After Jace is taken away from his custody, Aemond forbids the servants from changing the sheets on his bed, where his nephew had slept the night before.
Defeat tastes like dirt on his mouth and he desperately needs a distraction, so he locks himself in his bedchamber with orders for no one to disturb him, laying back on the untidy bed and staring at the ceiling. The place is too quiet, too empty, too cold. He doesn't know how long it'll be until he sees him again, but he's certain they'll never be alone together as they had been these past days.
His nose twitches and he rolls on his stomach, face burying in the tousled bedsheets, and when he inhales he catches Jace's fading scent, a sweet musk he chases open mouthed. It's faint, but it maddens him like nothing else, and before he can think better of it he's rutting against the sheets like some depraved beast.
His mind supplies him with the most lecherous images, and when he closes his eye he can pretend there's a warm, wanton body beneath him welcoming the assault. Jace is pliant as he pins him to the mattress and ravishes him, dark curls tickling at his nose while he sinks his teeth on that throat. Soft and sensitive, his nephew writhes and mewls around the fingers he has shoved into his mouth to keep him quiet. His bastard blood is on Aemond's tongue, tangy with sin. He's buried deep in the tight warmth that sucks and dooms him to hell.
With increasing fervour, he keeps thrusting on the tangled sheets until he spends inside his small clothes. He's panting and drooling and irredeemable. Jace is all he can smell. A childhood crush turned insatiable craving that will be the end of him.
