About: Lore accurate Daeron? Basically you guys end up on top of each other, broken, the other shattered–and make up…with him just devouringggggg you
Warnings: ⚠︎ SENSUAL/AMOROUS LITERAURE | Please do not read if you are not into curiosa elements! 𖠚 MODERN AU! of AKOTSK. 𖠚 AFAB!Reader with a physical desc (It's just having hair...sorry...and having lady parts ofc) 𖠚 FIRST EVER "carnal" fic 𖠚 Sensitive topics of trauma, unhealthy ways of coping mechanism (Alcoholism) 𖠚 WORD COUNT: 6.3k SHORT FIC! 𖠚 Canon Daeron to drink 𖠚 use of slightly eccentric words (e.g. petrichor, anemoia,) 𖠚 Oral ( f receiving) 𖠚 eating out crazy style... 𖠚 toxic dynamics 𖠚 brief explanation of trauma? 𖠚 Not proofread!! 𖠚 MATURE writing. 𖠚 Corruption? ( f indulges while m is still intoxicated) 𖠚 Messy use of drunk to sober ADVICE NEEDED. 𖠚 Use of lyrics in work, obvious if you know these songs as well. 𖠚 No pnv, (only towards the end but VERY brief.) 𖠚 Use of profanity. 𖠚 AGAIN, first ever time touching amorous content, please if I messed up or anything lmk!!
Dictionary with authors notes at the end! And authors notes.
Pairing: Daeron Targaryen x Reader
It's nothing new. It never is when it comes to Daeron fucking Targaryen.
Ashamed, really. Still, the go-to girl whenever he got drunk, lonely, and solemn. Just a moping, forever blue drunkard who whined and drank in the melancholy of his dreams–visions. You and him, the catalyst of each other’s lives, the ballad of the only good thing you both had going, the literature of the broken healing the shattered. Your relationship with him was a rough, on-and-off relationship, an ambiguous, tentative, even— “what are we?” situation that was promised a sweet ending, yet, broken with bitterness. The go-to girl, always and forever, was what you are were, for him. something you tried so hard to fight, but never had the guts to completely break off. It's hard to break something bad going on for you when the person you love(d) is just hurt. Lost. Confused, and forever tormented. He never deserved this; he doesn’t deserve this. Daeron never asked for a “blessing from the sevens”, never asked to navigate in a realm of cruelty, to mirror a broken family hardened by one aching loss after another. He was simply a man–just a boy, Y/n—one that knows…Knew, of comfort from his mother when his visions felt all too real.
That's why you find yourself here, now. Contemplating whether to ignore him just for this one time, to finally let go of that string that connects you to nothing and to everything, all at the same time. To balance between your peace and the right decision.
You have morals, you have the goodness that can prevail over your nature to sin, but it was such a complex crossroad, every path leading to dull corruption. I mean—Daeron isn’t even the type who could be proclaimed as undeserving, anyway. With all his shit, his struggles, his family for fuck’s sake—he’s just shattered, broken, all wounded up by everything and everyone, a self-inflicted, unwillingly destruction, an endless loop of agony, the gods could even say he’s deserving of pity. His dreams weren’t just dreams–they are nightmares, echoes of visions of what could happen and what will. His family, said to be only destroyed by itself, and a candle extinguished, forever blown out…their mother. One who knew of Daeron’s horrible curse gift, one who knew how to help him, gone. His brothers, all drowning in their own burdens, their own struggles that haunt them to the very end. And his father, present physically, absent mentally. It was the seven hells, here, in this god-forsaken realm. An encroaching, incessant, arrow to the heart. Daeron believed he was the bullseye of every painful jab a man could experience. The weight of his problems and yours, he outweighs you by a whole lot.
The deer to the hunter, the target to the archer.
Of course, no matter how much you hate him, hate his stupid stupidity, hate his way of temporary escape…you’re still going to be here. Still going to be the one who holds back his golden-white hair away, rubbing his back, gently whispering “it’s okay,” “Just like that…Here, drink some water,” while that constant stab, like a dagger with ridges for love, creeps up again.
Sigh.
PleDS. pPPPLDAese. 🗨
What the fuck?
I ha te 🗨
Daeron. Are you fucking drunk?
