threesentenceficathon

From:

(*Screeches* that's my favorite band, yo.)

At the beach, the anger that sharpens his tone does so of its own accord, despite Daemon's attempt to rein it in; he isn't angry, not at her, couldn't be even if he tried, not when he knows what she's been through, what he abandoned her to go through on her own.

When Rhaenyra is under him at long last, with her dress pushed high up her chest, Daemon's fingers skim over the spidery stretch marks on her belly with curious admiration. His hands fondle her breasts, heavier from motherhood than he used to imagine they would be, his lips find the skin of her neck, tangier than the sweetness he remembers, and Daemon has to concede — to himself only — that perhaps he knows much less than he'd like to think he does.