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βif you and i are both still alive and miserable,
i propose we begin to hunt each other for sportβ
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The prince doesn't even realize how tightly his thighs are straining until the fatigue hits as he's bent over the bed. Cursing underneath his breath, his hand presses his erection along his abdomen to steady himself as they become flush. All his efforts go into not spoiling his pleasure, distantly attuned to his uncle's pawing hands until one draws his eye back.
He's malleable under the touch, briefly too disarmed to question it. Slightly flushed and wanton, increasingly uncertain. Not of Daemon, but the weight still felt under his gaze. Letting it crush him. Aemond's back bows slightly, either to find the means to lean in or to feel more firmness to the flush against his uncle's thighs. ]
What do you want? [ Aemond asks again, the words tumble out of his mouth softly like smoke. Daemon has yet to actually give him an answer. He wants to know, he wants to give it to him. ]
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Daemon hitches in until they're flushed, and rolls his hips slowly to feel the obscene slide in and out, every millimeter of flesh and membrane and wet, twitching skin. Properly pressed together he can even slither a hand between them and paw at his nephew's balls, clutch them against his own just about, feel every little texture and heated spasm.
While he gazes down at his blue eye, bright like the lake they died in, unfocused until he's not.
It strikes him, through this emotionally masochistic haze of lust, how strange that question is right now. ]
Have you never just been wanted, Aemond?
[ A suicide level question, damning them both. His brain's in his dick, which is shoved somewhere else. What can they do. ]
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The clear regret of his horny mumbling contorts in Aemondβs face as his brain kindly provides him the answer to his uncleβs question.
No, he hasnβt.
The princeβs body tenses up, all of it concentrated into the effort of keeping the burning behind his eye where it is. Heβs not going to start crying. Not now. Not in front of him.
Aemond yanks his chin free, allowing his head to hang down. His body yawns as if trying to thrust himself back into the good part in all of this. A curse thatβs barely even a word anymore chokes out of himβno distinction between a good or bad one. Just a fucked up cocktail of both.
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Daemon holds the power to harm him in a profound way, right now. Perhaps more than even death. For a moment it grips him, and everything bitter and vindictive and righteous wells up. He wants to ask Viserys if it was worth it. If this boy was worth it. They've lost everything, all because he had to go and fuck that curdled rat of a girl. All of this devastation because of the want for a son, and one of the ones that were belched out of Alicent's venomous cunt are worth the dirt under his finergnails.
A heartbeat of evil toxin, the worst of Daemon, and then in the next heartbeat, he lets go of it. He has felt this flinch away from himself beforeβ horribly, he thinks of Rhaenyra when she was a girl and he meant to have his way with her. He had been gripped by the worst of himself then, too, and been stung by it.
Of course the only person who can make Daemon think better of his own repulsive behavior is Daemon.
The hand pawing at Aemond's face shifts, sliding around to press flat on his chest. A cradle this time, leaning over him and holding him close, hair draped from shoulder to shoulder. ]
Be here. Just here.
[ This is where someone wants him. Daemon may hate him, but hate has never stopped any other feelings in him. ]
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Heβs going nowhere, but rawness of it continues to batter at him. He canβt blame Daemon for a life of feeling unwanted. A discarded spare, mangled, imperfect. Everything in his life had been decided for him before he was born. He was nothing until he made something of himself. All he ever did was grasp at every opportunity to change his fate, to be something else. Even then, it was never enough. Now, heβs dead and cursed and trembling in the arms of someone who has every right to continue to see his suffering.
But Daemon doesnβt, not at this exact moment, and thatβs something else he can try and hold onto.
A long sigh leaks out of him, locked muscle slowly deflates underneath his uncleβs embrace. Sometimes, it feels like no matter what he does, heβs only capable of ruining whatever he touches. Heβs ruined this now, too, hasnβt he? ]
Keep going.
[ He said he could handle it before, he can handle this too. He might be pushing himself to finish now, but thatβs because thereβs no quit in him. Even when the slightest waver in his voice manages to slip through unchecked. Itβs not like he doesnβt mean it.
Aemond balances his weight onto one arm, snaking his free hand to feather back into Daemonβs hair like before. Like it can do the convincing his voice cannot as it holds him close in return. Quieter now, he asks: ] Please?
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Gods, it would take a pettier man than even Daemon to do it, he decides. This hiccup has not dampened his desire, still hard and straining there in the hot clench of his nephew's body, which in turn does not seem to be cringing away in a fashion to imply flagging desire. A hand in his hair, and that plaintive voice.
Daemon strokes his hip, his chest. He rocks forward gently, letting him feel it, trying to judge if there are any flinches he's powering through. They can stop and there's no shame in it (despite those mocking devils on his shoulder saying there would be), but it's certainly tempting to carry on. What a funny thing, overcoming this brutal moment while stripped down like this. ]
How many times will we die together, I wonder?
[ Just a tiny joke, while pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the side of his neck. Isn't this, too, like dying. Fucking up this badly while rutting into each other. ]
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Is it worth pushing himself? He seems to think so, whatever it's worth to remain in the light of his uncle's affection. Even if his own foolish hands have taken a swat at snuffing out the fire.
A soft breath scoffs out of him, his hand lowers back onto the bed. Daemon's joke isn't even funny, but it's all so tragic it has to be.]
If we're fated for it, shouldn't it be every time?
[ He'd grown up thinking they were probably so similar, misunderstood for their inherent Targaryenness and to be made pariahs out of it. Maybe it's too much or too little. Maybe all they're good for together is the perpetual cycle of pain and death. Will this become a part of it?
He's the one rocking back now as if Daemon's cock alone is the only thing that can ground him back into this moment. He needs to feel it, squeeze around it, and prove to him he can be drawn back in. Remember that nothing else should matter. ]
You owe me another.
[ Another fuck? Another moment of mutually assured destruction? With him, it could go either way. ]