Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/2281596.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin
  Relationship:
      Oberyn_Martell/Daario_Naharis
  Character:
      Oberyn_Martell, Daario_Naharis
  Additional Tags:
      Pre-Canon, Explicit_Sexual_Content, Breathplay
  Collections:
      Smutty_Westeros
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-09-09 Words: 4450
****** Indigo ******
by mautadite
Summary
     Pre-canon. Daario is a young sellsword in Oberyn’s new company, and
     subtlety is not one of his arts.
Notes
     Written for pouletinbondage for round 3 of the Smutty Westeros
     Exchange on LJ. Prompt as seen in summary. Who knows if these ages
     gel with canon, but in this, Daario’s about 17 and Oberyn’s about 23.
     So, warning for underage, and also breathplay/asphyxiation.
The boy is at it again.
Oberyn pauses at the entrance of his tent to watch him, amused. The boy is one
of the newer recruits, and by rights he should be at the far end of the field
with those of his ilk, preparing himself for the eventuality of battle. The
Myrish nobles have been long in responding to Oberyn’s stipulations, but they
should receive word within the week. He’d given orders for all his men to be
prepared to move at a moment’s notice.
And yet here is the Tyroshi scamp once again, drilling his forms in careful
view of Oberyn’s own headquarters, far away from the practice yards they’d set
up. His hair, a flamboyant shade of purple in the Tyroshi fashion, is still
damp from the river, so he cannot have been out here under the Essosi sun for
very long. He has set aside his shirt, and the harsh yellow light of midday
beats down on the nicely formed planes of his stomach and chest. Oberyn rakes
his eyes over the display with no small amount of appreciation, and continues
watching through the young man’s almost instantaneous response. In the midst of
a swooping strike to attack an unseen enemy, the lithe body turns to him, and
bows elegantly over his two swords. A little smile cuts into the smooth cheek.
Like an arrogant housecat, Oberyn thinks with an inward smile, and sweeps into
his tent without acknowledging the boy’s gesture. He is fresh from the river
himself, and doesn’t trouble himself with the buttons to his shirt as he pours
himself a splash of wine and settles behind his desk. A messenger had come and
gone in his absence; there is a small, neat pile of missives waiting for him.
Cocking a foot onto the table, he begins to sort through them. He is halfway
through a scolding from Doran — par for the course; his brother makes certain
to air his grievances amidst happy news of the little ones, so that Oberyn is
always caught just the slightest bit off guard — when the flap to his tent is
unceremoniously opened.
His brows raise, and for a moment he thinks that the boy has taken his
brazenness another step further. But it is only Arlan, his second in command.
The old Pentoshi sellsword has a brusque manner and a sharper tongue, born of
years in this bloody business. Oberyn is glad to have found him; he will be the
ideal candidate to inherit the company, when mother Dorne calls him home once
more.
“Two things,” Arlan says without greeting or preamble, remaining near the
tent’s entrance. Oberyn takes a swallow of his wine to hide his smile, and
inclines his head in an order for Arlan to continue. “We may have some new
recruits. About a dozen or so; Lysenes, all of them, but they look sturdy
enough. You said you wanted to test the strength of the next batch yourself, so
I’ll have them ready for you in three hours.”
“Good, good,” Oberyn says, lacing his fingers together. Temporary though this
venture might be, it will have his name attached to it for a long time to come.
The foundation has to be strong. Sellswords might be in want of honour, but
they would never be in want of business and blood. “Make sure to tell Golgath
and Surd to be there as well.”
“I will.”
Oberyn nods, and then waits a moment.
“You said there were two things?” he prompts.
Arlan jerks a thumb over his shoulder, and his expression of constant
irritation grows by leaps and bounds.
“For the love of all that is holy, do something about Naharis.”
He is pointing, of course, to the boy, who is presumably still outside, playing
at practising his drill sequences. Oberyn is forced to suppress another grin at
his second in command’s look, which is equal parts disdainful and pained.
