♡ @guts-for-love - Tumblr Blog

May 7

The sequel's 25% funded! Here's Pasha's SFW Alphabet :3

A = Affection (How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?)

Pavel is very, very affectionate. He gives compliments easily and is very physically affectionate!

When he was younger, they weren't allowed to interact much in the barracks, so now that he's out, he thinks being able to touch and be affectionate with people is a gift he never wants to take for granted, especially in his line of work. He could lose that person any day! He should hug them whenever he wants because who knows when he won't be able to?

B = Best friend (What would they be like as a best friend? How would the friendship start?)

Pros: Pavel would be an extremely loyal and affectionate best friend. He would do anything for his friends, even when it gets hard or stressful. He has a soldier's mindset where he believes that you should be able to rely on each other no matter what.

Cons: He would be really co-dependent and overbearing. Due to poor socialization and his specialization as a spy, he has extremely poor boundaries. He thinks stalking, breaking and entering, and oversharing are all normal. You would have to tell him off like he's a bad dog, and he will get extremely embarrassed LMAO.

C = Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?)

Pavel loves cuddles. He clings to his favorite people all the time, and casually too.

D = Domestic (Do they want to settle down? How are they at cooking and cleaning?)

He wants to, but he also has no idea what that's like or if he's even "allowed" to want it. It's practically just a fictional ideal to him.

I think he'd be a decent cook because he's good at following instructions, but in general, he doesn't cook or clean… He eats out or gets takeout, and garbage just piles in his home. Dyno told him to get a cleaning lady so he got a referral from Bishop. His mess was so bad that he felt so ashamed he tipped her $10,000 and she used it to skip town because she was terrified of Bishop.

E = Ending (If they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?)

I think he's the type that would never break up once he's committed, even if you abuse or neglect him (he would just think it's his fault). You'd have to break up with him and, depending on how close you two were, he might shoot himself if you do!

F = Fiance(e) (How do they feel about commitment? How quick would they want to get married?)

I'm pretty sure the would be okay with getting married the moment he gets in a relationship with someone, but he would try to gauge if that's what his partner wants because he's okay being just a boyfriend or just a lover or a hook-up or something. Honestly, his partner will have to decide what they want with him because he wants everything they want to give him and is unable to articulate it… and he's okay with being abused and not being treated right if it means he can stay around them.

G = Gentle (How gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?)

He's an extremely gentle and sensitive person who has been taught his entire life that these traits are either weaknesses or weapons to exploit others with. Part of why he's such a good spy is that he is often sincere in many scenarios, but that sincerity is worth absolutely nothing. He will go deep undercover in enemy territory, form genuine intimate bonds with those people, kill all of them when the time comes, and be unable to sleep for months. He will betray himself over and over to see his objectives through and it turns him into an emotional wreck and shatters his cognitive function. He gets a lot of grace from his teammates because his brain is "pretty much soup."

H = Hugs (Do they like hugs? How often do they do it? What are their hugs like?)

He's a big hugger. He hugs people casually a lot, but he gives them big hugs when big things happen.

I = I love you (How fast do they say the L-word?)

He's absolutely terrified of saying it directly. He'd say he loves certain things and how he loves your company, but he's scared of the power it has over him. He'd be terrified of saying he loves someone and losing them eventually like he lost everything else in his life.

J = Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous?)

He gets really, really jealous but he doesn't really understand it and he can't rationalize it. He's prone to self-harm when he feels jealous more than acting out against others (smoking and putting cigarettes out on his arm, getting drunk, making bad sexual decisions, putting himself in harm's way, etc). It's his way of punishing himself for his extreme, irrational emotions.

K = Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you? Where do they like to be kissed?)

He loves kisses. He would kiss his partner the usual places, but mostly lips and cheek. He's a sweet, sensual kisser.

L = Little ones (How are they around children?)

He likes kids! I think he'd be a decent parent, but it'd be very easy for him to be enmeshed with his child. He doesn't realize that not every child's emotion should be treated 100% seriously.

M = Morning (How are mornings spent with them?)

He is a zombie in the mornings because he stays up way too late overthinking so he would likely just get dressed, go to work, and nap on the couches unless MC wants anything from him.

N = Night (How are nights spent with them?)

He likes visiting his favorite hole in the wall places for dinner, then cuddling, having sex, watching stuff, or just sitting in the same room together.

O = Open (When would they start revealing things about themselves? Do they say everything all at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?)

He's very slow to open up both for safety reasons and because he finds himself so shameful and embarrassing that he thinks telling people more details about himself would make them like him less. He wants to center conversations around his conversation partners because he's certain that they won't disgust him, but he's not so sure he won't disgust them.

