i'm not sure how many more times i need to say this, but please do not follow this blog as it is inactive. If you'd like, you can follow my new writing blog here. -> @aemnd. ♥︎
i might've just written the most disturbing thing that i've written in a while ab ᴄᴀɴɴɪʙᴀʟ!aemond﹐ lols﹒﹒ › ༝ ‹ idk﹐ it's just v dark n creepy n gross w a lot of gore (it's a dddne dark-fic/drabble)﹒﹒ ໒꒱ ₊ but it's also v deeply erotic n i genuinely rlly love it! so ! i'll be posting it sometime later﹐ oki? oki﹒ ilu﹒ ⸜̑⸝͂
—ᴘꜱᴀ: i can't help but feel a lil bit uneasy ab wanting to post for the jjk fandom again﹐ cos ik lots of ppl in this community take issue w extremely dark / dddne content﹒﹒ ૮ ◞ ‸ ◟ ྀིა but tbh﹐ at my v core﹐ that is my absolute favourite genre to write ab﹒ ♡ i rlly do love dark﹐ gross﹐ twisted fics﹐ & i won't apologize for it cos ik – deep in my soul – that it doesn't define me as a person﹐ considering that i am fully capable of separating fiction from reality﹒ !! so i'm v sorry if any of u take offense from my content﹐ but i do in fact label + put warnings on each & every piece of my writing﹒﹒ so if u just so happen to randomly stumble across any of my dark fics﹐ then please feel free to block me & move on w ur life﹒ ♡ cos tbh – & i'm not saying this to b rude﹐ i promise﹒﹒ lols – but i rlly just don't have the time﹐ patience﹐ or energy to coddle hurt feelings over fictional fanfics﹒ oki? oki﹒ thank u & ilu﹐ 𝑥𝑜﹒ ♡
⸜̑⸝͂ ⋮ 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑎𝑖𝑛𝓈﹒ ᴍᴅɴɪ﹒ ᴅᴅᴅɴᴇ﹒ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀᴀɢᴇ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ﹒ ᴍᴏᴅᴇʀɴ!ᴀᴇᴍᴏɴᴅ﹒
𝑛𝑜𝑡𝑒﹒ hi! ֯⸜̑⸝͂ idk if this'll be any good﹒﹒ but pls be aware﹐ this is an extremely dark fic﹐ u have been warned !! & tusm for taking the time to read & letting me share a lil piece of my soul w u all﹐ 𝑥𝑜﹒
𝑤𝑐﹒ 5﹒8k﹒
꒰ ⸜̑⸝͂ ᴍᴀɢɢᴏᴛ ᴅᴇᴀʀᴇꜱᴛ ⸜̑⸝͂ ꒱
⸌̑⸍͂ ⸜̑⸝͂ ⸌̑⸍͂
the bass from the club downstairs vibrated through the floorboards of the vip lounge; a rhythmic, thumping heartbeat that matched the pulse fluttering in your neck. the air was hazed with grey smoke, smelling of clove, expensive tobacco, and something sweet—like vanilla rotting in the sun.
you sat in the corner booth, your knees pulled up to your chest, trying to make yourself small. at sixteen, you felt like a ghost in a room full of viscous, snarling monsters that were starving for your untainted flesh. you were only here because your brother worked the door, and it was safer here than outside in the rain. then the door opened, and the rest of the room faded away into the background like drifting clouds.
aemond targaryen had walked in.
he didn't just enter a room; he infected it. he was twenty-nine, a relic of a city that chewed people up and spit them back out. he was shirtless under a worn leather jacket that hung open, revealing a canvas of dark ink. black spirals and stark geometric patterns climbed up his throat, curled down his arms, and disappeared into the waistband of his tight black jeans. he was a walking work of art, a fucking masterpiece—beautiful and terrifying—and the most irritating part was the fact that he knew it.
they often called him a man-whore, an entity that transfers from one body to the next, consuming affection and leaving behind heartbroken husks. he was a poet of the obscene, scribbling erotic filth on cocktail napkins before he forgot your name. but tonight, his singular eye—pale lilac and predatory—locked onto you.
he weaved through the crowd effortlessly, ignoring the hands that reached out to grab him, the tits that were thrusted into his face. he was a dragon that had scented blood. he stopped at your booth, towering over you, smelling of cigarette smoke and the musk of sex. "you're too young for the shadows, kid," he rasped, his voice like gravel wrapped in silk.
