[ In the wake of their loss, the child that had been born misshapen and deformed, and survived for only moments after it had come into the world, Rhaenyra had wondered, then, if her husband would ever seek her bed again — if the death of their one and only daughter, Visenya, had left him compelled against it. But now, she doesn’t just ache for them to regain what they once had in terms of shared intimacies; she has ached as a wife does for her husband’s touch, what cannot be satisfied by her own hand when she lies awake and alone, restless, at night.
It is why she lets that careful wall she’d established between the two of them — the one she’d built, brick by brick, with every raven sent unanswered, every word exchanged between them as keen and puncturing as a dagger — begin to crumble again, here where no one else can see. The sound against his mouth, the one Daemon elicits from her, becomes somewhere near a moan and a grateful sob as he lifts her up, bearing her weight, her legs instinctively lashing around his waist as much as her dress will permit.
In her wardrobe, at least, there had been options to wear — strange choices, many of them familiar to her in silhouette but a few paired shirts and trousers too, and a part of her had been drawn to the latter before she’d reached for the dress she wears now. In hindsight, it may have been more cumbersome for him to navigate, and here, he can simply ruck up her skirt, thinner than the heavy gowns she often wears, and find her bare, apart from the stockings she has rolled up to mid-thigh.
Daemon’s mouth descends to her throat; her breathing is harsher now, panting, as her head lolls, as she grants him access to that vulnerability, sensitivity. The ache rises in her anew, only this time it is arousal conjured by his hands, rather than need pulsing in her amid his absence. Rhaenyra slides a hand between them, her wrist clumsily bumping his, for fingers to find the fastenings on his trousers so she can free his cock that much quicker. There will be other opportunities for him to pleasure her, to descend between the vee of her thighs and make her crest on his tongue. In this moment, she’ll act in haste until they’re joined properly. ]
cw: loss of infant, gendered language
It is why she lets that careful wall she’d established between the two of them — the one she’d built, brick by brick, with every raven sent unanswered, every word exchanged between them as keen and puncturing as a dagger — begin to crumble again, here where no one else can see. The sound against his mouth, the one Daemon elicits from her, becomes somewhere near a moan and a grateful sob as he lifts her up, bearing her weight, her legs instinctively lashing around his waist as much as her dress will permit.
In her wardrobe, at least, there had been options to wear — strange choices, many of them familiar to her in silhouette but a few paired shirts and trousers too, and a part of her had been drawn to the latter before she’d reached for the dress she wears now. In hindsight, it may have been more cumbersome for him to navigate, and here, he can simply ruck up her skirt, thinner than the heavy gowns she often wears, and find her bare, apart from the stockings she has rolled up to mid-thigh.
Daemon’s mouth descends to her throat; her breathing is harsher now, panting, as her head lolls, as she grants him access to that vulnerability, sensitivity. The ache rises in her anew, only this time it is arousal conjured by his hands, rather than need pulsing in her amid his absence. Rhaenyra slides a hand between them, her wrist clumsily bumping his, for fingers to find the fastenings on his trousers so she can free his cock that much quicker. There will be other opportunities for him to pleasure her, to descend between the vee of her thighs and make her crest on his tongue. In this moment, she’ll act in haste until they’re joined properly. ]