what about modern daeron that is completely and utterly obsessed with you? i’m having thoughts again

cw: mdni, nsfw, obsessive/possessive daeron, making out, emotional tension

“daeron…” you whispered, your heart hammering against your ribs. this wasn’t curiosity. it was something much sharper—an urgency in his eyes that made your chest tighten, like he needed to know you completely, or he might break. this was obsession.

“i need to know,” he said, his voice dropping to a raw, intimate rasp. he lifted a hand and traced the line of your collarbone above your dress with just the tip of his finger. you shuddered. “i need to know everything. because every moment you’re not with me feels like a theft. you are all i think about. when i dream, it’s you. when i’m trying not to dream… it’s still you.”

his words burned through the quiet, impossible to ignore. you were gullible, but you weren’t blind. something in his gaze, searching and insistent, that pulled at a part of you, you usually kept buried.he saw the surrender in your eyes before you voiced it. a dark, triumphant light flared in his gaze. he took your hand, his fingers intertwining with yours with a firmness that left no room for argument, he led you back inside, through the silent, darkened hallways of the mansion, away from the party and into the heart of his private world. meant only for you.

his room is wide, dimly lit, with tall windows half covered by heavy, dark curtains.expensive furniture sits carelessly used: a large bed with rumpled sheets, clothes half fallen to the floor as if discarded mid thought rather than out of laziness. on either side, nightstands cluttered with crystal ashtrays—some still holding thin trails of smoke from forgotten cigarettes—next to scattered rings, a glass with untouched wine. the air carry’s a layered scent: sharp tobacco smoke lingering over something richer—leather, faint cologne, and the dry, almost burnt note of ash. underneath it all, a subtle chill, like stone walls that are never quite warm, no matter how long someone stays. he closed the door behind you, and the click of the lock was the loudest sound in the universe.

he turned to you, leaning back against the door, devouring you with his eyes. “come here.”

you walked to him, each step feeling momentous. when you were within reach, he didn’t grab you. he let his hands come up slowly, framing your face again, his touch reverent.

“i have wanted you,” he breathed, his lips inches from yours, “since i knew what wanting was. you, in this house, laughing with my siblings, being so fucking good and sweet and mine without even knowing it.” he kissed you then, but it wasn’t like a desperate kiss. this was slow. a claiming sip by sip.his tongue traced the seam of your lips until you opened for him with a soft sigh, and then he was delving in, tasting you deeply. his hands began to move. down your neck, over your shoulders, sliding the thin straps of your dress down your arms. the fabric pooled at your waist. he broke the kiss to look at you, his breath catching at the sight of you in your simple lace bra. “gods,” he swore, a prayer and a curse. “you ruin me.”

he is so boyfriend

manifesting a man like henry ashton

modern!daeron targaryen x fem!reader wc: 1.5k

cw: 18+(mdni), nsfw, oral sex (f receiving), soft!daeron, teasing/denial, stress relief through intimacy

the week had been a marathon of stress—papers that felt like they were written in a language you’d only half-learned, presentations that left your throat raw, and a constant, low-grade hum of anxiety that had taken up residence behind your eyes. the only sanctuary you could think of was him. daeron.

his apartment was your decompression chamber. it was always dim, lit by the soft glow of a salt lamp and the flickering blue of a perpetually paused movie on the massive television. it smelled of old books, sandalwood incense, and the faint, clean scent of his skin. he was sprawled on the deep, worn sofa when you let yourself in, a half-empty glass of something amber resting on his chest, his eyes closed. he looked peaceful, adrift in one of his quiet dreams.

“rough week, love?” he murmured without opening his eyes, sensing your presence as you kicked off your shoes and let your bag drop with a thud.

“the worst,” you sighed, collapsing onto the sofa beside him, burrowing into his side. he was warm and solid, an anchor in your storm-tossed sea. he lifted his arm, and you slid beneath it, tucking your head against his shoulder. he picked up the remote and unpaused the movie—some moody, black and white french film with subtitles you were too tired to read.

for a while, you just existed there, the tension slowly leaching from your muscles into the soft cushions and his steady presence. but as the calm settled, a different kind of energy began to stir. a need for connection that was more than just proximity. a need to be seen, to be pulled out of your own frantic head and into a feeling.

you tilted your head up, nuzzling into the column of his throat. he made a soft, humming sound, his hand absently stroking your arm. you pressed a light kiss just below his jaw, where his pulse beat a slow, steady rhythm.

