"The Princess grew accustomed to her uncle's exorbitant proclivities, particularly in the case of gift-giving. Daemon became known for bestowing lavish presents upon his young bride, procuring all manner of jewels, books and baubles for her enjoyment. Common legend dictates that many of the Crown's most valuable relics are these very same gifts, stored safely away by the royal House upon her demise."
- 'Dragoness: A History of the Women Who Shaped House Targaryen' by Maester Harewin
* * * * * * * *
THE ROGUE
It is unhealthy, the extent to which you have consumed his life.
At least, he's sure that there are plenty of others who would not hesitate to say such a thing. The Small Council, the Hightower bitch and her court, and perhaps even the entirety of King's Landing are candidates that spring immediately to mind. Not that they matter overmuch. He's inclined to believe that those he considers closest to him—those of his blood, and the ones deemed precious to them—are more relieved that he has found a pastime that doesn't involve murder or mayhem. For his part, he finds himself more and more comfortable in his fixation as time goes by.
You rouse a flurry of emotion in him. He is not one to typically admit to himself that he even has those. His small niece, his sweet wife, his clever girl and his insolent slut... You surprise him with some new facet of yourself as the hours and days and weeks pass, and sometimes he wonders if he will ever know you in your entirety. It excites him; it galls him, to be so absorbed in a slip of a thing such as you are. The Daemon of a decade ago would probably take one look at him and laugh at how unmanned he had become, chasing after his pretty little wife as though you had tied a leash to his cock. (That's an intriguing thought.) But the Daemon of a decade ago was also a colossal twat, so he finds it hard to care how indulgent he may have become.
You are his now—and let it never be said that he doesn't treasure what is his.
His attention snaps to where you lay in the bed, sighing and shifting in the way that you do when consciousness begins to sink its claws into you. Your wild hair spills like a river of moonlight as you turn from your belly and begin the process of untangling yourself from the sheets, grumbling all the while. You are not easily awakened, and the sight of you grousing to yourself under your breath is—as always—entertaining as it is endearing.
You amble inelegantly over to where he is slouched upon the chaise, yawning and rubbing the crust from your eyes. He sits up, already prepared for the moment that you fold yourself over his knee and fall back into a doze as you do every morning.
But today is no ordinary day.
He runs a hand down your spine as you squirm onto his lap, at first bracketing his thighs with your own and then deciding to twist around so that you are cradled in the crook of his arm, head tucked into his neck and puffing lax little breaths. Changeable, greedy thing.
"Happy name day, sweetling," he murmurs gently, wincing as you wiggle your backside into his crotch to get comfortable. With how often you elicit desire in him, stiffening his member to the point of pain within too-tight breeches, he's surprised his cock hasn't dropped off from overuse.
You mumble in irritation, tucking bared legs against your chest, and he obliges the movement by sliding his arm under your knees, plucking at the hem of the nightgown that has pooled just above the curve of your rear. He snickers at the sound of your displeasure, inhaling the warm little-girl scent of sweet dreams and serene slumber that never fails to pound in his chest like poison, sickening and stimulating. All at once, he is reminded of the day you were born—this very same day, eighteen summers past—and of the downy, butter-soft fragrance of the you that had been brand-new to the world, small and helpless in his hold.
It is a very simple thing to adjust you, to pull you up into his grip, to take himself out of his trousers. He settles you along the hard line of himself, rocking lightly against the bloom of your cunt between slack thighs. It is slick and cosy in the space he has made, and you hum faintly against his skin at the feeling.
"Shall I tell you a story?" he asks, angling his tip at the easy clench of your entrance, a tiny, flexing thing that mouths readily at his questing prods, eager to draw him inside.
You bleat like a sleeping suckling lamb as he presses in with a pop, though your stupor makes you supple and pliant and effortless to breach, a dreamy darling willing and open. The relaxed ripple of your walls guide him home, nestled firmly to the root. Save for a wet hiccup against his throat and a barely-there recoil of hips with nowhere to escape to, the taking is as gentle as the lips he lay upon your crown.
