ཐི⋆phia⋆ཋྀ

SMUT! 18+ MINORS DNI

when you walk into his study, most of the keep’s inhabitants have been long asleep. the handmaidens and maesters have retreated to their quarters, the halls and courtyards and sept silent and empty. seldom for the stray rats and watchful eyes of the Gods, you were utterly alone. back in your chambers, the balmy warmth of the summer evening made you restless in a way that had you pacing the stone floors, bare feet pattering all the way to his door.

alone. yes, all too maddening, it felt to be alone in the bed you shared with your husband nightly. as the heir to the Iron Throne, he often was busy for most of your days: small council meetings, hushed discussions with high ranking lords and men of the kingsguard, and tonight, the hard grip of a quill over ink-scribbled parchment. a furrowed salt-and-pepper brow, silver-ringed fingers twitching and tapping atop wood.

and here you are, now, a gentle plume of mist in the center of all the night’s frustrations: laden in the fluttering white silk of your nightgown, skin soft and unburdened by the weight of heavy jewelry or busy embroidery. simple. a heart-achingly easy reprieve for his eyes. it’s hard for him to look away from you once he notices your presence, once he looks up from the tomes and treasury accounts, and you relish the attention as you approach with a saccharine, innocent smile. he returns it with one of his own, but with a far smaller degree of innocence. one brown eye, one violet, peering beneath that once-creased brow, now settled into a knowing, yet gentle reproach. you’ve interrupted his work, and by all accounts, he should shoo you away. but he cannot; not when you look like such a gift tonight.

“you should be asleep.” low tones of speech that rumble deep in your abdomen, gentle hands that pull you onto his lap and slide over the smallest part of your midsection, dangerously close to the thin part of the fabric covering your chest. “and yet I am most glad that you are not.” lips that linger near the exposed skin at your shoulder where your nightgown droops, then make the barest contact, skimming up the thrumming veins of your neck. a straying touch, skirting under the material of your nightgown between your thighs. “may I?” and you nod slowly, as if this is not precisely what you traversed those dim halls to do. those same ringed fingers kneading experimentally; ritualistically against the heat of you, and then pressing inward with a soft exhale, like he knew you’d be ready for him. “ah, so this is why you sought me out tonight,” moving the fingers in and out rhythmically and slowly, a thumb simultaneously nudging the center of the nerves. “accepting me so readily. I am quite a lucky man.”

even as your body grows rigid and your hips begin to cant feverishly atop his lap, his subtle movements do not cease, and his words soften in volume but harden in their intensity. “sweet girl, are you always this desperate for me? is this how you ache, when I have my nose in courtly matters?” he knows you are reaching a tipping point as he mumbles against you, fingers plunging into you more powerfully, and his free hand tucks a strand of hair behind your ear lovingly. “though, perhaps,” he hums, admiring the rise and fall of your chest with your labored breaths, “you might prefer for me to have my nose elsewhere, hm?” his slight amusement at your frantic state is only slightly mocking, off-set by the soothing strokes of that free hand at the flesh of your hip, cupping and caressing through the fabric as he guides your movements.

he lets you ride out the cresting wave of pleasure, still snugly and safely seated atop his lap. “yes, good girl. very good, my dear.” whispering praise and words of encouragement, letting you relax and lean a sweat-shiny brow against his shoulder even as you feel him achingly hard beneath you. a problem that is easily remedied after he escorts you back to your shared chambers, if you so desire.

Absolutely I can! Such a simple yet sweet idea. Thanks for the suggestion! <3

This'll be from reader's POV, with the game-canon timeline being right after the events of Jackson. Enjoy!

(Mild angst, but don't worry, it gets resolved!)

Word count: (1.7k)

"Jesus Christ, are you actually trying right now?"

The barbell clatters against its rack, an irritated huff leaving you. "Fuck off. I'm still sore from yesterday." You let your arms hang by your sides, eyes shuttering closed. Honestly, a passerby would have thought you fell asleep on the weight bench. "We can't all be you, Abs."

Abby snorts to herself, and you watch with a cracked-open eye the way she removes the weights from the bar with humiliating ease. She rolls her boulder-like shoulders with a grunt, the movement measured and tinged with only the barest hint of weariness.

"You don't have to be me. I'm just saying, we gotta get you on a better schedule. A more consistent one. 'Cuz this?" She gestures to your exhausted state. "This is embarrassing."

"I'm well aware."

There's a minute of comfortable silence where neither of you speak, the buzz of the overhead lights mingling with the steady clinking sound of the equipment being used around you. Luckily, today, it wasn't super crowded, but it only took the presence of one person in particular to make you painfully aware of your fitness shortcomings. A deep sigh next to you, and you open your eyes to see her hand extended out. An olive branch.

