dohaeras | open post/cont. threads etc

[ Tunic, shirt, shrugged off and cast aside, he pulls a heavy ring away with his teeth (old whorehouse trick to do it so gracefully, probably going unappreciated by present company, alas). Boots while he lets Aemond pull him out of his trousers, sparing a low sigh for it, fully hard by now and flushed rosy with need. ]

Did you climax while you waited?

[ All else pulled away, and then they're both completely bare, Daemon with his blade-slashes and dots arrows, and Aemond with the worst scar of all. He grabs his nephew and hoists him up while he rolls down and onto his side, manhandling him along in a move that's much more like wrestling than it is tossing around a maiden. Still, showing off. Not a single twinge in his spine. With Aemond over him, Daemon slaps one palm onto the meat of his ass, gripping it after, kneading, pulling it open lewdly so he can press fingers into the cleft and feel how he's made himself ready. ]

No, I didn't.

[ And it irks him that he didn't, frustrated and flushed as they wrassle their way around into a position all too familiar. Not just from previous trysts but on dragonback, the flex of long-trained thighs keeping him astride Daemon easily even when he jolts with the slap, eyes wide then sloe-lashed as Aemond rolls his hips back into every claiming grasp.

His fingers curl on Daemon's chest to scrape red lines of their own once his uncle starts teasing him, the blunt promise of pressure knocking a gasp (or three, a whine perhaps too, Aemond doesn't want to hear himself in the moment) free as he adjusts his hips to take those fingers. If only they would move. Huffing with impatience, he rocks back himself. Twenty years have not taught him to wait, not yet. ]

Uncle.

Edited 2022-10-23 23:36 (UTC)

Nephew.

[ One eyebrow goes up. That's some impressive restraint for a twenty year old. Or was it just pride, unwilling to be that wanton and out of control? Daemon gives him another firm slap, just enough for it to smart but not hurt— if Aemond really wants his hair pulled, he can ask for it, this time.

Daemon holds him captive with a hand on his cock and the other on his behind, fingertips pressing in, rubbing over his hole and feeling the heat and oil, his own length twitching in eager sympathy, making him grunt. ]

Tell me how badly you want it.

[ Then—

A breathless laugh. ]

Ah, fuck it.

[ Daemon tugs him closer, hitching one of his own knees up to help position him, hand between them to nestle the head of his cock to Aemond's opening. Begging later, he's out of that word with no Valyrian translation. ]

[ He reaches his limit when commanded again, dizzy with lust and a raw, shivering need that has him digging his nails into Daemon's chest. While the pressure of a hand around his cock is delicious and could be easily given into, his pride and temper wins out not for the first time in his life as he shoves his uncle down, wild silver-blonde hair framing his flushed face and spilling over his shoulders, to declare, ]

I am the blood of the dragon, and I do not beg.

[ For there is no word in Valyrian to match it, so it is bitten out in common.

And then he sinks his weight onto his uncle's cock, a cry bitten back as Aemond works the hips of a dragonrider down with the right sway, the rolling rut filling him with hard heat that has his head tipping back on Valyrian curses. For all his preparation he's still tight and has to live through the initial sting (Daemon is hardly inconsequential here, as in anything), though that is no unpleasant task. ]

[ As noted. Beautiful.

Daemon smiles, vicious, yet still manages to have a careful hand when he grabs Aemond's hip instead of instinctively tightening his grip somewhere more tender. Experienced enough to be considerate with lovers he respects no matter how frenzied it becomes, and as demanding as Aemond is, he's still young.

Fuck. Nothing reminds Daemon of that fact more than how tightly his body clutches his cock. He goes rigid with tension to keep himself from snapping his hips up and shoving himself in deeper, and it's a feat of strength worthy of Balerion to simply sit there for a moment and let the boy acclimate. After a moment, however, restlessness overtakes him, and Daemon lets out a controlled breath, dragging hands and nails alike from his nephew's hipbones to knees and up again, one tucking itself against the curve of his arse to help push-and-pull, the other finding his straining prick again.

But you are begging. He doesn't say it. He doesn't have to.

