sapphyre | 𝔄𝔯𝔦𝔰𝔢 𝔫𝔬𝔴 𝔶𝔢 𝔗𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔰𝔥𝔢𝔡 𝔶𝔢 𝔡𝔢𝔞𝔡 𝔴𝔥𝔬 𝔶𝔢𝔱 𝔩𝔦𝔳𝔢

𝔄𝔯𝔦𝔰𝔢 𝔫𝔬𝔴 𝔶𝔢 𝔗𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔰𝔥𝔢𝔡 𝔶𝔢 𝔡𝔢𝔞𝔡 𝔴𝔥𝔬 𝔶𝔢𝔱 𝔩𝔦𝔳𝔢

—if you and i are both still alive and miserable,

i propose we begin to hunt each other for sport—

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[ As his uncle has assumed correctly, Aemond does not back down. Chin held high, clenching his jaw.

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. ]

[ A desperate return, and vicious denial. Mixed singles, little dragon. Daemon doesn't back away, and after a moment of appraising the angry, heated tension that wracks his nephew, he slips his other arm around him, in more of a cradle than a hold, palm flat and drawing up his spine. The hand at his hip remains almost punishing, fixing him in place, but the rest of him is supple. Defying the awfulness of their predicament as if it doesn't bother him— No, Aemond should know by now that it does bother him, no matter what he displays. Rather, Daemon is refusing to let anything have power over him. Any fate, kind, world, can break him, and if Daemon looks bored, then it never actually touched him in the first place.

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.) ]

[ It is the one thing about his uncle that he cannot parse, how firm he seems to manage to command his own will. It's not something Aemond is even close to mastering. Every step forward always beckons two steps back, he feels incapable of letting anything go. Every bit of him sets aflame at all times and it burns and burns and burns. It stings a loneliness deeper than anything he's ever known.

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.]

[ In a way, Daemon and Aemond want the same thing. A part of Daemon longs to let go, to react the way he did when he was younger and worse, free and unchecked. There must be a release like none other to be completely unhinged, even if it were over rage. Perhaps even especially over rage.

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, apparently— 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. ]

[ Aemond would rather fight, but only in the sense that fighting is all he knows. He was raised on that fantasy of impending violence which later only came true through self-fulfilled prophecy. Perhaps he should have gone checked. Perhaps his mother should have paid closer attention. He fooled her, he fooled everyone into a crown and throne and then burned it all up in a miasma of hubris and desperation.

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. ]

[ What a fantasy, unconditional love. Daemon would like to think he's offered it to plenty of people in his life— and maybe he has, maybe that's just one more tragedy, that he's loved fully and despite flaws and betrayals and rejections. Too bad, that he must love a stone, and too bad, that his love is so fucking corrosive. When Rhaenyra ordered him out of King's Landing, he loved her still; when he went to his death, he loved her still. He hated her, too, but hate has never done a thing to dampen love for Daemon.

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. ]

[ Hate and love are very similar feelings. Or at this point, Aemond no longer can separate how deeply tangled they've become. He is gripped by both on an all-consuming path. It takes love to be able to hate. Perhaps it is only because of their blood persevering. Aegon was such a shining example of it. He abhorred everything his brother was. He still fought for him, died for him, still wanted his love in return. Perhaps it's just a curse of second sons.

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. ]

Edited (there were just too many typos for me to let it slide) 2023-08-05 21:51 (UTC)

[ Daemon gives his nephew's side a cheeky pinch when he chews on his lip like that; an automatic movement, comfortable with physical intimacy, that puts in mind the fact that he's had paramours, lovers and wives for twice as long as Aemond's been alive. Wrong for Aemond on every level except the one that compels the most— the blood of the dragon overriding everything, demanding, intoxicating.

(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 intent— 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. ]

[ It should be less surprising that Aemond just doesn't know how to back down. Instead, he'd rather act predictively — always trying to keep a step ahead. As though he can plough over any chance something might make him look foolish.

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. ]

Difficult to tell, here.

[ 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. ]

[ Aemond wonders if this is penance after all. Their being here, together, until the gods (or greater will or whatever) deem they've endured enough of it. Feed a starving man spoiled meat and he's grateful to fill his stomach, but at what cost? He's not sure either of them know what the cost will be for something like this. Aemond certainly is the wrong brother for fleeting pleasures.

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?

[ Making it worse is an art form. Aemond has only indulged through burning the riverlands. He deserves to see just how deep and intimate the self-sabotage well can go.

A huff, sighlike, and Daemon slides his hand up over his nephew's front to low on his throat, not grabbing him, but holding him— 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? ]

[ It would be funny to turn him away now. If only for the sheer irony of a poor joke. In return, Daemon could pocket his nephew's admission and deny him anyway (and he'd deserve it).