“mmm,” he sighed, his attention still ostensibly on the poetic despair unfolding on screen.

you did it again, another kiss, this time letting your lips linger, breathing him in—whiskey, sleep, and daeron. you shifted, turning more fully into him, placing a series of deliberate, soft kisses along the line of his neck, up to his ear.

“you’re missing the best part,” he whispered, but his voice had lost its focus. It was softer, fraying at the edges.

“i don’t care about the movie,” you murmured against his skin, your voice a low plea. “i’ve missed you.”

his hand stilled on your arm. you took it as invitation. with a determined wiggle, you moved, swinging a leg over his hips until you were straddling him, settling your weight in his lap. now you were a living barrier between him and the television. your hands came up to frame his face, forcing his gaze away from the flickering images and onto you. his dreamy eyes, usually hazy with distant visions, were suddenly very present, very dark.

“hey,” you said softly.

“hey yourself,” he replied, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. his hands came to rest on your hips, not guiding, just holding.

you leaned down and kissed him properly. it was slow, deep, a reclamation. a silent communication of all the frustration and loneliness of the week pouring into this one point of contact. he responded lazily at first, letting you lead, but you could feel the shift. the careful control he maintained over himself, over the dreams and the drink, began to dissolve under your persistent mouth.

you kissed his jaw, his cheekbone, the corner of his mouth, each press of your lips a whispered demand. see me. feel me. be here with me.

a low, helpless whine escaped him—a beautiful, broken sound that went straight to your core.it was the sound of his resistance snapping.

“alright,” he breathed, the word a surrender. “alright, little star.”

in one smooth, surprisingly strong motion, he flipped you. the world tilted, and then you were on your back against the soft cushions, caged beneath him. the lazy poet was gone, replaced by something more focused, more hungry. he didn’t speak. he just looked at you for a long moment, his eyes drinking you in, before he descended.

he kissed you like he was mapping a forgotten country. his lips were on yours, then your eyelids, the tip of your nose, the hollow of your throat. each kiss was a promise, a apology for his earlier distraction. he moved down your body with a languid, worshipful pace, pushing up your soft sweater to press open-mouthed kisses to your stomach, making you shiver and arch.

“daeron,” you whined, tangling your hands in his silver-gold hair. “please.”

“please what?” he murmured against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, his breath hot through the thin fabric of your mini-skirt. he nuzzled there, inhaling deeply. “you smell like heaven.”

you were aching, wetness soaking through your panties, a throbbing need that made it hard to think. “stop teasing,” you begged, bucking your hips up against nothing.

“teasing?” he sounded genuinely curious, innocent, even as he hooked his fingers in the waistband of your skirt and drew it down in one slow, torturous pull. the cool air hit your heated skin, followed immediately by the warmth of his gaze. “i’m not teasing. i’m appreciating.”

he settled between your thighs, but didn’t touch you where you needed him most. instead, he kissed the crease of your hip, the soft plane of your lower belly. he kissed the inside of one thigh, then the other, his stubble a delicious scratch against your tender skin.

“daeron, now,” you demanded, your voice cracking.

he finally looked up, his chin resting on your thigh. his eyes were pools of liquid amethyst, dark with want and something softer, something unbearably tender. “so impatient,” he chided gently. “after a week of waiting, you can’t give me a few more minutes to taste my favorite dream?”

then he lowered his head.

but not to where you expected. he pressed a soft, lingering kiss right over your damp panties, the fabric a frustrating, thin barrier. you cried out, a sharp sound of need. he did it again, a little firmer, humming against you, the vibration making your toes curl.

“you’re cruel,” you gasped.

“i’m thorough,” he corrected, his voice muffled against you.

with agonizing slowness, he used his teeth to tug the soaked fabric aside. and then there was nothing between his mouth and you.

the first flat stroke of his tongue was a revelation. it was not frantic or greedy, but slow, exploratory, a poet savoring a perfect line of verse. he licked you like he was trying to memorize your taste, broad, languid strokes that made you see stars behind your closed eyelids.

