#daemon fanfic

[lost-targaryen-princess]

Hi so I’m gonna be moving this fic to my main account @princessofgotham777 and adding the new part there I also might rename it so just look for the daemon fic, this is the only one so far

Edit: it’s renamed once upon a dream posted on my @princessofgotham777 masterlist

[bbygirlandbeasts]

Morpho Peleides (Daemon Targaryen x Ward!reader)

Wordcount: 2.4k

Summary: Your sunny disposition should be a complete hindrance in ever interacting with the stormy Daemon Targaryen. Instead, it strengthens your chemistry. On a quiet summer day in The Red Keep, Daemon approaches you in the godswood, to finally do something about it. 

Genre: smut, fluff, sunshine x grump

Warnings: SMUT! (MDNI!) kissing, dom/sub dynamics, blowjob, handjob, penetration, slight exhibitionism (they fuck in the godswood but no one sees), hairpulling, ripping clothes, creampie, slight corruption kink

Notes: YES reader is helaena inspired, NO she is not helaena and they are NOT related thank uuuuu

The godswood is your favorite place in The Red Keep. 

As a warden to the crown, the cold red stones and towering gates were hardly a comfort to you, Daemon imagined. Though it offered you protection, as a home ought to. 

But in the godswood, solace was required. A sanctuary befit for prayer, even if every person in the castle knew that this original function was rarely put to use. Rather, people seek out the rustle of the leaves, the smell of grass and sound of birdsong, as an excuse to be ignored. Liberated from most tasks and appointments, left alone, without questioning. 

This was the case for you as well, as Daemon watched you taking advantage of the god’s sacred haven, to simply read. Splayed out beneath the stretching branches, red leaves falling into your hair and onto the pages of Flora and Fauna in Westeros. You pick one up. You sit with it, for a second too long. For what, Daemon wonders, before you offer it to a caterpillar on the ground beside you. 

“Daemon. Didn’t take you for the praying kind.” 

Your eyes remain on the caterpillar, so how you have noticed him is a wonder. Your lack of proper address for the prince, as well as your keen senses noticing him merely by the feel of his presence, triggers a smirk on his face. Your quiet giggles nearly get swallowed by the crunching of leaves under his heavy boots, as he moves closer, but your smile could not be obscured by even the darkest of eclipses. 

“I could say the same for you, M’lady.” 

His emphasis on your title is meant as a lesson, but when your dazzling eyes meet his, your smile persisting, he knows you instead view it as the initiation of a game. 

“Unless, what- Flora and Fauna in Westeros, has become the new Seven Pointed Star?”, he continues. 

“A jest? From The Rogue Prince himself. Are you ill, your grace?”, you feign concern as you slam the book and promptly scurry to your feet, reaching a hand to his forehead. 

“Yes. I do believe I've caught a case of your terrible taste in jocularity. It’s a contagious disease.” 

You smile, before dropping your hand and patting his cheek playfully. He flinches, though your touch is soft. Fuck. Now that he finds himself here, among the gods, he might as well pray you didn’t take notice. 

“But not a fatal one. Besides, it was not so much a jest. There is some truth to what you say.”

You tap the cover of your book demonstratively. 

“Nature is our greatest proof of godliness.”

He scoffs. 

“You should be careful, saying that here of all places.”

You mimic his scoff. 

“I’ve said worse. You have said worse.” 

Now, the challenge is afoot. It is always like this, between you and him. You tease him, egg him on, until he is forced to leave the room, lest he breaks. It’s becoming more of a challenge by the day, keeping his composure, pretending he is not amused by your sunlit presence. He cloaks his fascination in annoyance and grumpiness. Like the caterpillar by his feet, he must feign indifference, before the bright truth is metamorphosized. 

“I am no holy man”, is the best and most grumpy answer he can come up with. Nonetheless, it of course makes you laugh. Contagious, was really no understatement, in describing your demeanor. A silent beat occurs, when your laughing subsides. 

“Morpho Peleides.” 

Daemon realizes that his eyes are still locked on the caterpillar. He looks up, only to find you also admiring it. 

“Pardon?”

“The species, Morpho Peleides. Once the metamorphosis is complete, he’ll turn into a very large blue butterfly.” 

You bunch up your dress and crouch down to view the bug up close. Daemon remains standing, looming over you and the tiny creature. 

“They are the largest species we know of in Westeros”, you continue, as you reach a finger out to the caterpillar. It doesn’t seem to notice at first, but soon enough you gently begin to glide your finger over its tiny body, and as if you were warmth itself, it now begins seeking out your touch. 

“They have microscopic scales coating the underside of their wings, that reflect the light. Makes them glitter under the sun.” 

Daemon watches you intensely, while your attention remains on the caterpillar. Your eyes are obscured from his view, but he knows that they are sparkling with wonder. He’ll only admit it to his own inner voices, but you are adorable like this. All keen to share your knowledge, your care for all things living. 

If only he was one of those things. 

“The other side is a dull brown, so when they flap their wings, it looks as if they are appearing and disappearing over and over again.” 

Don’t look at me, is the next thing that crosses Daemon’s mind. Not only does he want to continue hearing you talk, muse over this thing you find so endlessly fascinating. He also knows that if you look at him now, he’ll buckle. 

“So though their outside is, well- A little plain looking. It’s really what makes them more beautiful. If both sides of its wings were gorgeous, there'd be no surprise. No magic. No little secret."   

You look up. 

Shit. 

On your knees, dress in cascades around you, legs bare against the summery grass and your eyes-Fuck, your eyes. Wide open, blinking, revealing your bright sparkly irises from the confines of your lids every time. 

Appearing and disappearing. 

Like its nature, Daemon is drawn closer to you. He takes slow steps, as if you’ll fly away lest he moves too fast. You don’t move. You’re patient. You sense what is going to happen before it does. You tilt up your chin even further, readying it for his hand. He pinches your chin between his thumb and pointer. Your own hands move up his legs. Past his leather boots, to his belt. Then they halt. 

“Are you hiding any surprises from me?” 

You begin to undo his belt. Even in a moment like this your teasing doesn’t stop, and to your obvious amusement, it’s making Daemon grow in his pants. He chuckles lowly at the inquisition, hand staying on your face, now cupping your cheek, before slipping his thumb past your lips. You’re clearly eager to get your mouth on him, in whatever way is available to you. You begin to take the finger deep into your mouth, sucking and gently gliding your teeth against the length of it. 

“I’ll tell you later”, he whispers, his words slurring as if drunk. 

Meanwhile your hands have been making quick work of his belt, the accessory lying like a snake around his feet, as you shove his trousers down and free his cock from his small clothes. You wrap your fingers around him cautiously before stroking him with deliberate twists of your wrist. 

Daemon nearly joins you on your knees, legs wobbling under your pleasure. He seeks a means to steady himself, and the nearest solid structure is the Weirwood behind your kneeling frame. It’s weeping face stares back at him, condemning him? Perhaps. Blessing this act, this moment where your hands are finally on him, sharing your warmth, spreading it throughout his entire being, every thought overshone with brightness, as if squinting while looking to the sun?

He’ll go with that one. 

He leans forward, hand resting against the wood and caging you in between him and the tree. 

You wouldn’t wish to be anywhere else. You let it be known to him by finally putting your mouth around his cock, precum dribbling out of the corner of your lips in a single drop travelling down your chin to finally be united with the grass beneath you. If he won’t get to have this every day, Daemon fears insanity will be in his near future. A string of groans and curses leaves him as you take him deeper, then further out of your mouth, nearly letting go of him with your lips resting at the very edge of his tip, before promptly pushing him back down your throat. 

