Three Sentence Ficathon

“It was always going to be you,” she says, the Valyrian syllables rasping through her throat, his only answer an inquisitive humming noise against her open mouth.

“I don’t want anyone else,” she manages, the words broken up and slurred between kisses, too frantic, too hard, too much and still not enough, “don’t trust anyone else.”

For a moment, he hesitates, his face in the shadows; “You shouldn’t trust me,” she thinks she hears, but the brothel is loud, the music and her blood pounding in her ears, and whatever he’s said, Daemon’s hands are still the ones holding her, at least for tonight.