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Say It

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hi sweet baby angels!!! look who finally wrote a new piece and isnt relying on queueueueueuing chapters she wrote seven million years ago!!!!! based on this ask. enjoy.

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Summary: They can look all they like, but only you carry the proof of what he is to you and what you are to him.

Warnings: 18+, rough sex (p in v), fingering, targcest, multiple orgasms, creampies, breeding, multiple positions, dirty talk, bratty reader (lmk if i missed anything!)

Daemon Targaryen x Targaryen!Reader

The hall glows with firelight and heat, the smell of roasted meats clinging to silk and skin as laughter swells beneath the Red Keep’s high rafters. You sit lower at the feasting table, far enough from the center that no one expects you to speak, close enough that you can see him. Daemon. Draped in dark velvet, silver hair loose over his shoulders, a wine cup cradled in one hand like it was made for him. He looks bored, or maybe pleased, or maybe both. You can never quite tell with him when he smiles like that.

He is not alone. The court never lets him be. Ladies linger around him like wasps drawn to ripe fruit, sharp-eyed and silk-wrapped, fluttering fans and lashes with feigned restraint. One of them, a girl from House Velaryon with pale skin and storm-colored eyes, reaches out and lays her hand on his forearm as she speaks. It is not a casual touch. Her fingers slide, her thumb grazes the inside of his wrist. She leans in as she laughs, just a little too close.

He lets her.

He does not touch her back, not quite, but he also does not stop her. His expression does not shift, his body does not tense. He just tilts his head slightly, wine catching the light as he takes another sip, and listens. You see the way the girl watches his mouth as he drinks. You see the way her gaze slips down to his neck and lingers there. It makes something ugly twist low in your belly.

You have not touched your wine. You have not said a word in several minutes. The man beside you, some knight’s son with a lion-stitched doublet and soft, forgettable features, has been trying to speak with you since the second course. You barely hear him. He asks if you liked the music. You do not answer. He tries again, offering a gentle smile and a question about dancing. You turn your head slightly and say no, quiet but cold. He does not ask a third time.

All your attention is fixed on Daemon.

He knows. Of course he knows. He has not looked at you, not even once, but he can feel your gaze like a tether pulled tight. You know he can. That smile of his has curved sharper. He lifts his cup just slightly, as if in silent toast, and laughs at something the Velaryon girl says, even though you doubt he was listening. His whole body is a performance, and tonight you are not in the front row. You are not even part of the act.

You hate it.

You hate the way she looks at him. You hate that she is allowed to. You hate that she touches him in front of everyone and no one says a word. You hate that she might think she could keep him, even for a moment, even for a night. You are not his wife. You have no claim. You are not even promised. You cannot stop her. You cannot reach across the table and slap her hand away. You cannot stand and declare what he is to you, what you are to him, because no such thing has ever been said aloud.

Still, your body remembers the shape of his hands. Your skin still bears the bruises he left. You remember the way his breath felt against your throat when he called you sweet girl, when he told you to stay still, when he said yours like it meant something. But none of that matters here. Not in front of the court. Not in front of her.

She leans in closer again. Her hair brushes his shoulder. Her laugh rises like bells. Daemon lifts his goblet once more, sips slow, then finally moves his gaze.

He looks at you. Only for a moment. No more than a breath. But it is enough.

His eyes meet yours across the chaos and gold of the feasting hall. He does not blink. He does not look away. And then he smiles. Not for her. Not for the room. For you.

You do not smile back.

You hold his gaze a moment longer than you should, until it burns. Then you rise. Quietly. Deliberately. The scrape of your chair is barely heard beneath the swell of music and wine-soaked laughter, but it cuts through you clean.

You leave before the final toast is raised. Before the singers begin their third round. Before she can lean in again and whisper something sweet and simpering into his ear.

You do not storm out. You do not make a scene. You walk with your chin high and your silence sharp, knowing it will follow you more loudly than any words would have.

Your chambers are too warm when you enter. The fire crackles too loudly. The wine on the table sits untouched.

You do not pace, but you feel like you might. Your skin itches with something too close to rage, too close to want. It sits behind your ribs and twists, slow and tight, until you can’t bear to sit still.

You feel him before you hear him. The door does not creak, but it opens. He does not knock. Of course he doesn’t.

Daemon steps inside like the room belongs to him. Like you do.

“You left early,” he says.

“You noticed,” you reply.

“I notice when someone stares at me for half the feast,” he says, voice smooth. “And then vanishes before the sweets.”

You turn to face him. “I suppose I lost my appetite.”