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.]

[ Daemon won't ask for compliance elsewhere— won't ever expect it. This is the only place where he'll require it, because it's the only place where he requires it of himself. Outside, with swords or fists or dragons or heavy books to the back of his bloody skull, neither of them should buckle. They might have to face something honest, then, and fates fucking forbid that ever befall them.

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. ]

[ That's not what he meant.

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. ]

[ Daemon likes a little light roleplaying. Dressing his niece up like a boy, pretending every other fortnight to be a commoner, pretending to want the Iron Throne, pretending to be Visenya. (Shh, don't tell anybody.) This is funny, stupidly so, indeed offered to try and make Aemond laugh— maybe he shouldn't bother, maybe his nephew doesn't deserve any kind of consideration.

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. ]

[ The thrum in his blood that calls for Daemon's is something felt intuitively, but never has actually been explained. It clouds, it lapses Aemond's judgement. He doesn't exactly know where the fuck he is until he feels a hard smack against his calves and loses his balance the moment he registers Daemon's trickster smile.

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.]

Edited (Tone) 2023-08-22 06:17 (UTC)

Singers are motivated to obscure the truth, [ he says as he prowls over his nephew, knees on the bed, going easily where Aemond drags him. ] Real life is much less pretty.

[ 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. ]

[ Sometimes, Aemond thinks he feels more alive in a place like this than ever did a day rotting away in the Red Keep. A thought that stings, unexpectedly. He had been fundamentally robbed a real life, his had barely gotten started. There is not much there for the singers to say about Aemond. At best, his name becomes an omen among ashes. That or they won't sing about him at all.

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.

[ Like poets, little sparks of playing pretend can't paint over reality, especially not the bloody, crushing truths of these two lives. Poor Aemond, who only saw the world past King's Landing to burn it; too incredulous to say poor Daemon, but did anyone ever love him, despite all his passionate devotion? Fractured tragedies, both of their own making, and brutally unfair.

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 considered— 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 blood—

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. ]

[ Aemond's shirt goes, in the process dragging Daemon's off with it. Not much other scars for Daemon's hands to find. Most are scrapes from the training yard, concentrated more on his blinded side where it was harder learned when a weapon was about to smack him. Any burns accrued from many futile ventures of trying to claim himself a dragon are more concentrated on his back and thigh.

Daemon's presumptions are correct. Aemond is no quivering virgin nor does he have the experience of fucking his way through Fleabottom alongside his elder. Perhaps Aemond was doomed from the start, throttled by the reality that for years none of the ladies at court could look at him without cringing at his mangled face. That does things to a man's confidence that held too much pride to pay for affection. Even the witch, he's half convinced, only ever wanted him for his seed.

It's why it makes all of Daemon's attentiveness towards him a bit odd to grapple. The young prince expected this to go far more quickly, far more transactional. Just two guys scrapping for a quick bit of release in an otherwise very unpleasant place. It's not like he's done anything to earn his uncle's consideration or kindness, instead quite the opposite. Alas,

Aemond hisses through his teeth at the delicate prick of Daemon's bite, hips jolting under the grip pinning them down. It would be easier if they just took from each other and be done with it, but Aemond finds himself wanting to give. Wanting to devote in return. His hands drift back to Daemon, pressing along the plane of glossy and marred skin and trenching fingers deep through his hair. Still demanding but all the more encouraging.

A dangerous thing to like, his uncle's attention. His body curls into it. One free leg still trying to snake around him and urge him closer. Give more attention to the growing need still half tucked in his trousers. ]

[ Perhaps there's a future for encounters. Once they've become used to each other like this, a prolonged interaction with excessive touching, they'll be able to collide rough and frantic. But for now:

The removal of Daemon's shirt reveals the full extent of his scarring, a cascade of pink marble over his right shoulder that falls all the way down over his chest to a mostly-demolished nipple. The marks up on his throat have responded well to healing, over the years, but the optical illusion of whether or not something's actually there pops into full view in context with the rest of it.

Should have killed him. Would have, were he not a Targaryen. Far from immune to fire, but spared by that little bit of natural heat resistance. It's ugly. Not the kind of thing to give a man character, he just looks mangled. Fortunate to not be on his face, granted.

He hitches Aemond up higher on the bed, and shifts to continue to mouth over his chest. Progressively lower, but going at a snail's pace, even as he sculpts each pectoral muscle with his hand, and leaves a red mark along the curve of one, sucked in attentively. Hmmm, oh, would he like attention somewhere else? Daemon palms over the swell of his cock through the fabric, but doesn't progress further. ]

Tell me, nephew. [ Humor in his voice. Since he knows how much Aemond is going to like hearing another tell me demand. ] Have you been fucked before?

