[ It is clumsy, and inelegant, and lacking in finesse, and yet when he thrusts forward to join them together, Rhaenyra thinks of nothing else but the pleasure of having him inside her. It never ceases to feel good, their union, whether slow and drawn-out and worshipful or closer to quicker, more frantic, heedless, as it is now. She knows from overhearing whispers at court, as a young princess, that it is not always so between husbands and wives, that bedsport is often meant to be endured rather than enjoyed — and yet she has never felt as though sex with Daemon is something to bide her time through, merely submit on her back and wait for it to be over.
They hold, for the span of a few precious moments, before he begins to move against her, in her, eliciting soft gasps from her with nearly every thrust. She can tell how much her body has ached for this, the proof of her need that makes their joining that much slicker as he builds in pace and rhythm. She reaches up, fingers blindly grasping onto the strength of the hedge above them for leverage, as one leg curves around his body, and there she meets him in his thrusts, careful undulations that they perform in unison, as the reassuring memory of all the previous years between them filter through her awareness. Some things are just instinctive, where Daemon is concerned; this is one among them.
It doesn’t occur to her immediately, though, that her lashes are damp with tears, not enough to spill, to stream down her face, but certainly blurring her view; each of his thrusts is a return to her truest strength, her firmest alliance. Through this, they are reaffirming the vows they made to each other before their children as witnesses all those years ago, the ancient words of Old Valyrian custom sworn again through the offering of flesh.
Her other hand finds his jaw, leads him up so that she can see his face, lock her gaze to his so that he may never lose sight of her either. There, she allows him to see what she kept back at Harrenhal, before the others — her dedication to him, still enduring, and the love she holds despite their recent separation. ]
You are mine, [ A fervent whisper in their shared tongue; if she had a blade now, she would use it to draw their blood for an even more definitive sealing. ] And I am yours.
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They hold, for the span of a few precious moments, before he begins to move against her, in her, eliciting soft gasps from her with nearly every thrust. She can tell how much her body has ached for this, the proof of her need that makes their joining that much slicker as he builds in pace and rhythm. She reaches up, fingers blindly grasping onto the strength of the hedge above them for leverage, as one leg curves around his body, and there she meets him in his thrusts, careful undulations that they perform in unison, as the reassuring memory of all the previous years between them filter through her awareness. Some things are just instinctive, where Daemon is concerned; this is one among them.
It doesn’t occur to her immediately, though, that her lashes are damp with tears, not enough to spill, to stream down her face, but certainly blurring her view; each of his thrusts is a return to her truest strength, her firmest alliance. Through this, they are reaffirming the vows they made to each other before their children as witnesses all those years ago, the ancient words of Old Valyrian custom sworn again through the offering of flesh.
Her other hand finds his jaw, leads him up so that she can see his face, lock her gaze to his so that he may never lose sight of her either. There, she allows him to see what she kept back at Harrenhal, before the others — her dedication to him, still enduring, and the love she holds despite their recent separation. ]
You are mine, [ A fervent whisper in their shared tongue; if she had a blade now, she would use it to draw their blood for an even more definitive sealing. ] And I am yours.