“oh god…”

“not god,” he murmured, lifting his head just enough to speak, his lips glistening. “just daeron. just me.”

he returned to his task with renewed focus. the teasing was over. now it was pure, unadulterated devotion. his mouth was a miracle of precision and patience. he would swirl his tongue around your clit until you were trembling on the edge, then back off to lave at your entrance, drinking you down with soft, sucking kisses that pulled whimpers from your throat. he’d slide one finger, then two, inside you, crooking them perfectly as his tongue continued its devastating work.

you were babbling, a stream of consciousness made of his name and pleas and shattered fragments of thought. his hands held your hips down firmly, anchoring you as you writhed.you were completely at his mercy, and he was showing none—only an endless, profound generosity.

“that’s it,” he coaxed against your flesh, his voice a rough vibration. “let go for me, angel. i’ve got you. i’m here. i’m not going anywhere.”

it was the “i’m here” that did it. after a week of feeling utterly alone in a crowd, his absolute presence—his full, undivided attention poured into every lick, every kiss—was the final key. the climax broke over you not like a wave, but like a sunrise, slow and then all at once, flooding every cell with golden light and warmth. you cried out, back bowing off the couch, your hands fisted in his hair, holding him to you as he gentled you through the pulses with soft, kittenish licks.

when the last tremor subsided, he rested his cheek on your thigh, breathing heavily. you were liquid, the stress of the week not just forgotten but annihilated.

he finally lifted his head and crawled back up your body, collapsing beside you and pulling you into his arms. he kissed your sweaty temple, your shoulder, anywhere he could reach.

“better?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

you could only nod, nuzzling into his chest. he had taken the fractured pieces of your week and welded them back together with his mouth, his hands, his quiet, poetic soul. in the glow of the television, now ignored and silent, you drifted, safe in the harbor of daeron the dreamer, who had, for once, dreamed only of you.

a/n: this came to me in a dream and i haven’t known peace since

modern!daeron dating hcs

sfw

𖦹 dating daeron means becoming his favorite hiding place. the weight of being a targaryen—the expectations, the sneers from aerion, maekar’s cold disappointment, presses on him like a physical thing. with you? he can breathe. he’ll show up at your flat unannounced, smelling of rain and cigarette smoke from some dive bar near campus, and just collapse onto your sofa with his head in your lap. he doesn't need to talk. he just needs to exist, quietly, in a space where he isn’t a failure. he's just yours.

𖦹 he’ll mock grand gestures. his love language is shared secrets. a poem he wrote about the way light hits your hair when you’re not looking, scribbled on a napkin and slipped into your coat pocket. a perfectly curated, obscure playlist for every mood you’ve ever mentioned having. taking you to some grimy basement gig because he heard a band there that made him think of you.

𖦹 daeron has a finely tuned radar for bullshit, especially targaryen-brand bullshit. if aerion makes a condescending remark about your career at a family dinner, daeron won’t make a scene. he’ll wait. later, in the car or back at your place, he’ll dissect it with a vicious, witty precision that makes you laugh until you cry, completely dismantling the insult and leaving it in tatters. he can’t always fight for himself, but for you? he finds a spine of steel.

𖦹 your life might be messy, a chaotic schedule, a kitchen full of unwashed mugs, a head full of dreams that don't fit on a spreadsheet. daeron gets it. he won’t try to organize you into a neater box. instead, he’s the calm in your storm. he’ll find your lost keys with a weary smile, make you coffee at 2am when you’re panicking over a deadline, and listen to your rambling ideas without ever making you feel foolish. in his quiet acceptance, you find a home for all the parts of yourself the rest of the world asks you to tidy away.

𖦹 being with daeron means navigating the icy minefield of his immediate family. maekar’s disapproval is a constant chill. aerion’s malice is a sharp blade. but baelor will try awkwardly to be kind, offering you hearty, misplaced advice about “steady careers.” and aemon, is an unlikely ally, he and daeron share a silent language of being the family’s “other” sons, and aemon will give you a small, knowing nod of solidarity across the table.

nsfw

𖦹 sex with daeron is about feeling so much that you can’t feel anything else. no pressure, no name, no past failures. it’s intense and immersive. he’s not possessive like aerion; he’s escapist. he’ll lose himself in the taste of your skin, the sound of your breath, the way your body arches against his. it’s less about ownership and more about oblivion, a beautiful, mutual oblivion you create together.

