#x woc!reader

You're late for class when your roommate's brother appears. Isaac Night couldn't possibly be here for you, he shouldn't even be in the girl's dorm, so you bypass pleasantries in favor of shutting the door to your room while shrugging on your blazer. "Fran's already gone."

As tall as he is, it's no struggle for him to keep to your heels. "I'm aware. I saw her in the quad."

"Okay?" You weave through the curious eyes of the dorm mates on your floor and head for the staircase.

"I require a favor."

Require, you stifle a snort. Always so formal. The clatter of soles on stone steps join the flutter of notes and textbooks and excited chatter in the morning cacophony of girls rushing about the building. “Lay it on me. Quick,” you urge.

“Right,” he murmurs, likely taken aback by your hurried insistence. While neither of you have talked to the other in any proper manner, you wouldn't consider him a stranger at all. If anything, he's a specter, a gangly phantom who moves just out of sight when your vision focuses. “The Harvest Festival is tonight.”

“…yeah, I’m aware.”

“I assume you’re going.”

“I’m undecided.”

“Oh.”

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, you whirl around. Your abrupt movement and bag swinging off your shoulder startles him and he retreats back a step. You crane your neck to look up at him with a direct and unflinching stare. “Will you spit it out? Not all of us are Stonehearst's pet.”

He flattens his palm against his black lapel. “Francoise is planning to meet a normie there. I promised I’d tag along, but I’m behind on a science project.”

“What’s the favor, Isaac?”

“Could you chaperone her in my stead?”

“That’s it?” He nods.

It sounds too easy, too simple of a task. Fran is already your roommate. She'd even invited you to come along with her, Issac, and her date to the festival. Hardly an ask requiring a personal visit from the Night brother. But he did come all this way. “What’s in it for me?”

"I-" He cuts himself short, the toe of his shoe idly scuffing the iron railing of the staircase. You've seen him go back and forth with teachers over quadratics and molecular mechanics that fly over your head. Surely, he isn't so easily flustered. "Francoise likes you and trusts you, so must I. And I'll owe you a favor in return."

Your eyebrow instinctively lifts, and an expression must cross your features because he rushes to amend. "Something within reason, of course."

"Whatever, weirdo. Fran already asked me to third wheel." You turn, the pleats of your skirt glancing against the itchy stockings covering your legs. "But I'll keep you in my back pocket. Just in case."

You leave him speechless at the entrance of your dorm and focus on sprinting across campus to class, certain your professor won't excuse your tardiness even if you name drop his favorite student.

It's barely a week since the festival when you find Isaac seated in your usual lunch spot. A bench wraps around one of the quad's tree, thick foliage perfectly and completely shading his crossed legs for precisely twelve more minutes. His hand curves around an apple, a red delicious, which you've found to be anything but.

"May I join you?" his voice is melodic and high. If you knew anything of his moods, you'd wager he is in a good one.

You halt in front of him and note how sunlight cleaves the empty spaces on both sides of his form. If you sit beside him, one half of your body is sure to tan, leaving your complexion uneven. Between the changing seasons, the shade dwindling the longer you belabor this interaction, and your makeup allowance, you literally can't afford to account for any extra sunlight.

"Only if you give me back my spot."

He doesn't ask or argue. He doesn't require you to explain the physics of how your skin tone shifts with the seasonal angle and distance of the sun, the chemistry of how your pigmentation sits between two different shades of your favorite foundation thus your having to mix them just so as your tan wears off, and the economy of how you have to budget to the exact penny of the babysitting money you earned over the break for your summer and winter makeup. Limbs can be covered up with your uniform and weekend clothing. Your face, however…

He simply slides to his left, sun dappling through the leaves and highlighting the chocolate of his iris. You unceremoniously plop beside him, primly setting your tray on your lap. "Thank you for helping me and my sister. If my father caught wind that she still entertained the affections of local boys, normies… Let's say it wasn't pretty the first time he found out."

"Yeah, no worries. We had fun. She missed you, though. Said she tries to get you to have fun, too. Mister all math, no play."

His mouth twitches. "She knows I'm working on something very important."

"Whatever you say. I've got no horse in this race."

"What race do you have a horse in?"

You almost want to spill that Nevermore isn't at all like it was sold when you enrolled. A place for outcasts of all kinds is pretty alike to every other place you've been. That you plan to focus on quietly finishing out your senior year and moving somewhere where, at the very least, more people look like you and you don't stick out like a sore thumb. But you don't. You keep what's personal to yourself. "Once I think of a favor to ask for, I'll let you know."