P = Patience (How easily angered are they?)

Very rarely. Pavel doesn't feel anger as much. He usually feels fear or melancholy. His anger is cold, calculating, and highly vindictive, though. When he accepts the rage he's feeling, he's terrifying, almost possessed. He will hunt that target like a bloodhound that doesn't feel pain or exhaustion. Bishop aptly calls him a 'demon' when he gets like this.

Q = Quizzes (How much would they remember about you? Do they remember every little detail you mention in passing, or do they kind of forget everything?)

He would have an almost encyclopedic knowledge about everything their partner told them, and even things they didn't. He is a spy and he absorbs everything automatically. He would have a special part in his mind for his loved one too.

R = Remember (What is their favorite moment in your relationship?)

In reference to the game, it was their rooftop date.

S = Security (How protective are they? How would they protect you? How would they like to be protected?)

Extremely protective. He never defends himself, but he would be a terror to anyone that hurts his loved ones.

Him being protected would surprise him, because he doesn't see himself as worthy of protection… He's often on his own, sneaking around by himself or going on missions on his own.

T = Try (How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?)

Moderate by default, but I think it would depend on how much his partner wants from him. He's extremely concerned about pleasing them. He would spend his life savings on his partner if that's what they want, LMFAO. He can get taken advantaged of so easilyyy if someone evil seduced him. Luckily, he has broke janitor aura.

U = Ugly (What would be some bad habits of theirs?)

He is extremely obsessive. He's thinking about the subject of his fixation over and over and over, wondering how to fix things, etc. He would expose himself to stuff that he knows would upset him because pain's better than wondering.

V = Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?)

Not even remotely. He wears his hair long because keeping his hair short needs to be maintained more often. He's only on top of it when he needs to maintain a certain look for undercover operations. He would shave it all off in a heartbeat.

I think he's very susceptible to what his partner likes, though. He doesn't really have any self-respect so if his partner prefers certain things, he would adjust to it if asked. He wouldn't mind because he'd see it as a way for them to love him more.

W = Whole (Would they feel incomplete without you?)

Yes, but he's used to feeling lost and incomplete, so he's not sure it matters.

X = Xtra (A random headcanon for them.)

He loves sour and acidic foods! Pickles, herrings, sardines, salt and vinegar chips… Stinky eating habits haha.

Y = Yuck (What are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner?)

I think he's so open and loving that he'd accept most things about people, but I really think he wouldn't enjoy someone being cruel to small children or animals regularly. It might send him into a disassociative fit where he might have to kill them.

Z = Zzz (What is a sleep habits of theirs?)

He's a light sleeper, but he sleeps deeply and soundly at the same time. He can sleep almost at will and wake up just as fast. He loves napping all day like a lazy cat. He always feels sluggish and sleepy.

guts-for-love

Apr 24

lexaprojoy

the motion i can handle

⤷ daeron targaryen x fem!reader 6.5k words ⤷ cw/tags; modern au, smut, cheating, piv sex, cunnilingus, semi-public, drunk sex, pathetic dom daeron, mild ooc?

summary; when you had suspected aerion of cheating on you, you sought comfort in his older brother, and slept with him- but without proof, you spiraled into guilt. a month later, daeron approaches you at a targaryen gala, with the evidence to absolve the two of you.

'We shouldn't do it again.'

The statement takes human form in Daeron, as it's the first thing that crosses your mind when you're faced with him time after time at Targaryen events. It's almost as though the Gods are punishing you for your sins, Maekar's sudden interest in keeping tabs on his sons through proximity leading to more garden parties, more galas, everything— and he's sure to invite his sons and their plus ones, every time.

The guilt had led you to hiding yourself under modest dresses and light makeup, much to Aerion's chagrin. He'd surely have more to complain about, if he knew exactly why you had ditched the previous bombshell style that he found himself enjoying to look at the most, so you tell him not the truth of it. You tell him something he won't care to listen to.

"I feel like I've gained weight."

"I just don't feel so confident anymore."

"I want to look more professional, more mature."

Each lie you fed to him like candy; each lie he ate up without a second thought, because he doesn't truly know you. He doesn't care to know you. He notices you so little, that he cannot be bothered to recognize the way a sick pallor flashes across your face at the sight of his older brother.

It's inescapable. It's been almost once a week now, some excuse for the men to see each other, each interaction between the two making zero progress in the mending of their adult relationship and only leading to more efforts from Maekar. Gods, the poor little one, Aegon— he looks positively out of place in a tailored suit meant to fit his puny body tonight, and the more he grows into a young man over the year you've known him, the more disdain you can see on his face when looking at your dear partner.