"i'm waiting for my brother," you lied, your soft-spoken voice trembling. aemond smirked, a crooked thing that showed too many teeth. he pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, tapping one out. he didn't offer you one; he just lit it, the flare of the lighter illuminating the sharp planes of his hardened face, highlighting the scar that was beneath his eyepatch. "sit with me," he commanded, sliding into the booth right next to you.
he didn't ask, he told.
you should have been terrified. you were, in a sense, but there was a pull toward him, a gravity that made it impossible to look away. he was the most alive thing you had ever seen. for four hours, you sat there while he smoked, while he drank amber liquor from a glass without ice, while he scribbled in a battered leather notebook. he didn't touch you, not at first. he just watched you, his gaze heavy-lidded and feverish, stripping away your defenses layer by layer, minute by minute.
he started to talk, and not small talk—no, he talked about death and desire, about the stupidity of the aristocracy, about the way the city lights looked like bruised skin at dawn. he read you lines from his notebook—erotic poetry that made your ears burn, words about fluids and teeth and sin. like a reflection in a mirror, he wrote, i see you clearer when you're terrified.
you were terrified, but you were also deeply fascinated by him. nobody had ever looked at you like you were the only interesting thing in the world. and so it came as no surprise to you that, only a week later, you were in his apartment. it was a mistake; you knew it was a mistake. he had picked you up in his sleek black car while you were walking home from school. you shouldn't have gotten in, but you did.
his place was a disaster zone of art and pure fucking chaos. canvases leaned against the walls, painted in violent slashes of red and black. there were ashtrays overflowing on nearly every surface, and books were stacked in precarious towers. aemond sat on a velvet chaise, watching you walk around the living room. he was shirtless again, his tattoos shifting as he breathed, "come here," he murmured, his voice a soft, hypnotic purr.
"i should g-go home… i-i have homework," you stammered meekly, nervously picking at the hem of your blouse. "fuck homework," he snapped, though not unkindly. "come here." and so—you obeyed. you stood between his spread knees, fidgeting slightly. he reached out, his hands rough and large, gripping your waist. he pulled you closer until your shins brushed against the cushion of the chaise. he looked up at you, and for the first time, you saw something other than hunger in his eye—you saw a terrifying sort of possession.
"do you know why i write, sweetheart?" he asked, his thumb tracing the line of your hip bone through your skirt. "um… because you're… talented?" you squeaked, soft and unsure. he laughed, a dry, cynical sound. "because i'm fucking hollow inside. i'm always trying to find a feeling that sticks, but they never do. the women, the liquor, the drugs… it's all just fucking static, baby. white noise."
he leaned forward, pressing his face against your stomach. he inhaled deeply, like he was trying to breathe you in and keep your scent inside of him forever. "but you," he whispered against your school uniform. "you're not white noise… no," he drawls, pausing for a moment before continuing softly. "you're an ear-piercing scream that drowns everything else out until only silence remains."
"aemond…" you sighed, your hands resting on his broad shoulders, feeling the heat of his skin. "i want to possess you," he whispered suddenly, the words dangerously soft and forbidden. he looked up at you, his gaze intense. but you knew the truth, you knew what he really meant was, i want to possess you… but baby, i think you're the one possessing me. the words hung in the air, unspoken but understood. he had asked you to stay, and so you did.
the weeks with aemond turned into months. you became a fixture in his life, a secret he kept in the shadows. you met him in the back of dingy bars, in the alleyway behind the art gallery, in his apartment at 3 am when the insomnia got too bad. he was obsessed, devoted only to you.
he began writing about you constantly now. the way your heart beats is the only rhythm i care about, he wrote. your skin is a map i want to memorize blind, and, i want to crawl inside you and live in the silence.
it was completely fucked up; you knew it was fucked up. he was twenty-nine, a man grown. you were sixteen, practically still a baby. he was a man who had sex with strangers in filthy bathroom stalls just to feel something. fortunately, he wasn't sleeping with anyone else anymore. he spent most of his time holed up in his apartment, reading you poetry while he chain-smoked, looking at you like you were some divine deity he wanted to desecrate and worship at the same time.
one night, you were sitting on the floor of his studio, watching him paint. he had a cigarette dangling between his pale lips, ash threatening to fall onto the canvas. the song playing in the background—something haunting and synth-heavy—seemed to vibrate in your teeth. he stopped, turning to look at you, his remaining eye bloodshot, and his hands were stained with acrylics. "take off your sweater," he murmured casually, almost lazily.
