dohaeras | open post/cont. threads etc

[ Tsk, what does Aemond know about whores.

No matter how many times he finds himself in one alcove or another, the thrill of being wanted eagerly never diminishes— his nephew's needy noises, the way his body tries to mold itself against his, those desperate hands, the hard line of his cock through his leathers. All the more vibrant and compelling thanks to their blood bond, which sends a line of fire down his spine and out to every nerve ending in his body. Daemon thinks the younger man should be able to feel it burning into his own skin, each of them like brands against the other. ]

Mmmn.

[ Performative delaying, as he rubs his hand over Aemond's chest and lower, where his fingers tuck into the waistband of his breeches. His own arousal is steadily hardening, a craving in a hurry to find more. It should take him longer, at his age, but he is the inverse of poor Viserys; his brother wastes while Daemon is hardly touched by his years at all.

The scar is hideous. The scar is beautiful. Impressive, no matter what it is. Ghastly, and an excellent shot by little Lucerys. (The boys had been too abashed to give him a replay in front of their mother no matter how he goaded, but his girls obliged.) Daemon strokes through Aemond's hair and tugs the rest of it free from its clasp, rubbing where the straps of the patch press in the most. The jewel lodged in his skull is perversely artistic. He wonders why he bothers covering it up at all. ]

... Screaming, preferably. [ A kiss, teeth indenting his lower lip. ] Does that ache still trouble you?

[ Another kiss, the knuckles of his hand in Aemond's trousers pressing into skin, along the arc of his hipbone, and when their mouths part again his teasing is in High Valyrian, ] Shall I tame it for you?

[ His hair falls free around Daemon's kneading hand and as it's played with he struggles to keep his eye half-open, far more vulnerable and relaxed than he is around anyone else. Foolishly, yes, but he doesn't believe Daemon would attack him here, not like this where an ignoble fight in the dark would reflect badly on both of them (they are not like other men, after all), nor does he intend to be governed by whatever prejudices his mother spouts. So Aemond tries to let his anxieties quieten under the gentle touches and searing kisses, following the fire in his blood instead that translates into YouYouYou, I want you.

He barely traps a gasp behind his teeth when a caress slips along his hip, clutching at Daemon's clothes to hold fast. The kiss parts and he laughs under his breath, aiming to take some control by nuzzling his way along his uncle's jaw and fastening a biting, scraping kiss on his neck, nosing aside shorter pale hair. ]

I'm not opposed to you trying, certainly.

[ Brattish and bold, he arches in to feel more of him. ]

[ A sticky trap indeed: Aemond should know better than to trust a man who not a fortnight ago severed another's face clean in half from behind with no warning, and yet, Daemon is certain that very incident is what set the kindling of his nephew's lust ablaze. Which is impossibly, dangerously charming. A vicious creature of his own kind.

Dragons circling each other must not let go of their tails, else they risk the fire.

Daemon lets him get his teeth in, enjoying it with his head tipped back for a moment. He hums, and then shifts the trajectory of both hands to the closure of Aemond's tunic. Unbuttoning, unbuckling, no hints of fumbling. He touches Aemond like it's what he's supposed to be doing, like the body he's exposing exists only to be petted by him, and he does, running his hands over him, rucking up the silken undershirt, delving onto skin. ]

It sounds so much lovelier from your mouth than it does on the ravens.

Does it, uncle? Do you like to hear me speak of how much I want you?

[ His voice is a purr of pleasure, the murmur of High Valyrian crossing to the other side of Daemon's neck so Aemond can leave kisses everywhere a pulse can be found with his tracing tongue. He's his own worst enemy when it comes to pushing into Daemon's space for more, swaying forward as his tunic is undone and shrugging it off to the floor, left in a shirt he wishes he hadn't worn ... He's too dizzy with need. Where is the bed?

Wanting too much and not having enough hands for it, he palms his way between them and finds the line of a burgeoning erection to stroke with long, light fingers, meanwhile grazing his teeth along a jaw. ]

Does it please you to hear that I've let no other man sink his seed inside me since last you had me? That none of them were good enough to claim me? That I only want you?

[ As quick as a dragon snapping its jaws, Daemon grabs Aemond's hand and holds it there against himself, making sure he can feel just how hard he's getting for him. He thickens further under the attention, still confined in his leathers and behind his belt (what else, to wear to the pit?), an ache of his own steadily building pressure.

Yes, clear as anything. Daemon, too, is greedy. ]

You know that it does. [ Daemon begins to walk him back, hand still captured, his other one fisted in Aemond's shirt and using it like reins, ] You were meant for me to teach pleasure to. Meant for me to spill inside and coax those noises from.

