[ A soft noise leaves his throat when fingers sift into his hair and Daemon kisses him properly becoming all he can focus on, a dragon to ride in a storm of emotions. He loses himself in the press of tongues that has him moaning under his breath and tries to meet that overbearing height by arching in, the line of a readily hardening cock seeking out his uncle's thigh as Aemond's senses white-out with want. He grew up on sayings about dragon's blood running thicker and accepted them as truth since he never feels the pull of it with ordinary people; they warm his bed just fine (men, because he isn't irresponsible) yet they don't have him so fired up from the offset or trying to paint his taste into another mouth as he does with Daemon, keenly aware of how much he needs him. How others are just leaves in the wind, easily forgotten and not worth remembering.
But Daemon is a dragon, like him, and Aemond's blood sings.
He shivers with the praise and drags down a steadying breath when they finally part for longer than smaller, insistent kisses will allow. The pat to his chest is distracting and his violet eye is dilated when he tilts back to see his uncle, trying to gauge his point, but his patch is digging into his cheek as a more pressing nuisance (that's what he gets for not thinking ahead) and he pulls it off to toss to the table, rubbing his brow and nose. Much better.
A faceted sapphire that catches the firelight 'looks' up when Aemond does, lips still shining pink with Daemon's kisses. His aching erection lies trapped in the crease of his uncle's thigh, snug there in his leather britches so that every heartbeat feels like it throbs through his whole body, making him stupid. ]
How do you want me?
[ He ought to put on an alluring show, but he convinces himself mummer's plays are for whores. ]
No matter how many times he finds himself in one alcove or another, the thrill of being wanted eagerly never diminishes— his nephew's needy noises, the way his body tries to mold itself against his, those desperate hands, the hard line of his cock through his leathers. All the more vibrant and compelling thanks to their blood bond, which sends a line of fire down his spine and out to every nerve ending in his body. Daemon thinks the younger man should be able to feel it burning into his own skin, each of them like brands against the other. ]
Mmmn.
[ Performative delaying, as he rubs his hand over Aemond's chest and lower, where his fingers tuck into the waistband of his breeches. His own arousal is steadily hardening, a craving in a hurry to find more. It should take him longer, at his age, but he is the inverse of poor Viserys; his brother wastes while Daemon is hardly touched by his years at all.
The scar is hideous. The scar is beautiful. Impressive, no matter what it is. Ghastly, and an excellent shot by little Lucerys. (The boys had been too abashed to give him a replay in front of their mother no matter how he goaded, but his girls obliged.) Daemon strokes through Aemond's hair and tugs the rest of it free from its clasp, rubbing where the straps of the patch press in the most. The jewel lodged in his skull is perversely artistic. He wonders why he bothers covering it up at all. ]
... Screaming, preferably. [ A kiss, teeth indenting his lower lip. ] Does that ache still trouble you?
[ Another kiss, the knuckles of his hand in Aemond's trousers pressing into skin, along the arc of his hipbone, and when their mouths part again his teasing is in High Valyrian, ] Shall I tame it for you?
[ His hair falls free around Daemon's kneading hand and as it's played with he struggles to keep his eye half-open, far more vulnerable and relaxed than he is around anyone else. Foolishly, yes, but he doesn't believe Daemon would attack him here, not like this where an ignoble fight in the dark would reflect badly on both of them (they are not like other men, after all), nor does he intend to be governed by whatever prejudices his mother spouts. So Aemond tries to let his anxieties quieten under the gentle touches and searing kisses, following the fire in his blood instead that translates into YouYouYou, I want you.
He barely traps a gasp behind his teeth when a caress slips along his hip, clutching at Daemon's clothes to hold fast. The kiss parts and he laughs under his breath, aiming to take some control by nuzzling his way along his uncle's jaw and fastening a biting, scraping kiss on his neck, nosing aside shorter pale hair. ]
I'm not opposed to you trying, certainly.
[ Brattish and bold, he arches in to feel more of him. ]
[ The flight lasted only thirty minutes, long enough for Aemond's ease to grow and his affections to fluster in the same descent toward the dark tower that he and Adar named home. A mile or so from the main castle where a great deal of commoners and fools lived, the tower allowed them to keep their own business private and had seemed a good way to escape the bustling, clownish masses when first he proposed the idea to his somewhat-friend (the only other person with a modicum of common sense and a warrior's prowess). How much more there was to find beneath that front, he wryly thinks with Adar at his back as Vhagar lands with a familiar boom throughout the woodlands. She crushes some of the smaller trees but seems content to rub her head under the highest branches to fight off an itch, and only then bows forward for her riders to disembark. Aemond speaks to her softly, tells her to go hunt and return to sleep. She understands better than a hatchling would, almost two centuries of listening to Valyrian have left the old girl cannier than most maesters.
As his dragon crushes her way through the trees for a midnight snack, Aemond watches her go from the main gate, anxious about letting her out of his sight. ]
[It would be a lie to say he was sorry to be parted from her, though the beast ranked higher in his esteem now he had not been eaten, or made yet crispier than he already was.
Home still felt like a funny word on his lips, yet the tower that loomed over them had become just that. If he focused, he could hear the main castle (and he could certainly see them) but when he didn't the place had an air of privacy, reminding him of days long ago, during the war and before his captivity. Good days stolen from terrible years.
Tonight felt better than most.]
I would be able to find her again for you if she somehow finds something big enough to hide behind. [He says, gently, taking Aemond's hand and tugging him towards the door.] Come. Let her enjoy herself as you wish too.
[ A smile tugs at his lips as Adar leads him inside, a squeeze around those fingers agreeing. Very funny. Vhagar cannot hide for long, it's true. ]
I forget how keen your senses are. I envy them.
[ Indoors, he waves off the servants and heads toward his own chambers with Adar in tow, the strange familiarity of the tower causing him to relax even though it isn't anything like the Red Keep. The tapestries have weird creatures on them and the design of the stones was not carved by mortal men. Thankfully, an entirely normal hearth has been lit in his bedchamber and a bottle of wine left out, though he ignores it after a brief wander inside to turn on Adar instead.
The amorous sortie in the woods was promising and he was miserly about ending it ... but now they have time. He pulls the leather thong from his hair, shaking it out, then takes care of the clasps of his tunic on the short walk back to the uruk, a violet and sapphire gaze fixed on him. ]
[ The road that links the dark castle to the tower, which Aemond and Adar claimed months ago, was unused for a long time, almost invisible save for the bend of the tree boughs that allow for carriages to very occasionally run through. Aemond prefers to fly Vhagar the short distance whenever he travels, not as light of foot as Adar, so he hasn't walked the pathway many times at all even in all the time spent going back and forth.
