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RHAENYRA

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[ There is a hunger in Rhaenyra now that yawns, and stretches, and seeks to be sated; she has not known hunger like this since before their children were born, when she felt like little more than a broodmare intended to bring heirs into the world, a vessel meant to assure more of their line. When was the last time that she readily sought pleasure for pleasure's sake, the way men so often do? When was the last time she allowed herself to ride her husband's cock for the pure enjoyment of it, rather than trying to ensure that new life would take root inside her?

If Daemon bucks beneath her now, hips seizing upward as she works herself over him faster, she doesn't immediately chide him for being so daring, but her lips part for a smirk, her brow arching in subtle challenge. She has half a mind to lift herself off of him now, crawl up the length of his body and smother him with her cunt, ride his face the same way until he sees her pleasure assured — and then, and only then, finish him off properly. Would he enjoy it, she wonders? Would he willingly submit to anything she chose to do to him, surrender to becoming her throne in a manner more befitting of a whore on the Street of Silk, rather than a dragon queen?

She drifts down to him, slowing the pace of her hips in order that she might meet his lips more easily, licking over his mouth before slanting them together in a deep, devouring kiss. Let him feel the effect he has on her, how she slicks him more readily now, her arousal building as her breath quickens. She moans, soft and approving, when he thrusts into her from beneath, lets him take over the pace of things as she tightens her thighs at his hips. ]

There's no need to be gentle. [ Her whisper across his mouth is harsh and hurried, breathless; she has never loved him more, she thinks, than she does in this moment. ] True dragons never are.

[ There are few delights in this world that could come close to the joy of the pleasure of a wife sated, of a lover come to completion, spilling in hand or mouth or elsewhere. Daemon has found great enjoyment between his wife’s legs over the years they have been together, and has longed for her further than that - how many of the whores in King’s Landing had been his for an evening because they had her nose, the glint of her eye, the dimple of her smile?

Too many, and perhaps that lacks the flattery that it might offer to some, but there is no denying the truth.

Daemon is hers, and has been so for too many years, under the pained and watchful eye of Viserys, with other marriages between them. He had fondness for Laena, that he would never deny, but the whole world had known where his oath and devotion had lied. They’ll know it again now, with his knee bent to her at Harrenhall, his promise made before their banners and their kin.

He is her dragon, her sword, her monster in the night, her own to command and cast where she sees fit.

It is so easy, then, to kiss her, to lean into the familiar dance, to leave soft noises against her skin. There is no duty in this, nothing beyond the joy and pleasure of coming together once more, of adoration and love and trust branded upon them. There need be no heir from this, no replacement for what was lost - only love.

Breathless, he grins up at her, their noses nudging even as he rocks himself into her cunt, using the angle to push in as hard as he can, to take what is given to him so freely. ]

Whatever my grace wishes, she will have. Let us not resist our urges.

[ There had been doubt fostered between them, in the past — recent events had led Rhaenyra to question Daemon's true intentions, his deeper motivations regarding her rightful claim to the Iron Throne. Whatever had transpired for him at Harrenhal, whatever ghosts he may have been forced to confront there within its haunted walls, seems to have given him a new perspective — not merely in regard to her father's insistence of the Song of Ice and Fire and its importance, but that she can serve as the best ruler to lead the Seven Kingdoms when it inevitably comes to pass.

How long, she thinks, had she been his — a piece of her belonging to him even as he had taken other wives, as she had been promised to another husband? That night on the Streets of Silk had been illuminating for her in more than one sense, but he had refrained then, denying himself, denying them. Years later, the encounter on the beach between them had been hers to initiate, asserting her desire for him as a woman rather than a girl.

