Summary: Red wine, cheap perfume and a filthy pout - he was everything she ever needed, but was she everything he ever wanted?
Mystery of Love [F]
Summary: Early mornings don’t always have to mean leaving bed, sometimes holding the one you love is all you need.
Underflow [M/F]
Summary: oh how your husband hated the rain.
Bruised Fruit [F/S/A] (series masterlist)
Summary: he wasn’t the warmest man on earth, he walked ashed fields and scattered fruitless seeds, that was until the sun delivered him the ripest fruit from the arbor, his to harvest. The story of a man learning to love his saccharine ladywife and all her softness.
Little Flame [F/A]
Summary: Aemond’s life was incredibly dim after the war, a bottomless carven he’d sunk himself into with his own actions, until one by one, little flames came into his life.
Sundress [S]
Summary: the annual targaryen summer party, a sundress, and almost getting caught.
MISC.
Modern!Aemond Headcanons
key: S - smut, F - fluff, A- angst
☇ While I do not own the characters, I retain full copyright over this written work. Under no circumstances may this content be translated, copied, reposted, or used for AI training or any other purpose without my explicit permission.
Summary - She discovers that her husband, once her trusted partner, has betrayed her in a ruthless bid for power, shattering their marriage and revealing that their love was nothing more than a political strategy.
Pairing - Aemond Targaryen x reader
Warnings - None
Word count - 2044
Masterlist for Aemond • House of the Dragon General Masterlist
I never thought I'd experience betrayal at the hands of the man I had trusted.
The man I had loved, who had promised me that we would be stronger together—not just as husband and wife, but as rulers.
The man who held my heart, yet who had, all along, been plotting to take everything I had fought for.
But here I was standing in the aftermath of his deception, trying to make sense of the chaos he had unleashed.
The grand hall was filled with murmurs. It had been days since the council meeting that had upended everything.
My father—my protector, my anchor—was gone from the council. A long-standing member of the realm's most trusted body, now unseated. A decision that had come so suddenly, so ruthlessly, it was as if the very ground beneath me had cracked.
Aemond had done it. Aemond. My husband.
When the council had announced his candidacy to replace my father as the lead voice in foreign affairs, I had been stunned. I had stood, silent, my heart in my throat.
Aemond had stood tall, casting a glance toward me, his eyes cold and calculating. He had spoken of a vision for the future, of restoring the realm to its former glory, of forging stronger alliances.
But none of that had been true. It had been a lie.
Days passed, but it felt like years. The fury burned deep inside me, an all-consuming fire I couldn't extinguish.
Every moment I spent in those chambers felt suffocating, the very walls closing in around me, reminding me of the betrayal. I paced relentlessly, unable to calm my thoughts, seeking the right words to confront him.
Every memory of our time together seemed tainted, like a bitter poison had seeped into the roots of our relationship, rotting it from the inside out.
I had been blind—so utterly blind—and now I could see with an agonizing clarity.
The man I had once thought was my equal, my partner, had played me for a fool. How could I have been so naive?
When Aemond returned that evening, the flicker of candlelight illuminating the sharp planes of his face, he was eerily composed, as if nothing had changed.
But everything had changed, and the calmness with which he regarded me only ignited my fury further.
The man standing before me wasn't the one I had married; he was a stranger cloaked in the familiar skin of my husband.
"Why?" The word tore from my throat, my voice shaking with the intensity of my anger.
I needed answers, but more than that, I needed him to understand the depth of the wound he had inflicted.
Aemond's eyes flickered, the briefest flash of something—regret, maybe—before his usual mask slid into place. He was always so strategic, so controlled.
But I could see it now, the weariness etched into the lines around his eyes, the exhaustion he carried like an invisible weight. Yet none of that mattered. Not now.
"Why did you do it?" I demanded again, this time louder, harsher.
He shut the door behind him and stepped further into the room, his features unreadable. That calm, calculated demeanour only served to infuriate me more.
"Aemond, don't play this game with me," I hissed, the betrayal tightening my chest, constricting my breath.
"You unseated my father without so much as a word. My father, whom I've defended and trusted, whom you swore you respected—you took his place as if he were nothing but a disposable piece in your game."
He sighed, the sound heavy in the quiet room, and took a slow step toward me.
"It was necessary. The council's voice was fading, your father's influence was dwindling. I did what had to be done, for the realm... for us."
I laughed, a bitter sound that felt foreign in my throat.
"For us? Is that what you call this treachery? You did it for yourself, for power. Admit it, Aemond! This was never about us. I thought our marriage meant more, that you loved me, but now I see it was all just... strategy."
His face twisted as if my words had struck him, but I couldn't stop. The anger coursed through me, mixing with the hurt, creating a tempest I couldn't control.
I had always believed that, beneath his calculated exterior, there was a man who loved me, but now I wasn't sure of anything anymore.
"I did love you," he whispered, his voice breaking ever so slightly. "I still do. But love... love doesn't keep the realm from crumbling. I never wanted to hurt you. Never."
His words, spoken so softly, only deepened the pain. If he truly loved me, how could he betray me so thoroughly?
"Then why?" My voice trembled, the question hanging heavy between us. "Why use me like this?"
He flinched at the accusation, his gaze dropping for the briefest moment before meeting mine again.
There was something dark, something painful in his eyes—something I hadn't noticed before.
"I didn't use you," he murmured. "I married you because I love you. But it was also a necessity. You and I together—we're stronger. Not just as husband and wife, but as rulers. The realm needs us united. And if we are to survive, we need power. We need control."
He stepped closer, his voice urgent now, pleading.
"I did what I had to do. For us. I knew you'd be upset, but I thought in time, you'd see the bigger picture. I never meant for it to go this far. Not like this. I never wanted to hurt you."
His words cut deep, but they didn't heal the wounds he had inflicted.
In the days that followed, our once-unbreakable bond began to unravel, thread by thread.
He spent more time away, consumed with council matters, while I was left to wrestle with the bitterness and grief that weighed heavily on my heart.
Every night, as I lay in our bed—his side cold and empty—the silence between us grew louder. I could no longer sleep, haunted by the realization that everything I thought we had was built on lies.
The man I had given my heart to had shattered it, and now there was nothing left but the pieces.
Weeks later, I overheard that fateful conversation in the corridor. I wasn't even sure why I had stopped, why I had let curiosity get the better of me.
But as I neared the study, I recognized the voice—Lord Vaelor, a merchant whose name I had heard whispered in court more times than I could count. A man with vast influence.
Their voices were low, but I could hear them clearly enough to understand.
"Aemond," Vaelor said in a low tone, "I have to say, I didn't expect you to move so quickly. Unseating the old man—that was genius."
Aemond's voice followed, filled with a dark satisfaction. "It wasn't hard. His influence had waned. And now, with him out of the way, we control the council. The coin flows through my hands, as it should."
The moment I heard Aemond's words, my world collapsed around me. His voice, once the source of comfort and love, now dripped with a cold ambition I could scarcely comprehend.
My heart pounded in my chest, the weight of the betrayal sinking deep into my bones.
Everything I had known, everything I had believed about our marriage, was a lie—a calculated ploy.
"Coin?" I whispered under my breath, my stomach twisting.
The man I had once thought was my partner, my confidant, had reduced our union to nothing more than a political arrangement.
My love, my loyalty, my trust—it had all been used to advance his power, and I hadn't even seen it coming.
"Come now, Aemond," Vaelor said, chuckling.
"Let's not play coy. You've always been more ambitious than you let on. Your wife won't notice, will she? She's far too caught up in her duties to see the truth."
The truth? My mind reeled.
Aemond laughed, low and steady. "She doesn't need to see it. She only needs to stay by my side. She's too... idealistic to understand that we need coin. The crown needs it. The armies need it. Without it, we're doomed. And we both know that."
Idealistic? That's how he saw me? As some naive fool who couldn't grasp the reality of power?
Vaelor lowered his voice, barely above a whisper. "And the arrangement with the merchants? You're sure that's enough to keep the realm steady?"
Aemond was silent for a long moment before he answered, his voice quiet but sharp.
"Yes. The coin from the contracts and the deal with the merchants—it will secure our future. I'll have the power to make it all work. All of it."
The truth hit me like a hammer. The marriage. The trust I had extended to him. The love I thought we shared—it was all calculations, plans. My father's removal had been part of it.
To take control, to seize more resources, to solidify his place.
I wasn't his partner. I wasn't his. I was simply a pawn. An asset in a game I hadn't even known we were playing.
Finally, I couldn't bear to listen any longer. My body moved on its own, my heart hammering in my chest as I stepped forward, pushing the door open to the study with trembling hands.
Aemond and Vaelor turned to face me, both startled by my sudden appearance. The air between us crackled with tension, the betrayal hanging thick in the room.
"Is this what it's been all along?" I demanded, my voice trembling with rage and sorrow.
"Our marriage? A contract? A way to secure coin for the crown? For you?" My words hung in the air, sharp and accusing.
Aemond's eyes locked onto mine, his expression frozen in shock. For a fleeting moment, I saw raw emotion flicker in his gaze—regret, guilt, perhaps even sorrow.
But then, as quickly as it appeared, his mask slipped back into place.
His features hardened, his eyes searching mine as if he were scrambling for a way to salvage the wreckage of what we once had.
There was pain there—deep, sorrowful pain—but also something else: guilt.
"Aemond, I don't believe this," I continued, my voice rising with the surge of anger and pain that I could no longer contain. "We— we were supposed to be partners. Equal in this. But all you've done is betray me. You've used me. Used us."
He took a hesitant step toward me. "Please," he began softly, his voice strained. "It's not like that. I never wanted to hurt you."
"Then why did you betray my father?" I spat, the hurt bubbling to the surface. "Why did you steal his place—his legacy—for the sake of some arrangement with merchants? All for money?"
"I didn't steal anything," he said, his voice growing more desperate. "Your father was growing frail. He was out of touch with the needs of the realm. We needed... we needed fresh blood. I made a hard choice, and I did it because it was best for us. For our future."
I shook my head, my vision blurring with tears. "No, Aemond. This isn't what I signed up for. I thought we were building something together. I thought you loved me."
"I do love you," he said, his voice breaking. "I never meant for it to be like this. But we are the future. We have to be."
"I can't forgive you," I whispered, my voice small, breaking. "I can't be a part of this anymore."
And in that moment, I turned away, knowing that everything we had was a lie.
In the days that followed, Aemond sought me out. He sent messages, flowers, even tried to speak with me in the halls. He was hurting, too—his frustration was palpable, his voice breaking each time he tried to reach me.
But what could he say? How could he make this right when the trust between us had been shattered beyond repair?
"I never wanted this," he would say, over and over. "I never wanted to lose you."
And I would watch him, heart in my throat, knowing that no matter how many times he said it, it would never be enough. Not anymore.
He wanted to be with me. He wanted to fix this. But it was too late. Too much had been done.
It was always about power.
And I had been a fool to believe otherwise.
A/n - Lord Vaelor watching them argue like 👀 cause I forgot about him and now im too lazy to edit this
Aemond tag list - @darylandbethfanforever9 @lessdepressy @veesuguru @targaryendestiel
summary: Life in your apartment has always been peaceful—until you realize you have a neighbor. A neighbor with a love for blaring music. One thing sure: you’ll loathe him until the very last day of your coexistence.
a/n: I can’t believe it’s time to say goodbye to this oneshot. Martin really grew on me, and writing this story brought me so much joy. I hope it brings you the same! <3
I JUST DIED IN YOUR ARMS
The deafening blast of music slams into your chest, rattling your apartment walls and vibrating straight into your skull. Your knife slips, nearly slicing through your finger.
The music cuts off immediately. For a brief, hopeful moment, you think the owner of the sound system has finally realized they were one bass drop away from committing homicide by decibels.
Then, just as you let out a breath—
IT MUST HAVE BEEN SOMETHING YOU SAID
The music roars back to life.
You pause mid-chop, staring blankly at the diced tomatoes as if they, too, are reeling from the sonic whiplash.
That day, you learn two things:
a) There has, in fact, been a neighbor living next door this whole time (despite your landlady’s firm insistence that the apartment was empty).
b) You are bound to hate him.
Living in a residential area has its pros and cons. The biggest con? The one-hour commute to the city center, which means dragging yourself out of bed at an ungodly hour and, ideally, crashing into sleep just as early. You’ve debated moving closer, but unless you plan on surviving off instant noodles and wearing the same two outfits on rotation, you’d rather keep the cheaper rent.
You had gotten used to this lifestyle—almost. Until him.
At first, the music is an occasional inconvenience. But slowly, it morphs into something else—something personal. A vendetta, a battle of endurance, a psychological torture experiment. You’ve started tracking his habits, waiting for the moment he dares to break the 11:00 PM noise ordinance so you can legally ruin his life. But, much to your utter frustration, the asshole always stops at 10:40 PM —just enough to remain technically within the law.
For the past two weeks, you’ve developed a series of elaborate theories about him, all based on his bizarre music choices.
At first, it was exclusively club music. Loud, bass-heavy, the kind that rattles the windows and makes you wonder if he moonlights as an underground DJ. Then, suddenly, he shifted to metal. Not just casual rock—hard metal. The kind that sounds like a possessed washing machine being thrown down a flight of stairs.
He’s either a maniac or a cult leader. You even bought pepper spray, just in case.
And then, as if that wasn’t bad enough, there were the love songs.
Very occasional 80s and 90s power ballads. A full, heart-wrenching playlist.
You sit there one evening, listening to "Total Eclipse of the Heart" blasting through your walls, squinting at the ceiling.
Oh God. Is he going through a breakup?
A small, fleeting flicker of pity sparks in your chest.
Then, the music switches to death metal again, and all sympathy evaporates.
No way. Fuck him.
One morning, a door slams shut.
Your instincts kick in immediately. You sprint to the peephole, heart hammering with anticipation, as your coffee spills on your bare feet. Luckily, it’s lukewarm.
Time to know your enemy.
But the hallway is empty.
Either he moves at the speed of light, or it’s your hallucination.
Still, you know it’s a he.
Why? Because no girl would be this inconsiderate. This level of auditory terrorism is purely boyish behavior.
Later that evening, you lean back against your couch, glaring at your book before tightening your grip on the spine. It’s impossible to grasp the meaning of a single sentence while the music is on.
I bet he’s a slim, pimple-faced little gremlin. A pasty basement-dweller with zero social skills. A virgin for sure. There’s no way a single girl—
The music stops.
You blink, realizing your knuckles have gone white from strangling your library book, which certainly doesn’t deserve this abuse.
10:16 PM.
Huh. Much earlier than usual.
And then—
B O O M.
The techno music kicks in.
A strangled, primal scream escapes you, muffled into your pillow like the cries of a dying animal. You fucking hate techno.
On the bright side, you apparently have 20 whole minutes to cry and tear apart furniture before anyone hears it.
You curl up on the couch, hair sticking up in all directions, eyes locked on the clock. Your feet are tucked close to your hips as you will the hands to move faster.
Come on, asshole. Just a little longer. Just five more minutes. Give me a reason. Give me a fucking reason.
The second the clock hits 11:00 PM, you press dial.
The number is already on your screen.
“Police department. What’s your emergency?”
“Hi! My psycho neighbor has been blasting his shitty techno music for three hours straight,” you say, pacing the room like a rabid animal. At this point, you probably look like the unhinged one. “It’s already past 11:00 PM, I really need someone to come over.”
There’s a short pause. Then:
“Have you tried talking to them?”
You stop dead in your tracks.
“Who?”
“Your neighbor.”
You blink. “What? No. Why would I do that?”
“Perhaps ask them to turn it down a bit?”
“…A bit?” You let out a hollow, manic laugh. “This isn’t a bit. This is a nightmare club. Can you hear that?” You shove the phone against the door, pressing it so hard the plastic creaks.
“Miss, I understand your frustration, but—”
“Frustration?” Another laugh bubbles up—high-pitched, deranged. “This has been going on for two weeks!”
“We’d appreciate your cooperation and understanding so that our officers don’t have to respond to minor nuisances—”
“I need the police. NOW.”
“If you could just try a polite conversation—”
“I FUCKING HATE HIM.”
“Miss, your language is inappropriate. We may have to—”
“KISS MY ASS!”
You hurl the phone onto the couch and storm out of your apartment, Hello Kitty pajamas flapping as you stomp across the hall with your bare feet—something you would never do in your right mind. Your fist is raised, prepared to pound on the opposite door.
And then—
Silence.
The music cuts off.
You freeze.
Footsteps. Approaching.
Your breath catches.
Your fight-or-flight instincts slam into overdrive, and before you can even process it, you’re back inside your apartment, door locked, back pressed against it.
Your heartbeat pounds in your ears, still matching the faint techno beat lingering in the air.
You gulp.
I fucking hate him.
Hauling two weeks' worth of groceries up six flights of stairs is a mistake. You know this now. But knowing doesn’t ease the burn in your arms or make your fingers feel any less numb. The bags dig into your skin like vengeful little beasts, your grip slipping with every agonizing step. You barely even see where you're going, your vision blocked by a precariously stacked pile of food.
Halfway up, just as you’re questioning all your life choices, a low voice from behind nearly sends you sprawling.
