ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴀɴᴅᴇʀ ᴅᴀʀᴋʟʏɴ.

So many Targaryens from different eras he doesn't know about.

"If I ever try to break up with you, Steffon Darklyn," he murmured, lifting his hands to coil them around the nape of Steff's neck, "Feel free to shoot me, because I've been replaced by an impostor." Denys tugged him close and planted a passionate kiss upon his lips.

Denny's hands moved up Steffon's chest in a gentle caress; the smile on his lips widened as Steff doubled down on his non-subtle hint to their future. "It's the best name I've heard so far," he murmured, thrill in his voice.

He pulled back, eyebrows shooting up and mouth hanging agape. Steff just. . . Denny's lips curled up in a slow smile. "Staunton-Darklyn?"

"It's not nice." He leaned forward to rest their foreheads together. "You know what'a nice? The sound of my name coming from your lips."

A little thrill ran down his spine. Steff's large hands covered his face with such ease. Warm and sweet, like he'd never held anything holier. "I'd rather you say either individually," he mumbled, nipping at his lower lip. "But yes, that's better."

His lips captured under Steff's own soft pair. . . He broke the kiss in a moment, to whisper. "It's not — Call me your Denny." He kissed him again, just as brief. "Or your baby."

Denny's heart raced. Faster the further Steff leaned in, even more when that irresistible smirk settled upon his lips. Only to click his tongue and roll his eyes at the final words. "I don't like it when you call me that."

absolutely!