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βif you and i are both still alive and miserable,
i propose we begin to hunt each other for sportβ
way harsh tai
A retort fills his lungs but dies behind his teeth. Aemond should take care when speaking of brothers. He traverses thin hypocritical ice.
Daemon looks at his nephew with a particular temperature in his eyes. Obvious that something has landed, though what it's elicited is harder to divineβ angry, predatory, a mixture? He offers no further verbal clues. He'd feel gratified by a full blown fight here, but he doesn't want to give Aemond the satisfaction of having set him off.
Not yet, anyway. There may come a time (perhaps soon) where he decides it's just as gratifying for himself to give in and take a fucking swing. There's something delightful about it, in a twisted way, to be on the receiving end of his own brand of instigation.
Instead of any of that: ]
He's had a long day.
[ Gracious. ]
Of course, we both have. Why don't you continue with my nephew, I'm happy to wait.
[ Go ahead and have first crack at picking a room, kiddo. Uncle Fuckface will hang out and twiddle his thumbs in the meantime. ]
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What's this about not giving Aemond the satisfaction? His uncle's expression is not easy to divine, but it is something; something is better than nothing. All considering, that quip was a shot in the dark (at best, a shot in dim light). Very different relationships had with his brothers compared to Daemon and his father. Some things just tend to ring truer than others. Turns out he was right.
To watch the temper bloom across Daemon's face tells him all he needs to know. As composed as he remains, the look shoots a chill down Aemond's spine. Should he be scared? Thrilled? Concerned?
There is something dark reflected in the young prince's obvious delight as he relishes his very small victory — having found a rugged path to getting under his uncle's skin. He barely smiles, taunting as he had drawn the ire of the fallen star beast. Daring it to come try to strike.
Their gallery is obliquely aware that it would be wise to heed the elder prince's suggestion. Any moment longer spent shared in this cramped hallway could spell disaster. A little nudge and belated agreement break up the veil of tension settled over their cohort. The young prince drops his gaze without a word to turn around to allow his escort lead him the way.
Have fun, fuckface.
The hold is expansive enough with its pinwheel of wings. Something suitable is found where they feel confident enough to leave him alone. Anticipating him following through on his very threatening sounding warning, a pass through the hold's central chamber is required. Though, there's no need for Aemond to get his hands dirty now. He had gotten in the last word (the better last word anyway). Nor does he expect Daemon to stoop to disturbing the peace this time. Much like the night before, that would mean proving something right.
The room he is given was meant for two. The secondary bed lies barren of blankets and covered in books by the last occupant. It's not as nice as the lord and lady's keep. The linens are more ragged, fixtures dusty, rug faded with constant treading. The reading is good enough to occupy him, if only for a time.]
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Daemon visits his room, and he minds his manners. The jagged edges beneath his polite smiles seem very apparent to some and completely invisible to others; more of a mix than he's used to, but that's fine. (He has no choice but to accept it all as fine.)
Days in the Lands Between are vague, no matter how pitch black nights are. They are even more vague here. He occupies himself and it could be for hours, or fucking weeks. He talks, he collects, he finds out precisely where his nephew's quarters are. For safety, you see. Wouldn't want to go wandering into the wrong neighborhood. Of course, of course, very understandable and proactive. (His nephew, he said?) (They seem royal, you know how those cunts are.) (Yes, well.)
There is a man poring over scrolls and books who is interested in the language they spoke to each other upon their arrival; Daemon is coy. There is a witch dealing in fucking corpses; Daemon is sympathetic. All manner of oddities, blacksmiths, gamblers, would-be heroes, a man who dies before his eyes, sitting in a corner and turning to golden dust. He buys a potion for a promise, and drinks it.
A funny tale. Sipping dreams. It'll be on his mouth for a whileβ
Knock knock.
No armor, his hair down, black linen and leather. Daemon is leaning against the stone relief that decorates the door to Aemond's chamber. He looks very placid. ]
I thought you might like to get it out of your system.