“You need help?”
You nearly misstep.
“Not really, thanks,” you reply quickly, biting your lip. You manage another step, wobbling under the weight of your groceries.
“Looks like you need a hand.”
You shake your head, even though he can’t see it. “Nah, I’m good.” Even though the part of you, particularly your hands, screams that the help is indeed crucial. But you’ve already said no once, and changing your mind now feels weirdly humiliating.
And as if the universe is personally offended by your stubbornness, the top package—a flimsy plastic bag stuffed with herbs—starts to slip.
“No-no-no—” You desperately shift the load to the side, which only makes things worse. The package of waffles teeters, preparing for its grand escape—
Then, before disaster can strike, a broad hand snatches it midair and tucks it back into the pile.
You freeze for a second, blinking at the unexpected save. Then, swallowing your pride, you mumble, “Thanks.”
He doesn’t acknowledge it. No nod, no hum—nothing. Instead, as if taking your pause as an opportunity, he moves past you, squeezing by in the narrow stairwell, like someone who’s very, very done with being stuck behind you at your snail’s pace.
The first thing you notice is his hair—long, crow-black, and tangled at the ends like he just got out of bed. Messy, but not in a way “shit, where is my comb?” but more like “fuck. a. comb.” He’s dressed in all black, the kind of outfit that practically screams some subculture. Goth? Emo? Whatever it is, it suits him.
Then, the metal catches your eye. A curved barbell through his eyebrow. A spiked leather armband. He looks like the kind of guy who owns an unreasonable number of band T-shirts and walks into coffee shops ordering his drink black, like his soul, you can hear barista’s whisper.
You’re still analyzing him when you finally reach the landing. The table on the wall says Floor 6—your floor. Relief floods you. You’re about to come up with an idea of what the best way is to fumble for your keys when—
The guy stops. Right in front of the flat next to yours.
You freeze like a cat seeing a bird. Groceries threatening to slip from your grip, but they no longer the object of your attention or worry.
There’s no way. There is no way.
Your brain still refuses to connect the dots. He could be visiting someone, right? A friend? A— Then he pulls a key from his pocket.
He turns slightly, catching your deer-in-the-headlights stare. His expression shifts into something vaguely suspicious. Does he think you’re a stalker or what?
“Any problem?” he asks, lazily spinning his key between his fingers.
Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
“You’re my neighbor,” you say, almost breathless. Somehow your surprised statement comes out as a question.
“Apparently.”
You blink at him, feeling heat rise to your face—not out of shyness, but out of sheer, boiling anger. After weeks of suffering through his nightmare club music, after countless passive-aggressive pillow screams, after nearly calling the police—you’re just now meeting your mortal enemy?
“I live next door,” you say, bluntly, as it should set clear the way you feel about him and his music.
His gaze flickers to your overloaded arms, then back to your face—or rather, the part not obscured by a rebellious head of lettuce. He doesn’t look particularly impressed. And the irritation bubbling in your voice is clearly lost on him.
“Okay,” he replies. A single, indifferent okay, before he turns the key and pushes open his door.
“Hey,” you blurt out before he disappears. “Your music. Are you out of your mind playing it that loud?”
He tilts his head slightly, considering. “Most likely.”
And then, without another word, he slips inside, shutting the door with an infuriating click.
You stand still, like you've been slapped. You expected your conversation to end in a long fight, with him calling you names for not understanding his precious taste in music. Gods, you’ve envisioned dozens of scenarios and witty replies for each of those. But not this.
Seething, your fingers tighten around the grocery bags—
And that’s when the universe decides to have its final laugh.
A sharp, unforgiving tear.
Your arms lighten as one of your overfilled bags gives up on life, sending apples, onions, and goddamn tomatoes rolling across the floor and bouncing down the stairs.
A strangled noise escapes your throat.
Your grunt of despair is probably heard three floors down.
A few evenings later, you’re banging on his door like it personally wronged you. If he can blast music at ungodly decibels, surely he can hear this.
The moment the door swings open, you nearly stumble forward, hands almost colliding with his chest. It takes all your effort to resist inertia and not crash into him.
Regaining your composure, not that you particularly care about keeping a friendly face, you demand, “Could you at least play something remotely cheerful?”
His gaze flicks downward, taking in the flour smudges on your shirt and the streak of dough on your sleeve, like you just wrestled a sack of flour—and lost.
For the last thirty minutes, you’ve been attempting to bake a cake while blasting your own music through your headphones, only to realize, much too late, that his relentless emo soundtrack drowns out everything. And since your weekend plans got rained out, you’re left alone with your misery and his depressing playlist rubbing salt in the wound.
“Seriously, I want to take a rope and fucking hang from my chandelier to your music.”
He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, his sleeveless shirt revealing strong biceps—which puzzles you. So, he not only listens to soul-crushing music but also works out? The contradiction irritates you for no logical reason. Despite his build, he doesn’t look particularly intimidating—just tired.
“Me too,” he says bluntly.
You pause. Blink.
Wait—what?
For a brief, disorienting moment, you try to gauge whether he’s being sarcastic or if you’ve just wandered into a much heavier conversation than expected. He does look perpetually grumpy—borderline brooding—but now you wonder if you should tread carefully, or you might end up witnessing the headline, “The guy who’d been reported playing loud music found dead in his apartment.”
“Uh… why exactly do you wanna hang?” you ask hesitantly.
His eyes flick over you, assessing. Then—
SLAM.
The door shuts in your face so fast that the air shifts.
“ASSHOLE!” you shout at the wood, your voice echoing through the hallway.
You stand there for a full minute, seething, before you remember the cake.
When you return to the kitchen and see its charred edges, you conclude that if one of you were to get hanged tonight, it might actually be an improvement.
You're fighting with the office printer. It has eaten your paper and refuses to let go. No matter how many pieces you pull out, more seem to be jammed inside, like some cursed, endless void of shredded documents.
Then—BANG.
Loud, persistent.
Your boss. He needs those documents now, and you’ve only managed to print three out of ten pages.
I’m going to get fired, you think frantically, making one last-ditch attempt to yank the paper free, pulling it with all the force you have.
But the banging grows louder. And louder. And—
Your eyes snap open.
You're in your apartment.
Relief crashes over you as you take in your room. The morning sun slicing through the tiny gap between your navy curtains.
BANG. BANG.
The sound makes you flinch.
The knocking is real.
Dragging yourself out of bed, still groggy and dressed in a stretched-out t-shirt and Hello Kitty shorts, you shuffle to the door. A glance at the clock. 8:45 AM. Saturday. No guests expected.
Peeking through the peephole, you see a blonde woman, somewhere in her… fifties? You’ve never been good at discerning age. But what’s even more important – you’ve never seen her before.
Who the hell…?
Before you can think further - BANG. You flinch again. For such a petite lady, she’s surprisingly strong.
Does she want to knock the damn door down?
“Who’s there?” you call out loud enough for her to hear.
“Hi! I’m really sorry to disturb you.” She sounds sincerely apologetic. “I hoped you could help me! Can we talk about your next-door neighbor?”
You frown. What is that even supposed to mean? Then—Eureka.
Finally! Another neighbour got fed up with him!
Flicking the lock open, you greet her with a grin.
“Morning! Finally!” you say in a rush, delighted. “I was waiting for this day!”
“Really?” She raises her brow. “So you know what’s going on?”
“Of course! For over a goddamn month!”
She sighs, placing a hand over her chest almost dramatically. “You have no idea what a relief it is to hear that!”
“Believe me, ma’am, I share your relief just as much! I even called the police, but they told me—”
“Oh no!” she gasps, suddenly alarmed. “Martin got himself into trouble again?”
Her sudden concern startles you. But only for a second.
“So this asshole has a name…” you mutter without thinking.
“It was my father’s name,” she says matter-of-factly.
You blink at her, unsure why the information is even relevant.
“They didn’t listen to me. Anyway,” you push on, “how about we go to the police together, join forces, and make sure he kisses the large fine and never blasts his awful music again?”
Now she’s the one giving you a weird look, clutching her purse to her chest as if worried she might get robbed at any moment.
“Police? Oh, no! I think you’ve misunderstood. I’m here to check on Martin. I was hoping you could tell me if he’s been around, if he seems alright.”
Your brain lags, processing her words like an ancient computer about to overheat. Why would anyone check on this ass—
“I haven’t spoken to my son in over a year,” she adds, shaking her head. “My husband and I are so worried.”
And just like that—the puzzle clicks.
Your son? The words echo in your mind like a scream in a vast tunnel.
Your adrenaline spikes. You’re no longer looking at a petite woman you can join forces with, but the very person responsible for him coming into this world and making your life miserable for the past month.
“Your son has been blasting his deafening music every single evening and ruining my life,” you hiss through gritted teeth, each word punctuated with fury.
The woman takes a few steps backward, almost losing her balance, startled by the change in your face.
“The fucking concerts happen every night, right on schedule, around 8 PM. Care to join?” you snap, crossing your arms.
“Oh…!” She opens and closes her mouth, looking for the right words to come out. “It’s just… Martin was such a nice kid.”
You let out a short, disbelieving laugh. Oh, for the love of— Please don’t pull out baby pictures.
“As a teenager, he fell in love with that girl,” she says, the words laced with a kind of disdain that makes her sound like a self-proclaimed prophet condemning the sin. “He got his eyebrow pierced, grew out and dyed his hair, started dressing differently… And then, about a year ago, they broke up.”
Well, at least you got one thing right about his playlist.
“Then we said a lot of terrible things to each other, things I regret and… he moved here. I haven’t heard from him since.”
She pauses. And when you catch the shimmer of unshed tears in her eyes, you suddenly feel… awkward.
Because you’re standing in front of a mother talking about her kid.
Shifting on your feet, a little voice in the back of your mind whispers that maybe—maybe—you should’ve thought twice before unloading all your pent-up frustration on her.
“If you see him,” she says, almost pleading, “please tell him I came by. That I really wanted to talk to him. And that I’m sorry.” She hesitates. “Tell him he can call me whenever he’s ready.”
Would he even listen?
You give her a curt nod, and in return, she showers you with thanks.
With that, her figure turns away, and your discomfort melts away with her fading footsteps.
You let out a long, tired sigh. That’s certainly not what you expected at 8 o’clock in the morning.
Before shutting the door, you cast a glance at the apartment across from yours.
What are the chances the asshole heard the entire conversation and just pretended not to be home?
You let the mystery stay in the staircase and shut your door.
Later that evening, right on schedule, his music starts blasting through the walls again.
“I fucking hate you, Martin,” you whisper, staring up at the ceiling.
Weighing all the yeses and noes, you decide you’ll only mention his mother’s visit if you happen to run into him by sheer chance in the next few days. After all, you’re not an owl, watching over his life, and his mother must have his number or some way to reach him. If he ignores her, that’s on him. That’s what the universe wants.
And yet… your actions betray you.
The next few days, you find yourself pausing before stepping out of your apartment, glancing through the peephole as if you’re being hunted instead of living your normal, peaceful life. On the staircase, you stick your head out slightly, scanning for any sign of him. You tell yourself this is all just caution, totally rational. It has nothing to do with your promise to tell him about his mother.
Even if you do run into him, you can just ignore him. Maybe you should wait for an apology first? Yes, that’s fair. A perfectly reasonable plan. But deep down, you know—Martin will never apologize to you.
The thought puts you in a sour mood as you get ready to meet your best friend, but eventually, excitement takes the edge off your irritation. You swipe on a deep shade of red lipstick, so caught up in your buzzing energy that you go slightly beyond the contour of your right mouth corner.
Then, the buzzer rings.
Grinning, you rush to the door—only to stop short, nearly dropping the lipstick.
Martin.
The shock hits in two waves. First, that it’s him, standing on your doorstep like some kind of glitch in the universe. Second, the way he looks. His left eye is bruised, an angry red-purple bloom smearing across his skin. A scratch runs along his nose, dried blood still clinging to it, and you suspect the eye hidden beneath his bangs looks just as bad.
“What the hell happened to you?” you blurt out.
He looks at you, unnervingly calm, as if those injuries are nothing more than just a figment of your imagination. His gaze drifts downward.
“Your lipstick…” he says, pointing to the right corner of your lip.
You don’t process the words at first, only belatedly, realizing what he means. Mirroring his movement, you swipe the corner of your mouth.
“Yeah, I know,” you say, though your mind is still yelling, SOS. What the hell is happening? Million question marks.
Then, very casually, he asks, “Do you have some sort of ointment?” Almost as if you were discussing the weather.
You blink. “I—uh—yeah. I guess so. I’ll check the kit.”
The words come automatically, and before you know it, you’re turning away, heading to the bathroom, giving your inner hand a quick pinch just to test the plausibility of the moment. You hiss as the pain rushes through you.
Not a dream then, you think, tossing the lipstick onto the sink as you stretch up on tiptoes to grab the first aid kit from the top shelf.
Rummaging through it, you sift past unknown pills and bandages. Was it a gang from a different subculture who did this? Cool guys? One of the neighbors who had also tried calling the police? Finally, you stumble across a small tube of ointment. You pop the cap and take a sniff—herbal, vaguely medicinal. Probably safe. Grabbing some cotton pads just in case, you make your way back.
The door is almost shut.
For a split second, your stomach twists—did he leave? But when you open it, you see he’s still there, hands in his pockets, gaze fixed on the floor.
“I don’t know if this is what you need, but…” You hold out the ointment, and your fingers brush for a single moment, causing you to nearly jump. You pull back quickly, clasping your hands in front of you. Totally not awkward.
Martin takes the small box, his lips moving slightly as he reads the label.
The question lingers on your tongue: Who did this to you? But you don’t ask. And maybe you don’t want to know.
“I’ll Google the instructions,” he mutters, lifting his gaze.
His eyes—blue with hints of green—stand out sharply against the bruising. The red beneath them only makes them more vivid. Like twin galaxies caught in the aftermath of a collision.
“Have you been to a doctor?” The question slips out before you can stop it. Not that you should care.
“Yeah,” he nods. “And then the pharmacy gave me some useless stuff.”
“Don’t they know better?”
He looks at you blankly.
“In the pharmacy,” you clarify, clearing your throat.
“Google is more reliable.”
Your mouth almost falls open at how much further his idiocy has climbed in your mental rankings. Or maybe he bashed his head too?
“It’s a joke,” he adds, and you wonder if a trace of a smile flickers on his face.
“Oh. Nice to know,” you mutter, nodding like a fool.
The silence between you threatens to stretch into something unbearable. Before it does, he lifts the ointment slightly. “I’ll return it.”
“No problem,” you say, as if this entire situation isn’t ridiculous. As if this isn’t him.
He turns toward his apartment, and before the ironic thought of of course, there’d be no gratitude makes you mutter something sarcastic—
“Thanks,” he says quietly, just before he disappears behind his door.
You have nothing to say.
Again.
“It stings,” Martin mutters, stretching out the ointment toward you. It’s still painful to look at him.
“As any other healing stuff does.” You take it back, shrugging. This time, no physical contact.
His lips press together. “Better without it.”
“You need someone to blow on it.”
He looks at you as if you just suggested murder.
Your brain catches up a second too late—of course, he lives alone. Facepalm.
“Or, you know, you can take a notebook or a piece of paper and do this.” You mimic the motion of fanning your face, as if that somehow erases the awkwardness.
But Martin doesn’t answer. He just stares at you, as if caught in a trance.
“Martin?” You snap your fingers in front of his face. “Are you okay?”
His pupils contract slightly. “How do you know my name?”
Oh. Shit.
The realization slams into you like a freight train. You totally forgot about his mother.
“Your mom,” you say, dropping your gaze to the floor for a second. “She was here. She wanted to know how you’re doing and—”
The words barely leave your mouth before he turns his back to you, strides into his apartment, and slams the door shut.
The sound echoes down the hall.
You stand there, feeling weirdly winded. What are the chances he's got a pot on the stove, so once he turns it off, he’ll return?
Zero.
Then, with an annoyed huff, you stomp back to your flat, tossing the ointment onto the table.
Whatever.
A few hours later.
Music rips through the thin walls.
LOOK AT ME
I'M ON THE WAY TO THE PROMISED LAND
I'M ON THE HIGHWAY TO HELL
HIGHWAY TO HELL
You groan, stuffing a pillow over your head.
Whoever he got into a fight with, it clearly wasn’t your neighbor.
You’re going to get fired.
That thought, along with the excruciating turbulence in your head, follows you all the way home.
Your boss had one hell of a day, which meant you had one hell of a day. And, of course, he took it out on you.
Each step up the stairs drains what little energy you have left. Your legs feel leaden, barely lifting high enough to clear the next step. The tips of your shoes scrape against the floor.
Are you pointless?
Or is your boss just a raging moron?
Gods, you just want to crawl into bed and forget the world exists.
You make it to your floor, eyes half-lidded, and—of course. There he is.
Martin stands there, a trash bag in one hand, seemingly on his way to toss it out. The dim hallway light highlights the faint blue and green smudges left behind by bruises that are finally healing. They look like watercolors blending into his skin.
His eyes flick to you. “You alright?”