Aerion surely could tell the way his brothers hold a bad taste in their mouths for him, which is why he had been trying to flaunt you like some sort of trophy for the past hour. Bringing you into every group photo, tucked into his side as tightly as possible. Being each other's arm candy wasn't the worst part, really, it was the easy part. The hard part was avoiding the eldest sibling who you had swapped saliva with about a month ago.

Daeron looks good, he always looks good, that being part of the reason you found yourself betraying the social, biological, moral pact you had made once upon a time with Aerion. You've been punishing yourself so much for it, that you've started to believe it was your own shallowness alone that created the environment that would allow you to be an unfaithful partner. Guilt that ate at you so badly, you had forgotten all about the signs you had noticed in him long ago, his phone always face-down on a table and texts that read like a woman's dialogue under male names he had never once mentioned to you. But without evidence, you're sicker with guilt than he's ever seemed.

Which is why you had blurted out that thought to Daeron as soon as you had finished violating the sanctity of a supposed exclusive relationship. "We shouldn't do it again."

You can still remember the look on his face when you said it. Resignation, a bit of indignance, even. He knew you'd find some way to freak out about it all and make every future interaction harder on yourself. Because he knows you. He knows you better than Aerion does, and he's only spoken to you in private a handful of times. In a total of maybe a few hours of conversation with Daeron over the entire year you've been with Aerion, he's come to know you a hundred times better than Aerion has ever tried to. He's always been a delight, with his quips that drive tensions down in any formal conversation between you and his family, faithful Instagram story-liker, the only one who has ever checked on you through something as small as a text during the time that you thought your relationship with Aerion wasn't going to make it.

The resignation came from Daeron being a more decent person than he let on— you could see the guilt in his face too, especially the first time you had seen him again since the inciting event. Daeron had drunkenly confided in you once, referring to Aerion as a monster, something he must have successfully hidden the extent of from you during your relationship, and even so— Daeron the drunken degenerate, the lecher his family portrays him to be, looked at you with similar guilt for what he had done to his supposed monster of a brother.

Regardless, tonight he seems different. He's been all too casual with you, like nothing happened. Aerion had even taken note of this, a mocking whisper in your ear out of sight of the family about how Daeron seems to have finally recovered from what ever sort of bender he must have been on for the past month and returned to normal. Relief washed over you more quickly than offense at the attack on Daeron's honor could have taken hold, a promise of a few more weeks without suspicion and overpowering guilt until the next clue presents for Aerion to perhaps pick up on.

"All right, yeah?"

You almost jump at the sound of Daeron's soft voice practically whispered as he makes his way to your other side as instructed by the paid photographer— hired by Maekar, most likely. The relief leaves as quickly as it had come.

"Hey, hi, Daeron," you say it meekly, feigning a shyness toward the man who had been inside you only a month ago, "we're good, yeah. Been fun so far."

Aerion is unfazed, practically smouldering just for a family photo and seeing nothing out of place in the interaction. Good, it's working.

"Right, okay because—" Aerion has completely lost focus of keeping you tucked into his side, now that pictures have been snapped, and some friend of their father had taken his attention in a professional-like conversation about who knows what. "I wanted to— well, I wanted to talk to you, if that's—"

You can't tell if the moisture on his skin comes from too much wine by eight in the evening, or pure nerves. With the way he speaks, though, it seems like it must be both.

Before you can turn to Aerion for some sort of grounding, like a dog waiting to be wrangled into a harness for a walk, Daeron places a hand on you, an action that causes a psychosomatic searing heat on the exposed skin from your off-the-shoulder dress. "Without being weird about it, is best." He does whisper it this time, with a cynical smile, but you hear him quite clearly despite the rabble about.

You're nearly frozen on the spot now, something Daeron takes advantage of by addressing his brother directly. You don't even have the time to stop him from throwing you into it all.

"Aerion, we're going to get another drink, you want anything?"

Aerion almost looks taken aback at the offer, not used to taking favors from his brother. Your superimposed smile manages to present some image of normalcy, though, Aerion putting two and two together that Daeron is attempting to steal you away for a second, figuring nothing but a conversation about a common interest you share which he had never cared to discover about you.

"You already know what I like, hon."

Aerion really lays it on thick in front of his family. He never uses pet names on you, but he's sure to tack on a 'babe,' or a 'hon,' when his relatives are watching. It's something hard not to notice. You make your mental note of a gin and tonic to be ordered before you return to the white-haired brat after the impending final conversation, a concept that's starting to send your stomach into flips.

Daeron leads you to the open bar with a hand on the middle of your upper back, a touch that likely reads as nothing beyond friendly in the eyes of anyone around. Everyone knows you get on well with Daeron; the fear, though, is people deducing exactly how well you got on with him.