𖦹 he has a musician’s hands and a poet’s mouth in bed. he touches you like he’s trying to memorize a melody, tracing patterns on your skin that only he understands. and he talks—oh, he talks. not dirty talk, not commands. It's a stream-of-consciousness, wine-softened confession against your neck: how beautiful the curve of your hip is in the low light; how you taste like forgotten summers; how this, the heat, the sweat-slick slide of you around him, is the only prayer he’s ever believed in.

𖦹 there’s a frantic edge to his need sometimes, especially after a bad day with his family or a bout of self-loathing. it can be rough, almost clumsy in its desperation, as if he’s trying to climb inside you to get away from himself. but it always breaks into devastating tenderness. the moment he feels you soften for him, accept him in his ragged state, he shatters. the frantic pace slows to something worshipful, his kisses turn apologetic and sweet, and he’ll hold you afterwards like you’re the only thing keeping him anchored to the earth.

𖦹 he doesn't want the lights on. not fully. the half-darkness is his friend.it’s where he feels safest, most real. he wants to see you in slices of moonlight or the neon glow from a streetlamp filtering through your blinds, not in the harsh, revealing daylight. in the shadows, he can believe he’s not a disappointment; he’s just a man, loving you.

𖦹 this is when he’s most vulnerable. sobered up by sleep and dawn, with you curled beside him in your messy bed. the armor of cynicism and wine is gone. he’ll trace your features with a look of such quiet awe it hurts to witness. he might whisper things he’d never say otherwise “you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” or “i don’t know what i did to deserve you here.” it’s raw, unguarded, and it never lasts long. as soon as the sun is fully up, he’ll retreat behind a dry joke or get up to make coffee, leaving those tender confessions hanging in the air like ghosts. but you heard them. and he knows you did.

cw: nsfw, intoxication, unhealthy coping mechanisms, emotional dependency, nightmares, self destructive behaviour, vulnerability, fear of abandonment, rough/impulsive intimacy, explicit sexual content (18+),mdni

the metallic scrape of keys against the lock sounded like a serrated blade dragging over bone. you didn’t turn from the flickering glow of the television, though your heart did a slow, painful roll in your chest. the door swung heavy on its hinges, thudding against the stopper with a dull, bruised sound.

“i’m here,” daeron’s voice drifted in, thick with the weight of too much wine and not enough sleep.

you heard his shoes hit the floor, one then the other, followed by the soft rustle of his coat sliding off his shoulders.he stumbled, a soft curse catching in his throat, before his shadow stretched across the carpet toward you.

“you promised, daeron," you said, your voice a flat line of exhaustion.

“i know,” he rasped, moving into your line of sight. he looked hauntingly beautiful in the dim light, his dirty blonde hair falling over his face, his pale blue eyes were bloodshot, glassy with a desperate, pitiful sheen. “i’m a liar. i’m a coward. i’m everything you should have locked the door against tonight.”

“you need to stop doing this to yourself,” you whispered, looking at the way his hands trembled.

“i can’t stop the dreams,” he said, his voice cracking as he reached the edge of the couch. “they were burning again. all of them.dragons made of red shadow, tearing the sky apart. i just wanted the world to be quiet. i just wanted to forget the fire.” he didn't wait for an invitation.daeron sank to his knees on the floor between your legs, his movements heavy and uncoordinated. he looked like a kicked puppy, his long hair falling forward to shroud his face. “don’t look at me like that,” he murmured, his forehead resting against your knee. “please. scold me. tell me i’m pathetic. just don’t be silent.”

“you aren’t pathetic," you said, reaching down to brush a lock of hair behind his ear. “you’re just drowning, and you won’t let me pull you out.”

“i don’t want to be pulled out,” he groaned, his hands sliding up to grip your ankles. bis touch was light, tentative, as if he feared he might bruise you just by existing. “i want to drown in you instead. you’re the only quiet place left in the world. everything else is screaming.” he looked up then, his eyes searching yours with a hunger that was almost frightening. “am i making you upset? tell me i haven’t ruined it yet. tell me you still want me here.”

“i always want you here, daeron. that’s the problem.”