The words come out sincere, but you’re too exhausted to decipher the tone.
“Never been better,” you deadpan, digging through your bag for your keys. Where the hell are they?
Your fingers fumble against your wallet, your phone, a handful of receipts—everything except the damn key. Your shoulders sag.
From the corner of your eye, Martin shifts. He’s still standing there, still watching. Not in an intrusive way. Not even expectant. Just... there.
You don’t have the energy to care what he’s thinking.
Finally, your fingers brush against the key. You grip it, yank it out, and step left to pass him—only for him to move the same way.
You both freeze.
Then you both step the other way. Another near-collision.
The day has wrung you dry, and this stupid, clumsy little dance is the final drop.
A bitter laugh breaks from your lips. Not because it’s funny. No, if you were just a little more rested, if your head weren’t pounding, if your body weren’t screaming at you to just stop, maybe you’d find it amusing. But right now? Right now, it’s the kind of laugh that comes out before tears.
Martin gets the hint. He presses his back to the wall, making space for you to pass.
“If you need anything—” he starts as you go by.
“The only thing I need from you,” you cut in, snapping your head up, your words simmering with venom, “is for your goddamn music to stop blasting through the walls for two hours straight every day, making everything in my apartment vibrate like it’s a damn earthquake.”
Your chest rises and falls, demanding a breather, demanding rest. But now that you’ve started, you can’t stop.
“Of course, you won’t do that,” you announce it almost like a sentence to both of you.
You struggle with the key as you try to shove it into the lock. You miss. Again. Your hands are shaking now. You’re so pissed not just anyone but him witness you in the moment like this.
“You know what, Martin?” You try to steady your voice, the way an exhausted parent might when talking to a particularly frustrating child. “I had a really shitty day today. It’s not just some imaginary, made-up crap I came up with in my free time. So now that you know, go ahead. Finish me off with one of your damn playlists.”
The key finally slides into place. The lock clicks.
“To simplify your life,” you add, forcing a smile, “I’m gonna admit—techno is the worst.”
You push the door open.
"Go ahead," you mutter, just before slamming it shut.
Sheer surprise flickers across his face—then something shifts. A shadow of disappointment. Recognition. Like before, his eyes flash with the memories of all the assumptions people have thrown at him, all the times he’s swallowed the urge to argue, to say, This is not who I am. But the realization comes just as quickly. It doesn’t matter. They’ve already written him off.
Through the gap, you catch that fleeting look—just for a second.
What was meant to be a satisfying blow lands wrong, leaving a sour taste in your mouth. The tasteless vengeance drains the last bit of energy you had left.
Perfect. Now he thinks you’re a hysterical bitch.
Stripping off your work clothes, you throw on your softest t-shirt and collapse into bed, cocooning yourself in the blanket like a human burrito. If you can’t fight this world, you’re going to hide from it.
Maybe you’ll get some sleep before he starts his next live concert from hell.
When you wake up the next morning, the first thing you notice is the quiet. The unusual, comforting stillness of the city, still asleep.
Your eyes adjust to the golden sunlight streaming into your room. You’ve forgotten to shut the curtains, and now dust particles drift lazily in the glow, almost like astronauts in space. Your body feels lighter, your mind clearer, even the pressing feeling in your chest has vanished. As if the world has finally decided to be kind for once.
And then it hits you. The realization is akin to the splash of cold water to the face.
He didn’t play music last night.
You feel odd, even though everything you said was true. You aren’t the one causing discomfort, and yet, the thought lingers—maybe I went too far.
The phrase I’m sorry for lashing out at you circles your mind like an annoying pop-up ad, but you swat it away before it roots itself too deep.
No. Apologies are for people who deserve them. And Martin does not.
Especially not after he generously granted you a single day of peace, only to resume his usual torment the next evening—loud, unrelenting, and spanning three goddamn hours instead of two.
You clench your jaw as the bass pulses through your walls while you scan the tech online store. The temptation to call the police fades quickly, since you’re pretty sure you’ll be advised to talk kindly to him again.
No thanks.
Click “Purchase.”
You’re done being the victim. Time to fight back.
RING. RING.
The delivery arrives earlier than expected.
You sign the receipt with a distracted nod, barely processing the delivery guy’s cheerful, “Enjoy the music!” as he hands over the package.
Stepping back inside, you lug the heavy box into your living room, nudging the door shut with your hip. The weight alone makes you wonder if you accidentally ordered a subwoofer powerful enough to shatter glass.
Attempts to connect your phone to the music center are in vain, and you disdainfully look at the instructions you discarded earlier. Seems like the intuitive approach doesn’t work, and now you have to read them.
“Connected,” a cheerful robotic voice announces through the speakers, nearly making you jump.
You huff, triumphant. Finally.
A glance at the clock: 4:45 PM
Two hours before Martin starts his sonic warfare.
One hour before you strike first.
You smirk. Let’s see how he likes a taste of his own medicine.
And you’re not talking about his kind of music. Oh no.
Sabrina Carpenter. Taylor Swift. Dua Lipa.
Not once has anything remotely bubblegum blared from his speakers, but you’re betting he’ll hate it as much as you hate whatever demonic screaming he plays every night.
…Unless.
A disturbing thought slithers into your brain as you scroll through your playlist.
What if he’s a secret pop fan? What if, for eight hours a day, he’s privately jamming to "Espresso" like the rest of the world?
You shake your head. Impossible.
Still, you hesitate for half a second before pressing play.
Three things you learn in three days:
a) Martin might, in fact, be a secret pop fan.
b) You might have started developing an aversion to your own music.
c) When both pop music and metal play at full volume, metal always wins.
Unfortunately.
HALF-PAST TWELVE
AND I'M WATCHING THE LATE SHOW IN MY FLAT ALL ALONE
HOW I HATE TO SPEND THE EVENING ON MY OWN
Maybe your devious plan needs more time.
Maybe it ain’t gonna work at all.
Maybe you should play more diverse songs.
GIMME, GIMME, GIMME A MAN AFTER MIDNIGHT
WON'T SOMEBODY HELP ME CHASE THE SHADOWS AWAY?
You flick the damp strands of your hair over your shoulder, shoving your hair dryer—which seconds ago was a microphone—into the drawer. Abba’s concert is in full swing: loud, relentless, victorious.
And then—a noise.
At first, it barely registers over the music—a faint, foreign disruption. Your brow furrows as you glance toward the speakers. Did the bass just crackle? Is something wrong with the system? A vision flickers in your mind: you, struggling to lug the heavy music center to the nearest shop, cursing under your breath, while Martin watches victoriously—either through the peephole or, worse, from the stairwell.
You lower the volume. The noise sharpens.
Your doorbell.
Your heart nearly jumps out of your throat.
Almost like a thief in your own apartment, you creep to the door, moving on your tiptoes. Your fingers hover over the peephole before you even dare to check.
Martin.
Fuck.
A fresh bolt of panic shoots through you, and the first thought is to back out of the game. BUT it’s too late to pretend you’re not home. You either can crank the volume up and let him stew in the hallway, questioning his life choices, or open the door and have an assertive talk so he learns who’s in charge now.
Squaring your shoulders, you take a steadying breath, check your reflection in the mirror.
Acceptable.
Despite your hair still drying.
You look down.
Pink socks. With giraffes.
Fucking perfect.
Still, it’s too late. You’ve already flicked the lock. Already pulled the door open.
And now—there he is.
Standing right in front of you. Martin’s shirt has The Scream printed across it—Edvard Munch’s ghostly, contorted figure frozen in eternal horror.
And the first thought that hits you is: If this doesn’t work, that painting might as well be the mood for the rest of your life.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” you echo, plastering on a look that (hopefully) conveys what the hell are you doing here? in one single, withering glance.
Silence stretches between you. Again.
It’s always like this with him. Either the walls quake with his music, or there’s nothing at all. No middle ground. No mild thing in between.
The staring game continues, and your eyes begin to sting from the effort of not blinking first.
For a moment, his face shifts—not in reality, but in the place where memories and possibilities blur together.
A vision: Martin’s brows drawing together in confusion, lips parting just slightly, like he’s about to say something—right before—
Right before you slammed the door in his face last week.
You gulp, your fingers twitching nervously. The phrase “I will listen to my music whenever I want” is activated on your tongue, waiting for the right moment.
And just as he opens his mouth to say something—
“IWILLLISTENTOMYMUSICWHENEVERI—”
He spoke at the same time.
And whatever he just said? It short-circuits your brain.
“What?” you repeat dumbly.
Martin shifts, rubbing the back of his neck. And for the first time, you notice something—something that doesn’t quite fit the version of him you’ve conjured up in your head.
“Wanna listen to music together?” he repeats his question again, almost... shyly?
A glitch in the universe.
You always thought of him as the smug, arrogant guy who plays loud music to irritate the essence of his neighbors. The attitude: “I give no shit about you.”
But something about your last encounter must have shifted something.
Because now, standing here, looking at his tall, broad-shouldered figure, you don’t see a cocky jerk with a speaker fetish.
You spot a guy who doesn’t mind being the small spoon.
And for some reason—that unsettles you.
Your expression must be terrifyingly unreadable because Martin fidgets, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans.
Like it’s the most casual, normal suggestion in the world.
But it’s not. It’s the exact opposite of normal.
Because you are supposed to be winning this war. And he’s supposed to be suffering.
Not standing at your door looking strangely awkward.
Not asking you to listen with him.
And you should definitely say NO.
“Why?” you blurt out instead, your arms crossing like a strict teacher expecting an explanation from a back-row student.
His weight shifts from one foot to the other, like he was bracing for a clear yes or no. Not... this.
“This is the first time you’ve played something decent.”
Your jaw clenches.
There it is. The asshole is back.
You huff. “Says who?”
“Not a fan of Sabrina Carpenter.”
Either the bluntness of it or the ridiculous sense of victory—not a secret fan of Sabrina after all—your lips threaten to sprawl into a grin. You bite down on it, fight it, but nothing helps.
The flashbacks of him slamming the door, nearly making you kiss it, boil under the surface. And you could do the same. Fuck him. Slam the door. Pay him back in kind. Do it. Do it. Do it.
A second. A single second.
And Martin will turn away.
Shuffle back to his apartment, muttering “idiot” under his breath.
He’ll play his music just as always.
You’ll move out sooner or later.
Someone else will move in.
And Martin—Martin will stay Martin.
He’ll climb the stairs, and for a split second, he’ll remember walking behind you once, watching the way your grocery bags nearly split open under the weight of green sour apples—an unpopular choice, but his all-time favorite.
A small, stupid thing. An invisible thread.
But today?
Today will be your last conversation.
Because the universe doesn’t give infinite chances. Quite a few. And if you don’t take them, they don’t show up again.
It all flashes between you and him, more vivid, more deafening than any music he’s ever blasted through the walls.
Your breath hitches.
And before you know it—before you can second-guess yourself—some invisible force (no one but you, actually) pushes the door open wider.
Martin’s brows lift slightly, caught off guard.
“You coming in or not?” you ask, a smirk tugging at your lips—because he definitely didn’t expect this.
And after a beat—
He steps inside.
If anybody thought your conversation would flow and thrive, boy, were they wrong.
“Would you like something to drink?”
Black coffee. No sugar. Come on.
“No, thanks,” he says.
You shrug and turn toward the window, settling against the windowsill. The sky is painted with orange and purple hues, the beautiful farewell of the day. In just 20 minutes, the silhouettes of people moving in the streets below will barely be visible.
Martin, meanwhile, has taken the plush chair, his attention seemingly absorbed by the plant left behind by the previous tenants. His fingers trail idly along its leaves, tracing their shape, their edges. Is he counting them? Studying them like they hold the meaning of life?
His profile is sharp under the dim lighting of sunset, but the bruises still mark his skin, dark smudges beneath his eyes that haven’t yet faded. They look painful.
Abba fades into the Bee Gees, then Blondie, then Boney M.
When the darkness finally settles over the city, you shut your curtains close.
Martin sits suspiciously straight, his fingers tapping against the chair’s arm in quiet rhythm, in sync with the music.
When he catches a rather scanning gaze of yours, he raises a brow in question.
“You use anything for it?” you point at the skin around your eyes.
“A few days ago.” His reply is somewhat elusive.
“You need to do it more frequently. Unless you want to keep them for good.”
He hums thoughtfully, as if promising to consider your words but not committing to them.
Neither of you speaks again.
Two days later and he drops by again. Kicking off his shoes, he notices the ointment lying on the small table. Its cap slightly askew, like it’s been waiting for him.
“Use it.” You nod toward it.
Surprisingly, he doesn’t argue.
Minutes later, the sound of running water and muttered curses echo from the bathroom.
“What happened?” You rush there like a lifeguard ready to get the man out of the sea. Only to witness Martin hunched over the sink, splashing water onto his face like a man possessed. Droplets scatter across the mirror, the counter—his shirt is already damp.
“It stings,” he grits out, wincing as he dabs at his skin again. “Like hell.”
“Can’t be,” you say stepping closer. “It’s almost healed.”
“I’m telling you.” He flinches and throws another handful of water against his face, this time droplets get over your shirt too.
“Stop! If it gets in your eye, it’s gonna sting even more.” You reach past him to shut off the tap, your hand brushing his in the process and he steps instinctively back.
The bathroom isn’t big—far from it. And in a space this small, he’s just there, all broad shoulders and height that makes the room feel even tinier. So it’s a matter of seconds before his head meets the towel rail with a solid thunk.
“Ouch.” His other hand flies to the back of his head.
Before you can stop it, you burst into laughter, so crystal clear and genuine.
“Not funny,” he mutters, rubbing the sore spot.
“Oh, it absolutely is.” You cross your arms, biting back another laugh.
He huffs, rubbing at his eye next—but you quickly swat his hand away.
“Don’t,” you chide.
“Do you have some kind of—I don’t know….?” He waves a hand, mimicking the same motion you had used some time ago for a fan.
You shake your head. There’s nothing. No fan, no paper to wave, not even a magazine.
All you see around are lotions, creams, and towels.
“Just… come here,” you say finally.
Martin looks at you, wary, still pressing his hand to the back. “Come where?”
“Sit,” you say, pointing to the edge of the bathtub. He hesitates only for a moment, before doing as you say.
“Close your eyes.”
“Gonna take revenge on me?”
It’s the first time you’ve seen him smile. And it’s real. Not a smirk, not a half-laugh. Just a small, genuine thing that catches you off guard.
“Sure,” you deadpan. “Get ready. It’s gonna be terrible.”
His smile lingers, but he closes his eyes anyway.
You lean in, careful, hesitant, and blow softly against his skin.
It’s a gentle thing, barely a breath. You don’t dare push back his bangs, even though you can tell he hasn’t applied ointment to the other side. Unexpectedly, this moment lets you better explore his facial features. Long nose, powerful jaw, prominent cheekbones. Even the piercing seems to compliment his appearance.
His breathing slows.
“You ate something spicy,” he murmurs.
Your face heats instantly at the remark. “Shut up.”
You did have spicy pasta for lunch, and you regretted it then. Now you regret it even more.
A few more moments pass. His nose no longer scrunches. His lips no longer twitch. The tension in his face eases.
“Is it better?” Your voice comes out as a whisper.
When he opens his eyes, the proximity between you is more evident than before. Much more. The bathroom space is growing smaller, more confined. Your knees brush against his, and it wasn’t until now you realized that.
This time, you don’t just notice that his eyes are blue—you notice the ring of green around the pupils. The way they darken in the dim light. The way they look at you.
Martin doesn’t say much.
Just one word.
“Better.”
When you find the crumpled paper on your doormat, you instantly know who’s left it.
His handwriting is a mess of sharp angles and inconsistent sizing with big spacing between the letters, like someone who once learned to write neatly but later crossed out calligraphy out of his priorities. You smooth out the paper, eyes narrowing as you decipher the scrawled message.
"mind if i come over with my buddy? he won’t drop a word, just don’t wanna leave him alone."
Your brain immediately fires off a dozen theories, none of them reassuring.
Should I prepare to meet another emo? A junkie?
Lately, you’ve almost convinced yourself Martin isn’t into that kind of shit. No, if anything, the only thing he overdoses on is music.
Still, the phrasing—"won’t drop a word"—sounds sinister.
As you head downstairs, you debate whether it’s too late to slip a note under his door, something along the lines of actually, I do mind. But that would be ridiculous. By the time you get home, it’ll already be evening.
You really need to exchange phone numbers.
Though now that you think about it… you’ve never actually seen Martin use a phone in your presence.
Does he even own one?
Everyone has a phone. Everyone. But Martin? If anyone were to defy the natural order of modern life, it would be him.
Later that evening, when the doorbell rings, you have butterflies in your stomach. As you’re walking toward the door, your legs inexplicably heavy. Peering through the peephole, you scan the narrow hallway.
There’s no one there except Martin.
Your brows knit together.
Did his buddy ditch him?
You exhale, shoulders loosening slightly as you unlock the door. Maybe the mysterious junkie (he's not a junkie, but until you learn more about him, the nickname stays) had a moment of good judgment and decided to bail.
But then you open the door.
And your mouth falls open.
“This is Steve,” Martin says, deadpan. “Steve, this is Y/n.”