“Fuck- Mmm, darling. Gods that feels-”

He’s interrupted by another one of his own sounds of pleasure, before realizing he’s already way too close to reaching his finish. 

“Wait, wait, just a moment”, he manages between moans, grabbing a fistful of your hair to pull you off his cock. And then, it’s your turn to moan. Your eyes immediately fall shut, jaw going slack and chin reaching for the clouds as Daemon keeps you there. 

“Didn’t think of you as a taker.”

Where a frisky smirk would normally grace your features, there’s now only an intoxicated expression. Your eyes are practically drooping, glazed over and slightly moist with want. Your lips are slightly parted, releasing shallow breaths from your pulsating chest, exposed by the sleeves of your dress falling from your shoulders. 

“You enjoy acting all sassy and innocent, yeah? Teasing me, driving me to the fucking edge. But really you just want to be taken, huh? Thrown around a little, told what to do”, he grits through barred teeth, as he keeps yanking your hair towards the ground, simultaneously kneeling down, joining you on the grass. The final position is with him covering your entire body, one hand still in your hair, the other gliding up under your skirts, carving a clear path for your privates. 

"Want you to let it go”, you whisper in response. Your eyes flutter open, though still heavylidded as you look at him. He searches your gaze, and prays to find what he hopes you mean. 

“Let go of the pretending, the secrets. Do whatever it is you want. What you need. Do it to me.”

Thank the gods. 

With that, he yanks at the seam of your dress travelling from your neckline, to your waist, the fabric ripping easily under his strength and revealing your corset underneath. 

“Turn around”, he demands, and you do as you are told, with some assistance from the prince who can’t seem to get you lying on your stomach fast enough. His fingers dig between the laces tying up your corset, and once again, he rips. Soon you are laying bare on the grass, outer garments torn past the point of ever being used again, and small clothes discarded between the roots of the Weirwood you lie beneath. 

It is in this moment, as he resorts to removing his own clothing, that he is stricken with a realization. He halts his movements. 

“Daemon?”, your tone is one of concern. Your voice is gravelly, not from wear and tear, but purposefully, as if you don’t trust it to speak at full volume. 

He leans back down over you, shirt halfway untied, sacking from his fitted frame. His hand finds purchase on your jaw, and though it's big enough to reach both sides of your face there is no toughness in his hold. 

“I have not kissed you yet”, he mumbles, lips nearly gracing yours. You lift your chin, attempting to meet him in the space between you, but he pulls back. 

“But you wish to?” 

Daemon chuckles, and by the way you pout in response, there is no doubt that you find him cruel in this moment. 

“I like to watch you wait”, he answers, once again moving his face achingly close to yours, letting you think you’ll finally have his lips, before moving away. Your mouth opens in protest, but you’re interrupted by a kiss, finally. It’s as rough as his hands tearing at your clothing, only now it’s his lips ripping apart yours, tongue exploring every inch of your mouth. It’s his turn to have his hair pulled, as your hands snake to the back of his neck and pull at the strands, urging him closer, if that is even a possibility. 

Somewhere in between, much to your dismay since it means a halt to kissing you, Daemon rids himself of his shirt. As much as he enjoys having your pay for the years of torment you have caused him, his patience is thin. He is already nestled between your legs, spread open for him, as lines his cock up to your entrance, bracing himself against the earth, as you grab onto the roots of the Weirwood for stability. He enters with precision. You sigh. You sound relieved. Your moans sound like finally. 

He wastes no time setting a relentless pace. 

“Going to- Gods be good, have everyone know what has transpired here. Would you like that? If- If someone were to come here, seeking prayer, seeking the gods and instead finding us? You, all pretty and distraught for me?” 

You nod frantically as he pounds into you. The sound of his cock, slick with your spit and wetness, sliding in and out of you, combined with the loud colliding of his hips against your thighs is a symphony not even the birds can compete with. 

“Please, Daemon- Yes, please. So close-” 

His hand wraps around your neck, not to silence you, but to bring you closer to your climax. Daemon knows it’ll do the trick, knows you’ll respond to being fully at his mercy like this. And surely enough the action makes you clench around him in a manner that assures he will not last much longer either. 

“That’s my girl, my good girl, go on. Show me- ah, how badly you want it-”

He watches as your high washes over you. The way your lips part, a single tear rolling down your cheek as you squint your eyes shut. Your nails dig into the skin of his biceps, sure to leave marks. But it’s when your eyes open again, that Daemon is a broken man. 

He comes to the sight of your eyes locking onto his. You don’t let your gaze fall, not even for a moment. Daemon is convinced you barely even blink. 

He’s also convinced that he has never come so hard in his whole lifetime. Torn between keeping his eyes on yours and looking to where your bodies are joined, he eventually sits up. Pulling his cock out of you, just a little, causing his cum to drip out of you and onto the grass. 

“Fucking gorgeous”, he muses, a hand reaching to rub your thigh comfortingly. 

Perhaps the godswood will be his preferred place in The Red Keep as well, from now on.

[bbygirlandbeasts]

You Will Be My Draught (Daemon Targaryen x wife!reader)

“Some poor thing would have to sort my ashes from yours, to ever separate us.”

Wordcount: 1.7k

Summary: The horrors of the war do not give you a moment to rest. Every hour, waking or asleep, you are reminded that no one is safe in these times. Your husband seeks to let you realize that you are not on your own.

Genre: Smut, angst

Warnings: Smut (MDNI), angst, mentions of war, brief mentions of blood, mentions of death, hallucinations/trauma responses, bathtub sex, nipple play, nipple sucking, making out, creampie, soft!dom!daemon

Notes: yes im addicted to wife reader, what are you gonna do ab it! promise next one is something wayyy different haha <33

Your handmaidens swarm around you like distressed little insects.

One is intent on pouring a fresh batch of scalding water into your bath every five seconds. Another is repeatedly scrubbing on a single confined area of your back, which is bound to be red with irritation now.

You, yourself, are still. Silent. Mind racing with thoughts of war and conflict, your eyes staring blankly into the water surrounding you. The fire of the candles, placed on the tub's edge, are reflected onto the quiet ripples. A bubble floats peacefully towards you. Reaching for it with a gentle finger, it bursts under what can barely be described as a touch.

Pop!

You are startled. A loud ringing consumes your hearing. Your hands fly to your ears, water splashing, flames flaring and roaring in the waves, engulfing you, burning, skin sizzling, people suffering.

A scream.

“Your grace?”

A gasp leaves you when a hand is laid on your shoulder. The hand of one of your maidens, looking at you with a concerned expression. You are about to offer an explanation, when the doors to the bathchamber flies open.

“What is the meaning of this?”

If you thought the handmaiden seemed concerned, she is no match for the current state of your husband. Daemon stands in the doorway, an arm on each side of it, brows furrowed and eyes piercing.

“Leave us.”

The maidens scurry, like birds fleeing from the trees at the sight of a predator. They walk in grand circles around your husband, carving a clear path straight for where you are curled up in the tub. He sits on the edge of it.

“I heard a scream”, he says, after a long moment of simply observing you. You are shivering, yet gleaming with sweat, hands balled into fists, keeping your legs bent and tucked to your chest.

“I- The water. It was very hot. Startled me a little”, you manage to reply, with a voice that barely trembles. Though the aversion of your husband's gaze lets him know something is awry.

“A little?”

He shifts, now crouching down, kneeling beside you and resting his arms on the edge of the bath.

“And what of your nightmares, lately?”