"Daemon."
Your complaints are of no use. He is settled deep inside, and he can tell from your lack of resistance that this is something you need, lovely little whore that you are. He pats calmingly along your thigh, a huffing chuckle at the token protest you must put up each time he takes you for his own.
"Sh, niece. You stay nice and quiet and listen to kepa, hm?" He rocks you lightly back and forth upon his length, relishing in the weak huffs you emit with each return. "Once upon a time, there was a King whose Queen had just given birth to a sweet little girl."
A vile, wondrous throb spreads through his heart and his groin at the sound of his own voice cooing to you as he had done when you were a child. The warring sensations of your weight clasped in his lap and your cunt clutching his cock blur the divide between memory and reality, a revolting, delightful conglomeration of every pure emotion you have extracted from him in your short life.
"When she had been bathed and dressed and was ready to be presented, the King and Queen accepted their first visitor. Guess who that was?" he asks.
You whine, no doubt irritated by the continuous stream of sound and the solid girth pitching into you disrupting your longed-for drowse. Another smacking kiss, this time to the corner of your mouth.
"That's right." The delicious condescension of his voice makes you clench down on him. "It was none other than the little girl's uncle, the Dragon Prince."
At this, you crack a sceptical eye open, brow furrowing with incredulity. He punctuates the opening of your lips—likely to remonstrate him—with a sharp thrust, transforming the vocalisation into one of pleasure, a high, reedy moan that sets his pace faster.
Daemon continues his filthy game. "When the Dragon Prince saw his little niece, he was overcome by how soft and sweet and small she was, the most beautiful princess in the Realm. The King had been expecting a son. He didn't have a name for this girl. So, he asked the Dragon Prince, his brother, to do the honours."
Under his watchful eye, your little hand creeps between your thighs, the ruddiness of appalled desire spreading across your cheeks as you play with your pearl. He cannot resist licking into the stunned gape of that tempting mouth of yours, swallowing every gasp as though he means to steal the very breath from your lungs. Your other arm, trapped against his chest, worms its way down and back. You brace yourself on the seat of the chair to give yourself traction to begin grinding yourself down in delectable revolutions that pulse through his cock and up his spine, tingly and fuckhot.
Wanton, tempting little tart.
"Thus, the Prince named the tiny babe in his arms," he says, and he cannot help the veneration that colours his tone as he utters your name, the one he had given you.
To have been the first to hold you; to have watched you grow; to have plucked you out from under the noses of all those worthless, useless fucks that dared call themselves lords, to have borne you down and split you open and reshaped you as his... There is no power like it, and it is heady.
"Do you know what the Prince did next?"
"Uh." Sweat beads at your temple from your exertions. You are doing most of the work now, having pushed against his grip under your thighs to steady your feet against the couch, all but bouncing yourself over his cock to the resonance of his speech, innocent in word yet vulgar in tone. "The—the Prince—Uncle waited for me to grow up. And then he—"
"Then I claimed what was mine." Daemon lifts his hips in time with your downward shoves to punch those luscious yips out of you. "I took my little niece and fucked her open, made her the best little cock-slave, didn't I?"
He cannot decide where to look: the quiver of your tits beneath the thin fabric of your nightrail; your face alight with desperation, lips parted and brow drawn with the need to peak; the arch of that damnable neck, flesh painted with the contusions of his love, vivid and faded both; or your snug little cunt, hand working frantically at your bud even as the harsh column of his cock splits apart delicate walls, glistening and contracting agitatedly around him.
"Yeah, I love it, Uncle—I love it." You jump over his lap and pant, flushed and gleaming. "Ah—I need—please please—"
He knows what you need. You've learned that pleasure is best sought with a bite of pain, and he would not refuse your urgent supplications now in your moment of need. It is easy to slip his hand from under your thighs, to ride a trail up your nightgown and take a peaked nipple between thumb and forefinger, pinching down and twisting hard.