The old river runs across the path. A bridge serves to cross it, just as creaky and ancient as everything else in the accursed land, and it once might have been very fine but the stone is cracked and it looks like there was an attack where the stones crumbled long ago against one side. It's while approaching this bridge in twilight hours, no Vhagar around for he left her at the castle talking to some dragonborn (monsters part-human and part-lizard), that Aemond is set upon. Not by highwaymen after his purse or the ghosts that, while unnerving, he has started swatting away after so much time spent in the strange land, but by horrors that surge out of the grimy waters with faces somewhere between men and fish.
Everything, it seems, is an abomination in this realm.
The Drowners taste his sword and go down at first, but there are too many and they overwhelm him, rushing to escape with a yell as claws whisper across his cheek: that really gets him running, stumbling to slash back at his foes as more of them start to appear, bloated dead-men with teeth like needles, finned ears spreading to lock onto Aemond's position. All of them intent on devouring him. He shouts for Vhagar, then Adar, not knowing how far he is from the castle or tower but screaming loudly anyway as his arm is slashed deep.
He's a brilliant swordsman but numbers count for more, and the Drowners look to be twenty-strong as he continues to hack at them, losing strength. Fuck. ]
[It is not often, these days, that Aemond is far from both his dragon and his Uruk, but sometimes circumstances changed, and fate conspired against him, and Adar reasoned that the road was safe enough – he took it all the time – and Aemond was more than capable for his meagre handfuls of years alive.
So Adar had remained at the tower, working on various projects to keep himself busy and make things more agreeable to his elvish sensibilities when he hears on the wind strange groaning, a sword on flesh... and then his name.
He did not need to guess where it came from, his ears told him well enough and he knew where Aemond had gone and so he runs, as fleet of foot as he had been two millennia before, his physical stamina not weighed down by the weight of years or the mistreatment they had brought him.
He is there in at most a minute or two, pulling the monsters away from Aemond and stabbing them through the head. One gets cut straight down the middle before he throws it away, off the road. In the end, all of them are gone, especially the one whose putrefied skull he crushes beneath his heel.]
Are you hurt? [He is beside him in an instant, looking him over for any wound.]
[ Aemond knows Adar is different, for all that he looks like a survivor of the black cells beneath the Red Keep. He never really sees it, so when the uruk-elf rushes into the fray he's almost too fast to keep in sight, moving so elegantly that he makes Aemond's prowess look clunky by comparison. He's just ... faster, better, far more deadly and strong than any human could be.
Shaking on the ground as he shoves off his last victim, Aemond struggles to a knee and holds out his left arm, blood soaking the sleeve. Still holding his sword, he rubs the back of his other fist across his cheek where a claw scratched close to his eye-patch and shudders more obviously. ]
[ The Castle is a strange place with even stranger inhabitants and Aemond, a curious nineteen-year-old who enjoys spending time there with the residents, has learned a great deal over the past few months. There are phones which connect via sound or visuals, something called tee-vee that made moving pictures talk about nothing and everything, and the people themselves are ... different. Unlike anyone in King's Landing, mostly, by which they are clean and well-spoken, clever, and wildly open about their sexualities. It seems that being 'closeted' is a bad thing and no one wants to oppress another by shaming them for their preferences, discussing such matters in public spaces as if they wouldn't get gelded or worse back in Westeros.
He gets talking to his peers and, odd as they are, they never condemn anything he finds it difficult to ask. They go above and beyond, in fact, and he spends a whole afternoon learning about lingerie once it becomes apparent that one flimsy robe in the Street of Silk is all a high-paid whore ever uses and he has never seen a stocking in his life. Not like the ones he is shown in the present, anyway. The boys and girls unearth a trunk of options for him onto one of their beds as everyone chatters about their own experiences; Aemond quietly inspects the garments, flimsy and fragile, and inquires how to put them on. One of the boys strips and shows him, turning Aemond's face bright red before he can concentrate on learning again. And oh, learn he does. He's a scholar in the field by the time he leaves for the Tower on Vhagar, a bag stuffed with his new treasures. No one could believe he was married at first, then there was an outpouring of sympathy and an insistence he go home with "honeymoon gear".
Adar is due to return tonight from a scouting trip along with some of the tougher folks from the Castle, some sort of hunting or exploratory party: Aemond thought it a good idea at the time, now he simply misses him after three days left to his own devices. So, he bathes and uses the lotions he has been gifted, vanilla and lilies ("To match your hair!") melting their scent into his skin before he tackles the lingerie. Panties, brassiere, a soft and delicately ribboned corset that (strangely) doesn't squeeze him at all, and finally the incredibly smooth stockings that he spends a little more care on rolling up his thighs and snapping into place, not wanting to tear them. In the mirror of their bechamber he looks ... good. Yes, definitely, he decides with a smirk. His body is long and lean, his hair is loose and his sapphire eye is glittering atop the whole affair. It will very much do.
He slides under the bedcovers and settles down for a nap, first intending to fake it and then actually needing one. Ensuring he's covered up to his nose, he faces the flickering fireplace and waits for his husband to come home. ]
[Three days is nothing to someone with as many under his belt as Adar. Once, they would have passed without notice, save for the obvious signs of the sun rising and setting, the slowly shifting phases of the moon.
Even when he leaves, he thinks at first it will pass easily. Seventy-two hours without Aemond is a lot less than the hundreds of thousands of hours that he had spent before he had known him, and the surely likewise after Aemond is long gone, to age or foolishness or the magic of this place. In some ways he is correct. His companions are good enough company when he bothers to stay near them, but there is an absence in his makeshift bed, a lack of teasing sharpness that he misses. Adar finds he even misses pretending to be weaker than he is so Aemond won't feel bad about being outclassed by someone it was unfair to compare himself to.
Love was a strange beast that coiled so willingly around his heart even when it should be rotten and black with only room for the twisted love he held for his children. The corpse of love that had hung in his chest even as Sauron tried to drag every bit of elf out of his very bones for all of those long years.
Yet with Aemond he felt his heart beat or sometimes even race for reasons that had nothing to do with fear. He had forgotten that that was even possible in anything but the most abstract of ways. He was young and beautiful, and yes, that had something to do with it, but most of all what Adar liked was his fire that burned brightly in his chest, echoing out through his gaze and his wickedly clever tongue. With time, Aemond could be the most beautiful and deadly man that Adar had known, short of an Ainur.