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It's impossible to tell what time had passed before Daemon came around to haunting his doorway. At some point he had tried to sleep. One futile task handed over to another, letting his guard slip perpetually down. Daemon finds him with his arms rested on open knees in a chair beside the fire, book pried open between his hands.
It is unexpected.
And like the tragic piece of prey he is, Aemond freezes with one eye fixed at the wall before him. Very, very briefly before tipping his book on the Stormlords of Stormhill (dry stuff, more limbs than expected) shut between his hands.]
Killing you? [Aemond regards him as he sits up to rise out of his chair. Book ditched in a measured toss onto a footstool. Cheeky, but in a way where it's still kind of not a joke.
By the look of it, would not be Daemon's intent to get even for his baby concussion. It's difficult to pin what the prince expects to what he actually sees in Daemon. Only that he appears far less patronizing than Aemond would now come to expect from him by now. It is mildly disarming.]
Was that your actual thought?
[ How merciful of him. Still a cheeky little shit, but a softer one. Ambling a step or two into the center of the room. It's the only armor he has left. At least when it blows up in his face, he'll feel less like a fool. There is an earnest curiousness to how he says it. If one listens hard enough. Don't put this all on him. He didn't start this.]
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A shame that context looms so large.
He steps inside, unavoidably predatory despite the casual way he's put himself together. There's just always something like that about Daemonβ even in domestic situations, he has an air of recently retrained wild animal about him. This place is no exception, and though he's treating this mysterious castle like he's at home on Dragonstone carrying on practically in socked feet, he is still approaching an opponent in his own bolthole without fear. Inherently threatening. But Aemond's got a book on hand, so. ]
Do you want to try?
[ Killing him. Might be fun.
Still no fear as he draws close, and closer, right in Aemond's face if his nephew doesn't shy away. He doesn't think he will, though. He thinks the younger prince will stubbornly hold his ground even if he thinks Daemon might attack him.
The door is closed behind him. He reaches out to grasp Aemond by his hip and jerk him forward, chest to chest. ]
Well?
[ He kisses him. ]
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The coin could have landed either way on his showing up. He had baited him and managed to pierce something underneath Daemon's cooled surface in the process. Naturally, Aemond expects retaliation. He expects violence because that is almost all he knows and it's what he might have done. No matter how assuming the predatory sauntering, and the lapsed demeanor, there is no reason to trust Daemon. There is all the reason to expect him to turn and strike at the very last moment.
All that context looming should count for something. Yet, the moment comes, and all it would seem by the sharp incline of breath that rips through the young prince's nose indicates that he's wrong.
It all sort of collapses inward — dragged in like the starfallen beast's well of violet gravity. Aemond couldn't stop himself from meeting Daemon's mouth. Welcomed to a feeling that is not unfamiliar, even if he couldn't ever pin it before. A pull that comes from somewhere very deep.
Almost as soon as it begins, Aemond is reaching for him. His fist curling into black linen would almost seem to lock him into it, pushing back against his mouth. The other pinches Daemon's jaw firmly between finger and thumb, abruptly wrenching the kiss apart with a rattling grip.
He's still angry, it floods back to the surface of him like a tide. Heat and feeling palpable in the small breath of space he's put between them. He refuses to back down and yet he cannot allow himself to move forward. Suspended in a state of lingering that may very well cause him to implode.
Does he want to try? Almost as though Daemon already knows he still can't fucking do it. It's infuriating. What's almost more infuriating is that he has absolutely nothing to say for himself. ]
Fuck you.
[ More of a whisper than a hiss, but it comes from the heart. Almost as angry as it is weary, because he is conceding. With all due respect, it is exhausting having to feel everything all the time. ]
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Fuck you, in his own way. ]
I know. [ Close against Aemond's mouth. He knows, he knows about everything; it is exhausting, it is maddening. ] Let it pass through you for a moment.
