[ Daemon curls an arm around his shoulders, and laughs softly. Sorry, kid. ]
You're not nearly as much of a problem as I was. [ Politely not accusing Aegon of being an even worse problem, though he is— Daemon was never sadistic, just slutty. ] And it may continue to be a chore for you, before you sire children. I went through .. changing moods.
[ Blood magic debt is a hell of a thing. Not all of them are hit with it, he knows, but he expects he and Aemond may be equally ensnared, since they both also feel this pull towards each other. ]
[ Daemon kisses the crown of his head. He understands. Disliking Rhea Royce as a person wasn't the only reason he hated being married to her; being expected to produce children with her (and then being mocked and emasculated for not being able to make himself force her) was a hell of a fucking experience. ]
My father told me that I wanted to be betrothed to my aunt Viserra, when I was a child. [ A beautiful, wild girl, who he stared up at adoringly. ] That I wanted to save her from being married off to some boorish nobody in White Harbor. I barely remember any of it, now.
[ He was like, a five year old. Chill, baby Daemon. ]
Helaena has a daughter. Rhaenyra may yet. We mustn't lose faith with the line already, zaldrītsos.
[ He can't think of it as Rhaenyra's, that would only serve to sour the offer. Aemond lifts his head enough to drop kisses in the curve of a shoulder, long hair trailing over and tickling Daemon's bare chest. ]
I hope to at least be married once, by that time.
[ A lovebite works pointedly over the pulse in Daemon's neck. ]
Mmm. [ He pets down Aemond's spine, and back up, through his hair. ] Would you like that?
[ Chances are shot with Baela or Rhaena, and would be even if they weren't recently betrothed anyway thanks to the Great Child Battle Royale of Driftmark, so Aemond would have to tolerate some Rhaenyra cooties, in addition to the absurd wait. Jaehaera is the miles better option, though he thinks this fantasy is rather romantic.
A sigh-laugh, then— ]
Trying to get me in trouble?
[ A hickey. C'mon now. But Daemon doesn't pull him away. ]
[ Although it would be more a matter of duty than anything, he could respect a child born of his uncle. Possibly love her? That's getting wildly ahead of things, even if it is a sweet offer (Rhaenyra might not see it that way) and he likes the way Daemon poses it while holding him in his arms. It doesn't feel like being fobbed off ... and Daemon would be awfully old by then, Aemond doesn't want to lose any part of him if he can keep them close.
Aemond's laughter is warm as he noses over the mark he's working on, nipping. ]
If you can't get out of a little trouble then I'm not sure I'm so impressed anymore ...
[ Given his lifestyle and temperament, if Daemon lives another ten years, it'll be a fucking miracle. Aemond better get in now while he's still capable of siring anything and before he's met some absurd, violent end. And he simply can't do better than a daughter from Daemon and Rhaenyra (who will have no say, he's already given her boys both of his girls) as far as bloodlines go. It'd be a gift, to someone half-Hightower.
And sweet, yes. You and I, in a way.
Daemon makes a faux-exasperated noise, and cards his fingers through Aemond's hair at the back of his head. ]
Oh, no, I'm not about to be baited into challenging you with your teeth at my throat.
[ Aemond is fully rested now, loving the hand in his hair that he's careful not to dislodge as he drops a kiss on Daemon proper, a flick of tongue painting heat into his mouth. ]
They did say I walked in your image, growing up. Maybe you ought to be afraid.
[ The hot-tempered second-son with long hair, fond of the sword and causing tensions small enough not to be disciplined for. It's playfully teased as he smirks into the kisses though, shifting in the bed with all the energy of a nineteen-year-old finding a second-wind as he slings a leg over Daemon's hips and sits up, mussed hair falling over his sapphire eye when he spreads his hands on a half-scarred chest to keep him where he can see. Admire. His own personal throne, kept warm by the bedsheets gathered around his legs.