He smiles. “A shame. The roasted pears were delightful. But not quite as sweet as the Velaryon girl’s lips.”

Your face does not change. “You kissed her?”

“No,” he says. “But she wanted me to.”

“And you were tempted.”

“I am always tempted,” he says, stepping further into the room. “That is what makes it fun.”

You lift your chin. “Fun.”

He shrugs. “You must know by now how I enjoy being watched.”

“I saw you,” you say. “I saw the way she looked at you.”

“I let her.”

“You let her put her hand on you.”

“She has hands. What was I meant to do, hack them off at the wrist?”

“You could have said no.”

“I never say no to harmless attention,” he says, smiling. “It keeps the court guessing.”

“It keeps the court thinking you are theirs to take.”

He takes a step closer. “Let them think what they will. They are wrong.”

“Are they?” you ask, sharp. “You did not look particularly unavailable tonight.”

“And yet here I am,” he says, spreading his hands slightly, “in your chambers, not hers.”

You cross your arms. “That proves little.”

He cocks his head. “Does it?”

“You belong to no one,” you say.

He doesn’t argue. “True enough.”

“You are not mine.”

“No,” he says again. “But gods, how you want me to be.”

You exhale slowly through your nose. “You are full of yourself.”

“I have good reason to be.”

You stare at him. He stares back.

“You think I should have made a show of rejecting her?” he asks. “That I ought to have stood in the middle of the hall and shouted that my cock is already spoken for?”

“Is it?” you say, soft yet cold.

He steps close enough for his voice to drop. “You would know.”

You tilt your head. “Would I?”

He smiles. “Don’t be coy. It doesn’t suit you.”

You step around him, slow, measured, the air between you too warm now, too thick. “You act as though you enjoy the idea of women fighting over you.”

“I enjoy being wanted.”

“And you enjoyed being wanted by her.”

He looks at you for a moment. “I enjoyed knowing you were watching.”

You stop.

He watches the way you still.

“I could have let another man walk me back tonight,” you say.

“You did not.”

“No. But I could have.”

He smiles, faint and dangerous. “And I could have taken her to bed.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Because she’s not you.”

There it is. Said simply, said plainly, with that flash of teeth just beneath the charm. He doesn’t soften when he says it. He doesn’t look ashamed. He offers it like a challenge.

You stare at him, chest rising.

“You let them think they have a chance,” you say, quieter now.

“I let them look,” he replies. “That’s all they get. A glimpse. A taste of something they’ll never touch. That is the game, little cousin. Let them ache for it.”

“And what of me?” you ask.

His expression changes just slightly. “What of you?”

“If I want more than a game,” you say, voice like ice beneath flame. “If I am not content with glimpses and riddles. What then?”

He takes a step toward you, close enough that you feel his breath against your cheek when he speaks. “Then you are not like them.”

You do not flinch. “But you want me to feel like I am.”

“No,” he says, voice low. “I want you to feel the difference.”

You look up at him. “Then make it.”

He studies you.

“I have no claim,” you say. “No ring. No promise. Nothing but your word and the marks you leave behind.”

He lifts his hand to your jaw, gentle, dangerous, not quite touching. “That should be enough.”

“It isn’t.”

There is no space left between you. You feel his restraint like the crackle before lightning. You want him to snap. You want him to beg. You want him to yield—but you don’t want him weak.

“You test me,” he says.

“And you let me.”

He smiles, slow and wolfish. “Because I want to see how far you’ll go.”

“And what happens when I go too far?”

His lips hover near your throat. “Then I will drag you down with me.”

The silence that follows hums like a live wire. Nothing breaks it. Not the wind, not the fire, not the pounding of your heart. You don’t flinch. You don’t breathe. You wait.

When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, but no less dangerous.

“If I am yours,” he says, “say it.”

You meet his gaze, steady. “If you are mine, act like it.”

He watches you for a beat longer. A breath. Two.

Then he moves.

His mouth finds yours before the words are cold in the air. No warning, no restraint. Just heat, hard and immediate. His hand knots in your hair and drags, angling your mouth to his, and he kisses you like you’ve both already lost. Like this was always going to happen. His teeth graze your lip, catch, pull. Not hard. Just enough to make you gasp.

You press into him, chest to chest, hips already shifting like your body wants something before your mind can catch up. You kiss him like you mean to punish him for every smirk, every flirtation, every woman who looked too long. He kisses you like he’s daring you to try.

His hands drop to your waist. He lifts you without asking.

You feel the edge of the table dig into the backs of your thighs as he sets you down atop it, dragging you forward until your hips meet the wood. The same table where you sometimes take meals. Where letters wait unopened. Where you sit like a lady when others are watching.

