⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ lapse of duty 𝑑𝑎𝑒𝑚𝑜𝑛 𝑡
𝑠𝑦𝑛𝑜𝑝𝑠𝑖𝑠 :: after being captured by the blacks, you find comfort in your rogue uncle. 𝑐𝑤 :: daemon targaryen x targtower!niece!reader ノ targcest ノ sexual vulnerability ノ questionable age gap (mid 40s/early 20s) ノ fingering ノ talks you through it ノ caring!daemon ノ p in v ノ belly bulge ノ infidelity (from both parties) ノ delicate!reader 𝑤𝑐 :: 2.7k
𝕞𝕒𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕝𝕚𝕤𝕥
Shame. Survival. Pleasure.
Fickle, that is what the hope that nestled deep in your heart has become.
Since the overthrow of the Greens, your family scattered — Aegon, now proclaimed Usurper, ran to whichever godforsaken corner a rat such as he could, your husband Aemond had ridden out Vhagar the same morn you were captured and failed to return. And your mother, in a frantic attempt to save Helaena, fled with the innocent queen.
The shame that now shackles you is strong, stronger than the actual shackles that bound you when you were taken prisoner. Remnants of the day of and after your capture pass through your mind:
How you were dragged through the keep like a stray hound, your royal dress tearing and catching each imperfection on once-perfect castle floors. When a guard took your prayer beads, they tore, the marbles chattering like water droplets. It reminded you of the heaving of tides, the severing of families, and the breakage of promises.
What awaits you now is survival. You pleaded with the guards that stood by your small chambers, "Have I ever wronged you?" "Was I ever unkind to you?" but it was as if speaking to ghosts. When maids brought supper, your knees gave way and scraped against harsh ground as you crawled to each one who brought the meal. Your weak hands grasped at the maid's skirt like a thirsty man grasping at the well bucket.
More often than not, the uncomfortable soul's breath would hitch as she pushed your hands off of herself and fled, leaving you alone once more.
You were more in your thoughts now, given they were the only thing you had left between these four pitiful walls, which often led you back to your days spent in the Great Sept of Baelor. Growing up, you visited it daily, usually early on, garnering courage from the skies to face whatever new misery the day had brought.
You would always pass by your twin brother, Aemond, who would wake with dawn to spar or ride his great dragon, Vhagar. You'd greet one another, perhaps even ride your dragons together if time allowed. But then, your mother announced that you two were to wed, and all the fragile peace you two had built was shattered.
You knew Aemond wouldn't complain; he'd never betrayed duty, but his withdrawal was enough of a complaint. Gone were the affable greetings and pleasant takes to the sky, and the brother you once knew and trusted most became a stranger because of one vow forced by obligation.
So even before you were taken captive, the Sept lost its allure, knowing you'd have to cross paths with your uncaring brother-husband to reach it.
Now, morn has become your only source of comfort — it reminds you of the warmth that spilled through the great windows of the holy space each new day when you knelt for prayer, minus Aemond's unacknowledgement. There was hope, after all; the sun rose and shone for all, reaching wherever and whomever it could, if only you'd known so before following duty so blindly.
Another day has passed—the fifth of your captivity, the last of the sun's rays setting behind the scenery. The door cracked open. Without another thought, you knelt, a recurrence now, your hands reaching for worn skirt fabric of a maid's dress, only to grasp hard, cold leather.
“So passionate about a simple meal? Did the maids forget to feed the little dove?”
Despite every instinct warning you, your eyes shot up, light violet meeting dark violet that belonged to none other than a man you least expected to see: Prince Daemon Targaryen. Your hands retracted as if burned, the jumpy reaction making Daemon's smirk more prominent as he knelt in front of you, setting the silver tray aside with a defeating clank.
"Did I surprise you, princess?"
Your throat works to answer, but all that comes out is a broken breath of a word Daemon doesn't catch. Your silver hair sways along as you muster a meek nod. His hand moves from his thigh, its back nearing your bleak face.
A small flinch happens when the coldness of his knuckles and rings grazes your cheek. Your eyes flicker as they take in the man in front of them. It was unmistakably your uncle, in all his Targaryen glory, stroking your cheek as if he wasn't one of the reasons your whole life collapsed around you.
"Uncle..."
Daemon tsked softly, pale lips pressing into a thin line as you addressed him as uncle, trying to find your voice and ask for answers or plead for mercy, whichever came first. "I prefer my name on your lips...amongst other things."
Before you could ask what he meant by the latter, not that you believed he'd elaborate—he showed you. His lips enclosed around your smaller ones passionately.