Noooop pleaseeeeeeeeeeeeedeeeeeeeeeeee’ 🗨
Drowning; fogged with alcohol–the promises of sobriety pleading for forgiveness–Daeron was wasted. Fucking out of it. The excruciating radio silence the bar carried, mingled with the air clouded by depression, regretful thoughts, and the constancy of drinking your life away. It was all a typical midnight, rotted. It wasn’t even a good numbing effect; it’s only a high, chased by those who could never experience it again. All temporary, all a replacement–a form of abuse—not even disguised as some “better” alternative to dealing with whatever bullshit one deals with. Gods, this was all so low for him. But what could he do? No matter what Daeron does, no matter what rehab he checks into, no matter what empty promise leaves his lips, the memories of his visions…his visions, of his mother, dying. That week before, some passing nightmare, he had put forth his energy to forget.
It always comes back.
It always serves as the suffocating rope, strangling him with every ounce of fury.
This. This is why he’d rather drink himself to an early death. The premonitions of a body gone cold. The sight of what could happen. What will happen. Mother, bless me your mercy. The stranger, act as the sword of the mother. Slay me with pity. Is what Daeron hopelessly manifests, with his all. An act of plea, a begging on his knees, sword in his own hand, tears scalding his bewitching face, type of prayer. He’s just sooo out of it. Zoned, trashed, until his senses draw him back to the bitter taste of numbness in a bottle, the only focus of a cold beer, and his phone.
Of course, he’s drunk.
Where are you? Daeron? Stay there.
Kings;aa anddddd 🗨
Seen.
–And Ballads. Kings and Ballads. A bar in the streets leading to flea bottom, some niche tavern where worn-out, tired, “damn-this-realm” grey-haired believers go to drink their soul away, a very shitty place at that. But it was a second home to him. A place filled with understanding people who wouldn’t judge (it gets to a point, though). A place where he could just be despairing, fragile. An “abode” of wine, beer, and the weight of grief, finally lifted off after a day of bolstered callous. Of course, he’d be there. Why even stop to think that maybe, just maybe, he’d give this whole sober thing a try?
…”One last. Time. I’m giving him one last try.” You insisted, words of reassurance rather than a mantra. It was half past eleven, a midnight brimmed of another stormy, raging, spring rain in King’s Landing, constantly hitting your room’s window. You had set down the harsh, glaring phone, barely in the transition of actually sleeping, eyes growing heavy, finally giving up–not because of the day’s past, but because of the war you go through with your own thoughts before resting. It's funny, really. How tired and groggy you are throughout the day, how you have to strangle the thoughts of even drifting off. But as soon as you’re in your bed, a tired, weary sigh escaping you, a final “goodbye” to the past of this so-and-so shitty day, your mind just won’t shut up. Instead of sleeping everything off, waking to a beautiful morrow, your recollection of every governing regret eats you. Every embarrassing moment, every little act, triggering your anger–it all haunts you. And now? You have to deal with your half-waken half-alive self, and a man–your man–who’s drinking down the remnants of his visions.
“Fuck.” You sigh out, slowly rising from the empty promise of comfort, from your bed, acting on the decision that could either break you or give you that false sense of hope you craved for. Sitting there, zoning out for a moment, the air stilling as your mind numbs, your ear ringing for God knows why, staring at the moonlight ornamented corner of your room, you close your eyes–and just breathe, threading a hand through your hair, rubbing the gnawing desolation away…Daeron was supposed to be a warning of my mistakes. A prominent figure in the past, the epitome of a man just lost, a man who’s just no good for me. So why, why, do I always help him? Why…do you take him back into your arms, into the warmth that suddenly comes back, warming him–and that frozen heart of yours he had left you? Who knows. It's certain that you clearly don’t know; Crystal clear that you’re still the lighthouse of his storm of mercy.
“Alright,” grumbling, running a hand across your face one last time, getting up after your battle of indecisiveness. The rain grew angrier, more of little, angry, persecuting shards of ice, rather than dewdrops of the sweet season, as you grab your jacket, giving yourself another chance to back out of…this…(spoiler alert: you don’t) and make your way out of the apartment. All thoughts of at least being more presentable were now an exhale gone. You were just in a worn-out jean jacket, hair mussed up in a braid, pajamas shamefully vibrant. Any rational thinking has already left, as you made the decision to come and grab him. Every ounce of that dignity you talked of, gone in the gutter.
What a wicked game to play, ♫
to make me feel this way. ♫
What a wicked thing to do, ♫
to make me dream of you. ♫
As you pull up into the side of the bar’s street, illuminated by the prancing amber lights of the vicinity of flea bottom, mellifluous melancholic tones, the background music of your troubles, you notice a particular silver-blonde drunk from the corner of your eye, sulking in the pavements of rain-soaked despair, babbling words oscillating in the winds, ceaseless sips out of his bottle. The rain had gotten worse as you inched closer, a foggy trail of its endless drops, slowly making its way on the windows of your car, windshield wipers working over time to make things more coherent–you halted, noticing him more clearly. Daeron wasn’t just sitting; he was outside (duh), lying down, threatening to roll over to the incessant rain. Right. Out. Side. Lying down like the world is about to end—the ephemeral of apathy.
