#daemon

Daemon looks forward again as they approach the doors of the great hall, where the sounds of music and laughter already spill into the corridor. Yet the thought lingers bitterly in his mind, because the truth is painfully obvious to him.

Rhaenyra wants you out of his reach.

She cannot stand watching the way he treats you, the way his attention lingers on his eldest daughter in a manner he denies the others. She sees the way you drift closer to him whenever he enters a room, the way you instinctively seek the warmth of his presence, your gaze resting on him with a quiet intensity that borders on reverence.

“There is no blame to assign here, Daemon,” Rhaenyra says firmly as they near the hall. “Your daughter is of marriageable age, and it is time we secure a suitable match. Alliances must be made.”

“Alliances?” he scoffs, the word dripping with contempt. “She is a Targaryen princess, not a cow to be traded.”

They step into the great hall, which is already alive with music and voices. Lords and ladies move across the dance floor while servants weave through the crowd with trays of wine, the air thick with conversation, laughter, and the soft melody played by the musicians.

Yet none of it truly captures Daemon’s attention.

His gaze finds you almost immediately.

You stand slightly apart from the others near one of the pillars, though it does little to keep the attention of the court from settling on you. Your long silver Targaryen hair falls freely down your back, several delicate braids woven into the strands, and the gown you wear — elegant yet modest in its embroidery — still manages to accentuate the curves of your figure.

Rhaenyra had the dress made especially for you.

Tonight, you are meant to be particularly beautiful.

Your violet Targaryen eyes lift, and the moment they meet Daemon’s you feel the familiar pull toward him, the quiet desire to leave the polite conversations of the lords around you and stand instead at his side.

Daemon takes his seat at the royal table, though his attention never truly leaves you. His eyes remain fixed on you even as he settles into the chair, as though the rest of the hall fades into little more than background noise.

Rhaenyra lowers herself into the seat beside him, and she does not even need to follow the direction of his gaze to know exactly where it rests — or rather, on whom. The realization stirs a sharp irritation within her chest.

She is his wife.

Yet in moments like this, it hardly feels that way.

Determined to draw his attention back to her, she reaches once more for his hand, intending to reclaim at least a fraction of his focus. But before her fingers can brush against his skin, his hand lifts his wine cup instead, the movement smooth and deliberate.

Your eyes flick briefly toward him.

His never leave you.

Rhaenyra exhales quietly through her nose before turning her head away, annoyance simmering beneath the calm mask she presents to the court. Still, she reminds herself that this situation will soon resolve itself.

Once you are promised to a suitable lord, this tiresome display will finally come to an end — and with it, the closeness that so clearly binds you to Daemon.

Daemon keeps his seat at the royal table, though the wine in his cup does little to distract him. His attention remains fixed on you across the hall, following every movement as the lords slowly begin to circle you one by one.

He watches them the way a predator watches intruders straying too close to something that belongs to him.

The first of them approaches you with the easy confidence of a man who believes the world already bends in his favor. Lord Lannister moves through the crowd with a polished smile and the kind of arrogance that seems to cling to him like perfume. It does not surprise Daemon in the slightest that the lion would try his luck tonight. A match with a Targaryen princess would tie his house to one of the most powerful bloodlines in the realm, and men like him rarely hesitate when opportunity stands before them.

Daemon lifts his cup and drinks, though his fingers tighten around the metal as he watches the lord speak to you.

From across the hall he can see your expression clearly enough, and the moment your eyes flick upward in thinly veiled irritation he almost scoffs into his wine. Of course you dislike him. You have never been particularly skilled at hiding your distaste for fools, a trait you inherited from your father.

Lord Lannister continues speaking, leaning slightly closer as if charm alone might win your favor. Daemon watches the exchange with open mockery already flickering in his eyes, certain he knows how it will end.

He is proven right only moments later.

A tall figure steps between you and the lion with quiet confidence, his dark cloak brushing the floor as he turns toward Lord Lannister. Even from across the hall Daemon recognizes the sigil.

Blackwood.

Amusement curls faintly at the corner of his mouth as the golden lion’s confidence falters almost immediately. Whatever words pass between them are too quiet to hear, yet the result is clear enough. Within moments Lord Lannister withdraws with stiff politeness, retreating into the crowd far more quickly than he approached.

Daemon almost laughs into his cup.