"aem—" you started to protest, feeing shy. "please, sweetheart. i just… i need to see the canvas. i need to paint you, baby. not like the others… just you and your innocence." it was the vulnerability in his voice that undid you. this terrifying, inked monster of a man looked at you like a drowning man looking at a lifeline. sighing quietly, you pulled your soft, fuzzy pink sweater over your head. you were wearing a simple cotton bra—nothing special, nothing remarkable or sexy—but aemond thought you looked deliciously precious, angelic.
aemond immediately dropped to his knees in front of you. he didn't touch your breasts; instead, he pressed his face to your chest, right over your racing heart. he was shaking, holding onto his restraint with desperation laced with despair. slowly, carefully, he wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you tight against him, burying his face in your flushed skin. "can you hear it?" he whispered, his voice cracking painfully. "the static… it's all gone. when i touch you… it's quiet, baby. it's finally quiet."
you wrapped your arms around his neck, burying your fingers in his long, unkempt silver hair. you felt the wetness of his tears—you didn't know aemond targaryen could cry—soaking into your bra. "i'm here, aem," you cooed, trying to soothe his damaged soul. he pulled away slightly, looking up at you, his face anguished and achingly beautiful. "your mother would kill me," he choked out. "your brother, the cops… they would all kill me."
"i know," you whispered, feeling your chest tightening at his honest distress. "but i don't care, i don't care about any of it, baby." he gripped your shoulders, his fingers digging in. "i want to be the fucking air in your lungs… i want to be the blood in your veins," he confessed, his voice full of crazed passion. "i want to ruin you for anyone else; i want to be the haunting that follows you until the day you die."
if you let me in, i will never let you go. the words from another poem he wrote about you, the sentiment of the night. he was offering you a deal with the devil—and the devil was in love with you. he was offering you eternal devotion wrapped in a package of felony charges and moral bankruptcy. he was offering to possess you, body and soul.
you looked at him, at the tattoos that covered his chest—fire breathing dragons, skulls, naked women—and you didn't see a predator. you saw a man who was finally feeling something real and was terrified it would slip away. with a soft, shaky exhale, you leaned down and kissed him. it wasn't a chaste peck, you could taste the nicotine and the whiskey and the salt of his tears. you kissed him with all the confusion and intensity of your sixteen years, letting him consume you.
aemond groaned, a low, deep sound of pure surrender. he pulled you down onto the floor with him, covering your body with his. he didn't try to take your clothes off. he just held you, his face buried in your neck, his breathing evening out, the obsession finally quieting down into a warm, steady hum. you lay there on the hardwood floor, surrounded by the smell of paint and smoke.
you knew you were ruined, completely possessed by him, and as his arms tightened around you, claiming you as his own, you realized you didn't want to be saved. you just wanted to be the ghost that haunted aemond targaryen forever.
however, the quiet didn't last very long. the quiet was just the eye of the storm, the breath before the plunge. aemond pulled away from your lips, but he didn't go far. his forehead rested against yours, his breathing ragged and shallow. the scent of him—sage, stale smoke, and the metallic tang of heroin withdrawal—was suffocating. he looked at you with that singular, pale lilac eye of his, and the vulnerability that was there before gone, burned away by a feverish intensity that made your skin prickle with fear and desire.
"you taste like candy," he whispered hotly, his voice scraping against your ear. "pure and processed… it's fucking disgusting." he didn't say it as an insult; he said it like he was starving. "stay still for me, baby," he growled, annoyed by your constant squirming. he reached into the pocket of his discarded jeans and pulled out a switchblade. the snick of the blade opening sounded loud in the silent room. you flinched, your breath hitching in your throat. he laughed, a low, mean sound, enjoying your fear.
