There was a roughness to him that court knights lacked, something raw and real. It was… disarming.
“Ser Duncan,” you said, breaking the silence.
He turned, a piece of wood in his hand. “Your Grace?”
“You have not asked me why I travel alone.”
He hesitated, placing the wood on the growing pile. “It is not my place to ask.”
“But you must wonder.”
He looked away, toward the darkening woods. “I wonder about many things.”
“Such as?”
“If I’m gathering enough wood. If the wolves are truly gone. If the stars will hold.” He paused. “Not about princesses’ business.”
“I have no business,” you said, the words surprising even you. “I was… sent away.”
He didn't respond. He simply stood there, a mountain of a man framed by the last light of day, waiting for you to say more.
“My father wishes me to marry a prince from Dorne,” you admitted, your voice barely a whisper. “I told him no.”
The fire crackled. A log shifted, sending a shower of sparks into the dark.
“Your Grace…” he began, then stopped, as if the words caught in his throat.
“You may call me by my name,” you said. “When no one is listening.”
He looked at you then, really looked at you, and the intensity in his eyes made your breath catch. For a fleeting moment, you were not a princess, and he was not a hedge knight. You were just a woman and a man, alone in the night, with only a fire between you.
“I cannot,” he said, his voice low. “It would not be right.”
He turned back to the fire, stoking it with a stick, but you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw was clenched. He was fighting a battle with himself, and you were not sure which side was winning.
“Ser Duncan,” you said softly, “why were you in Flea Bottom the day you were found? You are not from King's Landing.”
He paused, the stick still in his hand. “My master, Ser Arlan, had business there. We were heading to the Tourney at Ashford.” He stared into the flames. “He died on the road. Before we got there.”
A silence stretched between you, heavy with unspoken sorrow. You saw the ghost of the old knight in the young one’s eyes. The weight of a legacy he never asked for.
“I am sorry for your loss.”
“He was a good man,” Dunk said, his voice rough. “Better than me.”
“I do not believe that.”
He finally looked at you again, and in the firelight, you saw something you had not seen before: a flicker of vulnerability. “Your Grace… a princess shouldn't be talking to a hedge knight about such things.”
“Why not?”
“Because…” He struggled for the words. “Because it makes me forget what I am.”
You leaned forward, the silver-gold of your hair brushing against your cheek. “And what are you, Ser Duncan?”
“Just a man,” he said, the words barely audible. “From Flea Bottom.”
His honesty was a punch to the gut. You had been surrounded by lies and half-truths your whole life. Men who said what they thought you wanted to hear, who offered you words false and polished. But this man… this giant of a man with the calloused hands and the honest eyes… he was as real as the ground beneath your feet.
And it was terrifying.
And it was wonderful.
“A man,” you repeated, testing the word. “Just a man, who walks for miles beside my horse, who would fight wolves for me, who calls me Your Grace like it’s a shield against a truth he doesn’t want to face.”
He flinched as if you’d struck him.
“A man who smells of leather and road dust,” you continued, your voice softer now. “A man who blushes when I look at him too long.”
He stood up so quickly he almost knocked over the fire. “I should see to the horse.”
“Ser Duncan.”
He froze, his back to you, a statue of a knight in the flickering light.
“Stay. Please.”
He didn’t move. You could hear the uneven rhythm of his breathing, see the tension in the set of his shoulders. He stayed because you asked him to. Because he would do anything for you.
The morning came gray and cool. Dew clung to the grass, and the air smelled of damp earth. Dunk was already awake, the fire rebuilt, your horse saddled and grazing peacefully nearby. He handed you a piece of dried fruit and a waterskin, his fingers brushing yours for a fleeting second. You both pretended not to notice.
The path today was narrow, winding along the edge of a steep embankment that dropped away to a rushing river below. He walked even closer to your horse than before, so near you could feel the warmth of his body through your dress. His presence was a constant, solid thing, a wall of muscle and iron between you and the drop.
“You will wear yourself out, walking so,” you said.
“It is my duty.”
“It is not your duty to be tired on my account.”
He said nothing, but you felt the flex of his jaw as he clenched it.
Later, when you came to a fallen tree blocking the path, you foolishly attempted to guide your horse over it instead of waiting for him to clear the way. The horse shied, lost its footing on the slick moss, and for a terrifying moment, you were sliding sideways, heading for the embankment.
Then you were not falling.
You were in his arms.
One of his big hands was on your back, the other gripping your waist, holding you as easily as if you weighed no more than a feather. He had moved faster than you could think, stepping into the path of the horse, planting himself like an oak, and pulling you from the saddle.
For a heartbeat, there was nothing but the pounding of your own blood in your ears, the smell of leather and sweat and the cold river air, and the sheer, overwhelming reality of him. His face was inches from yours, his blue eyes wide with a fear that was quickly replaced by something else. Something that made your stomach clench.
“Are you hurt, Your Grace?” he asked, his voice hoarse.
You shook your head, unable to speak.
He set you down as if you were precious porcelain, taking a quick step back, his cheeks flushed. “Begging your pardon.”
“Don’t,” you said, your voice unsteady. “Don’t apologize for saving me.”
“I should have cleared the path sooner. I was not thinking.”
“You were thinking of my safety. That is enough.”
He looked away, rubbing the back of his neck. “The ground is uneven here. It would be better if you walked, Your Grace. I will lead the horse.”
You wanted to protest, to say you were not some delicate flower who could not navigate a little rough terrain. But you looked at the steep drop, at the way the horse was still nervously sidestepping, and you knew he was right.
You nodded, and he offered you his arm.
His arm was like a tree trunk, solid and strong beneath your fingers. The rough wool of his tunic scratched your skin, a startlingly real sensation after years of silks and velvets. You walked behind him, your hand on his arm, your other hand clutching the reins of your horse, feeling the warmth of him seeping into you.
The silence was thick with unspoken things. You could feel the tension in him, the way he held himself rigidly, as if he were afraid of breaking.
“You have strong hands,” you said, the words slipping out before you could stop them.
He stumbled, catching himself quickly. “They are just hands, Your Grace.”
“They are more than that. They caught me.”
He stopped, turning to face you. The sunlight filtered through the leaves, dappling his face. “It is my duty to protect you.”
“And is it your duty to blush when I thank you?”
A deep red crept up his neck, and he looked away, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, “Seven hells.”
You laughed, a genuine, unexpected laugh that seemed to startle him as much as it did you. “You are not like the knights at court, Ser Duncan.”
“I am not a knight at court.”
“No. You are… better.”
He looked at you then, his blue eyes searching yours, and for the first time, you saw not just a guard, but a man. A man who was lost, and lonely, and so very good. And in that moment, you felt a pull towards him, a dangerous, irresistible pull that scared you more than any wolf or embankment ever could.
You reached up and touched the scar on his jaw, your fingers tracing the rough, puckered skin. He flinched, but did not pull away.
“Where did you get this?” you asked softly.
He closed his eyes for a moment, as if gathering the memory. “A fight. In Flea Bottom. I was… younger.”
“Who did you fight?”
“A man. Much bigger than me.”
You smiled. “I find that hard to believe.”
“He had a knife.”
“And you?”
“I had my fists.”