He stands there, shoulders a little too squared, grip firm but careful around the lizard nestled in his hands. Steve is small but not too small, his textured skin patterned in shades of beige and hazel. Its head tilts at a slight angle, beady eyes blinking up at you as if assessing you.
You blink. Then stare at Martin. Then back at Steve. Then at Martin again.
Martin clears his throat, shifting his weight. “He’s, uh—chill. Doesn’t bite.” He hesitates, eyes flicking to yours before looking away. “But he gets nervous around new people. He doesn’t… meet them often.”
What might seem like a casual comment bears the meaning so much deeper underneath.
Then Steve, as to show off, flicks out his tongue—quick, electric blue.
You let out a small gasp, not out of fear but surprise, and then—without meaning to—you smile.
Martin exhales. His shoulders, tense from the moment the door opened, finally ease.
Two things you learn:
a) You definitely need to exchange phone numbers.
b) You are absolutely, undeniably bound to love Steve.
“No, no.” You shake your hands, backing away, but Martin easily keeps up. “I can’t hold him.”
“Scaredy cat.” His smirk is a little too satisfied, teasing but assured, like he already knows you’ll cave. Steve rests in his hands, smooth scales catching the light.
“I’m not,” you counter quickly, skirting behind the kitchen counter like it’s some kind of shield.
Martin tilts his head, unimpressed. “Then hold him.”
You hesitate. “What if I drop him?”
“You won’t.” He steps closer, cornering you between the counter and the wall. The only escape now would require some dramatic ninja move over the counter—so, yeah, not happening.
“Come here.” His voice dips lower. “I’ll show you.”
You exhale sharply, swallowing hard as you finally let him place Steve into your hands.
He’s heavier than you expected, solid and cool, his belly pressing against your palms. Tiny, clawed feet test your skin, gripping, adjusting. You freeze, afraid to move, but Steve merely flicks out his vibrant blue tongue in a lazy motion.
“Support his whole body,” Martin instructs, his hands brushing yours as he adjusts your grip. His fingers are warm, a quiet contrast to the coolness of Steve’s scales, and the touch sends an odd little jolt up your arm. “There. That’s better.”
You do your best to hold still, but when Steve shifts, his stubby legs tickle against your skin, and a startled giggle slips out.
“You can pet him,” Martin continues, like this is perfectly normal, like you’re not seconds away from combusting over the fact that he’s still standing so close. “Just not over the head. Try his chin or down his spine.”
Hesitantly, you run a finger down Steve’s back. His scales are smoother than you expected, cool to the touch. He doesn’t seem to mind—if anything, he settles into your hold, blinking slowly, his tongue flicking out again.
“How old is he?” you ask, voice softer now, as if you might disturb him.
“Around seven.” Martin shrugs, filling a glass with water and sipping as he watches the two of you.
Your face hurts from smiling, but you can’t stop, murmuring little compliments to Steve like he’s some kind of cat or dog. And suddenly, you’re well aware of Martin’s intense gaze. Before you get a little bit too conscious of how silly you must look right now, Martin leans his back against the counter, near you.
“He likes you.”
Something about that phrase settles deep in your chest. Maybe because you know Martin wouldn’t lie. Maybe because you never expected the evening to unfold like this.
He reaches out, dragging his fingers beneath Steve’s chin. The lizard leans into the touch ever so slightly, eyes half-closing, content.
Martin’s fingers drift from Steve’s chin to his back, brushing your hand. It’s nothing. A second of contact. But it lingers.
God, why is this so—
You cut off the thought with a hard swallow, trying to refocus on the lizard in your hands, yet perfectly aware of every little movement of his.
For the first time, the silence between you isn’t awkward. It’s warm. Easy.
You don’t even realize how much time has passed until your gaze flickers toward the corner of the room. The music center sits untouched. No music.
Your lips part as if to say Wow, we totally forgot, but somehow, that feels like it would break whatever this is.
Just a little longer, you think, holding onto the warmth in your chest.
But then, out of the corner of your eye, you see Martin’s gaze follow yours, flicking toward the music center.
It leaves you no choice but to say, “Let’s turn it on.” Again, your voice sounds more like a question than a statement.
Martin glances at you, then at Steve, still perfectly comfortable in your hands.
“Right.” But he doesn’t move right away.
Neither do you.
And suddenly, you’re not sure if that’s what your meetings are really about anymore.
To say the last meeting freaked you out is an understatement.
For more than a month, Martin has made sure to make your life unbearable. When he appeared on your doorstep with his weird proposal, you agreed out of curiosity—nothing more. Just one time wouldn’t hurt, and perhaps it would even calm down the minefield you were living on.
But somehow, one meeting turned into another. And another. And one more. There are days when you don’t see him, of course. You have your own life. Friends. Work. And Martin—whatever he does when he isn’t lingering in your doorway—has his own business to tend to. Business he never explains. And yet, a question has been forming in the back of your mind, no matter how hard you try to shove it away.
Why?
Why do you keep seeing each other?
Why do you find yourself thinking about him when you shouldn’t?
Why, after your last meeting, did you spend the night tossing and turning, smiling like an idiot, feeling lighter than you had in weeks?
The following days make it worse. Martin doesn’t drop by.
And that should be a relief. It should mean you can get back to normal.
Except—every evening, as you walk up the stairs to your apartment, some ridiculous, pathetic hope blooms in your chest.
Maybe tonight.
By the fifth day, it’s driving you insane. You can’t even focus on your book, your thoughts unraveling into increasingly absurd scenarios.
He’s gotten bored of me
He’s moved out and didn’t tell me.
His music center is broken.
Someone else found one of the notes he left for you and threw it away.
Then comes the worst thought. The one that makes your stomach lurch and your fingers tighten on the pages of your book.
What if he’s gotten into another fight? What if he’s lying in his apartment right now, ribs cracked, bleeding, alone?
The book slams shut.
Shit.
Before you can overthink it—before you can stop yourself, change into something other than Hello Kitty pajamas, or do anything that might give hesitation time to creep in—you’re already shutting the door to your flat.
A traitorous part of your brain screams at you to stop. Since when do we check up on Martin? He hasn’t played music—isn’t that exactly what we wanted?
But your feet are already moving.
And somehow, the word asshole has fallen out of your vocabulary.
Now, standing in front of his door, you hesitate.
You press your ear against the wood, straining for any sound, and—
“Oh.”
A startled noise escapes you as you jerk back, eyes locking with the middle-aged man climbing the stairs.
Shit. You must look insane.
“Good evening,” he says, eyeing you curiously.
“Hello,” you reply—too fast. With an awkward smile that practically yells, It is what you think and even worse!
He hesitates for a second, then continues up the stairs. Hopefully not about to call the police.
The only reassuring thought is that if he does, they might just tell him, Did you try talking to them first? before actually coming over.
You exhale sharply and turn back to Martin’s door.
There’s noise inside. Faint. The low hum of music.
Not blasting through the walls like usual. Just… playing at a reasonable volume.
Which is unlike Martin.
Your hand hovers over the doorbell. Just press it and get it over with.
The chime rings sharp and jarring, mimicking the anxiety within your chest.
Nothing.
You press it again.
Your heartbeat pounds in your ears, drowning out any noise from the apartment.
Bad idea. This is a bad, bad idea.
Your brain latches onto a horrifying realization.
Isn’t this the kind of music they play in movies when two characters are about to have sex?
A nauseating thought curls in your stomach. You’ve never seen him with anyone, but that doesn’t mean anything. He could have a girlfriend. Some stunning, emo woman. Or the exact opposite of him, wearing Barbie pink, someone who doesn’t get flustered over lizards or lose sleep wondering, Why the hell am I so drawn to him?
Your feet twitch. If you leave right now, maybe he won’t even—
The lock clicks.
And then, the door swings open.
Oh.
Reality—of course—surpasses all expectations.
Martin stands before you, wearing nothing but loose gray sweatpants, hanging low on his hips, and a very questionable transparent cape, splattered with what looks like black dye. The fabric clings oddly to his skin, damp in places, a strange mix of ridiculous and—dear God—unfairly attractive.
His hair is clipped up at the top, exposing the full sharpness of his cheekbones, deep blue eyes, and the faintest crease of surprise on his forehead. This is the first time you see him without bangs covering the side of his face. The bangs that now feel like a crime against humanity.
He’s been dying his hair. Right. You noticed the lighter strands at his roots days ago during the bathroom accident. But that small, logical observation is quickly drowned out by the absolute disaster of this moment.
Have you ever thought he was just a nerd who’s never seen anything apart from his couch?
Because, clearly, you were wrong.
His biceps are ridiculous. Defined. Tensed as he leans lazily against the doorframe, one forearm resting above his head, completely unaware of the crisis he’s just set off inside you.
Your mouth goes dry.
If, before this moment, you could write off your strange attachment to some external, magical force, now it’s something else entirely.
You’re drooling, says your inner voice. Signal red.
“Are you unwell?” he asks, his gaze flicking toward your burning cheeks. His brows furrow slightly, like he’s trying to assess whether you’re actually about to faint. It’s not even warm—rather the opposite—in the hallway.
“I’m alright.” You shrug, as if that could shake off the eerie, disturbing feeling within you.
Liar.
Your fingers curl against your palms, tingling, itching—to grab something, to do something with all this restless energy simmering beneath your skin. You’ve walked in on something intimate. Like you weren’t meant to see him like this.
Why are you suddenly acting so weird?
“I just wanted to…” You clear your throat. To see if you’re alive. Or with someone else. “Make sure all is good.”
Martin lets out a thoughtful hum, his head tilting slightly. The flicker in his eyes reveals he knows you’re holding something back—the only hope is that he’s oblivious to what exactly.
“All is good,” he eventually confirms, playing along with your script.
“Good,” you echo immediately.
More silence.
Should you ask when he’s going to drop by? No. That’s desperate.
You should leave. Now. Right this second. Before you do something you’ll regret. Before things get worse.
“Well,” you say, jabbing a thumb toward your apartment like it’s some kind of emergency exit. “Then I’ll go.”
“Okay.”
Okay. What else did you expect?
You shift on your feet, ready to turn, to move, to end this—but before you can, Martin shifts, too. His arms drop, like he’s about to shut the door or—no, like he’s about to follow you. There’s something in the way his body leans just slightly forward, a telltale sign of motion halted at the last second. His throat bobs.
“Can I drop by tomorrow?”
The words tumble out too quickly, like they weren’t meant to escape just yet. Like he debated saying them at all.
It takes a moment to process.
Warmth spreads across your chest at the expression on his face—slightly… worried.
You bite the inside of your cheek, trying not to expose the smile that wants to come out.
“…Sure.”
His face softens, chest falling with a slow exhale—like someone only now realizing they’d been holding their breath.
He nods. “See you ‘morrow.”
“Till tomorrow.”
You walk toward your door, eerily aware of the gaze lingering on you. You can feel it—tracing the curve of your back, the bare stretch of your legs. Or is it just your vivid imagination?
There’s only one way to know for sure—to glance back.
It’s stupid to.
But you do.
And—oh.
Martin is staring.
His gaze is lower, fixed on your legs with an intensity that makes your stomach flip. There’s something so satisfying about it until… realization slams into you with the force of a truck.
Oh, God. Your silly Hello Kitty pajama shorts.
He probably thinks you’re mentally a seven-year-old.
Heat rushes to your face.
Martin’s gaze flicks back up, lips slightly parted—as if he’s been caught red-handed. He’s watching you, trying to gauge your reaction, to estimate the damage done.
But all you can think is—Why didn’t you wear jeans?!
You practically hurl yourself inside your flat, slamming the door shut at the speed of light. Your palms press to your burning face as you sink against the wood, pulse roaring in your ears.
Two things are crystal clear.
One—Martin has missed you, too.
And two—you are in so much trouble.
Over the next week, you and Martin settle into an easy rhythm, meeting so often that it no longer feels like an event—just part of your routine. And—what a wonder—you finally exchange phone numbers. (Mystery unlocked: he has a phone!)
Soon, it feels perfectly normal to get a message around 11 PM, him asking if you’re still awake. Your no phone after 11 rule abandoned without hesitation. He sends you video clips of iconic songs, curating playlists like it’s his life’s mission—determined to introduce you to music he deems part of humanity’s cultural heritage.
And never—not once—does he mock you for not knowing what seems obvious to everyone else. Instead, the next day, he shares more insights, more behind-the-scenes stories, as if guiding you through an entire world he can’t wait for you to love as much as he does.
And you?
Something inside you melts at the sight of Martin coming out of his shell.
More meetings. More conversations that stretch far longer than planned. More effortless moments shared. And, consequently, more accidental touches.
Fingertips grazing as he passes you the remote for the music center. Shoulders brushing when he tilts his phone for you to watch another video. Knees colliding under the table. Hands lingering just a moment too long before pulling away.
You tell yourself it means nothing. That you’re imagining things. That you’re reading too much into something so innocent.
You stand on your tiptoes, stretching to reach a mug from the top shelf when suddenly—he’s there.
Martin steps in behind you, reaching for the mug before you can. His broad frame looms close, warmth radiating off him, so near that you can actually feel him. The proximity is… pleasant. Familiar, like someone you’ve known forever. Leaning into him would be the most natural thing in the world.
But you don’t.
Instead, you take the safe route. A rushed “Thanks,” as you take the mug and step back, letting the appropriate distance in. Your attention is utterly devoted to the tea preparation, too afraid of what you might find if you look into his eyes.
A reflection of your own chaotic, consuming feelings?
Or just a calm, steady stare saying, We’re just hanging out.
Months ago, you used to wake up relieved that there were still hours before evening. Before he’d play his music.
Now, you keep checking the clock, watching in agony as the minutes crawl by.
And on the way home, you’re the happiest person alive.
Which is a good thing.
But also terrifying.
Tonight feels different the moment you step into Martin’s apartment.
This is only your second time here, and you bite back a smile when you catch him stuffing a hoodie into the wardrobe—clearly not bothering to fold it. As if he suddenly cares about making a good impression. A few months ago, he wouldn’t have.
That means something… right?
And yet, you quickly sense that something is off.
A subtle tension lingers in the air, like a draft from a window that appears closed, yet the chill creeps up your skin.
He seems brooding. Distant.
It’s only a matter of time before your curiosity wins out.
“Something happened?”
“What do you mean?” He turns his head slightly, his broad back still facing you as he prepares a snack for Steve, who’s currently chilling in his cage after soaking up a ton of attention from you.
Maybe I should get a lizard at some point, too.
“I don’t know,” you say, stepping to his left to get a better look at his face. “You seem… deep in thought.” Also, I’m goddamn worried.
“Maybe,” he drawls, a mysterious smile tugging at his lips. “I’m just thinking about what other songs I can surprise you with, or…”
The pause steals your breath.
This time, it takes everything in you not to look away because—if this is what you think it is—
“I wonder if you’ll get scared by one of these,” he finishes, plucking a bug from a small container.
You recoil instantly, as if the thing might lunge at you. Your nose wrinkles. “Ew, Martin! That’s disgusting.”
No matter how much you love Steve, you still can’t believe his diet consists of these things.
“Don’t freak out, they’re smashed…”
And yet, as if by some cruel miracle, the bug comes back to life, slipping from Martin’s fingers and dropping to the floor. You don’t see where it lands, which makes it worse.
When its tiny legs skitter toward you, your scream is probably heard across the entire apartment complex. You practically vault onto a chair, refusing to set foot on the ground until Martin personally confirms that the bug is gone.
“Don’t you dare play tricks on me like that again!” you sulk, scrolling through the songs on his playlist, your fingers mindlessly trailing over the endless titles. Every so often, your gaze flickers around his bedroom. As expected, the walls are a shrine to rock legends—worn posters tacked up haphazardly, their edges curling. A few anime posters—neater, more intentional—break up the monochrome of his décor. The apartment mirrors yours in layout, but Martin’s feels different. Darker. More lived-in. More him.
“I bet you’d still win in a fight,” he teases, leaning over your figure to see what song you’ll choose. Again, he’s coming close enough that if you move even an inch, you’ll brush against him. Close enough that his breath is somewhere near the shell of your ear when he tilts his head to glance at the screen.
“Not funny,” you mutter, but your fingers falter over the screen, and it seems like words are just numerous letters, bearing no meaning.
He rocks back onto his heels, as if not knowing whether to keep his distance or invade it completely.
“Let’s go with Electric Light Orchestra?” His voice drops lower, and you wonder if he’s doing so intentionally—to make your toes curl from the proximity, and his slightly raspy voice.
You shake your head. “Too cheerful.”
He only hums, as if letting you win this one. You keep scrolling through his countless playlists, though a part of you knows you’re prolonging the search just to enjoy this moment a little longer. Proximity sets you ablaze, making your heartbeat race—so fast, it feels like you’re being chased by a panther—but you gladly let yourself be trapped.
No chances against the panther, anyway.
Finally, you tap on the song by Nat King Cole. An unconscious (or not?) way to reveal what’s on your mind.
