You changed your mind quickly. I have no desire to take advantage of you and would feel better about it if I know you've had time to weigh your options.
[ Money for nothing: still on the table. It'd probably decrease from five thousand after a few months, adjusted versus allowances for his children, and he'd definitely use it to terrorize Viserys later, but. ]
[ I'm not having sex in your gross post-teen poverty bachelor pad
Don't say that, Daemon. ]
Why don't we revisit that original idea. I'll book a hotel for you in a few days. You can use it as you like, bankrupt me on room service as you see fit, go to the day spa, anything. I'll join you in the evening, and you can decide if you'd like me to stay or leave, or you can even stand me up entirely.
[ Nothing makes Aemond quite as happy as money, since he was (by and large) cut off. As a reward, he sends his uncle a photo of his hand draped on the thin sheets across his lap, legs arranged so a slip of hip and thigh peeks through. ]
[ And indeed, the next day, Daemon sends him the hotel information for later in the week. A luxury resort one downtown that's exclusive enough not to be bursting with new money influencer traffic, but still busy enough for guests to go about their business unbothered. A suite, and Daemon's card on file.
Early check-in fee covered, he's not an asshole.
The plan is for Daemon to arrive at 7:30 on the evening of, and Aemond will let him stay, or he won't. (Or perhaps his nephew won't attend at all.) ]
[ Aemond plans accordingly, spending Daemon's money on every selfcare luxury he has denied himself for months; some waxing appointments (not that there is really any hair down there to rid himself of but he is a perfectionist), manicures, pedicures, an overpriced haircut that makes his hair spill like water over his shoulders ... He buys a new leather jacket to splash out. Not like his rathole of an apartment needs much more than a few throws and nicer bedding, anyway.
When he arrives for an early check-in at the hotel there is something in the way he carries himself (a Targaryen, not a Hightower at moments like these) that makes the staff acquiesce without argument, clearly having come from (Daemon's, lately) money. He wants to go for a swim in the pool but less so risk stinking of chlorine so instead he spends more of his uncle's money in the spa, getting a massage and a facial until he's ready and waiting in the bar at 7pm, nursing his second rum and coke (he's twenty-one, he must be forgiven) in all black, forcing other patrons to stay away where he folds his long legs on his stool and commands the middle of the seating. ]
So you needn't strain your eyes, I'm at the bar when you get here.
[ Daemon has read receipts turned off, but surely he's keeping an eye on things, given the precarious potential of the evening. Noted, in any event.
This is not the moment for fashionably late, he thinks, and so he doesn't mind showing up a little early. Undeterred by the untouchable aura his nephew is radiating, he sidles up next to him. Not bothering to hide his admiring look, even though it's less lurid than the one he'd sized him up with back in the library. They're in public. ]
Fancy running into you, here.
[ Shut up, Daemon. The bartender is quick to flit by, and Daemon shrugs his coat off (long, wool, expensive; he looks good, having done Aemond the courtesy of leaving work early to invest time in grooming and styling) and lets the man describe whiskey choices, showing off a few bottles from their boxes. He opts for an fifteen year old American one from an ornate angle wing bottle, amused by it. Herbs, burnt sugar, smoking wood, dark chocolate— fancy petrol, really.
He takes it neat, and sits once they're left alone, fingers around the top of the rounded tasting glass (nice catch by the bartender to quickly fish out the traditional one instead of using the standard rocks tumbler), and gives his nephew a look before raising it. ]
[ He's not going to play nice tonight, not going to be the sweet Daddy keening boy who simpered and sulked for attention. Tilting his head in a Hello, he watches the fuss of the whiskey come to pass and makes sure to cover the top of it before Daemon can take a sip, shoving his index inside to swirl around the glass before bringing that dripping finger to his lips. It tastes horrible but he anticipated that and still sucks the digit clean, all in one fell swoop as if it's perfectly normal to be so demanding, so rude. ]
Mmm.