Aemond looks entirely satisfied, palming his way from navel to throat and back again in unhurried caresses. There are new scrapes and bruises on him from Daemon's nails and the force of his grip, pale blue that will darken by morning, each standing out already on creamy skin.
He tilts his head, a coy murmur through pouting lips just above a purr. ]
[ The only thing Daemon's ever been afraid of is not being loved by specific people; ordinary mortal and psychologically complicated fears like What if my nephew wants to wear my skin and replace me skim off of him as curious things to observe, and little else.
He's made an impression on history already. The image of Daemon Targaryen, because he's burned himself into the very fabric of this keep. That Aemond takes after him is comforting and thrilling at once, and this affair is probably extremely egotistical of them both. That's just fine. Daemon runs his hands up his nephew's thighs, his belly, higher, to rub at the edge of his muscles at his chest. He knows just how much he likes this, now. ]
I can think only of keeping you close.
[ Which is sort of a problem. For right now, though, they can have it; skin to skin and just them. ]
[ Touch is important when missing one eye, it lets him keep track of where the world is in relation to him not stumbling through it. With Daemon he doesn't hold back from greedily palming him, scars and all, leaning down to seal those precious words with a devoted kiss all lips and tongue. He pets across a navel, mirroring the caresses but keeping them centred around his uncle's hips and lower half once busy tasting his compliments first-hand, not about to argue that this closeness will be shattered soon and reality will prove a much harder won friend.
For now though, with the fire casting shadows over Daemon and his choice of a much younger lover in his nephew, all Aemond wants to do is give the night every reason to stretch on forever. Is this how it will always be? Overburdened with desire and a neverending desperation to be entwined, as close as their blood can be without a wedding? It's exhausting and wonderful. ]
If I am your Little Dragon, does that mean, [ his fingers split around the base of Daemon's cock, featherlight and teasing where they skim to underline his suggestive words, ] that you are my Big Dragon? I have no argument there, uncle.
[ Daemon is too old for him by any metric involving decency— even amongst Targaryens, they're usually bound closer together in age, for comfort. Siblings and cousins raised together to forge positive friendships and foster sweet feelings. Perhaps this is just what happens when the options become so pared down, or perhaps they were always going to want to devour each other, no matter what. He can do nothing to deny the way fire kindles in him whenever Aemond looks his way.
He grunts a low sound at that, amused, and he strokes over his nephew's chest some more, gentle in case he's sore. ]
I've given little thought to it, [ is what all men with big dicks say, to the eternal exasperation of everyone else, ] but if it pleases you, then who am I do cling to ill-suited humility?
[ Daemon uses a woman's sword and picked a medium-sized dragon, he doesn't have much in the way of compensation anxiety. One hand slips down to press fingers into the lovely slant of Aemond's iliac crest, teasing where his skin is softest. ]
[ He's confident of that, even if he's only half Daemon's age and can't verify it. His hips arch forward toward those fingers that run along the groove of his hip, chasing the sensation, humming his pleasure, and he covers that hand with his own to show him where to dig in his nails and leave pink lines. As unscarred as Aemond mostly is, he reacts to mild pain with enthusiasm (which may be a bit messed up considering his face, but the startling sting anywhere else is very welcome). ]
If I get taller, that simply means there will be more of me to sit in your lap.
[ He just hums, but there's no disagreement. What's the use of humility? It's never served him. Daemon has tried to be good, and every time, was punished for it.
He drags his nails over Aemond's hipbone, gently pinches below his navel, does not quite touch his cock. Mild pain, eh? Daemon smiles to himself. He knew he was onto something with the spanking threat. ]
Right you are.
[ Long-limbed and graceful and draped over him, what a pleasant thought. What a pleasant reality, right now; Daemon rubs and tweaks one nipple, and meanwhile, his cock stirs, slowly warming between them. ]
[ Grinning loftily, he fails to hide a hiss of pleasure as his nipple is pinched and instead brings that dangerously clever hand up to nip at the fingertips. He brushes his lips over the pads and guides them up to the scar on his face, watching Daemon intently all the while, and if Daemon isn't too squeamish he's allowed to touch the sapphire under Aemond's lashes.