The amusement fades just as quickly when Lord Blackwood does not leave.

Instead he remains at your side, speaking with easy familiarity. Daemon’s grip tightens around the cup as he watches the young lord brush a loose silver strand of hair from your face. The gesture is innocent enough, yet it sits poorly with him.

Blackwood may have frightened the lion away, but that hardly makes him suitable. The man carries a warrior’s reputation — ruthless, cunning, and hardened by battle — and despite the dragon’s blood in your veins, Daemon cannot help but think you far too delicate for such a man.

His thoughts are briefly interrupted when a nearby lord attempts to draw his attention into a dull conversation about ships and trade routes. Daemon offers the barest courtesy before dismissing him with a vague nod, his gaze drifting back across the hall the moment the man stops speaking.

Only then does he notice that Rhaenyra has left his side.

His eyes scan the room until he finds her speaking with a small cluster of nobles at the far end of the hall, composed and regal as always. Daemon does not need to hear the conversation to guess its subject.

More negotiations.

More alliances.

More careful arrangements for a marriage she clearly intends to secure tonight.

The thought irritates him enough that he drains the rest of his wine in a single swallow before setting the cup aside.

When his attention returns to you, the sight that greets him makes something darker stir in his chest.

The man now standing beside you wears the colors of Dorne.

Martell.

Daemon recognizes the sigil immediately, and with it come memories of old battles and shifting alliances across the Narrow Sea. The idea of a Dornish prince standing so close to you, speaking with that smooth diplomatic confidence, makes his jaw tighten.

Of course Rhaenyra would favor such a match.

A union between Targaryen and Martell could soothe old tensions and bind two powerful regions together — while conveniently placing you very far from King’s Landing.

Very far from him.

Daemon pours himself more wine, though he remains far too sober to ignore the men who circle you like merchants inspecting something valuable. His violet eyes track them carefully, weighing their intentions, their arrogance, their greed as they look at you as though you were a prize to be claimed.

Across the hall, you feel his gaze again.

When your eyes finally lift to meet his through the crowd, you find him already watching — silent, still, and very clearly displeased with every lord who dares stand too close to his daughter.

He studies you with such focus that the rest of the court fades into little more than background noise. Music plays, dancers move across the floor, servants refill goblets of wine, yet none of it truly reaches him.

What does reach him is the tension in your posture.

You try to remain polite, offering courteous smiles and careful answers, but the discomfort in your eyes is unmistakable. Every few moments your gaze drifts across the hall until it finds him again, and the brief relief that softens your expression when your eyes meet does not escape him.

Daemon knows that look too well.

You do not want this.

You do not want to stand here while men measure you as though you were some rare prize to be claimed, nor do you want the future they are quietly discussing — a marriage arranged for alliances and politics.

More than anything, you do not want to leave him.

Daemon tries to force his anger down as another man approaches you, though his patience has already worn dangerously thin.

The sigil catches his attention immediately.

Hightower.

Something cold settles in his chest. Of all the men present, that house has no right to approach you with such confidence. The mere thought of a Hightower believing himself worthy of a Targaryen princess is enough to ignite the irritation Daemon has been barely containing all evening.

Across the hall, the lord leans closer to you, speaking with far too much familiarity.

That is the moment Daemon’s restraint finally breaks.

The goblet in his hand strikes the table with a sharp crack as he sets it down harder than necessary, drawing curious glances from those nearby. Rising abruptly from his seat, he ignores the startled murmurs around him.

He has had enough of this parade.

Daemon moves through the hall with purpose, paying little attention to the people who hastily step aside as he passes. His gaze remains fixed on you alone, dark and burning as he closes the distance.

From where you stand, you barely notice his approach at first. Your attention is still trapped in the conversation you never wanted to have, the Hightower lord continuing his carefully rehearsed compliments while you struggle to remain polite.

Then suddenly he is there.

Your father’s hand closes around the man’s arm with a grip that is anything but gentle, abruptly pulling him away from you.

“Leave,” Daemon says, his voice low and dangerously calm. “Before I have your tongue removed for speaking where it does not belong.”

The threat hangs heavy in the air between them.

Lord Hightower pales visibly, the arrogance draining from his expression almost immediately. For a moment he looks as though he might attempt to protest, but the cold fury in Daemon’s eyes quickly convinces him otherwise.