[ To the bed, and Aemond's collection of furs. Daemon pushes him down on it, a controlled motion, not a shove, kneeling at the edge of it and removing that shirt. ]

It will always be so.

[ Blood runs thick. These chains will not be broken, no matter what comes. ]

[ Keeping his pride underwraps when Daemon reacts, he moves backwards at his bidding and sinks down on the bed. Dutiful, well-behaved. Less so when freed of his shirt and faced with thighs he runs his hands along, skimming his way up to a belt where he starts working it free. ]

'Always' has a lot of gaps in it. Shall I name the men who served in my bed since last you deigned to teach me? Adryn Tarbeck, David Marbrand ...

[ Smiling softly as he needles at Daemon's possessiveness, Aemond flicks a coy look up at him and bats his lashes over violet and blue as if unaware of the effect his words might take. A dangerous game, but he wants to feel the truth of you were meant for me. Daemon adores Aemond's half-sister, yes, fine, but Daemon is still here and keen to have him. Blood-right is one thing yet Aegon isn't here; Aemond flatters himself that (despite his eye) his youth, cleverness, and strength have something to do with it, mired somewhere in Rhaenyra being predictable and, well. Old. Not her fault. Marriage can't be a thrillingly romantic adventure all the time, he's sure.

Daemon doesn't covet things lightly, Aemond has observed. If he was less careless with words, he would call him picky. ]

Would you like a full list?

[ Oh, but he does like this move, pinpricking as it is. Daemon grabs his hands again and leans in so he can press a hard kiss to his mouth. Little shit.

Followed by a warm laugh, which is perhaps not what his nephew expected— ]

You should very much indulge where you like. [ He won't adulterate their tongue with talk of others. ] Your list of boys is no doubt carefully curated, clever dragon.

[ Which is, sidebar, almost a shame. Daemon can acknowledge the sense of it, particularly from someone so worked up about bastards, but he thinks Aemond would be beautiful fucking a woman and he'd like to see it. ]

But you will feel this pull forever, no matter how many you lose yourself in.

[ Daemon knows far too well. Perhaps a part of himself had even doubted it, before Rhaenyra. But she is in him like his own soul, and he has ever been distracted by her— will ever be, no matter what befalls them (or what he does to her). It is ecstasy, it is torture. He loves her, but he'd also loved Laena, and the final years with his Velaryon wife were colored by his distance. He walked into this knowing he was accepting another maddening tether; he could no more deny it than he can deny Rhaenyra, who is not predictable, nor old, but simply in possession of a husband disinclined to restrain himself. She is in this bed with them, through Daemon, just like Daemon will be in every bed Aemond takes for the rest of his days.

And like Aemond will be with him.

The trade off is what makes it impossible to deny: glorious, when he kisses his nephew, undoing his own belt and setting it aside (more warning signs going unheeded, that he truly doesn't go anywhere without Dark Sister), when he runs his hands down his bare chest to feel him, dragging lines of fire over his skin. ]

[ Maddening. In a good way, or the only way it can feel good to be so gently taught (chastised, his pride mildly smarts), like learning how to hold and wield a new weapon. Speaking of ... Dark Sister is given a glance as Daemon kisses him; Aemond is glad it gets set far aside, as much as he knows it wasn't going to be used. Seeing Daemon slice a man like a cabbage is one thing but the blade has his mislike in a bedchamber.

He wants his hands back, tugging at them to reach for Daemon, meaning to pull him down to the bed if allowed. That control being wrested away is new when no one else tells him No or Wait with their words let alone actions, and he resolves to make himself harder to resist instead of easy to scold. Kissing Daemon eagerly, he arches under his hands to let him feel out his scars from this and that, no battles but marks from the yard, a tumble or bump from Vhagar there ... for the most part, Aemond has pale, wiry muscles and his skin rises pink wherever Daemon manhandles him, rosy scores impressed as he rises into them. ]

You are too far away, [ he complains, hair tossing over a shoulder, ] I want to touch you. Come down to me, uncle.

[ He's not an idiot. Here lies Prince Daemon, murdered because he believed his nephew would bed him in the dragonpit. Horrendous epitaph. She'll come along, no matter the chances.

Daemon relents, soothing young pride, and allows Aemond to tug him forward. He pushes the prince further up onto his furs and kneels over him, weight on his knees as he maps those small scars of ordinary Targaryen living— so much like Daemon's own body had been before the years of that shit war in the Stepstones. Practice, and play, and dragons.

He moves Aemond's hands again, this time to the clasps on his own tunic. Permission, while he doesn't quite settle down low enough to rub their hips together. ]

Too far away, while I can taste your mouth on mine?