Not now.

His body crowds yours, knees parting your legs as he leans in, mouth brushing your throat, breath hot.

"Mine," he says against your skin, the word like fire.

Your hands find his shoulders, digging into the velvet of his doublet, feeling the solid muscle beneath. You want to rip it away, to see him bare and wanting, to mark him as he's marked you.

"Prove it," you challenge, voice barely steady.

His laugh is dark, dangerous. "So demanding." His teeth graze your pulse point. "So greedy."

One hand slides up your thigh, bunching the silk of your gown, finding the heat between your legs. You're already wet for him—have been since you watched him across the hall, since you imagined tearing him away from her. His fingers press against you through the thin fabric of your smallclothes, and you can't help the sound that escapes you.

"There," he murmurs against your throat, fingers stroking slow, deliberate circles. "That's what I wanted to hear."

You bite back another moan, head falling back as he works you with practiced ease. The silk of your gown pools around your hips, and his free hand traces the line of your collarbone, down to the laces of your bodice.

"She could never make sounds like that," he says, voice rough with want. "Could never arch like you do. Could never—"

"Stop talking about her," you gasp, nails digging crescents into his shoulders.

His fingers still. "Jealous?"

You meet his gaze, breathless but defiant. "Possessive."

The shift in his gaze is subtle, but you see it: a spark of something molten behind the glinting violet, some chemical recognition of your challenge that makes his breath hitch and his jaw tense. His lips curve, not in mockery this time but in anticipation, as if your defiance is the final ingredient he’s been waiting for.

“Good,” he says, and the word is roughened by want—almost hoarse as it breaks against your mouth.

He crushes you back into the table with his body and kisses you fiercely, teeth clashing, lips bruising, tongue sliding in with a claim so absolute it erases the memory of anything softer. The taste of him is as intoxicating as the wine left untouched on your table; smoke and salt and something sweeter beneath, a promise of indulgence laced with threat. He kisses you like he means to possess you from the inside out.

His hands move without mercy. One closes tight around the nape of your neck, holding you exactly where he wants you as he devours your mouth. The other slips beneath the generous folds of your gown—an impatient sweep up bare thigh, knuckles grazing sensitive skin until he finds your smallclothes and drags them aside. You feel cool air against fevered flesh just before his fingers make contact: two at once, slick with intent, pushing inside you so abruptly that you gasp against his lips.

He swallows the sound whole, then pulls back just enough to let you see how much it pleases him.

“So wet already,” Daemon murmurs, voice gone almost guttural with hunger. His thumb circles lazily over that aching bundle of nerves—just brush after cruel brush—while his fingers press deeper within, stretching and curling until your body trembles around him. “Were you thinking about this while you watched me across the room? While she touched my arm? While she batted her lashes and hoped I’d take her to my bed instead?”

You open your mouth to speak but all that comes out is a whimper—the humiliation sharp as pleasure when he smirks down at you.

“Mm,” he says. “Just as I thought.”

He works your body with an expert’s patience: slow thrusts punctuated by sudden twists of his hand that jolt pleasure up your spine. Each time he brings you close to release, he slows again—deliberately stalling, denying what’s already within reach. You realize too late that this is a different kind of game: not the one played for courtly advantage or public display, but one meant solely for this room and this hour and both your undoings.

Your hips buck against him—helpless now—and heat floods your cheeks as you realize how shamelessly you’re moving for him. Every time he retreats just enough to make you ache for more, every teasing circle of his thumb or shallow dip of his fingers makes you crave it more desperately.

He bends low until his lips are at your ear.

“I want to hear you say it,” he whispers—a demand hidden behind velvet softness. “Say what you wanted while you watched me.”

You can barely form words; your pride wars with need and loses every round. Still, when he crooks two fingers just right within you—pulling a shudder from somewhere deep and secret—you stifle a cry behind bitten lips.

He does not tolerate silence for long.

"Answer me," he commands, stilling his movements.

"Yes," you gasp, desperate. "Yes, I was thinking of this," you admit, voice catching as his fingers resume their torment. "I was thinking of how only I know what you sound like when you're inside me."

His smile is all teeth, all triumph. "And what sound is that?"

You reach between your bodies, finding the hard length of him straining against his breeches. He hisses when you palm him, squeezing just firmly enough to make his rhythm falter.

"Show me again," you challenge. "I seem to have forgotten."

In one fluid motion, he withdraws his fingers and brings them to his mouth, tasting you with deliberate slowness. His eyes never leave yours as he sucks them clean, and the sight makes heat pool low in your belly, makes your thighs tremble.