Everyone in the realm knows better than to test the Rogue Prince.

The lord retreats without another word.

For a brief moment the hall falls strangely silent around you.

Yet the sharpness that had filled Daemon’s voice moments earlier fades as soon as his attention turns fully to you. The anger that had driven him across the room softens into something far gentler when he reaches for your arm.

His hand closes around your forearm, firm but careful, guiding you away from the cluster of watching nobles.

“Come,” he murmurs quietly.

His touch slides downward until his fingers find your hand instead, lacing with yours as he begins to lead you through the hall. The gesture feels almost instinctive, protective in a way that leaves little room for argument.

Daemon already knows exactly how to prevent the future Rhaenyra is planning for you...

And it does not involve leaving his side.

Together you move toward the doors of the great hall, leaving behind the music, the watching nobles, and the carefully constructed alliances that had been forming around you all evening.

Behind you, at the royal table, Rhaenyra watches the two of you leave.

The fury in her eyes burns brighter than the candles lighting the hall.

The noise of the great hall fades quickly behind you once the heavy doors close, leaving the corridor wrapped in a quiet that feels almost unreal after the constant hum of music and conversation. Daemon leads you through the long stone passageways of the castle and his hand never leaves yours.

His grip is firm, protective, though no longer harsh with anger the way it had been in the great hall.

You do not question where he is taking you.

The direction already feels familiar.

Your chambers.

Relief slowly settles in your chest as the distance between you and the court grows with every step. The voices of the nobles, their curious glances, their endless attempts to charm you all feel far away now, as though they belonged to another evening entirely.

For a moment you simply walk beside him in silence, the soft rustle of your dress brushing against the stone floors as the torchlight casts long shadows across the walls.

You glance up at him.

Daemon’s expression is still tense, though the sharp anger that had flared in the hall seems to have cooled into something quieter, something more controlled. His jaw remains set, his gaze forward, yet the hand holding yours never loosens.

A small, hopeful thought begins to form in your mind.

Perhaps he simply wishes to escape the evening as much as you do.

Perhaps he had seen how uncomfortable you were among those lords and decided to spare you the rest of the spectacle.

It would not be the first time.

Your father has never been particularly patient with courtly traditions, especially when they involve you.

As the corridor opens toward the familiar wing of the castle where your chambers lie, you feel a small warmth bloom inside your chest. The tension that had followed you all evening slowly melts away, replaced by a quiet anticipation.

You have always loved these moments.

When the court grows distant and the world seems to shrink down to just the two of you.

Since you were small, Daemon had often appeared in your chambers late in the evening, sometimes after long hours spent in council meetings or courtly duties that bored him more than he would ever admit. You would already be waiting for him, curled comfortably among the cushions, and the moment he stepped through the door you would reach for him without hesitation.

And he had always come.

Even now, years later, the routine has never truly changed.

You still love to sit beside him, leaning comfortably against his side. Sometimes the words fade into comfortable silence, and he simply lets you rest against him while his hand drifts absentmindedly through your hair, caressing you.

Even as you grew older, the closeness between you never truly faded.

It was only then that Rhaenyra began to look at the two of you with growing suspicion, sensing that the bond between father and daughter had begun to blur into something far more difficult to name.

Yet neither of you seemed particularly troubled by her unease.

But Daemon rarely seeks out Rhaenyra at all.

Your steps slow slightly as the familiar doors to your chambers come into view at the end of the corridor, lit softly by the torches mounted along the walls. The quiet of this part of the castle feels almost peaceful compared to the crowded hall you left behind.

Your quiet voice finally draws his attention.

“Father…?”

Daemon slows as the word leaves your lips, and when he looks down at you the sharp anger that had filled his expression in the great hall seems to soften almost immediately. In the dim light of the corridor his features appear calmer, though the tension of the evening still lingers faintly in the line of his jaw. His thumb moves slowly across the back of your hand, the small gesture instinctive and reassuring, as though he needs to remind himself that you are no longer standing among those circling lords.

“I thought I might have to drag you away from them sooner,” he murmurs quietly, his voice low with lingering irritation. “Another few minutes and I suspect half the realm would have tried their luck.”

A small breath of laughter escapes you despite the weight of the evening still pressing on your chest.

“They would not let me leave,” you admit softly, glancing up at him as you walk beside him through the torchlit corridor. “Every time one of them finally stopped speaking, another appeared as if they had been waiting for their turn.”