It doesn't hurt, doesn't feel like anything. ]
Showed me your scars, only fair you get a better look at mine.
[ Once upon a time, Daemon rolled his eyes as a novice maester vomited all over the floor of the medic tent while they were cutting sections of his skin off where it had fused to his armor. Far from squeamish. (He's been accused of being so over childbirth, preferring to lurk in doorways instead of holding Rhaenyra's hand, but he hasn't found a way to explain that's not about the blood and all about knowing that if he's actually called into the room, it'll be to be told she's dying.) ]
I've seen men wear lesser wounds with half the grace, [ he says, carefully touching him, his fingertips soft and sensual. Not wanting to give Aemond any reason to regret it and flinch. ] What an introduction to all of you that was.
[ Daemon, minding his own business, watching everyone else go fucking apeshit. It had been an interesting experience to observe a family crisis instead of being the one to cause it. Nice going carrying the torch on that one, Mini-Me. ]
And here you are now, like Balerion.
[ Throwback, to telling his nephew he remembers the scars on the Black Dread from his trip back to Valyria with poor Aerea. Beautiful still, dangerous, regal. ]
[ What an introduction indeed, getting his face sewn back together to stop it falling off his skull. His memory has been inevitably blurred by time but he doesn't remember seeing Daemon there much, his focus had been on Lucerys and Alicent. Viserys. The needle threading his eyelid back together.
He brings the hand by his eye to his lips and kisses Daemon's palm, huffing as he blushes. Comparing Aemond, the biggest dragon enthusiast around, to Balerion? That's far too smooth and has him smiling as he fights the twitch of his lips. ]
I don't know how you ever get into trouble when you say all the right things.
[ Leaning down for a kiss, he kneads his way down his uncle's bare chest and fits his fingers into the dips of ribs, tickling his way down a softer waist. ]
[ Better that no one remembers him. Why was he even up? Why did he shuffle in from a back passageway from the beach? Why was the only move he made to force Cole away from the fray? He knows Viserys remembers, he met his brother's gaze across the room when he'd finally gone to stand by Rhaenyra, hand on Luke's shoulder. Lines drawn. He'd tried to do as his brother bid him, but all roads lead back to just there, with her.
Still. He remembers watching Vhagar take flight, from his vantage point on the shore, and he remembers wondering who had befriended her.
What a little shit. Daemon smiles at him, something of a smirk. Mmm, their tension from the morning seems so long ago, doesn't it. ]
Most have learned to oust me before I start talking.
[ How many times has this motherfucker been exiled, anyway. He sifts through Aemond's hair as he moves, draping it over his shoulder, gathering it back up. ]
[ Very much young and smitten, he smiles into the kisses and hums his gratitude when his hair is swept aside to let the cooler air of the bedchamber touch his neck. He could sit there kissing all night, talking, but he doesn't want to come off boring or naive, and besides ... he very much wants to wring as many orgasms out of Daemon as he can. When Aemond trails the heat of his mouth down a throat and chest, starting to travel down his uncle's body, the eagerness in every dragging kiss is unmistakeable. ]
You're not going to fall asleep like an old man if I still want to play, are you?
[ His grin flashes, a lilac eye glancing up with brattish confidence. ]
[ Conversation is good— it's rare to be able to have it with someone this way, and he wonders how much more candid and open they could be with each other, if they weren't burdened by the wall of their family drama. But Daemon remembers being nineteen, and with that in mind, he's impressed at Aemond's patience. ]
It'd be my turn, wouldn't it?
