dohaeras | open post/cont. threads etc

Suggesting I might need a book's help, for that?

[ Daemon stays where he is, allowing the younger prince to sidle up near him, and the undercurrent of his voice is as much teasing as it is warning. Testing, to see what Aemond's after— Daemon is no stranger to applying authority where it aches best, but also he is not above the self-satisfaction of being the sadist to smile and whisper No to the masochist. ]

[ He rolls his eye back to Daemon, his own arrogance making him reckless for the sake of wit. ]

You are trawling a library. [ With batted lashes that don't look away, he walks two fingers up Daemon's tunic and affects the same blithe tone with which he simpered to Alicent. ] What other help might you be expecting to find here, uncle?

[ It would hold some weight if he had any control over the hungry way he stares, already filled with memories of a naked body beneath him and the way Daemon's feverishly hot skin had felt under his hands. ]

[ That sharp tongue, all the while looking so starving; Daemon holds back his smile, instead opting to lean one shoulder against the heavy shelf of the aisle they're cloistered in and give him an arch, unimpressed look. ]

I am enjoying the ambiance of intellectual mysteries.

[ —a trait of their house, to deliver all kinds of bullshit with impeccable smoothness.

Daemon was never studious in his youth, not like Aemond is. He had no need of it, living history as he was, in a time that now feels like the last dregs of an era passing into obscurity, to his increasing frustration. Playing like this with Aemond is both satisfying for his libido and his sense of Targaryen cultural supremacy. Even in the gardening section of the library. ]

[ It's the same sort of feeling he had when first telling Vhagar Serve me, waiting to see if she would bank her fire and listen, the same damnably exciting anticipation. He can be smooth and subtle, for the most part. The problem arises when he can't just dismiss the person toying with him for getting on his nerves (nor wants to) and a lack of inexperience seeps through the mask as he navigates new skies. Aegon gets flustered easily, loses his temper, then calms down; Aemond steadily loses his temper and never wants to return to calm, so he swallows a sting to his pride when Daemon looks bored and tries not to have flashbacks to being tongue-tied on the doorstep of a whore. ]

The real mystery is which pursuits you're following when an intellectual book hasn't touched your lap the whole time you've been visiting.

[ He knows, he's been watching.

It's a bit pithy, edging on mean with the way he looks away and browses the shelves, rather less impressively haughty than sulking, but then flirting with your cool married uncle hours after washing his come out of your backside is a uniquely awkward position (haha) to be in. ]

Is perhaps the subject of what has touched my lap, [ his voice is even quieter now, silk-soft, almost to the point of Aemond needing to strain to hear it, ] noble enough for your esteemed approval?

[ Daemon does not warm, but he focuses out of his feigned disinterest, the weight of his attention fixed squarely on his nephew, and despite his at-ease body language and the low, private volume, it feels too big and too dangerous for this quiet wing of the Keep.

He stays nearly inaudible like that, trapping them together so close without raising a finger: ]

I hadn't yet become interested in reading and studying when I was your age. It took me until later to appreciate it, and in that appreciation, I see the products of your dedication. It is admirable, your own pursuits, and your passion for them.

If you were to recommend me a subject, Prince Aemond, what would it be?

[ The reluctant smile he can't quite bury is Daemon's reward for the tease, though Aemond holds his tongue so as not to dignify him with an answer to begin with. He does look up when he listens attentively and then (staring at Daemon distractedly) has the horrible experience of having suddenly never read a book in his life when asked for a topic to offer up. He has, of course, but he can't remember the title of a single one. It's daytime in place of night, the stacks smell of scrolls not dragons, and it's not going to be acceptable to shove Daemon up against the shelves. Not as fiercely as he wants to anyway, after being smothered in such a high compliment so unexpectedly.

His lips part, licked and bitten in thought a moment later. The cogs are almost visible behind his eyes when his lip falls from between his teeth. ]

I — ah ...

[ Not one title, not while Daemon is close enough that the warmth from his body can almost be felt, as well as the pink rising in his own cheeks. Fuck. ]

[ Aemond deserves to be flattered - for not being his brother, for being so competent, for having the nerve to conquer Vhagar (here and now while Daemon still admires it, before the tragedy of him having no experienced rider to learn from consistently leads to catastrophe) - and Daemon enjoys doing it. He very much enjoys getting to this point, with paramours, overwhelming them with little more than words and implications; the flush on Aemond's skin now is a prelude to what it looks like when they're fucking, and it's sinful, and delightful, to behold.

He wonders if Aemond will lose his nerve, or if he'll take it badly. What will it take to push him to find his words, or drag Daemon to a reading room? And will it be before a maester drifts their way?