“DAERON!” You scolded, hurriedly grabbing your umbrella, sprinting out of the car into the chilly atmosphere. He looked so pathetic as you rushed closer; he was pathetic. Why, just why, was he even out here in the first place? There’s no way he was that drunk to get sick?! You noted, but then again, ah, c'mon. It’s Daeron we're talking about. Of course, he’d get too melancholy for this fuckass bar, of course, kicked out for oversharing his absurd, genuine horrors of what he goes through at night, rather than drinking it down–what he has to endure in his labyrinthine of a mind.
“H–hic–huh?” He slowly looked up at you from the ground, glimpsing, glassy, doe eyes for a pair, a window to his plagued soul, just staring at you with a curious furrow, as you loomed over him with dissapointment. Jaw slack, face slicked with that strange heat beer would give you, he mindlessly pondered whether you were just a figment of his imagination, or if you really came as you promised. Oh, how you knew, by those readable eyes. You assumed he had gotten drunk, swigging down a drink or two with his good-for-nothing friends—or cousins. But noo, he didn’t get wasted because it was for “fun”; he’s been drinking down the rain (again), trying his best to suppress his memories. Fuck. This is all fucked. You, standing there, out in the rain–umbrella in hand, bare legs chilled against the wind, just staring back at him, an orphic-like understanding, creeping up. Your face, a mind of its own, illuminating that genuine look of worry, an expression, expressing your indelible love for him. Sigh.
This, this…is why you come back. This is why you went out in the cold, bitter air…Why you and him…a shared tacit, like apricity.
He’s just a boy. A dreamer of anemoia.
“Y/nnnnn,” Daeron finally said, eyes blurry, alcohol coursing through his blood.
“ ‘s really you?” He whimpered. Fucking whimpered. Hoisting his drunken self, disarrayed hair of that once vibrant honey, bunched up in a half-done ponytail, rattling as so. You grabbed his arm as he faltered, just a silver, gently nudging him to fully stand, arm drifting down his lower back for support, as you lifted the umbrella higher to fit his stature. You didn’t have the energy or the right state of mind to answer him, just focusing on his steps as you made way to the car, saturated pavement, drowning the soles of your feet. The duality of self was pensive as you struggled both internally and outwardly, immersing oneself in what was right and wrong, what happens now, and what to do–ubiquitously. As you stumbled and faltered from his burdensome leaden, making way back to the car before the cold winds and rain could get any worse, you tenderly propelled him into the passenger’s side, maintaining that fervid battle of rushing love and vows for your own good.
“Watch it, Daeron…” You muttered, a hasted worried glance at his current state, overanalyzing every possible accident he could cause while he’s drunk. You made your bed, so lie in it, you mumbled under your breath as you got in the car, placing yourself with hushed dwales, glancing every now and then at Daeron. Your feelings–as if it was ever hidden in the first place–were present. Is present. That protective nature you carried whenever it came to him, gravitating towards “motherly” worry. He was just someone who brought out that odd maternal instinct, you know? Anyone would automatically feel…Maternal, or parental, over him, if they really got to know him…
“You came back…” He drawled. Head facing away, avoiding your eyes, he propped his head up with the callous of his knuckles. Staring at the passing, amber-immersed, enveloped streets, as you started the car. His words were fairly slurred, still coated in the aftertaste of beer, still gloomy. He was eerily mystifying as he mentioned that. No words croaked from you, sparking a question of sorts—a statement. It was true, you did come back. But hearing it from him, out of all people, it felt too…disconcerting. Too sensitive. You settled for hefty silence, instead. Throughout the whole car ride, not croaking out a single word, not one reply to his drunken confessions, stories, and whatever he could yap about as if this was casual. A normal agenda. The silence after babbling out about anything, and his voice, unbearable, was too awkward. You’d hope that any signs of soberness would finally emerge, maybe a moment of silence emitted would get him to calm down after you pleaded for him to just be quiet. But it made everything too suffocating. Not only for you, but for him, as well. The journey back was short, but being in proximity to him, it felt like an eternity. You thought Daeron would at least try to talk his way through, say something along the lines of an apology–a sorry or two, a chance to just let everything out, and forget about it the morning after. But he didn’t. He reciprocated; he mirrored your given silence. He mirrored your frustrations, made everything overwhelming, worse. The past memories of you and him, flashing through the window as building lights had blurred into a merging, glowing streak. It’s like you were both hallucinating, tracing the outlines of those crystalline smiles you once shared, rapidly blinking them away with disgust. Tears threatening to slip.