[ Interested, as an aside, to see whether Daemon wastes the expensive drink now, Aemond holds his gaze as he wipes his finger off on the bar. Leaves an unforgiving smear of spit and spirits for the poor bastard of a bartender to clean up later. ]
[ The only person Aemond is embarrassing with antics like these is himself. Daemon, who once puked all over the marble foyer of his family's estate and laid there while Viserys screamed at him in full view of the entire household staff, is rather immune. He watches Aemond suck the bitter fluid off his finger with the same appreciation as if he were doing it on one of his paid videos. ]
Mmhm.
[ It is, isn't it. A smile tugs at one corner of Daemon's mouth before he lifts the glass to it, full of cooties and all, and takes a slow sip. It tastes good, actually, and the burn is invigorating. ]
Would you like another— what are you drinking, Shirley Temples?
[ Beautiful people don't get embarrassed, he has decided, as well as being patient enough to weather anything Daemon tosses his way. ]
I'll have a Kraken Storm, thank you.
[ Shirley Temples his ass, you ass. The spiced rum with lime will suit the sharper edge he prefers to keep around Daemon, taking in the sight of him with a flicker of lashes. That is a nice coat but it looks much better off, yes. ]
The bed's a mess, I already tested it out.
[ He napped, but it doesn't need to sound so innocent. Such fluffy pillows. ]
[ A raised finger, the bartender zooms in, prepares the drink, zooms out again. Daemon observes, politely non-judgmental, pretending that's not also a kids drink. Aemond's the right age for it. ]
Making ready for someone?
[ Not necessarily him. Not going to assume, and he'll let Aemond string him along, get his kicks in about it, even though Daemon wants to take him over his knees and turn him cherry red. A woman walks by them, close enough to the no-fly-zone vibe to be deliberate, long caramel done in waves, giving them a significant look. Collar on, a bold advertisement. (still allergic to sol aus there's something kinky and weird in this society)
Daemon's gaze shifts significantly back to Aemond after noting the intrusion. Attention on him alone. ]
[ Psh, just because Daemon doesn't know any cool drinks ... ]
There was someone, but I'm not convinced he wanted it badly enough.
[ That butter-bleach blonde had better keep walking as Aemond's eye slides her way, watching her leave and waiting for her to turn around so his flat stare can fend her off. Let her collared kind fish in other waters, nasty little pet-in-waiting. There's a difference between Aemond's choice of vocation and making it an advertised personality trait like a fucking lunatic. ]
[ What a cute little look. Hissing around his territory even as he complains. ]
How fortunate for me you may have an aperture in your schedule, in that case.
[ Another sip of his whiskey. Lazy-hitting, without the added sugar, it seeps through him like fire and lingers. He wonders if he'll be able to convince Aemond to drink the last of it just to see his nose wrinkle. ]
You look more like yourself.
[ Shined up and spoiled like he should be, not tense and resentful sitting at their family's awkward dinner table. ]
You should see me look entirely like myself, uncle, now that you are bothering to look at all.
[ Vicious and unforgiving, even if he never expected Daemon to pay him attention at all. Certainly not when he originally wanted it as a preteen pustule. He's allowed to be spicy all the same, making up for lost time with a flick of his hair which does absolutely nothing since it slides right back over his leathered shoulder when he turns to look at the room then again to Daemon, the warm lighting of the bar playing off his jaw and throat. ]
To what degree do you want to take care of me? I ask because I want to know what kind of a price to put on seeing other men, if you can't give me what I need.
[ That's a very 'how dare you not want to fuck me when I was a literal child' accusation, which is fairly sickening— or would be, if Daemon didn't totally disregard the potential disturbing elements and instead read it as obsessive, which he likes very much.
It riles Daemon's own sense of ownership to hear him make his next threat, though, and he lifts his chin to look at him, assessing. Hm. He could tell Aemond that he doesn't really care (and he might not, he has mistresses, he sees men sometimes, Rhaenyra has her own paramours; they're both more even-keeled, this way), but he sort of does. Beyond that, he thinks Aemond wants him to care, and won't like the idea of sexual fidelity being dismissed. ]
You should want nothing else, [ he says. ] Carry on your trifles for pennies if it amuses you, but only that. I want to fuck you so you can think of no one else, and never feel a pang of desire for something you can't have.