[ With a levelling look (that he feels is more stern than pouting, but he cannot see himself) he undoes each clasp and pushes the damnable tunic aside, quick hands flying to the hem of a shirt where he can ruck it up and feel Daemon himself, from hip to chest in greedy caresses, mindful he might be stopped again. He spreads his fingers and runs his nails over him in return, arching up to beg a kiss. ]

Always too far.

[ He doesn't mean to sound so put-out, with no idea how to navigate the heavy desire pulling at his blood with invisible hooks to everywhere Daemon is. Aemond has no wife of many years to have sated the yearning and can't fathom why he should draw it out now, as much as he revels in every moment.

Long hair splayed around him in a silver-gold halo, he gives in to his frustrations and lends them voice. ]

It feels like being burned alive when you're not with me, and not hot enough to turn to the ash I should be when you are.

Edited 2022-10-23 19:40 (UTC)

[ Burn together, she'd told him. Daemon had still been reeling, and even then he knew it was true. He does not yet know what their tides of blood have in store for he and Aemond— he has looked before at the spitfire young man and thought, in exasperation, That boy will be the death of me.

Daemon touches the side of Aemond's face, and strokes his hand down his throat, over his chest, settling both at his waist to tug him a little closer before he begins to work on the closure of his trousers. He wants to feel how hard he is in his bare hands. ]

Ash feels nothing.

[ And that would be a tragedy.

Daemon curls his fingers around Aemond's stiff length, exposing him to the firelit room, rubbing his thumb up the underside to tease the head. Watching his face as he does, wanting to drink in the way he responds. Rhaenyra isn't old but she's no longer Aemond's age, caught in the throes of youth when everything is intense and new enough to drive one mad. ]

[ His gaze rests on Daemon as the elder prince's touch glides lower, only breaking with a flutter of lashes when the laces of Aemond's leathers are undone (by the gods, at last) and he moans against his own will to be teased so, hips bucking and hands grasping at whatever of Daemon they were on before, scratching his waist and digging into his uncle's shoulder. Eyes closing properly for the first time, the wave of want suffers itself to be felt from head to toe and his head tips back into his hair.

After catching his (embarrassingly weak) breath, Aemond croaks his way through their mothertongue. ]

I had an hour, [ he confesses it in a rush, preferring to be bold and get it over with before it sticks in his throat like a humiliating burr, ] I touched myself. For you. I ...

[ He's been uncomfortable in his leathers for so long since the servants were sent off with instructions and he had time to kill, making full use of it to sink oiled fingers inside and ensure he was prepared while gripping his bedpost for support, too impatient to wait. Precome smears under Daemon's thumb but farther back the reason for Aemond's impatient squirming to get closer is there also, sticky-hot from being stretched.

He doesn't want to be shy, wilfully opening his eyes to meet any laughter if it is coming. ]

[ Daemon should laugh— he's a man who buries his real emotions deep, deeper than any dragon cave, meeting everything with mocking indifference and inappropriate laughter, even when he's screaming and raging down in the depths of himself. So rare to pull it out with any honesty.

But Aemond's desperation disarms him. The thought of him here, fingers in himself, gritting his teeth to muffle sounds with only their dragons to hear him, cuts through him like a hot blade. So he's treated to the look on his uncle's face, open with surprise, the dark violet of his eyes burning. Rare that they look like this, mistakable for brown if he's not out of his mind with fury, or arousal.

He surges in, forcing a brutal kiss on his nephew. Hissed against his mouth— ]

Beautiful.

[ When he rears back it's not to break them apart, but merely give himself room to pry the younger man's boots off, and peel him out of his breeches. That particular smell of sweat in leather around the lingering musk of dragons and smoke from the fire is headier than it should be, to top it all off. ]

[ The breath and relief are knocked out of him by the kiss ('Beautiful'), surging up into it. Helping to kick off his remaining clothes, he yanks and tugs at Daemon's to get both shirt and open tunic divested in a hurry, sitting up to work on his uncle's breeches. Not before more kisses are demanded, biting now and then as is his wont, but now with a smile. ]

Come back to me, hurry. I want to ride you like I promised, uncle, let me have you.

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

Did you climax while you waited?

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

No, I didn't.

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

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

Uncle.

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

Nephew.

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

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

Tell me how badly you want it.

[ Then—

A breathless laugh. ]

Ah, fuck it.

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

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

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

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

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

[ As noted. Beautiful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His cock throbs. Godsdamnit.

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

Breathe with me.

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

It's alright, he fine.

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

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

You are all I want.

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

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

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

You have me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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