He is glad when the trip is over, coming home to the tower without any fanfare. He takes the steps two at a time, not even kicking off his boots at the door or his long black cloak. He supposed Aemond will be home, he thinks he can hear him by the time he's halfway up the stairs. It is the soft fall of his breath like when he sleeps so Adar quiets his already near-silent steps and decides to change in his own room, cleaning up as quickly as he can manage before he comes into Aemond's room, which these days is more their room given how rarely they sleep apart.
Pausing in the doorway, he admires for a minute, or maybe three, how his lover looks. His husband, cutely tucked away in the blanket.
There is no need to wake him, so he thinks, lightly slipping onto the bed behind him and making room for himself under the much-coveted blanket. And then his hand touches fabric that isn't just a tunic, and he notices a strap on Aemond's shoulder as well, that he traces down and down, peeking beneath the covers... What had he gotten up too in his absence? He smelt so good, too, that Adar does not long resist kissing his shoulder, then his neck, leaving a damp trail there even as his hand roams and tries to decipher what his husband had put on to sleep.]
[ So comfortable, he falls asleep and only awakens when lips ghost his shoulder, his neck, a rough yet gentle hand brushing along his body underneath the covers. Smiling, Aemond tilts his head back and reaches up to cup the side of Adar's face, exposing more of the white lingerie hugging his chest. ]
Is it morning or night, still?
[ Time for kisses no matter what, anyhow, when he turns his head for one. ]
Alys is two months pregnant and feels the sickness of it each morning, he has no wish to make it harder on her with a night-flight through the freezing air, not when she is so much older than he and should not really be bearing children at her age. All his intentions are geared toward the good of his lady, naturally. Of course. She has been the centre of his entire world since Harrenhal, eclipsing everything else from view except his rage against the riverlands (igniting it further, most days, with her encouragement) so when he sets off on Vhagar for the meeting point agreed in missives, he feels confident he can scour the surrounding land for any hidden forces and safely land to parley with his uncle ... and if Daemon tries to murder him, Vhagar is there to rip Caraxes' head off, so both sides of the war will lose a leader.
He circles the arranged spot seven times before urging Vhagar down, already feeling a migraine coming on. It happens sometimes when parted from Alys, as if the woes of the world bear down upon him in slow but forceful pressure, and he intends to be back with her before she wakes and notices he has gone. One of her medicinal remedies will help in the morning and narrow his focus, they always do. She makes him a sharpened blade.
Vhagar rumbles at Caraxes once she lands, head held high and locked on the Blood Wyrm as Aemond dismounts; it takes a hot minute in the dark, ropes damp with droplets from the clouds. Making sure to keep her at his back and himself in his dragon's eyeline, he heads forward warily, a hand on the hilt of his sword. In the dark, one-eyed, this is not an ideal spot for anyone but Daemon to stage a murder, and it is only Aemond's dragon that lends him any real confidence he isn't going to be shot. He ought to be after what happened with Lucerys, although strangely enough, despite knowing what he promised his uncle in his very own bedroom (blood on his lips, on his tongue, Valyrian spoken in the firelight) he can't seem to dredge up the emotions to feel guilty about the sheer breadth of his betrayal: because, of course, of course, of course, he loves only one person. One lady. His Alys.
(A soft morning's light in Daemon's hair, his hand skimming down Aemond's back —)
No, Aemond never loved anyone before her ("Off you go then") so why should he feel guilty?
His head hurts, bringing a hand up to rub at a temple. There is Caraxes, for all the night to see, but where is Daemon? Aemond's patience frays. ]
[ Low hisses pour from Caraxes' wide, grinning mouth, spilling smoke and grating sounds like distant cackling. Vhagar is an old friend, but he will fight her if need be; there is no other dragon left alive who can meet the challenge, not even Vermithor, who is old and set in his ways. Barely-restrained violence hangs over the dark plateau, yet there's no sign of anyone else— not even of Daemon's dragonseed girl and her wild mount. ]
Does the scar trouble you much?
[ There. From nowhere surprising, but in the gloom, it may still seem like he materializes from the ether, walking calmly towards his nephew. ]
You never mentioned any pain, but I saw the way you would hold yourself.
[ The crunch of the ground under his boots is quiet, unassuming. The moon is ordinary, half-full. Nothing matches the dire seriousness of this meeting, the world turning on despite their war.
It is brutal to love someone who has become a stranger. Daemon is bleeding out from it— Rhaenyra is in King's Landing, a twisted shadow of herself, veering wildly between moods of intense fear and unhinged rage. She has sent their boys away while keeping Joffrey at her side, she demands the use of his daughters, she still lies to him and laughs about the hurt she knows it causes. She sounds like Viserys. She wears the same bandages on her fingers as her father. All you want is my throne.
His hands feel cold and numb where he pulled them away from Nettles', leaving behind her and her pleas not to make this meeting. She's a good girl. Daemon doesn't know if he loves her, or if he even can, but he knows that she loves him.
If only he had anything left in him to honor that with.
He stops some feet from Aemond, and looks at him. His vicious, pretty boy, now a stranger, too. Pragmatic sense tells him that he only knew his nephew for a fortnight, but the blood that makes his heart beat has no reason to listen. Instinct tells him their time together was true and honest, even if it's made a fool of him— and corpses of Lucerys, and Rhaenys, and Jacaerys. He hears Rhaenyra in his head, You flew with him, you should have known, you allowed this to happen.
[ It feels like a claxon going off in his head, causing the very pain in his face and skull that Daemon refers to. Up goes his hand to the stinging sensation, covering his bejewelled socket, and he watches his uncle's approach with his good side turned toward him as the sight and sound breeds familiarity in waves. It's an ocean tide that sweeps over him and leaves Aemond with a chill down his neck, having been sequestered away from everybody (save one carefully attentive soul) since Cole left with the army. His guts clench against an odd seasickness.
He rubs his cheek with the heel of his hand, a grim scowl in place against it and the pain. ]
That is not why we are here.
[ He refuses to speak their mothertongue, something in the back of his mind telling him not to give any part of himself over, even that. Taking a few wary steps back he drops his hand and looks askance, head and heart numbing to produce a flat tone. ]
[ For a week, one massive carcass causes a stink (literal and otherwise) as it appears on the outskirts of Blackmark. The towering castle-kingdom, almost as large as King's Landing itself, is a metropolis of all breeds of human and fae alike, but no matter what a person seems to be they are all aware of what a dragon is and all rubberneck from windows when the anchorites rush out in the dawn of a new day to set up a camp around the broken Blood Wyrm, beginning the job of mending its flesh prior to summoning back its spirit. Those left behind in the castle to attend its rider are less than pleased to miss out on all the fun but do flawless work nevertheless, and a week after Daemon is awake the same incident happens all over again, causing a flutter among the deathless. A new dragon (a hulking mountain behind the first) is there on the fields at dawn and a new rider is attended in the infirmary after getting extricated from the saddle, with the small difference of the first Targaryen being notified this time.
