[ Funny pair, for all their similarities that is one thing where there are odds. Daemon strays from perfection, Aemond chases it (and fails miserably to achieve it in every process). When has he not ever asked for too much, asked for the best that he could be given. He is a prince. What seems to be more surprising is Daemon's willingness to oblige him ( apparently with some exceptions.) That sort power feeds a fractured and voracious ego.
But motherfuck—something 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. ]
—Fucking? 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. ]
[ Daemon shoves Aemond's knee back even higher, opening him up more, exposed, spread. ]
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. ]
[ Sharpness stands out in what otherwise feels like a dull veil where they exist in their death. While it was no more than Aemond succumbing to his nature to only provoke his uncle, he is very much enjoying reaping the consequences of his goading. From the groan he makes down to way his body curls underneath Daemons teeth. He doesn’t mind the marking or the vision of his uncles face shoved between is legs. Only perhaps the warm strain of muscle that keeps his hips pried wide open (he may be agile, but not so flexible.)
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. ]
[ Daemon's non-spoon loot from their temporary lodgings are his own business, and meanwhile, it's amusing that Aemond isn't more concerned about whatever he paws down at him. It's going into his arse. But that's fine. His uncle chuckles against him, still working him open with his mouth. Filthy but unabashed, enjoying the smell and taste of the most unprotected parts of him. Daemon thinks of how all riders stink just a little like their dragons even after the most scouring of washes, and he aches for the overwhelming sensory experience of being back with them.
(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. ]
[ A Baratheon girl wouldn't have needed mushroom grease to produce an heir, or so Aemond would expect, (hope?) He hadn't thought about her, not since the early days when all he had to be concerned about was marrying some plain-faced stormlander. He would have found a way out of it or done his duty. Would Aegon have agreed to nullify a betrothal? Maybe if they got Daeron to marry one of them instead. He had his differences with Aegon, but he definitely wouldn't have been as much of a cunt about it as Father had been with Daemon.
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 ——fuck [ 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? Oh—] 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. ]
[ Daemon watches him with smug, predatory eyes, holding still but not actually relenting on any pressure when Aemond grabs him. He gives his thigh a slow, firm squeeze in retaliation for the forced paused, surely leaving little finger-shaped bruises to manifest in the morning.
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 avoid—
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.
[ He's not taking advantage, but he is creating a torment Aemond has only brought on himself. There'll be a story of bruises he's certain to remember them all by.
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. ]
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.
[ For the moment, as Aemond's coming down, he's under his uncle's mercy. All the tension he'd been carrying with him has left him as a pile of beaten and softened muscle as Daemon's hand milks out whatever is left. What remains is a conflicted feeling looming closer on the horizon. One that would equally suck Daemon's fingers clean of his own spend and then bite them down to the bone. He does the former, sneeringly leaning into Daemon's gross brand of depravity. All the while distantly considering the latter when the decision is made for him.
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. ]
[ A little cheeky come-eating can't rank as depravity, surely, not to someone weaned on sexual knowledge by Aegon the Fornicator. Be reasonable, ragenephew.
Here's where he just shoves his dick into the younger prince and gets it overwith—
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, ]
[ Aemond doesn’t resist, but he does more of the rising than his uncle does the lifting after the indignance of getting his rear patted (he didn't mind the come-eating, but spanking is where he starts to draw the line.) This position is no less vulnerable feeling in the way of never letting thy enemy get behind thee. Feeling secure yet exposed, Aemond’s hand hooks onto the crook of the arm wrapped around him. He settles back against Daemon's chest where the instinct to resist meets the allure of accepting it.
Why didn’t 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 Daemon’s 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. ]
[ Wouldn't that have been something. If while Rhaenyra pined away for her childhood love, Daemon sought out another of his brother's children, this one even younger— but already better equipped for behaving like an adult. He could have waited in his chambers for the inevitable lurking visitor, hells, he could have gone and shoved Aemond into an alcove just to see what would have happened. Become the seductive monster the greens have always accused him of being.
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
[ Aemond's had enough of dreams lately, he hopes to sleep in silence. Whatever it is swirling through Daemon's blood better bring them nothing but peace. Not yet, though. Daemon has softened him up, but the way he meets his uncle's mouth becomes hard and hungered. He relishes in the tastes of himself that still might be lingering behind their tongues. Contorting himself to the body behind him, muscles screaming.
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 ❄️ wrote this listening to mariah carey btw
[ They share blood, and they share blood, Daemon bites back into that kiss, holding Aemond firmly in his arms, captive, clawing. All of the elder man's focus, attention, awareness, boiled down right to Aemond (someone should have paid attention to him from the start, someone should have given a fuck he was there), and he wonders if he can feel the blood of the dragon in them burn.