You crest over the tidal wave of ecstasy with a hunched back and strained expression, cunt knotting tighter and trying vainly to force him out. He must grasp you by the hip and drive up up in to keep himself in the furious constriction, grating pitilessly against that nodule of sensation tucked away in your soft ceiling that makes you screech and lock taut. You drench him in syrupy, salty-sweet slip, running hot and creamy down his stones heavy between his legs. The air is stifled with the aroma of sweat and slick, thick and intoxicating.
Daemon basks in the fight your body puts up around him in the throes of its high. "Fuck."
When you slump boneless against him, cunny still milking at him with earnest little gulps, he takes you back into his arms and jolts you over him, feet set to the floor and hammering upward.
"Was that nice? Did kepa make you feel good?" He thinks he is leading you with soft, coaxing words as he fucks into you viciously, when in fact, he is snarling through clenched teeth into your ear. "It hurts, doesn't it, sweetling?"
The wet, briny warmth of exhausted tears dribbles down his neck, the whimpering hiccoughs of a girl overcome shuddering across his skin. Your hands clutch tightly to his shirt, around his neck, burrowing into the source of your decadent torment.
"Yeah," you say, wounded voice distorted by the rapid pitch of your body as he makes you take his length in full, unending pummels. His gut clenches and his pouch is tense and drawn up at the molten balm of your lips and tongue suckling on his flesh, nursing for comfort as his thrusts rise faster and meaner. "You make me feel—it's so big, too much—"
Gods, the sound of you, cadence pitched in the agony only he can bring you... Fuck.
"You want kepa to fill up this little cunt with come?"
"Yes, I want that!" You nod against him, feverish, mouth humid as it laves across his jaw. "Please, kepus, please, fill up my cu–cunny, fill me up—"
His pistons deepen with shorter strokes, battering the soft, swollen mouth of your womb as his breath thunders erratic through gritted teeth. You whine and cry out pitifully in his cradling hold. His heart-rate bursts straight through to the heavens as he strains up and buries his shout against your hair and comes.
It feels never-ending, eternal, a scalding liquid ache that thumps through his stones and in his lower back, rolling all the way through to the flange of his cock in rhythm with each eruption of seed that douses the tender clutch of your core. His eyes roll back, his toes curl until they crack, and he swears his soul departs his body.
She is everything. This is everything.
The thought glimmers in the dawning light of the morning as he comes down from his high, softening slowly inside you. When he has found his own familiar form again, remembers how to use his limbs and work his jaw, he tugs himself free from you, hissing at the petulant flutters that try vainly to grab at him as he departs. You whinge lightly.
Daemon can feel the churned fluid eke itself from your well-used cunt onto his breeches as he nudges with his nose at your face, seeking out your lips for his own. The sumptuous slide of your shared kisses echo through the stone chamber, a serenade that speaks to the intimacy and affection that flourishes between you.
When your lips peel apart, he tries again. "Happy name day."
The murmuring vibrations against your mouth make you giggle, a pleased little smile overtaking your fatigued features when you look up at him. You settle yourself further into his embrace with little care for the fact that your lower half remains exposed to his gaze. It is immensely gratifying to have these small displays of trust in him, actions that speak louder than words when coming from his sweet, shy girl.
Though, he thinks, she's hardly the same timid, withdrawn thing I first encountered on my return. Ah, that fateful day! It had changed his future for the better, of that he is certain.
"Love you," you say, yawning as your eyes close and you gentle down for the nap his passions had so indecently interrupted.
His heart mangles violent and fanatical within his chest at the sight of such innocent allure, pure and sweet and his.
He supposes that gifts can wait a little while longer.
Perhaps he'd gone a little overboard.
"Daemon! What did you do?"
Your tone is full of shocked reproach, wide eyes watching as servant after servant trails in with each of the items he had sourced to commemorate the day of your birth. Eighteen in total, one for each year you had lived.
"Can a man not spoil his little wife, dōnītsos?" he asks in lieu of a reply.