You think you almost spy the glimpse of a smile before he tamps it down with the purse of his lips. "Fair enough. Except… I need another favor."

"Gee, I thought maybe you just enjoyed my company." What you mean to come across as sarcastic rings hollow and a little bitter in your ears that even you grimace. "What now?"

As he explains that his mother's birthday is on the horizon and he needs to get a gift from a shop in Jericho but can't afford the time away from his lab, he rolls the apple between his hands. He kneads the skin, softening the fruit beneath. When he finally bites into it, the flesh is soft and bruised and you wonder if that's how he likes his food. Tender and easy to give. Two things you've never been.

When he wipes juice from his lips with the back of his hand, you zone back into his words. "If I give you the cash, can you get a gift and bring it back to the tower so I can put a personal touch on it?"

"Do you know what she wants?"

He cuts his gaze to you, an unnervingly charming grin sharpening his face. "I trust your judgement."

Noting your time to eat in your shady spot is diminishing, you pick a handful of red grapes from a cup on your tray. "You planning on racking up multiple favors, or should I settle for one giant, extravagant ask?"

"Never settle." Digging his free hand into the pocket of his striped slacks, he hums. "And…dealer's choice?" He slips a few crisp twenties under your carton of orange juice and grants you a cheeky, closed lipped smile before departing.

It goes like this for much of the semester. He finds you at the oddest times and the strangest of spots, asks for you to take his place in social settings, and you pretend to resent each request. Even when, bleary-eyed and shaking off sleep, you stumble out of your dorm to find Isaac sitting with a textbook on his knees like he'd waited patiently all night for you to emerge... All in all, you don't hate it.

When Gomez and Morticia aren't staplegunned to each other, they welcome you into their cold embrace. Hanging out at fencing practices gives you the perfect setting for drafting essays. Something about the grunts of exertion, the clang of metal, and the heightened atmosphere of almost violence as background noise really helps you focus. Morticia, seeing through your reticence and stark lack of extracurriculars, asks if you'd like to join the planning committee for the Rave'N. And you do.

You fit the void left behind by the older Night sibling so well you almost forget about him in between his haphazard appearances.

But as the night of the dance bears down on the Nevermore campus and surrounding Jericho, you feel the urge to retreat and isolate, return to your cocoon of safety. The dreams have started up again, silent screams waking you in the middle of the night, faces you barely remember, carnage that hasn't happened yet. You don't regret any of the friendships you've made, but you haven't been diligent when it comes to grounding and meditating with the little free time you have now.

The morning of the dance, you're shaken awake by your roommate. Francoise's dark eyes and sleep-wavy brown hair loom over you, her hands firm on your shoulders, your pajama sleeves bunched in her palms. The mist of your nightmare fades and you scuttle back against your headboard, carefully retreating from her grasp. "I'm so sorry," you mumble, trying to gather your bearings. You're in your bed in your dorm at Nevermore Academy. There is no present danger.

You're not the one who dies.

You delicately wave her away with some half-lie about a bad dream, but Francoise's sympathetic gaze follows you as you excuse yourself to the shower.

"I'm here to collect on my favor, and it's a doozy."

Isaac looks up from his microscope and deftly switches out specimen plates. "I wondered when you'd come a-calling."

"God, you are such a geek," you remark, almost ready to retreat and forget this whole thing.

He takes the snipe in jest, amusement warming his face. He pushes his dark curls out of his eyes and leans down to the microscope lens. "You've got about three minutes before your audience grows by two. Stonehearst and Orloff will be back soon."

"I need you to be my date to the Rave'N."

Whatever he expected does not fall in the realm of the words that tumble off your lips. He short-circuits, blinking unseeing at whatever specimen is before him. Then he straightens and looks, really looks at you across the tables separating you from the other.

Instead of showering, you crossed campus in your sleep shorts and sweat dampened t-shirt to find Isaac. You saw figures moving about the Science building on a Saturday, so you figured he'd be doing extra credit hours like the nerd he is. You didn't get far into this train of thought before reaching the classroom.

You continue, "As per the planning committee, namely Morticia, all committee members have to bring dates to the dance. I don't really want to go to the dance. And I thought that you probably wouldn't want to go either. It might be-"

"I'd love to go to the Rave'N with you," he interrupts. By the terse line of his lips and heavy brow, he's serious. The unexpected earnestness in his words lends you to immediately take it as mocking. Over that last several weeks, however, his outward condescension has given way to a genial countenance. You try not to mistrust it.