Daemon makes a quiet sound that carries more disdain than amusement, and although he does not slow his stride, his fingers curl slightly more securely around yours.

“I noticed,” he replies, the faintest hint of dry humor threading through the words. “You were trying very hard to be polite.”

You lower your gaze briefly, almost embarrassed.

That is answer enough for him and earns a faint smile from him, the expression brief but unmistakably fond.

“You have never been particularly convincing when pretending to enjoy things that bore you,” he says, his tone softening further as he glances down at you again. “It is one of the many qualities you inherited from me.”

The quiet warmth in his voice makes something inside your chest loosen, and by the time the familiar doors of your chambers come into view at the end of the corridor, the tension that had followed you throughout the evening has begun to melt away.

Daemon releases your hand only long enough to open the door, pushing it inward with a steady movement before stepping aside to let you enter first.

Daemon closes the door behind you, and for a moment the quiet settles around the two of you with a familiarity that feels comforting rather than awkward.

You drift toward the bed almost automatically and Daemon follows a step behind you, his presence so familiar that you hardly need to look to know he is there.

You sit on the edge of the mattress and smooth the fabric of your dress across your lap while he lowers himself beside you a moment later, the weight of him causing the bed to dip slightly beneath both of you.

The tall mirror positioned across from the bed catches the movement immediately, reflecting the two of you in the warm light of the fire.

For a while neither of you speaks, yet the silence feels comfortable rather than strained. Your eyes drift toward the mirror almost absentmindedly, and in its surface you see the familiar image of the two of you seated side by side — your pale hair falling across your shoulders, his darker figure beside you, close enough that your arms nearly brush.

Daemon studies the reflection for a moment before leaning slightly forward, resting his forearms loosely against his thighs while his gaze lingers on you.

“You handled yourself well tonight,” he says after a while, his voice quiet but thoughtful.

You tilt your head faintly, still watching your reflections.

“I did not feel particularly impressive,” you admit, your fingers absently twisting the fabric of your sleeve.

His mouth curves slightly at that.

“You looked like a dragon surrounded by sheep who believed themselves wolves,” he says, the faint humor in his tone drawing a soft laugh from you.

Yet the amusement fades quickly as the memory of the evening returns, and your gaze drops briefly to your hands.

“They were all watching me,” you murmur, the discomfort still lingering beneath the words. “It felt as though they were already deciding who would claim me.”

Daemon’s expression darkens slightly at that, the easy warmth leaving his features as he watches you through the mirror.

“They were hoping,” he replies quietly.

You hesitate for a moment before lifting your eyes again, meeting his gaze through the reflection.

“I do not want that,” you say softly, the words leaving you more honestly than you had intended. “I do not want to marry some lord I barely know, and I certainly do not want to leave the only place that has ever felt like home.”

The room falls quiet again after that confession, the fire crackling softly behind you as Daemon studies you with an intensity that makes your pulse quicken slightly.

After a moment he lifts his hand, reaching toward you with the same familiar gentleness that has always existed between the two of you. His fingers brush a loose strand of silver hair away from your face before tucking it carefully behind your ear, the motion unhurried and oddly comforting.

“You are not going anywhere,” he says at last, his voice calm and certain in a way that settles the restless knot in your chest.

Your eyes remain fixed on the mirror as his hand lingers briefly near your cheek before falling away again, the reflection showing the two of you sitting close together on the edge of the bed while the firelight flickers softly behind you.

He pulls you closer against his chest, one large hand splayed possessively across your stomach as he gazes at your reflection in the mirror. His silver hair in unison with your silver locks, and there's a dangerous glint in his violet eyes.

“Those fools think they can marry my daughter off like cattle,“ he growls lowly. 

“As if I'd let anyone lay a finger on you without my say-so.“

His other hand comes up to tilt your chin, forcing you to meet his intense stare in the mirror. “You're a Targaryen. Born of dragon blood and stardust. No mere lord is worthy of you.“ He presses a kiss to your temple, then trail his lips along your jaw. “But I have something in mind how we could prevent that...“ he punctuates his words by sliding his palm higher up your thigh, pushing up the thin fabric of your gown.

A shiver runs down your spine at his touch and you find yourself leaning back further into his strong embrace. Your breath quickens as his fingers inch higher, grazing the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. You've always known your place were by his side and now, in this intimate moment, you crave more than just his guidance.

