Chapter Text
The office is scattered in books and papers. A half full cup of cold coffee stands on the heavy wooden desk. Some of its contents had been spilled across a blank piece of paper which lays crooked upon the dark surface. There is a chill that lingers in the air, and Luke is not sure whether or not is the cold November winds that blow outside, or if it is the air that rests between him and his uncle. Luke doesn’t strip off his jacket, only wraps it tighter around himself as a shield for something that is coming from himself.
“Your painting was nice,” he says finally, a weak compliment from a weak boy. He brings his hands up and places his thumb and index fingers of his right hand around the index finger of his left. Rubbing them back and forth on his rather dry skin. Aemond’s head lifts slowly and his gaze sets into Luke.
“I didn’t think you cared much for art,”
“I don’t,” Luke says, it is simple, the truth, but then he adds, while averting his eyes from the cold that emits from Aemond’s eye. “Not this kind of art anyway,”
Which is the truth. Probably a truth he has never truly said aloud. It has always surrounded him, the smell of wet paint. The silence of his family working in their studios, and he has never understood the appeal. It is pretty, but it gives him nothing. Does not move him in anyway, and he wonders if it is something he doesn’t understand. And in return he wonders if it is because of his bastardy. A ridiculous thought, he reassured himself, yet it never truly left.
“But mine is nice?” Aemond asks, and Luke isn’t a stranger to the venom that drips from his tongue, but Luke is long gone by now, whatever venom that runs through him was given to him by Aemond himself. It is only him that rushes through Luke’s veins. And Luke hates it.
“Yours is nice,” Luke stands his ground, it is not beautiful, it is not moving, it is only nice. And Luke doesn’t feel any guilt in admitting that. Though Aemond does not entertain it, only goes to sit down in the leather chair. Shifting so it squeaks beneath his weight.
“You didn’t come back this summer,” Aemond states, levelling his gaze back at Luke, he blinks slowly. Stiff within his chair as if he is ready for Luke to come charging any minute. And Luke has never considered the fact that, maybe, he made his uncle a bit nervous. Despite his harsh words, his presence which to Luke seemed to stop time, if only for a second. Despite all of that, his uncle was just a kid. That very kid that Luke had hurt. Not just his eye, but a whole childhood of pushing at him. Luke had never considered it. He was only following his brother, and his brother in turn had followed Aegon. But perhaps it had not truly been Aegon’s fault. Perhaps he should have taken more responsibility for it all. He still can’t bring himself to. It was just playing around, right? And Aemond was always such a drab. Such an angry, rude little thing.
“I didn’t,” Luke answers finally. “I went to Driftmark,”
“Driftmark,” Aemond drawls.
And then silence falls upon them again. There is too much here that is unsaid. And Luke realizes that it will always end like this. In silence between them. The air thick and suffocating. He will love it just as much the next time, how much they fill up the room together. The space is theirs, no matter if they were alone or not, nothing else can fit. They are loud, silent, and all-consuming all at once. They’re eating away at every corner of the rooms they enter until it is only them left. It makes Luke feel alive, his blood and Aemond’s venom is rushing through him, making him reel and preen.
Luke sighs, Aemond is obviously not going to be making the first move, where he sits, just staring at him like he’s lost. Luke’s feet carry him across the floor, and he kicks Aemond’s legs apart, making a space for himself between them. He levels his gaze down at Aemond, who tilts his head back, his black eyepatch creates a void. The thick air that laid between them, it was more suffocating here, up close. But it is not just the eyepatch. It is the curve of Aemond’s lips, it is the slight quirk of his brow.
The fire in his remaining eye.
“One more time,” Luke says. He knows it is a demand that slips from him, despite it not being intended. Or maybe he does. Though the way Aemond looks at him makes it clear that it isn’t quite unwelcome either. His uncle thrives on the aggravation that Luke is the sole cause of. He always has, Luke knows. Even before it all went to shit. Even before that night at Driftmark.