When he finds a cozy corner to stow you away in, after trading his empty wine glass in for two new full ones for the both of you, your heart drops even further into your stomach. The look on his face seems like confrontation— confrontation about which part, you can't tell. It sends your mind racing, worst-case scenarios flying around in your brain and unable to wrangle back down to reality.

Had Aerion been asking questions? Is this jealousy now? Did Daeron finally come to his senses, and start figuring that I'm a gold-digging harlot, with no love for his broth—

"He doesn't know."

There's his cynical smile again, and you almost want to chastise him for finding a way to smile at all in the current situation. But the reassurance does help for the moment, along with his always-soft tone not changing into one of disgust.

"What do you want, then?" You snap at him, shocking yourself. You aren't doing very well having to guess what he's decided to come out of his shell to talk to you about. Something in you hopes it's something mundane, an attempt at returning to normalcy by pretending nothing had ever happened between the two of you.

Daeron's violet eyes trace over your face for a second, a look you know all too well. He looked at you the same way when you had come crying to him about the things you suspected Aerion had been getting up to, a mix of pity and a desire to steal you away like he had tried when you were already weakened. Had your mind not been built to endure endless punishment, you may have let him take you away forever that day, but the immorality of it all gnawed at you until you decided the only solution was to pretend he no longer existed. You let him stare for a few seconds, and you don't care to admit how long you had been craving his tenderness since you had experienced it for yourself.

He finally speaks up, and once you hear the words come out, it's as though your mind blocks them out manually.

"I saw him."

"What?"

"I saw him."

"You saw him what?"

Daeron knows that you know exactly what he means, but he humors you still. "I saw Aerion, doing something he was not supposed to be doing, just as you suspected."

You almost feel worse about the fact that you don't feel much of anything at the revelation. Before you accept it, though, you open yourself up to hearing the gruesome details first.

"Doing what?"

"Does it really matte—"

"Daeron."

The demand of his name sets him straight, knocking that irony-laced smile right off of his face, an almost solemn look overtaking. "I don't think you want to hear it."

"Tell me I didn't fuck you in retaliation for something far less serious."

There's the resignation again, paired with a wince at the volume of your words. Daeron looks around for gawkers for a second, and once he's satisfied with the lack of attention, he doesn't try to find a way to spare you this time. The stubbornness in your tone created an impenetrable brick wall, a wall he knows you to be strong enough to uphold until you hear what you clearly need to hear.

"I would have sent you the picture, but you blocked me, remember?" You almost grimace when he reminds you of your panicked decision-making one drunken night, but settle on a brow furrowed so badly it could deepen your elevens. "Yeah, that one was hard to weasel out of, when Aerion had asked me to lie for him again and I had no way of contacting you."

Daeron starts navigating his camera roll, and you start to feel sick when you realize just how bad it could really be.

"I think… she forgot I was on her private story," he says, sort of concealing the screen from anyone around as he passes the phone towards you, showing a photo he took of another screen displaying a picture of the white-haired man facing away from the camera, lying on his side, shirtless.

In some woman's bed.

You almost gasp when you see it. Not from shock, more so from the fact that you'd been vindicated at all.

"I told you, it's not good."

"Yeah, the picture—" you feel sick again, so sick you're starting to sweat, "—the picture is enough."

"You knew this was happening, though," he says, his own brows furrowing as he watches your reaction, bending down to whisper now, "you knew this was happening, and that's why you fucked me."

"You knew too."

"I did not—"

"You said, lie for him 'again.'"

"Well I had to say something, when Aerion made it sound like he was trying to arrange some kind of surprise for you."

Your stomach drops, for a thousandth time in one night.

“What?”

“He said he would be arranging something all night,” Daeron continues, clearly annoyed with himself now, “something he didn’t want ruined before your birthday. Or your anniversary. I don’t remember which excuse he used. I was blackout, I wasn't in the right mind to figure it out.”

"Gods, I'm a fucking idiot." You can't hide it anymore, your face going hot and sweat beading at your neck. "I'm a fucking idiot, and you are too. We still did it without knowing for sure."

Daeron can tell you're just grasping for more self-punishment, trying to find some way to deny that the man you had loved would be the real villain of the situation. He can tell, too, that you're ready to beat yourself up further for letting this slip by, not believing the rumors nor the personal experiences from Daeron himself that could have foreshadowed such a thing.

The guy is a complete dickhead, for fuck's sake, of course he would do this to me.

"I must be the bigger moron here, don't you think?"

Daeron's tenderness returns. How you had missed that look in his eyes, the way he practically apologizes on his brother's behalf when you find yourself tortured by him. He's even trying to make you feel better about being stupid enough to not heed his warnings.

