[ 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. ]
[ They're past rudeness with each other. Nothing about this has been polite or healthy, and yet it's clear they both still want it, and badly. If there was no security camera in here — what they're doing isn't illegal, if somewhat unethical, but it's still no one's business — he'd shove Aemond up against the wall and claim his mouth already.
But: patience.
Finally, the correct floor, and the walk to the room. He unlocks the door and holds it open for his nephew, lets it shut solidly behind them. In the shadowed entryway he grabs hooks a hand into his elbow, and tugs him close. ]
[ T'ch clucks his tongue, as if putting up with such unreasonable rudeness is such a chore. Inside their room he lets his gait be swung around and slides a hand up Daemon's waist, pulling him in as he drops his own coat to the floor. He returns the same not-kiss from the library, looking at him under his lashes as if his pulse isn't pounding in his temples from geared-up anticipation, other hand seeking out the shape of Daemon's chest in a bold caress up that shirt. Daemon feels far more real and better than he imagined, even through his clothes.
Words die, useless, and he leans in to kiss him hard with a muffled mmph, not bothering to hide his eagerness. ]
Daemon presses into that kiss, and make a low sound of his own as he forces it deeper, pushing Aemond's mouth open to lick inside and taste him. The hand at his elbow moves to hold him, caging him in around his back, the other raising to the side of his neck. Everything is warm spit and the lingering bite of liquor, delicious, heat cranking up every second. It's always so much more when it's another Targaryen, even just kissing— Daemon is an addict, a die-hard devotee, and he's been so fucking lonely for kinship with the way he and Rhaenyra have been strained, lately.
But he's not thinking of her at all. Only Aemond, and kissing him breathless and bruised. ]
[ Daemon tastes like expensive whiskey and two weeks of deprivation, the smile that slides onto Aemond's lips mischievous with promise as he drinks him down in long licks, breathing him for as long as he can without losing the overwhelmingly satisfying press of that mouth. He tugs him into the room by his shirt, finding a hand to loop his fingers in as he starts to lead him to the bedroom like that too. Come with me, comecomecome. He grins as the kiss parts for a breath, offering up more pecks that drift a little too far backwards with each step, teasing. Come with me and I will kiss you all you need. The playful, gleeful pride that comes with being wanted is genuine and he never strays so far that Daemon can't graze his mouth with his own. ]
This way, handsome.
[ If he starts flicking open buttons on Daemon's shirt, he isn't sorry or subtle about it and wants to feel skin. ]
[ Aemond's excitement is gratifying and infectious, and Daemon follows after him like a very fond predator, his coat falling off his shoulders as he moves and continues to steal kisses, handsy all the while. His black dress shirt is silk-soft and crisp and easy to unbutton to get to the undershirt, and Daemon does him the favor of removing his own tie (no fiddly tie bars or cuff links tonight), letting it land wherever it falls. ]
You've done all this to drive me mad, haven't you, [ he says with hands in Aemond's silky hair before he pulls at the lower hem of his shirt to encourage it up and off. ] All done up with my money.
[ Who the hell wears undershirts anymore? The thought flares with annoyance as he gets that shirt open and tugs it free, pulling out the vest beneath to stuff his cool palm along Daemon's abdomen, skimming it over his warm skin as hands comb through Aemond's hair. ]
Does that not mean I belong all the more to the one who paid to keep me?
[ More binding than feelings, which are flighty and wounded things outside of passion, Daemon has Aemond on tap whenever he wants him. Entirely given to lean into the sentiment (he's been enjoying that five grand) Aemond helps; with a slinky wriggle, he rolls his entire shirt up and off his head to toss it behind Daemon, decidedly not wearing an undershirt beneath as lean muscle sways back into his uncle's hands and Aemond seeks out another filthy-fond kiss.
He yanks on the front of that belt, wanting it gone next. ]
[ Someone who dresses properly, that's who wears undershirts. It's a thin black tank top and it makes it less obvious that one of his nipples is mostly gone, still bearing scars (? shrapnel grenade ? IED ? in something he volunteered in that was half ethically good and half global war economy bad ?). Aemond's lack of one doesn't bother him at all, though, and he pets all over him, proprietary and possessive, taking stock of what is, apparently, his recent purchase of a human being.
His hips nudge forward, yanked so. He chuckles and lets his nephew peel it away as he strokes down to undo Aemond's trousers in turn. ]
Do you want to be kept, nephew?
[ He shoves the top of Aemond's jeans/slacks/whatevers down enough to delve his hands in down the small his back to grab his rear and knead the curves of muscle. ]
[ Breaths feel punched out on every exhale as he arches into those touches, busy unbuckling that belt. He pauses to inhale sharply when his ass is grabbed and gets his own back by spreading long fingers all over the front of Daemon's overpriced trousers, 'accidentally' stroking his cock before Aemond bothers unzipping him and slipping that hand inside. Nose-to-nose he kisses him lightly at the same moment he wraps Daemon in a fist and gives him a gentle, taunting squeeze. ]
Depends on what kind of deposits you will be making.