“Stand up,” he says, and his voice is not a request—it’s the leash or the whip, it’s the ring of steel on stone. You obey before you’ve even processed that you’re moving, legs trembling beneath you, skin burning with shame or anticipation. He shifts your body, handling you like he owns every inch: guiding your hips so they nudge the edge of the table, palms flat to its surface, head bent. For a heartbeat, he just stands behind you—close enough that you feel his heat but not touching. You become aware in that pause just how badly you want him, how hollowed out and untethered he’s made you with nothing but words and steady pressure.

Then the air changes; he moves in. His chest presses to your back with an intimacy that feels almost tender—almost. The illusion of gentleness lasts only long enough for him to seize hold of your wrist and pin it beside your head against the wood. He leans in until his breath ghosts over your ear, hot and deliberate, and lets his other hand slide up beneath your hair to encircle your throat—not choking, just holding. Just reminding.

You hear rather than see him undo the laces at his waist. There’s a moment when nothing happens except the double thunder of both your pulses.

“I want you to remember this,” Daemon says, voice pitched for your ear alone. “When you sit with your ladies tomorrow, gossiping over sweetmeats. When you stroll through the godswood with them and pretend not to look at me from beneath your lashes.” His hand abandons your throat and travels down the length of your back, slow as syrup, until it slides under your skirts and traces along your inner thigh. “I want you to feel this between your legs all day. I want every step to remind you who did this to you.”

He gathers up your gown in one practiced motion—no pretense left—and bunches it above your waist. The air on skin should be cooling but instead it stings, as if every nerve has risen up in revolt. You can hear him breathe in when he looks at you: a soft inhale through clenched teeth. He presses into you then—hot flesh against wetness—and positions himself at your entrance but does not push forward yet.

“Say it,” he murmurs into the shell of your ear.

You bite down hard on defiance, it tastes metallic on your tongue. “Say what?” Your answer is another challenge—a glint of rebellion even now.

His fingers tangle tight in your hair and haul back gently—just enough for pain to mingle with pleasure and send a jolt down your spine. “Say who owns you.”

The question hangs in the air like ash after fire. You can hear voices from deeper in the keep—a man laughing drunkenly two floors below, bells tolling midnight—but here there is only the question and his body pressed against yours.

You let yourself breathe once before answering. “Yours,” you say, barely more than a whisper.

“Louder,” Daemon commands.

You swallow pride and gasp, “I’m yours.”

He rewards honesty with violence—a single thrust that buries him inside you so deep that stars explode behind your eyes and all sense of poetry deserts you in favor of white-hot sensation. The sound torn from you is less than human.

The world shrinks down to hips slamming into yours, his cock splitting you open again and again until nothing exists except those points of connection—his hand cinched around yours on the table’s edge, his teeth scraping behind your ear when he bites down hard enough to mark skin for days. One arm comes around to flatten across your sternum, he holds both hands prisoner now so all you can do is brace yourself against each punishing stroke.

You lose count of how many times he pulls out nearly all the way before sheathing himself again with a violence that seems meant as punishment or reward—or maybe just necessity. The table protests under each impact, somewhere in another life you'd be worried about splinters or bruises or whether anyone will hear but here all that matters is keeping pace with him as he drives into you harder each time.

He does not stop talking throughout—not once—but now his words are reduced to grunts and groans mixed with filthy encouragements.

“Good girl…that’s it…take all of me…” Each command lodges itself deeper until finally every ounce of dignity crumbles into need.

You come apart once, convulsing around him so intensely even Daemon grunts in surprise, but he does not let go or slow down, if anything he fucks through it harder while holding tight so none of those shudders escape without being felt by both parties. When wave after wave hits until tears dampen the wood beneath where your cheek is pressed flat, he softens fractionally—his hand stroking soothing circles over where his other pins yours down—but then resumes pace as if determined to wring out every last drop from what remains.

There is something breaking loose inside him, too. By now each thrust comes paired with a half-choked curse or plea, voice more ragged than before, less certain even as body moves relentlessly forward.

He growls low in his throat when climax approaches—you can feel him swelling inside just before release—and for one last instant everything sharpens into unbearable clarity.

The taste of sweat running salty from his jaw onto yours. The burn where nails gouge crescent moons into wood. The way neither one will ever be forgiven for what comes next.

His release comes in violent pulses, hot and pulsing deep inside you. He makes no attempt to withdraw, pinning you harder against the table as he empties himself with a growl that vibrates through your joined bodies. His hips stutter, then press flush against you, holding there as if to seal what he's done. To mark you from within.