You let your fingers linger, feeling the rough texture of the scar. “You must have been very brave.”
“No,” he said, his voice so low it was almost a whisper. “Just stubborn.”
Your fingers stilled on his jaw. “There is a difference between the two, Ser Duncan. Bravery is knowing the danger and facing it anyway. Stubbornness is… something else. Something harder.”
He finally met your gaze fully, and in the depths of his blue eyes, you saw a flicker of something you hadn't seen before. Not fear, not duty, but a spark of curiosity, of genuine interest. “What is it, then?” he asked.
“You don’t care for glory,” you said, your thumb gently stroking the line of his jaw. “You don’t care for praise or recognition. You care about doing what is right, even when it’s hard. Even when it hurts you. That’s not stubbornness. That’s honor.”
He swallowed hard, and you watched the movement of his throat. “My master… Ser Arlan… he said a knight’s word is his bond. His shield is for the weak. His sword is for those who cannot defend themselves.” He looked away, toward the river rushing far below. “I’m not very good with words, Your Grace. I only know how to do what he taught me.”
“You are doing it beautifully.”
He blushed again, that deep, honest red that started at his neck and crept up to the tips of his ears. It was the most endearing thing you had ever seen.
As you walked, the path became even more treacherous. The ground was loose and gravelly, and your fine leather slippers offered little purchase. You stumbled, and before you could fall, Dunk’s other arm came around you, steadying you. His grip was firm but gentle, and for a moment, you were completely enveloped by him, your back pressed against his chest, his arms circling your waist.
“I have you,” he murmured, his breath warm against your ear. “Your Grace.”
Your heart hammered against your ribs, a wild, frantic beat. You could feel the solid strength of him, the warmth of his body, the steady thrum of his own heart against your back. It was more intimate than any dance, more thrilling than any kiss.
“Thank you,” you whispered, your breath catching in your throat.
He held you for a moment longer than was strictly necessary before slowly releasing you, but he kept one hand on your arm, a reassuring presence. “We should find a place to camp soon,” he said, his voice a little rough.
The road eventually led you not back to the wild, but to the lights of a small inn, a welcome sight after days of rough travel. Its sign, a weathered depiction of a crow perched on a branch, creaked in the evening breeze. The place was called The Blackbird's Rest.
The common room was warm and smelled of roasting meat and spilled ale. Dunk, with his imposing height and worn armor, drew every eye as he led you to a corner table. He was a wolf among sheep, but he seemed unaware of his own teeth, so focused was he on you.
He pulled out a chair for you, a courtly gesture that seemed at odds with his rough exterior.
“What will you have, Your Grace?” he asked.
“Whatever is warm,” you said, a weariness settling over you that had little to do with the journey.
He ordered a simple stew and bread for you both, along with a mug of ale for himself and a cup of wine for you. As he spoke to the innkeeper, you noticed the way he held himself, straight-backed and proud, despite the dirt on his boots and the worn state of his armor.
The stew was surprisingly good, and you ate with a hunger you hadn't realized you possessed. Dunk watched you as if your enjoyment gave him some small pleasure.
“After this,” he said, when you had both finished, “I will see if there are stables for your horse, and a place for me to sleep.”
“I will have a room prepared for you,” you said, assuming it would be a simple matter.
He shook his head. “That is not necessary, Your Grace. A bed in the stables is all I need.”
“Nonsense. You have been walking for days. You deserve a proper bed.”
He looked as if he wanted to argue, but then the innkeeper’s wife, a woman with a kind face, approached your table. “Pardon me, my lord, my lady,” she said, her eyes darting between you. “It’s a busy night, what with the harvest festival in the next village. I’ve only got one room left.”
Dunk’s face fell. “And the stables?”
“Full to bursting, I’m afraid.”
He looked at you, a silent question in his eyes. “We will take the room,” you said, before he could speak.
“Are you sure, Your Grace?” he asked, once the woman had gone.
He carried your small chest of belongings up the narrow stairs himself, despite your protests that the innkeeper could do it. The room was small, with a large bed taking up most of the space, and a washstand in the corner. He set the chest down by the door, then turned to face you, his hands clasped behind his back.
“I will sleep on the floor,” he said, before you could even ask.
“Ser Duncan, there is no need-”
“There is every need, Your Grace.” His tone was firm, leaving no room for argument. “You will take the bed.”
You sighed, knowing it was a battle you would not win. “Very well. But at least take some blankets.”
He nodded, a small, almost imperceptible dip of his head. “I will see to the horse. And wash. The stables have a pump with cold water.”
“Do not be long,” you said, the words out before you could stop them.
He paused, his hand on the doorknob. “I will be as quick as I can.”
When he was gone, you opened your chest, the fine fabrics of your dresses a stark contrast to the rough-hewn wood of the room. You chose a simple nightgown of soft linen, then a maid from the inn arrived with a large tub of steaming water, which she placed on the floor near the fire.
“My lady,” she said, curtsying. “My lady sent me up to help you.”
You thanked her, and soon you were sinking into the hot water, the steam rising around you in fragrant clouds. The heat seeped into your tired muscles, and you sighed, closing your eyes.
The maid began to wash your hair, her fingers working through the long, silver-gold strands. The scent of lavender and rosemary filled the room, a luxury after days on the road. You let your mind drift, thoughts of your father, the Dornish prince, and the life you had left behind fading into a pleasant haze.
It was then that the door creaked open.
You opened your eyes, and through the steam, you saw him.
Ser Duncan the Tall, standing in the doorway, his hair still damp from his wash at the pump, his face clean for the first time since you’d met him. He had changed into a simple tunic and breeches, the worn fabric clinging to the powerful lines of his body.
And he was staring at you.
Not with the lustful gaze of a courtier, but with a kind of wide-eyed, breathless awe. As if he had stumbled upon a goddess bathing in a sacred pool.
Your own breath hitched, but you forced yourself to remain still, to meet his gaze without flinching. There was something in his eyes; something raw and utterly captivating.
“Thank you,” you said to the maid, your voice surprisingly steady. “You may go.”
The maid curtsied, her eyes darting between you and the knight, and then she scurried out of the room, closing the door softly behind her.
You and Dunk were alone.
The silence stretched, thick with unspoken things. The fire crackled, casting dancing shadows on the walls. The steam rose from the water, cloaking you in a veil of white.
“Your Grace,” he said at last, his voice hoarse. “I… I did not mean to intrude. I thought you would be… dressed.”
He didn't move, though. He stood there, a statue of a man, trapped between the desire to flee and the overwhelming need to look.
“I am not dressed,” you said, a hint of amusement in your tone.
A deep red crept up his neck, but he still didn't turn away. “I should go.”
“Stay.”
The word was a whisper, but it was a command nonetheless.
He swallowed hard, the movement of his throat a testament to his struggle. “It would not be proper.”
“Nothing about this journey has been proper,” you countered, your voice gaining strength. “You have saved my life, carried my burdens, and walked for miles to keep me safe. I think you have earned the right to stay.”
He looked down at the floor, at the rough wooden planks, as if they might offer him an escape. “Your Grace… a man should not see a princess… like this.”
“Then don't look at a princess,” you said, your voice softening. “Look at me.”