[ They are all meant for this, all of them of their blood; Aegon the Conqueror only truly found it in his bastard half-brother, Viserys found it in his cousin, maybe Aemond found it in his sister, or displaced the boiling call of blood onto his mother, who even now might be throwing herself out of a window or kowtowing to Rhaenyra.
Has Daemon ever really found it? He still doesn't know. He loved Laena, he loved Rhaenyra, he loved Viserys.
Close, closer, and he kisses his nephew again, pushing past the sharp grab of his fingers. ]
Make me bleed this way, if you have to, [ is breathed against his mouth. Hands curl closer. He doesn't budge.
(Daemon doesn't know what the potion will to, if anything. To him or to Aemond. He felt dizzy for a few moments, then nothing; perhaps they will see something shared, perhaps it will be nothing, perhaps they'll both go mad with a curse.) ]
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All he's wanted is for Daemon to burn too. To see in him something equally unbridled, to incur the wrath Aemond has so earned. He has earned nothing else. Certainly, nothing as nice as this feels.
It is impossible to separate everything, he cannot do as he is told. Daemon's body is warm and flush with his, unyielding and welcoming. He allows himself to sink into it. One quiet shuddered breath caught up in the slight part before their kiss. The sharpness of his fingers slip away, entangling themselves in the soft curled hair along the nape of Daemon's neck.
Contrary to all, this time his return is a steadier welcoming.
Sabotage is a fleeting thought as he places the indelicate taste on Daemon's tongue as he pushes deeper into his mouth. The herbs of this land are still largely foreign. They taste nothing of the brews and tonics that Alys once had given him to aid his sleep. Perhaps it's a poison, perhaps it's only a tonic Daemon took to ease his ailing headache. Presently, he doesn't care what it makes of either of them.
If there is an effect, he cannot parse it between everything else firing off. Which of it (if not all of it) makes the young prince feel heady. Between the grief, the guilt, the anger, and the desire, the call of their blood thrums behind it all. If set free, it would try to claw itself a frenzy to become one again.
He had never heeded it before, he had never even gotten the chance. Now after scouring a foreign land and a place that no longer knows time, it takes everything else left in him not to be immediately baited by ravenousness.]
i prewrote that in a word doc and still made all those typos lmao fml
His emotions have been truncated again and again; Daemon wants to be listened to, and he wants to be honest, and he has run into endless punishment for what feels like simply existing. Quiet obedience was rejected, screaming rebellion was rejected, laughter was rejected. Asking, begging, demanding, all met with stone. Distant bitterness is the last refuge he has.
A bitterness which doesn't translate strongly to the taste in his mouth, which fades as the kiss melts from the initial clash into a proper one. It does nothing, apparentlyβ but that's fine, Daemon would have come to pester him regardless. He hadn't known what he was going to do right up until pushing the door open.
(It's a dream potion, you idiot, you have to be asleep.)
A thread of tension unwinds as he licks into his nephew's mouth, curling his tongue against his, gently but firmly sinking into hedonistic sensation. He's not sure if he'd actually rather do this than fight, but it satisfies a buzzing in his head that's on a different pitch than violence. Blood aches for blood, and they are the last. ]
rip. meanwhile i just continue to write with -0 chill and vomit a wall of feelings
He only ever wanted to prove himself, he only ever wanted affection. For some reason no one in this family could ever love one another unconditionally. Aemond had not the time to be boiled down to a muted bitterness, but he had poorly tempered himself for so long. To be what son he thought that everyone wanted so that he could simply be seen. In one fell stroke, he squandered it all. Whatever love he had cultivated became cursed by the stain of kin's blood.
In a way he would never admit (even to himself), he too is sorry that he is all Daemon has left. His tainted blood.
It's not enough to stop him from taking what's being given. If nothing else, it acts a boon to his loneliness. ( He had taken what Alys had given then too in those first nights at Harrenhal. Knowing her intentions could only be self serving. ) A desperate comfort in something warm and familiar, the fire pulsing through their blood.