He glares coldly at a nearby maid as she stumbles ever so slightly. No doubt she had tripped on the hem of her gown, risking dropping the wicker box in her hands. Each of the objects are at the very least outrageously expensive, if not priceless.
Daemon turns back to you, casting an affectionate hand across your waist. "Humour me. It's your name day, after all."
You had already possessed that mien of dazed appreciation before he'd directed a nearby attendant to arrange for the presentation of his own tribute to you. Surrounded by the children, your sister, and her husband—and lover, though he believes the current justification for Breakbones's constant presence is his relation to Laenor's nieces—you had opened, unwrapped, unstoppered and unravelled all manner of casings to reveal the trinkets and sundries presented. In lieu of any elaborate balls or festivities, you had requested only to spend the day with your family and your Ser Lysan. Though Viserys had been disappointed at learning that you would not attend him for any commemoration of the event until after the date had passed, your wish was granted easily.
Neatly stacked upon the tea table in the centre of your solar are the gifts bestowed upon you by the gathered attendees. You had giggled with delight at the pair of soft dolls presented by Baela and Rhaena and clearly crafted in yours and his images—cheeky, he thinks—exclaimed enthusiastically over the basket of sweetmeats and assorted delicacies from the young lads, gratefully hugged Rhaenyra over the fine eagle-feather quill and writing kit she had given you, and chattered happily at Laenor and Strong for their joint contribution of a blank leather-bound tome upon which you were free to write to your heart's content.
All fine offerings worthy of a Princess's name day—which is why his own offerings might be too much.
Oh, well.
He sits back to let you unveil the items he had collected, watching you keenly as you enlist the help of your young brother and nephews in removing articles from their trappings. Setting them out on the refectory table for you to pore over at length, you unveil jewels, books, fabrics local and exotic, riding attire and multifarious invaluable ornaments when you and your assistants have finished your work. Ser Lysan, having stepped forth to examine the goods at your entreaty, can do naught but gape dumbfounded at the prize you hold.
"Daemon." Your eyes are bright as you turn to face him. "How... how did you find..."
He almost snorts at the sight of you cradling the book. Of course it would be the books you gravitate towards first. When he spies the scratched title etched upon the leather—and he's fairly certain that leather is in fact human skin—he understands why you and Ser Lysan both appear so flummoxed. He had come upon the thing by chance in the home of the Prince of Pentos some years ago, and it had been all too easy to persuade the man to bequeath it to him. Few would be able to read the Old Valyrian ciphers of Blood and Fire today, even within his own family. It is very possible that the Prince had simply not known the worth of the only surviving tome of Valyrian magic to remain to the world.
"Do you like it?" he asks.
Your answering nod is immediate and furious in its veracity. Childlike awe spans your expression as you glance between him and the pages, darting little worshipful peeks that fill him with pride. It is the look of a girl whose kepa has hung the moon and stars for her; the look of a woman whose husband has laid vast treasures at her feet; the look of a supplicant to their god. A look he suddenly, ardently adores.
"Good. Keep going," he says, tipping his head toward the remaining gifts on the table.
Rhaenyra comes to sit by him as you putter about, cooing joyously over the carved figure of Syrax and Seasmoke, a complement to the depiction of yours and his dragons displayed proudly upon the mantelpiece. You flit over to arrange the statuettes side-by-side, casting loving fingers across the fine details before venturing back to hold aloft an ornate golden necklace enmeshed with rubies and onyx, lifting it close to your keen eye.
Daemon can feel Rhaenyra's eyes boring into him. He can't be bothered to actually turn his head and face her directly. "Is there something you want, niece?"
She snorts. "I never thought I would see the day is all, Uncle." Amusement colours her every syllable. When he glances at her with a quirked brow and puzzled countenance, an unasked request for clarification, she complies with a huff of laughter. "You're besotted."