He looked up then, and the raw, unguarded hunger in his eyes stole your breath. He looked at you as if you were the only woman in the world, as if you were water to a man dying of thirst.
And then, slowly, deliberately, he took a step forward.
He didn't come close enough to touch you, but he was no longer in the doorway. He was in the room with you, a part of this private, intimate space. The air crackled with a tension that was both terrifying and exhilarating.
You watched him, your heart pounding in your chest. You saw the way his hands clenched at his sides, the way his breathing grew shallow.
The water sloshed gently against your skin as you shifted, turning your back to him slightly. The motion was small, but it felt monumental. You were offering him your trust.
“Ser Duncan,” you said, your voice soft, “would you… would you finish washing my hair? The maid left before she was done.”
For a moment, he didn't move. You could see the struggle on his face, the war between what was proper and what was suddenly, terrifyingly possible.
“Your Grace…” he began, his voice rough.
“You promised to obey,” you reminded him, a hint of a smile playing on your lips.
A muscle twitched in his jaw. “That is not the kind of obedience I meant.”
“I know,” you said, your tone gentle. “But I am asking you. As a woman, not a princess. Please?”
He looked at you for a long, silent moment, and then, slowly, he nodded.
He knelt by the tub, his large frame folding with grace. His knees sank into the rough wooden floor, and you could feel the warmth of the fire radiating from him. He dipped his hands into the water, then hesitated, his fingers hovering just above your hair.
“You have beautiful hair, Your Grace,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.
“And you have gentle hands, Ser Duncan,” you replied, your breath catching in your throat as his fingers finally made contact with your scalp.
His touch was surprisingly light, almost hesitant. He had the hands of a warrior, calloused and strong, but he handled you as if you were the most precious thing. He worked the soap into a lather, his fingers massaging your scalp in a way that made you want to lean back into his touch, to lose yourself in the sensation.
“You are not looking at me,” you said, your eyes closed.
“I am,” he said, his voice strained. “I am looking at your hair.”
“Look at me, Duncan.”
He paused, his hands still in your hair. The use of his name, without the honorific, hung in the air between you, a bridge you had just crossed, and there was no going back.
Slowly, he raised his eyes.
He looked at you, really looked at you, and the world seemed to shrink to the small space between you. The fire crackled, the water lapped against your skin, and in the depths of his blue eyes, you saw a reflection of yourself that you had never seen before.
“Why did you refuse the prince from Dorne?” he asked, his fingers resuming their work in your hair.
“The same reason I refused the lord from the Reach, and the prince from the North,” you said, your voice soft. “They wanted a princess. Not a person.”
“What is the difference?”
“A princess is a prize. A thing to be won, to be displayed on a lord’s arm. A person has thoughts, and fears, and dreams of her own.”
“And what are your dreams, Your Grace?” he asked, his voice so low you could barely hear it.
“Call me by my name,” you said, turning your head slightly to look at him. “And maybe I will tell you.”
He swallowed hard, the movement of his throat a testament to his struggle.
You told him, and he repeated it, as if testing the shape of it on his tongue. It sounded different when he said it. Not like a name, but like a prayer.
He rinsed your hair, the water cascading down your back, warm and clean. Then he picked up a towel, and with a gentleness that brought tears to your eyes, he began to dry your hair, his hands moving with a care that spoke volumes.
“My dream,” you said “is of a life where I am not a prize. Where I am loved for who I am, not what I am.”
He stopped, the towel still in his hands. “Any man would be a fool not to love you, Your…,” he started, then corrected himself. “Any man would be a fool not to love you.”
“Would you?” you asked, the question hanging in the air between you, a challenge and a plea.
“I…,” he began, then stopped, as if the words were too heavy to speak. He simply looked at you, and in the depths of his blue eyes, you saw an answer that was more honest than any words could ever be.
Your fingers tightened around the rough edge of the soap as you held it out to him. His gaze dropped from your face to the offering in your hand, then back again.
"Wash my back, Duncan," you said, your voice a breathy whisper.
He took the soap, his calloused fingers brushing against yours. The touch sent a shiver through you, a current that traveled up your arm and down your spine. He knelt again, the floorboards creaking under his weight, and you leaned forward, presenting your back to him.
His hands were hesitant at first, tracing the curve of your spine with a gentleness that belied their strength. Then, lathering the soap, he began to wash you. His touch was firm yet reverent, as if he were touching something sacred. You could feel the warmth of his palms through the water, the slight roughness against your skin. It was intoxicating.
You leaned into his touch, a soft sigh escaping your lips. You could feel the tension radiating from him, a palpable thing that filled the small room. You knew this was as hard for him as it was for you.
"Have you been with many women, Duncan?" you asked, your voice barely a whisper.
His hands stilled on your back. "No, Your Grace," he said, his voice strained.
"I told you to call me by my name," you said, turning your head to look at him.
He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. "No," he said, meeting your gaze. "I have not."
"Why not?"
"Knighthood… it's a vow. Not just to a lord, but to something more. Something higher. I have tried to live by that vow."
"And this?" you asked, your gaze drifting down to where he knelt. "Does this break your vow?"
He followed your gaze, and you saw the unmistakable evidence of his desire, a hard ridge straining against the fabric of his breeches. He blushed, a deep, mortified red.
"Your Grace… I am sorry," he said, his voice hoarse. "I cannot control… I am only a man."
"I know," you said, your voice soft. "And I am only a woman. Not a princess. Not a prize. Just a woman, in a tub, with a man she desires."
His eyes widened, and you knew your words had struck him with the force of a physical blow. He looked at you as if he were seeing you for the first time, not as a responsibility, but as a woman.
He finished washing your back, his hands moving with a new urgency, a new purpose. Then he stood up, the water dripping from his hands onto the floor.
"I should go," he said, his back to you.
"Don't."
He turned, and the look on his face was one of such raw, unadulterated longing that it made your breath catch.
"I am not good enough for you," he said, the words ripped from the depths of his soul. "I am a hedge knight from Flea Bottom. I have nothing to offer you but my sword, my shield, and my life. You deserve… you deserve better."
"You are the best man I have ever known," you said, your voice unwavering. "And that is all I have ever wanted."
He looked at you, a storm of emotions warring in his eyes. "You don't know what you're asking."
"Yes, I do," you said, rising from the tub, the water streaming from your body. "I am asking you to see me. Not as your duty, but as your equal. As your desire."
You stood before him, naked and unashamed, a goddess of fire. And he looked at you, and in that moment, you knew he saw you. Truly saw you.
He took a step toward you, then another, until he was standing before you, a towering monument of a man. He raised his hand, as if to touch your face, then let it fall to his side.
"Your…," he began, then stopped, the word catching in his throat.
You reached up and took his hand, placing it on your cheek. His skin was rough and warm, a startlingly real sensation. You leaned into his touch, closing your eyes, and you felt him shudder.
"Dunk," you whispered.
He leaned down, his face inches from yours. You could feel the warmth of his breath, smell the clean scent of him, the faint trace of soap. His blue eyes were dark with a desire.
"May I?" he asked, his voice a rough whisper.
You answered him by closing the small distance between you, pressing your lips against his.