"shhh," he soothed, cooing softly, bringing the flat of the cold steel against your cheek. "i'm not going to cut you, not yet… i just need to get this off you, sweetheart." he slid the blade under the strap of your bra, and with a sharp flick of his wrist, the fabric snapped. the lace fell away, exposing you to the cold air and his burning gaze. you gasped, crossing your arms over your chest, instinctively trying to hide.
he grabbed your wrists, his grip bruising, and yanked them apart. "don't hide from me," he barked. "i painted you, so i own this canvas. now, be a good girl and open up for daddy." he didn't wait for you to comply; he pushed your legs apart with his knees, settling heavily between your thighs. the denim of his dark jeans was rough against your skin. you were trapped beneath the weight of him, a fly caught in a spider's web made of ink and bad decisions.
he tipped his head back, exposing the long line of his throat, then opened his mouth and let a long string of saliva fall from his lips. it landed hot and wet on your chest, right between your heaving breasts. you recoiled, a cry of shock and disgust escaping your throat, but he just watched it slide down your skin, mesmerized. "look at that," he breathed, his pupil completely blown with obsessive desire. "marking my territory, like a dog pissing against a tree."
he leaned down and pressed his face into the mess he'd made, rubbing his freshly growing stubble against the sensitive skin of your sternum. it hurt—a friction burn in the making—but the pain was sharp and grounding. he was claiming you, stamping his filth onto your innocence. "aemond, stop," you mewled, unable to reconcile the tenderness from moments ago with this sudden, degrading aggression.
"stop?" he chuckled, the sound vibrating through your chest. "you think i know how to stop? i'm a fucking junkie, baby—and you're the only drug that's ever worked." he sat up suddenly, stripping off his jacket and throwing it across the room. his tattoos writhed in the low light—snakes eating their tails, skulls grinning in the dark. he looked down at you, his expression unreadable, except for the hunger.
"touch me," he demanded. "touch the parts that hurt." he took your small, trembling hand and guided it to the grooves of his abs, then lower, to the waistband of his jeans. you could feel the heat radiating from him, the tension coiled in his muscles like a viper ready to strike. you hesitated; this was the point of no return, the line drawn in the sand, and he was dragging you over it—bleeding, without mercy.
"don't think," he coaxed, reading your hesitation. "just let me in." he forced your hand under the denim, wrapping your fingers around his hardness. he was hot, heavy, and leaking. you squeezed him experimentally, and he hissed, his head falling forward, his forehead hitting your bare shoulder. "fuuuck yes," he groaned. "that's it… you feel that, baby? that's what you do to me. that's what you've done to me since the moment i saw you sitting in that booth, all vulnerable and pretty, looking like a fucking porcelain doll—lost and alone, just begging to be taken."
he began to move your hand, forcing you to stroke his length. his rhythm was desperate, punishing. he was fucking your fist, using you to get off, his hips snapping forward with abandon. "i want to ruin you," he panted into your neck, his teeth scraping the soft, unblemished skin. "i want to be the first man to break you open; i want to be the only thing left when the dust settles." he grabbed your face with his free hand, forcing you to look at him. his eye was wild, blown wide with lust and something terrifying like devotion.
"kiss me," he demanded. "kiss me like you mean it, like you want to be consumed." you leaned up and pressed your lips to his. it wasn't a kiss; it was a collision. he devoured your mouth, his tongue invading, tasting of smoke and desperation. you felt dirty, used, and undeniably alive. you were sixteen, lying on the floor of a crack-den-chic apartment, making out with a twenty-nine year old criminal who wrote poetry about your demise.
and you loved it.
he broke the kiss, gasping for air. "turn over," he growled. "aemond, i-i don't—" you whined. "turn over," he insisted, his voice leaving no room for argument. with shaking hands, you rolled onto your stomach. you felt exposed, vulnerable, your face pressed against the hardwood floor. you could smell the paint thinner, the dust, the distinct musk of him. you heard the sound of his belt buckle clanking, the rasp of a zipper. then, his hands were on your hips, yanking you up onto your knees. your skirt was flipped up, exposing the simple cotton of your underwear.