[ A quick tug on his hair. Sass. Aemond got to nap in the Dragonpit and pass out early last night and be a diva about it. ]
[ He lays his cheek on a hip, long hair blanketing Daemon's crotch as Aemond gets comfortable like a dragon curled up around coals. Maybe he enjoyed passing out last time, it was all very overwhelming. He prefers not to now, gazing up at his uncle. ]
If I burned enough of the world it would rain ash for months and we could stay here. [ A whimsical teenager, too. That's what philosophy does to a boy. ] As for right now, I want you. However it pleases you.
[ What a pretty picture he paints. Daemon strokes over his head, watches his hair pool like moonlight, his sapphire eye glinting in firelight. (Did he pick it from the bounty returned by Laenor's lover? Must have. A private laugh, for Daemon.) ]
You're meant to be a protector of the realm, my prince, [ he teases. (And the riverlands took that personally.) Another touch to Aemond's hair, then over the back of his skull, where he rubs gently. ] Why don't you get me hard with that lovely mouth of yours and then sit on my lap like you wanted.
[ He's on his way, but only one of them is a teenager. ]
[ It is almost a foregone conclusion with how well things seem to be patching up with Rhaenyra and Alicent, so he adds while planting kisses around the base of a cock, ]
Once you are Prince Consort, you will become my realm.
[ He curls a loose fist around the base of Daemon and licks messily over the tip, lips soft and tongue warm as he cushions him with a swallow, working over him without hesitation to give him something to fuck at his leisure. A moan vibrates into the growing length of him, from the circle of Aemond's stroking fingers to the hood of a crown, no pause given for their recent activities or the strain it might cause to be coaxed again so soon. ]
[ (Wouldn't that be a plot twist: they walk in on Daemon's wife and Aemond's mother, the unrequited ardor of their youth finally spilling over now as women grown while trying to mend old wounds, and suddenly, their own affair is kicked several rungs down on the scandal ladder.)
Gods—
What's that, if not a declaration of loyalty? One that wants to be, anyway. There's only one path towards Daemon being Prince Consort.
A sigh turns into a gasp as Aemond dives into working him over. Hungry, indeed. Daemon gives himself a long moment of simply adjusting, enjoying it without taking further action, until he sits up on one elbow, body slightly inclined to allow himself leverage to watch and continue to pet over his nephew's head. It's intense, but his body complies, the ancient magic in his blood answering the call from Aemond's.
[ Let Rhaenyra have the crown, let it bow her back and break her peace with endless nights of concern for the realm. Aemond will be there when she cannot, when his half-sister is too stressed and angry from the burden he will still be there beside Daemon.
Let the bitch go mad.
He can't bring himself to care about the woman who never once treated him like family, no sibling of his.
The way he lavishes attention on Daemon speaks of all he wants to remind him off when they have to part in the morning, cheeks hollow as he bobs slowly, tongue running under the ridge of a crown where he teases sensitive skin. He laps at the slit, fist pumping tighter near the tip, chasing every slick bead off that cock with diligent devotion, over and over ...
His hips drive down against the bed, sheets shifting with the way he moves as an extension of the pleasure derived from sucking off his uncle. Restless, hardening quickly with the taste of him all over his palate. Wanton, it could be said, if he was a whore. ]
[ How similar they are. Dismissed, bullied, now defensive and proud; he can see the ways Aemond and Rhaenyra reflect each other (even beyond being mad horny for Daemon, ehhem), despite the rift. If things weren't so bitter, he might tell his nephew about how Rhaenyra cried not only for her mother, but for her father's loss of a son, and how badly she's wanted to have brothers, that it's only politics that's twisted them.
Daemon doesn't want to get stabbed, though. So. Pass on ever bringing it up.
What he wants is more of this. Aemond is so dedicated and enthusiastic, practiced enough to be working in the Street of Silk and earning eternal fame for it. Daemon doesn't manage to choke back a moan when a particular surge of heat cuts through him, and he hisses after, his hand fisting in silver hair. Hard a little too fast, so soon after, but the sharp pleasure-pain is good, too. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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You're not nearly as much of a problem as I was. [ Politely not accusing Aegon of being an even worse problem, though he is— Daemon was never sadistic, just slutty. ] And it may continue to be a chore for you, before you sire children. I went through .. changing moods.