For no longer can you avoid his eyes, and when you finally meet them, you know that he’s figuring you out. He has had you figured out, from the moment he stepped foot into the bathchamber.

“Now plaguing me in my waking hours as well, apparently”, you attempt to utter in the tone of a jest, but to your husband it is clearly no laughing matter.

“Have you been drinking your draught?”

“The draught has no effect.”

“I can have the maester-”

“No!”

Once again, you remain powerless over your own screams, and your hand flies to cover your mouth at the realization. Tears fill your eyes, and before you can even attempt to apologize, Daemon interrupts you with one hand on yours, the other cupping your face.

“It’s alright, love.”

You free your own lips.

“It is not, I yelled.”

“I know, it does not matter.”

“I am not angry with-”

“I know.”

“You.”

With that he shushes you, stroking your cheek as it gets covered with tears. You breathe in heaves, gasping and sniffling, choking for air that feels too thick for your throat.

“Should I join you?”

You blink in confusion, wiping your eyes. You are nearly too choked to speak, but manage to let out a meek:

“What?”

“Would it help? If I joined you.”

Not trusting your vocal chords for any more words, you simply nod.

“I need you to say it to me, darling.”

The tears seem unstoppable, dripping down your cheeks with such speed, they threaten to overflow the bath.

“I know, it’s tough, but I need to hear-”

“Yes. Please.”

With your unquestionable consent, Daemon stands and begins to undress. It never tires you, seeing him peel away each layer, strong hands pulling away his shirt, then the strap of his belt, bare shoulders relaxing, like the weight of the day is woven into the fabric and only enables him to fully rest once removed.

Now completely exposed before you, he slowly settles into the water. It is indeed scalding, although that, of course, is of little relevance to the Targaryen Prince. He rests behind you, though not yet meeting your touch, instead seeking to be as careful with you as possible. However, you are not in need of caution, but care. You let your husband know by looking for him over your shoulder, and brushing the damp locks cascading down your back, to the front of your body.

Daemon’s hands, though large and muscly, the hands of a true dragon, land on your shoulders like feathers.

“Can I tell you something?”, he questions, as he begins kneading the knots out of your upper back and neck.

“Always”, you reply.

“I get them too. The nightmares. I hear explosions, when I accidentally drop my goblet to the stone floor. I see the blood of innocents, in the spilled wine. I see phantom faces in its reflection. I see my brother, my father, my nephews. But also one’s I cannot name.”

Once again, you turn to face him.

“How do you bear it?”

His hands come to a halt, instead moving to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear while looking you in the eye.

“I try to remain minded on the things that are here. The things that bring me solace.

As if to prove his point, he grabs your wrist. Your hand, still in a fist, loosens as he shifts it to rest on the left side of his chest. Pumping beneath your palm, ever so lightly, you feel his heart. It’s such a tranquil sensation, you almost don’t notice it at first.

“I am glad to be one of those things.”

“As I wish to be for you.”

He amplifies his words by placing a hand of his own over your heart, to find it beating hastily. Attempting to do as your husband has advised you, you remain focused on the things that are here. The slight ripple of the water against your limbs. The cold metal of the tub beneath you. Your husband, eyes hooded, lips slightly parted. His palm, calloused from many a years yielding a sword and holding on tightly to the saddle of Caraxes. You take a deep breath, feeling his hand rise and fall with your chest.

“You are. If only you promise no more of that dreadful draught.”

You notice the relief in your husband's eyes, when you at last crack a smile.

“Only you, from now on. You will be my draught.”

Your eyes fall shut on their own accord, resting in a calmness you thought was lost on you. Over your husband's hand, you place your own, making it your turn to shift its placement. Slowly, you trail it down. Past your collarbone, your chest, to finally rest on your left breast.

Daemon watches you with vigilance. This is not what he intended, when he set out to console you. But, well.

What his wife wants, she gets.

He brushes his thumb over your nipple, already hardened from exposure to the cold air. Your other, he occupies with his mouth, bending down to suck, gently at first, knowing you must be sensitive at the moment. Surely enough, the first couple of licks make you twitch slightly in his grasp, but after getting used to the sensation, your head falls back, whole body melting into the warm water. Daemon takes that as his sign to start biting.

“Fuck! Dae-”

He was unaware of his own eyes having fallen closed, hypnotized by the sound of your quiet mewls. They do however, shoot open as you moan for him, a groan of satisfaction at this hummed against your moist skin.

Once he deems his teasing has persisted long enough, he peels himself from your chest, already missing the warmth and your calm heartbeat against his hand.

“Should we move to-“

“No.” Your pronunciation is barely coherent, tongue twisting around the word, slurred and slow. “Take me here. It’s so nice here”, you continue, eyes still shut and hands blindly grabbing in search of Daemon's body. You need not seek it for long, before your husband's limbs cover yours once again like thick fog over delicate treetops. Except, him you actually feel. You are surrounded by everything warming and lulling, the water in the tub and your husband’s body becoming one, heating you up, tucking you in. His muscles, his hair tickling your neck, his cock resting between your legs.

With a whispered warning he enters you, and you are delighted to no longer be merely surrounded by comfort but also filled with it. It is outside as well as inside, and you feel as if every worry evaporates from your body with an exhale, joining the steam that leaves the tub.

“You must never leave.”

You mean what you’ve said, though you realize it is an impossibility.

“Never leave this castle. Never leave this room, this bath. Never leave me.”

Daemon looks at you with misty eyes. Whether caused by the humidity or your words, you cannot be certain.

“I.”

A pause, a thrust.

“Wouldn’t.”

Again.

“Ever.”

He accentuates his words with a kiss, deep and slow, though not very long-lived, his lips instead finding purchase against the shell of your ears.

“Some poor thing would have to sort my ashes from yours, to ever separate us.”

You know not what to reply to the most carnal expression of love ever uttered, and even if you did, you couldn’t. Too tranced by your husband’s effect on your body, you stay silent and thank him by kissing every spot you know will bring him to his finish. Collarbone, behind his ear, nose. It works, and with a string of strangled curses and a few darling’s, he spills his seed inside of you.

That sensation alone is what brings you to your own high, nails scratching at Daemon’s back, wishing it could last forever.

It cannot. But here, the surrounding environment outside this very bathtub, is pure nothingness. Dark, cold, empty space.

It has to be. For now.

[bbygirlandbeasts]

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

Wordcount: 3k

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

Genre: Smut, angst, fluff

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

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

Marriage is a curse. 

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

Husband. 

The word holds no meaning. 

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

You remember it like it was yesterday. 

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

Someone.

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

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

A worthy husband. 

Thunk!

Ah, yes. Reality strikes its mighty sword. 

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

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

Someone who doesn’t want you. 

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

But he was clad in armour? 

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

“You are hurt.”

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

“Eager are we?” 

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

“Shut up.”

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

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

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

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

“Careful, this might-”

“Burn?” 

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

“Right.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“Quit it.” 

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

“You won’t like it.” 

“I’m sure I can handle it.” 

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

“They were saying things. About you.” 

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

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

You rise to your feet.

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

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

“Answer me!”

“You were never promised any of that.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“So do something.” 

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

Loneliness. 

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

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

A bond that is so fragile. So easily severed. 

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

Emptiness. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Was that what you said earlier?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck…You already feel incredible.” 

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

“There you go, easy for me…” 

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

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

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

The plea that leaves you is desperate in its simplicity. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Look at me.” 

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

“Your grace”, you moan. 

“No. Try again, love.” 

“...Daemon.” 

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

“Again”, his fingers speed up once again.  

“Daemon!”

“Come for me.”

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

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

“Can you sit up for me?” 