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 it— 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. ]
[ He had forethought to help with the trousers if nothing else. The rest is just the bitter taste swirling in Aemond’s mouth, something else to claw at. He wonders if its pull will fill some of the unfathomable absence of Vhagar that's sunken so deeply in his chest — this other sort of bond of blood. Here, he feels too light without her. He needs something firm to hold him down otherwise he will just fly off into madness (not that she kept him very grounded in the first place.)
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 Daemon’s 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 head— ]
Fuck— [ 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 elder’s 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
[ Aemond is a monster, a little livewire demon who's had the look of something ravenously starving since the first time Daemon saw him and put a name to him, blood and ruined tissue pouring out of his haughty child face. Of course that one claimed Vhagar, he thought. That one is the only one who looks like he's got a sinkhole inside of him that's never had anything shoveled into it besides fire. And he's proven his uncle right, and right, and right—
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. ]
[ Aemond knows he doesn't deserve it, but he's going to devour everything that Daemon gives him anyway. He will absorb every last drop of this affection, even if it begins to turn cruel. Maybe later he'll begin to shoulder the burden of the guilt and what wounded pride there is for fucking a man who has twice slain him, but starving men make strange compromises in places like these.
It's not all posturing, deep down he knows that. Feeling the breadth of Daemon's own wanting taps into the deepest and hungriest part of him. The prince physically sinks towards it, something in him yielding to the grip that keeps him pressed against his uncle's chest. He clings to what he can, fingers twisting into Daemon's hair as though he needs to hang on. The noise that turns up from his throat is no more than a soft, shameless whimper. Held in some limbo between a firm and soft touch, he has nowhere to go but succumb to the cock digging inside of him. His body only seems to mold around its firm heat, twitching from the occasional tenderness as he strains back for more.
It's close enough to what he wanted, what was asked for. Their horrible world has dropped away and all his focus is narrowed in on every inch and grind. He's honed in to every palpable breath shuddering from his uncle's mouth. He wants to keep taking and taking and taking.
A teasing thumb along his cock and a swordsman's roughness fondling him isn't enough, the young prince struggles not to writhe after it too. Aemond's head tips back against Daemon's shoulder, hair crushing against skin. His face tucks in, seeking some further point of contact. Anything within reach doesn't feel like enough. ]
trailer helps, no longer having pneumonia helps,,,
[ It he wasn't dead, this would probably send him to some kind of hell— two of his brother's children, now, his brother who he would have rather been fucking in each case, who didn't want any of this. But Daemon's blood has only ever longed for the same, and they're the only ones left here in this surreal world. If they want to kill, hate, love, fuck, they have only each other.
He tucks close, face pressed into the base of Aemond's skull, the side of his throat, letting him claw at his hair and bend his spine. His nephew's hands, his sounds, his arching body, all radiate desire and desperation, and it both sates and inflames something in Daemon. Possessiveness, the deep need to sink into sameness, to have something. A still point to focus on to keep from becoming dizzy.
Once he's sure of his balance, he rolls his hips forward, rocking into his nephew and fucking him in steady waves. Indulging himself, feeling every clench and twitch of his body as his cock spears him. He gropes a hand over his chest, as if needing to inspect every inch and baptize it with a searing touch. He finally touches the younger man's cock, but it's just to slide a wide palm over it and hold him against his own belly, giving him pressure and stimulation but still not-quite-enough.
What's the hurry, anyway. This ends and they remember where they are. ]
[ He won't ever be sure if this is some sort of curse or blessing. The remnants of his grandsire, his mother's pure vitriol, work in its poison that breeds resentment for how decadent his uncle feels rocking into him. It's the sort of need he had only felt in himself in that voracious pit of his, one slow-starved from the severed love and affection fed to him by his family.
This, is new to him, the clawing at his skin and the strength of Daemon's arms matching his own needy clinging. Even just for the sake of slaking his own pleasure, if he doesn't deserve it, if it's not meant for him, he's going to let every moment of it suffocate him.
The cock pinned between the hand and belly burns inside and out. It only drives the itch to touch himself instead or maybe even not be touched at all. No desire for a rush, just desire for more. The prince gives in to frustration, breath snorting out of him while he grapples with the limbo of it all. A hand stalls, nails dragging upward along the flexed muscle at his uncle's thigh to resist the call. It fails, slapping over the hand held against his abdomen; daring to add his own pressure like it'll make enough of a difference. ]
Come on.[ The words shed off of him between breaths, barely there. Aemond's fingertips threaded into the hair along the nape of Daemon's neck kneads into the sweat of his skin. Goading him, begging him, encouraging him. Mayhaps a true mix of the three. ]
[ Daemon won't be rushed — unsurprisingly, he's the sort to do the opposite of what's encouraged of him, most of the time. But he'll fuck his nephew harder, jolting forward like there's some deeper-than-physical place his cock can spear into. He rubs the younger prince's cock, the flat of his palm textured with rings and callouses, coaxing more slick precome out of him, more sensation, more of those impatient demands and clawing touches.