Aemond's corpse has one real flaw, that being the longsword rammed through his eye, throat, and shoulderblade. The Valyrian steel slides out smoothly and is cleaned before being set aside, and then the anchorites begin their mumbling sorcery that weaves together bone and blood, knitting nerves as seamlessly as stitching a torn cloth. They find his sapphire eye in his scapula and (kindly) rinse it out. He does not know it, because he is dead for three days as they work, but his face is stuck in a rictus scream. It is not until they begin work on his skull that his expression starts to soften with mended muscles.
Like countless before him, he is sent to a sparse but comfortable cell to recover, sleeping soundly. Under plain cotton sheets in a room with a small hearth crackling away peaceably, he dreams of being in bed with his siblings as his mother told them a bedtime story ... and then of a great dragon, also sleeping, but far deeper and for far longer, somewhere nearby who calls to his heart's song and speaks to his blood. Her heart beats once, weakly, and he stirs.
He wakes with a soft Mmm, tilting his head toward the heat. ]
Wanting silence and darkness, getting a sorceress leaning over him and poking at broken bones and ruptured kidneys. She forgives him for trying to strangle her; You were just surprised, she grunts at him later, while smoothing healing bruise cream over her throat. She is less tolerant when he murders a man who speculates community uses for a dragon, as if Caraxes is to be revived as a slave, but the magistrate finds him justified and he is pardoned.
The same sorceress attends Aemond. She is chilly with Daemon until she finds him sitting at the boy's bedside in the morning, solemn and quiet, a silent vigil over his healing form. They boil the sapphire, and wrap it in velvet.
He is promised that there will be no residual influences of the enchantment. It is a relief, but an absence of the witch's vines does not mean an absence of hate.
Daemon is willing to take the risk. ]
Alicent yet lives, nephew, [ he says quietly. ] You and I do not.
[ He waits in a chair by the fire. Giving Aemond space. Draped in a black cotton shirt with laces on the shoulders and down the middle, hair undone. Warm, healed, but sleepless. ]
[ The main family group chat is where Aegon's link and skull emojis take Aemond, who feels such a sudden cold spike of fear trickle down his spine that he almost has an out of body experience as he triple-checks the chat name. Yes, it's the main one with their parents and everyone else included. Yes, as he notices the ellipses being typed, they all start to see it one-by-one. No, Aegon doesn't shut the fuck up at any point exclaiming IT'S LEGIT CLICK IT IT'S AEMOND!!! HOLY SHIT!! Luc sends a shocked face. Jace just types HOWLING FRFR.
Aemond wants to murder his brother.
Never before has he been so glad that he didn't use his face in any part of his account, retaining enough plausible deniability to reply You're hilarious while sweat pools at the back of his neck and he waits for the responses to come in. Don't link lewd sites for your pranks in here, boys, your nephews are a bit young for that, says their father, and That isn't funny, Aegon, adds their mother, closely followed by This is not the time or place for jokes, this is a chatroom for real news off their grandfather; Rhaenys and her husband see it and don't react. With his phone blowing up from notifs as the trio of idiots discuss whether it really is him (it is but he isn't a fucking moron who ever let anything above the shoulders be shot) Helaena merely puts a thumbs-up on the link.
Fucking hell.
Wrapped up under a blanket on his couch while watching TV and eating lukewarm ramen, Aemond wonders how much anyone would miss Aegon if he just hurled him out of one of the windows on the family estate, a really high one on the third floor. Just to be sure he landed horribly. It's so heinously cold in his dingy apartment that he can't even dredge up the energy to rant, in a foul depressed mood since all of his regular paypigs have abandoned him for the holidays to pretend to be dutiful husbands intent on nothing but their wives (fucking hypocrites) as he pokes his noodles moodily with a fork, keeping one eye on the chat out of anxiety. Viserys puts his foot down that The joke really is over now, and he relaxes a little. Those shitheads are going to make their own GC to continue their discussion, he knows, but at least he doesn't have to be included in it.
The whole fiasco reminds him to check his bank account, following which he decides against heating for a third week in a row and his daytime soap operas are worth the money instead.
He mutes Aegon capslocking at him in a DM shortly after. ]
[ Maybe Aemond should lock all those free previews down. If they want to see and gossip, they'll have to pony up a subscription fee.
—would be his uncle's advice, if he were in the family GC. But Daemon isn't, owing to being blacklisted at present (and never invited in the first place when he wasn't, given Alicent's moderation). His daughters are, though they rarely participate, occasionally tapping reactions and feigning less-than-fluency in the language, even though everyone knows they went to English-speaking schools while growing up overseas. Little spies they've been accused of being, but of course, that's absurd. Rhaenyra is the spy, obviously, even though her profile is set to private and, for all appearances, hasn't responded to pings in weeks.
Also, Daemon has his brother's passwords. The benefits of having been reconciled during the Facebook account creation era. Passwords, phone codes, enough know-how to be discreet; it's for Viserys' own good. The head of the family has never known how to look after himself. He needs Daemon, even if he won't admit it.
Interesting. He'd known the second boy had been turfed out to build character, as Daemon had once been, but he hadn't thought to snoop for such avenues of employment. He figured the kid would end up with a paid internship with one of the family's many subsidiaries, but perhaps the little spitfire is less experienced in the real world than he pretends.
He's experienced with something, though.
Daemon opens a bottle of wine in his study, and sits back on the sofa, tablet in hand. rogueprince becomes a highest tier patron, and he begins to browse. ]
[ He did not intend to read it at all, only stuffing the book entitled Prince of Shadows and Bones in his satchel to hide the fact he was even browsing it in the first place. After some philosophical reading, however, upon finding the smutty novel behind his notebook he tugs it free and settles back in bed with a scornful outlook on the plot being any good, given what he flipped through in the castle library.
An hour later, Aemond is slumped back in their four-poster with a fur blanket curled around him and a goblet of wine balanced against his lower lip as he reads, fifteen chapters in. It's a very quiet day in the tower, by all accounts. He never went downstairs to train at swordsmanship as he usually would, didn't even visit the kitchens for a snack; he had lunch delivered.