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

“I seem to recall you liking this position?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Daemon shakes his head. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Daemon, I-” 

“I know, I know. Just…”

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

“Not yet.” 

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

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

You lift your head to look at your husband. 

Husband. 

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

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

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

This is what you should have had, all along.

[bbygirlandbeasts]

Ancestral tongue

Daemon x fem!wife!reader

Summary: You ask your husband for help learning his ancestral language <3

Genre: fluff, suggestive (MDNI)

Warnings: Suggestive, cursing, that’s it

Notes: Hiiiii, just a little short something while i finish up some of my longer works <3 Reqs are open!!! xo, bby

“Darling?”

You call for your husband, as you turn a page in your book. Daemon turns to you, wrapping his arms around your shoulders and pressing a kiss to your cheek. 

“What is it? I thought you didn’t need me to teach you?” 

He gestures to the book's title written in letters that remain strange to you. 

Tales of Old Valyria. 

You roll your eyes, playfully, smacking his arm with the very same book. He winces in mock pain, but can’t keep his hands off you for too long, as he returns to a tighter hold around your shoulders.

“I am perfectly capable of learning on my own, thank you. No, I was simply curious about something”, you continue, as your husband attempts to squeeze in beside you on the small chaise lounge. He plops down, resting his head in the crook of your neck to look at the words written on the pages. 

“Ask away.” 

Your eyes remain perfectly focused on the text. 

“How do you say fuck, in High Valyrian?” 

There is no need for you to look over at your husband, to know he is smirking and has fixated his gaze on you. 

“The curse, or the action?” 

“Both.” 

“I think you only need to know the latter, love.” 

Finally, you turn your head towards him, meeting his eyes. He is so close, you can feel his breath against your face. 

“Is it so wrong for me to wish to curse out my incompetent husband in his ancestral tongue?” 

“I’d rather you ask me to fuck you, in my ancestral tongue”, he whispers, before swiftly closing your book, and throwing it over his shoulder. 

You smile. 

“And I'd rather have that ancestral tongue down my throat.”

[underrpressure]

# - STILL YOURS

( Daemon Targaryen x Valyrian!reader )

-SUMMARY. Daemon Targaryen returns to kings landing after years of silence only to discover that some things were never truly left behind.

-WORD COUNT. 2.6k

She stood alone upon one of the outer balconies of the Red Keep once more, staring toward the dark waters of Blackwater Bay and wishing, with sudden painful intensity, that she were back at Dragonstone. Back home.

There, dark waves struck against the cliffs in a steady rhythm, white foam breaking like torn lace against black rocks and the sea swallowed every thought before it could even become a whisper.

The Red Keep always felt alive in its own strange way, breathing through its halls, watching through every window and remembering every grief that had ever lived within it.

She had grown up used to the silence on Dragonstone. King’s landing knew no silence at all.

Back home, there was only stone, sea, sky, and the old blood of the dragon, wrapped around everything. Here, people expected things from her.

And now, marriage.

The word had followed her all morning like a shadow.

The match had been decided by her oldest cousin, the king. She would marry Lord Aeygar of house Targaryen. A knight from a respectable house, loyal to the crown, capable, young, and eager enough to be grateful for the honor.

Everyone had looked pleased, so she had smiled too.

She rested both hands on the cold railing and let her gaze drift over the water, trying once more to imagine the life waiting for her.

A husband.

She tried to shape his face in her mind, though she had only seen him twice and spoken to him once. He had bowed deeply. He had praised Dragonstone’s beauty, though he had clearly found it grim. He had looked at her with admiration and caution, as men often did when speaking to women of Valyrian blood.

He was handsome, had kind eyes, strong hands and broad shoulders built for a sword and a shield rather than dragon saddle.

She imagined those hands helping her mount a horse.

She imagined riding beside him through green lands far from the sea, where fields stretched instead of cliffs and the air smelled like grass instead of smoke. She imagined halls filled with sunlight rather than shadow. Warm chambers. Children laughing in corridors. A husband who returned when he said he would return.

A husband who stayed. The thought settled heavily inside her. Stayed.

It was such a simple thing, and yet it felt more precious than anything she could think of.

She tried to picture herself learning him slowly. His habits. His moods. The shape of his smile after years together. Perhaps affection could come quietly, like a soft slow dawn instead of a burning flame. Perhaps love did not always need to arrive as ruin.

Perhaps peace was enough. She needed it to be enough.

Because the other kind of love, the kind that consumed and confused and left a woman waiting at windows for footsteps that never came, had brought her nothing but misery and sleepless nights.

Her fingers tightened around the stone once more.

Years had passed since anyone had last seen Daemon Targaryen. Years since he had looked at her as if she were something he wanted and resented wanting. At first rumors of his adventures had come from the Free Cities, then from the Stepstones, and at last from nowhere at all.

No letters, no word. Nothing.

She had told herself she no longer cared.

It had been easier to call it childishness. Easier to say she had only been young, dazzled by danger and silver hair and the way he could fill every room he entered.

Easier to bury him.

So she had.

Or she had tried.

Now she was older. Wiser, perhaps. Old enough to know what men were, what marriages were, what love cost.

The knight would be steady, he would be good, he wouldn’t disappear.

She closed her eyes and forced herself deeper into the image. She pictured standing beside the knight before the hearth, his hand warm over hers. She pictured looking at him across a supper table years from now and feeling contentment instead of hunger. She pictured safety.

She almost believed it.

Then the sky screamed and her eyes snapped open.

The roar came again, so loud it shook through the stone beneath her feet. Somewhere inside the castle, servants cried out. Doors slammed. Ravens burst upward from the towers in a black storm.

Her heart stopped for one sharp beat.

No.

Another roar split the air, deeper this time, ancient and furious.

She knew that sound before thought could form it. Slowly, almost unwillingly, she stepped toward the edge of the terrace and looked up. Something vast moved through the clouds and then red wings broke into view.

Caraxes.

Long and monstrous, lean as a serpent and twice as terrifying, he descended from the gray sky in a circling glide. Membranous wings beat against the wind with terrible strength. His scales gleamed blood-red where the light struck them. Smoke curled from his jaws as he turned above the towers of Dragonstone like a beast reclaiming old ground.

The whole castle seemed to wake beneath him, and on his back…

Her breath caught so suddenly it hurt.

Daemon.

Even at a distance there was no mistaking him. The straight line of his body in the saddle. The easy arrogance of his posture. One gloved hand resting as though he commanded not only the dragon beneath him, but the world itself.

Silver hair whipped in the wind.

The years between one heartbeat and the next collapsed.

All the calm thoughts she had spent the morning building shattered instantly.

The knight, the marriage, the peace. All of it turned thin and foolish before the sight of him.

Her pulse began to race so violently she pressed a hand to her ribs as if she might quiet it by force. Heat rushed through her, hot and humiliating.

He had come back… After all this time, after making himself a ghost she had worked so hard to bury.

Caraxes gave another shriek as he lowered toward the inner yard, claws stretching for stone.

She should have turned away, she should have walked inside and remembered her pride, but, instead she stood frozen beneath the darkening sky, unable to look anywhere else, because the truth she had denied for years rose now, merciless and clear:

She had never forgotten him at all.

Caraxes flew through the gray sky in circles above the Red Keep while the city below transformed into chaos. Bells rang somewhere beyond the walls. Shouts echoed through the streets. Gold cloaks rushed across the courtyards like disturbed ants.

Still, Daemon never lifted his gaze, resting himself with the same effortless arrogance he always had, as though half the realm hadn’t spend years wondering whether he was dead.