You feel him throb inside you, feel the wetness of his seed as it fills you. His breathing is ragged against your neck, his weight nearly crushing as he drapes over you, spent but unwilling to separate.

For several heartbeats, neither of you speaks. The only sound is shared breathing and the distant echoes of the feast continuing without you.

When he finally pulls away, you feel the loss of him like a physical ache. His seed runs warm down your thighs, and you remain bent over the table, trembling, unable to trust your legs to hold you upright. The silk of your gown falls back into place, but it feels foreign now—like a costume you've forgotten how to wear.

Behind you, you hear him adjusting his clothing, the soft rustle of fabric and leather. When you finally turn, he's watching you with an expression you can't read. His hair is disheveled, his doublet wrinkled, but he looks entirely too composed for what just transpired.

"Look at you," he says, voice softer now but no less intense. "Thoroughly ruined."

You straighten slowly, wincing at the pleasant ache between your legs, at the wetness still cooling on your thighs. You should feel shame. You should feel used. Instead, you feel claimed in a way that satisfies something primal inside you.

"Is that what you wanted?" you ask, smoothing your gown with hands that still tremble slightly. "To ruin me?"

His smile is slow, almost tender. "I wanted to remind you."

"Of what?" You meet his gaze steadily, refusing to be the first to look away.

"That she may touch my arm, but you..." He steps closer, one hand coming up to brush a strand of hair from your face. "You have parts of me no one else will ever know."

The gentleness is almost more unsettling than his roughness. You lean into his touch despite yourself, your body still singing with the aftershocks of what he's done to you.

"And tomorrow?" you ask. "When the court gathers again? When other ladies bat their lashes and reach for you?"

His thumb traces along your cheekbone. "Tomorrow you'll sit at that table knowing my seed is still inside you. Knowing these bruises came from my mouth." His voice drops to a whisper. "Knowing that while they dream of having me, you already do."

The arrogance should infuriate you. Instead, it sends another pulse of heat through your core. You can feel him there still—the stretch, the fullness, the evidence of his claim slowly seeping from your body.

"You're insufferable," you tell him, but there's no venom in it.

“Nyke āōhon,” he says.

I am yours.

Not teasing. Not smug. Just truth, laid bare between your breaths.

The words settle like ash on your skin, weightless and hot. Your pulse stirs again, though you are already wrecked. You study his face—how the usual sharpness has faded from his eyes, how the heat still coils beneath it, steady and sure.

"You say that now," you murmur. "But what happens when another lady reaches for you tomorrow night?"

He doesn’t look away. "She won’t."

"And if she does?"

"Then she'll lose her hand."

You blink once.

He says it like a fact. Like a weather report. Like something he's already decided.

There is no jest in his voice. No grin. Just quiet certainty, as if the notion of any other woman touching him is not only offensive but punishable. Permanently.

You should find it absurd. You don’t.

Not when your body still aches from how he claimed you. Not when his seed is still inside you, warm and thick and unmistakably his. Not when the bruises blooming along your hips match the span of his hands. Evidence, all of it. Proof you don’t need to ask for.

His hand rests on your hip, fingers slow, possessive.

“Let them look,” he says. “Let them wonder. You’ll already know.”

You don’t answer him.

Not with words.

Instead, your fingers trail down to where his hand rests on your hip. You curl yours around his wrist and pull it away—not roughly, just firmly. A silent correction.

His eyes flick up. Curious. Intrigued. He doesn’t resist.

You rise from the table, slowly, your skirts settling uneven around your legs, the fabric rumpled and half-undone from what he already did to you. Your body aches in places only he knows, but you stand tall anyway.

You take two steps back, crossing the chamber without looking at him. You don’t need to. You can feel his eyes on you like a second skin.

You stop at the edge of the couch. Pause. Let the quiet thicken.

Then you look back over your shoulder.

“Well?” you say. “Will you sit, or must I make you?”

His mouth twitches. That flicker of a smile. He crosses the room without a word and lets you push him back into the cushions, one palm on his chest.

You climb onto his lap before he can settle. Hike your skirts up. Settle your weight on him slow, deliberate, like you’re daring him to move.

He exhales through his nose, sharp and amused.

“Is this a game to you?” he murmurs.

You lean in until your mouth brushes his ear.

“No,” you whisper. “This is a reminder.”

Then you rock your hips against his, and whatever clever thing he was about to say dies on his tongue.

He hardens beneath you almost instantly, his body responding even as his breath catches. You feel him through the fabric of his breeches—thick and wanting already, as if what happened moments ago was merely an appetizer.

"Again?" His voice is rougher now, strained. "So soon?"

