sapphyre | 𝔄𝔯𝔦𝔰𝔢 𝔫𝔬𝔴 𝔶𝔢 𝔗𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔰𝔥𝔢𝔡 𝔶𝔢 𝔡𝔢𝔞𝔡 𝔴𝔥𝔬 𝔶𝔢𝔱 𝔩𝔦𝔳𝔢

𝔄𝔯𝔦𝔰𝔢 𝔫𝔬𝔴 𝔶𝔢 𝔗𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔰𝔥𝔢𝔡 𝔶𝔢 𝔡𝔢𝔞𝔡 𝔴𝔥𝔬 𝔶𝔢𝔱 𝔩𝔦𝔳𝔢

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

i propose we begin to hunt each other for sport—

[ 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.]

[ 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. ]

[ 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.

Despite everything, he's a beautiful boy. ]

[ 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. ]

[ More of a workout than fighting, sometimes.

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?

[ Pulling out and ending the encounter has merit, to some degree. They probably (certainly) shouldn't have done this in the first place, for one. And it would likely make Aemond furious and humiliated— Daemon is well used to mockery on his ability to finish anything, that's old hat, but how often has the younger prince been dumped mid-fornication?

Gods, it would take a pettier man than even Daemon to do it, he decides. This hiccup has not dampened his desire, still hard and straining there in the hot clench of his nephew's body, which in turn does not seem to be cringing away in a fashion to imply flagging desire. A hand in his hair, and that plaintive voice.

Daemon strokes his hip, his chest. He rocks forward gently, letting him feel it, trying to judge if there are any flinches he's powering through. They can stop and there's no shame in it (despite those mocking devils on his shoulder saying there would be), but it's certainly tempting to carry on. What a funny thing, overcoming this brutal moment while stripped down like this. ]

How many times will we die together, I wonder?

[ Just a tiny joke, while pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the side of his neck. Isn't this, too, like dying. Fucking up this badly while rutting into each other. ]

[ He expects the withdrawal that doesn't come. It seeds a thought gets immediately buried and ignored in favor of his fingers twisting at Daemon's hair. Relief, in some way as their hips remind each other where they are. What they agreed to do, despite every inclination along the way screaming at them to stop.

Is it worth pushing himself? He seems to think so, whatever it's worth to remain in the light of his uncle's affection. Even if his own foolish hands have taken a swat at snuffing out the fire.

A soft breath scoffs out of him, his hand lowers back onto the bed. Daemon's joke isn't even funny, but it's all so tragic it has to be.]

If we're fated for it, shouldn't it be every time?

[ He'd grown up thinking they were probably so similar, misunderstood for their inherent Targaryenness and to be made pariahs out of it. Maybe it's too much or too little. Maybe all they're good for together is the perpetual cycle of pain and death. Will this become a part of it?

He's the one rocking back now as if Daemon's cock alone is the only thing that can ground him back into this moment. He needs to feel it, squeeze around it, and prove to him he can be drawn back in. Remember that nothing else should matter. ]

You owe me another.

[ Another fuck? Another moment of mutually assured destruction? With him, it could go either way. ]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

𝔄𝔯𝔦𝔰𝔢 𝔫𝔬𝔴 𝔶𝔢 𝔗𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔰𝔥𝔢𝔡 𝔶𝔢 𝔡𝔢𝔞𝔡 𝔴𝔥𝔬 𝔶𝔢𝔱 𝔩𝔦𝔳𝔢

yeehaw festive boners ❄️ wrote this listening to mariah carey btw

thx for the xmas scheming and xmas dick 🎄🖤

this tag isn't late either i definitely didn't forget how to rp

♥ may next weeks trailer drop invigorate u

trailer helps, no longer having pneumonia helps,,,

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