Here, her desire lies not in mere womanhood, and not even necessarily that of a queen; she aches for him as wife for husband, as her dragon, and her pace quickens as her need does, as they start to move more frantically, with an accompanying slap of skin against skin. ]

Daemon. [ A plea, nearly a whine despite their earlier play, she wants no other name on his lips but hers, as she edges closer to her peaking. ]

Finish inside me. [ She craves every drop of his seed now — perhaps it will not take root this time, but that doesn't mean she wants it left anywhere else. It's evident she's holding herself back, though, trying to withstand him, so that she saves her own release for his tongue, so that he can lick his leavings out of her. ]

Edited 2024-12-16 16:33 (UTC)

[ The truth is that she would not be wrong to have doubted him, to have been unsure of his intentions - because he would have taken the mantle for himself, even if he realises now that it is not what he truly desires. If his brother had offered him the throne he would have taken it, but hindsight is a gift indeed - he would not have enjoyed kingship as much as his mind might have thought, once.

Or he would, and his dreams were wrong. Daemon cannot be sure.

None of that matters, especially in this place. None of this matters, because they are here together, they have been welcomed to this realm twinned together, as if the world itself could not part them. The possessive part of Daemon knows it is because she is his, but in the same vein he is hers; her husband, her lover, hers for so long time has lost the meaning of it.

Sighing into the kiss, he nudges their noses, he rocks into her, and he feels the utter bliss of it all. ]

Rhaenyra.

[ It only takes him a flicker of time longer, hands bound and hips chasing her, giving her what she wants. He leans back as he groans, baring his neck as a wild animal might, cheeks heated and warm as he allows himself to come and fill her, all that she might want, ever giving in to her demands. ]

[ It is torturous, holding herself back at the sensation of Daemon's cock pulsing, throbbing within her as he spills himself at her urging, her demand — but Rhaenyra has eternally been nothing if not determined, resolute, and once she sets her mind to something it can be difficult to sway her in any other direction. When she was younger, her rebelliousness had certainly gotten her in trouble, but she had an increasing suspicion that her more resistant tendencies were exactly the sort of thing that Daemon enjoyed about her — her impulse to challenge, despite being viewed as lesser because of her sex, had often matched his own defiance, even if she had not gone to the lengths he had.

But as he lies beneath her, the column of his throat a straining arch, she bends down to bite at it, more of an absent grazing of teeth than something that leaves a more puncturing mark — and in the moment, her hands are more focused on reaching up to unfasten the belt keeping his wrists tied so that freedom is afforded back to him again. She doesn't need to keep him leashed for this next part, but she doesn't suspect that he'll object once he realizes what her next decision involves. ]

Catch your breath. You'll need it.

[ Her mouth slants upward in a crooked smirk, even as she lifts her hips to let his cock slip from her with an accompanying hiss through gritted teeth. She can feel his seed left inside her, threatening to escape, and instinctively clenches in an attempt to keep it all within, but climbing up the length of his body is a somewhat more difficult task when she has to account for her own skirts. ]

Kesā sagon ñuha dēmalion, valzȳrys. [ Words that take on wholly new meaning when she's making efforts to straddle his face, knees sinking into the pillow on either side of his head, her gaze hungry as it traverses his expression. ] Sir, rijībagon aōha dāria.

[ Daemon does enjoy this, does enjoy the fact that his wife is taking what she wants. When he had done it when they were younger, when he had pushed her into a wall and kissed her, hard and harsh, he had wanted to see her submission, wanted to see her give into him. When she had returned his intensity it had shaken him, then, but now? Now he feels nothing short of adoration, nothing short of something wonderful, and he wants to devour her.

He wants this. He wants her mark, as he wears her ring, as he wears her banner, his devotion for her clear and obvious. He wants to be claimed by her in the way dragons do, in the way that Caraxes and Syrax dance around each other and roar to the skies. He is her husband, her consort, her king, and it burns inside him like dragonfire.

Breathing in, sharp and harsh, he watches as she moves and makes herself comfortable. He is still bound, still entirely at her mercy, but there's no hiding the delight in his eyes as she settles herself over him, thighs either side of his face and the promise of her pleasure there for the taking. ]

ñuha jorrāelagon.