You don't answer with words. Instead you grind down against him, slow and deliberate, letting him feel the heat of you through the layers between. His hands come up to grip your waist, fingers digging into silk and flesh.

"Greedy little thing," he breathes, but there's admiration in it. Hunger.

You can feel his seed still slick between your thighs as you move against him, the evidence of his earlier claim making each roll of your hips smoother, more provocative. The knowledge that you're marked by him, filled by him, sends fresh heat spiraling through your belly.

"You like knowing you've marked me," you say, hands sliding up his chest to rest against his throat. "That I'll carry part of you inside me for days."

His pupils dilate at your words, at the press of your fingers against his pulse. "Yes," he admits without shame.

You lean closer, lips brushing his jaw. "Then you'll understand why I need to mark you too."

Before he can respond, you bite down on the tender skin just below his ear—not gently, not teasingly, but with enough force to leave an impression. He jerks beneath you, a sharp intake of breath, and you feel him grow harder still.

"The court will see that," he says, but there's no protest in his voice. If anything, he sounds pleased.

"Good." You pull back to meet his gaze. "Let them wonder who gave it to you."

His hands flex against your hips, thumbs pressing into the soft hollows above bone. "You think I'll let you brand me so easily?" There's challenge in his tone, but his body betrays him—the rigid length beneath you pulses with each heartbeat.

"I think you already have," you murmur, tracing the mark blooming red against his throat. "I think you want everyone to see it."

He watches you through half-lidded eyes, the violet of his irises nearly swallowed by black. "Perhaps I do."

You work at the laces of his breeches, fingers nimble despite the tremor of desire running through them. He lifts his hips slightly to help you, a silent acquiescence that makes your power over him feel both fragile and absolute.

When you free him, he's already fully hard again, the head glistening with evidence of his arousal.

His breath stutters when you wrap your fingers around him, stroking once from base to tip with deliberate slowness. The sound he makes is half growl, half plea—a crack in that carefully maintained composure that makes satisfaction bloom warm in your chest.

"Look at me," you command softly.

His eyes snap to yours, violet fire and desperate hunger. You hold his gaze as you position yourself above him, feeling him hot and hard against your entrance. The wetness between your thighs—his seed mixed with your own arousal—makes the first brush of contact electric.

You sink down onto him slowly, taking him inch by torturous inch until you're fully seated in his lap. The stretch burns sweetly, your body still tender from before, but the feeling of being filled by him again makes you moan despite yourself.

"Seven hells," he breathes, head falling back against the cushions. His hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise, but he doesn't try to control your pace. Not yet.

You begin to move, rolling your hips in slow, deliberate circles that make him twitch inside you. Each movement sends sparks of pleasure racing up your spine, but you keep your rhythm measured, controlled.

You begin to move, rising up until only the tip of him remains inside before sinking back down with agonizing slowness. Each motion draws fresh sounds from him—quiet gasps and bitten-off curses that make your own arousal spike higher. The power is intoxicating, watching the Rogue Prince reduced to trembling need beneath you.

His breathing grows ragged as you continue your torturous pace, lifting yourself almost completely off him before sinking back down with maddening slowness. You can see the effort it takes him not to thrust up into you, the way his jaw clenches with restraint.

His jaw clenches as you take your time, hands fisting in the silk of your skirts where they pool around his waist. You can see the effort it costs him to remain still, to let you dictate the rhythm when every line of his body screams for more.

"Patient, aren't you?" you murmur, trailing your fingertips down his chest. "I never thought I'd see the day."

His laugh is strained, breathless. "Don't mistake restraint for patience, sweet girl."

You lean forward, letting your lips hover just above his. "And what should I mistake it for?"

"Strategy," he says, voice rough. His hands slide up your sides, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts through your gown. "I'm letting you have your moment."

You raise an eyebrow, rocking your hips just enough to make his breath catch. "My moment?"

His smile is sharp-edged even as pleasure makes his voice thick. "You think you're in control because you're on top. Because I'm letting you set the pace." His thumbs trace higher, finding your nipples through the silk and circling them with maddening lightness. "But we both know who taught you to move like this."

The touch sends heat spiraling through you, but you don't let it break your rhythm. If anything, you slow further, until each rise and fall of your hips becomes an exercise in torture for you both.

"Perhaps," you breathe, "but you're still the one begging."

"Am I begging?" His hands slide to cup your breasts fully now, kneading the soft flesh as his hips finally jerk upward—just once, just enough to bury himself deeper and make you gasp. "Or am I simply enjoying the view?"

