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ππ―π¦π°π’ π«π¬π΄ πΆπ’ πππ―π«π¦π°π₯π’π‘ πΆπ’ π‘π’ππ‘ π΄π₯π¬ πΆπ’π± π©π¦π³π’
βif you and i are both still alive and miserable,
i propose we begin to hunt each other for sportβ
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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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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. ]
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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?
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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.]
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[ 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. ]
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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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His nephew is lovely. Maiming aside, he is the picture of Valyrian beauty, though Daemon finds the maiming attractive in itself. Something in him loathes perfectionβ it's better when it's ruined. He doesn't need to corrupt, but he likes company down where everything is worse. He strokes up Aemond's thighs to his stomach, back down again, and pushes that one knee back further to expose more of him. He finds the burn, pets over it, and presses his fingers in at the seam of pelvis and thigh. ]
And who are you to judge what counts as gentleness, boy?
[ His eye being slashed out wasn't sexual, surely. (Daemon described the probable medical procedure later, likening it to squeezing out the insides of a pigeon before roasting; it had made Baela laugh loudly and made Luc visibly ill.)
Blunt nails press over pale skin, harder this time, until he wraps a hand around the base of his nephew's cock and strokes him, slow and steady. Pushing a thumb up to the crown to tease it. Highborn enough that he's not actually done much cocksucking on account of ego, but maybe he'll bite harder here in a minute after all, who knows. ]
It's not an endurance sport.
[ Daemon pinches his ankle with his other hand. Hard. ]
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But motherfuckβsomething between a yelp and a moan catches Aemond's throat by surprise, flinch rippling under the hand currently wrapped around his cock. Quick to respond to with a light smack of his leg towards his uncle's shoulder. Squabbling like brothers, though he might have tried to kick Aegon straight in the face for being contrary. Not like that, obviously, you prick. ]
βFucking? No. [ His voice is hardly as level as he'd like, he fights to keep it steady as Daemon's thumb returns to crest along the tip of him once again. All the while sinking his hips into more, despite it might risk him getting bitten in ways he might not like. ] Enduring you, maybe.
[ A whole kingdom as torn on whether or not Daemon's company is palatable. How keen it is to find him both irritating and alluring. It's borderline psychological warfare to Aemond that he just goes around existing the way he does. Maybe it'd be different between them if Aemond were anybody else's son. If they hadn't gone on some long crusade to die against one another. Maybe it wouldn't. Maybe they were destined to push each other either way. ]
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Some kind of enduring. [ Not climaxing in five seconds helps. But there's no fun in laying back and thinking of Westeros like mummy dearest, staring dead-eyed at the ceiling and trying to forget the leprosy sores. (Daemon doesn't know, still. Can't. There's no world where he sees Alicent as anything but a scheming participant, no world where he sees Viserys as someone who wouldn't know what he was doing.)
He gives the backside of his nephew's thigh a sharp smack, and then leans in to lick his cock, base to tip. No lingering on it, though, and he sinks his teeth into a silk-soft and pale bit of skin on the inside of his thigh. Aemond requested it, and so he'll graciously offer it up, teething and sucking what'll become a very nasty bruise. Or a very hot hickey, depending on one's point of view.
The hand not pushing his leg up strokes over him, then lower, finding the tight hole between his cheeks and stroking his thumb over it. ]
Get me something, [ he instructs, once he's decided the mark is flushed a deep enough color. ] And grab your knee.
[ Something, Aemond can figure it out, he's a clever boy. Daemon noses below his straining cock and pretty balls and licks right over the hole he'd been petting, unflinching and shameless. He might not care for a dick in his mouth, but he's more than practiced in this. ]
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Fingers scratch once across the crown of Daemons head, displacing hair that tickles at his thighs. Adjusting his hips is a forced action, not second nature, to open himself to the carousing of his uncle's tongue. No thinking of king or country or mothers here, only a driving need to be filled. Maybe conquered.
But before that can happen— a pressed little huff more indignation than pleasure that rouses him out of merely sitting back and letting things happen to him. ]
What—?[ Something, he says. The prince's head turns as he tries to angle his eye around them as to how exactly is he meant to fetch something with Daemon's unabashed mouth bringing further flush to his face. Eventually, straining to reach off to one side to drag his coat from off the post of one bed. Thwapping it down within rummaging reach. He fumbles into pockets with one hand and taking the top of his knee with the other. Of course, he had raided their noble guest's house for post-bath toiletries (who wouldn't? Hopefully Daemon took more than a spoon.) clawing out the spoils onto the bed beside them. ]
One of these, figure it out.
