dohaeras | open post/cont. threads etc

[ 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.

Of course not, uncle, [ he appreciates those hips remaining still, it allows him to lightly graze his teeth along the tip before sucking, ] they aren't you.

[ No point in playing coy while on his knees. Why bother, when Daemon wants him with just as much quiet desperation? Aemond admits the truth before he starts taking him in to a steady pace, head bobbing to make sure he can get a little over halfway each time and rub the underside of that cock with his tongue; he hums again with approval at Daemon's scandalous idea of claiming yet another of Viserys's offspring for his own uses, doing all he can as his uncle sinks down the tight heat of his throat again to encourage it. Dragon-riding requires practice too, how to breathe or suddenly hold your breath when going faster than gods or men so as not to become light-headed, this paired with his extracurricular studies helps enormously in the moment, for he does have an expansive amount of hours clocked on Vhagar.

Finding a comfortable pace that takes Daemon and his fingers in deep, tears prick at Aemond's eyes from the effort and his cheeks are flaming pink, yet it's worth it all to feel pride here too. When was the last time Rhaenyra wanted her husband this badly, or threw herself at him? She's bogged down in politics and stress: Aemond can afford to make Daemon the centre of his world. ]

Edited 2022-10-28 12:57 (UTC)

[ What could Viserys do about it? Certainly not deny him again. And taking his son into his own possession might lessen the agony of knowing his brother has lived so miserably for so long— he has ever rejected Daemon's help, and now look where he is, consumed by these self-righteous Hightowers who loathe all things Targaryen and have made sure to poison his children against his firstborn and the legacy of his house.

Rhaenyra should have all of them as her defenders. It should be galling to attack her for proving the realm with more Targaryen sons, no matter their father— they came from her body, and she is the heir. They should be one, united. And Aemond should be learning to control Vhagar on Dragonstone, where she'll never have to be locked away, and he can slip into Daemon's chambers at night - or across his knees on the ramparts under the fucking sun - whenever he likes, whenever he's summoned.

(Huh, will the sapphire slip out if the socket tears up too much? How ghoulish.) ]

You need it like breathing. [ What a nasty little slut, hiding away as if he's so different than Aegon. ] So dedicated, nephew.

[ Daemon tightens his grip in Aemond's hair, and traces with the fingers of his other hand over his chin, then his cheek, pressing to feel the shape of his on cock held inside his mouth. Lower, shifting his posture down just enough, so that he can splay his hand out and hold Aemond's throat. He guides his head, testing, seeing what direction the boy will allow. ]

[ The sad truth is: Aemond would have flourished on Dragonstone. Miserly and cold though it is, for a Targaryen who loves the beasts it is a kind of heaven, unlike the rest of Westeros where the septons quietly disapprove of Targaryen customs and dragons at large. But he is not welcome there, never has been, and chafes at his lot as quietly as he can.

A little spite, violence, and entitlement is what compared to no sense of belonging?

His throat works, the brush of Daemon's fingers evoking more purring moans as Aemond closes his eyes properly. It's the only time he's obedient aside from perfunctory politeness toward Alicent, as is her due as his mother; for no one else would Aemond let them guide how he gives head, hair stinging at Daemon's grip (perfect), and lips rubbed a shining red that stands out in the wan sunshine and superfluous candles. His hand on Daemon's thigh switches between his legs to cup his balls as he sucks him down, trying to work him over completely while not choking.

Luckily, he's a diligent student in all his lessons. ]

[ Aemond would understand the true heat of Dragonstone, Daemon knows it. Cold with its freezing sea air, it's not as damp as Driftmark, the citadel so high astride the volcano— its great heart of molten rock and fire warming them, like a giant dragon's egg.

Theirs. A colony of Old Valyria, cut away from the mainland and its rural, dull ways.

Tension coils deep in him, wound tighter and tighter by Aemond's efforts. His breath becomes more shallow, and he feels sweat at the hairline at the back of his neck. It's true— Rhaenyra does not have time nor inclination for acts like these, as she did when they first married. He doesn't begrudge her, she is on her sixth pregnancy and he's not about to put her on her knees in such a state anyway, but fuck it feels good to do this.

Daemon still doesn't fuck into his face, but he begins to push his head down just a little harder when he bobs, holding him for an extra second here or there, until he holds him for longer— pulling him off after, petting his hair, pressing the end of his cock obscenely against his lips in a vulgar caress. ]

Good at that, [ he whispers. ]

[ Aemond acquiesces that hold when it keeps him here or there, nose brushing silver curls or lips rubbing under the flare of a crown as Daemon is indulged. He gets his first few deeper breaths when Daemon decides he wants to comb through Aemond's silky hair and see his cock rubbing over swollen, pretty lips: understandable, he thinks smugly.

The praise makes him shiver, throbbing in sympathy.

His fist takes over the job of stroking him, loose then tight, slow then fast, alternating to the grip in Aemond's hair as he focuses on making a show of himself. He laps at the slit and occasionally dips down for an obscenely wet suck and a Mmm, but that's only half his devious plan: his middle-finger extends to rub up behind Daemon's balls and see if it feels as good for him as it does for Aemond (he about came the first time a lad showed him), generously mouthing at his cock in case he protests.

Daemon was right, he does want everything. ]

[ There's a hint of a groan now and again on his exhales as they grow rougher, and yes, he is looking at Aemond's pretty mouth and how good it looks next to his hard cock. Now there's a sight worth committing to a tapestry. They'd have to weave in gemstones, not just in Aemond's eye, but rubies on his wet mouth and the slickest parts of his aching cock.