It doesn't take much until it becomes inevitable Aemond wants to get closer than he can be in that moment. Releasing the crinkled linen of Daemon's shirt he had been clinging since his approach in favor of pulling his arms around his uncle's shoulders. Firmly pressed and off his heels in so much that his balance lies more in Daemon's hands.
When hesitation burns out, what gentleness there is gets cornered into something akin to a crushing against Daemon's mouth. As if Aemond determined to drag his elder down both physically and to meet him in his spiraling neediness.
The tethering of their blood beckons. Though he presently has no need to draw Daemon's blood in his persistent cause for revenge, he still desires it greatly. And as previously encouraged, he bites down rather hard upon Daemon's lip to draw his bitterness into his mouth. ]
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Does he love her now?
Aemond's kiss grows fiercer and Daemon meets him, holding him close and letting him sway forward, tolerating the bloodletting. (Barely-there, the finest scar bisecting his lower lip, the promise of his final marriage.) He can feel the fire in him and the gravity of his need, like a drowning child clawing at a rescuer to unwittingly sabotage. He rewards his nephew with a grunt that's as much ouch as it is enjoyment. He breaks the kiss for a moment to drag in a breath, and to let blood well on the little wound, to give Aemond more of the copper-tasting redness when he crushes their mouths together again.
Held by someone who hates him. Everything is so twisted and ruined, perhaps it's love, and he just has to hate more to get through to the other side. Daemon thinks of progressing this, distantly calculating the odds of success vs embarrassment, and realizes with bleak humor that it'll be no issue. But of course. Desperation has taken root in him, too. ]
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It's not so different, the desire to kill Daemon and the desire to fuck him. It's similarly satisfying to get him to strike in a fight as it is to feel his own neediness mirrored back at him. He wonders if achieving either will truly purge his need for it. At the moment, it doesn't feel feasible nor very wise. Though by now Aemond is proficient in doing very stupid and unwise things.
What does slow the very reckless careening forward is the taste of blood blooming in his mouth. Relief along a wave of dizziness. Footing between them a bit more uneasy until it passes and Aemond begins to pull back onto his heels. Be it the magic in their blood or what brew flows through Daemon's bloodstream hitting him now. It's not for him to know.
Pulling back a bit further. Aemond unwinds himself enough to turn his attempted drowning into a more purposeful pulling. Blind navigation back towards whichever bed has less on it. Balking for air isn't achieved without first wringing Daemon's lip between his teeth. Unwilling to let anything go at this point under the threat of reason returning.]
What accord will this be? [ He asks as quiet as it is breathless.] Going to fuck me tonight and throttle me in the morning?
[ It falls just short of a steamy taunt that likely could have been. Not enough heat. If anything, it's more likely his move. If anything, he is far less certain of what this is becoming. ]
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(Screwing around with another of his brother's children. If only you hadn't denied me, Viserys.)
He keeps a hand on Aemond, following him, observing the heading. Doesn't show it, but he's surprised that the younger prince is so immediately intentβ perhaps he expected a little more blood, or a denial.
But all of that is tiring. ]
Shall we be bosom friends in the morning instead? [ Just as quiet, but wry. Be Reasonable, Kiddo. Neither of them believe they're boyfriends now. ] A gamble. Who wakes up first? You have your youth and your studiousness, perhaps you're an early riser.
[ His hand moves from Aemond's side to the small of his back, encroaching on his space again. No better time for a throttling than any given morning after. ]
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There's draw to the innate ease of which Daemon moves, rewarding the perpetual storm of Aemond's caustic affection. Disarming, in a good way. The young prince may be trying to run away with the initiative, but he's not quite the one in control.
One step more and he stops. Presumably because he might trip if he wanders further. Allowing Daemon to fold him in once more. His back arches under the steadiness of his uncle's hand. Preserving the space between hovering mouths with a slighter tilt of his head. ]
As if you aren't a light sleeper.
[ He refuses to believe anything otherwise. There's a stalemate for their future selves. Easily remedied if Aemond would just kick him out.