His lips were surprisingly soft, hesitant at first, then more demanding. It was a kiss of a thousand unspoken words, of repressed desires and a desperate, aching need. It was the kiss of a princess who had never been truly kissed, and of a hedge knight who had never allowed himself to truly love.
You melted into him, your arms wrapping around his neck, your fingers tangling in his damp brown hair. He was so warm, so solid, so real. You could feel the hard planes of his chest against your breasts, the rough fabric of his tunic growing damp with the water from your skin. He was so tall, you had to stand on your toes, and as he sensed your struggle, he lifted you, his hands cupping your bottom, pulling you flush against him.
You gasped into his mouth at the sudden contact, at the feel of his hard length pressing against your belly. He was huge, a powerful, virile man in the prime of his life, and the evidence of his desire was both thrilling and a little terrifying.
He carried you to the bed, never breaking the kiss. He laid you down on the soft linens, then stretched out beside you, propping himself up on an elbow to look at you.
"You are so beautiful," he said, his voice a whisper. He reached out, his fingers tracing the curve of your cheek, then the line of your jaw, then the hollow of your throat.
The fur of the bed was a soft, warm cocoon against your naked skin. He knelt beside you, his gaze intense, as if he were trying to memorize every inch of you.
"Duncan," you said, your voice a breathy whisper.
He was a warrior, a man who had faced down death without flinching, but here, in this small room, with you, he was undone.
"I am not good enough for you," he said, his voice cracking. "You deserve a prince. A lord."
"I don't want a prince. I don't want a lord," you said, your voice unwavering. "I want you."
You reached out and took his head in your hands, forcing him to look at you. "You are good, Duncan. You are kind. You are the most honorable man I have ever known. And you are the most beautiful man I have ever seen."
He trembled under your touch, a fine shudder running through his large frame. He was completely, utterly at your mercy.
"Tell me what you want," you said, your voice soft but firm.
"You," he said, the word a choked sob. "Gods help me, I want you."
"Then have me," you said, and you pulled him up for another kiss.
This kiss was different. It was not hesitant or questioning. It was a kiss of a man finally giving in to a desire he had fought for so long. His hands roamed your body, tracing the curves of your hips, the swell of your breasts, the softness of your thighs.
You arched against him, a soft moan escaping your lips. You could feel the heat building between you, a fire that threatened to consume you both.
He broke the kiss, his breathing ragged.
Then he kissed a path down your neck, his lips trailing fire across your skin. He nipped at your collarbone, then moved lower, his mouth closing over one of your nipples.
You cried out, your back arching off the bed. He was strong, so strong, and the pleasure was almost overwhelming. He suckled you, his tongue swirling around the hard peak, sending the pleasure straight to your core.
You tangled your fingers in his hair, holding him to you, desperate for more. With your free hand, you fumbled with the laces of his tunic, your fingers clumsy with need. He helped you, pulling the garment over his head, and you gasped at the sight of him.
His chest was a landscape of muscle and scars, a testament to a life of hardship and violence. You reached out, your fingers tracing the jagged lines of an old wound.
"Duncan," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion.
He captured your hand, bringing it to his lips for a soft, lingering kiss. "It is nothing," he said, his voice rough. "They are just old hurts."
"They are a part of you," you said, your gaze unwavering. "And I want all of you."
He looked at you, a raw, unguarded hunger in his eyes. Then he kissed you again, stealing the very air from your lungs. His hands roamed your body, learning every curve, every hollow, every secret place that made you writhe beneath him.
He was a quick study. He learned the language of your body, the way you arched into his touch, the way your breath stopped when he found a particularly sensitive spot. He was a knight, and he was determined to master this new form of combat.
He moved lower, his lips and tongue tracing a path of fire down your stomach. You tangled your fingers in the fur beneath you, your hips rising to meet him, a silent plea for more. He understood.
He settled between your thighs, his broad shoulders forcing your legs wider. You were already so wet for him, so ready, and when his tongue finally made contact with your core, you cried out, a raw, primal sound. Pleasure.
He was surprisingly good at this, a natural. He explored you with a focused intensity, his tongue delving, swirling, and stroking. He found the sensitive bundle of nerves at the apex of your sex, and when he sucked it into his mouth, your vision went white.
"Duncan," you cried, your hands fisting in his hair. "Gods, Duncan."
He doubled his efforts, his tongue working with a relentless rhythm, pushing you higher and higher, until you were teetering on the very edge of oblivion. You shattered, your body convulsing in a wave of pleasure so intense it was almost painful.
He didn't stop, not until you were a quiverin mess, your body limp and sated. Then he moved back up your body, his kisses hot and demanding. You could feel the desperation in him, the raw, aching need.
His breeches were still on, a final, flimsy barrier between you. You fumbled with the laces, your fingers clumsy with desire. His hips jerked against your hand, a choked gasp escaping his lips.
"Please," he groaned, the word ripped from the depths of his soul. "Please..."
You finally managed to undo the laces, and you pushed the fabric down, your hand closing around his hard length.
He was magnificent. Hot, heavy, and impossibly hard, he was a testament to raw, masculine power. He was huge, a beautiful, intimidating sight that made your core clench with anticipation.
He was panting, his chest heaving, a thin sheen of sweat on his brow. He spread your legs apart with his powerful thighs, his body trembling with a need so intense it bordered on pain.
You guided him to your entrance, and with a slow, deliberate thrust, he buried himself inside you.
You both cried out, a shared gasp of pleasure and relief.
He was so hot, a living flame inside you, and you couldn't stop your hands from roaming all over him. You explored the hard planes of his back, the powerful muscles of his buttocks, the crisp hair on his chest. You felt a fire building in your lower belly, an ache that only he could soothe.
He was so big, and you were so small, and the sensation of him filling you, stretching you, was almost overwhelming.
He held himself still, letting you adjust, letting your body accept him. He looked down at you, his blue eyes dark with an emotion that went beyond mere desire. It was reverence, adoration, a love so pure it made your heart ache.
"Gods," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "Gods, you feel... you feel so good."
You pulled him down for a kiss, your tongue tangling with his, tasting yourself on his lips. You moved your hips, a silent invitation, and he began to move.
His thrusts were slow at first, a deep, steady rhythm that built the fire in your belly until it was a roaring inferno. He watched your face, learning what you liked, what made you gasp, what made you cry out his name.
"Dunk" you moaned, your fingers digging into his back. "Please... harder..."
He obliged, his movements becoming more forceful, more demanding. He was a powerful man, and he was using every ounce of that power to pleasure you. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, a primal rhythm that spoke of a need as old as time itself.
You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, wanting all of him. He was so big, so strong, and the feel of him moving inside you was the only thing you needed.
You shifted, rolling him onto his back without breaking your connection. He looked up at you, a moan of surprise escaping his lips, but he went willingly, a knight yielding to his queen.
You sat up, straddling his hips, and the change in angle sent another jolt of pleasure through you. You began to move, a slow, sensuous rhythm that made his eyes roll back in his head.
"Gods," he groaned, his hands finding your hips, his grip tight. "Gods, you are... you are magnificent."
You rode him, your body undulating, your silver-gold hair cascading over your shoulders. You were in control now, a goddess of fire and moonlight, and he was your willing worshipper.