“god, you’re so good,” he whispered, his hands sliding further up your legs, hooking behind your knees to pull himself closer. he buried his face in your lap, breathing you in like air after a long submersion. “i don’t deserve the way you smell. like something sweet.like home.” you cupped his face, forcing him to look at you. his skin was hot, feverish against your palms. “you’re drunk, daeron. you’re going to regret this in the morning when the headache sets in.”

“i regret the wine,” he said, his fingers tightening on your thighs, “but i will never regret the way you look at me. kiss me. please. i need to know i’m still alive. i need to feel something that isn’t this.”

he didn't wait for an answer, lunging upward with a needy, desperate groan. his mouth crashed into yours, tasting of bitter juniper and sweet, fermented grapes. it wasn't a gentle kiss.his tongue pushed past your lips, searching, frantic, as if he could drink the very soul out of your lungs. you felt yourself being pressed back into the cushions of the couch, his weight following you, heavy and insistent. “i need you,” he panted against your lips, his hands moving to cup your face, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones with a bruising pressure. “i need to be so deep inside you that i can’t hear the dragons anymore. shut them out for me. please.”

“daeron, slow down,” you breathed, but your own hands were already tangled in his hair, pulling him closer.

“i can’t,” he whimpered, his face dropping to your neck. he began to trail wet, hot kisses down the line of your throat, his teeth grazing your skin just enough to leave a mark. “i’ve been starving for this all day. every glass i drank was just me trying to find the courage to come back and beg for you.” he shifted, his knee forcing its way between your thighs, spreading you wide. he was hard against your hip, a solid, pulsing heat that made your stomach flip.

“do you want me?” he asked, his voice a low, gravelly vibration against your skin. “tell me you want me even when i’m like this. tell me i’m yours.”

“you know you are,” you said, your breath hitching as his hand slid under your shirt, his palm rough and warm against your ribs. “say it,” he commanded, his eyes dark and swirling with a manic intensity. “tell me you want me inside you. tell me you want me to ruin you tonight. please.”

“i want you, daeron. i want all of you.”

he let out a ragged sound, half-sob and half-growl, as he reached for his belt. “then hold onto me. don’t let me go, no matter how much i shake.” he fumbled with his trousers, his movements frantic until he freed his length. it was thick and angry, weeping a bead of pre-cum that glistened in the television's blue light. he didn't use a condom; he didn't wait for finesse. he shoved your underwear aside, his fingers slicking your folds with a rough, hurried efficiency. “you’re so wet for me,” he choked out, his eyes locked on yours. “even when i’m a mess, you’re ready for me.”

he guided himself to your opening, the broad head of his cock dragging over your clit before he pushed. he was thick, the entry tight and demanding a slow stretch.he softly moved forward, burying himself to the hilt in one singular, devastating thrust.you gasped, your back arching off the couch as your body accommodated his intrusion. the sound of flesh meeting flesh was a wet, heavy slap that echoed in the room.

“god,” he groaned, his eyes rolling back as he remained buried deep within you. “you’re so tight, love. i can feel your heart beating against me.” he began to move, a frantic, uncoordinated rhythm that spoke of his desperation. every time he withdrew, there was a wet, shlicking sound as the suction broke, only for him to plunge back in with enough force to make the couch creak. his balls slapped against your skin, the friction creating a building heat that threatened to consume you both.

“look at me, please” he commanded, his voice breaking. “don’t close your eyes. i want to see you. i need to see you.”

you looked up at him, seeing the sweat beading on his forehead, the way his lips were parted in a silent scream of pleasure.he was beautiful and broken, a prince of a fallen house finding his only kingdom between your legs. “i’m going to come,” he gasped, his thrusts becoming shorter, sharper. “i’m going to... fuck, i’m going to fill you up. please— please my sweet, my dream.”

his hands gripped your waist so hard you knew there would be bruises in the morning. he gave one final, violent shove, his body locking up as he spilled himself deep inside you. you felt the hot, rhythmic pulses of his release hitting your cervix, a thick, internal flooding that made you cry out his name. he collapsed onto you, his chest heaving, the smell of sex,sweat and alcohol in the air. he didn't pull out. he stayed there, trembling, his face buried in the crook of your neck.

“don’t leave me,” he whispered, his voice small and terrified. “the dreams will come back if you leave me.”