It feels good to be held so tight and hot in the clutch of another's body. It burns away shadows, or at least his ability to pay attention to them. The worst of the miserable chill is lifted and the flood of heat grows with every vulgar slap of skin and rough gasp. His head drops forward, rubbing against Aemond mindlessly; he scraps teeth against his shoulder but doesn't actually bite down, his attention too focused on the steady, commanding way he rocks their bodies together, and not toppling over.
— Though this is going to happen sooner or later, leverage demands it. Daemon grunts and sways, shifting Aemond to encourage him down onto his hands, one hand sliding up to grasp the back of his neck, pulling against the hand tangled at the back of his own. Brief tenderness, hands at his sides, his hips, sliding over his spine, then touching where their bodies are connected. He nearly slips out during the shift, and Daemon presses fingers against Aemond's hole as he slides back to the hilt. A sigh, then, as he leans over him.
(Too old for this? Probably. But what else are knees good for.)
A moment. A lapse in judgement. He touches his nephew's face, brushing aside silver hair, turning his head to meet his eye.
[ A reaction is a reaction. When has it not been about pushing boundaries with him? Here, Aemond has time to learn them, however long it takes for them to truly expire, trying to map his uncle's chaos. A breathless chuckle gets tossed this reward for his insolence. Daemon has no business feeling as raw and delicious as he does. Every snapped thrust is taken, absorbed and clung to. By the time he's pulled away, he leaves behind pink scrapes in the relief of Daemon's skin.
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. ]
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. ]
[It’s an awfully succinct answer to an incredibly shitty question. It puts an end to the nagging confusion clouding this entire encounter and replaces it with something worse. Aemond didn’t know he could go from feeling the heady throes of getting slow-fucked to oblivion to Daemon putting a new proverbial blade through his eye. Leaning new things every day. The pain behind the provoked thought is almost sharp enough to negate the pleasure still rocking deeply into him.
The clear regret of his horny mumbling contorts in Aemond’s face as his brain kindly provides him the answer to his uncle’s question.
No, he hasn’t.
The prince’s body tenses up, all of it concentrated into the effort of keeping the burning behind his eye where it is. He’s 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 that’s barely even a word anymore chokes out of him—no distinction between a good or bad one. Just a fucked up cocktail of both.
[ Good, a strong part of him thinks, unkindly. Good. You deserve to be miserable at your most vulnerable, for all you've done.
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 before— 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. ]
[ He is a banner thrashing in the wind of a storm, but Aemond’s always been this way–cursed to feel everything without a buffer or a tonic to sedate it. There is only so much he can hold onto before he comes apart at the seams and flies into chaos. If he had lived longer, maybe he would have gotten a better grip on himself like his uncle has. But he didn’t, and now he’s here fingers twisting into a moldering blanket like it might actually sweep him away.
He’s going nowhere, but rawness of it continues to batter at him. He can’t 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, he’s dead and cursed and trembling in the arms of someone who has every right to continue to see his suffering.
But Daemon doesn’t, not at this exact moment, and that’s something else he can try and hold onto.
A long sigh leaks out of him, locked muscle slowly deflates underneath his uncle’s embrace. Sometimes, it feels like no matter what he does, he’s only capable of ruining whatever he touches. He’s ruined this now, too, hasn’t he? ]
Keep going.
[ He said he could handle it before, he can handle this too. He might be pushing himself to finish now, but that’s because there’s no quit in him. Even when the slightest waver in his voice manages to slip through unchecked. It’s not like he doesn’t mean it.
Aemond balances his weight onto one arm, snaking his free hand to feather back into Daemon’s 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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But motherfuck—something 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. ]
—Fucking? 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 ——fuck [ 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? Oh—] 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 avoid—
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 overwith—
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 didn’t 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 Daemon’s 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 ❄️ 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 it— 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 🎄🖤
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 Daemon’s 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 head— ]
Fuck— [ 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 elder’s 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. ]
♥ may next weeks trailer drop invigorate u
It's not all posturing, deep down he knows that. Feeling the breadth of Daemon's own wanting taps into the deepest and hungriest part of him. The prince physically sinks towards it, something in him yielding to the grip that keeps him pressed against his uncle's chest. He clings to what he can, fingers twisting into Daemon's hair as though he needs to hang on. The noise that turns up from his throat is no more than a soft, shameless whimper. Held in some limbo between a firm and soft touch, he has nowhere to go but succumb to the cock digging inside of him. His body only seems to mold around its firm heat, twitching from the occasional tenderness as he strains back for more.