"I guess you are." Your glass of wine is nearly empty by now, the sips you had started taking more resembled gulps as you used alcohol to keep yourself tethered to sanity. For now, though, you're still able to crack a smile at his attempts of comforting you, something he clearly finds solace in as he returns said smile. "Can't believe you'd think he was actually doing something nice for me."

His face drops when your words come out, a sobering reminder of the fact that you've been accepting treatment like this without the trade-off of loyalty. There may even be a trace of anger in his frown, but for now, it mostly just looks saddened.

"You're going to leave him, right?"

You look down at your shoes for a second. The obvious answer should be 'yes, I will leave the relationship without loyalty on either side,' but that nauseating anxiety still grips you.

Adverse to change, you suppose.

"You're going to leave him," Daeron decides, and you can't find any sane reasoning to argue against his choosing what you do with your life. It is the right decision, he knows it, and so do you.

"How well do you know her?" You find yourself blurting out, a question that will only make you feel worse if the answer suggests this woman is a threat on each front of your life.

"Not well."

"Is she pretty?"

Daeron sighs, rolling his eyes so hard it irritates you. He smooths a hand over his face in exasperation at the stupid question, one he knows that you are already aware is the last thing you want answered truthfully right now. "Who cares?" He says, knowing the answer to that rhetorical is you.

A guest nearly stumbles backward into you as he seems to tipsily teeter out of the bounds of his own conversation, mumbling an apology as he regains his composure. The interruption reminds you of just how exposed you are here, surrounded by potential gossips who wouldn't hesitate to start a rumor if you stood here any longer, spoke any further above a whisper on this topic. Daeron notices the shift in your demeanor immediately.

His hand returns to the small of your back, steering you towards the bar to drop off your now-empty wine glass along with his. "You're shaking," he murmurs, and you realize he's right, your fingertips seem to tremble when you have nothing to hold in your hands.

"Whatever," you grumble, allowing him to keep walking you along, a different route from where you came.

"We could leave," he muses, and it's clear he's almost as antsy as you, "just let them wonder where you've run off to."

There's whimsy in his voice, even he knows it's a stupid idea, but it's not one that you have it in you to argue against.

"I already have to make a shitty decision tonight," you let the words flow honestly from you, laced with a certain decisiveness that makes Daeron turn his head to watch you speak, "what's another?"

You aren't exactly sure how it had gotten to this.

From walking through the empty hallways, laughing together about the mess you're in, to shoving you into a secluded restroom tucked into a more desolate corner of the venue, the details become quite hazy.

The hesitant words you want to speak, the same ones that echoed in your mind the first time you had locked eyes with Daeron tonight, fizzle out and die on the tip of your tongue when he slips his own along your lips. He's always been a messy kisser, you find yourself thinking, which ties something ugly and sickly-sweet in your gut. Your familiarity with him shouldn't feel so wrong anymore, now that you have your confirmation, but it does all the same.

He had pushed you against a wall as soon as he had locked the door behind you, something you ponder chastising and pushing him off of you for, but his presence is so heavily intoxicating that it leaves you begrudgingly pliant to him. He's so much bigger than Aerion, you can't push the thought down as he looms over you, stronger, too. You find yourself wondering if he would fight for you, giving his brother a good shiner to claim you as his now, with all that size he has on the man.

"Daeron, we can't—" you finally manage to let some of your reluctance slip out between his wet, drunken kisses as he allows you to catch some of your breath back, "—not here."

"No one will know." He concludes the statement with another kiss, one resembling an attempt to nearly swallow you whole. It makes you dizzy, sending jolts of arousal throughout your body until they buzz along your fingertips. He's very persuasive, if not simply imposing. His hot breaths trail from your lips down to your jaw, an action he had taken that first time without a second thought; the memory of which making itself known on lonely nights in the form of pulsing between your legs.

Nights where Aerion had slept facing away from you, the space between your designated sides of the bed feeling colder than usual. It took everything to stop thinking about Daeron those nights.

He can tell you're losing your focus on him, the mental torture you've been putting yourself through the entire night threatening to kill off more grey matter. When he gently nips at your neck to break you out of your trance, you don't have the mental faculties to chastise him and worry about the possible print of his teeth left on your throat— instead, a little sound that resembles approval slips out of you, and he looks satisfied, of course he does. Daeron looks positively infuriating with his drunken and smug little grin, but all it does is turn you on more, the further-generating body heat threatening to make you sweat if he doesn't just get on with it and lift the skirt of your dress up past your hips.

"You missed me, didn't you?"