Despite everything, he wants more. His instincts are screaming that he shouldn't be here. That he's standing in a pit of vipers. He should be drawing more blood, he should have too much pride to sleep with his enemy. Besides, it's not him Daemon actually wants. It's that decrepit, pathetic excuse of a brother-king he probably thinks of now.
Yet, Aemond persists. Pressed hip to hip with his uncle because he knows he can find some numbing comfort of his own in some part of it. Because their blood commands something in him stronger than his hate. Because maybe he's wanted this longer than knowing it. ]
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[ Dead-but-not. Days seem dull even at high noon with no clouds, even with the glowing gold tree stretched out all over them; the night is dark and full of terrors, yes, but it seems so often to differentiate less than it should. How long does he sleep? How deep?
This is a piss-poor idea. Daemon should leave, even if Aemond doesn't kick him out. He should hook his consciousness into a way to make it about using the younger man, but of course it doesn't take. No handles on this blade, just two sharp ends, and they've both got a hold on it like fucking idiots.
It'd be better if he was thinking of Viserys.
Better, too, probably, if he would just unstick himself and contribute to the forward momentum of this stupidity. Pitch them further into the fire that they want, start peeling skin and bone back to get to the heart, where he's sure they're both rotten.
Instead there's another hurdle to set out. ]
You'll have to ask me to stay.
[ Or he won't.
Different kinds of monsters. Daemon works in a particular way. ]
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A flicker across Aemond's expression, if it can even be appropriately gleaned from here, reads discomfited. The fine fabric of Daemon's shirt kneaded between his finger and thumb. An idled, subliminal gesture.
It feels redundant. It feels like he's just being asked to verbally sign his own death warrant. Waiving his liability in case Daemon decides to bite a little too hard. ]
Is it not already obvious?
[ If his uncle were to walk away now, why did he even come to Aemond's room in the first place? If Aemond were to turn him away, it certainly would've been earlier. Not in the intermission between trying to devour his face and getting pinned into a shitty straw mattress. He already made his choice, dug his grave, whatever may come.
A little indignant chin lift. To better look him in the eye. ] Or do you just want me to say it?
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A huff, sighlike, and Daemon slides his hand up over his nephew's front to low on his throat, not grabbing him, but holding himβ somewhere in between tender and electric, looking into that lone eye and its gruesome scar that slips over the confines of its patch. (Ha ha. Luc got him good.) ]
I do. [ Higher, thumb against Aemond's lower lip. ] I want you to say that you want me to stay in your room, and fuck you. And I want to believe you.
[ It'd be funny, if the only thing he ever learns from his uncle being enthusiastic consent is erotic. He's not thinking of all the rumors about Aegon, or if the witch poisoned Aemond to make him fuck her. This is just what Daemon prefers, on account of his own long and strange history of experiences.
A little humorous, then. Like they're sharing a secret joke: ]
How often do any of us get what we want?
[ What'll it be? Deny him for the evening? Pocket this experience to ask for something later? Find something satisfying right here and now? ]
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Arguably, Aemond's self-sabotage started long before he resorted to razing the Riverlands. It was leaving family defenseless in King's Landing on the hunt for a glory kill. It was chasing Lucerys Velaryon on dragonback to teach him a lesson. It was picking a fight in a dim tunnel when he was stupidly outnumbered.
Then again, as with most things, Daemon has done it longer. In death it would seem neither of them are capable of learning their lesson. Not even after the flicker that passes through him as Daemon's fingers graze along his throat (That wound is still too fresh. He'd tasted Daemon's blood then too.)
Aemond grants no immediate answer. It's as if he is behaving on some fundamental instinct that itches to challenge him. For all the obedience he has granted to others his whole life, gaining nothing in return. His uncle has earned naught a drop of it. Yet the idea of granting it to him, the young prince finds, is thrilling.