The beast landed heavy within the courtyard, and for one terrible moment she forgot how to breathe.

Servants and guards surrounded the pair as smoke escaped from the dragon’s jaws. His long neck twisted sharply and grotesquely, even the sun was terrified as it hides beneath the clouds. And above him, ignoring all the noise and fear, sat Daemon Targaryen.

Not changed, not truly, but somehow a lot more refined. More handsome, muscular and with a longer hair covering his sharp features. A new scar cut deeply across one side of his throat, disappearing beneath his neck.

Her chest tightened painfully at the sight of it, and as if sensing her stare, Daemon finally lifted his head. Even across the distance between them, the force of his gaze struck her like a physical thing, everything disappearing as if for one suspended heartbeat there was only the two of them.

She searched his eyes for some trace of the feelings she remembered, but his expression remained unreadable.

Slowly, almost lazily, Daemon slid down from Caraxes’ saddle. One gloved hand rested briefly against the dragon’s neck before he turned toward the castle, toward her.

Heat rushed beneath her skin so suddenly she hated herself for it. Years, and still her body remembered him before her mind could command otherwise.

She stepped backward from the balcony as though distance alone might save her from him, even though she knew it wouldn’t.

The throne room felt smaller with Daemon inside it.

Viserys sat upon the Iron Throne with exhaustion carved deep into his eyes, one hand gripping the armrest while the other drummed slowly against cold, sharp metal. Lords aligning uneasily along the edges of the hall, pretending not to stare at the prince who had returned from the dead.

Daemon stood at the foot of the throne as though he belonged nowhere else. As though exiling himself had failed to remove him.

“You could’ve sent word,” Viserys said at last, deep in his voice you could detect anger.

Daemon’s mouth curved into a sarcastic smile.

“And deny you the pleasure of suspense?”

A few nervous smiles flickered through the court before quickly vanishing.

Viserys dismissed the hall soon after. Lords bowed themselves out eagerly, servants retreating behind heavy doors until only the brothers remained alone beneath the skulls of dead dragons.

Silence stretched between them “You disappeared.”Daemon glanced toward the towering windows. “I was not aware I required permission to travel.”

“For years?” Viserys’ voice hardened. “Without a single letter?”

Daemon said nothing. That silence alone was answering by itself.

Viserys exhaled heavily, rubbing a hand across his face. “You return at a difficult time.”

At that, Daemon finally looked back toward him fully. “Oh?”

The king hesitated, It was brief, barely noticeable. But Daemon saw it.

And suddenly something sharp and wary entered his expression.

“There is to be a marriage,” Viserys said carefully. “A match I have arranged for the good of our bloodline.”

Daemon’s gaze did not move from him.

“For whom?”

The question came too quickly, and Viserys noticed, of course he did.

“Our cousin.”

Something unreadable flickered across Daemon’s face before vanishing beneath practiced calm.

“A fortunate man,” he said lightly, almost too lightly. Viserys studied him in silence.

“She deserves stability,” the king continued. “Peace. Lord Aeygar is honorable, well-tempered, loyal to the crown…”

“A dull creature, then.” Daemon interrupted

“Daemon.”

“What?” Daemon spread his hands mockingly. “You list qualities fit for a hound, not a husband.”

Viserys’ jaw tightened.

“She is happy with the arrangement.”

The lie landed between them heavily.

Daemon smiled then, but, it was not a pleasant smile. “Is she?”

The king’s expression darkened instantly. “She is not yours to concern yourself with.”

Something dangerous flashed behind Daemon’s eyes, gone almost immediately but not before Viserys saw it. The air in the room shifted.

“She is our blood,” Daemon said softly.

“And she is to be wed.” The words struck harder than they should have.

Daemon looked away first. A mistake.

Viserys saw too much in that single movement.

For the first time since entering the hall, Daemon seemed genuinely unbalanced, like a man struggling to hold something violent beneath his skin and deep and hot in his blood.

When he spoke, again his voice had gone colder. “Then I wish the happy couple every joy imaginable.”

Without waiting for dismissal, he turned sharply and strode from the throne room. Viserys watched him leave with dread settling quietly in his chest, because he knew his brother.

And Daemon Targaryen had never worn jealousy well.

Rain had begun by the time she found him, soft at first, barely more than mist drifting across the stone balconies overlooking Blackwater Bay.

Daemon stood alone at the edge of the terrace, one hand braced hard against the wall beside him.

Even from several steps away she could see the tension running through his muscles, the rigid set of his shoulders, the unnatural stillness. Her pulse quickened uncertainly, and she considered turning back.

Instead she stepped forward softly. “Daemon?” He did not move.

Wind tugged at his silver hair, rain gathered against the dark leather stretched across his shoulders and only after several long seconds he finally spoke.

“You should not be here.” The words should have sounded dismissive, but they did not. She moved closer anyway.

“I heard shouting.” A humorless laugh escaped him quietly.

“Did you?” Now she saw it, blood.

His bare hand pressed so tightly against the stone that his knuckles had split open against the rough surface.

“Gods,” she whispered instinctively. “You’re hurt.”

At that he finally turned toward her, anger lingered in his eyes, raw and unsteady, but it was not the anger that unsettled her.

It was the way he looked at her, as though he had crossed half the world only to make sure she was still his.

Rain slid slowly down the sharp line of his jaw, neither of them spoke.

The silence between them felt enormous now, crowded with everything unfinished and unsaid.

And finally “Why did you come back?” she asked.

Daemon stared at her for a long moment, then his gaze dropped briefly toward the gold engagement chain resting against her throat.

Something dark flickered across his expression and when he looked back at her again, his voice had gone dangerously soft.

“Tell me,” he said, “Tell me you want him.” And suddenly she felt like her heart could disappear.

His gaze never left hers. “Tell me that every time he touches you, the thought of my name does not cross your mind. Tell me that when you stand before the gods and call him your husband, you will not spend the evening wondering whether I would have come for you if you had only asked.”

His jaw tightened. “Tell me you love him.” Neither of them moved.

“And if you can say it while looking me in the eye, I’ll leave.” A bitter smile touched his lips.

“I’ll get on Caraxes and disappear again. You will never hear my name, see my face, or be troubled by me ever again.” His eyes darkened.

“But if I walk away now, know that I will hate him for the rest of my life for spending every day holding the only thing I could never call mine.”

She opened her mouth ready to answer, but her response simply didn’t come. “That’s what I thought” Daemon muttered

“Why are you doing this?” Her voice cracked

“You are doing this to yourself” he shot back “the only thing I want is to be sure this is what you want.”

“You left.” Her eyes filled up with tears and she could have sworn Daemon’s expression softened

“You knew I loved you and you left me holding onto feelings you never came back for.” She continued, her voice trembling now

For the first time Daemon said nothing, but his expression seem to beg for forgiveness

“I know” and he took a step “I know, I’m sorry” just when he found himself in front of her, he lifted his hand to reach her waist.

The words seemed to cost him something, she just stared at him, searching his face for the arrogance she remembered, for the certainty that had always lived behind his eyes, but it was gone.

For the first time, he looked like a man who genuinely feared her answer.The realization hurt more than it should have.

“You should have come back.” She had to lift her head to keep eye contact.

“I know.” He sounded so calm but so desperate ant the same time it would acutely drive her mad.

“You should have written.”

“I know.”

“I hated you.”

A faint, broken smile touched his mouth and she realized how much she missed him.

“I know that too.”

Rain fell steadily around them, but neither of them move

Years of anger, longing, regret and unanswered questions seemed to hang in the space between them but suddenly, none of it felt as important as it had moments ago.