'There was still tension between them both but Vordreth navigated it like a knife through butter and was once again at Alyn's side, the heat of his immortal body pressing Alyn into the cold wall, aware of how his powerful thighs bracketed in his shivering mortal lover ...'
[Adar was never idle. Even when he looked as such his old mind was working on something or watching all too observantly. Today he had done his usual. A run, sparring, adding the breakfast apple to the long line of immortal fruit that was beginning to take over his mantle in his own room, he even ran to the castle to check on a few things.
The absence of his husband from their usual routines was noted, but he assumed he was about six hundred pages in on some text that was drier than burnt toast and yet completely fascinating to him so he did not fuss, save to be sure he was in the tower and not lost in the forest somewhere.
So when he finds him reading, his footsteps too quiet to give him away as he slips through the door, he isn't shocked. Except that that does not at all look like some mortal's dull take on the meaning of life. Adar tilts his head.]
[ Aemond is very well behaved all the way home, short as the walk is from the tavern to the Tower. He swings the whiskey and plays coy as he wonders aloud about positions, occasionally kissing and nuzzling Adar to distract him along the way, laughter bubbling up from a vague nervousness; his husband is a source of seemingly endless enthusiasm, for want of a better word, and Aemond is determined to get some oil and towels before being ravished within an inch of his life.
It will be incredible, he senses, but he also wants to survive it.
Once in the Tower he palms the whiskey off on a servant and wraps his arms around Adar's neck, zeroing in for a kiss so soft and sweet he means to make it the beginning and end of their lovemaking. ]
[He is sure that at one point in his life he was as easy and carefree as Aemond is on their walk home, though as he watches him prance and nuzzle and tease he is not sure he can remember it in that moment.
What remains of the wine doesn't go to the servants but stays in Adar's hand, he might need it later for his nerves and inevitable guilt if he does lose restraint. He is caught, instantly and off-guard by his husband as he pulls him into a kiss that he immediately leans into. It is not devouring, not rough or sharp, it is sweet as honey and Adar's free hand cups Aemond's cheek while his other with the bottle presses into the small of his back, drawing him closer until their bodies are separated merely by fabric and no real space remains between them.]
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oct 22.
• various ► tfln
• daemon ► valzyrys
[ A soft noise leaves his throat when fingers sift into his hair and Daemon kisses him properly becoming all he can focus on, a dragon to ride in a storm of emotions. He loses himself in the press of tongues that has him moaning under his breath and tries to meet that overbearing height by arching in, the line of a readily hardening cock seeking out his uncle's thigh as Aemond's senses white-out with want. He grew up on sayings about dragon's blood running thicker and accepted them as truth since he never feels the pull of it with ordinary people; they warm his bed just fine (men, because he isn't irresponsible) yet they don't have him so fired up from the offset or trying to paint his taste into another mouth as he does with Daemon, keenly aware of how much he needs him. How others are just leaves in the wind, easily forgotten and not worth remembering.
But Daemon is a dragon, like him, and Aemond's blood sings.
He shivers with the praise and drags down a steadying breath when they finally part for longer than smaller, insistent kisses will allow. The pat to his chest is distracting and his violet eye is dilated when he tilts back to see his uncle, trying to gauge his point, but his patch is digging into his cheek as a more pressing nuisance (that's what he gets for not thinking ahead) and he pulls it off to toss to the table, rubbing his brow and nose. Much better.
A faceted sapphire that catches the firelight 'looks' up when Aemond does, lips still shining pink with Daemon's kisses. His aching erection lies trapped in the crease of his uncle's thigh, snug there in his leather britches so that every heartbeat feels like it throbs through his whole body, making him stupid. ]
How do you want me?
[ He ought to put on an alluring show, but he convinces himself mummer's plays are for whores. ]
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No matter how many times he finds himself in one alcove or another, the thrill of being wanted eagerly never diminishes— his nephew's needy noises, the way his body tries to mold itself against his, those desperate hands, the hard line of his cock through his leathers. All the more vibrant and compelling thanks to their blood bond, which sends a line of fire down his spine and out to every nerve ending in his body. Daemon thinks the younger man should be able to feel it burning into his own skin, each of them like brands against the other. ]
Mmmn.
[ Performative delaying, as he rubs his hand over Aemond's chest and lower, where his fingers tuck into the waistband of his breeches. His own arousal is steadily hardening, a craving in a hurry to find more. It should take him longer, at his age, but he is the inverse of poor Viserys; his brother wastes while Daemon is hardly touched by his years at all.
The scar is hideous. The scar is beautiful. Impressive, no matter what it is. Ghastly, and an excellent shot by little Lucerys. (The boys had been too abashed to give him a replay in front of their mother no matter how he goaded, but his girls obliged.) Daemon strokes through Aemond's hair and tugs the rest of it free from its clasp, rubbing where the straps of the patch press in the most. The jewel lodged in his skull is perversely artistic. He wonders why he bothers covering it up at all. ]
... Screaming, preferably. [ A kiss, teeth indenting his lower lip. ] Does that ache still trouble you?
[ Another kiss, the knuckles of his hand in Aemond's trousers pressing into skin, along the arc of his hipbone, and when their mouths part again his teasing is in High Valyrian, ] Shall I tame it for you?
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He barely traps a gasp behind his teeth when a caress slips along his hip, clutching at Daemon's clothes to hold fast. The kiss parts and he laughs under his breath, aiming to take some control by nuzzling his way along his uncle's jaw and fastening a biting, scraping kiss on his neck, nosing aside shorter pale hair. ]
I'm not opposed to you trying, certainly.
[ Brattish and bold, he arches in to feel more of him. ]
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• adar ► callmeadar
[ The flight lasted only thirty minutes, long enough for Aemond's ease to grow and his affections to fluster in the same descent toward the dark tower that he and Adar named home. A mile or so from the main castle where a great deal of commoners and fools lived, the tower allowed them to keep their own business private and had seemed a good way to escape the bustling, clownish masses when first he proposed the idea to his somewhat-friend (the only other person with a modicum of common sense and a warrior's prowess). How much more there was to find beneath that front, he wryly thinks with Adar at his back as Vhagar lands with a familiar boom throughout the woodlands. She crushes some of the smaller trees but seems content to rub her head under the highest branches to fight off an itch, and only then bows forward for her riders to disembark. Aemond speaks to her softly, tells her to go hunt and return to sleep. She understands better than a hatchling would, almost two centuries of listening to Valyrian have left the old girl cannier than most maesters.