"Alright. We'll be done for today. But don't think I'm not working your ass into the ground tomorrow."

You take her hand with a relieved grin, standing on wobbly legs and slinging your duffel bag over your shoulder. "Deal." You groan, massaging your tight back muscles as the two of you make your way towards the exit. "You know, sometimes I think you enjoy seeing me in pain. Like a dictator. Or a gulag prison guard."

When she suddenly stops walking, you halt your teasing to direct your attention to where she's looking: Mel, walking past the bulletproof glass. Giving Abby a look of unmistakeable disdain and discomfort. Yikes. Your eyes snag on Mel as she walks away, then come to focus on Abby. Her jaw is clenched at the sight of the woman, her posture straight and rigid as she opens the gym door with an unnecessary amount of force.

"That's still happening, huh?"

Abby shrugs defensively, the corners of her mouth quirking down in a way that you know suggests she's feeling a lot more put-off than she's willing to show. "I don't know what you mean." She replies simply, the words clipped and stripped bare of any decipherable meaning.

You sigh, wanting so desperately to leave it alone, but ultimately find yourself unable. "So we're just...not gonna talk about it? Jackson?"

You knew it was a mistake to bring up the second she narrows her gaze at you, immediately closing-off. You've already messed it up, and you feel bile rising in your throat.

"There's nothing to talk about. What happened happened." She bites in return, shrugging on a hoodie as you make your way down the hallway. "I wish everyone would stop being so fucking insane about it."

You nod slowly, palms extending outward hesitantly. "Well, Abby, it's--"

"It's what?" She snaps, braid whipping over her shoulder as she looks back at you expectantly.

It's more complicated than that, you wanted to say. Instead, you come up empty, lips parting wordlessly.

"Right." She scoffs, painting-on a mirthless smile that's like a knife twisting in your gut. "Don't sweat it. I'll see you later, yeah?"

"Abby." You protest, moving to grab her arm, but she shakes off your grip without looking back and leaves you standing alone.

Shit. That could have gone better.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hours later, when she walks into your shared barracks, you feel like shrinking back into the wall. You expect her to give you the cold shoulder, maybe even pick-up where the argument left off. Shockingly, her whole demeanor has changed from this morning: slumped shoulders, lingering eye-contact, and pacing feet as she sets her things down in front of her bed. Stops in front of you, hands clenching and unclenching at her sides. Was she... nervous?

"Listen..." She says lowly, and your breath catches in your throat. "About this morning. I didn't mean to be... an asshole."

It takes you a beat to process the fact that she's actually apologizing right now. Abby doesn't do that. Not unless she's really fucked up. You shake your head, loosing a shaky exhale. "No, it's fine. I really shouldn't have brought it up. Things are still so raw, and--"

"Hold on." She settles down next to you on your bed, the springs creaking beneath her weight, and turns toward you abruptly. "Just..." Her head tips to the side, neck cracking as her face settles into an uncomfortable sort of desperation. "Let me say what I need to say." You nod, clamming up. Giving her the time.

"They are. Things are still raw. From Jackson." She says slowly, lips pressing together and eyes searching your face absently. "But I shouldn't have acted like that. Not towards you. It just feels like everyone sees me as some heartless fucking monster now, and when Mel gave me that look today, I just couldn't hear about it. So, I'm sorry." She chews on the inside of her cheek, fingers tapping restlessly atop her leg. "Okay?"

"Okay." You reply slowly, kind of at a loss for words. "My turn?"

"Yeah." She breathes, nodding with a rough swallow. Maybe trying to shrug-off the emotional intensity. "Your turn."

"I only asked about it because I care." You clarify, lowering your eyes to her hands. The vulnerability makes eye contact hard, unsurprisingly, but not for her. Abby seems to be laser-focused on you, and it makes getting the words out even more difficult. It wasn't her fault. She was just naturally intimidating.

"And, actually, I care about you, specifically. If it wasn't obvious."

She chuckles dryly. "Yeah, I figured. I..." She rolls her eyes, leaning onto a hand and gesturing vaguely. "...Care about you, too, or whatever."

"Heart-warming. Truly."

She punches you in the arm, and you wince with a dramatic grab of the muscle. You both laugh, and then there's that silence again. But for some reason, it's a lot more uncomfortable than the one from this morning. With her eyes, inevitably, still on you, you decide to break it.

"I'm serious, though. I know that what happened in Jackson was..." You pause, deeming this moment more important than ever to choose the correct words, "... A lot, but, you should know that it doesn't change much. You're still you. I mean, I know Mel was shaken by it in particular, and the others haven't been exactly subtle about it. But I get why you did what you did. Can't say I would have done differently."