"look at this," he hummed, almost to himself. "so innocent… it's practically begging to be torn apart." he hooked his long, nimble fingers into the waistband and pulled. the fabric tore with a loud, sharp riiip, leaving you bare and vulnerable to his heated gaze. "i want to see what's mine," he panted. then, his mouth was on you. you squealed, your fingers clawing at the floorboards as your back arched like a cat. he didn't ease into it; he devoured you like he was starving, his tongue flat and broad, dragging through your folds in rough, wet strokes over your most sensitive parts. he was messy with it, loud, and unashamed.
the sounds were lewd—slurping, sucking, grunting. it felt like too much; the rough stubble on his chin rubbing against your thighs, the hot invasion of his tongue, the sheer depravity of the position. you tried to crawl away, the stimulation overwhelming, but he grabbed your thighs in a vice grip, holding you in place, claiming you as his own. "don't you dare run from this," he warned, his voice muffled against your hot, dripping flesh. "take it, take all of it."
he pushed his face deeper, his nose bumping against your entrance. he was breathing you in, groaning like a man possessed. you felt the knot in your stomach tightening, a coil of heat that was terrifying in its intensity. "aemond," you moaned, the sound broken and weak. "it's t-too much..." you whimpered, shivering. "no, it's not," he argued, pulling away for a second to catch his breath, his chin glistening with your wetness. "it's never enough, baby. i could fucking drown in your pussy and still want more."
eagerly, he dove back in, adding two long, nimble fingers alongside his tongue, stretching you wide open. you cried out, your back arching beautifully. the burn was a sharp sting, but beneath it was a dark, blooming pleasure that made your little toes curl. "i'm gonna fill you up," he mumbled breathily, his fingers pumping in and out, scissoring you open. "i'm gonna fill you up so full of me that you'll never be able to wash it out. you'll be walking around school, sitting in class, feeling me dripping out of you, reminding you who you belong to."
the image he painted was vile, terribly illicit. it was the ultimate corruption of your youth. and as you felt the pressure building, the white-hot heat rushing to the surface, you knew he was right. you were already ruined. he curled his fingers, finding a spot that made you see stars. you shattered, your body convulsing, a high-pitched, girlish scream tearing from your throat. you came so fucking hard, your walls clamping down on his greedy fingers, gushing into his mouth, sobbing and wailing like a newborn babe.
aemond growled, lapping up your sweet release like it was nectar from the gods. he didn't stop until you were a sobbing, boneless mess on the floor, completely at his mercy. he kissed the back of your quivering thigh, a gentle, possessive gesture. "good girl," he cooed, his voice low and raspy, soothing to your ears. he crawled up your body, covering you with his own. he didn't enter you—not yet—but he pressed his hard length against your asscheeks, letting you feel how close he was to the edge. "now," he breathed in your ear, his voice a dark promise. "we begin the real haunting."
you shivered, the cold air conditioning raising gooseflesh on your skin. you lay there pinned beneath him, smelling of sex and sweat and him. you were a sixteen year old girl, just ravaged by a man nearly twice your age on the floor of his studio apartment. and as he nuzzled into your hair, inhaling your sweet, addictive vanilla scent like it was the only thing keeping him alive, you realized the most terrifying part of it all. you didn't want to leave; you wanted to be haunted, you wanted to be possessed, you wanted to be aemond targaryen's forever.
time seemed to slow down, leaving you in a blissful daze. the room spun, a slow, lazy vortex of regret and craving. you were floating, untethered, staring up at the water-stained ceiling of his bedroom. aemond had carried you there. he hadn't just ate you out and left you on the floor; he had gathered you up, your limbs limp and useless, and cradled you against his chest like you were something precious, like an injured baby lamb that only he could fix. now he was smoking; the cherry of the cigarette flared in the dark, illuminating the sharp angles of his face. he was sitting on the edge of the bed, shirtless, and his tattoos—a history of violence and bad decisions—were on full display.
you watched the smoke curl up from his lips, a grey ghost disappearing into the dark. "don't look at me like that," he murmured, his voice rough. "like what?" you asked. "like i'm some hero," he scoffed, tapping ash onto the floor with a careless flick of his wrist. "i'm a villain, baby. i'm the monster in the story they tell to keep little girls like you inside at night." he turned to look at you then, and the contempt was gone, replaced by that devastating, terrifying intensity. he reached out, his hand hovering over your cheek, trembling slightly. "you're trembling," he whispered.