“Yes, he has been making a habit out of it, hasn’t he?” he comments casually,
finishing Doran’s letter and rolling it back up with a snap. “I wonder what he
could want.”
“He wants to sit on your cock, and you damn well know it,” Arlan snaps
irritably. “Make haste and give it to him, or tell him off, or whatever you
will; just stop him from making a fucking spectacle of himself out there.”
Oberyn doesn’t bother to try hiding his smirk this time, and Arlan’s scowl is
an immensely cheering thing.
“Not to worry, my friend, I shall deal with him,” he assures him, waving a
hand. “Send him in when you go.”
He gets another gimlet-eyed look from his second in command before the man
grunts, and disappears from the tent. Oberyn chuckles, leaning back as he picks
up another missive. Not the way he had envisioned spending his afternoon, but
Arlan is right; he has to address it sooner or later. And when it comes to
passing the time, it is a better way than most.
A letter from Daja catches his eye, and he opens it up as there comes yet
another disturbance from the mouth of the tent; a gust of wind, a small cloud
of dust. A lucky thing, receiving this missive; Doran has his ways, but Oberyn
had not expected Daja’s letters to find him, given his erratic movements across
the continent over the past several months.
“Oh gracious prince, to what do I owe the—”
Oberyn flicks a palm up for silence, not raising his eyes to meet young
Naharis, nor letting his amusement show on his face. The boy certainly is keen,
no matter that he tries to affect a tone of nonchalance. Oberyn can hear his
breathing in the ensuing quiet.
“Secure the flaps,” he orders with a wave of his hand, and the boy turns to do
so, at an exaggeratedly unhurried pace. Oberyn ignores him in favour of
reading.
When he gets into the heart of Daja’s words, rolling across the page in her
sprawling hand, he lets out a low sound of satisfaction.
“Favourable news, my prince?” the boy calls out, seemingly unable to help
himself. Oberyn finally glances up. The youth is near rocking on the balls of
his feet, palms curling around the hilts of his twin swords, strapped to his
sides. His desire is naked in his eyes.
“Very much so.” Oberyn beckons. “Come, pour me some wine.”
There is just the barest sliver of hesitation, a quicksilver battle between
desire and pride, before he steps forward to see the command through. Naharis
holds the wine bottle against his bare chest to uncork it, full of pomp and
unnecessary flourishes. Smooth fingers wrap carefully around the long neck of
the bottle as he pours into the proffered goblet, stroking up and down. Oberyn
watches him with lazily lidded eyes. Subtlety is an art that this one obviously
has little time for.
“What gives cause for celebration, my prince?” he asks, not letting the silence
stretch too long. “Do we set out for Myr? My swords will be glad of it; they
have not tasted death this week, and I am afraid the starvation makes them
rust.”
His eyes glint with blue fire, and Oberyn is forced to disappoint him.
“Not quite yet,” he says. “This message brings news of life, rather than
upcoming death.” Naharis cocks his head in the way of the politely confused,
and Oberyn explains. “My fourth child has been born.”
Naharis doesn’t miss a beat. “My congratulations, Prince Oberyn. Might I
suggest a name for the child? Daario rolls off the tongue quite nicely, does it
not?”
“Daario,” Oberyn drawls, drawing his flint-eyed gaze over the boy. “I hadn’t
bothered to learn your given name; thank you for providing it.”
Naharis — Daario, Oberyn thinks, testing the weight of it — smiles sharply, a
vision of confidence. He touches his little wisp of a blond beard, and bows low
in acknowledgement. Once again, it calls to mind a very self-satisfied feline,
who drops a prize at his master’s feet and waits to be petted.
“It is not to be, I’m afraid,” Oberyn says, smiling at the thought. “It is
another daughter that I have welcomed.”
“Keep the name in mind then, for the son that may one day spring from your
loins. Or simply keep it close, to whichever body part seems appropriate.”