It comes out as a whisper, that dreamy voice he doesn't realize he's using with you once he's significantly buzzed, but it's deliberate now. He knows it makes you squirm, evident in the way you brace a hand on his chest and look at him with almost half-lidded eyes. It's humiliating, really, the way he can get you this weak mere moments after you had nearly told him to get his hands off of you in the not-so-intimate setting. Here he is, greedy hands and enroaching gaze, violet eyes undressing you like you're a delicious morsel there just for the taking. How it infuriates you, and threatens to have your knees buckling all the same.

"Didn't you?" Daeron continues between more kisses to your neck, ones that he manages to display some sort of self-control through not sinking his teeth in a second time, and you know him— you know him too well— he's not going to relent until you give him an answer. "Missed being treated well, huh?"

If he weren't currently distracting you through all his many known ways of pressing your buttons, your heart may have stopped for a second when the words came out, the obvious truth of the matter turning the reunification of your fingers and his golden locks bitter rather than relieving. But Daeron has you on an island now, far away from his brother, as far as tens of meters go.

Allowing yourself to make more of those tiny, encouraging sighs only sates him for a few mere moments— he wants the words, wants to hear you say that you had missed him in his absence, would have you go as far as admitting that blocking him was a mistake if he had his way.

"Yes, yes—" you begrudgingly let the words out, if it'll cut the teasing short, "I missed you—"

Before any more arousal-clouded rambling can flow past your lips, you're cut off with the faintest shiver when his hands start to grip at your waist, so warm and tingling at your skin even through the fabric of your dress. He's beyond smug now, he looks like he's getting off just from the way your body speaks to him for you, painfully aware of the fact that he's able to reduce you to putty after your feigned composure displayed out there just minutes ago.

"I know."

You could almost hit him, he's testing just how far he can go with his mocking, and he's treading thin ice now. Much like your more innocent interactions, he knows his limits with you but he still makes a game of it. It's sickening, how much this only makes you want him to ruin you, worse than the first time you went down this road. Daeron the fucking Demon, they should call him, you think as he starts to pull at the dress, ready to bunch the skirt up at your waist, his lips still smearing across any erogenous patch of skin accessible to him.

Barreling past your apprehension to make your debilitating desire known to him, Gods know he doesn't need another ego boost, you replace his hands with your own, lifting the skirt yourself— he pulls away, just to watch, eyes half-lidded and hazy with his own arousal. You miss the warmth of his mouth on you, but what you're lacking there is made up for in the way he looks at you with pure hunger. Just the sight of the lace panties under the frills of your skirt has his eyebrows furrowing in a sort of pained-pleasure, and under all those smug layers he had put up, you know he missed you too, probably even more than you missed him.

You were going to say something demanding, tell him to finally get on with it, an administrative request for him to make it quick, just to push his buttons right back— but you're left speechless when he slowly drops to his knees in front of you.

Before you can ask Daeron what the fuck he thinks he's doing, kneeling pathetically in front of you on the floor of a public restroom, your train of thought is once again cut short by his actions. Those warm hands, contrasted by the cool silver of his randomly-arranged rings, slide up your thighs and leave the faintest ghost of gooseflesh in their wake. His fingers hook at the lace on your hips, and if he were any more intoxicated he probably wouldn't have the minuscule self-control being exercised right now to not immediately pull them off of you without question. Instead, he looks up at you with those dusty-violet eyes, pupils noticeably larger than they had been before. You hadn't even realized you could be any more aroused, but he managed to surprise you.

He's already proving to give you a more thorough experience than your previous instance of desperate rutting against each other, taking his time to tease you by resting a stubbled cheek against your thigh, breathing in your scent. It's egregious, the way he makes a show of this desperation, enough to all but sniff you like a fucking animal. Your mind trails off somewhere else, something to grip onto for sanity, and you're finding yourself pondering the importance of pheromones and their effect on the man on his knees in front of you— he must have really missed the smell of you, taking you in without shame.

Your attention is snapped back to him when he settles on torturing you further, pressing a kiss to your cunt through the lace.

"Seven fucking hells, Daeron—"

He doesn't show the satisfaction this time, too focused on the task in front of him, but you know the sound of his name breathed out shakily is leaving him painfully hard under the designer trousers he's currently denigrating on the restroom's floor.

When pressing wet kisses to the garment is no longer enough for him, he pulls at the lace his fingers had been hooked in this whole time, eventually exposing your most intimate area to the cool air of the tiled room. Your more rational thoughts have finally escaped you, fully, to the point you have no protests when he has you step out of your panties for him, leaving you no choice but to go bare there for the rest of the night. It barely even registers to you when he shoves them in his pocket, and you wonder if he'd ever give them back. Likely not— oh well, let him have them.