Daemon inclines his head, moving closer, but only barely. ]

Would it be a history text? Mm, no, such would be a retread for the both of us. [ What might Aemond pick, either as a jest or sincerely? He puts real consideration into trying to guess, even while he's softly, deliberately provoking him. ] Not fiction, though I suspect you read some. I imagine you think I would judge it unfairly. Songs of Old Valyria, perhaps?

[ Aemond's hesitation to trust anyone melts away once he can read Daemon's interest more clearly, leaning in as he listens to him muse where he might be led and what Aemond might want to show him: it flies dangerously close to sweet. His expression changes as he reasons with an idea, working out the likelihood of them getting to where he wants to go, hmmm ... and then his touch drops to Daemon's hand to give it a tug, taking charge. ]

Come with me, and be quiet.

[ He gives him a warning look that skims his words along Daemon's jaw, and then Aemond is off through the stacks on a mission.

The library can be stuffy at noon when sunshine pours in through the tall windows with nowhere for the heat to go but there are still some overly dedicated maesters loitering about. It's a game Aemond is well-versed in, listening intently, holding an arm out to stop his partner-in-crime at the last minute, peeking around corners and trotting silently from one aisle to another, finally taking a calculated risk jogging past a wide expanse of empty desks in long rows to disappear behind the biggest books shelved on the other side, all so they can pick up speed with a shortcut. There's a small horizontal book the exact colour of those in their correct place which he slips out to peek through with a perfect view of a door; not a reading room, but the maesters' office. Slotting the book back (this library is very much his territory and shenanigans have definitely happened in the past, Daemon would be right about that) he whispers. ]

Wait for me to wave you over.

[ He holds back his hair to peek around the last aisle, then swiftly and soundlessly makes his way across to the door, brushing aside the huge red curtain half-obscuring it. No one raises an alarm when he ducks inside, so he holds it open for Daemon with a hurried nod. While princes of the realm it is still a private space purely for the maesters and, generally, a certain degree of respect would keep anyone else out. Clearly, that has never applied to Aemond, who moves through the library and knows all the best hiding spots like the map of a battlefield. ]

[ The ghost of an almost-laugh follows Aemond when he begins his stealth mission. It's obvious he knows the library better than Daemon ever has— his own special knowledge of the Red Keep is mostly confined to secret passageways, some of which he can't even fit into now, as a man grown.

He waits. He observes. And when bid, he slips across to the discreetly shielded office.

Is there a window in here, or are they lighting candles—? ]

I must admit, a maester's notebook was not to be one of my guesses.

[ Daemon keeps his voice demure, even after the door is closed (and locked, thanks) behind them. More handy abuses of power; if they're interrupted, it's simple to say that the princes required privacy to discuss matters relating to the crown. Still, worth it to be discreet. Getting busted twice in as many days would be suspicious. ]

[ His sigh slants a look at Daemon, abandoning him to the murky candlelight (there is a window but apparently sunlight is an anathema to crusty old men taking tea and scones) in a bid to open a cabinet. Pretending not to hear that lock click, he digs around elbow-deep in scrolls, rooting through. ]

These are their notes for the historical tomes of the future, minor chronicles of behaviour so each event has a named source close to the time.

[ Smirking, he pulls out a scroll and leans against the shelf as he reads, ankles crossing. ]

"Daemon Targaryen is a hot-tempered and quarrelsome young man of twenty" ... Oh, dear.

[ Oh, these creeps. Daemon hums something skeptical-amused, prowling slowly around the office, inspecting this and that in the low light and stuffy air.

He tsks his tongue— ]

At twenty I was four years knighted and a married man.

[ How very dare they.

Daemon was loved by his grandfather, and received several gifts in that time before the passing of the old guard; Dark Sister, which he adores, and Rhea Royce, somewhat less so. ]

Hm, but that was around the time I refused to stay at the Vale any longer.

[ The way Aemond waits for Daemon to absolutely not prove himself quarrelsome is patient beyond his years. The scroll is stuffed back and he brushes his hand through their edges, meandering around a little table to put himself at Daemon's side (instead of his back since he's flirting, not suicidal) and rests his chin against his uncle's shoulder, lips murmuring against fabric. ]

We could annotate their notes ...

[ Burning them would be too obvious. ]

[ Daemon is a damn good liar, when he wants to be, but attempting to disprove that he is hot-tempered and quarrelsome seems like a monumental waste of his time. It is plainly evident, and likely eternal: he has a temper, and he likes a fight. Still does, even though Viserys was right, and fatherhood has settled him somewhat.

Probably not as much as Viserys would have liked, but still, somewhat. It's likely that his brother imagined Daemon finally returning north to make it work with the woman their grandparents chose for him, and not running away to Essos with his cousin after murdering her fiance, only returning to slither into the caverns of Dragonmont to nick dragon eggs for his daughters. ]

Oh? Keen on making your mark on history in more than one fashion?