A firm stroke. How many times can he make him finish still seated on his cock like this? Mmn. ]

[ No one has ever expected anything of Aemond. No one ever does of second-sons, spares. That's definitely one of the reasons he sought to excel in everything, to be a better student of anything he could get his hands on: history, philosophy, swordsmanship, dragonriding, and he does. He can out-talk or out-ride his brother with confidence, mild comfort though that has been when no one especially cares anyway and treats him like a whetting stone for the firstborn. But this, between he and Daemon, involves impressing no one else. It should mean he can relax. It should mean he didn't spend the last handful of months ordering boy after boy to his bedchamber, sometimes two a night when one would beg off, but he absolutely did because he has to be the best at this too. The best he can be, at least, with Rhaenyra's ghost lurking in every damnable corner. He has to know he hasn't been unprepared.

He has changed since their last fraternisation; the way he controls the rolling pace of his hips even as he shivers in pleasure has him smiling crookedly down at Daemon, hands sliding up to hold onto his uncle's shoulders like he might steer this dragon too. When he settles into a steady rhythm it's at the perfect angle to feel Daemon fucking him deep and draws loud moans free that echo in the stone room, caught between driving down with the guiding hand at his backside and into the fist around his cock that quickly grows sticky with precome. Aemond isn't quiet or restrained, bold cries of yes, uncle, fuck, oh gods, all filling their corner of the Dragonpit.

Just like when his eye was put out and Vhagar roared to hear his screams, her growls fill the corridor between the rider's room and her den as she hears him now, old and smart enough to be concerned. Shivering, Aemond's attention is all on Daemon as he clamps down on him, right to the root of his cock.

He feels far, far less like a fumbling fool this time, grown and practiced ... all for Daemon, yes. That goes unsaid. ]

[ Being a second son is an affliction Daemon is intimately familiar with. He knows, when his nephew looks at him with passion on a crazed edge, why he has pushed himself there. They are the blood of the dragon and they are asked to confine it. Of course they're all going mad.

His breath catches. Aemond, again managing to surprise him— perhaps it will be so at every meeting, the young prince on an endless scramble. How many footholds will he find on that climb that Daemon has hooked into once before? How many new ones will he make? Daemon stokes him, pulls him down, hard, harder, digs his heels in and bucks up into his ruts, never inclined to stillness even like this. Drunk on the feel of it and the sound of his cries, his own breath coming rougher, each exhale sounding more like a growl than the next.

He wants to feel him seize around his cock, he wants to feel him spill over his hand,between their bodies, and—

Daemon lurches forward, sitting up, hauling Aemond with him, uncharacteristically careless with how his thighs might burn from the sudden gymnastics. Both hands cage the younger prince's face, with Daemon's thumbs over his mouth, silencing him. His breathing is ragged, but much quieter now.

His cock throbs. Godsdamnit.

Vhagar, her dark music, is a familiar thing. He's had to be on edge before, tiptoeing as a child, making his sweet amends as a man. (Daemon is so attuned to these beings. Someday soon, when he must keep moving or else pain like he's never felt will cripple him and it will be permanent, his wife will dismiss him over the fairy story of rogue dragons, and he will slip out, keep moving, and seduce Vermithor as deftly as he did her, as he did Aemond.) ]

Breathe with me.

[ His arms drape around Daemon to hold on as his uncle suddenly sits up and Aemond tenses briefly with hands on his face, panting hard as his breath hitches —

It's alright, he fine.

Shuddering, he nods and tips his head to free himself of having his face touched, instead leaning in to steal a kiss that helps muffle his moan, hips working to keep fucking himself to the same spine-meltingly good pace. Vhagar quietens with Aemond, rumbles dying, and he grips at Daemon's hair as a particularly good grind gets him whimpering under his breath for moremoremore, everything about the way he's filled giving him the hard heat he craves. Practice doesn't make for a profession and Aemond is no whore, all his rehearsals with faceless, unimportant boys vanishing from memory with Daemon inside him. How frustrating. How predictable. All he can do is movemovemove, never wanting to be without him.

His whisper doesn't leave the room, violet gaze sidelong on his uncle's flushed face as he curls around him possessively with arms and thighs. Fuck, he wishes he had wings and a tail to do the same. ]

You are all I want.

[ If Daemon were in the same solar system as a normal person, he might whisper a quick Sorry about grabbing his face, but as it is, he simply allows Aemond to shrug him off and then presses in a breathless, messy kiss. The jackknifed angle doesn't get him any deeper but it's done something funny to his blood pressure, so occupied it is with the heat of his cock.