His thumb brushes across your nipple again, more firmly this time, and the sensation shoots straight to your core. You can't help the small sound that escapes you, the way your inner muscles clench around him in response. His smile widens, knowing.

"There," he murmurs, "that's what I wanted."

You lean down until your lips brush his ear. "And what about what I want?"

"Tell me," he breathes, his hands sliding to your hips again, fingers digging into flesh.

Instead of dignifying his question with a response, you anchor both palms flat against the solid muscle of his chest and bear down. You ride him in earnest now—none of the earlier coyness or measured pace, nothing calculated in your thrusts save raw hunger. Each downward stroke impales you on his cock, driving him impossibly deeper, until every inch of you is stretched and claimed and rendered wholly, ruthlessly his. The sensation is ferocious. It wrings sharp little cries from your lips that you cannot stifle, a symphony of surrender and defiance all at once.

The sound as your hips meet is obscene. Wet, rhythmic, an endless collision punctuated by the slap of flesh and the rasp of your breath. Somewhere below you the velvet cushions squawk and creak in protest beneath the violence of your movements, somewhere above you is only the hot blur of your own need and the violet fire of his gaze. He stares up at you as if he wants to memorize every twitch and tremor, as if your pleasure is the only thing in the world that matters—even as his own self-control unravels by degrees beneath your hands.

Then that control snaps altogether.

With a guttural sound, Daemon surges upward without warning. He wraps one arm around your waist, hard and unyielding as a steel band, crushing your body flush against his. The other hand slides into your hair at the nape and fists it tight, yanking your head back to bare the column of your neck. Before you can so much as gasp, his mouth is on your throat, hot and seeking.

“Mine,” he rasps against skin gone feverish beneath his tongue. Then he bites—not playfully but with primal intent—at the place where neck meets shoulder. It’s a sharp burst of pain that vaults straight into pleasure, he worries at it with teeth and tongue until you feel blood surely just beneath the surface, until tears spring to your eyes and you have to clutch at his shoulders to hold yourself together.

You dig your fingernails through his doublet with such force that you’re surprised not to draw blood yourself. The pressure only goads him onward. Beneath you, Daemon takes command of both rhythm and tempo. He thrusts up into you with brutal precision, using every ounce of strength in those infamous rider’s hips to drive himself deeper still. The new angle makes something inside you catch fire—each movement slamming into that sweet spot inside, making lights flare at the edges of your vision.

You try to keep up with him but it’s hopeless. There’s no pacing this, only helpless submission to sensation so intense it borders on agony. You want to slow down but he won’t let you—he holds you right where he wants you and fucks into you relentlessly until pleasure becomes something desperate and frightening.

He marks you everywhere he can reach—the curve of jaw, hollow of throat, even along collarbone where bruises will flower purple-black by morning—but always returns to that first spot behind your ear. He tongues it between words when he pauses for breath, occasionally he licks at the sweat pooling there as though tasting proof of conquest.

There is no space for pretense or courtly games here now—not when ecstasy burns through both of you like wildfire.

He slows briefly just long enough to slide a hand between your legs again, thumb slicking over where you're joined. Sensation detonates outward from each rough circle until you're gasping nonsense words into his hair—beseeching or cursing him or simply wailing because it’s too much—but still he doesn’t relent.

You never thought yourself capable of begging until now.

"You think you can take control from me?" His voice is a rasp against your ear, his breath hot and damp. "You think I don't see what you're doing?"

Your answer is a moan as he hits that perfect spot again, your body clenching around him involuntarily. His laugh is dark, triumphant.

"There it is," he murmurs.

He shifts beneath you, adjusting your position without breaking his rhythm. The new angle sends sparks shooting up your spine, makes your thighs tremble with the effort to maintain even the illusion of control.

One hand leaves your hip to slide between your bodies, finding that sensitive bundle of nerves and circling it with the precise pressure he knows will undo you. The dual assault—his cock driving deep inside while his fingers work their magic—makes your control slip further.

"Daemon," you gasp, the name torn from your throat.

"Say it again," he commands, voice tight with his own building pleasure. "Let me hear you."

"Daemon," you repeat, louder this time, not caring who might hear beyond these walls. His name becomes a chant, a prayer, falling from your lips with each thrust.

The tension coils tighter in your core, your movements growing erratic as you chase your release. He feels it coming—the way your inner walls flutter around him, the catch in your breathing—and doubles his efforts, fingers working faster against your swollen flesh.

"Come for me," he growls, the words vibrating against your skin. "Let me feel you break around me."