▬▬ι══════ﺤ
You both arrive, pulling into the parking lot of your apartment building. A sigh of relief seemed to escape from you both, a relief of the rain subsiding, and a hint of petrichor. From the escape of untold, admitted guilt. Just get him changed, let him chug down a few glasses of water, and wait. Wait for him to finally get sleepy, then go ahead and buy the hangover soup. That's it. Was what you kept repeating as you got him situated, softly leading him out of the car, making sure he stays underneath the umbrella as you walked–and not wandering off from the familiar building. He was heavier than he looked, dragging you both down every step of your apartment. Stop it. You kept saying, whenever he’d get handsy, curiosity, from nowhere. Maybe it was best to drop him off at his cousin’s place. Would do you a whole lot, would keep everything in order. But with his promises, reaching his father, and with the repetitive phrase of “I’ll stop drinking,” coming to mind—a typical Daeron thing–you decided it was better off dealing with him, instead. Knowing Maekar, he would go ballistic. The whole family would know of another broken vow made by him, and he’d drink even more from the chaos that would come after exposing himself. All doors led to consequences for him–it seemed. If he were with you, you both would do something that would be regretted. If he came back drunk to his kin, he’d be more depressed, ashamed. And if he were alone to fend for himself, he’d end up in a ditch. This was all a shit-show. Probably Dante's Inferno hell in your life and his, where everything was just a massive chain of events, never a glimpse of light in the darkness, you and he have to push through.
“Watch your step, Daer–”
“Am I ba—”
“Oh shut it.” You quickly retorted,
—Heading towards the entrance of the building, shaking off the wetness of rain, you steadily ground Daeron, and head to the elevator. Your mind was racing. Jumping from one thought to another, from one regret to a past one. You prayed that this time, for this one last time, that things wouldn’t end with you and him on the ground, making up the time passed by with you two, replacing apologies with kisses, replacing the coldness of the relationship with scorching lust. It always ended like that, though. Ending with you in his arms or him in yours, legs intertwined, air filled with somber sex, anger towards the world, redirected to the burning sensation shared from you both. It would be inconvenient, anyway, though it would be too embarrassing. He was drunk, you were clear-headed, he was fumbling his steps, while you were walking with steady footing. Grabbing him, setting an example on how to actually walk properly without plummeting towards the ground. There was no way, right? You already made your choice, just help him and get him the hell out of here by sunrise. No make-up sex, no exchanged tears, sadness, nothing. Just stop overthinking it. You don’t love him anymore; this was only because of your pity. Because your love wasn’t love, it was the guilt of abandoning something–someone, that didn’t need abandonment. They needed help.
Ding.
▬▬ι══════ﺤ
After finally making it to your apartment, heavy breaths leaving you as you shoved him inside, you switched the lights on in the chiaroscuro room. Daeron suddenly slips and falls on the ground, stumbling on his feet as the floor started to blur.
“Daeron, get up,” you deadpanned, exhaustion escaping you as you crossed your arms impatiently.
“ ‘m up…” he groaned out, rubbing his back as he arose, shaking his head like a cartoon character. That totally got him sober again, you thought. His head shook as he finally realized that he was in your living room, eyes finally centered, the familiar feeling he got struck him, whenever he grasped what was going on. He glanced everywhere, ogling the area with an ambiguous look, as if he was dazed by nothing new. You kept studying him, wondering what was so different now, why he looked as if everything was new. This wasn’t some strange place for him; he’s been here before. Countless times. Had walked and touched every inch of your apartment. Your home, our home—he’d jest. Was this some stupid, drunk antic? Did his falling to the ground make everything unfamiliar to him? Well, you didn’t care anyway. You just brushed it off, heading towards your bedroom to grab whatever pieces of clothing he didn’t bother to take back. Kind of weird, how it was still there. Not because of the fact that he just never thought to take them, but because you still had them. Didn’t throw them away when he didn’t reply to your text, never gave them away, or just dropped them off at his house. Maybe a piece of you still loved him like that. Still mourned the side of him that was picturesque. That loved you too.
“Here. Change into this, and I’ll grab you some water. You feel like throwing up?” You handed him his clothes to change out of, eyeing him up and down as he hesitantly took them and changed right. Infront. Of you. Freak, you mentally thrashed. But it wasn’t like you didn’t enjoy it…his visage, body, it was an insatiable eye candy, one that easily allured you.
“Thanks,’’ he replied, stretching as he wandered to grab some water instead. His mouth hung open like he was going to add anything else–but closed it .