He rolls his eyes at the infantile appellation, diverted momentarily by your animated prattle over Daenys the Dreamer's Signs and Portents. It's another book he had stumbled across hidden away in the libraries of Dragonstone long ago. He'd kept possession of it ever since, though it is no hardship to confer it upon you. You are his wife, after all.
"Does the notion offend you?" He suppresses the smirk that threatens at the sound of her annoyance. "I married for desire, after all. Surely, it's no surprise that such a sentiment has... evolved."
"I never made mention of it being a bad thing," she says.
He doesn't quite know what he'd been expecting. Though she'd taken the news of the union with grace and had shown nothing but support of you, he knows all too well that his eldest niece is prone to paroxysms of jealousy. He had been the focus of her ardour from an age younger than either he or she is likely comfortable to admit. Even he knows that such feelings wouldn't fade away completely with his marriage to you. Still, the soft approval lining her face is encouraging.
"Hēnkirī drējī kirine iksāt, iksōt daor?" she asks. You're very happy together, aren't you?
Such a simple statement—but Rhaenyra is not one for artlessness. For all that they'd discussed their shared past at length, for all that they'd fought and cried and healed together, for all that they had been living together for some time... He has not heard his eldest niece speak to him in their mother tongue since—gods, before he had last been banished. To hear the sound of home within her words once more eases something he didn't even know had been plaguing him.
"Issa, iksi." Yes, we are.
It would likely frighten her if he should release the tumultuous swirl of every moue of devotion, every sordid appetite, every wrathful furore that pollutes his blood and mutilates him to the bone at the mere thought of you. The strength of it sometimes makes him want to tear his heart from his ribcage, to cast it into flame and watch it turn to ash and dust, to rend his very being down to its essence and build it back up free of the tortured necessity of needing you.
It is not normal or sane to want to raise monuments in your honour, to want to break you so thoroughly that naught makes sense in all the world but him, to want to chain you up and tie you down and keep you soft and warm and safe and happy and in love. It isn't normal. He knows that. He knows that Rhaenyra would see him as the predator he is, that she would seek to protect you from his raging hunger for you, that she would name him mad and cast him off the isle, mayhaps even persuade his brother to exile him once again.
In another life, perhaps he may have married her instead. He doubts that it would have made either of them happy. She wouldn't have been able to handle the weight of his love and his rage and his want.
But you can. You see that base, monstrous shade in him, court it and tease it with every interaction you share—and you love it as it is. You love him as he is.
"I am glad," she says, and he knows that she means it. He knows it in the way that he has always known her. His Rhaenyra, the echo to his spirit of fire and blood and chaos and ruin, his niece turned lover turned friend. One day, his Queen. When the time comes, he'll be glad to bend the knee to such a woman.
Rhaenyra promptly shifts away—an escape, surely—as you come bowling back over, flushed and thrilled and utterly darling, launching yourself onto his lap to press pouty princess kisses to his cheek and lips. You are overcome with excitement, thanking him effusively, easily forgetting your sense of propriety in a wash of juvenescent adulation. He laughs at your enthusiasm, gripping hard at your waist to still your flurry, to lock you tight against him.
"Are you happy, sweet girl?" he asks you, transfixed by your bright wide eyes and winsome vivacity, a pretty nymphet dangled on his knee like a pet.
"I am," you say, lively and dazzling and stunning, winding arms around his neck to press yourself to him from belly to sternum, chin to his shoulder.
With that pronouncement—perhaps he's done well, after all.
After exchanging your farewells with Rhaenyra, her men and the gaggle of children at the conclusion of the evening meal, Daemon promptly conveys you straight back to your rooms.
For a time, he leaves you to seek respite in privacy; a life of lonesomeness has made you easily exhaustible in the face of prolonged company. He manages quite capably on his own, listening to the sounds of splashing water as you bathe behind your screen. When you have dried and dressed with the help of your ladies, he lures you once more through the door to your solar, craving little else than to see you tinker about with the hoard he had collected for you.