Ah— ]

I didn't know just how greedy, [ Daemon says, laced with a chuckle. ] But you're mad with it, aren't you? You can't think of anything else but me.

[ He doesn't protest, nor yank Aemond's hand away; external prostate stimulation is no unknown act, and not an uncomfortable one. Daemon is not overly interested in bottoming, overall - it feels good, those questing fingers, but not better than fucking his cock into something. When the itch captures him, he finds he prefers women and their fingers or instruments— his Laena was the best, powerful, taller than him, as adventurous as any man and so strong out of necessity to control Vhagar.

(Huh, there's a thought.) ]

Give me your hand.

[ Might be a little mad, he doesn't know. After lodging a sapphire in his skull everything else ranks low.

He angles Daemon's cock slightly away from his lips and offers up his other hand, mildly anxious as to whether he misstepped but obeying the request anyway. There's no other choice when his knees ache on the thin rug of the maester's office and he can't rise in a hurry.

Aemond asks, ] Uncle? [ and waits for instruction. ]

[ They all have a touch of it— or is that just the way they're meant to be?

Daemon takes the offered hand, pressing his thumb against his palm just to feel him for a brief, strangely sensual moment, before he pulls it up to his mouth and sucks Aemond's index and middle fingers into his mouth. Bent forward enough to facilitate it without hunching over unattractively (priorities, even while unraveling).

He keeps his gaze on his nephew's remaining eye as he does it, wetting them, tonguing them, letting him feel light scrapes of teeth. The angle is too different and too shallow to offer any clues about whether or not Daemon has dedicated any time to learning how to suck a cock, but he doesn't have any qualms about putting things in his mouth.

When he releases him, he guides Aemond back down to let him switch hands, giving him wet fingers to touch him with, though he keeps hold of his wrist. Controlling, intent on showing him what he likes, moderate pressure, just there. It'll get him off faster, which is helpful for getting the fuck out of here before the maester wants his office back, but not great for the future potential of fucking Aemond again and leaving him raw and sore tomorrow. But there are other things. ]

Like this.

[ Oh, a tutorial. Once he (ah, the view is nice) realises he's being taught, he resettles his knees and gets comfortable for the show Daemon puts on, every pass of his mouth over Aemond's fingers making him harder in his leathers. They twitch when he feels teeth, soft breaths parting his lips; he pays attention to where Daemon positions his hand, the press of his fingertips, and takes over as he goes back to sucking his cock, immersing him in tight heat to help with Aemond's ... tutoring.

He gets to work like Daemon is a dragon he wants to conquer (he is), enthusiastically sinking down to the places he liked before, relaxing his throat to take him deeper, pairing that with the pressure of his fingers.

Daemon might as well have said Dohaerās, newly the focus of Aemond's education. ]

[ It's very gratifying— not just the dual points of stimulation, but the doubled layers of what's going on here; being pleasured by Aemond, and instructing him at the same time. Getting exactly what he wants, and knowing how desperate his nephew is to devour all of this information and keep it stored away to memorize, and improve on. All for Daemon, and their mutual sexual fervor.

One hand around Aemond's wrist, the other kept in his hair, Daemon guides his head up and down, and keeps his questing fingers so that he can't press back any further than where Daemon likes. He maintains it even when it's clear that Aemond is a lightning-quick learner and doing exactly what he wants, that he doesn't have to keep hold of him. It's just too good to be using him this way. ]

Good boy, [ is a hissed whisper, and Daemon feels a twitch through his spine, making his posture shift. Ah.

Quick, now, he moves Aemond's head back and down onto his cock faster, then lets him take over in favor of holding more of his hair, almost too tight, while he's unable to stop from rocking his hips in short snaps before he spills, hot and pulsing, a harsh groan ripped out through clenched teeth. ]

[ Sex with secrets, that's what it is. Trusted with Daemon's preferences, Aemond is mindful never to push further than what his uncle allows and lets him feel the pleasure build to a crescendo while his own jaw grows weary and aches, spit shining all down his chin from the drool and precome. The grip on his wrist feels like a connection more than anything else, he doesn't feel any way about it other than proving he's deserving of seeing Daemon break down.

He gets to, and more. Good boy draws out a whine that he will never admit to.

Aemond swallows down come and the salty burn has his eyes stinging but he isn't about to shame or insult his uncle by letting it hit the floor, or worse still spitting it out. His hair is a wreck, free and fluffy in Daemon's fist, and Aemond is moaning around the length buried down his throat as his hips buckle in sympathy. When he can pull away he gasps and coughs, turning his head to drag down breaths. He tips his head back and looks up at his uncle, used and kneeling before him with a smear of come on his lips that he licks off as an afterthought, one violet eye dark with arousal and the other sparkling, as ever. Proud of himself. ]

[ It crackles and sparks and burns him, pushing tension to a breaking point and then shattering, draining it out of him in sweet pulses, and leaving him dazzled and light and looking down at Aemond and his ruined, proud face.

Lovely.

Daemon lives, for a brief moment of time in which no other thoughts manage to congeal in his post-orgasmic brain, in a world where this is daily life, and Viserys has ever behaved as a proper Targaryen, and he gets to pet this boy's cheek before the contended face of his lady wife and all their silver-haired children.

The hold on Aemond's hair becomes a clutch around the back of his skull. ]

Come here so I can taste myself in you.

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