Daario is still smirking, lightly trailing a hand along the neck of the wine
bottle. Oberyn sips from his goblet, savouring the good dark Dornish red. He
has to admire the boy’s bravado, and cannot deny that he sees a bit of himself
in him. At six and ten, he would not have hesitated to make a grasp for what he
wanted, either. Had not hesitated, and it had culminated in that unfortunate
business with Lord Yronwood. But Aisla had been a truly magnificent woman, and
he sees no use in regretting the affair, after it is long done.
He flicks his eyes back to the young sellsword, taking another swallow of wine.
“Tell me, what was that supposed to accomplish?” he asks, cocking his head
outside, where Daario had been so lately positioned. He is mostly wondering out
loud, just to know what answer he’ll be given.
Daario shrugs. He finally relinquishes his hold on the bottle of wine. His eyes
dart towards the open neck, and Oberyn is pleased to see that he does not give
in to the impulse to take a drink without being given leave to.
“I have already bested all those worth besting within my rank; I thought that I
might find a more appreciative audience here.”
“Oh?”
“Indeed. Let the others have their week of rest. I mislike that I must stagnate
this way. Ever since I got the first hair on my balls, I’ve not lived a day
where a man has not tried to kill me.” His hands drop to his waist as he makes
the boast. “I cannot count a day well spent otherwise.”
“Perhaps you should wait until you’ve grown them all to complain, boy,” Oberyn
suggests mildly.
“Ah! You wound me so, my prince.” But for all he professes himself insulted,
Daario still maintains his fetching grin. “You cannot be so many years beyond
my seven and ten,” he muses. “Six, no more than seven, surely.”
Again, his blue eyes flash, sparking in his handsome face. Oberyn stretches to
his feet on an impulse, and sees how the sudden movement makes Daario jerk
back, if only for a moment. He smiles thinly, and strides over to the other
side of the table, goblet in hand.
“If you take issue with being called a boy, mayhap you should act like less of
one,” he suggests. He raises the goblet and presses it against lips that part
all too easily to accept the slow trickle of liquid. Daario lifts a hand to
steady the receptacle; there is a faint tremor evident in his wrist, and his
nipples have gone hard and pointed. Oberyn quirks his lips, and waits for him
to drain the cup. Then he tosses it back towards the table.
“On the bed,” he orders softly, jerking his chin towards the makeshift
structure in one corner.
Daario’s lips are wet with liquid that he hurries to lick away.
“My prince?” he asks, even as he takes a step back as directed. Oberyn follows,
eating up the space between them as he removes his shirt.
“On the bed,” he repeats, “and take off your clothes. I am going to fuck you.
That is how you saw this ending, no?”
“I would never be so bold as to presume to know a prince’s mind,” Daario
protests, still aiming for suave, but his breeches and boots fall off his body
as quickly as if they’d melted away. He throws them aside, weapons clattering,
and moves swiftly to sit on the edge of the bed. His manhood is already stiff,
standing up in its little nest of violet hair. Oberyn barks out a laugh.
“I see that you are Tyroshi to the bone.” He ambles over to one of his chests,
and roots around for a bottle that he easily finds. Daario is watching him with
heated eyes, stroking a hand over his cock, bringing it to full hardness.
Oberyn watches him, taking his time as he approaches, and then slaps the hand
away. “You can touch that when I say you can.”
Daario huffs out a breath. “As my prince commands.”
Oberyn looks down at him appraisingly, and throws the bottle of oil onto the
bed before sliding a hand into the deep purple locks. Still damp. So too for
his skin, marked with tiny droplets of perspiration from his exercises outside.
He brushes his thumb across one of the high cheekbones, then lower to lips that
would put any courtesan to shame. The boy breathes slowly, one careful
inhalation at a time, but Oberyn can see his excitement mounting, despite his
efforts to tame it.