“i’m not going anywhere, daeron,” you said, stroking his hair. “i’ve got you.”

pairing: modern!daeron targaryen x fem!reader

summary: you walk into a club you didn’t want to be in, and there he is. the man you loved, broken and wild. one look, and the past crashes in. he confesses and promises to never let go of you again, and for the first time, you almost believe him.

cw: mdni, substance abuse, addiction and recovery themes, angst/comfort, self-destructive habits, crying/emotional breakdown, making out(non-explicit), childhood friends

wc: 2.6k

the city at night was a living thing, a beast of light and sound that pulsed through the taxi window and hummed in your bones. you watched it pass, a silent movie of neon signs and blurred faces. your reflection in the glass was a ghost superimposed over the chaos—a good girl in a borrowed black dress, going to a place where good girls got lost.

you hadn’t wanted to come. kiera’s invitation had been a text bubble of excitement:

valarr’s got a table at the armani privè.

it’s gonna be epic.

you HAVE to come.

you’d typed out a dozen excuses. you had work.you were tired. you were.. afraid.

because valarr was daeron’s friend. and where valarr targaryen went, daeron targaryen was never far behind.

daeron. the name was a bruise on your heart, tender to the slightest touch. once, it had been synonymous with sunshine, with scraped knees and shared secrets in treehouses, with the safe, sweet scent of childhood. he was your first friend. your father and his, maekar, were like brothers forged in steel and mutual respect. you grew up in the shadow of the targaryen fortress, but daeron was never the prince. he was the boy who shared his ice cream, who held your hand when you were scared of thunderstorms.

then, the slow fracture. the sunshine in him had curdled, turned inward and sour. the sips of stolen beer became bottles. the curious experimentation became a hungry, hollow-eyed reliance. you tried to be the lighthouse in his gathering storm. you brought him notes when he skipped class, you sat with him in silence when the world was too loud, you pleaded with him in whispers that felt like prayers. but the boy you knew was being erased, replaced by a stranger with daeron’s smile and a ghost’s eyes. he pushed you away with words sharp as broken glass. he found new friends whose laughter was as empty as the bottles they left behind. your heart didn’t just break; it ached with a persistent, lonely sorrow for the ghost of him.

yet, here you were. paying the driver, stepping onto the pavement where the bass from the club thumped like a diseased heartbeat. maybe you needed to see the ghost for yourself. to finally lay it to rest.

inside, the club was a temple to forgetting. strobing lights cut through a haze of smoke and sweat.you found kiera and valarr in a roped-off section, a velvet-draped island in the sea of chaos. kiera, resplendent in silver, pulled you into a hug. “you came! i knew you would!” valarr gave you a nod, his mismatched eyes missing nothing. he was a golden idol amidst the frenzy, untouched by it.you knew he saw your tension.

the night stretched, thin and taut. kiera and valarr melted into each other. tanselle vanished with a laugh and a tall stranger. you were adrift. you nursed a drink that tasted like candy and regret, watching the human carnival swirl.you were a spectator in your own life, a quiet note in a screaming song.

the cold seeped in, despite the heat of the crowd. you needed warmth, or at least the illusion of it. you pushed through the press of bodies toward the long, glowing bar, a sanctuary of relative silence.

you were fumbling in your small purse for cash, your fingers clumsy, when a hand reached past you. a familiar hand, long-fingered, with a silver ring shaped like a twisted dragon.it placed a black card on the bartender’s tray.

“she’ll have another. and keep them coming.”

the voice was lower than you remembered, roughened by smoke and something else. it was a voice from your dreams and your nightmares.

you turned slowly.

daeron.

he looked like a fallen angel dressed for a riot. black shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with lean muscle and faded ink. his silvery gold hair, once so bright, was darker, longer, falling into eyes that were the same impossible shade of blue, but now ringed with shadows. he smelled of expensive whiskey, clove cigarettes, and a deep, aching sadness that had a scent all its own.

“you doing okay?” he asked. his gaze wasn’t focused; it skated over your face, around the room, everywhere but truly on you.

a hot spike of anger, sharp and clean, pierced your numbness. he’d ignored you for a year. acted as if you were air. and now he was buying you a drink with the casual grace of a prince tossing a coin to a beggar.

“i was managing,” you said, your voice colder than you intended. you turned back to the bartender, dismissing him. “i can pay for my own.”

he let out a soft, humorless puff of air that wasn’t quite a laugh. “old habits,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. he didn’t move away. he leaned against the bar, his shoulder almost touching yours, a ghost of the proximity you once shared without thought. the noise of the club seemed to recede, building a bubble of tense quiet around the two of you.

