dohaeras | open post/cont. threads etc

[ 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. ]

[ Pleased to see the welcome go well, he holds out a hand for Daemon, waving him over. If Vhagar all but raised Aemond as a second mother, he has managed to wrangle her around his little finger over the years ... most of the time. She still knows best now and then, but what harm can come of that? If Daemon and Caraxes ever sought a fight with her and Aemond, Vhagar's fearsome rage would match his own and she would understand why now.

But that's all What Ifs and Unlikely As Nots tonight. ]

Come stroke her, she likes you.

[ If a dragon could look ambivalent, she does, as if the touch of her little Targaryen is all the control in the room. Aemond is all cheer, however. ]

[ If Aemond really were Daemon's son, or if he had been here at King's Landing to help raise him, he might caution him on pandering so enthusiastically to her sense of motherhood. It's one thing for Alicent to hurl herself across the room with a knife when she's worked up, but Vhagar worked up would be a problem for everyone.

(Or just Lucerys!)

But this is a meeting of lovers, and they are enjoying themselves. It's not Daemon's place to go nitpicking, and it's sweet, besides, to see him this way. If he regrets this night, it'll be because someone heard Aemond screaming his name in obvious sexual ecstasy, not because he didn't correct his nephew on his dragon. Surely. ]

Mmhm. [ Amused. Daemon is careful despite the invitation, and he does not yet touch her. ] My lady, thank you for the audience.

[ It should sound insincere, considering the lightness of his voice, but it somehow doesn't. He hums then, an upbeat tune he learned living in the Free Cities; he thinks it must be a rendition of something very old, because Laena learned it and said it was Vhagar's favorite. The common tongue in Essos is a dialect of Old Valyrian. ]

... I was right, she does love you.

[ As long as no one shoots flames at her rider to try and cook him, everything will be fine. No one will do that tonight, at least! Good times. Aemond pouts when Daemon won't come closer (mildly proud of that as he is) and he gives Vhagar's nose a scratch where she can never reach between her nostrils. ]

I will see you when you are saddled, when we will win the race.

[ Vhagar retreats, knowing where to find the Dragonkeepers, and Aemond sashays confidently back over to his uncle where he leans in for a kiss. ]

Everyone in the room has good taste then, don't they?

[ He wants to fly, restless and keen for it. Eager still for the taste of Daemon again before the wind scours it from his mouth. ]

[ Indeed, Caraxes knows much better than a scared juvenile. He learned warring from Vhagar, and much like Daemon, isn't frightened of her a whit. It would be a challenge to battle her, and one the red dragon would relish— though of course, that's an empty thought. ]

Yes, I believe we do.

[ Daemon gives him that kiss, and skims hands along his upper arms, affectionate, before he turns to gather the torch. ]

Would you like to meet Caraxes?

[ —Assuming the answer to that is yes, because Aemond is as much of a dragon nerd as his uncle, they'll quickly find him, lurking with his nightmare grin, head swiveling on his long snake's neck. A very different kind of threatening than Vhagar, Caraxes with his too-smart gaze always carries the potential for mayhem, tangible in the air around him.

Also, despite his head waiting to observe Daemon and his guest, his body is inched as far to the exit as it'll go, eager to be out of this blasted place. Daemon clicks his tongue at him in a scolding way, but there's no heat in it, and so his dragon relents and oils his way closer. ]

[ If he was ordered to war in the moment, arms around Daemon and lips under his, Vhagar would be Daemon's to sway through Aemond. But, this is a nightly jaunt, nothing serious is being asked of either of them (even if the kiss is true and devoted).

He absolutely wants to see Caraxes, following along as a shadow while Daemon cools off the snake-necked beast. The Blood Wyrm is beautiful in his own way although unnervingly swift with the movements of his head, as unpredictable as his rider. Aemond sticks close by Daemon by contrast to their audience with Vhagar, visions of Caraxes looping around his rider to snap at him seeming very real possibilities when before the dragon himself. ]

Greetings, Caraxes.

This is Prince Aemond, Vhagar's new ward.

[ Wise, to stay close to Daemon— Caraxes is more personable, as far as dragons go, but there's a sharp sense that he's only 'friendly' for the sake of getting into the fatal strike zone. His head sways to them, going directly to Aemond first, scouring him with gold eyes and smelling him deeply. ]

Don't be so nosy, [ Daemon teases him, aware that his dragon is smelling Daemon on Aemond, as well as Vhagar. He reaches over to rub his snout and Caraxes shakes his head like a horse before pressing forward, catching more contact with his rider's hand, and stealing another deep inhale of Aemond's scent.

The exhale of warm, rancid dragon-breath feels like a laugh. ]

You can touch him— alright, alright. [ Waylaid by Caraxes shoving his head into Daemon's chest then twisting, demanding more pets. He gets them, and Daemon chatters away at him, calling him handsome, and for a moment it's like he's the twenty year old.

But this night won't last forever, and so it's not long before Daemon tells him See you out there, and Caraxes at once withdraws and slips out, long body moving like streaks of paint. ]

[ Cleaving close to Daemon as Caraxes sniffs out his essence all over Aemond, he dares (when bidden) to run his hand over the red scales at the same moment. His attention is divided though, between the magnificent beast and how light-hearted Daemon is with him, a violet eye taking in the rare sight of the most dangerous man in King's Landing cooing handsome over his dragon. That's awfully cute.

(He relaxes significantly once Caraxes retreats, however.)

Aemond's gaze rests on Daemon with a stifled smile, eye dancing with mirth after seeing him so emotive and honestly happy. ]

We're going to leave you eating our clouds, you know. Fair warning. [ Was it a race? It is now. He can't tamp down on his competitiveness, nudging Daemon as he moves by him. ] Go fetch yourself a warm cloak, old man, I wouldn't want you saying I won because your bones seized up from the night's frost.

[ He is absolutely going to try and trot out of Daemon's way after that, a laugh buckling in his chest. ]

Edited 2022-10-25 11:56 (UTC)

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