He watched you with a mixture of awe and adoration. He reached up, his hands covering yours where they rested on his chest.
"I am your knight," he said, his voice a hoarse whisper. "Till the day I die. I am at your service... and at your mercy."
"Then show me," you said, your voice a breathy moan. "Show me how a knight serves his princess."
He sat up, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you close. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his lips hot against your skin.
"With my life," he breathed, his hips rising to meet yours. "With my sword... with my shield... with everything I am... I am sworn to you."
He kissed you, a deep, possessive kiss that claimed you as surely as any vow. His hands roamed your body, cupping your breasts, thumbing your nipples, pleasure spreading through your core.
You rode him harder, faster, the fire in your belly building to an unbearable crescendo. You were so close, teetering on the very edge of oblivion, and you knew he was too.
He could feel it too. He could feel the tightening of your body, the desperate flutter of your heart. He wrapped his arms around your waist, holding you close, and with a final, powerful thrust, he sent you over the edge.
You shattered, a scream of ecstasy tearing from your throat. Your body convulsed, wave after wave of pleasure washing over you, leaving you breathless.
He followed you moments later, a deep, guttural groan ripped from the depths of his soul. He held you tight, as he poured himself into you, a silent offering.
For a long while, you lay tangled together, your bodies slick with sweat, your breathing ragged. He was still inside you, a warm, heavy presence that was both comforting and deeply intimate.
You shifted, trying to move off him, but his arms tightened around you, holding you in place.
"Stay," he said, his voice a hoarse whisper. "Just for a little while."
You relaxed against him, your head pillowed on his chest. You could hear the reassuring beat of his heart, a rhythm that soothed your frayed nerves. The fur beneath you was a soft, warm cocoon, the fire in the hearth a low, crackling glow.
This was peace. This was what you had been searching for your whole life.
You drifted off to sleep, feeling warmth in his arms, a contented sigh escaping your lips. He watched you, a faint smile on his face, as you slept. He had never felt so... whole.
He knew this was a dream, a fleeting moment of happiness in a world that was determined to tear him apart.
But for now, in this small room, in this inn, with you in his arms, he was the luckiest man in the world.
Author’s Note:
Hiiii! I was honestly scared I’d lost my ability to write, but I sat down today and this came out. It’s a little rough around the edges, but I’m just so happy to be here, putting words into the world again. Thanks for reading. ❤️🔥
baelor thinking about him and maekar as children in his final moments. baelor who loves his brother despite all of his flaws. baelor who has already forgiven maekar for everything.
summary: you've always had a strong dislike for targaryen princes, until you actually meet one
pairing: daeron x tyrell!reader
content: canon divergent, strangers to lovers, some fluff, drinking, loss of virginity, softsub!daeron, softdom!reader, afab!reader, porn with plot, fingering, unprotected p in v, fingers in mouth, vomiting (NOT as a kink lol), some cursing, happy ending, daeron is a sweetie, akotsk spoilers (especially concerning a certain character's death)
w.c. ~5.4k | a.n. i freaking love my men pathetic and needy lol also people are SLEEPING on daeron, come on | icons from @konalis & pinterest
It's not every day that you get to meet a prince. It's even rarer for him to stumble into your chamber, throw up on your floor and pass out. And yet, here he is, Prince Daeron Targaryen, sprawled and drooling on a carpet that doesn’t even belong to you, it belongs to Lord Ashford.
Entitlement, you think. Not fire and blood. It's entitlement that flows through Targaryen veins. Perhaps that should be their new house motto – privilege and entitlement.
Nevertheless, you crouch next to his limp body to check for breathing. He's very much alive, you conclude, and slide your hands under his arms, mustering all the strength you can to pull him away from the vomit and onto the bed. Thinking back at all the books you’ve read, you remember to push him onto his side, so he doesn't regurgitate and choke, then call one of your maids to fetch you a bowl of water and some rags. You're not one to shy away from getting your hands dirty. That's not who you are, despite being of nobility, and so you kneel down and scrub the bile off the floor, picking up chunks of undigested food and tossing them in the burning fireplace.
Lovely. Just lovely. You've got a Targaryen prince passed out in your chamber who is talking, no, crying, in his sleep, and you don’t even know what to do or who to speak to. With a sigh, you leave to clean your hands and come back to him sweating buckets, and, without hesitation, your hand reaches out to feel his skin. It burns your palm, strands of sandy golden hair sticking to his forehead, cheeks flushed and eyelashes wet.
As you leave again to bring cold water and clean cloths, you wonder what he's dreaming of. What kind of nightmares can make a man, a prince, whimper and sob in his sleep in such a violent way? Are they memories? Dreams of events that have not yet happened? What reason does someone privileged and entitled could possibly have to be riddled with nightmares?
It irks you, and you find yourself frowning as you gently pat his skin with a cold, damp cloth to lower his temperature. It irks you because this man invaded your privacy, tainted it with his vomit. It irks you because, while you are the daughter of a nobleman, you are a woman, still. You cannot travel, cannot study at the Citadel, cannot learn how to fight, cannot be an heir, cannot marry out of love. You cannot do any of the things you long for. So, it irks you to watch him flinch in his sleep while living a fucking sheltered life.
And yet, you tend to his fever by removing his boots and his tunic to allow his skin to breathe. You know, through common sense and the books you stole from your father's maester, that you should remove his shirt to bring the fever down, but you cannot bring yourself to do that. The last thing you need is to damage your reputation, because, of course it would be yours that would be ruined. A naked prince in an unmarried lady's chamber? Men will be men. An unmarried lady with a naked prince in her bed? Whore. This suddenly makes you realise you need to tell someone that you have a bloody prince passed out in your room before anyone thinks you're poisoning him.
You dip the cloth in water, squeeze out the excess and place it neatly on his forehead. Quietly, you turn to leave until you feel a firm grasp around your wrist, desperately pulling you closer to the bed. Your knee hits the edge of the wooden frame and you nearly fall on top on the prince but regain balance swiftly before you make a fool of yourself. Flipping your hair out of your face, your eyes finally meet his. They're violet and so full of sorrow that you almost take pity on him.
“Are you a goddess?” His voice is soft, but his breath is reeks of liquor, tainting the sweet words.
You abstain from pulling a face. “Far from it, Your Grace.” Offering him a small curtsey, you straighten your dress and clear your throat. “Y/N Tyrell.”
“Oh, Seven Hells, did I- did we-?”
“No!” You blurt out before he can finish his sentence. “No, you walked in, threw up on the floor and fainted. I merely dragged you in bed and tended to your fever.”
Daeron blinks once, twice, then sighs, relieved that nothing else happened. “Gods, you must think I am a fool.”
“Not at all.” You half-lie. It's not that you consider him a fool, it's that you want him out of your room before anyone realises he's missing and finds him there. But you can't really say anything, so you just stand there, like an idiot, awkwardly tugging at the hem of your sleeves. What can you even say? Leave? Get out? Fuck off? He's clearly unwell and inebriated. Barging into your room might have just saved his life. And you cannot blame him, because suddenly it dawns upon you that this man just lost his uncle, one of the most honourable men in the realm, after a Trial by Seven. No wonder he drank himself to the point he passed out. No wonder he was sobbing in his sleep. But his lingering presence is bringing you one step closer to becoming the talk of the Seven Kingdoms.