You nod once and, with your heart in your throat, you bolt out of the science lab before you can embarrass yourself further.

The bustle of the Rave’N down below doesn’t reach you high in the sky in Iago Tower. With the lower windows cracked open, the only sounds carried along the wind are the hoots of owls and caws of tittering crows.

The dance has gone on for about an hour, and you've yet to make your entrance with your date. Morticia will likely give you the cold shoulder when you do show, but plans changed. Isaac met you at the entrance of the decorated hall but, before awkward compliments could be shared, he somehow anticipated your impending anxiety attack. Swiftly, he guided you away for some fresh air. While you don't consider a stuffy old tower of giant cogs and stacks of books "fresh", the distance is calming.

Isaac rounds a machine, pushing the sleeves of his white button-down to his elbows. Gratitude floods you at the realization that he hasn't yet pressured you to leave what you know is his sanctuary. You've visited his lab a few times, but tonight he showed you his secret entrance through the organ in the music room. You don't know him well enough for the kindness he's shown you this evening, but you're thankful for it nonetheless.

"You're a psychic, right?" his voice cuts through the air. He tinkers with a lump of metal a few yards away. You nod. "Which kind?"

“Well, no one’s confusing me with a dove.”

He tilts his head in confusion, and in your silence you allow him to sort out the obvious. Once his expression shifts, his mind calculating attributes added together to equal the same conclusion as your own mental equation, you continue. "I've never had a vision where it wasn't someone dying."

Somber, he pushes out a weighty exhale. "That fucking blows," he admits, a statement that finally matches his age. And here, you were starting to believe Isaac was possessed by an old man from the 1950s. "Is it only people you know?"

"Only people I've touched."

Digesting the information, he glances down at the contraption in his fist. Isaac steps closer and deposits it on a table within reach. "Have you seen how Gomez dies? Morticia?"

"She was elated when she asked. And Gomez just…doesn't."

"I always knew there was something eternal about him…" Then he looks up. "Francoise?"

There's a grave steadiness in the way he says her name. He's thought about his sister's mortality quite a lot. "Unfortunately."

"What about me?"

You bristle, clearing your throat. "I've never touched you." Keeping your distance from him has become a fairly new challenge and one not without effort.

He extends his hand to you, palm up, blue veins threading through his taut forearm. You scoff, "You don't want to know. No one ever really wants to know."

"I've built my own heart and survived the heart transplant. I think I can handle it."

Despite his confidence, you hold your crossed arms tight to your bodice. Your voice is small when you say, "What if I don't want to know?"

A bloated pause later, he drops his eyes to the floor and his waiting hand follows.

He spins away from you, and for a split second you wonder if you've worn out his kindness. But after a moment of him rummaging in a dark corner, he returns with folds of rubber. He lays his find out on the table and takes a step back.

Gloves. Black and much thicker than the ones you use when concocting a hair mask. "Those keep me from getting electrocuted up here, but they might work for your purposes, too."

They've seen better days with singed tips, extend all the way up to your elbows, and fit loosely around your fingers. With a layer of protection between you and the world, you feel like you can breathe for the first time in years.

"Ya know, I thought my dress was missing something dramatic," you quip, a tightness in your throat loosening.

"It is…a pretty dress." He isn't wrong. It's white, as the theme dictates, with a tame amount of sparkly accents, fits your frame far better than your uniform, and came with your luggage from an old school for a dance you never went to. "And you’re all done up. You should take the chance to show off."

You shiver, your social anxiety piquing momentarily, but you steel yourself. "I'm keeping the gloves on."

"Oh, I was hoping you would." He breaks first, his mouth lifting into a smile, and he extends his hand again.

You follow.

Contrary to your assumption, Morticia Frump does not give you the cold shoulder. That's just her normal body temperature. She is otherwise thrilled you shook off your reservations about attending, so you get to see yours and everyone else's handiwork. With her loyal paramour by her side, she is even more delighted to see you arm-in-arm with the "ghost of Caliban Hall". For the resident death-obsessed goth, she sure views life with a rosy tint and you admire that about her.

Francoise is over by the punch bowl too busy slow dancing to an upbeat song with a normie, whose name escapes you. He's, like, the third guy to catch her eye this semester alone.

When the DJ switches to a ballad, Isaac's hand grazes your waist and he leads you to the dance floor. You're both careful to keep a layer of fabric between you, his hands over the prickly sequins of your dress, your gloved hands on the shoulders of his too-big khaki sports jacket.