As he watches you, an amusing thought comes to mind. He is tantamount to a beast surveying his mate with the kill he had dragged home, absorbed in the satisfaction of providing for you, of filling your home and heart with the objects and memories of his infatuation.
"... I love all of your gifts very much," you are saying, brows angled and lips pursed pensively, "but now I wonder if I did too little for your name day."
Reclining against the chaise, he wonders that you don't feel the intensity of his gaze as he watches you run gentle fingers over the bolts of silk and taffeta and damask, cast reverent eyes over the rare tomes, turn priceless jewels in your hand to admire the way the light of the fire throws iridescent shine over deep gold and glittering gems. You are utterly absorbed in your task, save for the abrupt declaration; he has to mull it over for a moment to determine your meaning.
"Whatever do you mean?" he asks. "You had the entire collection of Galendro's Fires of the Freehold transcribed in full for me. Do you know how rare a thing that is?"
It had been a gift of staggering proportion. It still is. The definitive history of his people is recorded and stored in only five locations in the known world, to his recollection, and none of them in Westeros. To have received his very own personal copy was the stuff of all his childhood dreams. Of course, you had denied credit, citing Ser Lysan's connections and mercenary expertise as the reason for such an exorbitant present even being possible. Nonetheless, it had easily been the best of the items he had received, notwithstanding the lovely little performance you had put up as his pretty peasant whore. Mm.
"I know, I know." You bite your lip. "It is just... eighteen presents, Daemon? I only got you one."
He would wave off your words entirely if not for your fretting disposition, knuckles tense over the open velvet-lined case in your grasp. Dragging himself from his comfortable sprawl, he advances upon your form and plucks the contents from inside. "It's not a competition, sweetling."
Daemon twists your hair over one shoulder to affix the necklace around your throat. It truly is a monstrosity, he thinks, utterly pleased.
The metal is akin to delicate lacework spilling a waterfall of gleaming gems the colours of House Targaryen down your decolletage, an obscene display of wealth and status. You turn to show off the gleaming column of your neck, knowing all too well how enthralled he is by the sight of jewels he had procured upon your figure. He runs his fingers down the line of your jaw, trailing across the lustrous pattern of ruby and onyx inlaid throughout.
"But, if you truly feel recompense is necessary"—he toys with the collar of your shift with lip quirked at the shiver elicited from you by his touch—"you'll take this off and get on your knees."
You swallow, nodding. Your eyes are downturned in a veil of timidity, though he can see that mischief of yours playing at the corner of your mouth, struggling not to expose itself as you bunch the fabric up over your hips and pull it over your head. You are careful not to catch against the gilt lattice of the necklace when you tug the cloth free from your hair and lay it over the table.
He stills your hands as they creep to your nape, no doubt to remove his gift. "Leave it. I want you on the rug. Go on."
As biddable as ever, you stroll toward the hearth and arrange yourself demurely upon the plush surface that demarcates the sitting area by the fire. For all your nakedness, you do look demure. A soft, open countenance, wide sweetheart eyes angled to him in plain expectancy, hands clasped on your lap like a penitent and shielding the convergence of your thighs from view... the gleam of his ownership as secure as a fist locked around your throat. He wants to ruin that innocence.
You barely need instruction as he stops before you, a line of steel defining the crotch of his breeches and threatening to rupture the material. Like a spoiled child unwrapping her next present, you tug impatiently at his laces, withdrawing that lovely tease of pressure to yank his pants down far enough to free his cock and stones. He threads his fingers into your hair as you take eager pulls with your hot, wet mouth, tongue swirling across the flange.
"Mm." He moans, pushing forward into that welcome suction to rub the smooth pliability of your soft palate. You receive him with frantic little gulps, a well-trained slut zealously performing her duty. The resistance of your contracting muscles as you gag hugs perfectly against the sensitive nerve endings along his head. "Good."
He extracts himself from you with a hiss, wiping the stray seed that blurts out at the feel of the air hitting saliva-slick skin over your tongue in farewell. It slips wetly out of the corner of your open lips, a pearlescent trail over luminous flesh.