You're rambling now, clearly feeling very exposed, and you know Abby's noticing it, because she leans forward ever-so-slightly. Absorbing the words with rapt attention. You keep at it anyway. "And, look: was it an ideal situation? Maybe not. I do wish things had gone better. Smoother. But, at the end of it all..." You pause to take a breath, looking up finally to meet her eyes. "To me, it felt necessary, simply because you felt that it was. And I'm never gonna look at you differently for it, because I care about you. And I trust you."

"You're like, my best friend, Abs."

You're so lost in your own words that you don't notice the intensity shift behind her eyes as she listens. You don't notice the fondness softening her typically indifferently-stoic features, and you certainly don't notice the way her body has opened towards you, one hand on her own thigh and the other resting on the bed next to you.

"Does that make sense?" You ask finally, a bit embarrassed by how long you've been talking for. She doesn't seem to mind though, because she just nods, her eyes dropping subconsciously to your mouth. From this close, she's maybe more beautiful than you've ever seen her. Did she always have this many freckles?

"Yeah. It makes sense."

And before either of you can really stop and think about what you're doing, the distance closes, and her mouth is pressed so softly against your own. Instinctively, you suck in a breath, going completely rigid, chest tightening with an anticipation long-gone. But there's no time to reevaluate, because she lets her lips part with the gentlest tilt of her head, and now you're liquid. Moldable under her touch, as her fingers tentatively ghost over the top of your hand. Someone so skilled at ruthlessness, now being capable of such immense tenderness. You can't help but sigh sweetly into her mouth as the kiss deepens, the velvet of your flushed cheeks brushing together, fluttering with a shy warmth.

A coldness settles back into you as she pulls away, her eyes uncharacteristically wide and shocked. The moisture on her lips--from you--feels like a taunt to see now as she scoots further back, her dark blonde eyebrows nestling into a wrinkle above her nose.

"Sorry. I don't know why I..." She clears her throat, and when she tucks loose strands of hair from her braid behind her ears, the hard muscles of her forearms bulge distractingly. "I don't, uh... I don't kiss girls."

You can't help but laugh hoarsely at the words, wiping your mouth with the tips of your fingers. "Yeah. You just did, though."

She blinks at you in mild surprise as she faces forward again on the edge of the bed. "I did." She relents with a wry little smirk, hands gripping the edge of the mattress hard. "Shit. First time for everything, I guess."

"Wasn't half-bad, y'know." You mutter with a shrug, feeling a little emboldened by the kiss. "So, maybe not the only time, though."

She looks at you out of the corner of her eye, as if to say: don't push it, but doesn't protest, voice rougher than usual.

In which you find him fresh out of a nightmare.

⟢warnings/contains: daeron x wife!reader, arranged marriage, fluff, reader is a Stark woman, daeron is a bit of an immature horndog, alcoholism (obviously), slight sensuality but not technically NSFW.

⟢word count: ~1.3k

⟢A/N: My first AKOTSK piece! I have adored this show since it came out, and there are just too many babygirls to ignore. I love writing for the GoT universe, even if I don't do it a lot. I'll probably write for Baelor and Dunk as well, and I could be persuaded to do some Aerion stuff. So, please, don't be afraid to drop into my asks with requests! Hope you enjoy!

Sleep these days came surprisingly easy for you.

It wasn’t always that way, granted, for your first few weeks at the Red Keep were dauntingly foreign. Many nights you tossed and turned in the linen bed sheets, the sticky and humid night air of the Crownlands a shock to your Northern system. How did people sleep in this miserable heat, you wondered?

But just like you gotten used to court life at Kings Landing, you had managed to adjust to this change. Adjusting to your new husband, however, had proven to be a bit of an unexpected challenge. You had prepared for a marriage like this your entire childhood— it wasn’t the stiff gowns, sycophantic lords, or the many eyes upon you constantly that startled you— it was him.

How unexpected he was. Daeron the Drunken, you had heard him called. You had expected a portly, ruddy-cheeked man with wandering eyes and violent hands. Instead: a man shockingly close in age to you, with a demeanor and stature like an aloof, languid, Fleabottom alleycat. Eyes like violet stained-glass windows, and hair the color of the straw you fed your horse in Winterfell as a girl. A pained knowingness in his expression that only an honest man could hold. Beneath his disheveled (and definitely hungover) state, doublet worn askew and eyes rimmed with purple shadows, he was quite beautiful. It could have been much worse, you supposed.

And so, several moons later, you slept peacefully. That is, until the sound of a shattering glass bowl yanked you from your dreams. At first, your heart raced with alarm, and a hand immediately shot to the dagger stuffed under your mattress. You weren’t stupid— being the wife of a Prince meant you were a target. A political pawn or hostage, possibly. Some would call it paranoia, you would call it appropriate vigilance. But this fear was short lived as you recognized the hunched figure standing at the end of the bed.