“this isn’t really your scene, is it?” he said after a moment, finally looking at you. really looking. his eyes traced the line of your jaw, the nervous flutter in your throat.

“what would you know about my scene?” you shot back, taking the shot the bartender slid toward you. you threw it back, the fire in your throat a welcome distraction from the ache in your chest.

he flinched, just a little.a crack in the marble facade. “i know you,” he said, so quiet you almost didn’t hear it over the music. “or i did.”

the rest of the night passed in a blur of noise and colored light. you were aware of him, a dark satellite orbiting you at a careful distance. when kiera declared she and valarr were leaving for a “more private party,” and tanselle was long gone, you found yourself stranded.

“i’ll take you home.”

daeron was there, car keys dangling from his finger. it wasn’t an offer. it was a statement.

you wanted to refuse. to call a cab, to walk, to do anything but be enclosed in a car with this stranger who wore your best friend’s face. but your feet were sore, your head throbbed with the phantom beat of the music, and a deeper, more treacherous part of you longed for the familiar scent of his car, the way he used to drive with one hand on the wheel, telling you silly stories.

silence filled his sleek, black car, heavier than any music.he drove with a focused intensity, the city lights painting streaks of gold and red across his sharp profile.he pulled a slim joint from his pocket, lit it with a flick of his lighter, it had little stars on it, it was the one you bought for him. he took a long drag, holding the smoke in his lungs before letting it seep out slowly.

the sweet, herbal scent filled the space. an old memory surfaced: teenagers in his treehouse, sharing a stolen cigarette, coughing and giggling.

without thinking, driven by a sudden, reckless need to bridge the chasm, you reached over. “can i?”

he froze, the joint halfway to his lips. his ocean blue eyes widened, searching your face for mockery. finding none, he handed it to you, his fingers brushing yours. a spark, old and familiar. you took a hesitant pull, imitating what you’d seen. the smoke hit your lungs like a swarm of tiny, hot needles. you convulsed, a harsh, ragged cough tearing from your throat, your eyes watering. and then you heard it. a sound you hadn’t heard in years. a genuine, surprised laugh. It was short, a little rough, but it was his laugh. the one from before the storms.

“easy there, love,” he said, taking the joint back, a faint, real smile touching his lips. it was like seeing the sun break through a month of clouds. “you don’t just inhale the whole damn thing.” you coughed again, wiping your eyes, but you were smiling too, a shaky, watery thing. for a second, just a second, it was you and him again. not the ghost and the mourner.just two people in a car.

he pulled up to your apartment building, a modest but nice place your good grades and diligent work had earned you. he killed the engine, the sudden quiet a loud presence between you. he stared at the steering wheel, his knuckles white.

“do you… want to come up?” you heard yourself ask.the words hung in the air, a fragile peace offering. “for a drink. a real one.”

he didn’t look at you, but his shoulders slumped, as if a great weight had been lifted onto them. he gave a single, slow nod. “yeah,” he rasped. “yeah, i’d like that.”

your apartment was you. plants on the windowsill, posters of your favourite singers on the wall, books stacked neatly on a shelf, a soft blanket thrown over the sofa, a framed photo of you and your friends on the mantel.it was warm, and lived-in, and safe.

he stood in the middle of your living room, looking strangely large and out of place, like a wild animal brought indoors. his eyes devoured the space—the cozy chaos, the evidence of your life without him. you saw his throat work as he swallowed hard.

“it’s nice,” he said, his voice thick. “it’s… you.”

you poured two glasses of red wine, your hands not quite steady. you handed him one and sat on the far end of the sofa, curling your legs beneath you. he took a long swallow, then sat not where you’d left space, but right in the middle, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him. the silence was different now. not empty, but full of all the unsaid things, the lost years, the shared history that lay between you like a shattered vase.

he put his glass down on your coffee table with a soft clink. he ran a hand through his hair, a gesture of such familiar frustration it made your heart twist.