[ It's one breath: a roused inhale as Daemon's hand drags along his cock. Then, a hassled sigh as his head lolls up at the ceiling.

How dare he continue to ask direct questions that feel mildly too vulnerable to answer. Things Aemond would rather chew his arm off than openly share.(clearly no one on aemond's side of the family had learned 'healthy communication in the bedroom')

Experience might make him more liberated, but for now still remain gripes for taking the role of the woman. Even as he has asked for it, even as he shifts ever more just to feel a bit more pressure of his uncle's hand, anticipating what is to come. The idea of fucking his uncle in the same way doesn't feel correct. Something that could change with time, or not. Or maybe Daemon only prefers it this way anyway. ]

I—em [ A pause, jaw fixing. ] I have.

[ Oddly defensive sounding answer. What's his point?

There's no sexy way to elaborate getting set up by one's brother. Aegon's sloppy and miserable attempts at brotherly bonding; at least, was considerate enough to check if Aemond might have preferred sword swallowing (as laenor did with his pretty squires). ]

I know what to expect, if that's what you're getting at. [ Less hassled. What hand had stilled tightens its curl in Daemon's hair before relaxing. Aemond's head shifts, nearly rested on his own shoulder, troubles of only having one eye to witness his own descent into absolute depravity. It's quite the view.

Belated, humoring in his absurdly dry way to stop sounding like a defensive loser in front of his cool sexy uncle. ] Granted, it's been some time.

[ He doesn't need a tutorial, but respectively there is no part of him that isn't somewhat tense.]

You know what I'm getting at.

[ Don't be obtuse, Aemond. Daemon glances at him as he shifts, eyes deep violet in the enchanted firelight of the room, and pale eyebrows briefly quirk before he's busy tugging at the band of his trousers to expose more of the younger man. A lean torso, tantalizing lines of his hipbones, all of which Daemon is happy to inspect and touch. He draws blunt fingernails down over his navel, raising brief pink lines that blanch back into pale skin a moment after.

What he's getting at, is that if his nephew needed to be walked through it, if he wanted to be fucked but hadn't done it before, Daemon would be willing to take the time. But it would alter this somewhat.

Perhaps not by much, though.

The root of his cock bare for teasing (silver curls? manscaped? did you wax something, dear boy?), Daemon worries the soft skin at his hip with his teeth while he traces fingers over him. Considers where oil might be stashed in here. He did not actually anticipate this, and doesn't have a vial hidden on his person. ]

Take your eyepatch off.

[ This time there's no demand in his voice. It's enticement, instead. A seductive murmur from near his arousal, hands peeling away more clothes. Tempting him towards the debauchery of being unveiled. ]

[ To some degree, he's self-aware. Smile still cracked for being called out on his own shittiness. The bed creaks as Aemond's hips rise slightly, shifting and adjusting to allow Daemon the ease of peeling away his trousers.

Didn't anticipate it, thinks the man who basically walked into Aemond's bedroom and asked if he wanted to 'bang it out'. Granted, it's complete lunacy how easily Aemond has agreed to it. Hours after trying to murder him with a book. Maybe he should have stood his ground better, but the more pressing thing took root — how much he's wanted someone to touch, and more to be touched.

The further Daemon goes, the further Aemond sinks into those blunt claws and teasing teeth. The enticing is working, Aemond is slipping. It's mostly the watching with a glint in his pale eye. A delay before his head rolls back, slipping the patch over his head. Without it, his hair flows over his shoulders as he eases upright onto his elbows.(if daemon is so pressed to find oil in a barracks, he might stop to consider how aemond still manages to keep his hair shiny. combing, treating, trimming. the routine keeps him sane.)

The young prince settles in a sort of sprawl with one knee perched upright, bare as the day he was born. He's ready to beheld, now.

Difficult to see the Hightower in him, pale hair on pale skin is all Valyrian. The burn along the rump of his thigh is more of a blotch than a true scar, matches the pinkish hue of his arousal. The sapphire is an unsettling outlier that fills the void of his eye, most of the blue looks almost black under the bisected fan of pale lashes.]

No need to be too gentle on my account. [The smile is tucked under his voice. A whole room of people witnessed what sort of threshold for pain this one young prince has. He's not saying go crazy, he's just saying:] You could bite a little harder.

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i prewrote that in a word doc and still made all those typos lmao fml

rip. meanwhile i just continue to write with -0 chill and vomit a wall of feelings

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