He was here, after all these years, he was here and whatever she had intended to say disappeared.

And just like that, she realized all the years, all the anger, all the distance between them had never truly mattered. She had loved him then, and Gods help her, she loved him still.

———

a/u: GUYS I have been working in this for a LONG time so I really hope you like it. Love you guys don’t forget to smile 😚

-TAGGS.

[targaryen-dynasty]

A Lesson in Imperfection (18+)

Daemon Targaryen x niece Reader

Coming to your uncle to seek answers, he teaches you something far more dangerous instead: that perfection is a cage you’ve mistaken for virtue. Long before you realize you’ve crossed a line, it isn’t innocence you’ve lost, but the desire to ever be good again.

WORDS: 4421

WARNINGS: SEXUAL CONTENT—MDNI; canon typical incest/Targcest (uncle & niece), slightly dubious consent, p in v, oral (fem receiving), hand job, slight pussy spanking (once), corruption/corruption kink, innocence kink, daemon being daemon, afab reader with valyrian features (silver hair and lilac eyes)

NOTES: @schniiipsel this is for you. <3 it‘s leaning more towards the book canon than the show.

The sun hangs high above King’s Landing, casting golden light through the garden’s arched trellises draped in blooming flowers. Bird chirps around you, much more prominent with the gardens being otherwise quiet at this hour. 

You sit on a marble bench near the roses; your back straight, ankles crossed and a book lying open in your lap. It’s filled with stories of queens and ladies who were everything you’ve always been told to become–graceful, noble, good. Perhaps even perfect. 

Being far too engrossed in your stories, you don’t really notice him at first. 

But Daemon notices you.

He stands beneath a stone archway, watching you, before he steps forwards, his boots crunching softly against the gravel. 

You lift your head immediately, a polite smile on your lips. “Uncle.”

Daemon has seen you like this plenty of times before, your perfect posture, the perfect obedience, and it makes his teeth grind. He’s not the only one that notices what a stark contrast you are to your older sister, acting exactly the way that’s expected of her as the heir. 

A muscle twitches in his jaw as he approaches. “That is a dull way to spend the day,” he says, eyeing you with caution. 

You know there is not truly ill intention behind his words. Someone like him—someone that would rather spend weeks on end in his dragon’s saddle in complete freedom—just can’t seem to be enthusiastic about things that are required by duty. 

Your fingers briefly curl against the parchment of the book, before you’re smoothing it out with your thumbs again, schooling your expression in serene neutrality. “I was told it is my duty to read this,” you reply evenly. “Queen Alicent said knowledge of proper conduct is essential for a princess.”

There’s no protest in your voice, and no hint that you want to do something else entirely. It’s not accompanied by a sigh, a roll of your eyes or a completely different way of rebellion like your sister might’ve shown at being forced through another lesson.

He steps forwards without a warning, reaching out, and closes the book with one decisive snap. “Duties,” he repeats, tasting the word on his tongue like it’s sour. “Gods, you sound like a septa already.”

As the book snaps shut, you stiffen briefly, your wide eyes darting up to meet his. Surprise is etched onto your features, because even your uncle has never before dared to interrupt your studies like this. 

Daemon exhales through his nose, his jaw tightening as he looks down at you. It’s always about duties. He’s spent his whole life bound by them, too. The duty to serve Viserys, the duty to be loyal despite their differences, the duty not to cause trouble even when every fiber of him screamed for rebellion. 

But seeing it in you—in this sweet girl who he used to take for rides over King’s Landing on Caraxes’ back—makes something rise in his chest. “And there’s not a single thought of your own?” 

Daemon reaches out, and plucks Queen Alicent’s precious gift from your lap. The title glints on its cover—The Virtues of Noble Women—and you can’t help but remember when she has presented it to you with a saccharine smile on her lips, and the soft praises about “raising the future lady of a noble house”. 

Your fingers twitch instinctively at the sudden loss, and you simply watch as your uncle flips through the pages with deliberate disinterest. 

“I think plenty, uncle,” you say. 

He doesn’t reply right away. Instead, he turns over another page, and then another, scanning the dense text with thinly veiled disdain. Scoffing under his breath, he tosses the book to the side where it lands with a dull thud against the grass. 

“Plenty?” he echoes, turning his attention back to you. “And what do you think about when no one is watching? When you are alone in your chambers or walking through these gardens?”

His voice isn’t mocking—not quite, at least—but there’s an edge beneath it; something between curiosity and protectiveness. 

Your lips part slightly, as if the question genuinely surprises you. No one ever truly asks you what you think, and no one ever cares beyond checking if you’ve memorized the correct answers to questions about proper court etiquette or history. 

They want to know whether your lessons are being absorbed, not what swirls behind your lilac eyes when no one else is looking. 

Daemon waits patiently, enduring the silence between you without pushing. He studies you; the slight part of your lips, the way your lashes lower just a little as if you’re searching for an answer that doesn't exist. 

The garden hums softly around you with bees drifting between flowers, leaves rustling in a gentle breeze. The world keeps moving… but you stand still. 

“You read all these stories about perfect women who never stepped out of line,” he muses, raising a brow. “Tell me, do you think they were happy, or just… obedient?”

It has never occurred to you. The queens and ladies in these stories—these perfect, noble women—were always praised for their virtues. They were happy, weren’t they? At least, that’s what everyone implies with their approving nods whenever you recite a passage from one of these books out loud during lessons. 

You consider it, and for the first time in years, doubt creeps into your mind. And your uncle sees it. It’s a tiny crack in your polished mask, flashing across your face. 

That look hits home, because he’s had the same one back when he realized that Viserys would never truly see him as an equal, but just as a younger brother that is tolerated at court and not trusted with real power.  

A lifetime of being told who you are supposed to be until you forget who you really are. 

“You have been told your whole life what you must be,” he says. “Perfect, pure, worthy. But no one has told you what you do not have to be.”

A breeze lifts strands of his short, silver hair as he steps closer again, and crouches slightly so you’re nearly on eye level. 

You stare at him for the first time since he’s stepped into the garden; not as your uncle or a prince, but as Daemon Targaryen, the man who never bows to anyone’s expectations. Your breath hitches, and your hands still remain in your lap, but something inside of your chest tightens with an emotion you can’t name. 

“And what is that?”

An almost fond smile tugs at the corners of his lips. “You do not have to be perfect, niece,” he says. “You can frown when you are bored, or sigh if a lesson is dull. You can want things just because you want them, and not because someone says a princess should.”

You inhale a sharp breath before you can stop it. The concept of wanting something just because is foreign to you. They have drilled the idea that a princess’ desires should be controlled at all times into your mind, and a good lady doesn’t indulge herself. 

He rises to his feet, and takes a step back. “If you are content being what they have made you, then forget this conversation ever happened.” His lilac eyes drag over your sitting form. 

“But if you are not,” he starts, tilting his head slightly, his eyes sharpening with intent. “If even a small part of you wonders what it might feel like to choose for yourself—”

The sentence hangs between you, and he doesn’t finish it immediately. 

He turns, and begins to walk away, but stops just before the stone archway, glancing at you from over his shoulder. 

“Come find me.”

With these words, he disappears where he came from, leaving you frozen on the bench. Your heart pounds beneath your ribs with a traitorous rhythm that doesn’t match your composed exterior at all. 

Is it a command? An invitation? You can’t tell. Daemon never does things by half measures. He’s either direct or cruel or charmingly vague, but never in-between. 

—

When the night comes, you don’t find sleep. And if you do, it’s interrupted. You doze off, more than once, but always wake up plagued by thoughts.