Perhaps only a beat in passing, Aemond carefully teases at his own lip, jaw fixing under his hold. ]
I don't want you to go. [ Hard truths land quieter than intended. The bravado builds back as he continues. Subtle shifting of his chin down to ease along the pad of Daemon's thumb. ] I want you to stay, and I want you to fuck me until I can forget that we're both stuck in this miserable place.
[ Tall order or just elegiacally asking to get his brain's fucked out. Either way.]
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A challenge. Aemond seems to mean it, though. Daemon presses his thumb against his nephew's mouth, since he's searching for it, up onto his lower lip and in to the row of pearly teeth that he's sure would slice him to ribbons as easy as a dragon's if they could. ]
Why Prince Aemond, [ he murmurs, stepping into him, other hand coming to his shoulder. ] That was quite the display at dinner.
[ He wants to forget where they are.
Too much? Too stupid? Or just right?
Daemon replaces his thumb with his mouth. A sharper kiss, deeper, tongue pushing into his mouth and tasting him; he doesn't have to think at all about the blood between them, or about his brother making lovers for him, because he feels it without conscious thought. ]
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If Daemon was keen enough to catch it, his nephew fights a cracking smile. Teeth almost catching his thumb as it withdraws. As someone who thinks themselves too smart to laugh at a stupid joke, he wrestles it all the way down.
It is stupid. It is also not an unappealing idea in the middle of the ocean of their bad ideas. To drown out pallid stone gray walls and replace them with earthen red ones.
It works, regardless. Aemond soon meets sharpness with sharpness. A low, relieved groan gets swallowed up by Daemon's mouth. A hand slithers its way back into Daemon's hair, pulling at him firmly.
Distantly, he wonders if he might find the goose egg he planted on his uncle's skull. He could at least chalk some of this up to concussed madness. Aemond has less to blame. Perhaps it's the blood, but it can't take all the credit. Here, crushing himself against his uncle beyond just wanting his blood.
Some part of him still smells like Caraxes' musk. Baked into perhaps his clothes, the roots of his hair, something. Faint enough to where Aemond is uncertain if he's imagining it. ]
Eager to put me in— [ More quiet taunting interrupted by hungry mouths. Perhaps his own. ]— my place for it, uncle?
[ Looked it, he remembers. Since, Aemond has apparently not learned the principles of 'fuck around and find out' Daemon seemed keen on demonstrating that day. Pulling at his uncle again with fingers curling into the shirt at his back, the young prince's only been keen on finding out. ]
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Because it's something else, too. He picks a time before.
Viserys is still alive, Lucerys is still alive, Rhaenyra and Alicent are eying each other with forgiveness, everyone's biggest worry is another scuffle over breakfast, and whether or not Rhaena will hold Baela back again. There's no war, they aren't dead, their dragons are lurking very much alive somewhere just outside this keep, which is not in a pocket dimension of a world they don't belong in.
Bit heavier than just being stupid for humor's sake. So he says nothing about it, and just kisses Aemond while he guides him closer to the bed that's not as littered with books and gear. This room is probably not big enough for so much walking, they're surely there by now. A light bump to the backs of his nephew's knees. ]
It doesn't seem anyone else is up to the task.
[ In the throne room, Aemond had looked at him like he'd never seen anything like it before, and like he was entranced by it. Daemon remembers. Taught to be a Targaryen by maesters and to fly by dragonkeepers. No wonder he's been bloodthirsty.
The look he gives the younger man when he playfully nudges him back breaks character, some. Knowing and amused. We do have fun here. ]
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WHUMP— the bed rattles under the impact of Aemond's weight and a light plume of dust puffs out from the edges of the mattress. A dismayed groan speaks to how poor the padding is beneath his back. He's already easing himself back upright though clearly disgruntled by the landing. ]
[ Slightly wheezing: ] H—ow altruistic of you. [ And drier than a Myrish red. ] The singers never wrote about that, did they.
[ The singers definitely took the care to how Daemon seduced one of his brother's children, so that one checks out. Not that much of this could be considered any sort of seduction by Aemond's own consideration. (It'd be unfair to compare him to the witch.)