"I won't pretend to understand what it's like to live with a power like yours, but everyone I know is enamored by you. They hardly care when I'm gone."

Your cheeks warm at the admission, and you thank your complexion and the strobing lights that the flush isn't obvious. "When you're used to seeing the worst things, that's all you start to pay attention to because ignoring them can be the difference between life and death. But with Francoise and Gomez and Morticia, I see a lot of good things, too. Or rather, I can glean good from the bad."

Even saying it softly out loud under the cover of saccharine lyrics about love everlasting, you find the sentiment maudlin, but it's not without its merits.

“Usually, I like whatever Francoise likes. And she liked you. But then I spent some time with you myself and I came to the conclusion…what's not to like?”

You tilt your head as you take in his profile. It’s clear he holds his younger sister in high regard. Try as he might to bury the compliment, you take it anyway. “I don’t care what they say about you. You’re not so bad.”

“Wh-what do they say about me?”

You slip into a teasing grin. "Oh, horrible things! Dreadful stuff."

He sniffs, lifting his nose with an air of propriety. "That's okay. I plan on outliving them all anyway."

Your smile falters so infinitesimally that he doesn't notice. Much like the machine he fashioned for Professor Orloff, the ticking thing in his chest can't last forever. And a part of you grows louder by the day hoping that maybe - it will.

When his jaw dips, his attention returning to you so you both can continue this banter you so enjoy, you surge onto your toes to kiss him. He isn’t thrown off balance but his fingers tense like hooks where they lay on your hips. In the moment, nothing changes - as the visions tend to plague you in your sleep. Isaac doesn’t respond so you ease back to meet his imploring gaze.

“I thought you didn’t want to know.”

“...that’s not why I did it.” 

His mouth forms an “O”, eyes lowering. He’s rarely one to be stricken speechless, so, when his chin bobs encouragingly, you lean up again and his lips meet your own. His grasp tightens around your middle, him dragging you flush against him. His touch is not unlike how he holds his fruit, needy and possessive, readying for his bite.

He parts, his cheekbone sliding along yours. “You’re not afraid of what you’ll see?”

“I think I can handle it,” you whisper back.

You watched him as he looked out over the Greenblood river. It would be so easy to get lost in his beauty. His hair, his eyes, his mouth, everything about him was entrancing to you. You glanced back out at the river, the people going about their evening paying no attention to the lords and ladies so high above them. Birds circled above fishing boats as the nets were pulled in. Lights began to flicker in windows across the city. You smelled roasted meat and fresh baked bread on the warm air. You would have to dress for the evening meal, if you didn’t request it in your quarters.

“Did you come only because the fool Prince Martell forbade it?” You were genuinely curious. “Or because of your brother?”

“You know that is not the reason,” he spoke softly and continued to stroke your leg. “Their approval means less to me than you think.”

“You risk much coming to Godsgrace.” You wiggled your toes against his thigh.

“It is a fair price,” Daemon replied.

“Surely you are quite rested now, my love,” you goaded. “It is a long journey up the Greenblood, but not so tiring that you would ignore me.” You flashed your eyes at him. They were nearly the color of burnt umber in the fading light. Soon your maids would light torches and candles in your chambers. You would hear them through the diaphanous curtains that hung in the entry of the balcony. Though they would never dare to disturb you, even if you had your Targaryen on the floor in front of them.

Daemon turned his violet eyes toward you, finally pulled from his thoughts. Gods, you thought, even the moon could envy those eyes! The last pink of the sunset caught on his silver hair as it swung freely about his face, tendrils caught in the breeze.

“Quite rested,” he smirked as he spoke. He slipped his hand behind your knee and, reaching forward, grabbed your other leg and pulled you, bodily, to him. Your chair legs screeched against the stone floor as you threw your head back and laughed. When he had you where he wanted you, he smoothed his palms up the inside of your thighs. You rested your bare feet on the seat of his chair on either side of his legs. He pushed your skirt all the way up to your waist as he stared into your eyes. His thumbs grazed the creases of your thighs and you sighed.

“The journey was too long, but certain hindrances are now resolved,” his voice was low and quiet. “I am no longer married.”

You raised an eyebrow at these words. You trailed your fingertips down one of his forearms.

“I hope that it was painless, my prince,” you both knew the mocking of his title was not malicious. He was not your prince and you enjoyed reminding him of that. “You know, you could have stayed in Godsgrace and I could have sent one of my women to dispatch the issue quickly.” Your grin was knowing, yet seductive. Daemon’s response to Northern morality was curious to you. He didn’t want his wife, but could not bring himself to have another while she lived.