“Fuck.” Daeron hisses to himself, quickly bending over and knocking into the table beside him. Steel goblets clatter to the ground, and you’re wide awake, shooting into an upright position.

“Daeron?” You mumble, speech hazy from sleep. At first, he doesn’t respond, fumbling with the mess he's just made. He slowly straightens with a sigh, backlit by the moonlight coming in through one of the windows.

“Darling. " A placid smile, hands fidgeting at his sides. "Hello.” He returns rather lucidly, though you can smell the wine on him even from the other end of the bed. His nightshirt is loose around his neck, the ties undone sloppily and his sleeves stained. “Go back to sleep." He says, a bit breathlessly, as his foot nudges against the glass. "Everything’s alright, I just thought I would…” His speech trails off into mumbled nonsense as he turns back towards the small pitcher of wine on the table.

He'd been drinking, naturally. This did not come as a surprise to you. But there was a certain restlessness in the way he moved tonight that was cause for concern. "Why in the Gods' name are you up at this hour?" You ask gently, crawling to the edge of the bed to get a closer look at him. "Look at me. Put that down."

He groans as you wrestle a cup from his clammy hands and usher him to sit down next to you on the bed. With this new closeness, the stench of wine and herb-tinged sweat on him was overpowering. His posture is slumped; unsupported next to you, and his glassy eyes dart around the room like a caged animal. It was hard to believe that perhaps just moments ago, he was sleeping peacefully beside you. There's a brief moment of tense silence before either of you speak, your hands still atop the skirt of your nightgown.

"What ails you?" You ask simply, stooping your head lower to try and meet his gaze. On instinct, one of your hands palm his forehead, the skin damp. He grumbles. "You're paler than snow, and wetter than it, too."

He snorts, apparently finding the turn of phrase humorous, and leans back on his hands with an air of feigned nonchalance. "Mm, I know a few of Aerion's picture books that start that way."

"Daeron."

He finally turns his head to look at you, the movement sloppy and lolled. The skin around his eyes is red and puffy, and his face is wet with tears. You feel a twinge of sympathy in your chest at the sight, but remain silent. With wine-stained lips, he smiles again, devoid of any real momentary mirth. "Summer fires. Engulfing the unlikely." He pauses, a distance in his eyes telling you that he's retreating somewhere you cannot reach. "And its sapling. Seed," he amends, laying back with a grunt.

The words, as vague as they are, send a chill down your spine. You try to assign any meaning to them with no avail, and open your mouth to respond only to be cut-off.

"I dreamed of it again. Fifth time this week." He finally reveals, looking up at you blankly with a hand on his chest. Still coming back to himself. "Not the most pleasant imagery, if you can believe it. I believe the Gods mean to torture me." He picks at a piece of lint on the blanket beneath him.

You shake your head, swallowing roughly. He had had strange dreams before-- dark ones, indeed, that seemed to hold truth in the real world. This much he has told you. If this one held any similarity, then something awful was afoot. But you would not let your apprehension show on your face. In these moments, one of you had to be strong, and so, it was you. The Northern Woman. How fitting.

"I am certain that the Gods are not so petty." You reply blithely, moving a strand of blonde hair away from his eyes.

"And I am certain they are." He retorts, words still a bit slurred. One of his hands begin to toy with the lace trim of your nightgown sleeve, a bit of levity starting to return to his expression. "Otherwise they would deliver me dreams of something far more pleasant." The same hand raises to your face, a thumb pulling down lazily on your bottom lip. "Like this mouth." He sits up once again, cupping your cheeks using both hands with a fervent intensity. "This face."

You cannot help but laugh, even as a tingling heat flushes your skin, your hands grasping his wrists. "And in these hypothetical dreams, I suppose, I would be what? A nagging specter, pouring all of your wine into the creek?"

He shakes his head, his low-set eyebrows casting a shadow on his suddenly sobered face. "Never." His hands slide down to the sides of your neck, and he leans so close that you can see the deep white grooves of the scar on his cheek. "A beacon. A salve to my wounds." He whispers, as if praying at the Godswood, and leans forward to bury his face into the crook of your neck.

"Probably wearing nothing, as well." He mumbles against the delicate skin, and you feel his mouth pull into a grin. You scoff, pulling him away slowly even as he attempts to pepper kisses down to your collarbone.

"Enough. If the Gods have not scorned you yet, they will now." You tease, hands steady on his shoulders. The pursing of his lips and the wandering of his gaze to your chest tells you he is not done with the exchange, but you move back to your pillows nonetheless. "Now come to bed."

His eyebrows shoot up with another grin, and he instantly starts moving towards you on all fours. As he leans over you, a bit unsteady on his arms, you place a halting hand on his chest.

"For sleep. I mean it."

He groans, flopping onto his back beside you. "You're a wicked woman."

"I know."

Knight Abby on the mind today while drawing 🗡️