“You can sleep in my bed, if you want. I'll be on the couch.’’ you assured, wondering what he was going to say to you before leaving. At least you were considerate. Well, everything you have just done for him was above considerate, nonetheless.
…
▬▬ι══════ﺤ
“I- uhm. I,’’ sigh. ‘’I’m sorry.’’ he stuttered, indigo, flickering eyes, shaking as he looked at you, longing prominent in his eyes, as he wiped his condesated palms, breath uneven from the proximity of you to after walking towards you; inching closer.
“W-what…’’ It caught you by surprise, head slightly angled, brows widening as you realized what he just said. ‘I'm sorry?’ Is that really it? Are you fucking kidding me? Roared your mind, disbelief, anger, sadness, it all came crashing down, all barging their way into your caged heart, obsidian mind. “I'm sorry?” What the actual fuck? Please, not right now. Please. Was what you kept lashing, mind drifting off, peacing a goodbye, as you stared at him, your eyes glaring at him—reaching beyond his soul.
“You're sorry? You’re SORRY?’’ you finally retorted. Stepping forward, eyes lowering as sharp as Valyrian steel, noses brushing as you gestured your head. Daeron didn’t know what to do. He thought it was the right thing, thought that it was the right moment—when he got sober (enough). He, too, had wanted to end this situation; he didn’t want you to keep caring for him like this, putting you on a constant wheel of love and “responsibility”. You didn’t deserve it. Didn't deserve it at all. He loved you enough to leave you, to keep you away from his constant despair of youth. He knew he was no good, but what possessed him to even think that he’d deserve a sweet girl like you?
“You’ve got to be shitting me, Daeron Targaryen. After the constant ghosting, the late-night texts when you got too fucking drunk, all those times, missed opportunities?! To say something better, to come up with something better than ‘I'm sorry,’ you decide to do it now? Are you kidding me?!” you seethed, poking at his chest as hard as you could now, the veins in your neck prominent as your tone raged. that built-up anger finally released. You were in disbelief–relief, that he had finally admitted to it, but disappointed. Why say it now when you're drunk?! When everything had finally calmed down into a more plausible environment? Why couldn’t you just do it when you were sober, coherent, at clarity to actually remember this moment? But then again,
—Sometimes, there's a saying that when people are deep into their drinks, they tend to speak their mind. To tell the truth. And Daeron never told the truth when he was sober. Never had the guts to face it. Never had the strength within the bearer of the sword.
“I know. But, I-i’m sober now, when you called me ba–”
“You’re such a dick, Daeron!!” you shouted, fuming, your tears streaming down your face now, catching him off-guard.
“Y/n– fuck, no…please,’’ he lamented, hurriedly rushing closer to you, grabbing your face, hugging you tight. He didn’t mean to break you. Didn’t mean to drag you into his shit. He loved you, fuck, he loves you. He loved—loves, you so much that he left, just so he couldn’t break you further even more. But oh, how he regretted every inch of his decision. He wished he wasn’t cursed with such a gift; he wished that he was a normal person–that dreamt of normal things, that envisioned fantasies, not premonitions. He pleaded, prayed, wished to be normal, just for once—for you. Everything fell apart, your facade of “moving on,” his careless behaviour when he was drunk, everything came to light. Every procrastinated event, finally making its way—here.
“Please, y/n, don’t cry… He hushed, wiping your tears away, holding you, pulling you to his chest, shushing you to the best of his abilities. It broke his heart when he heard you, witnessing your act of taking your armor off.
“Shh…’’ —You just kept crying, tears just wouldn’t stop. You hated every moment of this. You were supposed to be stronger than this, to be hardened by every painful memory, to move on. Why, just why?! Why couldn’t you stop crying? Why can't I stop crying...
▬▬ι══════ﺤ
As you kept bawling, actions expressing your feelings, louder than your words, Daeron started kissing away your tears. Leaning down, eyes tearing from just the sight of you, closing them with tears prickling as well, slowly kissing your tears, his lips quiver on your cheeks, you could feel it in the silent sobs that rumbled against you, his muffled apologies vibrating against your skin. You couldn’t help but just kiss him back. You swiped away your cheeks, replacing them with your own lips. You were shaking–full on shaking as you tip-toed, meeting his soft lips, beer lingering. Daeron could feel it when he pecked at your lips at first, hesitating to take it any further, but you deepened the kiss anyway. You weren’t thinking straight, he noted. Your grief caused by him–just taking over, all of those pent-up emotions, just represented with your demanding prod. It was so messed up, making his gut wrench. He didn’t want to do this, didn't want to cause any further pain, he tried to back away, taking a step back–to give you the choice of stopping before anything else happens–but you held him there. Holding his head in place as you pressed against him even further, mind closing and just taking him in. You didn’t care. You made the decision now to let this moment blur, to pass by you like a night of drinking, a memory hard to remember like a hangover. It always ended up with sex, you and him making up. Every apology, replaced with pleasure, easing each other’s pain away temporarily. But you needed this; you missed him. And he needed it, too.