“Father...“ you breathe out, your voice barely above a whisper. “What did you have in mind? What would stop them?“ you lean further into him, while you look into the mirror. The reflection shows him pushing your skirts up to reveal your stockings and the soft skin of your thighs. You gasp slightly as your legs spread, while the sight of your creamy thighs encased in sheer silk stockings makes his cock twitch eagerly in his breeches.

But your innocent question makes him smirk darkly. He leans in close, his hot breath ghosting over your ear.

“They won't be able to claim you once you bear my seed,“ he murmurs, “Once everyone knows you belong to me.“

With deft fingers, he gathers the skirt of your gown and hike it up around your waist, exposing your lower body to his hungry gaze. “So beautiful,“ he rasps appreciatively, trailing his fingertips along the delicate lace trim. “A true princess...“ sliding his hand higher, he cups your mound possessively, feeling the heat of your womanhood.

Maintaining eye contact with you in the mirror, he slides his middle finger between your slick folds and strokes your tender flesh. His fingers circle your entrance teasingly, coating his digit in your arousal.

Your soft whine fills your chambers as your hips instinctively rolling against his hand seeking more of his touch. The thought of bearing his child, of being claimed so thoroughly by him, sends a thrill straight to your core. The warmth between your legs is followed by a pressure and you whine slightly again.

“Yes, Father...“ you whimper needily, your cheeks flushed with desire. You can’t stop grinding yourself slightly against his exploring fingers. The mirror shows the obscene picture of your skirt bunched up, revealing your most intimate area to his heated gaze. The pleasure building inside you is unlike anything you've felt before, stoked by the taboo nature of your actions. Your untouched flower clenches hungrily around nothing, aching to be filled, as he smears your wetness along your folds while watching in the mirror as his fingers slide between them.

He can't help but drink in every bit of it — seeing you squirm so wantonly beneath his touch, knowing that it's him giving you these new sensations, fills him with a sense of power and lust unlike anything else.

“That's it, my sweet girl,“ he encourages huskily, relishing the sounds of your pleasure. “Grind yourself on my fingers. Show me how much you need your father's touch“.

As you moan and whimper so sweetly, he slips his longest finger inside your tight channel, groaning at the way your walls grip him so snugly. “Gods, you're so small and virginal here. So perfect...“ he groans at the exquisite vice-like grip of your silken walls. His thumb finds your sensitive pearl, rubbing firm circles over the engorged nub.

“Such a greedy little cunny,“ he praises darkly, pumping his finger in and out of your sopping cunt. “Clenching so tightly on me already. Can you imagine how amazing my cock will feel stretching you open?“ he adds a second finger, scissoring them apart to prepare you for his girth.

“Ah! Oh gods,“ you keen — all you can focus on is chasing the rapidly approaching peak. But when he adds that second thick digit, you nearly sob with relief, your slick walls fluttering wildly around the welcome invasion.

Leaning in, he nips at your earlobe before soothing the sting with his tongue. “I'm going to fill this sweet cunt to the brim,“ he vows wickedly. “But first... look at you,“ he commands roughly, holding your gaze in the mirror. 

“Watch how well you take my fingers.“

At his filthy words, your cunt clamps down greedily, trying to draw him deeper still.

The intrusion of his finger stretches you in a delicious burn and you cry out sharply, your hand flying to grip his muscular thigh. It feels so full, so deep, even though you know it's only the beginning. The combined stimulation of his fingers plunging into your untried depths and his thumb strumming your aching pearl quickly builds the tension coiling low in your belly.

You breathe heavily, while looking into the mirror. His one hand holds your skirt up, while the other hand pushes back and forth. The squelching sound fills your chambers as his fingers slide in and out of your tight heat. Your cheeks are flushed... this looks so filthy. But you spread your legs even more.

The erotic sight of your pretty pink petals stretched wide around his pistoning fingers makes his cock throb almost painfully in his breeches. Seeing you present yourself so wantonly, offering up your maidenhead for him to plunder, ignites a primal hunger within him.

“Fuck, yes,“ he hisses approvingly, his voice rough with desire. “Spread yourself open for me like a ripe peach, ready to be devoured.“

He continues pumping his fingers in and out of your tight channel, relishing the way your velvety walls clench around the digits. With his free hand, he push aside your hair and baring your shoulder. He latches onto the sensitive skin, sucking hard enough to leave a mark — a brand of his possession.

