song_of_ice | Duplicity Inbox

The taste of precum is enough to have her exhaling sharply through her nose. Instead of stopping, she greedily laps the taste of him up, giving one long suck to the head of his cock before releasing him. No one's showered him in attentions like this? "Good."

She's no qualms with voicing that possessively. And almost as if she's rewarding him, she returns her attentions back to his cock seconds later. Wrapping her lips around him, pressing her tongue flat along the base of him as she takes him a touch deeper, a hand wrapping around the base of his shaft.

Some might say a queen shouldn't pleasure men with her mouth. Some might even say it's beneath her to do so. They might be right--about most men. But just like fire is power, so is pleasuring a lover. There's nothing submissive about this as she begins a slow bob of her head, her hair tumbling over her shoulders and against his thighs. Nothing submissive at all about bringing a lover pleasure with one's mouth.

Doreah might've taught her about the eyes, but it was making men like Drogo and Daario break that taught her what real power was like.

And yet, she's not so concerned about making Jon break to exert her power over him....so much as she is about him enjoying this.

His heart sprints in his chest, racing ahead of his breath as he felt her lips wrap around his cock. He had only known his hands there before, but the softness of her mouth was a sharp contrast. There were no callouses, no heat of the skin, only breath against his shaft and the wetness of her tongue.

He shivered, swallowing as he gave himself over into her hands. There was no greater power he could give her than the ability to bring him greater pleasure than he had known before, no control of his own, lying back and letting her decide pace and whether he could cum at all.

She would make him break just by this alone. It wasn't lost on him that she was doing this, not as a queen but as a lover, someone who viewed him as enough an equal that she would be vulnerable like this with him.

"Dany..." he whispered as his chest and stomach tightened, pressure building in him. His hips rocked up eagerly, careful not to fill her mouth completely, but needing more.

She's slow at first, adjusting to his length in her mouth. A slow and steady pace as she skirts the lines of how deep she can try to swallow him down before it becomes too much and she gags. The patience to her is near surprising, even to herself... but there's a need to do this properly, if there even is a way to go about it so.

Just as she listened when she lathered his scars in attention, so too does she listen now, taking note of the ways he reacts. That eagerness is still restrained as he rocks up into her mouth, and he's rumbling something. Dany. She presses her free hand down against his hip to control how much he's able to move, and in return, tightens the hand around the base of his cock, giving a long and hard suck.

And then she's sucking him even more eagerly, her saliva coating more of him the more she sucks him off, her hand, the base of him. The ache between her legs is near unbearable with her need to have him fill her, to feel his hard and unforgiving thrusts and his teeth on her tit. It goes ignored as she hums around him when she dares to take him a little deeper in her mouth.

The smell of her is strong in the air. He can sense her shifting, his senses heightened for any sign or move that points to her arousal. A clench of her legs, a rock of her hips, anything. It only serves to make his cock twitch more, dribbling at the thought of her needing and wanting him as much as he needed and wanted her.

She hums around him, adding further friction and sensation. He groans louder, reaching for the hand that is against his hip. Fingers tangle with her hers, clinging to her as more and more of his footing was lost. His eyes were clenched shut, giving himself over to feel, that ache between his leg and the throbbing heat that was building in his groin.

He doesn't want it to end, he doesn't want to finish yet. He wants to take her and drive into her again and again, but it's too much, she's too much. He can feel his body warning him, struggling to maintain its hold. "I'm close."

There's a point one reaches--one she's reached multiple times--where all else falls away save the sensation of nearing orgasm. It's as if the entire world's been frozen in place: no wars, no duties, just the evasive sensation of relief crashing over the body. When he tangles their fingers together, his groans so loud and delicious, she knows he's soaring straight to that point.

And yet he still tries to warn her. She pumps him with her fist, his cock slipping out of her mouth as she looks him in the eye. "Cum then."

Simple as that, she's wrapping her lips around him again, falling back into that pace, squeezing him, pumping him, sucking him harder than before. She wants him to shatter, to roar, to fill her mouth with the taste of his seed. It takes her a moment to coax their hands up his body, and it won't be the largest, ugliest scar she drags her nails against, but one of the smaller ones.

If her words weren't enough, it's her nails on his scars that does it. He tries desperately to keep still, but the sensations are overpowering and his hips rock up instinctively, unable to remain in place with that burning, powerful force shooting through his groin.

He cries out a mix of words, all of them running together in a rush. Her name, the Seven Hells and even the old gods and new are jumbled together as he trembles, shooting fully into her mouth. The ringing in his ears is louder and his hand grips hers tightly. He's riveted in place, unable to move under the force of it all.