“Y/n…’’ He finally pulled away, panting as he looked at you with reluctance, a string of saliva connecting you and him. You opened your eyes, poor things sobbed red, puffy, and glossy.
“Y/n, look, I'm sorry–’’ You interrupted him, yanking him back down to kiss him. You both devoured each other, tongue ravaging, begging for entrance, fighting his tongue like you either hated him or loved him, or both. You closed your eyes and just breathed him in, biting his lower lip, messily maneuvering around as you smeared your spit with your own. Daeron had to grab you by the waist, using you as leverage while he pushed down harder too. The kissing lasted longer than needed, your mouth and his, smeared with contrition. He gripped you hard, knuckles turning white, tongue finally escaping your grasp and trailing down to your neck. It was clear that he was still a little drunk; his tongue tasted of beer when you made out, faltering as he sucked and bit everywhere on your jaw, to your neck, and collar, slobbering all over you. You shifted your head to give him easier access, a moan escaping you unwillingly, and shame, guilt, fighting to warn you as you actually…enjoyed it. He’s drunk, you aren't... he doesn’t know what he’s doing…but you did. You couldn’t stop. You were drunk yourself, drunk off the high you were chasing. The ache you needed to relieve, grinding on him as you devoured each other like animals. You just couldn’t bring yourself to be the mature person, to tell him that this was wrong. But yet, you gripped his hair anyway, tugging on him with animalistic lust, ruining his already messed-up hair-do, nudging him to the couch as you licked a stripe on his neck, causing him to moan. He was on you like a man deprived, lips never leaving your body. He couldn’t even stop when you both had plummeted on the couch, just bruising you, marking you, leaving his apologies on you, showing his guilt through his intimacy. You could feel how hard he was, biting you a little bit harder now, thrusting into your thigh like a dog in heat.
“Daeron…baby, slow down…’’ You gasped, pulling his hair harder, trying to tug him away. He came back up, breathing heavily, looking at you like you just ruined him. His eyes, his face, his lips, he looked like he was yearning for this. Waiting for this.
He looked so…pretty.
“N-no… ‘m not done…’’ Heaving, panting, coming back down on you, his hands going under your shirt–pulling it up, moaning as his hands roamed your skin. Groping anything, roughly shoving you down on the couch, he just couldn’t stop; he wanted to fucking tear you apart. You didn’t want it to stop either. You stared at him with lust-filled eyes, studying him as he pulled down your pants with urgency, mumbling incoherent nonsense of sweet nothings, trailing kisses down your body as you caressed his hair, your tears left on his tongue, intermixing with his spit. Mmm…you moaned as he nipped your inner thigh, demanding entrance, clinging to the wetness of your heat, the slickness gushing out, panties transparent as your animal attraction for him. He looked up once again, looking for an answer–looking for a confirmation, scratching your thighs agonizingly with impatience. You were absent—wrecked with desire, only noticing when Daeron had whined. Daeron’s breath was directly on your core, hot and heady, frustrations prominent, he was so close—lips grazing your clothed pussy as his breath faltered, just waiting for a nod. He looked at it for a moment, drinking it in, drinking everything in, then looked up one last time. You nodded, a smirk forming as you bit your lip, opening your legs wider. The silence was overwhelming, his thoughts blurring. Then he finally pulled back your panties, practically ripping them off of you, throwing them. Everything was wet, your heat barely letting your underwear go, too sticky, just glued to your core. It was so messy, so evocative. It said everything you tried to hide, showed him your true feelings.