You don’t want to admit it, but his words have left you not as unaffected—and uninterested—as you’d like to claim. And so, you rise, in the middle of the night. A simple robe is thrown over your dark nightgown, tied at the waist. 

You don’t choose to leave through the door, no, that would be too obvious at this hour. You push a narrow door close to your bed open, and disappear into the cold and dark tunnels that have been once built by Maegor the Cruel. Rhaenyra has brought you along more often than not, and therefore you’re quite confident in finding the path leading towards Daemon’s chambers. 

With a soft knock, you just wait, listening carefully to hear any commotion behind the door. It’s not a surprise you startle when the door suddenly opens and you’re standing across from Daemon. 

His eyes drag over your frame, and your widened ones do the same. He wears a simple tunic, unbuttoned at the throat with the sleeves rolled up, and some pair of dark trousers. 

The intensity of his gaze tears a shiver through your body, before you quickly hush past him into the warmth of his chambers. 

He closes the door behind you, and watches as you just stand in his chambers, the flames of the hearth casting long shadows across your clothes. He steps towards you, and catches the hem of your robe between his fingers, adjusting it slightly where it has slipped off one of your shoulders. 

“Should you not be somewhere… proper?” he asks idly. 

You open your mouth, and close it, swallowing thickly. The word proper sits heavy in the air, because proper would be your chambers with you tucked safely away behind locked doors with a guard posted outside to ensure no one disturbed your rest. Proper was attending the morning prayer or practicing embroidery under the septa’s watchful eyes—not sneaking through secret tunnels built by mad kings at night to find Daemon Targaryen of all people. 

A shiver runs down your spine, but not from the cold. “N-No, I–I should not,” you stammer beneath his curious gaze, pressing your lips into a thin line. 

His lips curve slightly, just very briefly, and make you terribly aware that he knows all too well that his words have burrowed into your mind like thorns beneath gloves. As he cocks a brow, you start to fidget with the fabric of your nightgown. “I could–I could not sleep,” you admit. 

Daemon scoffs and steps closer, slow and deliberate like he’s approaching a skittish animal. A hand rises, brushing a strand of your silver hair behind your ear. “No,” he replies simply. “I suppose not.”

You feel his fingers linger near your temple for a moment longer than necessary, the pad of his calloused thumb grazing your cheekbone. He studies you, the stiffness of your shoulders like you expect a punishment for being there. 

But that doesn't come. 

Something dark and possessive stirs in him at the sight, because you’re so clearly nervous. It plants a seed in his mind: the ambition to unravel all the training Alicent has forced on you to show you what it means to want, not just to obey. 

A smirk tugs at the corners of his lips, not mocking, but close. “Now why did you come, niece?”

Your tongue darts out briefly to wet your lips before you answer: “I–I thought about what you said,” you admit, your eyes flitting down to the floor. “About not being perfect.”

The confession—small but monumental for a princess that has spent her entire life striving for perfection—prompts you to swallow thickly. “And I did not know how to sleep with it.”

A low hum rumbles in his chest as he leans back slightly; not retreating, but giving you space. His gaze sweeps over you again. “And what did you think?”

“That I do not know if I want to be perfect,” you confess, your voice barely above a whisper. “But I–I also do not know what else there is.” Exhaling a shaky breath, you glance up at him, searching his face for something. 

His expression darkens at your confession, and he’s suddenly close enough that you have to tilt your head up to keep meeting his gaze. “There are plenty of things,” he replies, and without a warning, he brushes his knuckles along your cheekbone. 

Despite the touch being featherlight, it sends a jolt through you. Your breath hitches, and your eyes widen as he moves with deliberate slowness. No one ever touches you like this. 

Without breaking eye contact, he leans in. The movement is gradual, giving you every chance to flinch or protest and say this isn’t right. 

But you don’t. 

He’s close enough for your breaths to mingle, yours coming in tiny, shallow puffs of air against his lips. Your lashes lower slightly, a subconscious tilt that betrays your curiosity—and perhaps even want. 

Daemon closes the distance, pressing his lips to yours in a soft kiss as though he’s testing the waters first. 

For half a heartbeat, you freeze, before your body responds. It’s just a tiny lean forward, a quiet press back against his mouth and the slightest parting of your lips, and it’s enough to be noticed by him. 

A low sound rumbles in his chest, and his hands rise slowly; one cradling the back of your head with his calloused fingers threading into your silver strands, and the other sliding around your waist to pull you closer against him. 

His warm lips start to move against yours with hunger, his tongue brushing against your lower lip experimentally. It causes your lips to part, and he is quick to seize the opportunity to slip his tongue past them. 

Your hand finds his shoulder at the sudden intrusion, while the other rests at his chest with his tunic clutched tightly between your fingers, torn between pushing him away and pulling him in. 

You hardly notice him reaching for the bow at the front of your robe, and eventually tugging on it. Only when it glides off your shoulders, a chill hitting the now exposed skin, do you draw back from him. 

It suddenly feels too overwhelming, even more when you let go of him and the robe slides down your arms and to the ground, pooling at your feet. You now stand before him in nothing but the thin silk of your nightgown, a delicate strap slipping slightly from one shoulder where the movement has disturbed it. 

His gaze trails over you—slowly and hungry—forcing you to take another step back. As you put some distance between you, your calves are met with a nearby chair, the impact prompting you to sit down on it. With a slight shift, you adjust your position, and press your thighs together. 

You look up at him with wide eyes, your chest rising and falling with heavy breaths that betray your hesitancy. “We sh–I should leave,” you mumble. 

But Daemon doesn’t argue.

Instead, he simply lowers himself, and kneels before you on the cold stone floor. The flames cast shadows across his sharp features, accentuating the strong line of his jaw, and these piercing eyes that study you carefully. He’s not towering over you anymore, at least not physically. The position shouldn’t be intimidating, no, it should’ve made him smaller, less imposing—but somehow it does the exact opposite. 

One of his large hands rises slowly, and rests gently against your knee where it peeks out from beneath your nightgown. 

“You were eager enough to come,” he muses. “Strange that courage fails you now.” He looks at you with patience written all over his features, clearly understanding that this scares you. Yet it’s evident he doesn’t let it stop him completely. 

“I–I do not know what I am doing,” you admit softly, flattening your lips. 

“Of course you don’t,” he murmurs, his lips curving into a mocking smirk. “If you did, this would hardly be interesting.”

You don’t have a chance to truly ponder over his words, not when he suddenly leans forwards and presses his lips gently against the side of your knee. It sends a jolt through you, and you watch silently as he slowly inches his way up. “B–But…” you try to protest, although you don’t really want him to stop, do you?

“Hush now,” Daemon purrs, pressing kisses along the inside of your thighs. He gathers the skirt of your nightgown in one hand, and brings it up to rest at your hip. “You need not think so hard, niece.”

The whimper you release is enough to bring heat to your cheeks, more so when his tongue suddenly makes contact with your cunt and coaxes another one to slip past your lips. A shiver ripples through you when he pulls back to drag his tongue through your slit. 

“You’re drenched, little princess,” he remarks, his dark blown eyes gazing up at you from between your legs. 

The profanity of it all prompts you to press your lips into a thin line and look to the side, a wave of heat crashing over your whole body. But Daemon isn’t having any of that. He merely tsks, and serves a light slap with the back of his hand to your cunt. “Keep those pretty eyes on me.”

Although it’s not harsh, you still squirm in your seat, meeting his gaze with your head nodding eagerly. 

“Good girl,” he praises, and takes that as his cue to continue, his lips finding your little bundle of nerves. One swivel of his tongue already has you arching your back, and the steady rhythm he builts is enough for you to start grinding your hips. 