Testing a theory, Oberyn burrows a hand into Daario’s curls and tugs him back
hard, baring the sun stroked marble of his throat. Daario hisses, a flush
crawling to the surface of his skin. Oberyn twists harder, until the force is
just shy of painful, and a moan escapes from parted lips.
Oberyn laughs.
“Is that what you like, then?” he murmurs. Daario’s eyes are fluttering, as if
fighting to stay open, and his breathing has gone louder, but he still manages
to conjure up a smirk from somewhere.
“Among other things,” is his answer, and he finds Oberyn’s other wrist and
brings it to rest on his throat, just under his chin. Oberyn squeezes, and
watches with faint amusement as Daario’s cock jumps.
“Ah,” he says, and flexes his fingers just so. The boy moans, and though his
breathing can’t be too much compromised at this point, it sounds reedy and
breathless.
“Harder,” he demands, with just the hint of a gasp, and Oberyn obliges him for
a moment before undoing his breeches and dropping them to the floor.
Daario doesn’t even need to be prompted; he surges forward and fastens his
mouth on Oberyn’s erection with one slow, sucking slide. There’s a fervent kind
of finesse to it, a measured eagerness as he sucks and licks. He draws his
tongue up the underside and laves at the spot just under the head; Oberyn
hisses, tightening his hold in the boy’s hair, which serves to make him moan
more, pant harder.
“Open wider,” Oberyn orders softly, thumbing at Daario’s chin. He twists the
purple hair around his fist, pulls Daario’s head back, and eases his cock into
his mouth slowly, along his tongue and straight to the back of his throat.
Daario groans around it, tipping his head back further as he grips Oberyn’s
hips and allows him to fuck his mouth. He expects him to gag, but Daario either
suppresses the instinct or lacks it altogether. It’s good and soft and warm,
and Oberyn moves in and out of him for a long, slow minute, rubbing the
underside of his cock back and forth along Daario’s tongue, murmuring in
appreciation. A reflexive tear slips out of the corner of the sellsword’s eye,
and Oberyn wipes it away with his thumb before he pulls out, and kisses his way
along the stain. Daario leans up into it, gasping for breath.
“That was very nice,” Oberyn says, wiping a bit of saliva off of Daario’s lower
lip.
“Yes, it was, wasn’t it?” Daario rubs his jaw and grins sharply. “I once spent
three nights with a Lyseni whore, and fucked her so well that she agreed to
teach me some of her secrets.”
Laughter tickles at Oberyn’s throat. “Is that so? Come, show me more.”
Daario sucks him to full hardness, enveloping him in the heat of his mouth.
Oberyn breathes harshly, one hand on the boy’s jaw; he makes a very pretty
picture like this, lips spread around his cock, eyes sometimes closed in
concentration, sometimes looking up at him intensely. Oberyn has never been the
best at denying himself pleasure, and when the urge to kiss those swollen lips
comes, he gives in to it, jerking Daario up by his hair to slant their mouths
together. Silence creeps in for a spell as they speak in tongues and soft
moans, sharing the bittersalt taste of pre-ejaculate and the remnants of the
wine.
Giving the pink lips a last biting kiss, Oberyn pushes the sellsword away, and
gestures him up the bed. Daario goes, palming his still hard cock for a moment
before a look from Oberyn quells the movement. Oberyn slips out of the rest of
his clothes, and grabs the bottle of oil.
“Spread your legs for me,” he hums, dripping oil over his fingers. Daario props
himself up on his elbows and does so, his chest rising and falling beautifully.
Oberyn kisses his way up it, pausing to nuzzle at Daario’s navel and ribs and
his nipples, as the first finger teases its way into his hole.