[ Blood magic debt is a hell of a thing. Not all of them are hit with it, he knows, but he expects he and Aemond may be equally ensnared, since they both also feel this pull towards each other. ]
It's better like this. Nothing compares.
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[ Marrying anyone else is ... an uncomfortable prospect. Aemond remains where he is, nosing at a shoulder, feeling safe. ]
I wanted to wed her since I was ten but she was wasted on my brother. It's as simple as that.
[ There isn't a surplus of Targaryen women to go around. ]
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My father told me that I wanted to be betrothed to my aunt Viserra, when I was a child. [ A beautiful, wild girl, who he stared up at adoringly. ] That I wanted to save her from being married off to some boorish nobody in White Harbor. I barely remember any of it, now.
[ He was like, a five year old. Chill, baby Daemon. ]
Helaena has a daughter. Rhaenyra may yet. We mustn't lose faith with the line already, zaldrītsos.
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You would let me wed one of your daughters?
[ He can't think of it as Rhaenyra's, that would only serve to sour the offer. Aemond lifts his head enough to drop kisses in the curve of a shoulder, long hair trailing over and tickling Daemon's bare chest. ]
I hope to at least be married once, by that time.
[ A lovebite works pointedly over the pulse in Daemon's neck. ]
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[ Chances are shot with Baela or Rhaena, and would be even if they weren't recently betrothed anyway thanks to the Great Child Battle Royale of Driftmark, so Aemond would have to tolerate some Rhaenyra cooties, in addition to the absurd wait. Jaehaera is the miles better option, though he thinks this fantasy is rather romantic.
A sigh-laugh, then— ]
Trying to get me in trouble?
[ A hickey. C'mon now. But Daemon doesn't pull him away. ]
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[ Although it would be more a matter of duty than anything, he could respect a child born of his uncle. Possibly love her? That's getting wildly ahead of things, even if it is a sweet offer (Rhaenyra might not see it that way) and he likes the way Daemon poses it while holding him in his arms. It doesn't feel like being fobbed off ... and Daemon would be awfully old by then, Aemond doesn't want to lose any part of him if he can keep them close.
Aemond's laughter is warm as he noses over the mark he's working on, nipping. ]
If you can't get out of a little trouble then I'm not sure I'm so impressed anymore ...
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And sweet, yes. You and I, in a way.
Daemon makes a faux-exasperated noise, and cards his fingers through Aemond's hair at the back of his head. ]
Oh, no, I'm not about to be baited into challenging you with your teeth at my throat.
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They did say I walked in your image, growing up. Maybe you ought to be afraid.
[ The hot-tempered second-son with long hair, fond of the sword and causing tensions small enough not to be disciplined for. It's playfully teased as he smirks into the kisses though, shifting in the bed with all the energy of a nineteen-year-old finding a second-wind as he slings a leg over Daemon's hips and sits up, mussed hair falling over his sapphire eye when he spreads his hands on a half-scarred chest to keep him where he can see. Admire. His own personal throne, kept warm by the bedsheets gathered around his legs.
Aemond looks entirely satisfied, palming his way from navel to throat and back again in unhurried caresses. There are new scrapes and bruises on him from Daemon's nails and the force of his grip, pale blue that will darken by morning, each standing out already on creamy skin.
He tilts his head, a coy murmur through pouting lips just above a purr. ]
You don't want to give me away just yet, I hope.
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[ The only thing Daemon's ever been afraid of is not being loved by specific people; ordinary mortal and psychologically complicated fears like What if my nephew wants to wear my skin and replace me skim off of him as curious things to observe, and little else.