Two of his fingers slowly ease into of you, the thickness foreign for a moment but forgotten when they start to brush your sweet spot in a come hither motion that has you tightly locking your thighs around his head. Your hand finds the short strands of his hair, fingers threading into them to tug on it not-so-gently which has Daemon groaning against your folds. 

No matter how badly you try to keep your eyes on him—knowing his own flicker up to meet yours every now and then—your head eventually tilts back slightly, and your eyes fall shut. Soft, quiet moans slip past your lips, slowly but surely growing in their intensity. 

The knot in your belly tightens far too quickly with the pace he sets up, lapping and sucking at your little bud in tandem with his fingers scissoring in and out of you. But it doesn’t seem like that’s what your uncle wants. He reads the telltale signs of your impending release as if he has never done anything else, and stops his ministrations without missing a beat. 

You can’t help but whine as the pleasure disappears at once. Your eyes open, and when you look down at him, you spot his chin, lips, and cheeks being coated in your arousal, glistening in the dim light of his chamber. 

“W–Why did you stop?” you whimper, your lips dropping into a pout as you try to reign his head back between your thighs. But Daemon is stronger, making it clear that that’s not sufficient enough for him. 

“I have scarcely begun, and you are already trembling, niece. Do you truly think that this will be all?” he asks, and rises to his feet. 

Not only do his words make your breath hitch in your throat, but also the visible, straining bulge in the front of his trousers. He’s achingly hard for you already, wanting to be buried inside of you. 

“You are always trying to be perfect,” he continues, leaning in to brush his thumb across your bottom lip. “Now let me see how lovely you are when you stop trying.”

Staring at the strained fabric of his trousers, you bite your bottom lip and nod sheepishly. He grabs your wrist, and pulls you to your feet. Noticing how shakily you stand on them, Daemon wastes no time and throws you over his shoulder. 

It catches you off guard, and you squeal right before your back already hits the silk sheets of his bed. You prop yourself up on your elbows, watching as he rids himself of his tunic, the trousers, and the boots. 

One hand curls around his hard shaft, stroking himself slowly, and clearly making a show out of it for you. A shaky exhale is all that makes its way past your lips, not knowing if you should keep your gaze on his cock, his face or trail the countless scars littered all over his torso.

You settle on the first, and watch with hooded eyes as he comes closer, climbing onto the large bed. The mattress dips beneath his weight, and soon enough he’s towering above you. Your pulse thunders in your ears, much more when he roughly yanks the skirts of your nightgown up to your waist, before he aligns himself with your entrance. 

Your arousal makes it easy for his cock to slip inside, greedily sucked in by your cunt with little resistance. Despite the burning stretch of his girth, the feeling of him being buried inside of you brings you a sense of pure bliss, prompting you to clench tightly around him. 

Daemon sucks in a sharp breath, and when your hands fly to his shoulders for leverage, he starts to grind his hips against yours. His girth splits you open over and over again, reducing you to a submissive mess.

“S-Seven save me,” you whimper, arching your back beneath him. You have crawled willingly into sin, and now you pray for someone to rescue you from your own desire. It’s not like you actually want to be saved, it’s that you’re scared of the possible consequences. 

As your head lulls back into the pillows, your hands seem to have a mind on their own and land below his navel, weakly pushing him away. But Daemon tsks, swatting them away. “None of this,” he growls. “The gods have never saved anyone from me, sweetling.”

An impatient tug at the neckline of your nightgown is enough to free your tits, all but bouncing freely as he fucks you harder, slamming his hips into you. No words or sounds other than hiccuped moans and whimpers leave your lips, and you can’t focus on anything but him. 

The tremors that the snaps of his hips force through you have you gasping and whining, a tightness building in the pit of your belly. You have spent so much time being untouched that even the drag of the coarse hair at the base of his cock against your little bud brings you a pleasure beyond imagination. But not only does your need to peak become more apparent; Daemon doesn’t seem to know how much longer he will last, too. 

He towers over you, your small frame completely hidden by his. It’s such an easy game for him to keep you where he wants, to use you however he pleases, and at this point you’d let him do whatever he desires with you for as long as you get to relive the sensations you feel over and over again. 

Therefore it’s no surprise that your relief washes over you in an ambush, the pleasure all but soaring through your veins. Yet his assault on your cunt doesn’t stop, and when the urge overcomes you to squeeze your thighs together, it doesn’t seize either. 

Your mind goes blank, and you hardly notice Daemon toppling over, mercilessly grinding into your quivering cunt and filling you to the brim. You squeeze his throbbing cock ever so tightly in response, all but milking him for every drop. 

Daemon rocks into you with reckless abandon, your sweet whimpers and squirming body spurring him on. Squeezing your flesh, he trails both his hands over your body, mapping out the parts that are still hidden by your nightgown. 

But at last, the frenzy seems to leave him all at once. 

He exhales sharply through his nose and collapses onto his side beside you, remaining like this for a brief moment. You adjust the neckline of your nightgown and stare up at the carved canopy above you as though it might offer you absolution, while he proceeds to sit up, lazily draping one arm around his bent knee. 

“You regret it already,” he states. 

You can feel your throat tighten at his words, much more when you finally notice his seed seeping idly from your cunt. “I did not say that.”

“No,” Daemon replies, huffing a breath. As you meet his gaze, you spot his lips curving slightly. “You merely look as though the gods themselves witnessed this.”

Heat crawls up your neck, and you press your lips together. 

“Poor little princess,” your uncle continues, a mocking edge to his voice. “No one warned you that wanting something could feel so ugly afterwards, mh?”

The words make you flinch slightly, but still enough for him to notice and reach for you. His hand comes to rest at your wrist, his thumb pressing lazily against the frantic beat of your pulse. 

“You think this has ruined you now. That one night in my bed has turned you wicked,” he murmurs, his pale gaze drifting slowly over your face. “But sweetling, you were wicked the moment you thought about coming to me.”

Daemon shifts closer to you on the bed. There is no softness in his gaze, just the same consuming fascination he’s worn since you stepped into his chambers. 

“You wish to know the amusing part?”

“What?”

A low hum rumbles in his chest, and he leans in to press his lips to your shoulder. Once. “You are ashamed,” he says. “And yet, if I touched you again, you would still let me.”

The truth of his words settles over you like a heavy blanket. You are ashamed, yes, but not because you regret it. It’s the sheer intensity of it—the way your body has responded so eagerly to him despite you being raised to be proper. It’s that desire has overshadowed every moral teaching Queen Alicent and your septa have drilled into you. 

And despite that you would crawl straight back into his bed if he asked you too. Without hesitation.

As always: comments and reblogs are very much appreciated! Thank you and thank you for reading! 🥰

[hc-geralt-23]

House of the Dragon Masterlist

Daemon Targaryen

A Kingdom of Our Own

Daemon Targaryen love story

Love Across the Houses

Love Across the Houses Updated

Dragon Riders: A tale of Forbidden Love

A tale of Elven Love and Dragons Flame

Solace in an Embrace

The Shadow of the Crown

Shadows of Harrenhal, Embers of Dragonstone (Aemond X y/n turns into a Daemon x Y/N x Rhaenyra)

Aemond Targaryen

Decieved By Love

The Frost on the Sapphire Eye

The Echo of the Second Son

The Silver Shadow of High Tide

Shadows of Harrenhal, Embers of Dragonstone (Aemond X y/n turns into a Daemon x Y/N x Rhaenyra)

The Ghost of the Hightower

The Sapphire’s Promise