“Your Grace-“
“My lady-“
Both of you stare at each other before Daeron's chuckle fills your chamber. You can't help but do the same, one hand over your mouth to still maintain politeness, yet as much as you despise his entitlement, the situation is as humorous as it is awkward.
“Please, you first.” Daeron is courteous enough to let you speak, but you shake your head.
“No, my lord, you first.”
He swallows a lump in his throat and nods. “I wanted to thank you, but, if I may, also ask for a favour.”
A favour? After scrubbing his vomit off the carpet, dragging him into your bed and watching over him while compromising your reputation, he still wants a favour? Your blood boils, jaws clench, and yet you smile.
“Of course, Your Grace.”
This is it. He's going to claim you like some forbidden treasure, take your innocence and never look back. And you cannot do anything about it. You cannot protest, cannot scream for help, because even if you did, no one dared to harm a prince.
“I don't suppose you know of a secret room where I could hide, do you?” Daeron asks. “No one would even notice I'm gone, and I honestly cannot bear to see my family yet. Not after today.”
It's your turn to blink, dumbfounded by his request. “I'm afraid I don't know this castle very well, my lord. I could ask one of my trusted maids to search for one.”
“No, I've caused you enough trouble.” Daeron sits up, wincing as he rolls his shoulder.
You remember the blow he took during the trial. Knocked him out cold and he hadn’t moved until the end. “You are not in good shape.”
“Eeh, I've had worse.” He smiles, reaching for his tunic. “I best take my leave before your husband arrives and assumes the worst. There has been enough violence for a day. Too many lives lost.”
“I agree, and I am truly sorry about your uncle, Your Grace. Prince Baelor was an honourable man.” You nod, then speak without thinking. “But you mistake me for my sister. She is the married one, I am still a thorn in my father's side.”
“Are you betrothed, then?” Daeron asks a little too quickly, too eagerly, with a glimmer in his eyes that seems hopeful.
“I am not.”
Silence again. The kind that makes you want to run deep into a forest and scream until your lungs give up, where no one can hear you but the wildlife. You lower your gaze, unable to look Prince Daeron in the eye, and he takes the hint, hurrying towards the door. “Thank you, my lady. I shall repay your kindness.”
Before you can tell him not to bother, he's gone, leaving only a dent in your pillow as a reminder that he was there, and a wet patch on the carpet that is slowly drying.
You don't think you'll see him again after the tourney at Ashford Meadow, and so you go about with your life back at Highgarden, back to your old habits of rejecting marriage proposals and sneaking into the library late at night. Back to resenting the privileged prince that promised return the favour.
When the raven arrives, you're perched on the windowsill of your chamber, overlooking the labyrinth that you memorised in the back of your mind. A loud, incessant knock on your door startles you, and you quickly hide another stolen book behind a loose brick in your wall before fixing your hair and opening the door.
“M'lady.” One of the maids bows. “Your father requests your presence. Immediately.”
“If it is another marriage proposal, I am not interested.” You simply roll your eyes and close the door, but the maid places her foot in the door.
“I'm afraid I can't go against Lord Tyrell's orders, m'lady.”
You scoff. Gods, you hate it when he uses servants like that, because you do not want them to take the punishment for your stubbornness. “Very well, then.” Lifting your dress, you hurry to the Great Hall of Highgarden to get this over and done with.
But when you enter the Hall, you're met with a grinning Lord Leo Longthorn. Your father is ecstatic, and he signals you to sit down, which you reluctantly do. He doesn't say anything, but instead gives you a letter, the wax seal of House Targaryen already broken. You unroll the parchment and read, pupils frantically moving left to right.
“You cannot refuse.” He speaks. “I will not allow you to refuse.”
You stare in disbelief at the letter in your hand, mouth agape. In black ink on yellowed paper, a proposal stares back at you. Prince Daeron is requesting your hand in marriage.
Lord Tyrell speaks again, bothered by your lack of words. “You understand how important this alliance is, yes? I have overlooked all the proposals you rejected, accepted that you are different from your sister, that you are interested in studying, yet do not wish to become a Septa. But I will not allow it this time. You must fulfil your duty to me, as my daughter-“
“I accept.” You finally say, still shocked by the contents of the letter.
"You... you do?" Your father's puzzled look makes your muscles relax.
“I do. If it were Prince Aerion, I would have preferred to drink poison. But I accept Prince Daeron's proposal, and I shall personally write to him that I will be visiting King's Landing soon.”
“Oh, thank the gods!”
True to your word, you find yourself bowing in front of Prince Maekar, who is still mourning the death of Prince Baelor, and his sons and daughters, all dressed in red and black. It’s not a pretty sight, not with the darkened clouds above King’s Landing, and it's made even worse by the presence of Aerion Targaryen, who seems to judge you from head to toe. Granted, you are dressed in travelling garments, not necessarily fit for a lady, a future wife of a prince, even, but you prefer to be comfortable and practical, something which Daeron appreciates from the smile he gives you.
But it is Prince Maekar who speaks first, welcoming you to the Red Keep. “My lady, I am pleased that you have accepted my son's proposal. He must have made quite the impression for you to accept so hastily. I am certain a rose such as yourself will fit in just right in our family.”
You thank him for his kind words, surprised by the change in his demeanour. At the Tourney at Ashford Meadow, Prince Maekar was carefree and confident, and had the vocabulary of a drunken pirate. Now there's a sadness in his eyes that you attribute to the loss of his brother. Perhaps you misjudged his entire family. Perhaps you were entitled to think that princes do not suffer.
Daella, the eldest daughter, runs up to you, questioning everything - your name, your family, your clothes, your mode of transportation. It's overwhelming, but you answer each and every question with a sweetness fit for a child her age, then you catch a glimpse of her father smiling, perhaps for the first time since Prince Baelor's death. You think your presence in the Red Keep is insignificant, but the change in mood tells you otherwise. Even the clouds seem to make way for the twilight sun.
“Sister, may I steal Lady Tyrell for a moment?” Daeron interrupts the interrogation, much to Daella's annoyance.
“Fine, but only if I get to see her dresses later.” The princess scoffs dramatically. “It is very important that I help you pick one for supper.”
“Of course!” You nod with faux seriousness.
Daeron takes your hand, intertwining your arm with his, but not before Aerion comments, far away from Maekar's ears. “You shall allow your betrothed to walk around the Keep like that? Like some commoner?”
“Yes, brother, I will.” Daeron pulls you away before anyone has anything else to say.
You're grateful, because Aerion's presence is as irksome as it is intimidating, and you're afraid he might cut your tongue off if you talk back, which you very nearly do.
“Is he always like that?” You ask as Daeron brings you through the corridors and into the godswood.
“He's worse, but not to worry. The rest of my siblings are quite normal, and so are my cousins.”
Chuckling at his response, you take in the various different trees and flowers native to the area. They are different than the ones in the Reach, but just as beautiful. You walk in silence with the prince, but it doesn't feel awkward this time, but rather peaceful, like you both needed the quiet to simply enjoy each other’s company.