A breath tore from your mouth, traveling into his rough, eager one.
What should've felt wrong, what should've felt like a great dragon piercing its claws into the skin of a bystander sheep — didn't feel so cruel at all.
In all the loneliness, the abandonment, and feelings of being too unworthy to save, Daemon's lips felt like sunlight breaking through the clouds, destroying doubt and replacing it with something much more unstable and complicated.
Your hands tremble as they clench around his half-buttoned tunic, grasping the thin material tightly as Daemon's strong hand moves from your cheek to the back of your neck, reeling you closer.
He angled your face, molding your lips together more efficiently as a quiet hum left his throat. His free hand wrapped around your lower back, pulling your body to rest against his.
"We shouldn't—" You push, but all the beast in him feels is false resistance, abandonment wrapped in property — carried by a soul deserving of better.
"Let me be here for you. For a night, a fortnight, as long as you need me."
The steadiness of his voice made you falter. This was wrong in many ways. You were married, and a woman of faith — he was married as well. Whatever was happening shouldn't. But his words...they were like honey.
So even if it was all poison — as long as it was hidden in honey, you'd take it.
You let him pick you up without another word, your back nestling against the hard mattress of the bed. Daemon's lips find the column of your neck, making you gasp and arch into him. A flame of desire lit in the pit of your stomach.
Pleasure was nothing but a fairytale to you. Your mother explained to you what sex was before you were wedded to Aemond. But she made one thing clear: this was duty. Duty you had to fulfill, just as she had hers, and the rest of the world theirs.
But now, as your body was burning for a man it shouldn't — like a match lighting against rough surface — you realized how little duty truly mattered.
You dutifully married Aemond. Dutifully read your scrolls and clasped hands to the seven-pointed star — but none of it saved you. You were betrayed and captured; regardless of it all. And you were now being touched by the one man you never imagined touching you.
Daemon's hand uncurled from your waist, moving to your bare legs as your shift gave way to the prince's exploration. You eagerly wiggle your hips as he pulls the white linen down your legs. Your heart lurches in your chest as he spreads you shamelessly, deep eyes taking in every inch of you, like worshipping you with them alone.
"Does my little dove wish to continue, or shall we—"
"Please! Please continue...Take me. I'm yours to take."
The desperation in your voice makes Daemon pause. He looks up at your panicked expression.
"Don't panic. I meant to say, shall we take it slower..."
His free hand moves to cup one of your flushed cheeks, thumb gently moving along warm skin; a man of his stature is comforting his niece as if it were second nature.
"As for the other, you may give me your body,"— he begins calmly. "whenever and however much you please. But you are far from mine. You stay your own person; free to order me to stop at any moment — and I will." His words should've reassured you, made the guilt less — that this was comfort you desperately needed and would later be forgiven for with enough prayer — but no.
You didn't want to pray, not now, not anytime soon — and certainly not for this. Not against this man who seemed to care for you in his own way — in ways no one else had before. You want this, you want him, and for every sinful touch of his to be engraved into your soft skin like a brand.
You shake your head, knuckles whitening as your grasp firms. "I need to be yours, Daemon. Make me yours. I do not care if it'll only be for ten minutes and if I'll burn for it eternally."
Daemon's carefulness evaporates like smoke.
Your head falls back as his long index and middle finger enter your cunt with an ease you've never felt with Aemond. A soft squelch followed his entry, making him close his eyes and take a sharp breath. Your eyes opened slightly, a small whimper leaving your lips as he completely retrieved his fingers, only to bring them to his mouth and wrap his tongue around them — watching you watch him enjoy your essence.
The queen dowager's words ring through your mind like stone dropping in a hollow well: duty, life is but a duty to fulfill. All you ever did was think of duty, and it never thought back of you — perhaps that is why abandoning it never felt sweeter.
Your thighs shut in a quiet ache as your violet gaze went over the older man lapping at his own fingers to taste you. Of all the women he chose to taste, of all the women he could've comforted — it had been you. Feeling chosen was better tenfold than damned duty. A soft sigh of relief left your lips as he parted your thighs once more, fingers re-entered you, gently pleasuring you through the softening resistance. His lips found yours again, and his fingers curled as they reached you furthest, pulling another soft sound from you.
Your hips began to chase his hand, lifting off the rumpled sheets and meeting his deep thrusts. The fire in your gut started to expand, your brows furrowing as he scissored his fingers through your velvet walls.
"Beautiful. You are devastatingly beautiful, princess."
Your hips still at his word. Praise. You've never received it. Not sexual praise, not like this; when all you were doing was selfishly taking everything he gave you — and that alone was enough to earn praise, in Daemon Targaryen's book?