He's made an impression on history already. The image of Daemon Targaryen, because he's burned himself into the very fabric of this keep. That Aemond takes after him is comforting and thrilling at once, and this affair is probably extremely egotistical of them both. That's just fine. Daemon runs his hands up his nephew's thighs, his belly, higher, to rub at the edge of his muscles at his chest. He knows just how much he likes this, now. ]
I can think only of keeping you close.
[ Which is sort of a problem. For right now, though, they can have it; skin to skin and just them. ]
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For now though, with the fire casting shadows over Daemon and his choice of a much younger lover in his nephew, all Aemond wants to do is give the night every reason to stretch on forever. Is this how it will always be? Overburdened with desire and a neverending desperation to be entwined, as close as their blood can be without a wedding? It's exhausting and wonderful. ]
If I am your Little Dragon, does that mean, [ his fingers split around the base of Daemon's cock, featherlight and teasing where they skim to underline his suggestive words, ] that you are my Big Dragon? I have no argument there, uncle.
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He grunts a low sound at that, amused, and he strokes over his nephew's chest some more, gentle in case he's sore. ]
I've given little thought to it, [ is what all men with big dicks say, to the eternal exasperation of everyone else, ] but if it pleases you, then who am I do cling to ill-suited humility?
[ Daemon uses a woman's sword and picked a medium-sized dragon, he doesn't have much in the way of compensation anxiety. One hand slips down to press fingers into the lovely slant of Aemond's iliac crest, teasing where his skin is softest. ]
You'll be taller than me in a year, I think.
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[ He's confident of that, even if he's only half Daemon's age and can't verify it. His hips arch forward toward those fingers that run along the groove of his hip, chasing the sensation, humming his pleasure, and he covers that hand with his own to show him where to dig in his nails and leave pink lines. As unscarred as Aemond mostly is, he reacts to mild pain with enthusiasm (which may be a bit messed up considering his face, but the startling sting anywhere else is very welcome). ]
If I get taller, that simply means there will be more of me to sit in your lap.
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He drags his nails over Aemond's hipbone, gently pinches below his navel, does not quite touch his cock. Mild pain, eh? Daemon smiles to himself. He knew he was onto something with the spanking threat. ]
Right you are.
[ Long-limbed and graceful and draped over him, what a pleasant thought. What a pleasant reality, right now; Daemon rubs and tweaks one nipple, and meanwhile, his cock stirs, slowly warming between them. ]
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[ Grinning loftily, he fails to hide a hiss of pleasure as his nipple is pinched and instead brings that dangerously clever hand up to nip at the fingertips. He brushes his lips over the pads and guides them up to the scar on his face, watching Daemon intently all the while, and if Daemon isn't too squeamish he's allowed to touch the sapphire under Aemond's lashes.
It doesn't hurt, doesn't feel like anything. ]
Showed me your scars, only fair you get a better look at mine.
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I've seen men wear lesser wounds with half the grace, [ he says, carefully touching him, his fingertips soft and sensual. Not wanting to give Aemond any reason to regret it and flinch. ] What an introduction to all of you that was.
[ Daemon, minding his own business, watching everyone else go fucking apeshit. It had been an interesting experience to observe a family crisis instead of being the one to cause it. Nice going carrying the torch on that one, Mini-Me. ]
And here you are now, like Balerion.
[ Throwback, to telling his nephew he remembers the scars on the Black Dread from his trip back to Valyria with poor Aerea. Beautiful still, dangerous, regal. ]
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He brings the hand by his eye to his lips and kisses Daemon's palm, huffing as he blushes. Comparing Aemond, the biggest dragon enthusiast around, to Balerion? That's far too smooth and has him smiling as he fights the twitch of his lips. ]
I don't know how you ever get into trouble when you say all the right things.
[ Leaning down for a kiss, he kneads his way down his uncle's bare chest and fits his fingers into the dips of ribs, tickling his way down a softer waist. ]
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Still. He remembers watching Vhagar take flight, from his vantage point on the shore, and he remembers wondering who had befriended her.