“You're mine. This sweet body, this untouched flower... it all belongs to me,“ he rasps fiercely, punctuating his words with sharp thrusts of his fingers. “No one else will ever have you. I won't let anyone else claim what's rightfully mine.“

Growling low in his throat, he pumps his fingers harder and faster, fucking into your soaked channel with abandon. The obscene squelch of your juices filling the air spurs him on, urging you to bring you to the brink.

“Come for me,“ he demands, curling his fingers to stroke that special spot deep inside you. “Let me feel this greedy little cunt squeeze my fingers like it's begging for my seed.“

At his command, your climax crashes over you like a tidal wave. You throw your head back with a silent scream, your entire body seizing up as ecstasy rips through you. Your untried muscles spasm wildly around his fingers, milking them for all they're worth as you ride out the intense waves of pleasure.

“Oh gods, oh gods,“ you babble incoherently, lost to the overwhelming sensation. Tears leak from the corners of your eyes, overwhelmed by the magnitude of it all.

Panting harshly, you slump bonelessly against his chest, completely spent. But even as the aftershocks fade, you can feel the ache of emptiness, the desperate need to be filled and bred by him.

“Please, Father,“ you whimper brokenly, turning your head to press your lips to his.

Chuckling darkly against your lips, he watches you come undone, reveling in the knowledge that he’s the cause of such blissful rapture. When you go limp in his arms, he carefully lays you back on the bed, looming over you with a predatory gleam in his eyes.

“Shh, I've got you, little bird,“ he croons, gently removing your clothing piece by piece until you're bared to his hungry gaze. 

“Such a good girl, coming so hard on your father’s fingers.“

Once you're naked and spread out before him like a feast, he’s about to shed his own garments. Standing at the foot of the bed, he undresses with purposeful movements, baring his battle-scarred torso and powerful thighs. His rigid shaft springs free, thick and proud, the swollen head glistening with pre-cum. At the sight of his thick cock, you hesitate slightly because it looks so big that you're not sure it will fit — your eyes just flutter close.

Stroking himself slowly, he admires the debauched picture you make — rosy nipples peaked from arousal, thighs slick with your release, and your swollen sex still fluttering from your orgasm. Crawling onto the mattress, he settles between your splayed thighs, running the broad tip of his manhood through your sodden folds. He pushes your legs further apart with his knees while rolling his hips. Gripping his length at the base, he slides his cockhead through your slit, making you whimper, while your eyes are still closed.

“Open your eyes, little one,” he rumbles.

Obedient to the gentle command in his voice, you slowly open your eyes until your gaze finds his, your violet Targaryen eyes meeting in the dim light.

He presses his thick cockhead against your entrance, making you whimper again. He emits a low, throaty sound, but he restrains himself — he is desirous of proceeding in a gradual manner. After all, it's your maidenhead he's taking, and he wants to spread you open slowly.

He still can see the hesitation flickering across your face because of the intimidating size of his cock, and it takes every ounce of restraint not to simply sheath himself balls-deep in your welcoming heat.

“It's alright, my sweet,“ he reassures you, brushing a stray tear from your cheek with his thumb. “Your father will take care of you. Just relax and let me in.“

Slowly, excruciatingly so, he begins to ease forward, the bulbous head of his member parting your drenched folds and breaching your resistant barrier. A guttural groan tears from his throat at the exquisite vice-like grip of your untouched walls, and he pauses to let you adjust to the unfamiliar stretch. Slowly, gradually, he starts to press more forward, grunting at the tight squeeze. Your maidenhead yields with a rush of fluid and he pauses again, allowing you to adjust to the burning stretch.

“Gods, you're so tight,“ he grits out, his hand flexing on your hip. “Like a vice gripping me. Just relax, sweetheart. Let me in,“ he repeats his words.

You try to relax, breathing deeply through your nose as he continues to sink into you. There's a sharp sting as he breaches your hymen, and you let out a choked cry, your nails digging into his shoulders. But beneath the discomfort, there's a growing ache, a desperate need to be filled and claimed by him.

Tears stream freely down your face, but you don't ask him to stop. This is what you want, what you need. To be joined with him in the most primal way possible. Your walls flutter around his thickness, drawing him in further.