It's not the command that sends you over the edge but the raw need in his voice—the way he sounds as desperate for your pleasure as you are. Your release crashes through you with such force that your vision blurs at the edges, your body convulsing around him as wave after wave of ecstasy washes over you. You cry out his name one final time, loud enough that it echoes off the stone walls, a sound that would scandalize the entire court if they heard.

Daemon holds you through it, his rhythm faltering only slightly as your inner walls clench and pulse around him. When you slump against him, trembling and spent, he cradles the back of your head with unexpected tenderness, his lips brushing your temple.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, and for once there's no calculation in the word—just awe, rough and honest against your skin.

But he's not finished. Even as aftershocks still ripple through you, you feel him growing impossibly harder inside your oversensitive flesh. His hands grip your hips again, lifting and positioning you despite your boneless state.

"Not yet," he breathes, and begins to move again—slower now but no less intense, each thrust deliberate and deep. "I'm not done with you."

You whimper at the overstimulation, your body still singing from your release, but you don't pull away. Instead you let him use you, let him chase his own pleasure while you tremble in his arms. The sensation borders on too much, pleasure and pain blurring together until you can't tell where one ends and the other begins.

His breathing grows ragged against your neck, his movements more urgent. You can feel him swelling inside you as his own release approaches. His hands tighten on your hips, fingers digging deep enough to leave marks that will mirror the ones already blooming across your skin.

"Look at me," he demands, voice strained with the effort of holding back. When you lift your head, your eyes are glazed with pleasure and exhaustion, but you meet his gaze.

The raw possession in his words sends an unexpected pulse of heat through your oversensitive body. You're still trembling from your own climax, but something deep inside you responds to the hunger in his eyes, the way he watches you like you're the only thing that exists.

His thrusts become erratic, desperate. You feel him pulse inside you once, twice, then his release tears through him with a violence that makes his whole body go rigid beneath you. He pulls you down hard against him as he empties himself, his seed flooding you with liquid heat. A guttural sound escapes his throat—half growl, half prayer—as he holds you motionless, letting every pulse of his release fill you completely once more.

You feel the warmth of him spreading inside you, mixing with what remains from before, marking you in the most primal way possible. His grip on your hips is bruising, desperate, as if he's afraid you might disappear if he loosens his hold even slightly.

When the last tremors fade, you both remain still, breathing hard against each other's skin. The fire has burned lower while you were lost in each other, casting dancing shadows across the walls. Your body feels liquid, boneless, thoroughly claimed in ways that go far deeper than flesh.

"The feast," you murmur eventually, though neither of you makes any move to separate. "They'll notice we're gone."

His laugh rumbles through his chest where you're pressed against him. "Let them notice." His fingers trace lazy patterns along your spine, possessive even in gentleness. "Let them wonder what kept the Rogue Prince from their tedious company."

You shift slightly in his lap, feeling him still buried deep inside you, and he hisses at the sensation. The movement sends a fresh trickle of his seed down your thighs, a reminder of how thoroughly he's claimed you tonight.

"They'll talk," you say, though you make no effort to move away from him.

"They always talk." His hand slides up to cup the back of your neck, thumb stroking the tender skin he marked earlier. "The question is whether you care what they say."

You consider this, studying his face in the flickering firelight. His hair is disheveled, silver strands clinging to his damp forehead, and there's a smugness in his expression that should irritate you. Instead, it makes something warm curl in your chest—satisfaction at being the one to unravel his usual composure.

"I stopped caring what they say the moment you first touched me," you admit quietly.

Something shifts in his gaze at your confession—a flicker of surprise, perhaps, or recognition. His thumb continues its gentle stroking along your nape, and for a moment the silence between you feels different. Less charged with conflict, more weighted with understanding.

"Good," he says finally. "Because after tonight, there will be no hiding what you are to me."

You raise an eyebrow. "And what am I to you?"

He looks at you like he can’t believe you’re still asking. Like he’s already told you—flesh to flesh, word to word, again and again until the whole room reeks of it.

His hand curls at your neck, thumb brushing just behind your ear. Slower now. Steadier.

"You’re mine," he says.

The words are simple. Unearned, if they came from anyone else. But they don't. They come from him.

And gods, after tonight, you feel it. In your throat. In your bones. Between your thighs. In the mess you’ll carry with you to the bath tomorrow, and in the way you already dread having to share a room with anyone who dares look at him like they don’t already know.

You breathe in deep and let it out against his shoulder.

His hand stays at your nape. Your body aches in the best way a body can ache. His legs are half spread beneath yours, and he hasn’t moved to pull away. You think he won’t for a while.

You close your eyes.

Let them look.

Let them talk.

You are his, and he is yours.