“I did not say I did the deed,” he tried not to smile. “Only that it was resolved.” Oh, he was deliciously vile when it suited him. You chuckled at this.

“Well, I had no trouble with the situation,” you grazed his thigh with one foot. “I needed only your devotion, not your marriage.”

“That you will always have, my lady,” he replied as he sank to his knees in front of you. You moved your foot to his shoulder, the other still in his chair, as you languidly spread your legs to make room for him. He looked up at you again, catching your eyes with his as he kissed your thigh, then your belly. You stroked one hand over his silky head as he lowered it and kissed the dark hair between your legs. You heard him inhale, smelling you, and you became even wetter.

Daemon licked the full length of your slit and paused at your pearl. He circled it with the tip of his tongue and you gripped the arms of your chair. He slid an arm around one thigh to steady you. Then he grazed a finger through your folds, finding your entrance quickly, as if he knew your geography by heart. He teased and didn’t slide inside you yet. He used two fingers to circle your opening, almost matching the rhythm of his tongue on your clit. Your hips rocked. You tried, and failed, to get his fingers inside. He stilled you as much as he could and continued for a moment that felt like an eternity.

When he finally slipped his fingers into your wet heat he sucked on your clit and your hands flew to the back of his head. You moaned and pushed against his mouth. You thought you felt him chuckle. You didn’t care. You ground your hips on his mouth and fingers.

“Daemon,” you whispered, as that was as loud as you could manage. “That’s it, just there. Please.”

He rubbed his fingertips against the spot that drove you wild, fighting against your clenching muscles. His tongue resumed its circling movements, but with a slightly quicker pace. Your breathing was becoming shallow and the sounds you made came deep from your chest. He pumped his fingers harder into you, knowing the pressure you needed to reach your climax. Your toes curled on his shoulder. You let go of his head, gripped the arms of your chair again, and your body curled forward as your climax overwhelmed you. You yelled his name, moaned incoherently, and then laughed. He hadn’t stopped, tongue still lapping causing your thighs to twitch. You playfully pushed at his forehead to give you peace.

You leaned forward and cupped his face in your hands. His expression wasn’t playful, as yours was. The look was full of something akin to admiration. You kissed him, roughly. You licked yourself from his lips, his tongue, and moaned into his mouth. He reached up and tangled his fingers into your hair at the nape of your neck, letting some of it loose from the pins that held it in place. Without much grace, he blindly began to release your hair from its confines.

Daemon broke your kiss and began to stand up. You let your fingers trail down his body as he did. You grazed your fingers over his pants, deliberately avoiding the hardness straining the fabric. He pulled pins and a comb from your hair, tossing them on the floor with abandon. You looked up at him, a playfully displeased look on your face for the carelessness he showed for your jewelry, and shook out your hair. It fell in near-black waves down your shoulders and back.

“I need you,” Daemon breathed. His eyes were dark with lust. Still looking up at him from your chair, you pressed your palm over his erection. His eyes nearly closed. His chest rose and fell, trying to maintain his composure. You pressed just a little harder. He grabbed your wrists. It didn’t hurt but made it evident that he couldn’t be teased this evening. You stood, your wrists still in his hands. You raised to tiptoes and pulled at his bottom lip with your teeth. Your eyes narrowed in defiance against being so restrained.

“That’s enough!” He threw you over his shoulder. You squealed and laughed, kicking your feet and pounding your fists lightly against his back. Your laughter bounced off the stone walls as he carried you through the curtains into your chambers. You pushed against him, raising your head to look at the two startled maids, and laughed harder.

“Let me go!” You giggled and kicked your feet but he only held your ankles as he walked you to the bed. You heard the two girls scamper from the room, giggling and twittering.

Daemon dropped you lightly on the bed. You were breathless from laughing. He smiled down at you, but that look was back. What had changed since he had gone North? Your laughter faded into giggles, which in turn faded into quick breaths as he knelt on the bed and kissed his way up your feet, calves, and thighs. He began to unfasten the ties of your skirt at your waist and you helped him with the small buttons of your delicate top.

He licked and kissed the curves of your exposed belly. He nuzzled his nose between your breasts, then kissed each of your nipples. You played with his silky hair, enjoying watching him worship you. When he reached your neck and jaw you began tugging on his shirt, pulling it toward his shoulders. He straightened long enough pull it over his head, then bent down to your mouth again. You kissed him back, hands gripping his neck, stroking his shoulders, down his biceps.