UNFORGETTABLE
THAT'S WHAT YOU ARE
Jazz spills through the speakers—larger than yours by nearly a meter tall. Now you understand why his music always floods through the walls, impossible to ignore. His setup is meticulous, the sound quality pristine. You suddenly wonder why he’s never mocked your own pathetic excuse for a music center. He must have noticed the difference.
“You know what was funny?” Martin’s voice pulls you back. He extends his hand—one that could cover yours completely—waiting for you to give him back his phone. You don’t even realize you’re gripping it a little too tightly. His head tilts slightly as he watches you.
You arch a brow. “What?”
“Your oinking.” Ouch.
You clutch the phone to your chest as if mortally wounded. “You’re comparing me to a pig?” Your voice rises a few pitches higher.
But Martin only shakes his head. “You said it, not me.”
And then—there it is again. That smile of his. Quiet. Shy. Hesitant.
And you forget how to breathe. All the possible retorts coming to your mind are silenced.
He’s been smiling more these days. You’ve noticed.
You hate that you’ve noticed.
And yet, every time he does, it chips away at the walls you’ve built.
Sensing your hesitation, he wins the phone from your grip, his fingers brushing yours for just a heartbeat before he turns away, back to his music center. He makes some minor adjustment—his beloved, treasured music center, which, according to him, is perfect for jazz—and you see your opportunity.
It takes no effort to pluck a pillow from his bed. Dark blue sheets, neat but slightly rumpled. You bite back the urge to bury your face in it, to inhale the scent of him.
Logic tells you: enough embarrassments for one day.
The pillow is sailing through the air and lands against his back with a thump. He stills for a moment, his shoulders stiffening slightly, clearly not expecting this.
When he turns, your vengeful smirk is already in place.
“An oinking, huh?”
A moment passes between you. A part of you wonders if you’ve overstepped—until you see it: a playful glimmer sparking in his eyes. You recognize it instantly.
Because you know what’s coming next. And so does he.
In the same breath, you both lunge for the pillows.
He snatches up the one from the floor, and you grab another from his neatly tucked bed.
The fight begins.
To level the playing field against someone taller, stronger—him—you scramble onto his bed, taking the high ground. He lunges; you dodge, breathless laughter breaking free as the pillows collide with muffled thuds.
In the background, Nat King Cole croons—
L IS FOR THE WAY YOU LOOK AT ME
O IS FOR THE ONLY ONE I SEE
A well-aimed swing nudges your hip. You retaliate, your pillow meeting his shoulder. His grin widens, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you let yourself be reckless. Let yourself feel.
You move, duck, spin. He follows, adjusting, reading you like the lyrics of the songs he’s been listening to non-stop.
V IS VERY, VERY EXTRAORDINARY
E IS EVEN MORE THAN ANYONE THAT YOU ADORE CAN
Miscalculation.
A particularly forceful hit sends Martin stumbling back, knocking over a few Lego figures. The tiny blocks scatter across the floor in a chaotic clatter.
Your mouth falls open. Then—his eyes meet yours, glinting with surprise, and suddenly, the laughter bursts free again, crashing over you like a tide.
And seeing Martin laugh?
It does something to you.
Even if nothing ever happens between you, even with the nerve-wracking nightmare concerts you had to endure—this moment, this, is worth everything.
LOVE IS ALL THAT I CAN GIVE TO YOU
LOVE IS MORE THAN JUST A GAME FOR TWO
Your heart stumbles, skips, misses a step.
And he notices.
Martin sees the flicker in your expression. Sees the way your breath catches in your throat. His smirk softens—just barely—before he surges toward you, taking full advantage of your distraction. His next move lands against your waist, and you let out a sharp shriek, nearly losing your balance. You catch yourself just in time, countering with a fierce swing—
A loud rip.
Time slows.
The pillow gives way beneath your hands, splitting open with a dramatic, almost cinematic tear.
And suddenly...
You’re transported into a snowfall on Christmas Eve. Feathers, like fluffy snowflakes, swirl in slow, lazy spirals, catching the dim light, floating between you, around you, wrapping you in something ethereal.
It feels miraculous. Like stepping into another world—somewhere softer, somewhere safer, somewhere where only the two of you exist.
You blink through the flurry, your pillow slipping from your grasp and landing soundlessly on the floor.
You don’t know who moves first. Maybe it’s him. Maybe it’s you. Maybe it’s inevitable.
He tosses aside his pillow, using the expectancy to his advantage—because of course he does—and before you can react, his hands are at your waist. Warm. Solid. Real.
A half-second later, you’re falling. With him. For him. Deep down in the feeling Nat King Cole sings about. The mattress catches you both, pulling you deeper into its hold.
Feathers settle in his hair, along the curve of his jaw. You reach up instinctively, brushing one away, your hand grazing his skin in a fleeting touch. He leans into it—just a bit. Your gazes meet, and for once, neither of you are hurried to turn away. You see his Adam’s apple bob slightly, as if he’s just as nervous or… scared of this as you. But maybe you shouldn’t be scared of it. Not when it’s him. Not when it’s you.
Then, the mischief sparks in his eyes. A flicker, a warning—one you catch too late.
Before you can react, his fingers dart to your sides, pressing into your ribs.
A squeak rips from your throat, and then follow uncontrollable giggles. “No—don’t you dare!” you shriek, twisting beneath him as the tickling spreads through you.
He must've noticed that this is one of your Achilles' heels during your interactions with Steve.
He grins—wicked, triumphant. “Too late.”
And it is.
The laughter spills from your lips, breathless and helpless. His fingers skillfully find the weak spots, tracing over your ribs, ghosting beneath your arms, dancing at the curve of your waist.
“Stop—stop!” you gasp between giggles.
He’s relentless, laughing himself now, his shoulders shaking as he watches you squirm. “Not until you admit defeat.”
“Never!” you manage, bucking against him. Your knee nudges against his hip—harder than intended.
“Ouch,” he huffs, pausing just enough to shift. “Playing dirty now?”
“Says who?” you pant, trying to regain control. Your face feels hot, and you feel like you’re going to burst. You attempt to kick him off you, but of course, that wouldn’t work.
He has you pinned. His weight is above you, his right hand firm around your wrists. The fight is over.
He brushes a few strands of hair from your face, and that’s when you realize how precarious your position is. How close he is. How warm his grip feels. Your shirt has ridden up slightly, baring a sliver of skin to the cool air. How the rise and fall of your chest matches his, breath uneven, not just from the fight, but from something else entirely.
Looking into his eyes—the color of the universe, as you call it—you feel weightless. Like an astronaut drifting through space, suspended in something vast and infinite, witnessing the most extraordinary constellations.
And him—he memorizes you. The way your smile lingers, the sound of your laughter, brighter than any melody he’s ever heard. The way your eyes dart away when the moment becomes too intimate. And the way, right now, they hold his gaze—bravely, challengingly.
This? This is something out of this world.
His grip loosens—just enough for you to break free.
But you don’t.
And he knows.
His thumb ghosts over your skin, making you want to purr.
Somewhere in the background, the music stops. Neither of you notices.
“Can I kiss you?” His voice comes huskier, laced with deeper craving, long suppressed—like another piece of clothing he stuffed into a wardrobe to create the illusion it’s never been there.
His eyes drop to your mouth. Then back to yours. Waiting. Patient.
You want to ask, “Don’t you know the answer?” but you’re tired of playing games.
Your “yes,” it’s barely more than a whisper. But he hears it.
It’s been yes for a long time now.
His lips hover above yours, inches away—close, but not close enough. Just prolong the moment, like that breath before diving into deep water, when there’s no way back. You smile as a stray lock of his hair brushes against your cheek. And when the two words finally collide, nothing else matters.
You hum a melody, hoping the rhythm will settle the restless beat of your heart. The hand of the clock torturously slowly moves up to 6:57 PM. Three minutes until Martin is at your doorstep.
Your previous meetings stretched into hours of quiet bliss—long, lingering kisses, healing like a peppermint tea with honey during the flu. Who knew you could be on cloud nine simply by lying in bed with someone, fully clothed, whispering silly jokes in the dark? His hands mapped the curves of your body, yet never crossing that invisible threshold. Not yet. As if telling each other, There's nowhere to hurry.
Two hours passed? Four? Six?
Back to your apartment, you clutched a pillow to your chest all night, trying to mimic his warmth. You hadn’t showered. His touch still clung to your skin, seeping into your soul, curling into the deepest parts of memory. A sacred imprint of him. Always there. Always with you.
The doorbell rings once. Then twice.
Don’t rush. Don’t hurry, you tell yourself. But your body betrays you, wired with the urge to move—hurry, hurry, it’s him. Crossing the hall, you smooth a hand over your dress, as if to reassure yourself.
It’s a summer dress, light and airy despite the season. Beige, speckled with a floral print of tiny pink blossoms. Balloon sleeves, a delicate slit at the left leg. Maybe impractical for the season, but for tonight—for him—it feels right.
You open the door.
And for a breath, for two, you can only stare.
Martin stands there. In his hands, he holds a pot of pink orchids. Blooming in full beauty, tall and proud, yet incarnating the essence of delicacy.
He lifts the pot slightly, offering it to you. “I didn’t want flowers that would wilt too soon.”
Your fingers grazing his, the touch is familiar, yet feels exciting like for the first time.
“Martin, they’re …. beautiful,” you say, as a smile spreads across your lips.
Your eyes trace the delicate petals, their rich pink hue, the way they stand so effortlessly alive. But Martin? His gaze never wavers. He isn’t looking at the flowers.
His awe, his thoughts, his world—lie entirely around you.
His touch is different now. No longer cautious, no longer as if you might slip through his fingers, dissolve into air if he holds too tightly. He used to touch you like you were something fleeting. Now, he touches you like he knows you’re real. The most real thing in his life.
You straddle his lap, shifting until your thighs cage him in, relishing the way his hands roam your body—lowering to your upper back, pulling you closer—until you’re not sure where your body begins and his ends. Your kisses are messier, deeper, like a relentless storm finally reaching a distant shore it never had the strength to claim before.
When he pulls back, his lips are swollen, red, and kiss-drunk—just like yours. A thin line of saliva glistens between you.
“May I?” His fingers hover where two thin threads intertwine between your breasts.
A nod.
The first thread gives with ease, then the second. The fabric slackens, sliding down your shoulders, pooling at your waist. His thumb traces the line of your collarbone before circling over the peak of your breast, hardened from both the cool air and the fire of his attention.
Heat replaces the chill as his mouth closes around you. Lips enveloping, gently sucking—getting used to the sensation—before his tongue flicks over your nipple. A harder suck sends a sharp pulse of need straight between your legs. He hums, satisfied, indulging himself even more when he draws a deep sigh from you.
Your fingers tangle in his hair, the strands slightly coarse from repeated dyeing. He groans against you as you tug at the nape of his neck. His other hand finds your breast, kneading, learning where your pleasure lies. A sigh melts from your lips as he sucks deeper, his touch seeking more of your response. A sharper graze of teeth. Another moan. A soothing lick. A deep exhale.
Martin, you realize, can be both your salvation and your undoing.
His touch is both reverent and unhinged—one moment cherishing, the next consuming. If one part of him worships, the other devours. The contrast makes your head spin, your body sing.
Now that you’re giving him more—more sounds, more movement, more of yourself—it unravels something in him. Loosens him. A man who has spent his life drowning in music now has his utmost attention devoted to you. Now your moans are the songs he’s willing to drown in.
His hands slip lower, dragging over the curve of your waist, the swell of your hips. Your dress is still bunched around you, an unnecessary barrier. He grips your waist, as you shift over him—once, twice—aligning yourself where the attention is most needed.
His breath stutters against your neck. His cock is hard beneath you, thick and aching, the damp spot on his underwear proof of just how much he wants this. Wants you.
You once accused him of being out of his mind. Perhaps madness is what you share together now.
“I want more,” you whisper, lips brushing against his ear.
His fingers tighten at your hips. “How much more?” His words are a puff against your neck, a gentle breeze.
“All of you,” you murmur, rolling your hips again.
His head tips back slightly, exhaling a curse through gritted teeth. “You’re a menace.”
His shirt is gone, cast somewhere into the abyss of the floor. Your fingers skim over him—muscle, warmth, the curve of his shoulder where you’d once traced only in passing thoughts. He catches your chin, tilting your face to his, pupils blown wide, like a galaxy collapsing into a black hole.
“You weren’t very subtle back then, you know?”
The memory crashes back—the day you came to check on him, the way your gaze lingered longer than it should have. Of course, he noticed.
“Neither were you,” you murmur, feigning confidence.
His chuckle reverberates against your skin, and that’s all the proof you need to know where his attention lay that day.
“You looked cute,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your throat, “in those tiny pink shorts.”
“Want me to wear them again?”
“Only if I get to take them off myself.” His teeth scrape your jaw, and you shudder. “They gave me some bothersome dreams.”
“Something cute, I hope?”
“Do you find the idea of me between your thighs cute?”
Your breath hitches. “Fascinating.”
Your nose nudges against his collarbone, seeking refuge in the depth of his warmth. You’re not hiding from him—no, never—but from the sheer weight of his attention, the way his gaze strips you bare before his hands even do.
Finding the hem of your dress, he finally pulls it away. The fabric lands with a soft thud. His hands don’t move immediately. Instead, his eyes roam first—devouring, like a child watching their birthday cake being carried into the room, candles glowing, knowing that with one breath, they’ll finally get to savor each bite.
He traces you like a map he intends to memorize by heart. Fingertips ghost from your collarbone to the soft swell of your breasts—barely there, yet enough to make your breath hitch. Downward—his knuckles brush over your ribs, over the dip of your stomach, tracing the faint hollows beneath your solar plexus. Lower still, until his hands find purchase at your hips.
Then, he shifts, reaching into his pocket. You think you know what he’s searching for.
“I’m on the pill,” you say.
A flicker of surprise passes through his eyes before his phone screen flares to life.
A string of numbers, a long, unpronounceable name, and a very official-looking document.
Your brows furrow.
“So you know my test is negative,” he says, as if he’s just announced the weather.
Your breath catches—then, before you can stop yourself, you're laughing.
“That’s what we were waiting for?”
He shrugs, his fingers resuming their path along your skin, unwilling to be distracted by the teasing notes in your voice.
“Maybe,” he says. “Or maybe we can pretend we have all the time in the world.”
Your breath stutters, as his mouth brushes just beneath your ear.
“That’s what you want?” you ask, quieter now.
His answer is immediate. “Only if you’re there with me.”
And then, there are no more questions. No more pauses. Just heat—lips meeting, hands slipping, laughter dissolving into gasps as mouths find skin.
His pants are discarded, fabric pooling forgotten on the floor. Heat blooms along your inner thigh as he kisses his way up—unhurried, not giving in to the desperation clawing between you. Not yet.
Your knee finds its place against his shoulder, his palm pressing against your thigh, tilting you further, spreading you open like a feast offered to a man who’s been starving for years. Your head falls back against the pillow as his tongue traces a slow path from your knee toward the pulsing heat of your core, licking the wetness slicking your skin, his eyes never leaving yours.
And if you thought you had shed all shyness, if you thought there was no room left for coyness here—oh, how wrong you were.
“Watch me,” he murmurs, lips brushing against the crease of your thigh. “Watch me drink you dry, till the last drop.”
Like a raindrop breaking the surface of a river, pleasure ripples through you. Your fingers are quick to find their place, tangling into his hair, pulling, needing something to ground you as he works.
His name spills from your lips like a prayer, praising him. And Martin—Martin is relentless, growing more enthusiastic. He studies your reactions as diligently as he has studied his favourite music genres, adjusting as though you are his most precious instrument, in need of just a bit of fine-tuning to sound even better.
His fingers join the dance, slipping through your slick folds, stretching, filling—adding the final, perfect note.
Your thighs tremble as the avalanche builds, just at the brink of eruption. He feels it—the way you tighten, the way your body quivers on the precipice. His groan is deep, driving you mad.
Your body jerks, thighs clamping around him, hips rocking into his mouth as he greedily takes it all—never stopping, never slowing, prolonging your pleasure until you are nothing but wreckage in his hands.
Even as you tremble, breathless, he licks you through it, drinking you in, taking exactly what he promised.
What happens next feels inevitable.
His length presses against your entrance, hot, throbbing, waiting to satisfy the deep hunger within you both. A gasp catches in your throat as he stretches you—inch by inch—the burn melting into pleasure as he fills you completely.
His head drops, forehead pressing against yours. He stills, looking into your eyes, letting you both grasp the sensation of bodies locked together, seamless, perfect.
Like the tide reaching for the shore.
Like fire meeting air.
Like this was always meant to happen.
His hips begin to roll into yours—slow at first, watching every flutter of your eyelashes, every soft gasp, the way your lips part in helpless surrender.
“All of it?” he asks, his voice hoarse.
“Yes,” you breathe, sinking your nails deeper into his shoulders.
His hands find your hips, grip tightening—and then, it’s more. Rawer. His thrusts grow urgent, each one coaxing another broken moan from your lips.
He shifts, angles, learns where you need him most. Your bodies move in tandem, sweat-slicked and fevered, lost in the rhythm of need. He grips you, pulls you closer—chasing that edge together, deeper, until there is no space left between you.