It's close enough to what he wanted, what was asked for. Their horrible world has dropped away and all his focus is narrowed in on every inch and grind. He's honed in to every palpable breath shuddering from his uncle's mouth. He wants to keep taking and taking and taking.
A teasing thumb along his cock and a swordsman's roughness fondling him isn't enough, the young prince struggles not to writhe after it too. Aemond's head tips back against Daemon's shoulder, hair crushing against skin. His face tucks in, seeking some further point of contact. Anything within reach doesn't feel like enough. ]
trailer helps, no longer having pneumonia helps,,,
He tucks close, face pressed into the base of Aemond's skull, the side of his throat, letting him claw at his hair and bend his spine. His nephew's hands, his sounds, his arching body, all radiate desire and desperation, and it both sates and inflames something in Daemon. Possessiveness, the deep need to sink into sameness, to have something. A still point to focus on to keep from becoming dizzy.
Once he's sure of his balance, he rolls his hips forward, rocking into his nephew and fucking him in steady waves. Indulging himself, feeling every clench and twitch of his body as his cock spears him. He gropes a hand over his chest, as if needing to inspect every inch and baptize it with a searing touch. He finally touches the younger man's cock, but it's just to slide a wide palm over it and hold him against his own belly, giving him pressure and stimulation but still not-quite-enough.
What's the hurry, anyway. This ends and they remember where they are. ]
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This, is new to him, the clawing at his skin and the strength of Daemon's arms matching his own needy clinging. Even just for the sake of slaking his own pleasure, if he doesn't deserve it, if it's not meant for him, he's going to let every moment of it suffocate him.
The cock pinned between the hand and belly burns inside and out. It only drives the itch to touch himself instead or maybe even not be touched at all. No desire for a rush, just desire for more. The prince gives in to frustration, breath snorting out of him while he grapples with the limbo of it all. A hand stalls, nails dragging upward along the flexed muscle at his uncle's thigh to resist the call. It fails, slapping over the hand held against his abdomen; daring to add his own pressure like it'll make enough of a difference. ]
Come on.[ The words shed off of him between breaths, barely there. Aemond's fingertips threaded into the hair along the nape of Daemon's neck kneads into the sweat of his skin. Goading him, begging him, encouraging him. Mayhaps a true mix of the three. ]
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It feels good to be held so tight and hot in the clutch of another's body. It burns away shadows, or at least his ability to pay attention to them. The worst of the miserable chill is lifted and the flood of heat grows with every vulgar slap of skin and rough gasp. His head drops forward, rubbing against Aemond mindlessly; he scraps teeth against his shoulder but doesn't actually bite down, his attention too focused on the steady, commanding way he rocks their bodies together, and not toppling over.
— Though this is going to happen sooner or later, leverage demands it. Daemon grunts and sways, shifting Aemond to encourage him down onto his hands, one hand sliding up to grasp the back of his neck, pulling against the hand tangled at the back of his own. Brief tenderness, hands at his sides, his hips, sliding over his spine, then touching where their bodies are connected. He nearly slips out during the shift, and Daemon presses fingers against Aemond's hole as he slides back to the hilt. A sigh, then, as he leans over him.
(Too old for this? Probably. But what else are knees good for.)
A moment. A lapse in judgement. He touches his nephew's face, brushing aside silver hair, turning his head to meet his eye.
Despite everything, he's a beautiful boy. ]
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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 Aemond’s face as his brain kindly provides him the answer to his uncle’s question.
No, he hasn’t.
The prince’s body tenses up, all of it concentrated into the effort of keeping the burning behind his eye where it is. He’s 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 that’s barely even a word anymore chokes out of him—no 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 before— 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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He’s going nowhere, but rawness of it continues to batter at him. He can’t 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, he’s dead and cursed and trembling in the arms of someone who has every right to continue to see his suffering.
But Daemon doesn’t, not at this exact moment, and that’s something else he can try and hold onto.
A long sigh leaks out of him, locked muscle slowly deflates underneath his uncle’s embrace. Sometimes, it feels like no matter what he does, he’s only capable of ruining whatever he touches. He’s ruined this now, too, hasn’t he? ]
Keep going.
[ He said he could handle it before, he can handle this too. He might be pushing himself to finish now, but that’s because there’s no quit in him. Even when the slightest waver in his voice manages to slip through unchecked. It’s not like he doesn’t mean it.
Aemond balances his weight onto one arm, snaking his free hand to feather back into Daemon’s 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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