"Fuck, you're wet…” he groaned out, his head thrown back as he slowly traced the outlines of your chloeric heat, slowly prodding it open, separating your pussy lips with two fingers, just staring at it—blissed out. It was embarrassing, all too sensual. You kept closing your legs, confidence rapidly dropping, your embarrassment washing over–but he kept a firm grip on your thighs, tight. Rigid. His agitation was present as he kept yanking you open, holding you down—he wanted you still, he needed you to feel this, to feel everything. After a moment of cheeky struggling, Daeron had finally latched his mouth on your pussy, tongue thrusting in with furious need, ramming it with fervent need, his mouth raging with the heat of his lust. He craved for your pussy like it was a bottle of sweet wine; it tasted heavenly–tasted of summer wine. It was addicting, entrancing him, luring him to nudge even more. To go deeper. He had inhaled everything, pushing you down—holding you down, angling his head down to go even deeper. You moaned out like a pornographic star, hands immediately on his hair, holding yourself in place as his nose nudged on your clit, his tongue sucking every nook and cranny—like he still remembered every touch that made you come undone. He delved, probed, reached the depths of your core, your walls clenching—luring him in. Daeron had kept changing paces, going fast, opening his mouth even wideeer to drink you in even more, then slowing to impale you, forcing you to take it. He craved, his mind longing for your sweet sounds, ravenousness in your pleasure. Elevating your thighs, he slides his hands under the small of your back to lift you up. Daeron was reaching his limit and going over it simultaneously, inhaling you in, making you arch, rutting into the couch ruthlessly.
“Daeron, mmph!” you screamed out, gripping his hair like a vice, pushing your body up with your feet, and clenching your thighs—trapping him. Daeron followed your every squim like a man on a leash. You were close, so close, he could tell whenever you clenched a little too roughly. Daeron had managed to flip you up, making himself lie down on the couch, letting you ride his face. His eyes never leaving you, he admired your tantalizing beauty, observed like a man entranced, noticing how your face scrunches up, eyebrows furrowed as you felt your orgasm nearing. You were gradually getting louder now, moans turning into screams, your lips bleeding from your harsh bites to shush yourself, pleasure sooo lewd, rocking back and forth, suffocating him—sending sparks to your body as the friction became too much. Daeron didn’t seem to care–in fact, he relished it. He opened his mouth wider, digging through your hole deeper, his massive hands clutching on your thighs, bruising your soft skin. His face was furrowed in focus–attentiveness–wanting, needing this. He didn’t seem to mind dying between your legs; he just smiled, and you felt it. Oh, how you felt that crude smirk of his. He loved this. He enjoyed this. Daeron had held you up, his hands lying flat on your ass as he kept you elevated, his tongue popping out with a nasty pop, dragging down from bottom to up, sucking on your clit as his ring-adorned fingers pushed inside of you, doubling the overwhelming sensation. Your orgasm came crashing down hard, a sob rasping your hoarse voice,your grip on his hair firm. Daeron had slurped it all up, moving all over the place just so he wouldn’t miss a drop. You just kept flowing, causing him to get messy, to slobber—to slobber up every drip of your mouth-watering cream, drenching his face in your juice.
“D-Daeron!!” you exploded, trying to get off of him, but he didn’t let you go. His arms locked in place, chasing your orgasm, going faster and faster. Again and again.
“Daeron, g-get o–”
“No. Please, just one more…” He whined, arousal high, coming from simply just eating you the fuck out.
He didn’t stop. That promise was a lie. Daeron continued to tongue-fuck you, round after round, chasing your nth high. He was mad, mad at himself…Mad that he went months without your sweet pussy. He was deprived; he fucking lost it. One taste of your slick had him all riled up and wanting more, more, more. This man fucked you dumb, figuratively and literally. Lewd squelches where tongue meets the inside of your folds. You had to physically pry him off, legs trembling–body weak, just to pull him out, to part him away, to get him to breathe. Daeron started crying, whining like a horny teenager who just can’t get enough, his head filled with lustful thoughts and senses, conditioned to just make you feel good. To prove that he was sorry. He needed to show you, to make you feel. To let you know how sorry he was, to let him show you how he had missed you so, so much. As he unbuckled his pants, pre-cum glistening, just a mess on his underwear—your breath hitched. He cummed, literally by eating you out… You were dazed and dumb-fucked, seeing the stars. Daeron had grabbed you, tapping your cheek to see if you were still there. lying down as he manhandled you to straddle him.
“M’ sorry…’s fucking embarrassing, I know…” He apologized, ashamed of how horny he was, getting the best of himself. You couldn’t tell if he was apologising for eating you out like his life depended on it or for the fact that he cummed?!
You noticed his face, red and smeared, glistening with your orgasms. And he noticed, looking at you with a stupid, foolish grin. He looked proud; he looked as if he had accomplished a feat. He knew you were turned on even more, licking his lips, eyes droopy with devotion and lust. He caressed your cheek, as he leaned you in closer, fisting your hair and smashing your face down, devouring your lips even more–letting you, making you taste your own pleasure. He chuckled as he lined his painfully hard cock in your entrance, rubbing it back and forth as he tongue-fucked you stupid. As he pushed his tongue further down your throat, choking you practically, he had finally thrust in, giving you no time to adjust. Fuck, he was big. Like—massively big. Every vein, every inch, you had felt it as soon as he pushed in hard. Forcing himself into you like he couldn’t wait a second.
