pairing: modern!daeron targaryen x fem!reader
summary: you walk into a club you didn’t want to be in, and there he is. the man you loved, broken and wild. one look, and the past crashes in. he confesses and promises to never let go of you again, and for the first time, you almost believe him.
cw: mdni, substance abuse, addiction and recovery themes, angst/comfort, self-destructive habits, crying/emotional breakdown, making out(non-explicit), childhood friends
the city at night was a living thing, a beast of light and sound that pulsed through the taxi window and hummed in your bones. you watched it pass, a silent movie of neon signs and blurred faces. your reflection in the glass was a ghost superimposed over the chaos—a good girl in a borrowed black dress, going to a place where good girls got lost.
you hadn’t wanted to come. kiera’s invitation had been a text bubble of excitement:
valarr’s got a table at the armani privè.
you’d typed out a dozen excuses. you had work.you were tired. you were.. afraid.
because valarr was daeron’s friend. and where valarr targaryen went, daeron targaryen was never far behind.
daeron. the name was a bruise on your heart, tender to the slightest touch. once, it had been synonymous with sunshine, with scraped knees and shared secrets in treehouses, with the safe, sweet scent of childhood. he was your first friend. your father and his, maekar, were like brothers forged in steel and mutual respect. you grew up in the shadow of the targaryen fortress, but daeron was never the prince. he was the boy who shared his ice cream, who held your hand when you were scared of thunderstorms.
then, the slow fracture. the sunshine in him had curdled, turned inward and sour. the sips of stolen beer became bottles. the curious experimentation became a hungry, hollow-eyed reliance. you tried to be the lighthouse in his gathering storm. you brought him notes when he skipped class, you sat with him in silence when the world was too loud, you pleaded with him in whispers that felt like prayers. but the boy you knew was being erased, replaced by a stranger with daeron’s smile and a ghost’s eyes. he pushed you away with words sharp as broken glass. he found new friends whose laughter was as empty as the bottles they left behind. your heart didn’t just break; it ached with a persistent, lonely sorrow for the ghost of him.
yet, here you were. paying the driver, stepping onto the pavement where the bass from the club thumped like a diseased heartbeat. maybe you needed to see the ghost for yourself. to finally lay it to rest.
inside, the club was a temple to forgetting. strobing lights cut through a haze of smoke and sweat.you found kiera and valarr in a roped-off section, a velvet-draped island in the sea of chaos. kiera, resplendent in silver, pulled you into a hug. “you came! i knew you would!” valarr gave you a nod, his mismatched eyes missing nothing. he was a golden idol amidst the frenzy, untouched by it.you knew he saw your tension.
the night stretched, thin and taut. kiera and valarr melted into each other. tanselle vanished with a laugh and a tall stranger. you were adrift. you nursed a drink that tasted like candy and regret, watching the human carnival swirl.you were a spectator in your own life, a quiet note in a screaming song.
the cold seeped in, despite the heat of the crowd. you needed warmth, or at least the illusion of it. you pushed through the press of bodies toward the long, glowing bar, a sanctuary of relative silence.
you were fumbling in your small purse for cash, your fingers clumsy, when a hand reached past you. a familiar hand, long-fingered, with a silver ring shaped like a twisted dragon.it placed a black card on the bartender’s tray.
“she’ll have another. and keep them coming.”
the voice was lower than you remembered, roughened by smoke and something else. it was a voice from your dreams and your nightmares.
he looked like a fallen angel dressed for a riot. black shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with lean muscle and faded ink. his silvery gold hair, once so bright, was darker, longer, falling into eyes that were the same impossible shade of blue, but now ringed with shadows. he smelled of expensive whiskey, clove cigarettes, and a deep, aching sadness that had a scent all its own.
“you doing okay?” he asked. his gaze wasn’t focused; it skated over your face, around the room, everywhere but truly on you.
a hot spike of anger, sharp and clean, pierced your numbness. he’d ignored you for a year. acted as if you were air. and now he was buying you a drink with the casual grace of a prince tossing a coin to a beggar.
“i was managing,” you said, your voice colder than you intended. you turned back to the bartender, dismissing him. “i can pay for my own.”
he let out a soft, humorless puff of air that wasn’t quite a laugh. “old habits,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. he didn’t move away. he leaned against the bar, his shoulder almost touching yours, a ghost of the proximity you once shared without thought. the noise of the club seemed to recede, building a bubble of tense quiet around the two of you.