She loves you, he thinks to say, dizzy, about the ancient dragon god that Aemond now commands. But all that comes out is hitched, bitten-off gasps as they jerk and buck against each other. He doesn't lay back down but keeps them like this, folded up so close. One arm around Aemond's back to hold him, he needs a moment to negotiate the best mechanic for his hand between them again. It's a looser hold this time, giving him something to fuck into, the sounds of their harsh breaths becoming the sound of some imaginary dragon rumbling its fire chambers, coiled here in the close comfort of the pit.

Daemon's hair is a mess. Sweat drips down his chest, his spine. His eyes glow, as if reflecting the glint of Aemond's sapphire. ]

You have me.

[ Once, when he was reading about the dragons, he discovered Vhagar and Caraxes were ridden by the Old King's favourite sons and learned how they flew together, fought together. A well-suited match and a pleasant surprise. That's how it feels with Daemon fucking him in the firelight, like they belong together in a way that Aemond can't explain in words but ripples through his blood as if magnetised, every inch of him given over to Daemon as they maul at each other in the throes of passion. Aemond breaks his silence when he can take no more and feels his uncle's cock rutting right over the spot that makes him see stars, gripping Daemon's hair and raking his nails up his back as he loses the rhythm of his hips. Long hair falls back as he tips his chin up on a helplessly guttural moan, coming hard into the loose drag of a fist; Vhagar's resounding growl is deeper and other dragons stir to answer, disturbed, but Aemond only clings to Daemon and laughs breathlessly (a little madly) between his cries, throbbing around his uncle with thready whines, tight and slick.

Let the whole Dragonpit wake, his dragon will keep him safe. She practically raised him and she knows Daemon reeks of Caraxes in his bones. Who would dare stop them? ]

[ Daemon feels it even before Aemond cries out, the smallest flinches inside his body, telltale tightening up in anticipation, and he groans with it, grabbing his nephew even closer, rougher, and fucking him through it, stroking him in earnest, wanting all of it. Every sensation, every sound, every drop of his spend milked from him, and the victory of making him reach his peak is near as good as getting to his own, like the thrill of slaying an enemy. Yes, because of me, you feel this way because I've made you—

It becomes difficult to order himself in Aemond's aftermath, driven near to mindlessness, and Daemon groans against him, teeth in his shoulder. Still hard, desperate for it, caught on an edge like pain where a primal part of him wants to overwhelm him, and yet a spark of consideration lets him know that'll probably hurt.

Claws up his back, he presses his mouth to the underside of his nephew's jaw, shifting forward, hitching himself even deeper, and there's something threatening about it despite the horrible affection that burns between them. He could finish, and soon, or he could draw it out; he bites down hard (perhaps where the collar of his cloak covers? or not, he isn't aiming) and shifts up, grinding.

Fire-laden sighs echo in the chamber, and he knows Caraxes is laughing, as he always is. ]

[ The only greater power he can say he has wielded has been from Vhagar's saddle and even that is currently up for debate. Sighing as he spirals his way back down to earth from a place only dragons soar, Aemond combs through Daemon's hair and smiles into it as he wraps his arms around him, still in possession of a high-strung beast of his own. His soft laughter melts into the hot air, torches filling the room with what heat they don't create themselves.

He murmurs a teasing Lykirī, then ducks his chin to catch a kiss from where Daemon is moaning by his jaw, the deep ache of a mark on Aemond's neck proudly worn. ]

I have you.

[ For all that he just came, having Daemon practically pleading (as close as he would ever get) is a wonderfully stimulating aphrodisiac for a twenty-year-old body and Aemond takes control of the rutting with renewed strength, cock only gone half-hard as he rides his uncle in a matching slow grind, using his hips and thighs driving down to hold him prisoner to it. ]

Faster, mmm? Is that what you want? Or this— [ Aemond moans against Daemond's cheek as he rocks over him, clamping down with fluttering muscles still tender from orgasm. ] I could ride you for days, dear uncle, your cock feels so good.

[ A growl into his mouth, the particular bent of it suggesting You lykirī you little brat. As playful as he is dangerous.