As his dragon crushes her way through the trees for a midnight snack, Aemond watches her go from the main gate, anxious about letting her out of his sight. ]
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Home still felt like a funny word on his lips, yet the tower that loomed over them had become just that. If he focused, he could hear the main castle (and he could certainly see them) but when he didn't the place had an air of privacy, reminding him of days long ago, during the war and before his captivity. Good days stolen from terrible years.
Tonight felt better than most.]
I would be able to find her again for you if she somehow finds something big enough to hide behind. [He says, gently, taking Aemond's hand and tugging him towards the door.] Come. Let her enjoy herself as you wish too.
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I forget how keen your senses are. I envy them.
[ Indoors, he waves off the servants and heads toward his own chambers with Adar in tow, the strange familiarity of the tower causing him to relax even though it isn't anything like the Red Keep. The tapestries have weird creatures on them and the design of the stones was not carved by mortal men. Thankfully, an entirely normal hearth has been lit in his bedchamber and a bottle of wine left out, though he ignores it after a brief wander inside to turn on Adar instead.
The amorous sortie in the woods was promising and he was miserly about ending it ... but now they have time. He pulls the leather thong from his hair, shaking it out, then takes care of the clasps of his tunic on the short walk back to the uruk, a violet and sapphire gaze fixed on him. ]
Call me your silver dragon again.
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• adar ► callmeadar
The old river runs across the path. A bridge serves to cross it, just as creaky and ancient as everything else in the accursed land, and it once might have been very fine but the stone is cracked and it looks like there was an attack where the stones crumbled long ago against one side. It's while approaching this bridge in twilight hours, no Vhagar around for he left her at the castle talking to some dragonborn (monsters part-human and part-lizard), that Aemond is set upon. Not by highwaymen after his purse or the ghosts that, while unnerving, he has started swatting away after so much time spent in the strange land, but by horrors that surge out of the grimy waters with faces somewhere between men and fish.
Everything, it seems, is an abomination in this realm.
The Drowners taste his sword and go down at first, but there are too many and they overwhelm him, rushing to escape with a yell as claws whisper across his cheek: that really gets him running, stumbling to slash back at his foes as more of them start to appear, bloated dead-men with teeth like needles, finned ears spreading to lock onto Aemond's position. All of them intent on devouring him. He shouts for Vhagar, then Adar, not knowing how far he is from the castle or tower but screaming loudly anyway as his arm is slashed deep.
He's a brilliant swordsman but numbers count for more, and the Drowners look to be twenty-strong as he continues to hack at them, losing strength. Fuck. ]
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So Adar had remained at the tower, working on various projects to keep himself busy and make things more agreeable to his
elvishsensibilities when he hears on the wind strange groaning, a sword on flesh... and then his name.He did not need to guess where it came from, his ears told him well enough and he knew where Aemond had gone and so he runs, as fleet of foot as he had been two millennia before, his physical stamina not weighed down by the weight of years or the mistreatment they had brought him.
He is there in at most a minute or two, pulling the monsters away from Aemond and stabbing them through the head. One gets cut straight down the middle before he throws it away, off the road. In the end, all of them are gone, especially the one whose putrefied skull he crushes beneath his heel.]
Are you hurt? [He is beside him in an instant, looking him over for any wound.]
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Shaking on the ground as he shoves off his last victim, Aemond struggles to a knee and holds out his left arm, blood soaking the sleeve. Still holding his sword, he rubs the back of his other fist across his cheek where a claw scratched close to his eye-patch and shudders more obviously. ]
I'm ... I'm fine.
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nov 22.
• helaena ► toasty sibs
• daenerys ► the hot descendent
• adar ► truth curse
• daenerys ► blood-bound
• adar ► callmeadar
He gets talking to his peers and, odd as they are, they never condemn anything he finds it difficult to ask. They go above and beyond, in fact, and he spends a whole afternoon learning about lingerie once it becomes apparent that one flimsy robe in the Street of Silk is all a high-paid whore ever uses and he has never seen a stocking in his life. Not like the ones he is shown in the present, anyway. The boys and girls unearth a trunk of options for him onto one of their beds as everyone chatters about their own experiences; Aemond quietly inspects the garments, flimsy and fragile, and inquires how to put them on. One of the boys strips and shows him, turning Aemond's face bright red before he can concentrate on learning again. And oh, learn he does. He's a scholar in the field by the time he leaves for the Tower on Vhagar, a bag stuffed with his new treasures. No one could believe he was married at first, then there was an outpouring of sympathy and an insistence he go home with "honeymoon gear".
Adar is due to return tonight from a scouting trip along with some of the tougher folks from the Castle, some sort of hunting or exploratory party: Aemond thought it a good idea at the time, now he simply misses him after three days left to his own devices. So, he bathes and uses the lotions he has been gifted, vanilla and lilies ("To match your hair!") melting their scent into his skin before he tackles the lingerie. Panties, brassiere, a soft and delicately ribboned corset that (strangely) doesn't squeeze him at all, and finally the incredibly smooth stockings that he spends a little more care on rolling up his thighs and snapping into place, not wanting to tear them. In the mirror of their bechamber he looks ... good. Yes, definitely, he decides with a smirk. His body is long and lean, his hair is loose and his sapphire eye is glittering atop the whole affair. It will very much do.
He slides under the bedcovers and settles down for a nap, first intending to fake it and then actually needing one. Ensuring he's covered up to his nose, he faces the flickering fireplace and waits for his husband to come home. ]
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Even when he leaves, he thinks at first it will pass easily. Seventy-two hours without Aemond is a lot less than the hundreds of thousands of hours that he had spent before he had known him, and the surely likewise after Aemond is long gone, to age or foolishness or the magic of this place. In some ways he is correct. His companions are good enough company when he bothers to stay near them, but there is an absence in his makeshift bed, a lack of teasing sharpness that he misses. Adar finds he even misses pretending to be weaker than he is so Aemond won't feel bad about being outclassed by someone it was unfair to compare himself to.
Love was a strange beast that coiled so willingly around his heart even when it should be rotten and black with only room for the twisted love he held for his children. The corpse of love that had hung in his chest even as Sauron tried to drag every bit of elf out of his very bones for all of those long years.
Yet with Aemond he felt his heart beat or sometimes even race for reasons that had nothing to do with fear. He had forgotten that that was even possible in anything but the most abstract of ways. He was young and beautiful, and yes, that had something to do with it, but most of all what Adar liked was his fire that burned brightly in his chest, echoing out through his gaze and his wickedly clever tongue. With time, Aemond could be the most beautiful and deadly man that Adar had known, short of an Ainur.