When finally he's finished and the last of his orgasm is ridden through, he lies back against the bed, struggling for breath. Slowly his hearing returns, his breaths defeaning in the silence. He reaches for her, tugging her towards the bed so he can hold her again.

It almost seems as if he'll fly off the bed. His cry is a garbled number of words combined into something unintelligible. Sharp and loud, a promise to draw anyone who might've been in his apartment straight to his room. None come.

And she's swallowing the taste of him down, relishing even that one and simple taste of him. His cock is soft when she leans back. A kiss is placed to the warm flesh, and she wipes the corners of her mouth from any remnants of her saliva. Watching him all the while.

She's half a mind to finger herself to the sight of him like this. Already, her nipples are stiff little buds pressed against the smooth red fabric of her nightgown... which has ridden up her legs. Before he's with it enough to tug her to him, she readjusts the fabric.

Beside him, she gently traces the edge of a scar, watching him. "I didn't think they'd be so sensitive."

His arms wrap around her as he pulls her close. Her nipples are like pebbles against his side, hard with arousal. It was such a small, simple thing, but it still gives him a surge of pride. His fingers brush against her hair, caressing her cheek with his thumb, staring down at her with reverence and a swell of emotion. There wasn't a name to it, only the strength and power that rolled through him.

His naked legs are still dangling off the edge of the bed, but he didn't bother to shift or move. It was likely beyond his power anyway. He wasn't certain he had muscles anymore, only a sense of peace that he had briefly glimpsed before, now surrounding and cradling him close.

He shivers under her touch, nuzzling against her temple as any satisfied wolf might. "They still haven't healed completely." It was hard to say the reason that they were so sensitive, but even the scrape of fabric against them made goose flesh rise along his skin. "I don't really touch or look at them, so they don't get very much stimulation."

It's a gentler thing when he pulls her closer. Not the impatient tug of a lover wishing to fuck further, or a man whose desire has been slaked and wishes to sleep. The way Jon strokes her cheek is a gentle touch she's not had in some time. He nuzzles her. It's his eyes, though--

They seem to look straight through her, deep into her core. They're soft and kind, the same as in her apartment two weeks ago, and she feels that same need to move. It could be that she's still aroused over him making her wish to squirm as well, but that look... She presses up to her elbow, looking down at him. Briefly in the eye, and then her gaze dips lower as she studies his scars, still smoothing her fingers against them.

Only when he mentions their lack of healing does she quickly pull her hand away. "Should I not touch them?"

He grabs hold of her hand, urging it back to his chest. It was a strange thing to wish for someone to touch them. There was so much pain, anger and violence connected to his scars, but under her hands, they weren't as terrible to bear. He had been embarrassed and afraid for her to see, but now that she had, he felt whole. As though she truly saw him.

"It will take time for them to heal fully. They're too deep." But she wouldn't infect him, he meant. If the Battle of the Bastards hadn't left them oozing with pus, then her gentle touch wasn't going to do that. He'd rather have her hand stroking against his chest than the cold air tickling against his drying sweat.

"Stay tonight."

It's not as reassuring as he might hope. He gives his answer, and perhaps they won't become infected; he's gone this long, his chest not wrapped either now, or back in her room. That doesn't mean he doesn't wrap them, though. And what if they did get infected? He might've been resurrected once, but there was no Red Priestess here to do it a second time.

He eases her hand back to his chest, but she's curling her fingers into a fist on an unblemished part of him. No Red Priestess, and she wouldn't allow another magic user to try and heal him if those scars became troublesome.

"Do you think that's wise?" she asks him, voice quiet. She meets his eyes again.

He never had someone worry over him like this before. Even in his childhood, he had to look after himself. Any fevers, scarps or bruises weren't fussed over the same way they were for the Stark children. The Wall had taught him self reliance, pushing him to seek healers when they were needed, otherwise he couldn't carry out his duties. While he had visitors, they didn't hover or show the sort of concern that Dany did now.

It was surreal and overwhelming, giving him the same fluttery anticipation that she seemed to experience. He could always charge ahead into battle without thinking about someone waiting for him. Even at Winterfell, he knew Sansa was determined to look after herself. There wasn't the same sense of someone relying on him, not in that way...

He gave her wrist a squeeze, trying to be reassuring. Another thing out of his experience. "I rolled in mud, blood and shit. I was covered with bodies while men climbed over me in an effort to escape Ramsay Bolton's men. Nothing happened to these scars. They have closed as much as they will for now. Your fingers aren't going to make them worse."