[ It may end up that Aemond is like him— one taste of blood, and all else becomes dull and lifeless. Daemon watches him over the rim of his glass, another pull, leaving his mouth stinging. He suspects so. ]
[ If Daemon wanted someone who was harmless and never pushed any buttons to try and make him mad, he should have kept up his charade with Silverwings. This way, by acknowledging him, he gets a slightly meaner lover but Aemond doesn't have to pretend to be perfect.
He raises a brow, taking a long sip of his drink and licking his lower lip to chase the tang of lime afterward. Sliding off the stool, he stands closer to Daemon (nearly the same height) and inclines his body toward him as he softens his voice. ]
[ Daemon leans one elbow on the bar, insouciant and predatory at once, body language inclined towards Aemond. There's very little space between them, but he still raises his glass to finish the liquor in it, deciding he'd rather drink it all himself; his nephew won't appreciate it.
Perhaps not yet, anyway.
Clink. Sets it back down. ]
I like knowing that you always came anyway, even if you didn't show it, [ he says in High Valyrian. Does he understand all of that? Has he heard each of those words spoken aloud by someone fluent before? Does he get much practice in of their near-lost language? ]
[ His eye narrows with his smile, slouching in with a mirrored pose so he can smell the whiskey on Daemon's breath. Now Aemond's the one being drawn up on his answers, his worth. ]
Not all the time, [ his smile deepens at the corners, a playful pout as he reminds Daemon he was still open to other requests from strangers, injecting some flattery since his uncle is being so polite, ] only for you.
[ Hearing that in return — not just the affirmation, but the language — makes Daemon smile. A real one that threatens genuine warmth out of his expression, because he is so genuine about his devotion to their people.
He reaches out and touches Aemond's chin again like he had in the library, but this time there's no sizing up, no teasing. Heat and fondness, intent. ]
Beautiful. [ He's called him that before, and he's meant it; this time it's more because he means all of him. ] Let me take you upstairs. I want to see it, and not on a mirror.
[ He nods, chin slipping free of the touch that burns (for all his tantrums and glorified masturbating he hasn't had a physical lover in long enough for the reality of one to have him bristling for it, embarrassing really). He leans back into him briefly on the pretence of gathering up his own drink, letting Daemon feel the press of his body and cool brush of his hair, draining the last of the kraken; he licks his lips and looks sidelong at him. ]
Come remind me there are no walls between us this time then, uncle.
[ The way he looks over a shoulder as he steps away is full of flirtatious invitation. ]
[ Daemon puts a hand on his nephew's side when he finishes his cocktail, lets it ghost along him as he moves away, even the barely-there touch searingly evident as hungry for him. This teasing hasn't been nearly enough.
The bartender has the room number for billing already, and so he slips off the stool without further interaction and follows after Aemond, shrugging his coat over his shoulders instead of pulling it all the way back on. A brief touch to the small of his back at the elevators— Daemon has a keycard, of course, and he doesn't see any reason to continue to play coy and pretend to let Aemond lead him there. He knows where they're going.
Inside the elevator, he leans against the handrail at the side wall and watches him, the mirrored surfaces creating a kaleidoscope of white hair and black garments. Ding, ding, floors zoom past, over muffled classical music. ]
[ Each slight touch is leaned into until they separate in the elevator. Aemond is well aware of being watched and shrugs off his coat, sweeping his hair free of his neck to shake it out, fingertips hooked in leather that drags carelessly on the ground. ]
You are staring.
[ It's followed with a look that says some might find that rude but holds no ire. With his free hand he digs his phone out of a back pocket and sets it to Do Not Disturb, then slips off his eyepatch and turns his back to the mirrored wall, ankles crossed as he takes his turn to stare at Daemon. ]
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What's the point of that?
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You changed your mind quickly. I have no desire to take advantage of you and would feel better about it if I know you've had time to weigh your options.
[ Money for nothing: still on the table. It'd probably decrease from five thousand after a few months, adjusted versus allowances for his children, and he'd definitely use it to terrorize Viserys later, but. ]
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I know my mind enough to change it as I please, I'm not a child.
Fine, but let me know when you're coming round. I do have a life to get on with.