[ If he can start leading them anew to the bed he does, wanting to absolutely ruin Daemon for sex with anyone else. If he can kick off his own ankle boots, socks, and shimmy out of his remaining clothes, Aemond makes a concentrated attempt without wanting to get too far from Daemon. ]
[ Daemon is sizable even before he's hard, and he has no problem letting Aemond feel that, making a near-growling sound into a kiss before they're each scrambling off the rest of their clothes. He allows them to get to the bed, and he grabs at Aemond as they descend, keeping him within the cage of one arm as they land on it. ]
Into your bank account, [ he says as he looms over him, shuffling him up onto the bed so they've both got room, ] into that tight hole you've been selling on the internet.
[ God, he looked so sweet getting fucked— by his own fingers, by a toy, by Laenor. Daemon wants to bury himself deep inside and make sure he'll always ache for him no matter what else he's doing. He shoves his nephew down and leans back on his knees to get a look at him splayed out beneath him, gaze wild. ]
[ Either works for him. He laughs as he's pushed down, spreading his legs to give Daemon a show of how hard he is with a pink cock bobbing toward his own belly, white hair fanning out beneath him where he gazes back up. He uses one of his video tricks and twirls a lock of it near his nipple, arching up into the light flick across that stiff bud with a throaty Ahhh and wriggling his restless hips. ]
Lube's on the bedside table. [ His other hand slides down past his cock and rubs two fingertips against his hole, his moan very real. ] I would have let you fuck me in that library.
[ Heedless and desperate, it would have been filthy and so, so good. ]
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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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[ They're past rudeness with each other. Nothing about this has been polite or healthy, and yet it's clear they both still want it, and badly. If there was no security camera in here — what they're doing isn't illegal, if somewhat unethical, but it's still no one's business — he'd shove Aemond up against the wall and claim his mouth already.
But: patience.
Finally, the correct floor, and the walk to the room. He unlocks the door and holds it open for his nephew, lets it shut solidly behind them. In the shadowed entryway he grabs hooks a hand into his elbow, and tugs him close. ]
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Words die, useless, and he leans in to kiss him hard with a muffled mmph, not bothering to hide his eagerness. ]
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Daemon presses into that kiss, and make a low sound of his own as he forces it deeper, pushing Aemond's mouth open to lick inside and taste him. The hand at his elbow moves to hold him, caging him in around his back, the other raising to the side of his neck. Everything is warm spit and the lingering bite of liquor, delicious, heat cranking up every second. It's always so much more when it's another Targaryen, even just kissing— Daemon is an addict, a die-hard devotee, and he's been so fucking lonely for kinship with the way he and Rhaenyra have been strained, lately.
But he's not thinking of her at all. Only Aemond, and kissing him breathless and bruised. ]
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This way, handsome.
[ If he starts flicking open buttons on Daemon's shirt, he isn't sorry or subtle about it and wants to feel skin. ]
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You've done all this to drive me mad, haven't you, [ he says with hands in Aemond's silky hair before he pulls at the lower hem of his shirt to encourage it up and off. ] All done up with my money.
[ Well, it's worked. ]
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Does that not mean I belong all the more to the one who paid to keep me?
[ More binding than feelings, which are flighty and wounded things outside of passion, Daemon has Aemond on tap whenever he wants him. Entirely given to lean into the sentiment (he's been enjoying that five grand) Aemond helps; with a slinky wriggle, he rolls his entire shirt up and off his head to toss it behind Daemon, decidedly not wearing an undershirt beneath as lean muscle sways back into his uncle's hands and Aemond seeks out another filthy-fond kiss.
He yanks on the front of that belt, wanting it gone next. ]
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His hips nudge forward, yanked so. He chuckles and lets his nephew peel it away as he strokes down to undo Aemond's trousers in turn. ]
Do you want to be kept, nephew?
[ He shoves the top of Aemond's jeans/slacks/whatevers down enough to delve his hands in down the small his back to grab his rear and knead the curves of muscle. ]
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Depends on what kind of deposits you will be making.
[ If he can start leading them anew to the bed he does, wanting to absolutely ruin Daemon for sex with anyone else. If he can kick off his own ankle boots, socks, and shimmy out of his remaining clothes, Aemond makes a concentrated attempt without wanting to get too far from Daemon. ]
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Into your bank account, [ he says as he looms over him, shuffling him up onto the bed so they've both got room, ] into that tight hole you've been selling on the internet.
[ God, he looked so sweet getting fucked— by his own fingers, by a toy, by Laenor. Daemon wants to bury himself deep inside and make sure he'll always ache for him no matter what else he's doing. He shoves his nephew down and leans back on his knees to get a look at him splayed out beneath him, gaze wild. ]
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[ Either works for him. He laughs as he's pushed down, spreading his legs to give Daemon a show of how hard he is with a pink cock bobbing toward his own belly, white hair fanning out beneath him where he gazes back up. He uses one of his video tricks and twirls a lock of it near his nipple, arching up into the light flick across that stiff bud with a throaty Ahhh and wriggling his restless hips. ]
Lube's on the bedside table. [ His other hand slides down past his cock and rubs two fingertips against his hole, his moan very real. ] I would have let you fuck me in that library.
[ Heedless and desperate, it would have been filthy and so, so good. ]
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🎄
me in my email notifs: ??? TREE-MON??? - oh
cwimmas!!!
mERRY CHRYSLER
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🥂
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