Her question was directed toward both his scars, and her staying. Is it wise to continue touching them? Is it wise to sleep with him, when his Submissive could return at any point and find them? He may trust whoever it is--she doesn't. It took long enough for her trust in Clark to grow, and she's yet to share any of her thoughts on this place and ways to destroy the system.

All it takes is one person to connect him to her. Someone with a loose tongue. Was it a mistake coming up here? He'd made it clear he had no interest in an uprising until he knew more.

"That's disgusting. Shit?" At least that brings her back to the present moment, and she's looking at him in disbelief. A short-lived thing when the weight of his words sinks in. "That must've been terrifying."

He wasn't concerned about Anya's arrival. Despite some of her things being left in his flat, she hadn't moved in exactly. She spent her nights elsewhere. That would change eventually, but it wasn't tonight. Whether or not they would be discovered never crossed his mind. It was dangerous and he knew that they were breaking the rules by being like this. But his life was nothing but danger and the ever present knowledge of death. The threat of this city was nothing compared to that, at least not for himself. For her...he didn't want to consider it.

But the world and city weren't present in this room, only the two of them and the sweet sensation of being fully satisfied. Once his muscles let him, he would return the favor to her and see she came twice over. Beyond that, he didn't pay anything else much thought.

He hadn't told anyone about that experience, no Sansa and not his friends. That certainty of death, that feeling that he could let himself go and give up, resting again. No one else seemed like they would understand. It's hard to put it all to words and he had no energy for it before. "I almost let myself die, just so I could rest and stop fighting. It was all I had done since I left Winterfell. I don't know what changed, but the further I was pushed down, the less I could breathe, I...realized I wanted to live."

The more he tells her, the more she marvels over this change between them. Weeks ago found them fucking angrily in a park, a contest of will and power. That and their meeting in her throne room feel like distant wisps of memory. Did it even occur?

Slowly, hesitantly, she settles beside him again. There's little need for fidgeting until she finds a comfortable position--once her cheek is pressed to that spot where shoulder meets chest, as if it were made for her, she's settled. Perhaps not fully at least, but it's a start. She still doesn't reach for a scar. Not yet.

"There's no rest until the wars are fought." And then there still would be no rest, for the people required ruling. That was a different battle, just as exhausting, more rewarding. "This came after a huge betrayal. It takes time to recover."

She curls against him as though she was made to fit him perfectly. There was never a sense of home in his life, even in the warmer days of Winterfell. He had been a key without a lock, now nestled firmly in the space that was meant specifically for him. He had wanted to go south to get warm, but maybe he had sensed what was waiting for him? His home, his place in the world, all wrapped up in the figure of a small woman with hair like the pale full moon.

It is easy to tell her these things, easier than he thought it would be. Now that the initial hurdle has been passed, there is no more wall for him to scale, no foot hold to lose. He was on solid ground with her.

"I never had that time." Hence why he was hesitant to start another war here. "The next day, Sansa arrived at the Wall. She wanted to go return to Winterfell and reclaim it from the Boltons. He had our brother..." the only reason he fought again. "Another war, another battle. I never had the chance to rest."

Not until now. There were no words to tell her how much she gave him, how much relief and peace. He needed this, he needed her. "Even when I came to Dragonstone, I wasn't expecting anything after the war with the Others. I thought that would be the end for me." One way or another.

They're more alike than she'd initially believed. Of course there were similarities between them. He wasn't the sort of ruler who basked in his power and abused it. He used it to protect people. Just like how I fight monsters. Still difficult to believe Tyrion said that about her.

She doesn't comment on the Others, because that's still a subject that would cause strife between them. Old arguments, old demands. The dragon glass means little to her, but she needed him as an ally both here and at home. And once again, he's hesitant to become one.

"When there's war to be had, a person's lucky for even a moment's peace." She couldn't mourn those she's lost, or the girl she'd been. Not her family, her people. She doesn't have time here to mourn her fate. "Sometimes not having that moment to rest is more important. It keeps you moving, instead of looking back."

She knows that fact all too well.

It's easy to understand that she is speaking from experience. From the way Tyrion spoke of her, he could imagine that she knew what it was to have no rest. It was difficult to imagine that pressing for her family's claim was the same as needing to survive against a mythical force. But...even then, what was her claim but a need to survive? To make a place for herself in a harsh world. He could understand needing to find a niche, however much comfort it offered.

If given the chance, he wouldn't look back either. There were too many mistakes that he made, too much guilt to carry. If he stopped to face them, what would it solve or give him in the end? "What happens when the war is finished?" If it was ever finished. So far, he had never seen an end to the fighting. "Have you ever thought of it?"

She would be queen supposedly, but what sort of world would she rule over?