He swears loudly as Aemond squeezes him, groaning again and fucking up into him— Daemon has always had a slower fuse, helpful with women while somewhat problematic with men, but Aemond has the bloom of his youth, still. Captured here by the young rider, Daemon is helpless to do anything but grind up into those practiced (what a secret slut he's become, incredible) sways down. ]

Perhaps I only wish to keep you here on it, [ he rasps against him, voice like smoke. Daemon raises the hand that's been between them, still covered in come, and he looks at Aemond while he pushes fingers into his own mouth.

Only fair. He'll be finishing inside of him. Look, how much a part of each other we are.

Another shift, getting better leverage with both arms around Aemond now, able to hold him and move him at the same time, clamoring on towards orgasm, holding him there around him with as much certainty as he's got Daemon trapped beneath him. ]

[ Whatever sparks inside of him to see Daemon licking his spend so casually off his fingers, it's a wildfire across his common sense and he thinks he's going to kiss him in the hallways of the castle tomorrow, drag him into a by-room when he absolutely shouldn't. Maybe around noon when it's most dangerous. He feels stupid with the need to have those lips on his at every possible hour; what if he grabbed him right as he left his bedchamber and left his own taste in Daemon's mouth for the rest of the day? Fuck.

The red mist of possibilities may fade in realism by the morrow but he won't stop imagining any of it.

He has mercy and raises his hips higher like a reward when he fucks down properly on his straining lover, giving Daemon the scant room he needs to meet him, mere inches making all the difference so they can crash together toward his uncle's orgasm (and an aching second for Aemond) in a quickening slam of hips with one goal. It isn't just for Daemon's relief, nor even Aemond's, but because both of them need the relief of a re-established bond. ]

You're mine, [ mindless words melting into messy kisses. ]

[ It'd certainly hasten tensions between their factions, though towards which end, who could begin to guess.

(It should be—

It should be that Viserys gave him Rhaenyra when he first asked, that all of their collected seven children be fully theirs by blood, that Alicent's children - if they still must be Alicent's children - had them nearby, dragonriders and protectors of the realm, and Aemond would want for nothing, brought up by a second son who will be King Consort, showing him that anything can be carved out by a will steady enough to wield the blade.) ]

Gods and fuck, [ is an inelegant (or inspiring) groan before he gets there, skirting into the territory of too rough. He needs it, and he needs Aemond to be the one to feel it, even if it all leaves them both bruised.

Daemon floods him in long pulses that make him shudder with each one, fire incinerating his spine, his brain. Blood rushes in his ears, something distant ringing like alarms of war. He pants against those kisses, a mess, but wonderfully so.

Aemond's High Valyrian really is impressive. Keeping it in check this whole time, too. Daemon rumbles a contented, stupidly fuzzy sound, and leans to one side, intending on taking him back down with him to the horizontal world of wolf fur and a mattress that was not made for this abuse. ]

[ He doesn't at first realise he's coming again too, thinking he's just reacting to the molten heat Daemon pours into him with seeming relent. Aemond cries out, gasping, and barely anything leaves his own cock but it twitches between them to match the clutch of his body around his uncle, and he feels dizzier for it once the dry orgasm fades. Tipped to the bed, he remains wrapped around Daemon and combs gently through his hair where his uncle has landed on his chest. Once his ability to think returns he pulls the furs over them a little, more as a sentimental barrier against the rest of the world than anything, and enjoys the silence of two breaths trying to catch themselves. He thinks of Silverwing and Vermithor curled up together in the Dragonpit, nest-mates too long together to try and separate most nights.

Aemond dozes, only making a protest when Daemon's weight becomes too much to bear outside of frenzied lust and a grumpy Mmmm muffles in his uncle's hair instead. What romance that lives is not dead but his left arm certainly is. ]

[ A very pleasant shiver to feel the second shake of his nephew's climax, granting him another spike of that victory-feeling. It layers in atop the dreamy sensations left in the wake of his own, his mind temporarily disconnected from reality. There is only warmth, and skin, and his lover.

When it becomes a too-sticky nest of congealing fluids and numb limbs, Daemon detangles them with practical care, a thought sparking to life in the back of his head reminding him of their location and the mechanics of cleaning up and slipping back to the keep without looking like they've been doing exactly what they've been doing. Tedious, but he's had enough years of paramour experience to do the tidying on habitual instinct without pouring cold water on the mood.