“this isn’t really your scene, is it?” he said after a moment, finally looking at you. really looking. his eyes traced the line of your jaw, the nervous flutter in your throat.
“what would you know about my scene?” you shot back, taking the shot the bartender slid toward you. you threw it back, the fire in your throat a welcome distraction from the ache in your chest.
he flinched, just a little.a crack in the marble facade. “i know you,” he said, so quiet you almost didn’t hear it over the music. “or i did.”
the rest of the night passed in a blur of noise and colored light. you were aware of him, a dark satellite orbiting you at a careful distance. when kiera declared she and valarr were leaving for a “more private party,” and tanselle was long gone, you found yourself stranded.
daeron was there, car keys dangling from his finger. it wasn’t an offer. it was a statement.
you wanted to refuse. to call a cab, to walk, to do anything but be enclosed in a car with this stranger who wore your best friend’s face. but your feet were sore, your head throbbed with the phantom beat of the music, and a deeper, more treacherous part of you longed for the familiar scent of his car, the way he used to drive with one hand on the wheel, telling you silly stories.
silence filled his sleek, black car, heavier than any music.he drove with a focused intensity, the city lights painting streaks of gold and red across his sharp profile.he pulled a slim joint from his pocket, lit it with a flick of his lighter, it had little stars on it, it was the one you bought for him. he took a long drag, holding the smoke in his lungs before letting it seep out slowly.
the sweet, herbal scent filled the space. an old memory surfaced: teenagers in his treehouse, sharing a stolen cigarette, coughing and giggling.
without thinking, driven by a sudden, reckless need to bridge the chasm, you reached over. “can i?”
he froze, the joint halfway to his lips. his ocean blue eyes widened, searching your face for mockery. finding none, he handed it to you, his fingers brushing yours. a spark, old and familiar. you took a hesitant pull, imitating what you’d seen. the smoke hit your lungs like a swarm of tiny, hot needles. you convulsed, a harsh, ragged cough tearing from your throat, your eyes watering. and then you heard it. a sound you hadn’t heard in years. a genuine, surprised laugh. It was short, a little rough, but it was his laugh. the one from before the storms.
“easy there, love,” he said, taking the joint back, a faint, real smile touching his lips. it was like seeing the sun break through a month of clouds. “you don’t just inhale the whole damn thing.” you coughed again, wiping your eyes, but you were smiling too, a shaky, watery thing. for a second, just a second, it was you and him again. not the ghost and the mourner.just two people in a car.
he pulled up to your apartment building, a modest but nice place your good grades and diligent work had earned you. he killed the engine, the sudden quiet a loud presence between you. he stared at the steering wheel, his knuckles white.
“do you… want to come up?” you heard yourself ask.the words hung in the air, a fragile peace offering. “for a drink. a real one.”
he didn’t look at you, but his shoulders slumped, as if a great weight had been lifted onto them. he gave a single, slow nod. “yeah,” he rasped. “yeah, i’d like that.”
your apartment was you. plants on the windowsill, posters of your favourite singers on the wall, books stacked neatly on a shelf, a soft blanket thrown over the sofa, a framed photo of you and your friends on the mantel.it was warm, and lived-in, and safe.
he stood in the middle of your living room, looking strangely large and out of place, like a wild animal brought indoors. his eyes devoured the space—the cozy chaos, the evidence of your life without him. you saw his throat work as he swallowed hard.
“it’s nice,” he said, his voice thick. “it’s… you.”
you poured two glasses of red wine, your hands not quite steady. you handed him one and sat on the far end of the sofa, curling your legs beneath you. he took a long swallow, then sat not where you’d left space, but right in the middle, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him. the silence was different now. not empty, but full of all the unsaid things, the lost years, the shared history that lay between you like a shattered vase.
he put his glass down on your coffee table with a soft clink. he ran a hand through his hair, a gesture of such familiar frustration it made your heart twist.