[ Whichever one is viscous and gently earthy smelling, because otherwise he doesn't fucking know. ]
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(Only soulless monsters here, churned through life and death again and again from the roots of a tree. What would Caraxes be like, a shade of himself, returned? Laena? Viserys?)
He pushes an index finger into Aemond. Quick and finessed while not being abrupt. He leaves it there, careful, while his other hand investigates whatever vial is nearest. As long as it's slippery and doesn't corrode his skin, it'll do. ]
No one's taught you any romance, [ he teases, before giving him a quick, sharp bite opposite the mark he's left. Slick fingers now, long and practiced, press in. His rings are still on. ] What were you going to do with that Baratheon girl? Open your trousers and ask her to figure it out?
[ Or nothing, forever, like Daemon and his dead bitch from the Vale.
Anyway. Sex is funny. He stretches him open and works to rile him up, questing for his prostate on the deep strokes of his fingers inside, massaging the ring of muscle as he pulls back. Daemon twists his hand so his thumb can put pressure on the soft bit of skin behind his balls, touching that gland from either side. ]
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Aemond isn't used to this. The sensation is both absurd and absurdly intimate, more exposing of him than he's experienced before. A conflicted furrow of his brow illuminates a losing battle to focus his annoyance at being teased. His fingers dig a little deeper into the skin along his knee as heat wells deep within. A flustered scoff, or maybe a panted breath dismisses Daemon at first. Head curling back to one side tries to consider how he can meet Daemon's eye down himself to say: ]
Are you here for romance or ββfuck [ A little twitch of Aemond's cock fumbles a moan out of his mouth. A hand immediately shoots down to grasp firmly at his uncle's wrist. Throbbing against his own arm, he doesn't remember the last time he's felt this achingly hard. Only taking a moment to compose himself. His head presses back against the blankets to take a breath, grip releasing slowly.
What was he going to say? Ohβ] or are you here to fuck me?
[Nailed it. Still a little shit even when he's a tricky finger or two away from blowing his load. As if both of those things are mutually exclusive. No ballads he's heard have ever taught him about the romance of ringed fingers curling up his arse, but that's to be expected of an insecure shut-in. ]
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Aemond's grip eases, and Daemon presses his fingers in again, a relentless movement that stills again, this time shoved deep. He leans over the vee of his legs, pale hair brushing over the planes of his belly. ]
What am I here to do, nephew-mine? [ A flicker of memory, nearly fucking Rhaenyra in her youth, barely younger than Aemond is now. He had wanted her so badly and yet been unable to follow through. (Not according to some nasty, if very funny, tunes that Aemond and Aegon have no doubt heard; the Rogue Prince deflowered his brother's child in a brothel in front of two dozen other sluts, Billboard Hot 100 smash hit.) He can now. He's not taking advantage. Aemond has so much fucking blood on his hands. ] You could have pulled a blade when I came inside. We could have locked the door and sorted it. Taken another book to my head. A fucking brick.
[ More weird oil. It smells pleasant, maybe? He endeavors not to think too hard about it, even as he focuses on stretching Aemond, not pushing his fingers in as deep as to avoidβ
Then again. Nineteen year olds. Maybe he could get off again. Daemon curls his free hand around the younger prince's cock. ]
Some would find this very romantic, by comparison.
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What's romantic is stalking Daemon through foreign land, and feeling eager to kill anything that might touch him. All because he still wants to be the one to do it first. Aemond's missed his opportunities, but maybe the conditions need to be just right. There's a knife just an arm's throw away, tucked under one of those ratty pillows that'd yet to be unearthed. The prince won't do it, his uncle deserves better (moonlight, candles, the works.) Stuck in a place as terrifying and breathtaking as the Lands Between, it'd be a shame to scuffle it out again in some molding old room ( even if that's what they both might deserve.)
There's not much left to his composure. Between the combined pressure of Daemon's fingers to the way he looks at him, it's taking more and more effort to focus on the words coming out of his uncle's mouth. The heat of his arousal drags his chest up and down as he holds his uncle's gaze like it's a personal challenge. Tragically and news to no one, the young prince has always been like this — composed until he suddenly isn't.