The music that once played from the speakers fades into something else: the lewd symphony of bodies colliding, moans and gasps intertwining.
Until you’re both undone. Wrecked.
Until you’ve taken all of him. And he—all of you.
“Are you sure?” you ask Martin for the final time, voice laced with hesitation.
Leaning back against the washing machine, he crosses his arms over his chest—biceps flexing just enough to look effortless. He’s wearing a sleeveless white shirt, your favorite one, and you can’t shake the suspicion that he wore it just to be more persuasive.
“Absolutely,” he says.
Your fingers fidget at your sides. “I’ve never done this before.”
“I trust you.”
You swallow. Hard. Your eyes flick between him and the array of tools sprawled out on the washing machine—the bottles, the gloves, the plastic mixing bowl. This feels way more serious than you expected.
“Alright,” you relent. “But if I ruin anything—”
“You won’t.” He winks, too pleased with your agreement.
Your throat still goes dry when he drags the hem of his shirt up and over his head, tossing it aside without a second thought.
Your pulse kicks up. Okay. No big deal. Totally normal.
His freshly cut hair is mussed from the movement, shorter now, the strands falling into his face—the new trim framing his sharp jaw.
You perch on the edge of the tub, watching his every move like a curious cat. The way he peels open the package, dumping the fine white powder into a jar before adding the developer. The chemical scent curls through the air, making you wrinkle your nose. But all you can focus on are his hands. Large, broad-palmed, veins trailing up his forearms, the ones you love tracing when you two lie in bed naked.
He catches you staring. Smirks.
Your stomach tightens. Flashes of last night flood your mind—the weight of his palm at your throat, the nod you gave him, the slow, teasing pressure of his fingers. The thrill that follows, the intensifying, dizzying rush of pleasure.
Martin mutters something under his breath, raking a hand through his hair. “You got a claw clip?”
You scramble to the cabinet, grabbing the first one you find—a dusty rose-colored clip. “This good?”
He barely glances at it before plucking it from your hands. “Perfect.”
Then, he hands you something folded.
You unwrap it slowly… Gloves.
“It’s not like you’re about to do brain surgery,” he teases.
Rolling your eyes, you snap the gloves on as he sits on the edge of the bathtub, stretching his long legs.
“Right. Time to dye my boyfriend’s hair,” you announce almost solemnly.
His grin is like the Cheshire Cat’s. “You’ve got no idea how awesome that sounds.”
“Be honest—that’s how you got those biceps,” you say, combing through his hair. “I imagine it’s not convenient to hold your hands up all the time.”
“Now I’ve got something else to hold up, don’t I?” His tone sends a shiver down your spine, making you bite your lip.
The Turtles explode from the speakers, blasting through the apartment walls, filling every corner with their love promises.
This will be the first time a different neighbor (not you!!) loses patience and calls the cops.
The phone is yanked off the receiver, buttons stabbed with righteous fury.
RING.
The officer picks up instantly.
“What’s the emergency?”
“THESE LUNATICS BLAST MUSIC ALL THE TIME!”
IMAGINE ME AND YOU, I DO…
“Have you tried talking to them?”
“Talking?! I don’t negotiate with terrorists!”
I THINK ABOUT YOU DAY AND NIGHT, IT’S ONLY RIGHT…
“Technically, it’s not past 11 PM—”
TO THINK ABOUT THE GIRL YOU LOVE AND HOLD HER TIGHT…
“Otherwise, they’re FUCKING LIKE CRAZY!”
Pause.
“Sir, with all due respect… are you eavesdropping on your neighbors’ personal lives?”
“FOR FUCK’S SAKE!”
SO HAPPY TOGETHER…
BEEP.
End of the line.
Meanwhile, you work the dye through his hair, watching as the light brown roots surrender to an inky black. Each careful brushstroke followed by the smooth drag of a comb, ensuring the color seeps into every strand.
“You’ll show me a photo of your natural hair color, right?” you ask, dipping the brush back into the jar.
Martin taps his fingers against the counter in rhythm with the music, his head tilted slightly to make it easier for you to work. The activity, much to your surprise, is almost therapeutic. “I’ll think about it.”
You narrow your eyes. “If you don’t, I might miss a few strands…”
He raises a brow, unimpressed. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“By accident, of course.”
He hums, contemplative. “I might move awkwardly and, oops—get dye in your hair. By accident, of course.”
You shoot him a sharp look in the mirror. “Don’t you even think about it.”
“Don’t spur me on.”
You squint at him, then grin. “I demand the photo, or I’m calling your mom.”
His shoulders tense slightly, but only for a moment. You’d been trying to talk him into calling his parents—or at least his mother—for a while. Not because you promised her, but because you knew he needed it just as much. So when, a few days ago, he told you they talked, you felt relieved. But then, a moment later, he casually announced, “She’d like to have us at their place.” And dread washed over you.
You didn’t make a particularly nice impression last time.
“Martin…” you say, trying to sound menacing.
The second his name leaves your mouth, Martin jerks his head, flinging damp strands over your arm like an overenthusiastic golden retriever.
“Hey, stop!” you yelp, stumbling back. Not that there’s anywhere to go. “Or I’m definitely calling your mom!”
You lift the brush in warning, and a few rogue drops of dye flick up—right onto your chin.
Martin stills. His lips part. “Shit.”
“What?” you ask, blinking in confusion.
He taps his own chin. “I think… you have dye.”
Your eyes widen. “WHAT?!”
You lunge for the mirror. The creamy splotches darken along your chin, trailing down to your neck like war paint.
“Oh, no. No, no, no—” You rub at it frantically with your gloved fingers, only to realize, too late, that you’re making it worse.
Martin, now openly amused, barely fights the upward tug of his lips.
“Let me,” he says, stepping closer—
Only to immediately bash his head against the towel rack.
THUNK.
A dull, pitiful thud.
He groans, pressing a hand to the side of his head, and you—of course—lose it.
“You okay there?” you manage between helpless giggles.
“I might have a concussion…” he mutters.
“Oh, please. I barely heard an echo this time.”
His scowl deepens as he rubs his head, thankfully in a dye-free zone.
"I'll give you a kiss so it heals faster," your voice is syrupy-sweet. "But you ought to help me."
The offer sounds way too delicious to resist.
“Come here,” he says, grabbing a bottle of makeup remover.
Here, meaning closer. Which you always gladly obey.
He tilts your chin up, fingers warm against your skin, the pad of his thumb grazing just beneath your jaw. But you can’t stop shaking from the giggles.
Your neck and chin resemble a dalmatian's coat, half of Martin's hair pinned with a pinkish crab claw. Looking at both of you in the mirror, you can’t imagine a more perfect couple.
A shiver dances along your spine as he pulls you in by the neck, dabbing a cotton pad at the stain, his brows furrowed in quiet concentration. Warmth spreads through your chest when you catch him stealing a glance at your lips.
“All the time in the world” echoes in your mind.
You stand perfectly still, hands held up like you’re under arrest.
His lips twitch.
IMAGINE ME AND YOU, I DO…
“What?” you ask.
Martin frowns. “It’s… not coming off.”
NO MATTER HOW THEY TOSS THE DICE…
You blink. “What do you mean?”
He dabs a little harder. The stain remains.
IT HAD TO BE…
“I don’t know why—”
THE ONLY ONE FOR ME IS YOU AND YOU FOR ME…
“MARTIN.”
SO HAPPY TOGETHER.
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By the wonderful @vhagar-balerion-meraxes (Luna my love)
Warnings: Swearing, mentions of cheating, angst, a little bit of fighting.
High-school sweethearts was a term that actually made you sick. You hate the fact that your memories of those oh so important teenage years are tarnished by the memory of him.
Aemond Targaryen. The boy everyone who knew you as a teenager knew was your High-school sweetheart. As well as the man who crushed your heart just a mere 6 months after graduation.
The two of you met freshman year. He was a bit nerdy, and you were one of those alternative girls wearing as much black as possible and begging your parents for a nose ring. You grew super close super fast. All of your firsts were with Aemond. The first time you ran from the cops drinking with friends in the local cemetery. Your first kiss. Your first dance. Your first break up. Your first angsty reconciliation, your first fuck. Everything.
You had been doing well for the past few years, not thinking about him at all. You had graduated from university and started your job as a revenue analyst for Lannister & Co. You had a sweet, kind boyfriend in Cregan Stark. Everything was going well for you. Until you got that invitation.
You had been invited to the wedding of Aegon Targaryen and Cassandra Baratheon. Two people you loved very much and were incredibly happy for. But you under no circumstances wanted to go to any type of Targaryen family gathering. You may have moved on and are doing well now, but there is still a deep-seated anger that rises in you when you think about Aemond. The idea of seeing him in person makes bile rise in your throat.
You're halfway through your shift. You're excited for it to end. this week has been exhausting, and now that it is finally Friday, you want to just curl up on the coach all weekend and watch mindless TV.
Your phone buzzes in your pocketbook on your desk, and you groan. You know who it is. You have been ignoring her calls all day. You pull your cell phone out of your bag, and just as you suspect, Heleana's name and a photo of her smiling with a butterfly on her finger illuminates the screen. You hit the end call button and shove your phone back into your bag. You know that you haven't RSVP'd to the wedding yet, and she is calling you to try to talk you into going. You hate ignoring her, but you really don't want to talk to her about the wedding and the reasons you don't want to go. It doesn't matter what you say to her because she will know the real reason and she will try to talk you into it.
She doesn't call again that night much to your glee. Your shift ends, and your phone dings with a text message from Cregan, letting you know he is downstairs. You pack up your laptop and throw your dooney & bourke leather satchel over your arm and head out waving to a few co workers as you make your way outside.
When you get out front, you see Cregans black range rover idling and slide into the passengers seat, letting out a long sigh as you reach to buckle yourself in.
"Long day love?" He says while shifting the SUV into drive.
"Yes very" you say exasperated.
"You know, I got a strange call from Heleana today"
Your eyes shot open and you clenched your jaw.
"Hun...." he continued
"Why don't you want to go to Aegon's wedding?"
"I just don't want to, there doesn't always have to be a reason for everything. Sometimes the answer is just no and everyone needs to accept it " you snap.
"Is this maybe about a certain brother of his?"
You roll your eyes "nope" short, curt responses are all you can muster at the moment.
"Should I be worried?"
This makes you turn your head to look at him
"About what?"
"When someone is over someone, truly over them, they don't harbor this kind of anger"
You open your mouth to respond but can't find the words your looking for.
Cregan releases a sigh
"I'll drop it"
"No Creg. It's OK. Trust me I am completely over him. I just feel like he got away with it ya know? Makes me want to gouge his other eye out. You know settle the score. His brothers wedding would probably not be a good venue for that" you huff.
Cregan laughs. " the best revenge is to show him how much he doesn't effect you. How happy you are now without him. How much better your life is without him."
You sit there silent looking out the window of the car watching the sidewalks fly by.
"If you don't want to go I support that, but I don't think you should miss a good friend's wedding because his brother is a dolt"
You laugh at that "I'll think about it ok?"
He laughs, too. "That's progress, and I'll take it!"
Two weeks later, you are standing in front of your mirror in a baby blue slim summer dress staring at your reflection. You ended up agreeing to go and were confident about your choice until right now. Now that you were actually ready to go, you were feeling nauseous.
"Well daaaaaaamn!" Cregan yelled as he came in the room whistling
"Aren't you just the sweetest little thing?" He took you into his arms and kissed you on the nose. "You ready to go?" You took a big gulp and nodded.
The car ride to kings landing was about 20 minutes. You stared out the window as memories flooded your mind.
"Make sure you record his reaction! I want to see it. He's gonna be so excited to see you!" Heleana gushed over the phone
"Oh I will, I have never come to visit him at school before so this is going to be epic. OK I'm at his dorm building I'll text you later"
You hung up the phone entered the building and made your way up to room 3F. Where you always addressed all your letters.
You get your phone ready, turning the recording function on and knock on the door.
No one comes to the door, so you knock again a little louder.
Aemond swings open the door
"What man. ....." he freezes. Sweat on his forehead and a blanket wrapped around his waist.
"Hey baby, what are you doing here?" He asks you with a look of utter terror on his face.
You freeze. You can feel your heart beating in your throat. You don't say anything and just push passed him into the room. You see an older black haired woman naked with a sheet wrapped around her, trying to tiptoe her way into the bathroom.
Your legs start to shake and your stomach lurches.
"Shit! Baby, Hold on let me explain"
"Oh, ummm. Nope. No thanks." You push passed him back out of the room.
He grabs your arm "wait please give me just one second"
You swat his arm away "do not fucking touch me. Forget my name. Loose my number. I no longer exist to you." You're not yelling or screaming. This all comes out as more of a growl.
"Love?"
"Huh" you shake your head.
"Hey, we're here." Your stomach lurches, and your palms begin to sweat as you reach for the latch to open the door.
You both get out of the car and he comes around to your side and wraps his arm around your waist.
"We can sit in the back ok?"
"Yeah sounds good"
You enter the grand Sept to see a septa urging people to the left or right side. Left for guests of the groom and right for guests of the bride. You go to the very last row on the left and slide in.
People finish filing in, and the music starts. Cregan is at the end of the aisle with you beside him. First, the flower girl, Jaehaera heleanas's daughter, with her husband gwayne and then the ring bearer Jaehaerys , her twin brother. Then the grooms men and bridesmaids. The first pair is Cassandra's sister Floris with Aegons brother Daeron, then Heleana and Gwayne, followed by Cassandra's other sister Maris and Aegons long term friend Criston Then your face starts to heat up, and your stomach tightens as you see that stupid head of shaggy silver hair enter the room with his arm linked to Ellyn Cassandra's other sister. You immediately look down, not wanting to make eye contact.
They pass by your row, and you finally raise your head, seeing just his back now as he makes his way up the aisle. He takes his place, and you turn your head back to the entryway, seeing Aegon standing there with a huge smile plastered on his face. You can't help but smile. He was such a fuck boy in High-school and college seeing him so happy and proud to be getting married now was such a beautiful thing. You chastise yourself for almost skipping such a wonderful occasion. He makes his way up to the altar, and your eyes only follow him halfway there before turning around to look back at the entryway. Once the wedding March starts to play, you see Cassandra. She is in a beautiful white flowing wedding dress adorned with pearls with a beautiful veil that goes down her back and to the floor trailing behind her. Her father borros has his arm linked to hers and is walking her up the aisle to Aegon, and she has this huge smile plastered to her face.
"Would you want to get married in the grand Sept or on the beach?"
"Anywhere, as long as I'm marrying you " Aemond leans in kissing you softly.
"I'm serious! " You squeak hitting him with a pillow."I want to have it all planned out way ahead of time"
"Then plan it out, baby. Because no matter where it is, I'll show up to marry you"
Your eyes are watering through the rest of the ceremony. You keep your gaze locked on Aegon and Cassandra making sure to not look at the members of the wedding party at all.
Aegon and Cassandra kiss and everyone stands as they make their way out of the grand Sept to cheers and well wishes. Behind them the wedding party starts to filter out and on instict your turn your head and for the first time since your surprise visit to his dorm you make direct eye contact with Aemond. His good eye staying glued to you until he walks passed you and out of the Sept. Your stomach feels cold and your palms are sweaty.
And standing there wracked with nerves you think to yourself that you still need to make it through the reception.
A/N: I have a pt 2 for this almost ready to go. Just fixing it up a little. :)
Warnings: Swearing, mentions of cheating, alcohol use, dubcon, and a bit of angst.
"Is she coming?"
"I don't know. Her asshole cheater ex is going to be there so she might not"
Aemond rolls his eye and clenches his jaw.
"It's been years, Heleana. You think you could maybe stop calling me that?"
" I love you Aem, your my brother but when it comes to you and her I'm on her side. You were a major Jerk"
He groans and runs his hand down his face.
He is sitting at Heleanas breakfast bar in her kitchen. Heleana is moving around the kitchen, getting breakfast ready, and putting coffee on.
"I am aware that I'm the asshole in this story." He lets out a sigh. "I just want to see her again"
"She's happy now, you know. So, any little magical scenarios you have made up in your head where you woo her back to you can be left right there in your head. " she looked at him warningly.
He doesn't say anything and just looks down playing with his fingers.
"She has been with Cregan for a few months now. He's good for her AND good to her. Something you failed at spectacularly"
"We were good together for 4 years! I wasn't horrible the entire time! I messed up once. One time. And she never spoke to me again!"
"If Gwayne had done to me what you did to her.... how would you react?" She looks at him eyebrows raised.
Aemond sighs and puts his head down on the counter. It's pointless Heleana never let's him get away with making up excuses for how your relationship ended and he knows she's right.
He tried for months after you left his dorm to contact you. Apologize. Promise it would never happen again. It was Heleana who ended up making him realize what was done was done.
"Have you heard from her?"
"Yes." Heleana sighed into the phone
"So did you ask her to call me?"
"I did. And then she sent me a video explaining why she didn't want to."
Aemond cringed. "A video?"
"Oh yeah. Like the idiot I am, I told her to record your reaction to her surprise, saying you would be so excited. So she got your entire reunion on video. You're a real prince charming, you know? Do not ask me to contact her again on your behalf. I won't do it and neither will egg. Least you could do at this point is leave her alone."