[ He tips his head to brush a light touch with his jaw against Aemond's hair. ]

[ 100% convinced Daemon took out his first wife and, honestly? It's kind of hot. You do you, uncle. ]

We could always write our own scroll and push it to the very back where it won't be found until we're both dead and gone.

[ In the privacy of the maester's office he nudges back into every touch, looping his arms around Daemon's middle as he mmms and enjoys the respite from prying eyes. ]

I can think of a few things I would say about you.

[ Please, he was in King's Landing the whole time, recovering from the Stepstones and making peace with Viserys. And so was Caraxes.

They swear!

Daemon turns halfway into his nephew, and brushes his hand against his bicep in lieu of touching his chin, since he knows Aemond doesn't like it overmuch, and now is not the time to push boundaries just to get a reaction— this is sweet, touched with whimsy. It's not worth risking a genuinely bad reaction to play around too hard. ]

What would you write? About dragons, or fucking?

[ Sweet and touched with whimsy, as noted. ]

Edited (wait) 2022-10-27 11:24 (UTC)

[ That brings out a bark of a laugh and a wide smile. ]

We could write about fucking on dragons but even if we signed it, I don't think the maesters would give it much credit.

[ Has Daemon seen many of those smiles? Handsome. In the candlelight, everything is diffused, but it still manages to shine. ]

Likely not. And a good thing. Can you imagine what's to be written about all of us already?

[ They're allowed to joke about the nightmare of their family situation, because they're a part of it— if Daemon were to discuss the topic of chronicling their lives seriously, it might turn bitter; he dislikes Westerosi historians, and the faith of the Seven that shapes their culture, and the way nothing is ever the way his bones and his blood makes him feel like it should be. They have no right to judge customs that are older than the Freehold itself.

But. ]

Would you? On dragonback. It's a shame I can't ask my mother if they ever did.

[ Vhagar is roomy enough for it, and Alyssa was out of control, over Baelon. She'd have answered him honestly, Daemon is sure. ]

[ Aemond moves directly in front of Daemon, arms around him as he tips his chin up to meet his gaze steadily. The humour softens his solemn words, his smile too. ]

I would have you anywhere, at any moment. I would not care who watched for their opinion would mean less to me than dirt, so long as I knew you wanted me.

[ The kiss he offers is sweet and chaste, unlike the purred sentiment against them. Flattering and affectionate, he speaks what he could never even write on a raven. ]

If we could avoid the cuts, I would let you take me on the Iron Throne while all the world looked on and wished they could take my place. If you wanted me in a room on the Street of Silk, I would suffer no indignity at your invitation. And when you ask me if I would let you fuck me bareback on your dragon as your personal saddle, [ Aemond's smile widens, nosing his way along a cheek, ] you are wasting your breath on a certainty you should know.

[ Ah, a very well-aimed strike, indeed. Daemon has a particular fondness for in public, which is dully predictable for a man so devoted to making spectacles, but undeniable anyway.

It makes his blood heat, even though he knows it's just play-talk. He sweeps his hands over Aemond's shoulders and down over his chest, settling high on his waist to hold him. He thinks of kicking the door open and fucking him right here, and telling anyone who came looking to kindly mind their own business—

They are Targaryens, they are blood, they are meant for this.

He turns his head and scrapes a kiss that's more of a bite to the side of Aemond's mouth, slow and sensual, a counterpoint to the way his hands squeeze tighter, as if pinning him in to place in this moment. ]

There is no better place for you than on a dragon, [ he murmurs, pressing in, swaying with him, ] or my cock.

[ A proper kiss, then, warm and wanting. ]

[ A breathy chuckle of, ] You are a dragon, [ is all he manages before dissolving into the heated kiss, bringing his hands up to twist his uncle's hair and pull him in, surging up to meet him.

He tries to keep his volume down now that it isn't the hour of the wolf and mostly manages, although soft sounds of approval escape as he bites him in return and sways forward into Daemon's arms, pawing at a neck and scraping at a scalp with a satisfying fistful of silvery hair. Aemond wants everything all the time, his uncle covering him and rasping like he did when he was buried in him to the root, and he burns with a desire he has real trouble stamping out once given flame. He can't kiss him enough and it's maddening, so he nudges at hips with his own to make his newest idea clearer through a tangle of tongues. ]

I want your cock in my mouth. [ His breath hitches at the spoken thought, gods. Aemond throws caution to the winds about how badly he yearns for this closeness and coos with his spit-soft cupid-bow lips running along Daemon's jaw when they draw breath. ] Please, uncle.