“i don’t know where to start,” he began, his voice a low, rough scrape. he wasn’t looking at you; he was staring at his own hands as if they belonged to a stranger. “the drinking, the.. the other stuff. pushing you away. the things i said.” he took a shaky breath. “i was drowning. and i was so fucking scared that if i reached for you, i’d pull you under with me.”

you stayed silent, letting the words hang in the air between you.

he moved then, shifting impossibly closer on the couch, until his knee was touching your thigh. he finally looked up, and his eyes were glistening, tears clinging to his dark lashes. the raw, unguarded pain in them stole your breath.

“you were the only good thing,” he whispered, the confession torn from him. “the only pure, clean thing in my life. and I was so… so tainted.i thought if i ruined it, if i made you hate me, then the rot wouldn’t spread. then you’d be safe.” a single tear traced a path down his cheek. he didn’t wipe it away. “i was a coward.i am a coward. i miss you. gods, i miss you so much it feels like a physical hole in my chest.”

he was crying now, silent tears for the boy he was, for the friend he lost, for the chaos he chose. the beautiful, broken boy from your childhood was crumbling right in front of you, on your couch, in the space you’d built without him. your own resolve, the wall of anger you’d built over the lonely months, shattered.it wasn’t a dramatic collapse, but a gentle dissolution,like sand yielding to the tide.

you reached out, your hand trembling, and cupped his damp cheek. his skin was warm, real. he leaned into the touch like a man dying of thirst, closing his eyes, a shudder running through his whole frame.

“daeron,” you breathed, your voice thick with your own tears.

his eyes flew open, blazing with a desperate hope. “please,” he begged, his voice breaking on the word. “please,say you forgive me. i can’t.. i can’t breathe without it. without you.”

you looked into those pale blue eyes, windows to a soul that had been lost in a long, dark night.you saw the pain, the regret, the love that had never truly died, just been buried under layers of self-destruction.

“i forgive you,” you whispered.

it was like releasing a caught breath the world had been holding.the tension in his body snapped. a broken sound, half-sob, half-relief, escaped his lips.and then he was surging forward, his hands coming up to frame your face, his mouth crashing down on yours.

the kiss was not gentle. it was desperate, hungry, a starving man being offered his first taste of salvation.it was an apology and a plea all at once. he kissed you like he was trying to drink you in, to memorize the feel of your lips, the taste of your breath mixed with wine and his tears. he whined, a soft, high sound in the back of his throat, the sound of a soul coming undone and being stitched back together at the same time. you kissed him back, your hands sliding into his silken hair, pulling him closer. the world narrowed to the points of contact: his lips, fierce and seeking; his hands, trembling as they slid from your face to your shoulders, down your back; the solid warmth of his body pressing you into the cushions.

he broke the kiss only to trail a desperate path of open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, your throat, whispering against your skin. “i’m sorry, i’m so sorry,im so sorry…my dream, my heart” each word was a prayer, a vow. His lips found yours again, softer now, deeper, pouring a year of lonely anguish and fierce, unwavering longing into every movement.

it was a mosaic of sensation—the scratch of his stubble, the salt of tears (whose, you couldn’t tell), the frantic beat of his heart against yours. it was a conversation without words, a reclamation of lost territory. he kissed you until you were both breathless, until the only sound was your ragged breathing and the soft, wet sounds of your mouths meeting again and again.

finally, spent, he collapsed against you, his forehead resting on your shoulder, his body heavy and warm atop yours. you lay there, tangled on the couch, in the quiet of your apartment. your fingers absently carded through his soft hair, just as you used to do when you were kids and he was upset.

after a long while, he shifted, propping himself up on his elbows to look down at you. his eyes were clear now,bright and focused, holding a determination you hadn’t seen in years. he traced the line of your brow with a tenderness that made your heart ache.

“i’m getting clean,” he said, the words simple, solid. “for real this time. not for my father. not for the family name. for me.” he leaned down, brushing his lips against yours once, softly. “and for you.” he swallowed, his gaze unwavering, fierce with a newfound light. “i let you go once.it was the worst mistake of my life.” he buried his face in the curve of your neck, his voice muffled but fervent against your skin, a vow sealed with the warmth of his breath. “i will never let you go again.”

a/n: i went through a terrible dead poets society phase once, and i think it left quite a mark on me. anyway, lately all i can think about is him, henry ashton/daeron.i can’t even bring myself to write anything else.it’s kind of… getting bad.

summer in northern italy with daeron targaryen moodboard ⤷ read here