Everything comes naturally to the both of you now, the way you instinctively stand in a more exposed form, your thighs spread for Daeron to slot his face between them. He doesn't dare waste a single moment to tease you further, the heavy waves of lust crashing over him once he's gotten a good look at your soaked pussy, using two fingers to spread you open to see. You'd have felt too exposed if he had you like that for more than a few seconds, so he quickly replaces the hand that had been there with his mouth.

You gasp when he makes contact, the kisses he started with now unabated by any layers. The warmth from his mouth transfers directly to the pit in your stomach, something so intimate churning there, something that makes the sensation even more torturously pleasurable.

"Daeron, fuck—" you almost wince as you moan his name, too loudly, which seems to be all the encouragement he needed to lick a stripe from your opening to your clit. It makes your hips jump when he reaches that apex, and he steadies you against the wall with those large, decorated hands. Your hips want to disobey, but if he didn't keep you still, your legs would likely buckle under you. Something like adrenaline, closer to your own hot blood rushes through your veins when you look down at him, gorgeous face buried between your thighs.

It's almost too much when he looks up at you again, making intense eye contact while he starts to suck on your clit— he's fucking torturing you, that's the only explanation you can find as you watch the scene unfold, he's torturing you with a sight so beautiful.

Daeron is clearly the more seasoned lover between himself and Aerion; the thought only fuels your desire rather than dimming it now, the realization that you had been missing out on this treatment encouraging your indulgence. You're thankful that he hadn't tied his long hair back tonight, allowing you to entwine your fingers in the blond locks, giving you the right leverage to buck your hips, an instant reminder that his torturous grip on you keeps you from simply fucking his face.

When he teases at your pussy with two fingers, you know you're not going to last much longer if he decides to slide them inside you. But there's nothing you can do now, at his mercy and under his strong hands.

You tip your head back with a drawn-out moan, resting against the cool tile when Daeron finally presses a finger inside, the sensation of the metal on his index finger eliciting a squirm from you when it kisses your entrance. He's still kissing and sucking at your most sensitive spot, almost to a point of causing oversensitivity, and it's so much all at once. Your moans are closer to whines now, an attempt to indicate to Daeron that you can't be held down like this, it's painful. Either he doesn't get the memo, or he doesn't mind continuing the torture— he works his middle finger in now, his grip on your hip with the other hand threatening to leave bruises where his fingers press harshly into your skin.

You lose all sense of time, your own sighs and moans tuned out as all of your attention is honed in on watching. That feeling in your gut is starting to resemble a dull pain, the pleasure and adoration melding into a sickeningly sweet syrup flowing through your body— you're surprised you aren't completely drenched in sweat now.

As much as Daeron seems to be exactly where he wants to be, he can't kneel on this floor forever, and he finally releases his grip on you as he continues his ministrations. It feels as though you've been crawling up to the peak of a rollercoaster, waiting to be thrown down the hill, and the exhilaration is proven when you're able to grind yourself onto his face, your moans becoming a cacophany of heaving breaths and whimpers as you finally come on his tongue.

He says nothing when he finally pulls away from your oversensitive cunt, and he looks absolutely filthy, with his expression in a half-trance of lust and intoxication, wetness coating his chin. He wipes away the mess with the sleeve of his blazer as he rises from the floor, a sight so casually filthy and so completely him. Daeron the Demon, the alliterative chant returning to your mind as you watch him, so casual about making a mess of a woman.

Daeron isn't done with you yet, something made obvious when his lips come crashing back into yours, forcing you to taste yourself on his tongue. You don't mind, though, savoring the filth of it all and allowing him to continue having his way with you. You could do the responsible thing— push him away, stop risking the noises that he extracts from you making the restroom sound like a porn studio, but you're too far gone now. For all you care in this moment, you'd let the whole venue listen in on the way Daeron pleases you, with more effort and skill than his brother ever had.

Daeron seems like he'd stay attached to you forever if he could, barely allowing himself any time to unbuckle his nice leather belt and free his cock from its confinement under the dress pants— no underwear, you dirty man, the thought amuses you— before latching his mouth back to your neck, trying his hardest not to nip around your collarbone and leave a mark that would certainly be visible to everyone.

You aren't sure what you had been expecting, but it certainly wasn't Daeron hoisting you up against the wall to align your core to be at just the right level for him. Your memory of his strength is instantly refreshed by this action, an action that makes you nearly ache from need. He must be aching, too, because he can't even grant you a few moments of acclimation before he's sliding his leaking cock along your folds.