He groans very nicely indeed, and whatever quip he might have been ready to
make falls away immediately. Oberyn leans back to observe as he fingers him
open. Daario’s body is a riot of colour, from the purple curls that spill out
across the sheets, to the lighter violet of his pubic hair, to the blushing red
and pink of his chest and nipples and cock, to the trickle of blond hair on his
lower stomach, to the blazing blue of his eyes. He cants his hips, groaning as
Oberyn slips out to insert a second finger, and then a third.
“Deeper, please,” he cries, and Oberyn would call it begging but for the fact
that it sounds like a demand, breathless and wavering though the voice behind
it is. Oberyn ignores him, sucking one of his nipples to a peak as he stretches
him, and takes care to avoid the spot that would give him the most pleasure.
Daario rolls his hips in frustration, and his cock jerks and drips moisture
onto his stomach.
“Ah, not even the gods could torture me so sweetly,” he moans, and Oberyn has
to smile at his dramatics. He flexes his fingers, fucking him properly, and
Daario moves to meet his thrusts. Oberyn finds the spot, and touches it once,
very lightly, and the response that it elicits is very beautiful to behold.
Daario gapes, stiffening, before his body goes slack and wanton again and he
writhes, trying to fuck himself on Oberyn’s fingers.
“My, you have been wanting this, haven’t you?” Oberyn muses, unable to help his
curving grin. In answer, Daario grabs his unoccupied hand, and pulls Oberyn
forward. All of his weight shifts, and when Daario presses the captured forearm
across the column of his throat, for a moment, all of Oberyn’s weight bears
down on him. Daario gasps, and his face floods with colour.
“Really?” Oberyn says with a raised brow, adjusting himself so that the
pressure is not so great. Daario smiles in that cocksure way of his, blunted by
his want.
“I did say, did I not, that I do not count a day well spent unless…”
“Yes, yes, I recall.” Oberyn smiles and pulls his fingers out. “On your knees,”
he says, slapping Daario briskly on the thigh. He reaches for the oil again,
and busies himself with slicking up his cock. Daario moves as fluidly as he
does with his swords, rolling himself onto his stomach and rising up onto his
hands and knees within seconds. His body is arched like a rolling field of
gold, and such a display is meant to be kissed, and so Oberyn falls to his
duty. One for his ankle, another for the underside of his knee, one for the
curse of his ass, yet one more for the small of his back. Daario shivers under
his attentions.
“My prince is a romantic; I had no idea.”
“Your prince is many things.” Oberyn cups the shapely buttocks before him,
spreads them with his thumbs as he leans forward. “You can touch yourself now,”
he whispers, and the boy’s hand flies to his cock, hanging unattended beneath
him, so quickly it might have been there all along. Oberyn chuckles, and inches
forward on his knees, slowly pressing his cock into the welcoming heat.
“Fuck…” Daario mutters the expletive like a prayer, and Oberyn echoes it in a
whisper at his ear, his torso draped along Daario’s back. He pauses, fully
seated inside the lithe body, and braces a hand on a warm, smooth thigh. Then,
he jerks Daario back so that they are kneeling back to chest, and curls an arm
around his neck. Daario swallows, and the apple of his throat bumps against the
crook of Oberyn’s elbow.
“Like this?” he asks, flexing his arm experimentally. He is not a small man,
and the muscles of his forearm are half again as big as Daario’s. This cannot
be very comfortable for the young man, but of course, comfort is not what he
seeks. He doesn’t answer right away, and Oberyn pulls back and thrusts in hard.
Daario lets out a cry with as much air behind it as he can get; it almost
sounds like a growl. “Yes, yes, just like that, my prince. Fuck me, fuck me
hard.”
One of his hands rests lightly on Oberyn’s arm, as if to ensure that it will
not move, and the other strokes his manhood. Oberyn kisses the back of his
neck, lips catching on purple strands. The heat of the day is nothing to the
heat that is generated between them, sweat forming along their arms and backs
as Oberyn thrusts in and out. The tightness of him is delicious, and Oberyn
drags the hand on his thigh up to his ass, the better to grab a palmful and
squeeze it as he fucks him. He knows when he’s found the right angle; Daario’s
breath hitches, a soft, barely-there sound from his constricted throat. Oberyn
can tell that he wants to moan, to scream perhaps, but his chest is so taut he
can barely manage panting little breaths. When Oberyn loosens his hold by a
fraction, Daario shoves at his arm, urging him to tighten it again.