"Peace," she simply says. There's no hesitation in her answer, it's what she knows deep in her bones. "It won't be perfect--ruling never is. Meereen taught me that. But we take that time to rebuild and restore the kingdoms. To fix the wrongs of our parents and make a better world for the children who follow."

She doesn't say 'ours', because she cannot have children. His children would be safe... and any others who so choose to make a family. That had to be enough.

"I came to Westeros with the intention of breaking the wheel. No more of the Great Houses trampling on those beneath them. The smallfolk are the ones who suffer the most from that, and they're no less important than a king or queen."

It was more than he had considered since being named king. He didn't even believe that he would live beyond the war, that the title would pass to someone else, likely Sansa. The idea of children, marriage, anything of that sort had never existed in his mind. It was Sansa's future and the future of the people.

There was a future in her mind, which meant that she was better suited to be queen. He was a wartime ruler, she was a dynasty maker. There were things he could ask, he could point out there might not be great houses left, but he didn't want to bicker or go back to the conversation that often lead to them butting heads.

He kissed the top of her head, not wanting to break this moment. "It must be why your people follow you."

His kiss catches her off guard.

"What would those of Essos care of Westeros?" Her righting the wrongs of their fathers isn't a battle that her people care much for. The squabbles of lords and kings isn't much a thing she cares for either--particularly when those individuals are dead. "They all have their reasons for choosing me. The fact that they've placed their trust in me means there's no room for failure. I refuse to fail them."

She's never told anyone that line of thinking before, not even Missandei. It went without saying that she couldn't lose. If each and every battle was a question to her resolve, then she would step away the victor. The first time her faith wavered would be the moment enemies struck, and if she fell, there would be none to protect those under her care.

"You've an odd choice of pillow talk."

"Pillow talk?"

He has an idea of what that means, given that they were laying together, curled around each other after his climax. Thinking back to his first time with Ygritte, they had drifted back to the outside world as well, at least briefly. Too often the world followed him, his burdens and duty forever seizing control of his thoughts. It happened to often with Ygritte, he wouldn't let it consume him with Dany.

For once, he wanted something that was simply his, no matter the danger.

"What do people usually talk about after?" He asked her, trying to consider what he could say. He wasn't much of a poet, so he couldn't go on and one about his feelings. Their lives were too dark to reflect on with each other in these moments. He considered for a moment, letting his hand drift over her curves. "Do you think this would have happened in Westeros? This?"

"The others--the ones who claim themselves modern--they use it. It's the subject of conversation after sex. As for what they speak of, I don't know." It's not as if she's had countless lovers to compare between. Drogo usually fell asleep, and Daario spoke of many things. "Things, I suppose."

Not at all helpful.

The tension in her eases a bit with his hand trailing along her side. The fabric she wears is soft and cool, stretching easily. With his hand on her, it creeps up her thigh the higher his hand travels; she's more focused on the warmth of him in that one touch.

"When would we have the time?" A quiet chuckle. "Lest you suddenly became a Bodem, I can't imagine this happening between us. Not immediately."

Given the chance to speak with him normally, without the butting of heads, and it was possible. Even she could admit that.

"We haven't exactly seen to you yet." He shifted a little, maneuvering so that he could press his hips against hers. "I don't know if this really counts for pillow talk." He was the only one satisfied. That didn't offer her very much room to bask in the glow of it all.

"The mining will keep me busy, but I won't be leaving Dragonstone for some time." Which meant they would always be close in proximity. That was a frustrating thought before, but now seemed like a blessing. Having her to himself, he would do a great deal for that.

"But you think it would happen?" He pressed, glancing down at her again with a suggestive grin. It was a strange thing to be so consumed by a woman again. To feel this excitement and longing to always be with her. The wars could wait for a time, there was just this.

He disarms her by saying that. So many wouldn't bother to worry of returning the favor. Once they'd fallen into bed tonight, she hadn't expected much else. It was enough to do this. To bring him to such a state.

That's exactly why her smile's a little unguarded, and she's reaching up to cup his cheek. She tilts her hips, pressing their bodies closer. He's a surprising man, once his hackles are lowered. "What would it count as?"

Though it's not in her memory, she did intend to grant him permission to mine for dragonglass. It was a simple enough gesture of goodwill, she'd figured at first, after speaking with Tyrion. That would keep Jon busy, remaining at Dragonstone for the foreseeable future. He would be treated as a guest, not a prisoner, which means they would be speaking.

His grin is wolfy, boyish. She lifts her chin, playing at aloof like a dragon would. "It might. Depends on how well you 'see to me.'"

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