“You have got quite the reputation for rejecting marriage proposals, my lady.” Daeron stops in front of the oak heart tree. “What made you accept mine?"
You ponder his question, wondering the same thing, because you don't have an answer, so you lower your gaze. "I... am not sure, Your Grace-“
“Daeron, please. We are to be wed, and such formalities are not necessary.”
And you smile.
“This is why I accepted.”
"I do not follow." His confusion is adorable.
“I suppose you are a genuine man. When you stumbled into my chambers, albeit drunk, you showed me an honesty I have never seen in any other lord.” You explain.
“Were you not upset by that?”
“Oh, I most certainly was. But you did not behave the way I expected you to one you woke up.”
“And how did you expect me to act?” Daeron looks down, not offended by your words, but rather disappointed by his entire bloodline.
You watch him plop down on the ground, twirling a few blades of grass in his fingers before you join him. “Like any other prince, I suppose. Cruel. Entitled.”
“A bit like Aerion?” He laughs.
“A bit.” You sigh. “I am sorry for misunderstanding, or rather, misjudging you.”
“I would've done the same in your place.” The prince admits, then whispers. “And while we are confessing, the reason I sent you the marriage proposal was because, well, you were on the list for Aerion's ladies in waiting and I couldn't let that happen to you. That was one proposal you couldn’t have refused, my lady.”
Stunned, you search for his eyes, but he avoids yours. “I cannot promise to be a good husband. I am a drunk, and the disappointment of my family.” Daeron continues. “But I promise I am not like my brother. I don't become violent when I drink, and I would never lay a hand on you, that I swear.”
“Is this you returning the favour from Ashford?” You attempt to lighten up the mood, but the Targaryen is serious.
“Yes. And I thank the gods you accepted, because your kindness would have been wasted on Aerion. You would've withered in a marriage with him, and I couldn't bear to watch that happen knowing I could have done something to stop it.”
“I understand, and I am grateful for this.” You nod.
Of course, you didn't expect Daeron to be in love with you. Despite what happened, you were still two strangers. But you heard about dozens, if not more, of political marriages that ended up in love. You are hopeful, but not stupid. As long as he respects you and keeps to his promises, you are happy to be a dutiful wife. And, potentially, one that has a bit more freedom.
The wedding was luxurious, but not extravagant, something you were satisfied with. But the time has come for you to fulfil your wifely duties, and it makes you nervous. Leading up to the wedding, you and Daeron have been more like friends. When you visited him again, he snuck you into the stables of the Red Keep and taught you how to wield a sword, and you both sent ravens to each other. He wrote about his dragon dreams and how they plagued him, you wrote about the new books that arrived from the Citadel and how curious you were about them. When you thought about it, he was more like a partner in crime than a future husband, and it made your heart flutter, because this was what you thought marriage was.
And now you're standing in his chamber, in your light green wedding dress decorated with golden roses, shakily tugging at the knots of your corset.
“You don't need to do this.” Daeron stops you, and you can smell the wine on his tongue. Even when he is drunk, he cares about you.
“They expect to see a bloodied sheet in the morrow.” You contest him.
“Then I shall cut my hand and bleed on the bed." He slurs his words and frantically searches for something sharp until you rush to him, hands gently cupping his cheeks.
"Do you not wish to bed me?” You ask, brows knitted.
“I wish to rip that dress off you, my lady.” Daeron stumbles backwards, locks of hair framing his face. “But I dare not do it if you do not want it. I promised.” His voice drops an octave. “Promised not to lay a hand on you.”
“And if I want it? Will you lay your hands on me then?” You question him, earning a distrustful look from your husband.
“Please, do not take me for a fool. My own family hates me, Y/N. Why should you not?”
“Precisely because you are not like your family, like your ancestors, even!” You throw your hands up in exasperation, then compose yourself with a deep breath. “When I look at you, I do not see Aegon, the Conqueror, or Maegor, the Cruel. I see Daeron, the-“
“Drunken.”
“The kind! I see the Daeron that did not take advantage of me when he could have, the Daeron that offered his hand to a complete stranger, just to spare her from a miserable marriage.” You reach out for him again, your thumb gently ghosting over his jaw, wiping away wet tears that you did not see forming behind the golden locks. “I see a man that stole my heart through letters about his strange dreams that I do not understand but wish could make disappear.”
“Stop, please.” He sobs, shaking his head. “You cannot possibly tell the truth. Only a fool could love me.”
You step back, allowing him space, but do not back down. “Very well. Then I shall speak to the King and ask to be made the court jester immediately. I reckon I can learn how to juggle in a day or two.”
Daeron's sudden laughter fills the room and softens your gaze. You enjoy seeing him laugh and smile, and forget, even if for a second, about all his mysterious dreams that made him turn to liquor. He sighs, eyes now full of that glimmer that you saw the first time you met him, full of hope.
“We can be fools together.” Daeron's hand rests on the small of your back. “May I kiss you? Please?”
Something about a privileged prince begging for your consent makes you weak, and you nod. “You may do much more than that.”
“Oh, thank you.” He practically lunges at you, hot lips pressing onto yours.
It's a clumsy kiss, desperate and needy, and exactly how you wanted it. Daeron's hands travel up and down your back, struggling with the knot your maid had tied before the wedding. It exasperates him to the point you begin to giggle at his inability to undo it.
“Gods, what is this made of? Valyrian steel?”
His comment has you laughing, and you gracefully turn on your heels so he can get a better look. It helps Daeron figure out what to do, and once you feel the corset loose around your waist, you turn around again to look at him. Your own hands roam his body, eagerly tugging at his shirt and pulling it over his head. Once his chest is bare and your dress barely clinging to your body, Daeron lifts you with a strength you did not think he had, carrying you to his bed and dropping you on the mattress.
“It will hurt.” The prince tells you.
"I know, which is why I need you to hurry up and deflower me so you can fuck me properly."
Daeron stares at you. The sudden change in your voice and vocabulary both arouses and terrifies him. But he cannot say no to his wife, and while you remove every layer of undergarments, Daeron does the same. You both take a moment to take each other in, your brows raising at the sheer size of him. This is... different than what you've seen in books. He can't help but grin at your wide eyes, but gently brings himself closer to you, pressing hot kisses on your neck and collarbone. Ever so gently, Daeron's fingers ghost over thighs, higher and higher, until you squeeze your legs together to stop him.
“What are you doing?”
He's confused. “Touching you?”
“No, I see that. Why?” You press on.
“Because I'm trying to make it easier for you to... take it.”
You blink, nod and spread your legs open. “Go on.”
The prince doesn't speak, instead buries his nose in the crook of your neck, whispering about how lucky he was to have married you. You think he's sweet, and that you made the right choice by accepting his proposal, until his thumb rubs circles over the bundle of nerves between your legs, causing you to arch your back and whimper. Daeron is amused by your reaction, and takes it as sign to keep going, his touch firm yet gentle, and when he's satisfied with his name spilling from your mouth, he stops. Before you can protest, you feel two thick fingers sliding past your slick folds, and your mouth opens but nothing comes out.
“Are you alright, my love?”