Ah, but he could fuck him like this for ages, one hand on his ass keeping it
spread for him, lips whispering nonsense into his ear. He leans forward so that
he can look at him; Daario’s hand flies frantically over his erection, and his
eyes are closed in his ecstasy. Oberyn idly contemplates snatching his hand
away, not letting him come until he says so. He could draw this out until
nightfall, fuck him until he loses that smirk and that arrogant look, fuck him
until he’s desperate and crying to come.
But he does not have until nightfall, he only has a few hours, and the boy is
already trembling in his grasp. Oberyn blows warmly on his ear, pistons his
hips hard and fast so that they slap against Daario’s ass with every thrust,
and tightens his chokehold with one abrupt squeeze. He feels Daario come more
than he sees or hears it; he goes taut around Oberyn and his entire body
shudders for a long moment.
As soon as Oberyn removes his arm, Daario falls forward onto his upper body.
Oberyn would think that he has passed out, if not for the glittering blue gaze
that catches his own as the sellsword sucks down gasp after gasp of air. Oberyn
pulls out, arranges his lover so that he is flat on his back, spreads his legs
wide and fucks right back into him. Daario groans, watching him intently, and
Oberyn stares back. Warmth builds in his stomach, and his balls start drawing
up in that pleasantly familiar way. Daario starts licking his own ejaculate off
of his hand lazily, and Oberyn has a moment to huff out a breath of laughter
before he is coming as well, Daario squeezing around him to draw out his
climax.
It takes a few moments for the thundering pleasure to die down to a pleasing
hum. He stretches himself out next to Daario, who is still loose-limbed and lax
from his own climax, but his cocksure expression is already back in place.
“You’re alive, then,” Oberyn says, running a hand through his hair. It has
slipped out of its little queue, but he cannot be troubled at the moment to
look for the leather thong that secured it. Daario turns to him to grin
indolently; Oberyn sees for the first time that he is missing a tooth. It makes
him look younger, even as his fiery eyes age him considerably.
“Alive, yes,” he replies, stretching. His hand massages the front expanse of
his neck, where there will surely be a bruise tomorrow. It has already started
to form; a mix of purple and blue. “But if I had perished… ah, what a way to
go!”
Oberyn laughs, slapping him on the hip, and moves to sit up, leaning back on
his elbows. He will have to get up, in time, to see to his correspondence,
fully contemplate the joy of another child, get ready to meet with the new
recruits. But for now, he sits quietly, listening to the sound of Daario’s
breathing. He has proved a welcome distraction, and Oberyn is not ready to stop
being distracted quite yet. They have another hour, at least.
“Well, my prince. I suppose you shall be wanting me to…?”
He looks over to see Daario making vague movements to leave the bed. Oberyn
snorts.
“Do not insult me; you have only come once.”
Daario sits back, and Oberyn takes a moment to savour the look of him being
unabashedly surprised; he doesn’t suppose it’s an expression he wears often.
Chuckling, he grasps the boy by the chin.
“There will be no chance to make a habit of this, I think; not when we will be
moving soon. But you will tarry a while, yes?”
It takes him a moment, but all that bravado and charm is soon slinking back
into his face.
“Could there be any other answer, sweet prince?”
“There could be many,” Oberyn says dryly. “Say what you mean, Naharis.”
“Yes,” Daario purrs, crawling over to Oberyn’s side to steal a kiss. “And I
think that I shall be saying that word many a time more, if I have the breath
to do it.”
Oberyn, wrapping his fingers around the back of his neck to pull him closer,
concurs.
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