Aemond is pulled out of his memories by Gwaynes loud. "Good morning!" And the laughter of his niece and nephew.
"Uncle Almond," jaheara yells excitedly. She is only 3 and pronounces his name almond, which Aegon finds hilarious.
"Hey peanut" he reaches down and picks her up placing a big sloppy kiss on her forehead
"Ewwww! She shrieks, wiping her forehead and trying to wiggle out of his arms.
"Everybody ready to go get Uncle Aegon married today?" Gwayne says excitedly towards the kids.
Aemond puts down jaheara and sits on his stool stewing in his own frustration. He never thought that Aegon would be happily married while he was the one alone. Miserable and full of regret.
He never meant to let it get that far with his professor. He knew she was attracted to him right away. He could tell by the way her touch lingered whenever he turned in an assignment or the way her gaze would find him during lectures. He thought flirt with her, and a good grade would be easy. What he didn't plan on was bumping into her on his way back from his first college party drunk out of his mind and having not seen his girlfriend for months. He didn't plan on her offering to help him get back to his dorm, and he didn't plan on allowing her to come in.
He sobered up immediately when he saw her standing at the door, though. The gravity of what he had just done and what was happening in that moment hit him like a freight train.
"Shit! Baby, hold on, let me explain. " Aemond could feel his desperation tightening in his chest. He fucked up, bad, and he knew it .
"Oh, ummm, nope, no thanks"
That reaction was the worst thing he could have gotten from her. No yelling, no fight to be had she was just leaving and not turning back.
He started to panic. If she left right now like this after seeing what he had done, he was afraid that would be it. He grabbed her arm "wait please just give me one second "
You turned on him like a viper pushing his arm away "do not fucking touch me, forget my name loose my number I no longer exist to you"
His chest clenched, it felt like his heart was being squeezed. he swayed on his feet, swallowing down the sickness that attempted to make its way up his throat.
You had turned and went down the hall and out through the doors that led to the stairs
"Shit shit shit! " Aemond ran back into his dorm quickly, putting his sweatpants and sneakers on. His professor was sitting on the bed, strapping her shoes on.
"You know I wouldn't have come up here with you if I knew there was a girlfriend." She looked at him angrily
"I'm sorry" was all he could get out as he ran out of his dorm down the hallway and down the stairs and right through the doors to outside. He ran down the walkway, looking both directions, but didn't see you anywhere.
"No no no no! This can't be it, no, no!" Aemond was yanking at his hair, his eye full of tears. He tries to run to the left but is not steady on his feet because of how much he drank and ends up falling on the sidewalk. He attempts to get himself up but gives up exhausted and lets out a huge loud sob.
He rolls onto his back on the cement of the walkway and just looks up at the sky while tears roll down his cheek.
"This isn't really how we end, is it?" He says to no one
"Hello! Earth to Aemond!" Aemond crashes back into the present with Heleana snapping in his face. She sighs and looks at him tenderly.
"Cmon, eat your breakfast and get ready." She taps his shoulder as she heads out of the kitchen and up the stairs to get her and the kids ready for Aegons nuptials.
He isn't able to get much down, but he takes a few bites and heads upstairs to get himself ready.
He drives to the ceremony with Heleana and Gwayne sitting in the middle of the backseat between the twins in their booster seats.
"I'm gonna marry you one day" Aemond says dreamily looking up at his ceiling.
It's summer of junior year and you are both squished onto his twin bed his arm under you holding you close.
"Oh?" You say picking your head up and looking at him.
"Isn't it obvious, darling? Can't live without ya. Marriage is a given at this point" he laughs, grabbing your chin and pulling you in for a kiss.
"Would you want to get married in the grand Sept or on the beach?"
"Anywhere as long as I'm marrying you," aemond leans in for another kiss.
"I'm serious I want to have it all planned out ahead of time!"
"Then plan it out, baby. Because no matter where it is, I'll show up to marry you"
You giggled as he rolled over on top of you kissing you with purpose
The car door slams. They have made it to the grand Sept, and it is time to get this show on the road. Aemond makes his way inside and heads to the grooms room where Aegon is bouncing around with excitement, putting on his finishing touches.
"Aemond! Smile, man! This is a joyous day!" Aegon yells at him while grabbing his arm and pulling him all the way into the room.
Aemond forces a big smile on his face for Aegon's benefit. It's not that he isn't happy for his brother, he is. He just can't help the jealousy that is flowing through him at this moment.
This could have been them. Should have been them. Would have been them if he didn't screw it all up.
When it's time for the actual ceremony to begin, everyone makes their way to their places. Aemond smiles at Ellyn as they get in line. He can feel his heart rate speed up at the thought that you might be out there. After years of being so far from you, you both might actually be in the same room at the same time.
Aemond waits impatiently for the pair ahead of them to step in front of the doorway and start to walk down the aisle. Once Criston and Maris step out and down the aisle, he and ellyn move forward and stand in the doorway. He sees you right away. You're looking down at the ground, but he could spot that little heart tattoo on the back of your neck anywhere. He has a matching one on the inside of his wrist. He's happy to see yours hasn't been covered or blacked out.
"Matching tattoos? are you daft?" Aegon laughs while looking at Aemond incredulously.
Aemond ignores him slathering on some of the aftercare products he had been told he would need to put on a few times a day.
"And what will you do when you split up? Walking around with that on your arm to remind you forever?"
Aemond laughs and continues applying the balm,"we aren't going to split up egg. This tattoo is forever, and so are we"
"You are 18 Aemond! You couldn't possibly know that you will stay together forever! You leave for university in less than a month! You really think the long-distance thing is going to work? For 4 years?"
"I know it will. Just because you don't understand commitment doesn't mean I don't, " Aemond says haughtily.
Aegon rolls his eyes. "Whatever you say. Just don't let mom see that. She's gonna kill you!"
Ellyn yanks on Aemonds arm and looks at him perplexed.
He clears his throat and starts to make his way down the aisle. Unfortunately for him, he can't really see you now because you're on his blind side. They make it up to the altar and release their arms, each moving to their assigned spot. He flicks his eye back towards you, and you're hard to see. Why did you have to sit so far back?
He pays no attention to how the ceremony continues going on around him, shaking his leg impatiently.
He hears his mother clear her throat from the front row. He looks at her, and she opens her eyes wide and waves her hand at him in a way of telling him to cut it out.
He straightens his back and stands up tall, taking in a deep breath. Focusing on Aegon and Cassandra. They are putting the rings on each other's fingers, and he feels a wave of pain roll through him.
His hands clapsed before him, he started unconsciously rubbing his wrist where the heart tattoo sits. He had no idea this was going to be this hard. His whole body is shaking with emotional overload. When finally Aegon and Cassandra kiss and then turn to their guests, raising their claspsed hands above their heads and starting to make their way back down the aisle he moves forward on shakey legs and joins his arm with Ellyns once more, walking down the aisle he keeps his eye trained on where he knows you are. Your head is turned away from him, looking at the entryway. He can see your arm is looped around the arm of the brown haired man standing next to you. How he would give anything to switch places with him. Even just for a minute. As he continues down the aisle eye trained on you, you turn your head, and it happens. Your tear filled eyes find his, and he forgets how to breathe. Those eyes he has seen filled with rage and hurt for years in his dreams are there right in front of him, filled with tears, and he thinks they have never been more beautiful.
He is forced to stop looking at you once he passes, but he knows your last conversation can't be the last interaction you ever have. No, he has one more chance to talk to you.
At the reception.
A/N: Part 3 is in the works. I have a mid-term tonight and a lot of homework this weekend, so I probably won't get it out until Monday. Thank you to anyone who reads :) ❤️
Summary: So what if you're fucking the weird dude? He has good dick game. But how were you supposed to know he gets attached easily?
Warnings: SMUT (18+); (pretty rough) car sex; oral (f!receiving); name calling (slut, whore etc); dark!Aemond near the end; hair pulling; choking; ass slapping; mentions of violence and blood
Words: 5.5k
Notes: No description of the reader. This was just going to be porn without a plot... but ofc I had to add some plot smh. This isn't dark dark, but it does contain some of the elements of it so... do not read it if you are not comfortable with that
𐔌 . ⋮ aera .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱
He was weird, unsettling, and genuinely offputting. That's why your friends were baffled to know that you were fucking him multiple times a week, in the backseat of his car, no less. "He has good dick," you tried to tell them, saying it was worth it. But your words fell on deaf ears as none of them understood. Why him?
With long hair dyed black with a cheap store colour and a run-down 2005 Volvo S40, he didn't seem the kind of guy who could fuck a girl until her throat was raw. But you knew the truth. That's why you kept coming back, time after time.
So it was no surprise that, once again, you found yourself in his lap. In the backseat of his car, kissing and moaning, his hard cock pressing into your aching core.
"Blood?" You ask as you taste copper on your tongue when kissing his jaw.
"Don't act like you don't find that hot," he grunted, a smug expression on his face. It's probably because whoever he fought, lost.
You smiled playfully, your lips brushing against his once more, caught in a moment where admitting he was right felt like submitting. The warmth between you grew, leaving just the two of you.
He tangled his fingers in your hair for a second before shifting his attention downward, fumbling with the delicate fabric of your flimsy top. The skin-tight shirt clung to your curves, resisting his attempts as if it had a will of its own. Frustration flickered across his face, but it was quickly replaced by determination as he continued to work his way around the stubborn material.
"Just rip it open for fuck's sake," you groan as he fumbles with your skin-tight white top. Your hips instinctively roll on top of his, ruining your cute white cotton panties with your juices.
Aemond groans deeply at your words. With a quick, decisive motion, he rips the fabric open, the sound of the tear deafening. Your black lacy bra is revealed, the delicate lace a stark contrast to his rough, calloused hands as they cup your breasts.
"Fuck, you're perfect," he growls, his thumbs rubbing over your nipples through the thin lace. "Gonna fucking wreck you."
He leans in, his hot mouth latching onto one nipple through the bra as his other hand slides down to rub your clit through your soaked panties. He groans against your skin at the wetness he finds there, the sound vibrating through you.
Oh gods, you are so fucking wet for him. You can feel your arousal soaking through the thin cotton, staining it with your desperation. You grind harder against the rigid bulge straining against his jeans, needing more friction, and more contact.
"So fucking wet for me already," he murmurs, his fingers pushing the fabric aside to delve between your folds. "Gonna make you come so hard."
You roll your hips harder against Aemond's bulge, your clit throbbing with every grind. Your skirt hangs loosely around your waist, resembling more of a belt.
"Fuck, these songs suck ass," you grumbled, reaching for Aemond's phone and scrolling through his playlists until you find something more to your liking. The change in music elicits a growl from Aemond, but you just smirk and lean in close, your lips brushing his jaw. The bass line of Rob Zombie's "Dragula" thumps through the car, a perfect complement to the nasty thoughts running through your mind.
"Okay, now you can fuck me," you giggle, your teeth grazing his skin before you soothe the sting with your tongue. You can taste the salt of his sweat, the copper tang of blood - a reminder of the fight he must have been in. Your curiosity gets the better of you.
"Who the fuck did you fight this time?" You ask, your voice low and husky with desire. But even as you speak, your focus is on the delicious friction between your legs, the way Aemond's hard length rubs against your aching core with every roll of your hips.
"Fucking some new guy, thought he could take me," Aemond growls, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise as he grinds up against you. "Taught him a lesson real quick."
He leans in, his teeth nipping at your earlobe as he speaks. "He won't be coming back anytime soon. Not after the way I shattered his ribs." His fingers dig into your hips, pulling you down harder onto his cock.
"Now, quit talking and start begging for it," he commands, his voice a low rumble in your ear. He places a few light smacks on your cheek, making you smile at the lewd actions.
You shake your head, a wide smile spreading across your face as your eyes lose focus. The depravity of the situation, the dingy car, the smell of sweat and sex, it all makes you even wetter. You can feel your arousal dripping down your thighs.
"You know I don't beg," you whisper, your lips brushing against his earlobe as you suck on it gently. Your teeth graze the sensitive skin, making him groan.
Aemond's grip on your hips tightens, his fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks. He sounds almost angry as he growls, "You'd better fucking start, or I'll stop right here."
"Fuck," you whimper as his bulge nudges against your clit, sending sparks of pleasure through your body. Your brows furrow, your eyes squeezed shut as you grind down harder, seeking more of that delicious friction.
To emphasize his point, he stills his hips, denying you the friction you crave. His other hand moves from your breast to wrap around your throat, applying just enough pressure to make you gasp.
"Please, Aemond," you moan, your voice breaking with need. "Fuck me. Use me. Make me forget everything but your cock inside me."
Aemond's eyes darken with lust at your words, a wicked grin spreading across his face. "That's more like it," he purrs, his grip on your throat relaxing just slightly. He leans in, his lips brushing against yours in a teasing kiss.
"Gonna fucking ruin you," he promises, his free hand moving down to grip your ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh. He pulls you down hard, grinding his clothed cock against your aching cunt.
"Gonna make you scream for me," he growls, his other hand moving from your throat to tangle in your hair. He yanks your head back, exposing your neck to his hungry mouth. He latches on, sucking hard enough to leave a mark, his teeth grazing your skin.
His hips are moving now, grinding up against you in a filthy rhythm. The rough denim of his jeans rubs against your sensitive clit. You can feel the heat of him through the fabric, the hard length of his cock straining against his zipper.
You moan sluttily, desperate, shameless noises filling his car. You're too far gone to care about your pride. Impatiently, you tug the cups of your bra down, exposing your hardened nipples to the cool air. They're almost painfully sensitive, aching to be sucked.
"Suck," you command, your voice low and demanding. You arch your back, offering your breasts to him like a sacrificial lamb.
Aemond's eyes darken at your demand, a wicked grin spreading across his face. "Oh, so you think you're in charge here, do you?" he growls, his hand fisting in your hair, yanking your head back.
You gasp at the sharp pain, your eyes watering. "I think you need to be put in your place, slut," he sneers, his other hand roughly palming your breast.
He leans in, his hot breath ghosting over your exposed nipple. "Beg for it," he commands, his voice low and dangerous.
You swallow hard, your pride fading due to your desperate need. "Please," you whimper, your voice small and needy. "Suck my tits, I need it so bad."
Aemond chuckles darkly, his teeth grazing your nipple. "That's more like it," he growls before his mouth envelops the sensitive bud.
You cry out, your back arching as he suckles hard, his tongue swirling around the hardened peak. The pleasure is intense, bordering on pain, and you can feel yourself getting wetter by the second.
"Fuck, that feels so good," you moan, your hand moving to the back of his head, trying to push him closer. But he pulls away, shaking his head.
"Hands off," he commands, his eyes flashing with anger. "You don't get to tell me what to do."
You whimper, your hand falling away. "Sorry," you whisper, your cheeks flushing with shame.
Aemond just smirks, his hand moving to your other breast, roughly squeezing the soft flesh. "Good girl," he purrs, before diving back in, his mouth hot and wet on your aching nipple.
You moan, your eyes fluttering closed as you lose yourself in the sensation.
"Fuck, you taste good," he growls against your skin, his hand moving to pinch and roll your other nipple between his fingers. The dual sensations make you cry out, your back arching as you press yourself further into his touch.
He releases your nipple with a wet pop, blowing cool air over the damp flesh. You whimper at the loss, your body craving more of his touch. "That's better," he says, his voice a low rumble in his chest. "You know your place."
Aemond's hand moves from your hair to your throat again, squeezing just enough to make you gasp for air. He leans in, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispers, "You gonna be a good girl and let me fuck you senseless?"
Your heart races, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps as Aemond's hand tightens around your throat. The lack of oxygen only adds to the haze of lust clouding your mind. You nod frantically, your eyes wide and pleading.
"Yes, yes, I'll be good," you whimper, your voice barely above a whisper.
Aemond's lips curve into a wicked grin against your skin, his teeth grazing your earlobe. "Fuck, you're so desperate for it, aren't you?" he growls, his hand releasing your throat to grip your hip, fingers digging into your skin hard enough to bruise.
He grinds up against you, the rough denim of his jeans rubbing against your aching clit. The friction is delicious, but not nearly enough. You need more. You need him inside you, stretching you, filling you.
"Yes, fuck yes, I'm desperate for it," you pant, your voice barely above a whisper. "I need you inside me, Aemond. I love it when you use me."
Aemond chuckles darkly, his lips brushing against your ear as he speaks. "Fuck, you're such a dirty little slut," he growls, his hand releasing your throat to grip your hair instead. He yanks your head back, exposing your neck to his hungry mouth.
"Gonna fucking ruin you," he promises, his teeth grazing your skin. "Gonna make you scream for me."
"Fuck, you're so wet," he groans. He yanks your head back, forcing you to meet his gaze. His eyes are dark with lust, filled with the depravity to come.
"Gonna fuck you so hard, you'll be feeling it for days," he promises, his hand moving from your hair to grip your throat again. He squeezes, cutting off your air supply just for a moment before releasing.
You gasp, your lungs burning for oxygen. But even then you still smile at him, biting your lip.