“i don’t know where to start,” he began, his voice a low, rough scrape. he wasn’t looking at you; he was staring at his own hands as if they belonged to a stranger. “the drinking, the.. the other stuff. pushing you away. the things i said.” he took a shaky breath. “i was drowning. and i was so fucking scared that if i reached for you, i’d pull you under with me.”
you stayed silent, letting the words hang in the air between you.
he moved then, shifting impossibly closer on the couch, until his knee was touching your thigh. he finally looked up, and his eyes were glistening, tears clinging to his dark lashes. the raw, unguarded pain in them stole your breath.
“you were the only good thing,” he whispered, the confession torn from him. “the only pure, clean thing in my life. and I was so… so tainted.i thought if i ruined it, if i made you hate me, then the rot wouldn’t spread. then you’d be safe.” a single tear traced a path down his cheek. he didn’t wipe it away. “i was a coward.i am a coward. i miss you. gods, i miss you so much it feels like a physical hole in my chest.”
he was crying now, silent tears for the boy he was, for the friend he lost, for the chaos he chose. the beautiful, broken boy from your childhood was crumbling right in front of you, on your couch, in the space you’d built without him. your own resolve, the wall of anger you’d built over the lonely months, shattered.it wasn’t a dramatic collapse, but a gentle dissolution,like sand yielding to the tide.
you reached out, your hand trembling, and cupped his damp cheek. his skin was warm, real. he leaned into the touch like a man dying of thirst, closing his eyes, a shudder running through his whole frame.
“daeron,” you breathed, your voice thick with your own tears.
his eyes flew open, blazing with a desperate hope. “please,” he begged, his voice breaking on the word. “please,say you forgive me. i can’t.. i can’t breathe without it. without you.”
you looked into those pale blue eyes, windows to a soul that had been lost in a long, dark night.you saw the pain, the regret, the love that had never truly died, just been buried under layers of self-destruction.
“i forgive you,” you whispered.
it was like releasing a caught breath the world had been holding.the tension in his body snapped. a broken sound, half-sob, half-relief, escaped his lips.and then he was surging forward, his hands coming up to frame your face, his mouth crashing down on yours.
the kiss was not gentle. it was desperate, hungry, a starving man being offered his first taste of salvation.it was an apology and a plea all at once. he kissed you like he was trying to drink you in, to memorize the feel of your lips, the taste of your breath mixed with wine and his tears. he whined, a soft, high sound in the back of his throat, the sound of a soul coming undone and being stitched back together at the same time. you kissed him back, your hands sliding into his silken hair, pulling him closer. the world narrowed to the points of contact: his lips, fierce and seeking; his hands, trembling as they slid from your face to your shoulders, down your back; the solid warmth of his body pressing you into the cushions.
he broke the kiss only to trail a desperate path of open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, your throat, whispering against your skin. “i’m sorry, i’m so sorry,im so sorry…my dream, my heart” each word was a prayer, a vow. His lips found yours again, softer now, deeper, pouring a year of lonely anguish and fierce, unwavering longing into every movement.
it was a mosaic of sensation—the scratch of his stubble, the salt of tears (whose, you couldn’t tell), the frantic beat of his heart against yours. it was a conversation without words, a reclamation of lost territory. he kissed you until you were both breathless, until the only sound was your ragged breathing and the soft, wet sounds of your mouths meeting again and again.
finally, spent, he collapsed against you, his forehead resting on your shoulder, his body heavy and warm atop yours. you lay there, tangled on the couch, in the quiet of your apartment. your fingers absently carded through his soft hair, just as you used to do when you were kids and he was upset.
after a long while, he shifted, propping himself up on his elbows to look down at you. his eyes were clear now,bright and focused, holding a determination you hadn’t seen in years. he traced the line of your brow with a tenderness that made your heart ache.
“i’m getting clean,” he said, the words simple, solid. “for real this time. not for my father. not for the family name. for me.” he leaned down, brushing his lips against yours once, softly. “and for you.” he swallowed, his gaze unwavering, fierce with a newfound light. “i let you go once.it was the worst mistake of my life.” he buried his face in the curve of your neck, his voice muffled but fervent against your skin, a vow sealed with the warmth of his breath. “i will never let you go again.”
a/n: i went through a terrible dead poets society phase once, and i think it left quite a mark on me. anyway, lately all i can think about is him, henry ashton/daeron.i can’t even bring myself to write anything else.it’s kind of… getting bad.
taglist: @valarrmylight @icebearcucumber @wooceanic @baeylei @vitale-violence