[ Rhaenyra settles down over him, and his hands tug at his bindings in the desire to grasp her, to squeeze at her and take. Instead, he uses his mouth, tilting his head up to immediately slide his tongue along her cunt. He is chasing the taste of himself mingled with her own desire, and he groans softly, pushing himself as close as he can get to her to start to devour her properly. ]

[ The fact that Daemon had been willing to submit himself into her hands, to give over control of this coupling to her, only arouses Rhaenyra further, but there is something about the idea of using him as her throne in the most illicit, depraved sense that makes her unmistakably wet, all but dripping as she finally settles herself over his face and he lifts his chin to meet her with the initial slide of his tongue over her cunt.

She's sensitive, already, from riding him, but in a way that renders every further lick and stroke that much more enjoyable. Still, something's missing even in this, and Rhaenyra quickly realizes what it is; Daemon's wrists are still tied to the headboard, when she wants his hands on her waist, her hips, her thighs, steadying her, creating one more point of direct contact between them.

She reaches up with a sudden franticness, digging her fingernails into the admittedly loose knot she'd created so she can tug the belt loose, away from his skin with an audible whisper of the leather, punctuated by the thud of the buckle when it slips from her grasp over the edge of the mattress to hit the floor. ]

Daemon. [ She needs him, desperately, fingers of one hand sliding through his hair, cradling the back of his head — tender as a mother's embrace, but with the urgency of a lover. When she rounds her hips down over his mouth again, it's more gently than when she'd sheathed his cock in her heat, since she isn't aiming to smother him, but she's still more heedless in how she seeks out his tongue, her other hand curving over the top of the headboard for further purchase. ]

[ There are few people alive that Daemon would willingly bend to, that he would offer himself to without pause, and there is a strange twist of fate in the imagining that it is father and daughter both. Blood calls to blood, and the two of them have the blood of the dragon burning inside of them - it's what calls to him, makes him yearn for her all the more. Her beauty, her strength, her wisdom and her mind, but her blood, too, her connection to the dragons that pulse inside them.

He enjoys this, he thinks; giving her what she wants, seeking her pleasure, curling his tongue in her cunt and making a pleased noised as she rocks over him. Daemon does not see this as true submission, perhaps, as others do - in this he is giving his wife pleasure, giving her what she desires, all that she wants, and there is no hesitation in him. There is nothing that would stop him from bringing her the release she deserves.

This is his wife. He will do well by her, as he always shall.

Without hesitation, he closes his eyes and continues to worship her, to do everything that he can to please her, groaning against her cunt with content abandon. ]

[ Would Rhaenyra have ever been this bold, even on the night she'd finally confronted him about her feelings — offered up the truth between them, knowing she was finally giving voice to what had always simmered beneath the surface of their conversations? As they'd undressed one another with sure hands, made love beneath the shelter of that abandoned boat, she'd cleaved to Daemon as a wife would — on her back, spread to accept the weight of him between her thighs, the press of his cock inside her — even before they'd uttered the vows that would bind them to each other in blood.

Now, she's confident enough to seize her own pleasure and to let him play a part in delivering it to her, aware of what she wants him to do in their bed — put his face between her legs, devour her cunt as he plunges his fingers deep, readying her for thicker. They're not wholly selfish lovers with each other, not anymore; she derives just as much enjoyment from making him shudder and spill as she does when he makes her crest from his tongue, his cock.

The rumble of his groan against her tender flesh prompts another shiver, another quaking, and then a moan, as he licks at her, tasting his own seed and the tartness of her arousal merged together, and the grip she's established on the headboard enables her to rub herself over his mouth with clear intention, chasing release rather than prolonging it that much more.

It doesn't require much more effort from him when she's been close to her finish since riding him; her body tightens, movements dissolving into shuddering hips and a sharp indraw of breath, and then she stills over him, swaying through the immediate sensations.

When she finally regains feeling in her lower half, she moves, gingerly easing off of him and then curling up along his side, one arm draped across his middle as she nuzzles into his shoulder, making no effort to redress or cover herself right away. She'd much rather bask in this with him, the warmth that lingers behind, as she slowly lifts her chin to initiate a kiss she can taste both of them in. ]

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