This is not exactly keeping Aemond screaming until dawn, but it'll do. He touches him and bestows soft kisses, to his mouth, to his shoulder, hands that are still steady holding him close enough to be intimate without being uncomfortable.

Daemon won't sleep here. It's too dangerous for them both, and no matter his dismissal of non-essential staff, the keepers still lurk somewhere, bound to the Dragonpit by necessity. He pets over Aemond's hair and watches his face lax in sleepy satisfaction, so hawklike normal, always primed and hunting. If he'd like to nap for a while, Daemon will stand (lay) guard.

Perhaps this is the end, after more sex-warmed touches and murmured exchanges. But perhaps Aemond would like to get into a little more trouble still. (Not that kind of trouble. Daemon's damn near 50.) Press A to wrap, press B to continue. ]

[ The half-asleep doze that takes Aemond is more of a power-nap than anything and he's reluctant to let Daemon go for it, making a nuisance of himself and finding a shoulder to snooze on as he complains he's cold. It's the worst and the best place he could be if anyone walked in, also the most dangerous and exactly where he wants to be: daydreams aside, he knows he won't have a chance to be this close with Daemon for a while. A few days for common sense's sake, and then Rhaenyra's party will leave for Dragonstone. It will be frightfully dull for Aemond. So, he reasons to himself he has the right to be greedy tonight and trades soft whispers with kisses. Never still for long, he nuzzles a neck and shoulder or adjusts where his leg is, like a hatchling starved for touch (if he squirms, Daemon touches him, so it's perfectly logical) wanting to remind himself he really does have everything he wants for a short while.

And then he feels incredibly hungry when he wakes, saying as much as he makes use of the previously scorned fruit platter to decimate half of it in bed, offering Daemon some. That leaves Aemond awake with the energy any adventurous twenty-something feels when the world is dark and mysterious, and he tugs on Daemon's arm. ]

Let's go and see the dragons. [ His smirk can't be helped. ] They're awake anyway.

[ Daemon eats fruit out of Aemond's fingers, steals some for himself, teases his nephew about wine this early in the 'morning' as he drains half the goblet and offers him some of that, too, the symbolic intimacy of sharing cups not lost on him.

(Idle thoughts: How much trouble would he get into, exactly, if he just took the boy back with them?)

He's sitting up when he's pawed at to go out, and Daemon smiles. He leans in, brushes his fingertips across Aemond's collarbones, murmurs in Valyrian, ] Mind-reader.

[ With perhaps a minor adjustment. He begins to shift up to escape the bed and fetch his clothes (at least he set his sword aside properly, where on any seven hells is his shirt), covering back up all that pale skin and its collection of scars. ]

Why don't we do more than that, and go and race the sun?

[ The dragons are awake, and probably restless. ]

[ Thoroughly delighted at the prospect, he kisses him soundly with sweet wine still on his lips. Mmm, yes. Sorting out his crumpled breeches where he stands, he glances down to feel come trailing along the backs of his thighs and gives Daemon a flat look as a corner of a blanket is needed to swipe himself "clean": he disentangles Daemon's shirt from his own and tosses it lightly at his face in revenge. ]

People will notice when we take to the skies.

[ Someone, somewhere, is going to tattle to his mother. Not that he needs her permission but it's going to mean a telling off for him in the morning. ]

I'll be blaming you.

[ Alicent won't tell off Daemon for zooming around in the dead of night. She wouldn't (and if she did it would be endlessly funny to watch). ]

[ A brief detour to 'help' Aemond clean up, hands at his hips, pressing a kiss between his shoulderblades, and they're able to compose themselves halfway presentable; Daemon thinks it's not the worst plan he's ever had, even, as looking a mess after going flying is perfectly ordinary. ]

Tsk, it would be practically irresponsible of you not to let Vhagar run with Caraxes after such time apart. What business is it of anyone else's when we see fit to indulge them?

[ Daemon thinks Alicent would, because she loathes him. If not her, then certainly Otto, who has made his entire political career around the tentpole of keeping Daemon away from the Iron Throne. But perhaps they'll attempt minding their own business for once, considering the spectacle he's already made this trip. (But perhaps not, and these two will get another laugh.)