Daeron's choice for the term of endearment has you rolling your eyes in the back of your head more than his skilled fingers do, and you muster some strength to wrap one arm around his neck to pull him in for a sloppy kiss. He eagerly reciprocates, barely able to focus on his work on you when you drag your wet tongue up his lips. You don't know what possessed you to do that, but his guttural growl tells you he most certainly enjoyed it.
“I'm ready-“
“You are not.” The prince argues.
“I am. Don't you feel it?” You buck your hips, his fingers slipping further in with ease.
“Oh, I feel it, alright.” Daeron's breath against your neck tickles your skin. “You're absolutely soaking wet.”
“So?" You prop yourself on your elbows, forcing your husband to look up at you. "Hurry up and fuck me.”
“Manners, my lady.”
“Fuck. Me.” Each word is accentuated, and Daeron sends a silent prayer to the Seven, thanking them for having met you.
He doesn't need you to tell him a third time. Positioning himself between your thighs, you take another curious look at him and wonder how it'll all fit. As though reading your mind, Daeron warns you again. “It will hurt.”
“Eh, I've had worse.” You recall his words from the very first time you met.
It doesn't just hurt. It burns, scalding hot and spreading down your legs, and he's not even a third inside of you. With each inch, the prince insists he stops, but you're far too gone to even think about that. You want him, and this decision is final. When you nod again, Daeron pushes deeper, until you feel your body ripping in half, and you claw at his back so feverishly that he bleeds. He doesn't care. On the contrary, it makes him want to thrust into you fully, but he cannot bear to see you wince in pain any more.
“Perhaps we should stop-“ He tries again, and again you refuse.
“No. I can take it, I swear.”
“You are incredibly stubborn.”
“Don't I know it?” You grin, albeit hurting, and use his body to push yourself down, because you cannot take this anymore.
The scream that erupts from your throat is loud enough to wake the entire Keep, and, in a state of panic, Daeron places his hand over your mouth, because he doesn't want anyone to think he's committing a bloody murder. You hysterically laugh and sob at the same time, but the worst has passed, and ever so slowly, you begin to adjust to the size of his cock.
“Are you mad?” He stares at you in disbelief, because if you confessing your love for him didn't sober him up, your insane gesture definitely did.
“Pardon my haste, Your Grace, but I'm afraid this matter is of utmost urgency.” You bat your lashes at him and he shakes his head.
“Yeah, you are mad. Are you sure you don't have dragon blood in you?”
“I'm as pure as a rose.” You lower yourself some more, until your lips part open. “Oh.”
“What is it? Are you in pain?”
You cannot speak, and the strangest sound leaves your body, the kind Daeron only heard in brothels. Not that he visited them often. The slightest traces that you were hurting vanish from your face, replaced only by bliss. He understands now - you adjusted well.
“I'll move now.”
“Please do.” You urge him, and he wants to scoff at your impatience, but keeps his mouth shut.
This doesn't mean it stopped hurting. No, there is still a slight discomfort coursing through your body, within your core, but it's morbidly mixed with pleasure. Daeron is still gentle, still careful not to break you, and you appreciate it quietly, until it feels good. So good.
“Gods, you're tight.”
“Faster. Oh, Daeron, faster, deeper, please.” Your doe eyes are very persuasive. Not that he needs much convincing.
The prince obliges, peppering kisses all over your shoulders and chest in an attempt to soften the harsh thrusts. However, it becomes quite clear that you don't like it soft, and he doesn't like taking charge.
“Are you comfortable?”
“Mmm, yes."”You lift yourself enough to kiss him.
Daeron kisses you back, but abruptly pulls away, not giving you a chance to question him. “Then, I want you on top of me.”
“Pardon?”
“I... don't know how else to say it. I want you to be on top of me.”
“You want me to ride you?”
“Yes.”
“Beg, then.” You say with a voice so foreign to you that it startles both you and your husband. Not only that, it reminds you of your place, and how in mere hours from your wedding, you became quite entitled. “Your Grace, I am so sorry, I do not understand what has gotten into me. Forgive my insolence-“
“Please.” Daeron's voice is soft and quiet as he looks straight into your eyes. “Please ride me, my lady.”
The gears inside your head effectively stop functioning. There is a Targaryen prince between your legs, deep inside of you, asking you to practically take control. And you want to take control, you just don't know how much he will allow you to have. Daeron may be kind and gentle, but he is a Targaryen nonetheless.
“Your Grace-“
“No, not Your Grace, not lord husband.” He cuts you off without any anger in his voice, just pure need. “I just want to be Daeron. Your Daeron, the one you do as you please with.”
You're at a loss for words, because you thought all men were brutes who conquer and pillage and rape, and yet Daeron wants you to conquer him. It's positively shocking and absolutely delightful to be with a man who just wants to be under you. You promised to be a dutiful wife, and a dutiful wife you are.
“You have me convinced.”
That's all he needs to hear before he slides a hand under your back, flipping both of you over so that you are now on top. Oh, and how different it feels. His cock hits every sweet spot, and you place your hands on his chest for support. Locks of dishevelled hair fall down your back and your shoulders, making you look more divine than human, and your hands travel up, closer to Daeron's neck. There's something in his eyes, something urging you to let go of any etiquette or morals, and as you bounce up and down his cock, you completely let go of any inhibitions. Your hand goes higher, past his chin, and without breaking eye contact, you shove two fingers in his mouth, taking both him and yourself by surprise. The prince has nothing to object, not that he could with his mouth busy, and even whimpers when you swirl them around before pressing your fingertips onto his tongue.
“You truly enjoy this, don't you?”
Daeron nods, still unable to speak, and his hands move to rest on the plush of your hips. You are incredibly grateful for all the horse-riding you've done, otherwise you could not have lasted this long in such a position. When you remove your fingers, he watches you intently as you bring them to your lips, smearing his spit all over your lips.
“I'm going to finish.”
You laugh. “No, you're not. You didn't ask for permission.”
The penny drops and Daeron immediately becomes a pleading mess, hands frantically trailing up your body, cupping your breasts. “Please, my lady, please let me come, let me fill you up.”
You simply cannot refuse your dear husband, not when he's been so good for you. “Fuck, go on, then.”
Daeron's release is hot, and, true to his word, he fills you to the brim, a sensation completely new to you, but one you find to be delicious. However, you are not done, and your prince, albeit in a daze, pays all of his attention to you. His thumb, just like before, finds your sweet spot, and he ecstatically rubs circles over it. Like a woman possessed, your body contorts and your eyes roll back, until you, too, come undone on his cock.
You fall limp on his chest and lay there. The prince wraps one arm around your back, holding you tightly, as though he never wants to let go. “Are you in pain?”
“No, just very sweaty and sore. And sticky.” You admit with a smile.
“Shall I have the maids draw us a bath?”
"No, I shall do it. I just do not want to get off.”
“Me neither. I wish to stay like this forever.” Daeron's fingers gently comb through your hair. “Thank you.”
“What for?” You prop yourself on your hands to look at him, confusion written all over your face.
“Loving me.”
“You deserve all the love in the world, Daeron.” You prop yourself on your hands. “And I hope to give it to you.”
“You have already given me everything.” He pulls you back in his arms, breath slowing down as he dozes off.
That night, Daeron wasn't plagued by dragon dreams, but only roses in full bloom.