[ He's going to force himself to be out of the house as often as possible. ]
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Don't say that, Daemon. ]
Why don't we revisit that original idea. I'll book a hotel for you in a few days. You can use it as you like, bankrupt me on room service as you see fit, go to the day spa, anything. I'll join you in the evening, and you can decide if you'd like me to stay or leave, or you can even stand me up entirely.
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Since you're offering, uncle. Alright.
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I'll send you the details tomorrow.
[ And the money, now. He'll receive payment shortly. ]
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Sweet dreams, UncleDaddy.
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[ And indeed, the next day, Daemon sends him the hotel information for later in the week. A luxury resort one downtown that's exclusive enough not to be bursting with new money influencer traffic, but still busy enough for guests to go about their business unbothered. A suite, and Daemon's card on file.
Early check-in fee covered, he's not an asshole.
The plan is for Daemon to arrive at 7:30 on the evening of, and Aemond will let him stay, or he won't. (Or perhaps his nephew won't attend at all.) ]
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When he arrives for an early check-in at the hotel there is something in the way he carries himself (a Targaryen, not a Hightower at moments like these) that makes the staff acquiesce without argument, clearly having come from (Daemon's, lately) money. He wants to go for a swim in the pool but less so risk stinking of chlorine so instead he spends more of his uncle's money in the spa, getting a massage and a facial until he's ready and waiting in the bar at 7pm, nursing his second rum and coke (he's twenty-one, he must be forgiven) in all black, forcing other patrons to stay away where he folds his long legs on his stool and commands the middle of the seating. ]
So you needn't strain your eyes, I'm at the bar when you get here.
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This is not the moment for fashionably late, he thinks, and so he doesn't mind showing up a little early. Undeterred by the untouchable aura his nephew is radiating, he sidles up next to him. Not bothering to hide his admiring look, even though it's less lurid than the one he'd sized him up with back in the library. They're in public. ]
Fancy running into you, here.
[ Shut up, Daemon. The bartender is quick to flit by, and Daemon shrugs his coat off (long, wool, expensive; he looks good, having done Aemond the courtesy of leaving work early to invest time in grooming and styling) and lets the man describe whiskey choices, showing off a few bottles from their boxes. He opts for an fifteen year old American one from an ornate angle wing bottle, amused by it. Herbs, burnt sugar, smoking wood, dark chocolate— fancy petrol, really.
He takes it neat, and sits once they're left alone, fingers around the top of the rounded tasting glass (nice catch by the bartender to quickly fish out the traditional one instead of using the standard rocks tumbler), and gives his nephew a look before raising it. ]
To your health and success.
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Mmm.
[ Interested, as an aside, to see whether Daemon wastes the expensive drink now, Aemond holds his gaze as he wipes his finger off on the bar. Leaves an unforgiving smear of spit and spirits for the poor bastard of a bartender to clean up later. ]
Sorry, habit of a filthy brat.
[ Payback. ]
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Mmhm.
[ It is, isn't it. A smile tugs at one corner of Daemon's mouth before he lifts the glass to it, full of cooties and all, and takes a slow sip. It tastes good, actually, and the burn is invigorating. ]
Would you like another— what are you drinking, Shirley Temples?
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I'll have a Kraken Storm, thank you.
[ Shirley Temples his ass, you ass. The spiced rum with lime will suit the sharper edge he prefers to keep around Daemon, taking in the sight of him with a flicker of lashes. That is a nice coat but it looks much better off, yes. ]
The bed's a mess, I already tested it out.
[ He napped, but it doesn't need to sound so innocent. Such fluffy pillows. ]
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Making ready for someone?
[ Not necessarily him. Not going to assume, and he'll let Aemond string him along, get his kicks in about it, even though Daemon wants to take him over his knees and turn him cherry red. A woman walks by them, close enough to the no-fly-zone vibe to be deliberate, long caramel done in waves, giving them a significant look. Collar on, a bold advertisement. (still allergic to sol aus there's something kinky and weird in this society)
Daemon's gaze shifts significantly back to Aemond after noting the intrusion. Attention on him alone. ]
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There was someone, but I'm not convinced he wanted it badly enough.