"Messy girl." He catches the spill with his cockhead, feeding it back into your waiting mouth and grunting at the feel of that cheeky tongue licking up the droplets keenly. He's almost tempted to finish there—the gods know you'd be an enthusiastic little vessel—but he has other plans tonight.
A sulky indignance casts itself across your face as he steps back, breeches drawn up and ties left undone. "Daemon?"
He settles himself in the armchair, admiring the sight you make on the ground before him. "Touch yourself." His nostrils flare in amusement at the way your gaze flickers from him and your brows pull in. "You know how."
"But—I thought you wanted—"
"What I want is for you to lean back, spread your legs, and play with your little cunt until you peak. Be a good girl for me."
He watches with an iron grip on the meat of his leg as you slowly shift into position, settling back on one arm with knees knocking shyly together. Biting your lip, you peer up at him through your lashes as you part your thighs wide. You bare your silken cunny to his ogling observation, blooming petals parted and glossy with dew. The sight jolts through his cock, a white-hot bolt of eye-watering hunger that fizzes electric.
You dip a finger into the flirtatious wink of your entrance, collecting the slip that oozes out and drawing it up to pass firmly over your pearl. Tossing your silver hair back, you sigh and relax into your display, lids fluttering closed.
"Like this, Uncle?" you ask, high and breathy. "Am I pretty for you?"
Daemon digs his nails in hard at the sight of you, bejewelled throat and sodden cunt both gleaming in the firelight, shining stamps of his possession wanton at his feet.
"Gevie," he says.
How could he not? You are cock-achingly, heart-breakingly beautiful with your head tilted back, smile playing at your lips and tits bobbing gently with the motion of your hand between your legs. You huff at the praise, sliding one then two fingers into yourself, grinding the heel of your palm against the apex of your pleasure.
"The prettiest whore with the loveliest little cunt. Add another," he instructs. "There we go. Fuck yourself harder—you can take it."
You follow his direction instantly, hooking a third digit inside and driving against yourself quicker. The squelch is loud and lewd in the silence, and the elevated pace makes you whine, belly tensing and releasing with your efforts. Your face has begun to shine with the evidence of your labours, and you pant furiously as your hips work in tandem to your hand's movements. He has no choice but to stroke at himself to relieve the ache of wanting.
"Are you going to come for me, precious?" He watches the flush of impending climax work its way up your chest, a striking backdrop against the warm hues of the necklace. The gems spark molten with the agitated squirming of their wearer, clinking metallic against your skin. "My collared pup."
Your breath hitches at the degradation. Smirking, he presses forward, enticing you to your end.
"Such an obedient little girl, aren't you? My gold around your neck, playing with that greedy cunt at my leisure. Maybe I'll keep you there on the floor and spend myself on your new jewels, add some white to all that red and black—"
The vulgarity drives you to the pinnacle as he knew it would, and you crest with a shocked yelp, thighs quaking. You writhe as your fingers piston, bringing yourself through the height of it with desperate intensity. When you are winded and wilting, he stands, preparing to make good on his declaration.
You sprawl back onto the rug and out of his reach.
"Inside me, please," you say, holding the plush puffed folds of your core apart in invitation. Your feet arch reflexively as you knock against your sensitised pearl, teeth digging into your lower lip.
His cock judders in his grip at the sight. "You won't like it. You always protest when I fuck you past your peak."
Oh, but he wants to. There are fewer sights more exquisite than your pained face streaked with tears as he makes you take the brunt of him in your spent cunny, little ah ah ahs of distress escaping from your mouth at each callous thrust. Wet and hot and tight, the clutch of you is always perfect, the greatest provocation to spill within that undulant sleeve.
"I want that," you say, coquettish and insistent, smearing slip across your lips with cuntdrenched fingers. Those very same fingers disappear into your mouth. You hum in approval as you suckle on the flavour of your satisfaction. Another dribble of seed trickles from his cockhead, slavering and raring for the chance at pillaging those promised depths, and the icy shiver of need grinds in the divots of his spine. "It's my name day, kepus. Please?"