He is glad when the trip is over, coming home to the tower without any fanfare. He takes the steps two at a time, not even kicking off his boots at the door or his long black cloak. He supposed Aemond will be home, he thinks he can hear him by the time he's halfway up the stairs. It is the soft fall of his breath like when he sleeps so Adar quiets his already near-silent steps and decides to change in his own room, cleaning up as quickly as he can manage before he comes into Aemond's room, which these days is more their room given how rarely they sleep apart.
Pausing in the doorway, he admires for a minute, or maybe three, how his lover looks. His husband, cutely tucked away in the blanket.
There is no need to wake him, so he thinks, lightly slipping onto the bed behind him and making room for himself under the much-coveted blanket. And then his hand touches fabric that isn't just a tunic, and he notices a strap on Aemond's shoulder as well, that he traces down and down, peeking beneath the covers... What had he gotten up too in his absence? He smelt so good, too, that Adar does not long resist kissing his shoulder, then his neck, leaving a damp trail there even as his hand roams and tries to decipher what his husband had put on to sleep.]
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Is it morning or night, still?
[ Time for kisses no matter what, anyhow, when he turns his head for one. ]
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• daemon ► valzyrys
Alys is two months pregnant and feels the sickness of it each morning, he has no wish to make it harder on her with a night-flight through the freezing air, not when she is so much older than he and should not really be bearing children at her age. All his intentions are geared toward the good of his lady, naturally. Of course. She has been the centre of his entire world since Harrenhal, eclipsing everything else from view except his rage against the riverlands (igniting it further, most days, with her encouragement) so when he sets off on Vhagar for the meeting point agreed in missives, he feels confident he can scour the surrounding land for any hidden forces and safely land to parley with his uncle ... and if Daemon tries to murder him, Vhagar is there to rip Caraxes' head off, so both sides of the war will lose a leader.
He circles the arranged spot seven times before urging Vhagar down, already feeling a migraine coming on. It happens sometimes when parted from Alys, as if the woes of the world bear down upon him in slow but forceful pressure, and he intends to be back with her before she wakes and notices he has gone. One of her medicinal remedies will help in the morning and narrow his focus, they always do. She makes him a sharpened blade.
Vhagar rumbles at Caraxes once she lands, head held high and locked on the Blood Wyrm as Aemond dismounts; it takes a hot minute in the dark, ropes damp with droplets from the clouds. Making sure to keep her at his back and himself in his dragon's eyeline, he heads forward warily, a hand on the hilt of his sword. In the dark, one-eyed, this is not an ideal spot for anyone but Daemon to stage a murder, and it is only Aemond's dragon that lends him any real confidence he isn't going to be shot. He ought to be after what happened with Lucerys, although strangely enough, despite knowing what he promised his uncle in his very own bedroom (blood on his lips, on his tongue, Valyrian spoken in the firelight) he can't seem to dredge up the emotions to feel guilty about the sheer breadth of his betrayal: because, of course, of course, of course, he loves only one person. One lady. His Alys.
(A soft morning's light in Daemon's hair, his hand skimming down Aemond's back —)
No, Aemond never loved anyone before her ("Off you go then") so why should he feel guilty?
His head hurts, bringing a hand up to rub at a temple. There is Caraxes, for all the night to see, but where is Daemon? Aemond's patience frays. ]
Uncle?
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Does the scar trouble you much?
[ There. From nowhere surprising, but in the gloom, it may still seem like he materializes from the ether, walking calmly towards his nephew. ]
You never mentioned any pain, but I saw the way you would hold yourself.
[ The crunch of the ground under his boots is quiet, unassuming. The moon is ordinary, half-full. Nothing matches the dire seriousness of this meeting, the world turning on despite their war.
It is brutal to love someone who has become a stranger. Daemon is bleeding out from it— Rhaenyra is in King's Landing, a twisted shadow of herself, veering wildly between moods of intense fear and unhinged rage. She has sent their boys away while keeping Joffrey at her side, she demands the use of his daughters, she still lies to him and laughs about the hurt she knows it causes. She sounds like Viserys. She wears the same bandages on her fingers as her father. All you want is my throne.
His hands feel cold and numb where he pulled them away from Nettles', leaving behind her and her pleas not to make this meeting. She's a good girl. Daemon doesn't know if he loves her, or if he even can, but he knows that she loves him.
If only he had anything left in him to honor that with.
He stops some feet from Aemond, and looks at him. His vicious, pretty boy, now a stranger, too. Pragmatic sense tells him that he only knew his nephew for a fortnight, but the blood that makes his heart beat has no reason to listen. Instinct tells him their time together was true and honest, even if it's made a fool of him— and corpses of Lucerys, and Rhaenys, and Jacaerys. He hears Rhaenyra in his head, You flew with him, you should have known, you allowed this to happen.
Did he? ]
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He rubs his cheek with the heel of his hand, a grim scowl in place against it and the pain. ]
That is not why we are here.
[ He refuses to speak their mothertongue, something in the back of his mind telling him not to give any part of himself over, even that. Taking a few wary steps back he drops his hand and looks askance, head and heart numbing to produce a flat tone. ]
Speak what you truly wanted to say this night.
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deathjar psl • daemon ► valzyrys
[ For a week, one massive carcass causes a stink (literal and otherwise) as it appears on the outskirts of Blackmark. The towering castle-kingdom, almost as large as King's Landing itself, is a metropolis of all breeds of human and fae alike, but no matter what a person seems to be they are all aware of what a dragon is and all rubberneck from windows when the anchorites rush out in the dawn of a new day to set up a camp around the broken Blood Wyrm, beginning the job of mending its flesh prior to summoning back its spirit. Those left behind in the castle to attend its rider are less than pleased to miss out on all the fun but do flawless work nevertheless, and a week after Daemon is awake the same incident happens all over again, causing a flutter among the deathless. A new dragon (a hulking mountain behind the first) is there on the fields at dawn and a new rider is attended in the infirmary after getting extricated from the saddle, with the small difference of the first Targaryen being notified this time.
Aemond's corpse has one real flaw, that being the longsword rammed through his eye, throat, and shoulderblade. The Valyrian steel slides out smoothly and is cleaned before being set aside, and then the anchorites begin their mumbling sorcery that weaves together bone and blood, knitting nerves as seamlessly as stitching a torn cloth. They find his sapphire eye in his scapula and (kindly) rinse it out. He does not know it, because he is dead for three days as they work, but his face is stuck in a rictus scream. It is not until they begin work on his skull that his expression starts to soften with mended muscles.