“You said once,” Aemond replies, the corner of his mouth twitch upwards. But he knows as well as Luke what this is.
“I say a lot of things,”
Luke rests between Aemond’s legs, one hand wrapped around the elder’s calf. His fingers dig in occasionally, feeling the fabric of his black slacks. His head is rested against a thigh and in his mouth Aemond has pressed two fingers. On Luke’s tongue spit pools around the digits, coating them in a wet warmth. Luke’s breathing picks up just from the feeling of it. Aemond’s fingers so slender and long, taking up such a large part of his mouth. He had missed it, the feeling of it being filled, of not being able to talk, just sit there and take it.
It is enough to just sit at a ready-made altar, one Luke crafted himself. He has carved his own faith into Aemond, he can see the traces of it just beneath the black void that hides it from the world. It is his. Aemond will always know. No matter if Luke is the one kneeling, the markings are there, and they are all Luke’s doing. He cannot be replaced in his uncle’s life, he cannot be mirrored, he cannot be replicated. It is him who will always be rooted in Aemond’s mind, spreading his branches and his roots like a pest. Luke is inescapable. Luke has never considered himself very religious, but perhaps all of that is Aemond’s fault. Luke works his mouth around Aemond’s fingers, lips wrapped softly, movements slow and syrupy. And he makes sure that Aemond can see both of his bastard brown eyes.
“Dirty,” Aemond hums, pushing his fingers in further, his noses twitches as he indulges the little staring contest that Luke has instigated. Luke’s own fingers dug into his knees now, moving upwards and dragging the edge of his teeth on the long digits before pulling completely off.
“I’d like something more than your fingers,” Luke says.
“You think you deserve that?” Aemond asks, cupping the side of Luke’s face with his hand, his spit-slicked fingers spreading the salvia across his skin. Warmth turns freezing quickly. But it is so predictable of him. Words like deserve, and worth, trying to remind Luke of his place. Specifically of his place beneath him, but Luke finds it doesn’t work too well anymore.
“Do you think you deserve that?” Luke retorts, all teeth and tongue, eyes never leaving, never faltering. He can tell that the questions puts his uncle off, despite the little laugh that he does to try and cover it up. He is already bulging in his pants, it is there, waiting for him. For Luke’s touch. And he longs to have Aemond try and conceal those little sounds he makes, everything he tries to hide behind grunts and groans, and nasty words. He runs his hands up, traces his fingers against the seam of his zipper.
“I don’t think you do,” he continues, places his hands on Aemond’s knees and pushes himself back up. Staring down at his uncle through his eyelashes, because he needs to know. He needs to be reminded of who Luke is. What Luke is to him. He reaches out, places his thumb against his soft bottom lip. Rubbing it back and forth. Aemond parts his lips, only slightly, and Luke hesitates. Only for a split second, not long at all, but it is enough for Aemond. He rises, a hand on his neck, then in his hair, and so Luke is face down on the desk. Papers scattering to the side. The half full cup of coffee teeters over the edge, breaks into six parts and the cold coffee spills on the floor.
“You don’t think I do?” Aemond asks, his hand finds the small of Luke’s back, pushes him down into the desk, his other finds the button of his black jeans, working it open easily. “As if it isn’t you who is begging? Who has been begging for years. Was it not you who was rolling these hips into my mattress? Drooling all over my sheets?”
His hand finds him easily, wrapping around Luke’s length with that firm hand. And it is not like Aemond is lying. Luke had thought of that day many times, what would have happened if Aemond hadn’t found him, shamelessly humping into the mattress. To Aemond’s scent, which surrounds him now with the mix of cold coffee.
“And you loved it,” Luke breathes, a laugh caught in the back of his throat as he thrusts his hips forward and into the hand that holds him. He feels him leaned over him, pushing into him, and his laugh rumbles through Luke’s body and travels straight into his hardening cock.