Aemond's eyes darken at the sight, a wicked grin spreading across his face. "Fuck, you're perfect," he growls, his hand releasing your throat to grip your ass hard enough to bruise. "A sight for sore eyes," he smirks, looking into your glossy eyes.
"Shit, I need to eat you out first," he groans, his jeans pressing down painfully on his throbbing cock.
He slides off the seat, kneeling between your legs as he slides your panties to the side impatiently. The scent of your arousal is thick in the air, making his cock throb with need. The cool air hits your aching cunt, making you shiver.
"Fuck, you smell incredible," he growls, his hot breath ghosting over your slick folds. He leans in, his tongue darting out to lap at your clit, making you cry out.
He groans at the taste of you, his tongue delving deeper, licking through your folds and fucking into your entrance. He eats you out like a man starved, his tongue moving in and out, his lips sucking on your clit.
His fingers delving between your folds. He brings them up to your lips, pressing them against your mouth. "Taste how fucking desperate you are for me."
You open your mouth obediently, sucking his fingers into your mouth. The taste of your arousal explodes on your tongue, musky and sweet. You moan around his fingers, your tongue licking and sucking, cleaning them of your juices.
Aemond's eyes darken with lust as he watches you suck his fingers clean, your tongue swirling around the digits. He growls low in his throat, his free hand moving to grip your breast, squeezing the soft flesh roughly.
"Fuck, you're so hot like this," he growls, his fingers popping out of your mouth.
He gets back up, leaving you unsatisfied and annoyed.
He grabs your hair, forcing your head back and making you look up at him. His eyes are dark with lust, his jaw clenched as he battles for control.
"Strip," he commands, his voice low and dangerous. "I want you fucking naked, now."
You scramble to obey, yanking your bra off, your breasts bouncing free, nipples hard and aching for his touch. Your miniskirt and panties are next, puddled on the floor of the car, leaving you bare and exposed.
"Shit, you look so good," Aemond growls, his eyes raking over your naked form. "I almost don't even want to ruin you... almost"
He flips you on your hands and knees, pushing your head down, forcing your ass in the air, holes completely exposed to him. He yanks you forward, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. "Brace yourself, slut," he growls, grinding his clothed cock against your bare pussy. "Gonna fucking wreck you."
You crane your neck to look back at Aemond, a scoff leaving your lips. "Take a picture, it'll last longer," you mock, your voice dripping with sarcasm.
His eyes darken at your words, a low growl rumbling in his chest. "Oh, I'll take more than just a picture, baby," he promises, his hand coming down on your ass in a sharp smack.
You gasp at the sting, your pussy clenching in anticipation. "Promises, promises," you taunt, wiggling your ass invitingly. "You talk a big game, but I bet you can't even get it half hard."
Aemond's grip on your hips tightens, his nails digging into your skin hard enough to leave marks. "Fuck, you're so goddamn cocky," he snarls. "Gonna shut that smart mouth of yours."
You moan at the contact, your head falling forward as you push your ass back against him. "Big talk, dickhead," you pant, your voice breathy with need. "Let's see what you've got."
Aemond responds to your taunts with a sharp smack to your ass, the sound echoing in the confined space of the car. "Fuck, you're asking for it," he growls, his hand coming down again, harder this time.
You gasp, your ass jiggling from the impact. "Shit, you're making a mess of me," you whine, wiggling your hips. Your pussy is throbbing, aching to be filled.
"That's the idea, slut," Aemond grunts, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your ass cheeks. He spreads them apart, exposing your tight holes to his hungry gaze. "Gonna fucking wreck this tight little ass."
His hands move to his zipper, slowly dragging it down. The sound of the metal seems obscenely loud in the confined space of the car.
He pushes his jeans and boxers down just enough to free his cock, the thick shaft springing up, hard and ready. The head is already slick with precum, the veins along the length pulsing with his heartbeat.
He spits in his palm, rubbing his saliva over his cock, giving it some lubrication. Then he's pressing the tip against your drooling hole, the rough denim of his jeans scraping against your sensitive skin.
"Fuck, you're so fucking tight," he groans, pushing forward, the head of his cock breaching your hole. You cry out, the stretch intense, bordering on pain.
"Relax, slut," he commands, his hand coming down on your ass again. "Take that fucking cock like a good whore."
He starts to move, his hips rocking back and forth, inch by inch of his thick shaft sinking into your tight heat. Your walls clench around him, trying to adjust to the intrusion, but he doesn't give you time.
He starts fucking you in earnest, his hips snapping forward, driving his cock deeper with each thrust. The car rocks with the force of his movements, the seat creaking beneath you.
"Fuck, you take it so well," he pants, his hand moving from your ass to grip your hip, holding you in place as he fucks into you. "Gonna fucking ruin this tight ass."
You moan, your hands gripping the seat, nails digging into the cracked leather. The pain in your ass mixes with the pleasure, making your head spin.
"Harder," you beg, pushing your hips back to meet his, desperate for more. "Fuck me harder, shit."
Your juices drip down your thighs, pooling on the leather seat below as Aemond pounds into you.
Your hands grip the seat, nails digging into the cracked leather as you brace yourself for the onslaught. Aemond's hands are everywhere - gripping your hips, squeezing your ass, tugging at your hair. He uses you like a rag doll, fucking you with an animalistic need.
Aemond grunts, his grip on your hips tightening as he complies with your demand. "Fuck, you want it hard, slut?" he growls, his voice strained with effort. "Gonna fucking give it to you."
He pulls nearly all the way out, leaving just the tip inside your stretched hole. Then he slams back in, his hips connecting with your ass with a sharp smack. He sets a brutal pace, fucking into you recklessly, the car swaying with his thrusts.
"Shit, you're so fucking tight," he pants, sweat dripping down his face, his messy black hair sticking to his skin.
You can only moan, your mouth hanging open as you gasp for air. Your breasts bounce with each powerful thrust, your nipples hard and aching for attention.
Aemond's hand moves from your hip to your breast, squeezing the soft flesh roughly. He pinches your nipple between his fingers, twisting and tugging, sending sparks of pain through your body.
"Fuck, your tits are perfect," he groans, his hand moving to your other breast, giving it the same treatment.
You whimper, your pussy clenching around his pistoning cock. The combination of pain and pleasure is overwhelming, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.
You reach down, fingers finding your clit, rubbing in tight circles. The added stimulation makes you see stars, your back arching as you moan.
"Fuck, you're such a dirty girl," Aemond pants. "Getting off on being used like a fucking toy."
"Shit, I'm close," you pant, your nails digging into the leather seat and your fingers moving on your clit. "Don't stop, fuck, don't stop," you moan, your hips bucking back against him, seeking more friction. His fingers rub your clit in tight circles, the pressure building with each stroke.
He pulls your hair, forcing your back to arch, your ass pushing back against him. The new angle allows him to go even deeper, his cock hitting that sweet spot inside you that makes you see stars.
"That's it, take it all you little slut," he pants, his hand moving from your tit to your clit, replacing your hand, rubbing the sensitive nub in tight circles.
"Fuck, I'm gonna come," you whimper, your body tensing. "Please, Aemond, please."
"Do it," he commands, his fingers moving faster on your clit. "Come for me like the good little whore you are."
With a cry, you shatter, your orgasm crashing over you like a tidal wave. Your pussy clenches around his cock, your walls rippling along his shaft.
Aemond groans, his hips stuttering as your orgasm milks his cock. "Fuck, I'm gonna cum," he growls, his thrusts becoming erratic. "Where do you want me to spill?"
Your body convulses as the intense orgasm rips through you, your vision blurring and stars bursting behind your eyelids. "On my ass, fuck!" You cry out, the words torn from your throat. "Cum all over my ass!"
You arch your back, pushing your hips against Aemond's, desperate for more. Your pussy clenches around his cock, milking him.
You can feel his grip on your hips tighten, his thrusts becoming more erratic as he chases his release. The sound of your skin slapping together fills the car, mixed with your heavy breathing and moans of pleasure.
Aemond's cock throbs inside you, his thrusts becoming more erratic as your pussy milks him. He growls low in his throat, his hand fisting in your hair, yanking your head back.
"Fuck, gonna paint your ass white," he pants, his hips slamming against your ass with bruising force.
He pulls out abruptly, his cock slipping from your clenching hole with a wet sound. You whimper at the loss, your pussy aching to be filled again.
Aemond's hand comes down on your ass in a sharp smack, the sting making you gasp. "Present yourself," he growls, his voice low and dangerous. "Wanna see you take my load like a good little whore."
You arch your back even more, spreading your thighs as far as you can in the limited space. Your spasming holes are on full display for his hungry gaze.
Aemond kneels behind you, his cock in his hand, stroking it with quick, rough motions. "Fuck, you're such a good little girl," he pants, his eyes dark with lust as they roam over your body. "Too bad you're such a filthy slut."
He starts to come, his cock jerking in his hand as thick ropes of cum splatter across your ass and pussy. You moan, your fingers dipping between your folds to gather some of his cum, bringing it to your mouth.
"Fuck, look at you," Aemond groans, his hand still working his shaft, milking out every last drop. "Eating my cum like the dirty whore you are."
He collapses next to you on the seat, his chest heaving as he catches his breath. He reaches out, his fingers tangling in your hair, tugging your head back to look at him.
"You're fucking perfect," he growls, his eyes intense as they bore into yours. "Mine."
"Mhm," you hum, collapsing onto Aemond's chest, your body spent and sated. The car reeks of sex and sweat, your combined releases staining the seats. It's filthy and sinful, turning you on.
Aemond's arms wrap around you, pulling you close as he strokes your hair. You nuzzle into his neck, breathing in his scent, a mix of cologne and sex.
"That was intense," you murmur, your voice low and breathy. "You really know how to fuck a girl stupid."
Aemond chuckles, his chest rumbling beneath you. "Fucking right I do," he boasts, his fingers tangling in your hair. "You're a damn good lay, too. Always so fucking eager for my cock."
He tugs on your hair, forcing your head back to look at him. His eyes are dark, filled with lust and possessiveness. "You're mine," he growls, his voice low and dangerous. "This tight little body belongs to me."
"Such a good girl," he praises, his other hand cupping your cheek, thumb brushing over your swollen lips. "Gonna keep you."
You smile against his fingers, a wicked gleam in your eyes. "Keep me for what?" you tease. "You're not my man. I'm not your's to keep," you whisper, feeling an ache in your heart for some reason.
Aemond's eyes flash with a dangerous light, his grip on your chin tightening as he yanks your face closer to his.
His grip on your chin tightened. "The fuck I'm not," he growls, his voice low and menacing. "I've had you more times than I can count. I know every inch of this body, every fucking sound you make when I'm buried inside you."
He shifts, his face mere inches from yours, his breath hot against your lips. "You're mine, whether you admit it or not."
His other hand slides down your body, fingers dipping between your thighs to gather the cum leaking from your abused hole. He brings it to your lips, smearing it across them.
"Look at you, so fucking dirty, so desperate for my cum. You can pretend all you want, but deep down, you know you belong to me."
He crashes his lips against yours in a bruising kiss, his tongue delving into your mouth, claiming you with a ferocity that steals your breath.
When he pulls back, you're panting, your lips swollen and tingling. "You're mine," he whispers, his voice rough with emotion. "And I'm never letting you go."
His words send a shiver down your spine, a mix of fear and something else, something you're not quite ready to name.You press your forehead against his, your eyes fluttering closed as you try to steady your breathing.
"I don't belong to anyone," you whisper, but there's no conviction in your voice. "We're just fucking, Aemond. Don't make it more than it is."
Aemond's eyes darken, a flash of anger crossing his face before it's quickly replaced with a predatory smirk. "Just fucking?" he repeats, his voice low and dangerous. "Is that what you think this is?"
He sits up, pulling you with him so you're straddling his lap. His hands grip your hips, fingers digging into your soft flesh as he holds you in place.
"We've been doing this for months, baby," he reminds you, his voice rough. "You think I don't know the difference between a quick fuck and what we have?"
He leans in, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispers, "I know every inch of this body, every fucking sound you make, every way you tremble and writhe when I'm inside you."
"Stop fighting it," he growls, his eyes boring into yours. "You might tell your friends that this means nothing to you, that you think I'm some creepy guy you fuck. Yet you still keep coming back.."
Your breath catches in your throat, his words sending a shiver down your spine. How does he know? You've never told him those things. You shake your head, a strand of hair falling across your face. "No, I've never said that," you whisper, your voice trembling. "I swear."
You try to pull away, but his grip on your hips tightens, holding you in place. His eyes bore into yours, dark and intense, searching for any sign of deceit. "I wouldn't say those things about you," you insist. "I don't think you're weird."
Aemond's eyes narrow, his grip on your hips tightening until it almost hurts. "Don't lie to me," he growls, his voice low and menacing. "I know you talk shit about me to your friends. I know you think I'm some kind of freak."
He leans in, his breath hot against your cheek. "But you keep coming back, don't you? You keep spreading your legs for me, begging me to fuck you like the desperate little slut you are."
His hand moves from your hip to your throat, his thumb brushing over your pulse point. "You can't resist me, can you? No matter how much you try to pretend, your body knows who it belongs to."
He squeezes your throat, not enough to cut off your air, but enough to make your heart race. "I've heard you, baby," he whispers, his lips brushing against your ear. "I've heard you call me a freak, a deviant. But you still come back, letting me use your tight little body for my pleasure."
Your cheeks flush with shame and embarrassment as Aemond's words sink in. You try to pull away from his grip, your naked bodies still intertwined, but his hold is too strong. "Yes, fine. I have said those things about you," you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.
You search his eyes, trying to find the right words. "Aemond, you fight people. You're dangerous." You say it with a seriousness that misrepresents the thrill that runs through you at the very thought. It's the danger that makes him so appealing.
You sigh, your fingers caressing his face, tracing the strong lines of his jaw. "Must you have such an effect on me?" You mutter, before leaning in to kiss him.
Aemond's lips meet yours in a savage kiss, his tongue plundering your mouth with a fierce intensity. His grip on your throat tightens, his fingers digging into your skin as he holds you in place.
When he finally pulls back, you're both breathing heavily, your lips swollen and stinging from the force of his kiss.
"You fuckin' love it," he growls, his voice rough with desire. "You love the danger, the thrill of being with a man who can break you."
"Admit it," he presses, his voice low and dangerous. "You get off on the fact that I could snap anyone's fucking neck with one hand."
Aemond's grip on your throat loosens, his thumb stroking your pulse point in a surprisingly tender gesture.
"Would you ever hurt me?" You whisper, your breath hot on his lips, your faces mere inches apart. A flicker of fear in your eyes, but it's quickly overshadowed by the desire burning within you. You search his gaze, looking for any sign of malice, any hint of danger. But all you see is raw, primal hunger.
Your fingers trace the lines of his jaw. He's so close. It's intoxicating and terrifying at once. You have seen him fight, seen the way he's hurt others with minimal effort. He could break you, shatter you into a million pieces if he wanted to.
Aemond's eyes soften for a moment, a rare vulnerability flickering in their depths. "You think I'd hurt you?" he asks, his voice low and rough. "Baby, I'd die before I let anyone lay a finger on you."
He leans in, pressing his forehead against yours. "You're mine," he growls, his voice fierce with possessiveness. "And I protect what's mine."
His hand slides from your throat to your cheek, cupping your face gently. "I may be aggressive, but I'm not a pig," he murmurs, his thumb tracing your bottom lip. "I'd never hurt you, not like that."
"But make no mistake," he whispers, his voice low and dangerous. "I'll hurt anyone who tries to take you from me."
You bite his thumb lightly as he speaks, his possessive demeanour sending a jolt of electricity through you. "Anyone who would hurt me?" You purr, leaning into his touch like a small lamb. His words ignite a fire deep within you, a primal desire to be owned, claimed, and protected.
You know you shouldn't give in to this, but you can't help yourself. The way he looks at you like you are the only woman in the world, it's intoxicating.
Aemond growls low in his throat, his eyes darkening with lust at the feel of your teeth on his skin. "That's right, baby," he purrs, his hand sliding from your cheek to the back of your neck, tangling in your hair. "You're mine, and I'll fucking kill anyone who tries to take you away from me."
Your breath hitches in your throat at Aemond's words, his dangerous claims sending a shiver down your spine. You meet his gaze, your eyes are wide and full of devotion, a vulnerability you rarely show to anyone.
He tugs you closer, his lips brushing against yours in a feather-light kiss. "I'll protect you," he whispers, his breath hot against your skin. "I'll cherish you. I'll fucking worship you."
Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer. "I'm yours," you whisper, your voice trembling with desire. "Body and soul."
Aemond's eyes flash with fierce triumph at your words, a primal look of satisfaction spreading across his face. "That's right, you're fucking mine," he growls, tugging you closer and crushing his lips to yours in a searing kiss.
"Get dressed, pretty girl. I'm taking you to my place," he demands, leaving no room for argument.
Aemond's eyes blaze with desire as he watches you scramble to put on your clothes, your naked body still slick with his cum. He licks his lips, his cock already hardening again at the sight of you.
He helps you to the passenger seat, smirking. "Hope you don't mind a messy ride."
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