Daemon moved with you, still kissing, as you began to sit up. You gently pressed his shoulders back and guided him to lay down. You straddled his thighs and began pulling at the laces of his pants. He groaned at the pressure of your fingers. You stroked his freed cock, watching your hands move slowly. You enjoyed making him wait but you couldn’t wait any longer. You released him and begin to remove his breeches. Once you had both struggled with that for a moment, you trying not to giggle during the endeavor, you climbed up him and placed yourself on his belly. You could feel his cock pressing against your buttocks. You leaned forward and kissed him and he cupped both of your breasts in his hands.

You lifted your hips enough to reach between you and guide him into your wetness. He growled and squeezed your breasts a bit harder. Slowly, you took him inside you. You raised up, allowing him to keep his hands on you, and pressed your hands against his stomach as you rocked your hips. You took his cock as deep as you could. Gradually, at first, then setting a gentle pace that brought sweet sounds from Daemon’s lips. You leaned forward slightly, finding the angle you needed. He moved his hands, one to your neck, one to your hip. As you settled on a rhythm, he began to match you, thrusting upward slightly each time you rocked back on his cock.

You let your head fall forward, you hair sweeping forward, framing your face and his. Your fingers curled against his chest. You kept this pace as long as you could before your cunt began to ache with the beginnings of your climax. You slowed and Daemon took over. Gripping both of your hips, he fucked up into you, harder than you had been able to manage. His grunts made you squeeze around his cock. They were wonderful sounds that only increased your need for him.

You rested your face against his, pressing your cheeks together. Neither of you could stay quiet. Your name fell from his lips as fluidly as the curses he uttered. His fingers dug into your hips as he pulled you down onto each of his upward thrusts. The sound of flesh against flesh, lewd and satisfying. Your bodies glistened with sweat in the torch light. You wanted to open your eyes and look at him but the pleasure was too great.

“Yes, please, Daemon,” you whined in his ear. Your lips drug across his cheek as you searched for his mouth. You tried to kiss him. Instead you panted and moaned against his mouth. As your climax began the wave that would drown you, you heard his voice, much calmer than yours could have been in that moment.

“Look at me.” You did. He didn’t stop fucking you, but he held your gaze with those perfect eyes. “I love you. I would kill for you. I would kill anyone who kept us apart.”

Something in his eyes, not just his words, was your undoing. Your climax spread over you at the same time as it curled up inside you. You squeezed your thighs against his hips, almost stopping his movements entirely. You bent to him and kissed him, moaning and sighing, as you came.

Suddenly Daemon’s large arms encircled you and in your delirium you could hardly notice that he was moving you. You clung to his shoulders as he somehow, and gracefully, managed to lay you on your back. He had not pulled out. You wrapped your legs around his hips and ran your hands into his hair.

Daemon fucked you without restraint. You were coming down from your climax but your cunt gripped him tight and he grunted with each deep thrust. He shifted his weight to one hand and deftly scooped one of your legs into the crook of his arm. You bit your lower lip and looked up at him. He was watching you.

“Touch yourself,” he panted. “Come on my cock again.” His smile was enough to convince you, if his words hadn’t been.

So you did. You rubbed your fingers quickly, and in time with his strokes. When you were close again, you arched under him, head thrown back, Daemon’s mouth on your exposed neck. Then he pressed his hips against you as hard as he could. His cock buried completely inside you as he came. Your cunt spasmed around him and you both felt his seed fill you as your climax peaked. He cursed and tried to gently lower your leg. Your body shook and you were unable to help him. He chuckled and kissed your forehead.

As he slowly pulled out and away from you, you mewled and groaned, closing your thighs and squeezing them together. Daemon lowered himself down next to you, on his side. He rested his head on your chest. You smoothed his hair away from his forehead in a long stroke down to his back and sighed. You let your hand rest on his shoulder. He held you close to him.

The cool night breeze wicked the sweat off your skin. The torches guttered slightly. You wrapped one leg over Daemon’s. You wanted every part of your body touching his. You breathed in his smell mixed with your own and the dusty sweetness of Godsgrace coming in through the curtains.

“No one will come between us,” Daemon whispered against you.

“I know, my love, my dragon” you replied, lips brushing against the top of his head.

The sun had set and, perhaps, the dark was what he needed. In the light of day The Rogue Prince was rakish and disreputable. But at night, with you, he could shed that facade.

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