▬▬ι══════ﺤ
You fucked like it was the end of the world. A whole marathon run, lasting till’ 7’ am. Hell, you fell asleep towards the end, and Daeron still continued to fuck you.
Maybe in the end, while you and Daeron having make-up sex was probably (and was) foreshadowed, it wasn’t so bad. You both need each other—perfect, actually, for each other. You were the glimpse of light in his darkness, and he was yours.
𓆰 Eccentric words and their meaning:
Apricity: Apricity in romance describes the comforting warmth of a partner during a cold or difficult time.
Tentative: Not fully certain.
Mellifluous: A sound, voice or music, that is pleasant to listen.
Desolation: A state of complete void, emptiness.
Ephemeral: Temporary, lasting for a very short time.
Apathy: A lack of feeling, emotion, numbness.
Leaden: weight, heavy, incredibly hard to lift.
Anemoia: nostalgia (a neologism)
Ubiquitously: present, everywhere, at the same time
Petrichor: Pleasant, earthy smell produced after rain falls.
Chiaroscuro: Strong dramatic contrast between light and dark.
Authors notes: It's been quite a while since I had last posted a fic! Sorry you guys (insert country accent) for uhh, making you guys wait? if you were of course. This fic specifically has been in the works for so long because its my first time writing such sensual literature and I was overthinking EVERYTHING. I really am struggling to express what I'm trying to convey for the intimacy and it's been complex, especially since I try my hardest to deliver it as evocative and vividly appealing as possible, but it's the consistency that counts, I didn't want to be as "perfect" as it was even if it was my first fic. Also IK the color scheme for the words I wanted to emphasize is...horrid, but I'll probably fix it later on. Hope you guys found the dictionary helpful as well, I usually express my works through archaic and slightly rare/poetic words, but this was a MODERN AU so I thought it would be off. Anyways, love you all and hope you guys enjoyed the fic! Also, if you got this far into the blog, THIS IS NOT PROOFREAD. I just edited when I finished freewriting so I pray this turns out decent.
A HANDY CHART FOR THOSE OF YOU WONDERING WHAT THE FUCK IS UP WITH THESE. NOTE THAT THESE ARE ALL THE INFORMAL AND YOU IS THE FORMAL SO LIKE YOU WOULD ALWAYS ADDRESS YOUR SUPERIOR/ OLDER PERSON/ SOCIAL BETTER WITH YOU BUT WITH YOUR BUDS YOU CAN USE THESE.
I can actually answer this! So the latex/rubber they used, while standard for Hollywood at the time, reacted REALLY BADLY to being doused in pouring water nonstop for an entire day of shooting. They ended up corroding, which caused them to stink really badly and glob together at the seams. The original plan was to hand out masks to various crew members on the final day of shooting as souvenirs, but the sopping wet, melting, rotting rubber got so gross that by the end of that shooting day they’d already thrown most of them out. Somewhere in a landfill are hundreds of disgusting, bloated, slimey Hugo weaving heads fused together into a nightmarish rotting amalgam :)
ok so. so we’re just. not reading now. wow ok. ok!!! booktok says we should remove half of the fun from reading!!! wow!!! (i found this in a video and apparently it’s not just this person doing it. it’s. quite a few of them. just to make that clear.)
saw this beautiful fanart on twitter by @thesedarlings so i decided to share a snippet from my fic 👀
Daeron looked at his empty eye socket, the way it wrinkled softly when half of his mouth rose up in a grin.
He never put anything in it, never covered it either. Sometimes Daeron thought he did it on purpose, to unsettle everyone around him.
“Tell me,” Brynden said, almost conversationally, “when did the dreams begin?”
Daeron hesitated. He remembered vividly. And he was sure Bloodraven did as well.
“You know it.”
The room quieted, even the ravens stilled.
Bloodraven regarded him carefully now. “I don’t.”
“You do.” Daeron insisted, feeling tears prickle at the side of his eyes. “You stood before my bed and told me I had been blessed.”
“I do not recall that.”
“You were clenching your left eye socket, it was still dripping blood.” Daeron continued, his tone becoming urgent. He wouldn’t gaslight him to forget that, Daeron wouldn’t let him. He had had enough of being called mad. “You looked maniacally desperate, because you had just killed your brother.”
most of the time everything sucks but when the sky is blanketed in dark blue-grey clouds after heavy raining and the sun starts to peek through the clouds so that the tops of trees glint pale green and every white structure is starkly, blindingly silhouetted against the sky i’m ok.