Like countless before him, he is sent to a sparse but comfortable cell to recover, sleeping soundly. Under plain cotton sheets in a room with a small hearth crackling away peaceably, he dreams of being in bed with his siblings as his mother told them a bedtime story ... and then of a great dragon, also sleeping, but far deeper and for far longer, somewhere nearby who calls to his heart's song and speaks to his blood. Her heart beats once, weakly, and he stirs.
He wakes with a soft Mmm, tilting his head toward the heat. ]
Mother?
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Wanting silence and darkness, getting a sorceress leaning over him and poking at broken bones and ruptured kidneys. She forgives him for trying to strangle her; You were just surprised, she grunts at him later, while smoothing healing bruise cream over her throat. She is less tolerant when he murders a man who speculates community uses for a dragon, as if Caraxes is to be revived as a slave, but the magistrate finds him justified and he is pardoned.
The same sorceress attends Aemond. She is chilly with Daemon until she finds him sitting at the boy's bedside in the morning, solemn and quiet, a silent vigil over his healing form. They boil the sapphire, and wrap it in velvet.
He is promised that there will be no residual influences of the enchantment. It is a relief, but an absence of the witch's vines does not mean an absence of hate.
Daemon is willing to take the risk. ]
Alicent yet lives, nephew, [ he says quietly. ] You and I do not.
[ He waits in a chair by the fire. Giving Aemond space. Draped in a black cotton shirt with laces on the shoulders and down the middle, hair undone. Warm, healed, but sleepless. ]
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modern sugar uncle psl • daemon ► valzyrys
Aemond wants to murder his brother.
Never before has he been so glad that he didn't use his face in any part of his account, retaining enough plausible deniability to reply You're hilarious while sweat pools at the back of his neck and he waits for the responses to come in. Don't link lewd sites for your pranks in here, boys, your nephews are a bit young for that, says their father, and That isn't funny, Aegon, adds their mother, closely followed by This is not the time or place for jokes, this is a chatroom for real news off their grandfather; Rhaenys and her husband see it and don't react. With his phone blowing up from notifs as the trio of idiots discuss whether it really is him (it is but he isn't a fucking moron who ever let anything above the shoulders be shot) Helaena merely puts a thumbs-up on the link.
Fucking hell.
Wrapped up under a blanket on his couch while watching TV and eating lukewarm ramen, Aemond wonders how much anyone would miss Aegon if he just hurled him out of one of the windows on the family estate, a really high one on the third floor. Just to be sure he landed horribly. It's so heinously cold in his dingy apartment that he can't even dredge up the energy to rant, in a foul depressed mood since all of his regular paypigs have abandoned him for the holidays to pretend to be dutiful husbands intent on nothing but their wives (fucking hypocrites) as he pokes his noodles moodily with a fork, keeping one eye on the chat out of anxiety. Viserys puts his foot down that The joke really is over now, and he relaxes a little. Those shitheads are going to make their own GC to continue their discussion, he knows, but at least he doesn't have to be included in it.
The whole fiasco reminds him to check his bank account, following which he decides against heating for a third week in a row and his daytime soap operas are worth the money instead.
He mutes Aegon capslocking at him in a DM shortly after. ]
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—would be his uncle's advice, if he were in the family GC. But Daemon isn't, owing to being blacklisted at present (and never invited in the first place when he wasn't, given Alicent's moderation). His daughters are, though they rarely participate, occasionally tapping reactions and feigning less-than-fluency in the language, even though everyone knows they went to English-speaking schools while growing up overseas. Little spies they've been accused of being, but of course, that's absurd. Rhaenyra is the spy, obviously, even though her profile is set to private and, for all appearances, hasn't responded to pings in weeks.
Also, Daemon has his brother's passwords. The benefits of having been reconciled during the Facebook account creation era. Passwords, phone codes, enough know-how to be discreet; it's for Viserys' own good. The head of the family has never known how to look after himself. He needs Daemon, even if he won't admit it.
Interesting. He'd known the second boy had been turfed out to build character, as Daemon had once been, but he hadn't thought to snoop for such avenues of employment. He figured the kid would end up with a paid internship with one of the family's many subsidiaries, but perhaps the little spitfire is less experienced in the real world than he pretends.
He's experienced with something, though.
Daemon opens a bottle of wine in his study, and sits back on the sofa, tablet in hand. rogueprince becomes a highest tier patron, and he begins to browse. ]
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elf smut • adar ► callmeadar
An hour later, Aemond is slumped back in their four-poster with a fur blanket curled around him and a goblet of wine balanced against his lower lip as he reads, fifteen chapters in. It's a very quiet day in the tower, by all accounts. He never went downstairs to train at swordsmanship as he usually would, didn't even visit the kitchens for a snack; he had lunch delivered.
'There was still tension between them both but Vordreth navigated it like a knife through butter and was once again at Alyn's side, the heat of his immortal body pressing Alyn into the cold wall, aware of how his powerful thighs bracketed in his shivering mortal lover ...'
Wine is sipped, a lilac eye rapt on the page. ]
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The absence of his husband from their usual routines was noted, but he assumed he was about six hundred pages in on some text that was drier than burnt toast and yet completely fascinating to him so he did not fuss, save to be sure he was in the tower and not lost in the forest somewhere.
So when he finds him reading, his footsteps too quiet to give him away as he slips through the door, he isn't shocked. Except that that does not at all look like some mortal's dull take on the meaning of life. Adar tilts his head.]
What has you so entranced, my love?
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• elfdaddyhusband ► callmeadar
[ Aemond is very well behaved all the way home, short as the walk is from the tavern to the Tower. He swings the whiskey and plays coy as he wonders aloud about positions, occasionally kissing and nuzzling Adar to distract him along the way, laughter bubbling up from a vague nervousness; his husband is a source of seemingly endless enthusiasm, for want of a better word, and Aemond is determined to get some oil and towels before being ravished within an inch of his life.
It will be incredible, he senses, but he also wants to survive it.
Once in the Tower he palms the whiskey off on a servant and wraps his arms around Adar's neck, zeroing in for a kiss so soft and sweet he means to make it the beginning and end of their lovemaking. ]
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What remains of the wine doesn't go to the servants but stays in Adar's hand, he might need it later for his nerves and inevitable guilt if he does lose restraint. He is caught, instantly and off-guard by his husband as he pulls him into a kiss that he immediately leans into. It is not devouring, not rough or sharp, it is sweet as honey and Adar's free hand cups Aemond's cheek while his other with the bottle presses into the small of his back, drawing him closer until their bodies are separated merely by fabric and no real space remains between them.]
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