"Daeron, Gods, calm down," you half-chastise, half-mock, and he doesn't seem to be in the right mind to quip back at you. He's far too focused on his own release from the frigid ice you had blocked him out with for the past month. He's already groaning into the crook of your neck, and all he's done so far is grind against your cunt. He's so far gone in his desperation, you have to reach down between your bodies just to guide him toward your entrance rather than allow him to continue rutting against you, finishing all over your stomach and the fabric that covers the rest of your torso.

It's not the first time you've taken him, but the stretch as he eases in still stings just as deliciously as it did then. It's a wonder he hasn't lost it and slammed into you already, and your insides twist into knots as you realize just how much he cares. You can't tell if the feeling that forms inside you is the fluttering of butterflies, or the epiphany that you may have gone so long being with the wrong Targaryen.

He's starting to thrust in and out, slowly, easing you into the rhythm. His heavy breaths that tickle your neck and carry light moans make you dizzy, already tired out from your first orgasm, now being pushed toward a second. His intoxication certainly isn't helping his stamina, you can tell from the increased weight of each breath, but he barrels on— he's too desperate to let that ruin this moment.

You can't tell if it's his skin or your own hands that have grown so clammy, likely a mixture of both, but what you can tell is he's already teetering on the edge. You reach down once more to rub at your sensitive clit, an action that causes you to start clenching around him, and he sounds like he's going to die if you keep it up.

He's pressed his forehead to yours now, and the eye contact is bringing a similar feeling for you— if he continues to look at you like this while thrusting into you, you could die right there. His pupils are blown so wide you could get lost in the black voids, nearly hiding his irises in their expanse.

Then, he says something that nearly turns you inside-out.

"You're mine now," he says it breathlessly, so dramatically it feels like you're in some raunchy movie, "tell me you're mine."

"Yes," you breathe out, and it's not the response he's asking for, so he smothers you with more sloppy kisses. Your moans as you push yourself over the precipice once more sate him only for the moments your orgasm lasts, and he's still burying himself into you when it's passed. He wants to hear you say it directly, so he takes it up another notch.

"Tell me you belong to me now," Daeron's voice is usually so sweet, dreamy and airy, but now it comes out with a gravelly undertone. He's losing his patience, evident in the way he's eyeing your neck as though he's threatening to put marks into your skin that you wouldn't be able to hide, just to mark you as his possession if you won't say it yourself.

"I'm yours," you finally choke out— it's the truth, no matter how humiliating it is to admit. He's successfully defeated that pale-haired brat, and taken you as some sort of conquest trophy, an objectification that you're far too fucked-out to ponder the ramifications of. So, you tell the truth, if not to sate him, then to confirm it to yourself.

It happens a lot quicker than you had expected, Daeron pulling out of you and releasing onto your pussy with a strangled moan. He must have been so pent-up, and the words you spoke finally sent him over the edge.

Daeron finally sets you down, visibly exhausted from it all. He's still breathing heavily, and your legs are weak enough that they could buckle under you and send you crashing to the floor. He manages to catch you despite his exhaustion, letting you collapse into his weak embrace and lean against his shoulder.

"Fix yourself up, now," he says, hands on your hips to keep you standing upright. It would seem cruel to say, if you weren't both covered in sweat in the middle of a public restroom, with guests waiting in the main hall for your return. That, and the fact that he clearly doesn't want to push his luck by going sappy on you after what you'd just done.

His hand rakes through your hair, fixing some strands that had gone astray in it all, and you can't ignore the intimacy of it, leaning on him for stability and allowing him to practically pet your hair back into place.

A few minutes of resting on a toilet seat was far from aftercare, but it got the job done, just as the moments spent preening each other to a presentable state had. Leaving the restroom was as nerve-wracking as you had expected it to be, trying to find a non-suspicious moment to emerge after Daeron, but you both managed.

The fresh air outside the venue, where you and Daeron find Aerion— still smiling superficiously in the faces of investors— is enough to clear the smell of sex off of your bodies, evidenced by the lack of even a second look thrown your way when you hand your (ex-?)boyfriend his requested drink.

"I'm getting the fuck out of here," Daeron tells Aerion once the mind-numbing conversation starts to dwindle, and Aerion barely acknowledges the statement— nor does he see the look sent your way by his brother. An uninterested 'goodbye' is the only response he gets, and the understanding glare paired with an eye-roll from Daeron manages to pull a giggle from your throat, which you couldn't suppress in time.

"Something funny, dear?"

"Nothing," you mutter, and the glance he sends your way doesn't last long enough to see the way you stare back at Daeron, "just remembered a stupid joke."

a/n: hi!! new blog! i hope you guys enjoyed. i take requests, especially for the akotsk men, and i am open to writing a part two for this if enough of you enjoyed<3 thanks for reading

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs

♡