[ That butter-bleach blonde had better keep walking as Aemond's eye slides her way, watching her leave and waiting for her to turn around so his flat stare can fend her off. Let her collared kind fish in other waters, nasty little pet-in-waiting. There's a difference between Aemond's choice of vocation and making it an advertised personality trait like a fucking lunatic. ]
He isn't nearly as forward as I like.
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How fortunate for me you may have an aperture in your schedule, in that case.
[ Another sip of his whiskey. Lazy-hitting, without the added sugar, it seeps through him like fire and lingers. He wonders if he'll be able to convince Aemond to drink the last of it just to see his nose wrinkle. ]
You look more like yourself.
[ Shined up and spoiled like he should be, not tense and resentful sitting at their family's awkward dinner table. ]
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[ Vicious and unforgiving, even if he never expected Daemon to pay him attention at all. Certainly not when he originally wanted it as a preteen pustule. He's allowed to be spicy all the same, making up for lost time with a flick of his hair which does absolutely nothing since it slides right back over his leathered shoulder when he turns to look at the room then again to Daemon, the warm lighting of the bar playing off his jaw and throat. ]
To what degree do you want to take care of me? I ask because I want to know what kind of a price to put on seeing other men, if you can't give me what I need.
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It riles Daemon's own sense of ownership to hear him make his next threat, though, and he lifts his chin to look at him, assessing. Hm. He could tell Aemond that he doesn't really care (and he might not, he has mistresses, he sees men sometimes, Rhaenyra has her own paramours; they're both more even-keeled, this way), but he sort of does. Beyond that, he thinks Aemond wants him to care, and won't like the idea of sexual fidelity being dismissed. ]
You should want nothing else, [ he says. ] Carry on your trifles for pennies if it amuses you, but only that. I want to fuck you so you can think of no one else, and never feel a pang of desire for something you can't have.
[ It may end up that Aemond is like him— one taste of blood, and all else becomes dull and lifeless. Daemon watches him over the rim of his glass, another pull, leaving his mouth stinging. He suspects so. ]
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He raises a brow, taking a long sip of his drink and licking his lower lip to chase the tang of lime afterward. Sliding off the stool, he stands closer to Daemon (nearly the same height) and inclines his body toward him as he softens his voice. ]
What did you like best about my videos?
[ Everything is a test.]
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Perhaps not yet, anyway.
Clink. Sets it back down. ]
I like knowing that you always came anyway, even if you didn't show it, [ he says in High Valyrian. Does he understand all of that? Has he heard each of those words spoken aloud by someone fluent before? Does he get much practice in of their near-lost language? ]
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Not all the time, [ his smile deepens at the corners, a playful pout as he reminds Daemon he was still open to other requests from strangers, injecting some flattery since his uncle is being so polite, ] only for you.
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He reaches out and touches Aemond's chin again like he had in the library, but this time there's no sizing up, no teasing. Heat and fondness, intent. ]
Beautiful. [ He's called him that before, and he's meant it; this time it's more because he means all of him. ] Let me take you upstairs. I want to see it, and not on a mirror.
[ ('Video' would be a loanword; bleh.) ]
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Come remind me there are no walls between us this time then, uncle.
[ The way he looks over a shoulder as he steps away is full of flirtatious invitation. ]
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The bartender has the room number for billing already, and so he slips off the stool without further interaction and follows after Aemond, shrugging his coat over his shoulders instead of pulling it all the way back on. A brief touch to the small of his back at the elevators— Daemon has a keycard, of course, and he doesn't see any reason to continue to play coy and pretend to let Aemond lead him there. He knows where they're going.
Inside the elevator, he leans against the handrail at the side wall and watches him, the mirrored surfaces creating a kaleidoscope of white hair and black garments. Ding, ding, floors zoom past, over muffled classical music. ]
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You are staring.
[ It's followed with a look that says some might find that rude but holds no ire. With his free hand he digs his phone out of a back pocket and sets it to Do Not Disturb, then slips off his eyepatch and turns his back to the mirrored wall, ankles crossed as he takes his turn to stare at Daemon. ]
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🎄
me in my email notifs: ??? TREE-MON??? - oh
cwimmas!!!
mERRY CHRYSLER
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