"i'm cold." you mumbled, your voice small and quiet. aemond reached over to crush his cigarette out in the overflowing ashtray. he moved then, sliding under the covers with you, pulling you into his warmth. he was like a furnace, burning with a feverish intensity that scared you as much as it thrilled you. you rested your head on his chest, listening to his heart beating—thump-thump, thump-thump—a steady, living drum. it was the most intimate sound you had ever heard. "you're so young," he said suddenly, his fingers tangling in your hair. "you still have baby fat; your skin is so soft it hurts to touch."
he sounded pained. he sounded like a man realizing he was holding a chick that had fallen from the nest, and he was the wolf waiting to eat it. "i'm not a child," you protested, your voice weak. "you are," he insisted, his grip on you tightening. "you're sixteen, sweetheart. you should be worrying about algebra and boys who don't know what a fucking clit is. instead, you're here with me. i've ruined you."
"i'm not ruined," you lied, pouting. he didn't respond; he just continued to hold you, his breathing ragged. you could feel the tension in his muscles, the way he was holding himself back. "why do you even want me?" you asked, the question escaping before you could stop it. aemond let out a shaky breath that sounded like a sob. he rolled onto his side, forcing you to look at him. in the dark, his eye was a pool of liquid silver. "because you're the only thing that's real," he whispered. "i move through life like it's a dream. i fuck, i drink, i write, and none of it matters. it's all static. but you? when i look at you, the static stops, and the noise fades away into nothing."
he traced the line of your jaw with his thumb, his touch reverent. "i look at you and i feel... sane. for the first time in my life, i feel sane. and that scares the shit out of me." he leaned in and kissed you, soft and slow. it was a kiss that tasted of nicotine and desperation; he poured his soul into it, trying to merge with you, trying to crawl inside your skin and live there. "you're my salvation," he whispered against your lips. "and my damnation." he rolled on top of you then, settling between your legs. he wasn't rushing this time. he wasn't the animal from the living room. he was a man in love, or the closest approximation of it that a creature like him could manage.
"you're mine," he declared, his gaze locking onto yours. "say it."
"i'm yours," you mewled, feeling a heat pooling low in your belly once again.
"again."
"i'm yours, aemond… all yours, only yours."
he groaned, burying his face in your neck. his hips rolled against yours, the friction sending sparks of pleasure through your oversensitized body. he was hard again, a demand against your belly. "i want to be inside you," he begged, his lips scraping against your ear. "i want to fill you up until you can't think of anything else. i want to be the blood in your veins. i need to possess you, body and soul. do you understand? i can't just love you, i have to consume you." the words were terrifying, but they settled into your chest like a heavy stone. you understood. you felt it too, the pull, the gravity. you wanted to be consumed; you wanted to give him everything, even if it hurt. "yes," you whined. "p-please..."
he kissed you again, harder this time, his tongue sweeping into your mouth, claiming you. one of his hands slid down between your bodies, finding you wet and ready for him. "that's my girl," he praised with a soft hum of greediness, his fingers teasing your raw, drooling entrance. "always so ready for me… so eager to be ruined." he smirked, lining himself up, the blunt head of his cock nudging against your fluttering opening. he hesitated for a split second, his eye searching yours, looking for any sign of doubt, but there was none. you were his, completely and utterly.
"look at me," he commanded. "don't turn away, i want to see your eyes when i take you." he began to push in, the stretch overwhelming, sharp enough to steal your breath. he was just so big, and you were so small, and there was pain, a sharp, stinging burn as your wet, bloodied walls tried to accommodate him. "there we go, baby… biiig stretch." but as he sank deeper, burying himself to the hilt, the pain transmuted into something else—a feeling of fullness, of being complete. you were finally whole, but only because he was inside you. aemond let out a short, shaky breath, his forehead resting against yours. "f-fuck," he choked out. "you feel like heaven, baby… you feel like… like coming home."
he began to move then, slow and deep. he wasn't just fucking you; he was worshipping at the altar of your body. he watched your face with a single-minded intensity, cataloging every gasp, every flutter of your lashes. "you're so beautiful," he praised, his voice thick with emotion. "my beautiful, tragic girl—my magdalene." he angled his hips, hitting a spot deep inside of you that made you see stars. you cried out, your nails digging into the ink of his broad shoulders. "shh… i've got you," he soothed, his pace increasing slightly. "i've got you, i've got you… daddy's got you."
