dohaeras | open post/cont. threads etc

[ 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.

[ There's little encouragement he needs, although in his fevered earnestness he stumbles up from his knees and catches himself on the edge of the table beside Daemon, the momentum carrying Aemond forward into a kiss all impatience and desire with the taste of Daemon on his tongue, for once not asking permission while his mind is clouded with a red haze. He slides a hand up a tunic to grip at the shoulder and takes a breath, or else risks suffocating himself (he might do it, if it meant a release from the deep-set ache in his body).

Wound up, Aemond is dangerous in his own right, but the insistence in him softens at the edges ... with effort. ]

[ Daemon kisses him and holds him close, sweeping into his mouth with clear ownership, letting him feel how much he's still wanted even though he's already hit his peak. Good boy, and he's rewarded with a silent affirmation that he's not someone to be cast aside once used. (This time.)

He can feel how needy Aemond is, his whole form like one taught nerve, and he pets through his nephew's hair while he presses his other hand to his cock trapped in his leathers, rubbing firmly. More rewards, for reeling himself in and not just rutting against Daemon madly, though he can tell he's on the verge. ]

Just as you should be.

[ Tasting of Daemon's seed. More kisses and heavy touches until he pulls both hands down and begins to put himself away and redo laces, though he stays close, the backs of his knuckles brushing up against Aemond's body. ]

What are you thinking about, right now?

[ He grips the table either side of Daemon, crowding him in without forcing his weight. Unwilling to let him leave (as if he could stop him). Every brush of knuckles is a torment after being petted like that, wound up so hair sticks to the corner of his mouth and his depth-perception is a little ruined by how light-headed being hard is making him, needing to tilt his head to watch Daemon's busy fingers like the personal insult they feel like. ]

That if you don't get me off I'm going to rip this fucking rock out of my head and make the next servant I see wear it.

[ Temper, temper, an undercurrent he bites out even as he behaves. ]

[ Frustration is beautiful on Aemond, all fiery and bristling. Daemon would like to see him really, truly mad, not just irritated or spoiling enthusiastically for a fight. He imagines that it's magnificent to behold, and will still be so even after in another twenty years once he's matured and tempered himself— because of course he will; Aemond is too clever to fall into real madness.

Daemon laughs softly and dips his head in for a light, teasing kiss, still working on himself. It's not comfortable standing around with his cock out while he's still got everything else on, alright. ]

It wouldn't look half as pretty on anyone else.

[ Still a bit funny that Aemond could go and command Vhagar, then get absolutely rocked by a littler boy with a knife. Kids do the damnedest things.

Breeches seen to, Daemon returns to palming him through his own, one against the hard line of him and the other wrapping around to squeeze one globe of his behind, pulling him in so they're leaning together body to body. ]

Will getting off satisfy you?

[ A breath parts his lips when flattered, some of the tension easing as it cuts through the angry bees in his mind and settles something always striving for that praise. He leans into the caresses, chin tipping down as he shakes his head and bites his lip to stop anything more than muffled moans slipping free. It's too damn hot with his hair fanning out, undone, sweat sticking to his temples and to his cock inside his clothes which might soon be ruined if the stance he takes to arch into Daemon's hand is any indication. ]

... No.

[ Because he will still want Daemon again, later, and again and again, and he knows he can't have that (is quite certain Daemon would tire of him eventually if he made himself a permanent fixture) but he damn well deserves everything for being the smartest, the best with a sword, the rider of the largest dragon, and he hates that he can't have it. It's unfair. He could excel himself in every subject known to man, wildling, and dragon, and it ultimately means nothing (burning everything down seems like a good idea, sometimes) because every fucking answer is always No.

He's going to come if Daemon keeps pace, no matter the cloth between them. ]

[ Who can say when Daemon's passions could fizzle out? In the succession of his lovers, are there actually any he's cast aside, or have they left him, through death or through fear of his recklessness? Would he not maintain for as long as possible, too demanding of the world to ever waste passion where it blooms, no matter its morality?

One never knows which strings stay tied 'til death. ]

Then this must not be the end. [ His mouth brushes against his nephew's, still touching him, encouraging him to rut up against him into his hand, fully intent on ruining his clothes. In Valyrian, finally, ] Give me that fire of yours right here between my hands, dragon.

[ Unexpected as Daemon's response is, his words on both accounts do the trick faster his hand. Aemond nudges into the kiss until a jolt of pleasure has him tipping forward, forehead pressing to his uncle's neck with a near-startled groan. The shuddering wave that hurtles through him has Aemond muffling his cries on Daemon's shoulder so as not to draw any maesters near, hands flying to his uncle's sides as he holds on while ruining his breeches and trying to inadvertently shove him against the table. Dragon, he's called, and he cleaves to every part of the fond compliment.

He pants harshly in the crook of a neck, a tremble in his knees and arms as he tries to stay upright in the golden aftermath and not crush Daemon in place. His own little fantasy has him picturing a bed in which they are naked and he can kiss every inch of Daemon from his fingers to his ribs, just for the pleasure of feeling him naked against his own skin. They belong together, he's sure, if not on how. His mind is a fog around every part of the world around them. ]

... Come to me tonight. Early. [ Some time where it's not clandestine but thrillingly normal. Aemond kisses his way up to an ear, voice husky with release and filthy, sweet promises. ] Make an excuse to come fuck me in my bed where I've thought about you since I was sixteen.

[ No raven need deliver the message this time. ]

[ He'd have liked to get Aemond's cock out, feel him properly, or even bend him over this stodgy desk and get fingers in him (Daemon doesn't get on his knees for anyone, no offense kid), but there's something wonderfully satisfying about this, sending him to pieces and making him such a mess, feeling him go wild fully clothed and pressed near in the contained circle of his arms.

Daemon licks his mouth gently, teasingly, stealing breathless shudders until Aemond is whispering in his ear, filthy and desperate. He squeezes his ass.

Maybe he will.

(Sixteen, so young, and they'd not seen each other then; did Aemond sit stewing in memory of Driftmark until his blood flowered, and then found himself haunted with memories and fantasies of a dragonrider who could handle him? Beautiful.) ]

Never enough, [ he says in a murmur, reflecting on their predicament, still petting up and down his spine. ] Which rooms are yours?

[ There are so fucking many people in this godsdamn castle rn, shit. ]

[ People would tell him growing up that he was the image of young Prince Daemon, especially once his hair grew long. It was somehow a compliment and after he read up more on his uncle he was rather pleased by the comparison, but it's starting to feel embarrassing how closely everything aligns; he didn't choose his rooms, after all. ]

Baelon's chambers, my brother is at the end of the wing.

[ The princes' corridor, as it's been known to him, with Aemond in the traditional second-son's rooms. Doubtless Daemon will be very familiar.

Although he enjoys being groped and pawed at there's a moment where he looks around for his eye-patch then gets sidetracked by how messy his hair is. He drops a dutiful kiss on a cheek and steps back with languid movements to try combing his long, tangled silver mane into submission, finally able to stand without support, and while his breeches feel disgusting the leather blessedly lets no one know what's happened within. If Extremely Ruffled and Ravished were a look ...

His gaze remains on Daemon. ]

You had best leave here first, it won't be such of a surprise if they catch me.

[ Whereas a lot of wtfing and snooping might happen if Daemon is seen in such a place. He gives him a shrug as if to imply No offence. Also, ]

Someone will be missing you soon.

[ It's not like people question where Aemond is, his presence isn't that overbearingly obvious when absent, whereas when his uncle isn't around everyone acts like they took their eye off the Balerion in the room. ]

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