“Is that what you think? I was just helping you, it was pathetic to see how needy you were,” he whispered, his lips finding Luke’s ear and it is his teeth biting down and getting that breathy gasp in return.
“That is what you love, isn’t it? Feeling needed instead of needy?” Luke asks, eyebrows raised in horrible mischief. He knows.
“Shut up, Lucerys,”
His jeans was pulled down just to his thighs, his underwear quick to follow, but Luke only spreads his stance further. His elbows on the desk.
“Come on then,” he whispers, turning his head so his lips grace against the side of Aemond’s face. “Shut me up,” Luke’s teeth graze his jawline, nipping, but then the hand in his hair pulls him back, up so Aemond can graze his own teeth against Luke’s neck and bite. Truly bite. Luke thinks he will break skin if he only pushed a little bit more. Metallic taste of blood just a few moments away if Aemond only dared. Luke doesn’t put it past him. His uncle retains too much rage within that lanky body of his, bubbling just beneath the surface. But he doesn’t, instead he pulls back and spits into his hand.
“Desperate fucking thing,” he mutters, spreads his spit across Luke’s entrance, head pushing against him and the hesitation lingers. Perhaps he wanted to be gentle. Something so unfamiliar between them, for a reason after all. The word might as well have been in another language for all they knew. So Aemond pushes forward without a word, only a soft groan as he buries himself deep within him. Within a moment he is back at the house. Luke's hands gripping the tree in front of him. Aemond's eye trained strictly in front of them. At the patio door that he doesn’t know if he wants to swing open or remain shut. Now it is the office door, which he knows will stay like it is, because this is his, and whoever is roaming around the museum wouldn’t dare disturb him in here.
Luke hissed beneath him, driving his hips back into Aemond’s, reaches back and grabs Aemond’s hand. He allows him to steer him, allows him to place his hand around his neck, pull him closer so Luke’s back meets his chest.
“Say you’re desperate,” he murmurs, applying pressure around the delicate throat just beneath his hand. His life just beneath his hand. He could take it, he could. He knows he could. Just tighten his grip. Luke wouldn't stand a chance, forced to take his final breath with Aemond buried so deep inside of him. Precum already dripping from him. Aemond pulls almost all the way out before slamming all the way back in, his balls slapping against Luke’s skin.
“I’m desperate,” Luke laughs, that same laugh that he had always had. There is cruelty in it. Aemond had always found it there beneath the sweetness of it. But he doesn’t cease his thrusts, until removes his hand from Luke’s throat, back in his hair and slams him back down. He doesn't get the luxury of touch. Doesn’t get to lead Aemond anywhere. This is for him, not Luke.
He is tight around him, even if he knows his nephew is a first class slut. Given it up to so many, Aemond is just a number on that list. That’s why he picks up his pace. If he wants to play, Aemond will play. But not by these dumb rules Luke thinks he has set up. His climax is building quickly. His pleasure only heightens as he tugs at Luke’s hair, tightly. He pulls him up by it and then slams him back down. He hears a crack, he swears he does and then Luke's cry.
“Fuck…uncle,” he hisses. Aemond has broken his nose, just like he did back then. The blood spills from his nostrils. A dull, thumping pain spreading through his face, but still the throbbing from his cock is almost enough to keep it at bay. Just almost.
And then Aemond spilled inside of him. He stiffness behind him, growling like some kind of animal as he keeps Luke in his place. He waits only a second before pulling out, collapsing back in the chair. Chest raising and contracting, slowly, but so noticeably. Blood is dripping down Luke’s face as he pulls his underwear and jeans back up. There is a small white splatter on the floor beneath the desk. And he looks at Aemond and smiles.
“Fuck off, Lucerys,” Aemond sneers, his fingers resting on his brow.
“I’ll see you later,” Luke continues to laugh, brings his hand up to wipe the blood from the lower half if his face. Then he leaves Aemond with a puddle of blood, a puddle of cum and a puddle of cold coffee.