It doesn't take much of a movement of Daemon's hand once it's wrapped around his cock. Aemond's hips buckle, shifting along Daemon's fingers both inside and out, he's unable to stop himself. There was some retort on the way, but the short breath that clamps in his throat instead is utterly distressed. —
His resolve breaks, head flinching backward with a strangled noise as he comes. To someone who likely hasn't touched themselves since getting dropped into this gauntlet of a world, it feels embarrassingly hard. ]
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Daemon watches Aemond's face contort as he climaxes, and thinks the expression is ugly; twisted and folded, flushed unevenly, sweaty with wisps of hair and his horrible scar. He likes it. He feels a vicious surge of satisfaction for having won it, and arousal sears deep in him, makes sweat bloom under his clothes.
He draws his fingers back from the young prince's body, but not all the way. Holding there to give him something to twitch and clench around during the comedown, while he engages in some good old fashion grossness with the other. A slow pull on his cock to drag out any last hyper-sensitive twinges, then he draws his hand through his spend and smears it over his abdomen, rubbing at his skin, before dragging his hand up. He presses his fingers against Aemond's mouth to see if he'll eat it. Maybe he's dazed enough, maybe he'll try to bite a finger off. ]
Sounded like you were dying again, [ he murmurs. Asshole. Speaking of. He withdraws both hands and grabs Aemond's hips, squeezing there before manhandling him roughly to turn over. ] I wonder when it'll take.
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Because wow wowwow. What an absolute cunt!
The prince half catches himself onto one forearm with a grunt, body still incredibly malleable and sluggish. He only gets one knee under himself in some attempt to find some dignity where there obviously shouldn't be anymore. He's a stubborn one, but still is taking his sweet time. Aemond rests his damp forehead and hair sticking to his arm. Blanket is trying to stick to his stomach as he shifts. He feels filthy, and he kind of hates it. Yet, he can't remember the last time he felt so fucking alive. ]
It'll take a lot more than this. [ There is a rawness in his throat as he pushes himself upright, head tilting to find Daemon over his shoulder spilling his hair across his back. ] If that's what you really want.
[ Does Aemond want to die again? He didn't before. He didn't think Daemon had been determined enough to do it either. He'll settle for exhaustion, though. May the gods see him sleep one way or another tonight. ]
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Here's where he just shoves his dick into the younger prince and gets it overwithβ
Nah. Daemon pets up Aemond's spine, gathers his hair, twists it to lay over his shoulder. He gives him a squeeze there into the muscle that feels almost like a massage before pawing back down, bestowing a smack onto one arsecheek before bending over him to loop an arm around his middle. ]
It'll take some doing for either of us to beat the first time.
[ A duel of dragons in the air. This is a strange realm, but it'll have to work to be so profoundly impressive as that.
Assuming Aemond doesn't resist: Daemon pulls him up as he himself shuffles onto his knees on the bed, so that they're both upright but kneeling, his nephew's back to his chest. He holds him there, touching his bare chest, letting him rest against him and feel the shape of his erection against his behind, still mostly clothed, the undone tangle of his trousers not yet falling down his hips. (i think. i skimmed and i know he's shirtless. i'm a good rper aren't you glad you let me keep tagging you)
He leans in, press his mouth to Aemond's jaw in a kiss, before he murmurs in High Valyrian, ]
What do you really want, boy?
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Why didnβt he retaliate when his uncle invaded his room? What answer is Daemon hoping to hear that hasn't already been said? ]
What if I just wanted a taste before it all has to come to an end? [ he exhales. There is no lack of boldness, but maybe a tinge of uncertainty in the way his hand blindly slips its way down mostly the hip of Daemonβs trousers. Just to curl his fingers around along his thigh and flush his elder tighter against him; really get a good feel for what's in store His chin tilts in favor of the lingering mouth. Tantilizing. ] What if I want you in more ways than one?
[ What if he'd thought of it that night, too? When their families had come together for that final time trying to play nice during that stupid fucking dinner. All of them politely tried to ignore the noose around their necks, the storm encroaching upon them in the distance. It's the same thing here in this realm within a realm. Isn't it? It's also more than that, but he doesn't think that's what he's really asking. ]
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Could it have changed anything? In the morning, packing up the children, Daemon splitting away to speak to Viserys one last time. Asking for his middle son to come to Dragonstone for a while, learn to get over himself, learn to better control his beast of a dragon. For Daemon, Viserys would have said yes, even over Alicent's objections. Maybe Aemond would have gone along and not murdered one of Rhaenyra's bastards.
Fairytales. Fucking nonsense.
He grinds himself into his nephew, half-skin, half-trousers, and ducks his head to press his face to Aemond's. Cheek to cheek in a way that could be affectionate, or threatening. Feeling it when they speak. ]
We've outrun the end. You'll get to taste everything, I think.