Though, it wouldn't be the first time Aemond has gotten at least a bit in over his head. If his appetite hadn't been spurned at such a young age, maybe he'd slip into fun a bit more conventionally. It's all gotten so twisted. His humor, his tastes, what or who delights him. Not to say those who raised him were to blame, but Aemond has imagined what it might have been like if it weren't people who didn't loathe everything a Targaryen fundamentally is.
In the end, Aemond's comparative inexperience doesn't appear to be much a deterrent anyway. Much like his High Valyrian, he brutes through it before he risks getting in his own way. Shifting, the young prince hooks his ankle along back of Daemon's knee as he reaches up to drag him down by his shirt.]
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[ No songs about Daemon Targaryen will hold the full truth. Always a little too flattering, pleasantly remembered by smallfolk. (Sometimes a champion of the people is a drunk gambler who pays too much and laughs at rapists being castrated in public. Who needs a saint?)
What will songs about Aemond say, he wonders.
He kisses the younger prince, weight on one hand while he uses the other to shift a pillow around. Knocking dust off before drawing it back in. Not the best bunk in the world, but he's fucked on worse, and his knees will suffer more than Aemond's back, probably. Hands cover his chest, finding the part in his tunic before sliding down to his belt and staying here, rubbing the back of one hand over his groin but not making any move to unlace him. Just testing the waters (and maybe even remembering what it's like to have an under-20 libido, rip).
Whispered close to Aemond's ear, ]
I like that about life, though.
[ Sweat, blood, mess. Rage and joy. Prettiness is overrated. He bites his earlobe. ]
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It's no surprise to Aemond that he's absolute shit at this. Pretending to again be someone whose life frankly hadn't started. That bold boy at dinner wouldn't taste what true ugliness the world had to offer until the dance truly began. It's hard to talk about life and pretend to forget they're both dead.
All a little too heavy. It threatens to take him under so he says nothing a moment. Saved instead by the brief delight of Daemon's pinching teeth and coaxing hand. A hitched breath, and the combined notions pull a rewarding noise up Aemond's throat. He shifts accordingly both in head and hip to encourage more, let it draw him back in and give Daemon's hand something worth finding.
Resuming what had been a lazy pawing at the back Daemon's shirt, yanking the bottom of it free from his trousers. His fingers eager for skin and scars.]
Show me. [Quiet, peculiarly stubborn with all these demands. ] Show me what else you like.
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A bad idea will take the edge off for a minute, surely. Will this actually make it worse? is a question for tomorrow.
Daemon doesn't fight the pawing at his shirt, letting his nephew hike it up and find skin, which is less slack from age than some might expect. Extremely rude of him to go about it so gracefully, all things consideredβ but creeping up towards his right shoulder is warped scar tissue, the rippled pattern smooth and glossy under any questing fingers. He keeps touching Aemond all the while, giving him deep kisses that alternate with teeth against his jaw and throat when he breaks to breathe.
In no hurry. Aemond doesn't silently scream nervous virgin, but it's still likely the kid's only reluctantly been with prostitutes and maybe a witch. Daemon has grown especially considerate in his old age, anyway, even if this'll still probably end up drawing more bloodβ
He undoes the younger prince's belt and trousers, peels his shirt open, helps him get it off of his arms with hands helping his shoulders up. It leaves him free to investigate pale skin, any scars collected from a childhood of scrambling and a brief but violent career as a tyrant warlord. Especially interested in closing his teeth around each bud of a nipple while he digs thumbs into the exposed curves of hipbones. ]
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1 very horny tag sponsored by a rewatch of saltburn, yw
yeehaw festive boners βοΈ wrote this listening to mariah carey btw
thx for the xmas scheming and xmas dick ππ€
this tag isn't late either i definitely didn't forget how to rp
β₯ may next weeks trailer drop invigorate u
trailer helps, no longer having pneumonia helps,,,
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