A Jonerys Valentine's Day drabble
Starting with that pretty face and that far too talented tongue. She means that both figuratively and literally, because—one—there's no one who can make her blood catch fire in her veins as well as Jon Snow can. And two—because he once ate her out for hours on end, until she barely knew her own name anymore. So yes, she hates both his stupid face and his stupid tongue.
Dany hates his hands more. Because Jon Snow's hands are strong yet soft; they could break her if he wanted to (she knows he does—want to break her, that it), yet they're always there for her, ready to massage away all her sore spots and soothe where they've previously pinched and slapped. She should be embarrassed by the number of occasions she's caught herself admiring his hands at the most inappropriate times, appreciating the length and girth of each finger.
But what she hates more is that he knows exactly how obsessed she is with his hands. And she knows he knows because he told her so every time he caught her in the act (which happened too many times because—one—he's just infuriatingly distracting, and two—she wanted to be caught at least on half of those occasions). That it made him hard to watch her stare at his fingers during their hour long meeting; that he was playing with that pen not because he was bored but because he knew what she was imagining; that he too was imagining how to best put his fingers to use on her.
See? Infuriating on purpose.
The memory of the last time she got caught staring is still so vivid in Dany's mind:
"Were you thinking about how many fingers your cunt can take at once, Princess? Did you ruin your overpriced lingerie just by thinking of my fingers? Are you that desperate that you couldn't even get through one meeting without imagining me fucking you? Are you enjoying yourself, sweetheart? Should I finally touch you?"
Her replies were a gargled yes paired for good measure with an eager nod around the two thick fingers he had shoved into her mouth as soon as she stepped through his door and that he was now using to fuck her mouth. She sucked harder on them, tears prickling her eyes, hollowing her cheeks and praying to all the old gods and the new that she was affecting him at least half as much as he was affecting her. She wouldn’t know as on the outside, Jon Snow looked unbothered—a man with a mission: make her come. Still fucking her mouth with his fingers, he leaned down her body to push her skirt up and used his other hand to make her come again and again until she lost count.
Apparently the answer to his question was three. Allegedly. She was too dizzy to tell or to even care.
Perhaps Dany should hate his Lord Commander persona more. But she can't, not really. Not when he can make her soul shatter into a million pieces until it's stardust and give her the bliss she's been craving her entire life—even if it's just for a few precious seconds.
She'll never forget that first night when he first gave her his rules. She scoffed at his choice of title. Talk about huge egos...if there was something she thought sounded more ridiculous than calling your dom "Sir", "My Lord" was definitely it.
Jon had simply smirked. "You're lucky you haven't accepted yet, or else that would be grounds for punishment."
At the time, she had been embarrassed at how wet his simple warning had gotten her.
Regardless, she's noticed he only makes her call him "My Lord" only on certain occasions. Once she got over the silliness of the title, it was almost too easy to call him that. She, on the other hand, didn't get to pick her own title. Although he could probably call her whatever he wanted as long as he kept taking care of her like he was, Jon Snow seemed to favour "Princess" and "Love". And "Dany".
He only ever calls her "Dany" when he's Lord Commander. Otherwise it's "Miss Targaryen" or at most refers to her as "Daenerys" (that last one only happened once and the shock caused her to trip and almost twist her ankle).
Has she already mentioned how much she hates his eyes? Because they have to be one of his most infuriating characteristics. She's certain that there's nothing quite as mesmerising in this world as his grey eyes.
Jon Snow isn't a man of many words (not that she was surprised to find out). Perhaps that's why he's so keen on eye contact. It used to intimidate her when they first started playing their dangerous game. Even now, his eyes always seem darker whenever she brings out his Lord Commander persona. It's almost as if he's gazing directly into her soul, easily tearing down all her walls just so he can reach her—the real her. Not the person burdened by her family's sins.
But most of all, Dany hates the way he's learned too much of her, in such a short time. How he just sees it in her eyes if she's comfortable continuing or if she needs a break. Dany has a safeword—one she's yet to use. Because as much as it infuriates her to admit, Jon Snow is good at what he does.
She might never admit it out loud, but Jon Snow has ruined her for everyone else.
Yet every time their playtime ends, once he's properly taken care of her and nursed her back to reality, he reminds her that hate is the only thing he'll ever feel for her. "I still hate you." He says it like a prayer or a promise. Because of who they are. Because her family destroyed his (just as much as his destroyed hers, one could argue...)
So you see, she should hate him, she really should. That much she knows. It's the reason she's even making this list in the first place as she's headed to their hotel room.
"You hate him," Dany whispers to herself before she reaches for the door handle. Like an actor ready to start a scene.
When she screams the words at him later that night, her voice raw after begging and begging for release, after he's finally deemed that she deserves to come after edging her the entire day, she almost believes it.
When he's flipping her on her belly to push his cock into her, it feels like he's trying to split her in two, and all she wants is for him to succeed. With her hands bound behind her back so she can't brace herself, her braid wrapped around his hand so he can maneuver her body to his liking, there's a fragment of a second when she thinks he's finally lost grip on his infamous Stark restraint. She might have been out of her mind as he was mercilessly fucking her, but she's certain he's never sounded as pained as when he grunted against her back how much he still hated her.
They cut deep, those four words. So deep, that there'd a sharp pain right in the middle of her chest as she feels him coming inside of her. She doesn't even notice she's crying until he's pulling her into his arms, murmuring sweet nothings he doesn't actually mean as he massages her sore wrists. Something about the post orgasm vulnerability and hearing him say the stupid words so soon just ended with her unable to stop crying while he's holding her in his arms.
She wants to push him away, tell him to stop. Because if he hates her so much, he shouldn't be able to act like this around her. It's almost cruel how gentle he is with her body after he fucks her into oblivion and reminds her how he feels about her. It just now occurs to her that maybe this has been his plan all along. She should be enraged by the sudden epiphany but all she feels is heartbreak. Exhaustion catches with with her and before she knows it, she falls into a dreamless sleep. The last thing she feels is Jon's fingers playing with her hair.
Hours later, she wakes up alone in the dark hotel room. The image isn't unusual, as Jon has never spent a night with her—not for sleeping, anyway. Dany groans at her stupidity: Why did she think it would be different this time, she didn't know.
"It's fine," she whispers to herself.
Not really, but she always pushes through. She's Daenerys Targaryen—that's what she does. Yet tonight she can't be bothered to go back home, so instead she stumbles into the en suite bathroom in search of a glass of water before going back to bed for however more hours she has left before her alarm inevitably goes off.
As she steps back into the room, the light from the bathroom illuminates the other side of the bed. On top of the sheets there is a single red rose.
She should feel embarrassed at how quick hope blooms in her chest—even if it shouldn't—when she picks the rose up and brings it to her nose. The petals still feel cold against her skin and she wonders how long it's been since Jon left their room (that and how in the seven hells did he find a flower at this hour and on Valentine's Day). Finally, she notices the tiny scroll dangling from the stem. Her heartbeat is in her ears as her eyes read over and over the words Jon scribbled on the small piece of paper.
Because for Jon Snow, every word counts. And instead of the four she's used to hear time and time again, there's only three now.
Three stupid words she said tonight when she meant the opposite.
Three stupid words Jon chose to write down.
Three stupid words and the biggest lie they both ever told: I hate you.