What a little shit. Daemon smiles at him, something of a smirk. Mmm, their tension from the morning seems so long ago, doesn't it. ]
Most have learned to oust me before I start talking.
[ How many times has this motherfucker been exiled, anyway. He sifts through Aemond's hair as he moves, draping it over his shoulder, gathering it back up. ]
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[ Very much young and smitten, he smiles into the kisses and hums his gratitude when his hair is swept aside to let the cooler air of the bedchamber touch his neck. He could sit there kissing all night, talking, but he doesn't want to come off boring or naive, and besides ... he very much wants to wring as many orgasms out of Daemon as he can. When Aemond trails the heat of his mouth down a throat and chest, starting to travel down his uncle's body, the eagerness in every dragging kiss is unmistakeable. ]
You're not going to fall asleep like an old man if I still want to play, are you?
[ His grin flashes, a lilac eye glancing up with brattish confidence. ]
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It'd be my turn, wouldn't it?
[ A quick tug on his hair. Sass. Aemond got to nap in the Dragonpit and pass out early last night and be a diva about it. ]
Tell me what you're hungry for, nephew.
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[ He lays his cheek on a hip, long hair blanketing Daemon's crotch as Aemond gets comfortable like a dragon curled up around coals. Maybe he enjoyed passing out last time, it was all very overwhelming. He prefers not to now, gazing up at his uncle. ]
If I burned enough of the world it would rain ash for months and we could stay here. [ A whimsical teenager, too. That's what philosophy does to a boy. ] As for right now, I want you. However it pleases you.
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You're meant to be a protector of the realm, my prince, [ he teases. (And the riverlands took that personally.) Another touch to Aemond's hair, then over the back of his skull, where he rubs gently. ] Why don't you get me hard with that lovely mouth of yours and then sit on my lap like you wanted.
[ He's on his way, but only one of them is a teenager. ]
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Once you are Prince Consort, you will become my realm.
[ He curls a loose fist around the base of Daemon and licks messily over the tip, lips soft and tongue warm as he cushions him with a swallow, working over him without hesitation to give him something to fuck at his leisure. A moan vibrates into the growing length of him, from the circle of Aemond's stroking fingers to the hood of a crown, no pause given for their recent activities or the strain it might cause to be coaxed again so soon. ]
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Gods—
What's that, if not a declaration of loyalty? One that wants to be, anyway. There's only one path towards Daemon being Prince Consort.
A sigh turns into a gasp as Aemond dives into working him over. Hungry, indeed. Daemon gives himself a long moment of simply adjusting, enjoying it without taking further action, until he sits up on one elbow, body slightly inclined to allow himself leverage to watch and continue to pet over his nephew's head. It's intense, but his body complies, the ancient magic in his blood answering the call from Aemond's.
Or he's just a horny old man. Either one. ]
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Let the bitch go mad.
He can't bring himself to care about the woman who never once treated him like family, no sibling of his.
The way he lavishes attention on Daemon speaks of all he wants to remind him off when they have to part in the morning, cheeks hollow as he bobs slowly, tongue running under the ridge of a crown where he teases sensitive skin. He laps at the slit, fist pumping tighter near the tip, chasing every slick bead off that cock with diligent devotion, over and over ...
His hips drive down against the bed, sheets shifting with the way he moves as an extension of the pleasure derived from sucking off his uncle. Restless, hardening quickly with the taste of him all over his palate. Wanton, it could be said, if he was a whore. ]
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Daemon doesn't want to get stabbed, though. So. Pass on ever bringing it up.
What he wants is more of this. Aemond is so dedicated and enthusiastic, practiced enough to be working in the Street of Silk and earning eternal fame for it. Daemon doesn't manage to choke back a moan when a particular surge of heat cuts through him, and he hisses after, his hand fisting in silver hair. Hard a little too fast, so soon after, but the sharp pleasure-pain is good, too. ]
Your mouth is unbelievable.
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