The thought comes unbidden. If she insists.
Daemon all but tears his shirt off, kicking off his breeches with the same veracity before kneeling between your parted thighs, crowding over you with skin and hands and lips. You squeal and twist against him as he aligns himself with your rippling entry and punches straight in to the root, already pounding away to the metronome of his pulse. His arms are locked under your back, your own tossed around his neck and pulling him close, bodies merged so that there is naught to feel but skin and sweat from heart to hip.
He can feel the rasp of his throat as he vocalises his pleasure, though he cannot hear over the thunder of his blood in his ears. The rhythmic vibrations against his neck as he thrusts again and again and again are the only indicators of your own exclamations that he can comprehend. Words are spilling from his mouth, feral, half-formed sounds.
"Fucking fuck, sweetest girl with the tightest baby cunt," he thinks he's saying, "I'll fuck you so hard you can't walk—"
His climax is a deliverance, a cleansing surge that knocks the air out of him and sweeps the spend from his system as he slams all the way to the hilt, pouring all the roaring, pent-up sensation into you like a spilling jar. He crushes himself to you, mouthing insensately at the salt trails over your cheeks and the sapidity of your perspiration, waiting for the reverberation of his blood rushing through his veins to slow.
He follows the trajectory of dampness down the line of your jaw, dipping his tongue into the hollow of your throat through the mesh of the necklace. "You'll need to take it easier on me, sweetling. I'm getting too old for this."
He descends to pull a crinkled nipple into his mouth. You tremor against him, gentle hand carding through his hair.
"You are only thirty-six," you say, giggling when he grunts at the reminder of his age. "Is that not the prime of a man's life?"
"I don't think that statement takes wanton little brides into account. Unless the fountain of youth is somehow between your thighs. In that case, I'll live forever."
You grouse when he slides free. The flames in the hearth dance in hues of amber and honey over your skin, giving your flush a dreamy glow as he ventures down to the very place that rules him. He coos sympathetically when you twitch at the feel of his nose and lips parting your folds, raw entrance swollen and squeezing out opaline fluid that drips between the round cheeks of your arse. A peaches-and-cream treat, oozing and quivering under his forceful scrutiny.
His favourite.
The mingling evidence of your activities bursts piquant across his palate as he laps at you, the caustic taste of his spend leaking from your inflamed cunt a tangible reminder of his claim. You sigh soft, sweet sounds of contentment as he works you gently, a soothing balm to heal the affliction his cock had wrought. Your little hand clasps over his on your thigh; he turns his palm to hold yours.
You finish with shaky breaths and a languid arch of your back, heels digging into his sides as the bliss sweeps through you. After suckling at you through your peak, he presses tender lips against your bud, crawling his way back over you. He settles into the cradle of your hips as your arms reach up to him, bringing him toward you for a kiss and moaning at the slick and seed that lingers on his tongue.
"Thank you, Daemon," you whisper, lilac eyes impossibly fond as you stare up at him in wonder. "This has been... the best name day."
He knows then that his overindulgence had been utterly worth it. While he had endured rolled eyes and playful japes and even your own fussy uncertainty throughout the day, the unbridled joy colouring your face in this moment is all that he had hoped for.
This is the most exquisite sight in the known world, he decides, better than gilded whores or Pentoshi evenings or dragons in flight. It is here and now—you, laying beneath him, aglow in the light of the fire and smiling.
"I'm glad," he says, pursuing the urge to brush his lips against the corner of your mouth. "Though, the night is still young. I got you eighteen presents. Let's try for eighteen peaks, shall we?"
"Oh, gods." You laugh, acquiescing readily to his rearrangement of your legs over his shoulders. He lowers himself back down to where you are sleek and shiny and waiting for him, wrapping arms around your thighs and nuzzling into your warmth. Your smile is as bright as the flickering fire. "Happy name day to me, indeed!"