The burn fades, replaced by a strange sort of fullness that makes you squirm with a confusing mix of pleasure and pain. Your hips slowly start to move. You whine as you start to slowly fuck yourself on his cock. He still doesn’t move, but a growl fills the room and he follows your movements, slowly rolling his hips.

Seeing you take his length so beautifully, your tight sheath hugging him like a glove, is almost too much to bear. Every instinct scream at him to rut into you like a beast in heat, to mark you inside and out as his. But he forces himself to maintain control, savoring each delicious inch as it disappears into your hot, clasping depths.

“Sweet girl,“ he praises hoarsely, sweat beading on his brow from the effort of holding back. “Taking my cock so well. You were made for this, made to be bred full of my seed.“

Each thrust sinks you deeper onto his shaft until he bottoms out with a low curse. He remains buried to the hilt for a moment, letting you adjust to the sensation of being so fully impaled.

Leaning back, he gazes down at where you're joined, mesmerized by the erotic sight of your delicate pink folds stretched obscenely around his girth. Slowly, carefully, he begins to move, withdrawing until only the tip remains nestled inside before surging forward once more, driving deeper into your previously untouched depths.

You follow his movements and you become more eager which makes him smile slightly as he begins to meet your thrusts. A noise follows that almost sounds like a whine, but you do not stop.

“Breathe,“ he encourages, peppering kisses along your damp temples. “You're doing so well. Just a little more...“

His praise and encouragement spur you on, and you find yourself eagerly meeting his thrusts, your hips rising to greet his. The slight discomfort has faded, leaving behind a deep, pulsing ache that seems to center directly on where you're joined.

With each snap of his hips, he hits something deep inside you that makes stars explode behind your eyelids. Pleasure coils tighter and tighter in your lower belly, threatening to snap at any moment.

“Ah.... this feels good,“ you gasp, feeling your walls flutter. Your legs wrap slightly around his waist almost out of their own accord, using the leverage to pull him impossibly closer, as if you could somehow merge your bodies into one. The thought of carrying his child, of being forever tied to him, sends a fresh gush of moisture flooding your core.

Hitching your leg higher over his hip, he angles his penetration to stroke that special bundle of nerves within you with every pass.

“Fuck, I can feel you getting tighter,“ he groans, his pace increasing. The way your velvety walls ripple around his cock drives him wild, and he can no longer hold back. Sneaking a hand between your sweat-slicked bodies, he finds your swollen pearl and rubs swift, insistent circles over the sensitive bud.

His thrusts grow erratic, losing rhythm as he chases his own impending release. “Come for me again,“ he commands breathlessly, angling his hips to grind against that secret spot within you. “I want to feel you squeeze every last drop from my balls.“

One hand grips your hip bruisingly tight as he pistons into you, the obscene slap of flesh on flesh echoing through the chambers. Sweat drips down his temples, and his muscles tremble with the strain of holding back.

His filthy words send you hurtling towards the edge, and when his fingers don’t stop to stroke your aching clit, you shatter with a keening cry. Your vision whites out as ecstasy crashes through you, your inner muscles clamping down on his pistoning length like a vise.

You practically scream, your nails raking down his back as you convulse beneath him. Wave after wave of mind-numbing pleasure rolls through you, and you can feel his cock twitching inside you, signaling his own impending climax.

“Fill me, “ you beg shamelessly, locking your ankles at the small of his back. The thought of conceiving his child still lingers in your mind and sends another mini-orgasm rippling through you, and you clench desperately around him, silently willing him to lose control.

With a roar that shakes the very foundations of the castle, he buries himself to the hilt and erupts inside you. His cock pulses violently as he paints your fertile womb with thick ropes of his potent seed, marking you irrevocably as his.

“Take it all,“ he grunts, grinding against your cervix as he empties himself into your spasming depths. “Fuck, you feel incredible. Milking me dry like you were born for it.“

Collapsing atop you, he captures your mouth in a searing kiss, swallowing your cries of rapture. Your tongues tangle fiercely as you share the same air, basking in the aftermath of your passionate coupling.

Finally, he breaks the kiss and rest his forehead against yours, your rapid breaths mingling. “Mine,“ he declare possessively, nipping at your bottom lip. “Forever and always. No one will ever take you from me.“