[ A messy kiss that's all twisted spines and grabbing hands. Daemon claws one down his chest and lower, greedy and demanding, palming over his cock to see how far along he is in the road of over-sensitivity.
(What the fuck will this potion do.) ]
1 very horny tag sponsored by a rewatch of saltburn, yw
Daemon's clawing hand finds him tender yet on the road to hardening again — the younger prince's grip flinches, nails digging into his uncle's arm and thigh. He doesn't try to stop him this time, just bracing from the shock rippling through him. The whimper that escapes is desperate. It makes the subsequent bite he makes to rip open Daemon's lip again appear almost retaliatory. ]
Give it to me, [he tumbles briefly out of High Valyrian — pleading for it almost as much as he is demanding it. From the blood in his mouth to the throb of Daemon's cock, to be given everything. Whatever he does and doesn't deserve anymore, it's all corrupted here anyway. This, with him, is as punishing as it is rewarding. ]
I can take it.
[ He thinks he can handle it; whatever it is left here that might be the best of Daemon and the worst of him. He wants it to eat him fucking whole and leave nothing behind.]
yeehaw festive boners βοΈ wrote this listening to mariah carey btw
Daemon only loosens his grasp enough to shove his clinging garments down, push long fingers in against the cleft of his nephew's behind, wedge his hard cock there. The drag of it rubs against his hole, catching where he's worked him open, wet with mysterious-probably-mushroom oil. If he's teasing, it's very intent teasing. More a threat than a toy. A deft hand manages to spill more of that slick substance over them, spilling down Aemond's backside and onto Daemon's stiff length. ]
Lean on me, then, nephew. And have it.
[ The High Valyrian word for nephew is the same as the word for son, so Daemon doesn't use itβ not about to ruin the mood by making Aemond think he's turning this into something stranger than it is (strange enough already). He compounds it, fire-kin-boy. A beautiful, brutal language, all of it forever stitching new wounds, new tapestries, words sewn together and shredded apart.
Fingers pry, then they don't, the head of his cock nuzzled close and obscene up to Aemond's hole, and Daemon rocks his hips to push inside. Everything is blood-hot and oily, and he takes a slow breath, briefly fantasizing about just fucking into him without a care in the world. Everything is better, though, when he's got a stranglehold over it. ]
thx for the xmas scheming and xmas dick ππ€
Aemond stills his shuffling, part helpful and part eager, as the tip of his uncle presses into him. A hand moves to hook itself over the back of Daemonβs neck, unwilling to let him stray away from over his shoulder. Keen on keeping him as close as possible, even if it might get inconvenient for either of them. He ignores the trickle of excess oil tickling down his thigh, pressing back into the crook he's made. An exhale as he finds the means to sink his hips onto Daemon's cock as it rocks in.
There's potential that this just going to make him worse, this giving him what he wants. What dumb shit is he going to get into next time to get all this attention? It's not as though he didn't become his absolute worst the moment a crown got laid on his headβ ]
Fuckβ [ a shudder back into common tongue, Aemond's head droops down. Is this what he's been craving? His breath clips short as he pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, nerves are still a little tender when they get pressed again. He claws in, rolling back against his elderβs hips to take in more of him as his fingers clip tighter along the other man's thigh. The pressure is more than the pain, Daemon's diligence has paid off; it's more to the shock of getting filled in with something so firm and warm (had it been this hot before?) Their hips meet again as he bottoms out with a soft groan.]
this tag isn't late either i definitely didn't forget how to rp
Gods but he feels good around his cock. Slick heat and desperate shoving, like he's starving for this, too. Maybe he is. Maybe it isn't all posturing. Daemon hitches forward to grind in deep and deeper, flush against the meat of his rear, pulling him back against him as if maybe there's a way to claw even further within each other.
A grunted agreement, about Fuck.
Slow-motion, slightly swaying scrambling for those first few minutes, ensuring no one's about to topple over or slip or squelch. Daemon rocks his hips, barely pulling out, just giving Aemond the feel of his hard cock buried firmly within him, friction made from the way his weight shifts back onto him. He slides a hand forward and glances his knuckles along his nephew's dick, but doesn't linger, moving instead to cradle the delicate skin of his sac, squeezing oh-so-gently in contrast to the unyielding way he's got him impaled. He rubs the base of his cock with his thumb. Captured. ]
β₯ may next weeks trailer drop invigorate u
trailer helps, no longer having pneumonia helps,,,
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