[ Blood-bound, mine. ]

[ Aemond knows just what to say to him to get him going, already. Daemon doesn't know if it's because his ambition has driven him to this end, too, or if it's because of the tether that binds them, making them well suited so naturally. They have not been entangled for long enough to find each other's passions so familiar, but it feels that way.

He lets his nephew claw at him, firmly holding him close as he does, reveling in the feeling of a wild young dragon on a desperate edge just for him. It stokes a fire in him, the anticipatory feeling that's been simmering in his nerves since this morning finally allowing itself to burn unchecked, a steadily growing wildfire. Hard, messy kisses, as Daemon claims him and devours what he's given in response, hungry, demanding. ]

Is that so, greedy little dragon? [ He raises one hand, making sure Aemond can see it coming on his sighted side, and presses his index and middle finger against his mouth before pushing in. Rubbing his tongue, even if he gets teeth. ] My spend inside you last night wasn't enough?

[ Maybe never enough—

I knew you'd beg.

Daemon kisses the side of his mouth, around his own fingers, and when he withdraws for a real kiss, he takes hold of Aemond and moves them so that he can lean back against the heavy maester's desk and start pushing him to his knees before him. ]

[ Daemon is right to call him little dragon, amid being kissed within an inch of his life and obediently sucking on his uncle's fingers, starting to drool, there's little Aemond wouldn't do for him if commanded. He gasps into the last desperate kiss before bid to sink to his knees and he goes smoothly, resting his forehead on a hip near Dark Sister. He leaves Daemon's belt alone (best they stay as dressed as possible, the last sensible crumb of his brain insists) to quickly unlace the front of his leathers and tug them down his uncle's thighs, just enough to give himself room. ]

I want more.

[ On splayed knees he steadies himself with one of those thighs and mouths his way along the length of his uncle to suck prettily on the tip with his already spit-slick mouth, plush pink lips rubbing all around the crown as Aemond strokes the base, keeping him guided. It's messy and eager, anything he learned from bedmates quickly forgotten when he has Daemon to lavish his very real eagerness on. The roll of his tongue sucks him in and he hollows his cheeks, pulling back to flick over the slit with a placated Hmmm ...

He could stay on his knees for hours, only for Daemon. ]

[ Practical adjustments— he shifts his sword belt so Aemond isn't going to end up knocked in the face by anything (wouldn't that be the way, lose the other eye blowing his uncle), and reaches behind him to move a plate of candles out of accidental disruption range. One never knows what might go on. ]

I think you might want more of everything, [ he sighs, letting his nephew have his way with his laces and his cock. Which is already half hard, and fuck, when did that happen? ] ... Like I do.

[ Power, influence, purpose.

Sex.

Daemon touches the side of his nephew's face, and gives him a silent warning that he's going to pull the eyepatch off, pushing at the outmost corner of it to give him a chance to tell him no. Assuming Aemond has no ability to deny him, he pries it away and sets it on the desk. Fingers delve into his hair, splaying wide before they grip, pulling slow and tight. Despite the hold on him, Daemon allows him the freedom to move as he wishes as he coaxes him to full mast. ]

Did you study this, too, I wonder.

[ He does: want everything. Power most of all, though having Daemon comes a close second.

His eye-patch is removed and while it makes no difference to him he's sure he looks a lot more comely without it, a sapphire sparkling under his lashes as his normal eye gets darker, dilated. Aemond's response to being asked if he practiced sucking cock has no dignified answer so he puts to use what he knows and tilts his chin up, relaxing his throat so that the next time Daemon slides past his lips he keeps going, briefly deep-throated as muscles swallow around him, fluttering along a cock still large enough at half-mast to make it a concentrated effort.

Aemond pulls back to the tip to catch his breath but the way he glances up triumphantly speaks for itself, panting over him. His voice is a little rougher when he speaks, lips rubbing along a shaft. ]

And when you leave me behind, I will continue my studies.

[ Daemon grunts when he's taken deep for the brief, squeezing kiss of his throat, and he rakes his nails harder in appreciation. Quite good at keeping his hips still; Aemond may well be breaking records with his studies, but he's still not a whore, and Daemon's not about to insult their shared blood by treating him like one.

(Treating him exactly like one, anyway.) ]

You remember all their names, [ he muses, drawing fingertips around Aemond's mouth, ] but I'd wager you don't see a single one of them in your mind when they bring you to your peak.

[ One hand in Aemond's hair, the other poking fingertips into his mouth, sometimes alongside his cock. Daemon has decided that if he didn't want hands in his face, he wouldn't have offered to do this. ]

Mmmn, what a scandal it'd be if I took you with us. It would be beautiful to behold.

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dreamwidth pls

dw let the dragon nerds kiss

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