Your breath hitches as the fire in your stomach threatens to escape, ready to light the whole bed aflame. A jolt runs through your body as his thumb brushes along the hard pearl that Aemond never bothered with.
"That is it...let go, little dove. Don't think, just feel. Don't be afraid, I am here. Fall. I will catch you. Nyke tepagon ao ñuha udra."
The world narrows to this moment — you, Daemon and this chamber barely contain two dragons as their desires spill over. The fire finally spills out of your gut and onto his hand. Your back arches off the mattress, a loud, foreign sound of pleasure leaving your trembling lips.
(I give you my word.)
You collapse with a soft thud, chest having as his fingers leave your overstimulated cunt. Your eyelids feel heavy; the ceiling blurs at every slow blink. With great exertion, you lift yourself on your forearms. A small smile paints your lips, looking every bit undone as Daemon's mouth curves to mirror.
"Ñuha udra? What word? What kind of word does an uncle have to uphold towards his woeful niece?"
Daemon's hand finds your head, thick fingers slothing into silver strands as he guides your head forward, planting a deliberate, reverent kiss to your temple.
"A word far greater than you seem to be aware of."
For a second, your heart stops, eyes widening as his words register in your brain. They pierce your soul like a sword armor. You knew your uncle well; a man of calculated actions and measured words, meaning whatever came from Daemon Targaryen's mouth, he meant.
Before you can swim further into your thoughts, the sound of discarding leather brings you back to reality. Daemon had moved away from you and was now amidst pulling his doublet and smallclothes down simultaneously.
Your throat bobbed, tracking Daemon's form as he shamelessly threw his garments near the door. His cock swung between his muscular thighs as he settled onto the bed. You instinctively move away, making room for his towering frame.
He gently catches your wrist, bringing it to his mouth and planting a small kiss on your palm. He inhales softly, eyes opening to look at you through your fingers before quietly breaking the kiss.
"May I show you the length to which I'm ready to serve you?"
Like he already hadn't shown great length when his clothes were discarded.
"Show me, Daemon. Nyke jorepan ao."
Your hands move to his shoulders as he hovers over you, his long silver hair tickling your cheek. You nervously dig your nails into his shoulders as he guides his cock into your glistening hole.
(I beg you.)
He groans in your ear as he sheets himself inside you fully, a shudder running through your body as you feel the full length of his eagerness. He pulls out agonizingly slow, leaving only his reddened tip inside, before re-sheating — like a sword finding the perfect sheath.
The room soon fills with your sounds of pleasure and the wet sound of Daemon claiming you wholly. Your arms wrap around his neck, and his lips find yours for the third time this night. You can taste the remnants of wine on him; your hands curl into his soft locks as you pull him impossibly closer.
The flame of desire ignites in you once more, burning hotter than the first time. His piercing eyes dissect your figure: the flush on the apples of your cheeks, the sheen of sweat covering your trembling body, your breathing turning uneven— Daemon notices it all, and he's determined to make you feel ecstasy once more.
His hand moves to your stomach, making you look down. You notice the way your lower belly sloshes as he continues to penetrate you. When his palm gently presses to the movement, your whole body goes taut, before your second orgasm hits you like an angry dragon reaching fire, burning everything in its sight.
You bite his shoulder, hard, as your cunt flutters and spasms around his not-stopping cock. After a second, when your body begins to go pliant in his strong arms, Daemon lowers you onto the dampened sheets. Your tired orbs look on as he withdraws from you, a small crease appears between your brows,
"You may—"
"Not today, little dove."
"But I insist—"
Daemon's gaze hardens for a fraction, rough palm moving under your chin. He lifts your head with his thumb and index finger.
"Do you insist, or does your loneliness insist?"
His hand leaves your chin, moving along the side of your breast and stopping on your hip. Before a seed of doubt can form in your mind, he begins to move his hard cock against the outside of your stomach. You watch quietly; not even a minute later, his semen sprouts along your abdomen and ribs.
Your body subconsciously relaxes, and Daemon lies beside you, pulling you into his solid chest. He kisses your hair carefully, before murmuring into it,
"One day you will take my seed, and it will be because you begged for it, not insisted like it was a demand on my behalf."
All you can do is give one weak, final nod against his chest before sleep takes you. He leans forward, whispering into the silence,
"Rest, princess...I know how much you like waking with the sun."
©𝐃𝐄𝐖𝐘𝐏𝐎𝐔𝐓 ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀
dewynote (っ'-')╮💌 :: guess who's back 😼