He lifts one of the torches from their cages, and off they go into the main chambers of the pit, sounds of massive lungs sawing breath and scales shifting shimmering around them. The heavy tread of gigantic lizard feet, and the crack of talons on stone. ]

[ The withering look he gives him says They will make it their business, and Aemond is likely going to be instructed on why flying about with Daemon alone is a terrible idea for a thousand reasons. He will sit through it (he can already see himself in his mother's solar as she stands with hands wringing) but he will be the only one doing so.

Perks of being Daemon in general, he supposes.

He could be tempted to languish in the kisses that find his skin again, getting dressed in a hurry so as not to let himself do that. Full of the dreadfully overpowering urge to stay close, he has to exercise self-restraint on their way through the pit and only hooks his fingers in Daemon's with a light tap. ]

We must go to Vhagar first, she will wonder why I smell of you. I want to show her that you didn't hurt me.

[ Otherwise she may balk at Caraxes, and nobody needs that at past midnight. Or ever. Vhagar thinks a lot for an old dragon, so it's worth keeping her in the loop. ]

[ Daemon rolls his eyes. Nosy pricks. As though Rhaenyra won't ask What the fuck at first as well, but seeing as she's also a lifelong dragon-rider, the simplest explanation will be accepted without issue— and he quashed discussion of the Vhagar 'Stealing' Incident long ago, in his household. For many reasons. ]

Show me.

[ His bond with her. His process. It will be different than Daemon's father's, and from his late wife's. Daemon knows Vhagar, but she is not his and never has been, not even when she heeded him on the journey back to Westeros without Laena. He had been surprised— he certainly expected that she would heft her great body into the sky and vanish out of his life again, like she had when Baelon passed. But she came, and she stayed, and she waited, and he wondered for who; he knew it wasn't Rhaena.

He is not envious. There's never been a pull, and he's never felt any greed for bigger. What would he even do without Caraxes, anyway? The bloody lunatic is a quarter of his soul, at least.

Daemon lets Aemond walk before him, his own pace measured and quiet, at ease despite the danger. ]

[ It feels like showing off, and is, but there is little that excites Aemond more than spending time with his dragon or getting to share how wonderful she is with someone who understands. Helaena adores Dreamfyre yet she hardly ever sees her and Aegon is too drunk to really give Sunfyre the attention the beautiful beast needs ... Vhagar is spoiled, by comparison, which is likely lucky given her intelligence. She would not condone being locked away for so long.

In the doorway of her enormous chamber, he bids Daemon wait a little behind, then trots inside without a care as he calls to the dragon already up and grumbling; the she-dragon's head swarms in, golden eyes fixed on him as a lowing sound (like a very big, very deadly cow greeting her calf) fills the chamber and she buffets him with her nose. Aemond laughs and says hello, tells her to calm herself and all is well as she sniffs him with interest, giving him a shove now and then that sends him skidding a few steps until she's satisfied.

Then her eyes switch to Daemon in the doorway and she stares, like she knows. ]

All is well, all is well. Vhagar, please. Let Daemon come forth, you know him, he is here for us. [ She lowers her head with a tilt toward Aemond's petting of her snout, eyes on Daemon. Aemond's chatter is far more complex than the basic words the Dragonkeepers use, as he learned long ago that a dragon four-riders old is familiar with a great deal of Valyrian bitching in the saddle over the centuries. ] We are going flying, Vhagar. You and I, Daemon and Caraxes, your old friend.

[ It's showing off that Daemon specifically asked to see, and it charms him. He feels a lift of pride, even though that's absurd; perhaps only because Aemond is such a Targaryen, and Daemon ever feels an ache for sameness, that seeing him so comfortable in something that is truly only theirs cannot be anything but exceptionally pleasing.

He puts the torch on the ground, and waits with his hands behind his back. More respect than he shows even Viserys, but he gives it freely to Vhagar, and always has. Of all the oddities exclusive to their House, Daemon knows dragons best of all.

Patient, tilting to make sure she can see his eyes clearly, waiting for the inevitable, slightly exasperated whuff that feels like You again [affectionate/derogatory]. ]

I know, I look different every time you see me, but it's still me.

[ She has observed him in snatches since birth, but Daemon can't begin to guess if that sparks as at all significant to one so old and so particular about her affections. ]

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