"i love you," he said suddenly, the words raw and unguarded. "i think i loved you since the first moment i saw you, before i even spoke to you. i saw you sitting there in that booth, all pretty and lonely, and i thought, 'that one, that's the one i'm going to die for'." the confession hung in the air, heavy and binding. you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him in deeper, receiving his love in the only language he spoke—violence and devotion. "i-i love you, too," you gasped, the rhythm of his hips driving the words out of you.
he let out a sound that was half-sob, half-growl. he captured your lips in a messy, searing kiss, his tongue mimicking the rhythm of his cock. he was close, you could feel it. his movements became erratic, his breathing ragged. "come with me," he pleaded, his brow furrowed in concentration. "let me feel it, baby." you reached between your bodies, your inexperienced fingers finding your clit. you rubbed yourself in time with his frantic thrusts, the friction building the knot in your stomach tighter and tighter. with a high-pitched wail of "daddy," you tumbled over the edge. your walls clenched down on him, rippling around his thick length, greedy and desperate to keep him inside.
aemond choked out a curse, his body going rigid. he buried himself deep, flooding your womb with his seed. you could feel it, painting your insides, marking you from the inside out. he collapsed on top of you, his weight crushing you into the mattress. you lay there, your limbs tangled together, sweat cooling on your heated skin, his seed leaking out of you obscenely. he didn't pull out, he stayed inside you, keeping you plugged up faithfully. he buried his face in your neck, his breathing slowly evening out. "if you ever leave me," he whispered, his voice muffled against your damp skin, "i'll find you. i don't care where you go, i don't care if it takes ten years. i will find you."
the possessiveness in his tone should have scared you—it did scare you; but as you lay there in the dark, listening to the beat of his heart, you realized there was nowhere else you wanted to go. you were his; he had carved his name into your soul with his cock and his poetry, without mercy. and as sleep began to claim you, the last thing you felt was his lips pressing gently against your temple, a brand of ownership that no one else could ever touch or take away.
⏾
a week later, you find the black leather notebook tucked between the mattress and the wall, its corners dog-eared and stained with rings from glasses of cheap whiskey. the pages are thick, vellum, and the ink is jagged—scrawled in a haste that suggests if he didn't get the words out fast enough, they would eat him alive. it smells like him; cloves, old paper, and the faint, coppery tang that always lingers on his hands. this is his bible, this is where he dissected you, line by jagged line, before he ever touched you.
ɪ. ᴀʟᴛᴀʀ ʙᴏʏ.
she tastes like bubblegum sin,
a rotten peach on the verge of collapse.
sixteen years of sunday school
and she's on her knees for me.
not for god.
for the ghost.
i want to peel back the skin of her ribcage
and curl up inside the warm, wet drum of her heart.
she asks me if i love her.
i tell her i want to eat her alive.
same thing, really.
ɪɪ. ꜱᴛᴀᴛɪᴄ.
the city is a dead channel,
white noise in my veins.
i put my dick in them to feel something,
i put needles in my arm to forget, but it's all just fuzz.
just grey snow.
until her.
she is the technicolour scream in a silent film.
her heartbeat is the new rhythm.
i want to mainline her fear,
shoot up the trembling of her hands.
she's the only fix that works.
she's the only thing that makes the quiet stop.
ɪɪɪ. ᴜɴᴅʀᴇꜱꜱᴇᴅ.
her underwear is cotton.
white.
it's a fucking joke.
a veil for a sanctity i tore to shreds three weeks ago
in the back of an alleyway behind the cinema.
when i peel it down,
i don't see a girl.
i see a raw, pink universe.
i see a place to bury my sins,
a warm hole to hide the monster.
i'm not a lover.
i'm an infection.
and she is the host,
willing, soft, waiting to be corrupted.
ɪᴠ. ʜᴀᴜɴᴛɪɴɢ.
they call it statutory.
i call it destiny.
let them lock me up.
let them put the needle in my arm
for stealing a piece of heaven.
it won't matter.
i've already dissolved.
i'm in the water she drinks,
i'm in the air she breathes in math class,
i'm the ache between her legs
when she crosses them tight.
you don't go to jail
for haunting a house.
you just rattle the chains
and wait for the lights to go out.
ᴠ. ᴄᴀɴᴅʏ. (ᴠᴏᴍɪᴛ)
her mouth is full of sugar
and lies.
she kisses me like she thinks i'm a prince.
i am the wolf.
i am the big bad wolf
and i chewed the grandmother's bones
before i even climbed the ladder.
i spit in her mouth and call it love.
i mark her neck with purple galaxies
and call it art.
everything i touch turns to ash,
but she just smiles and asks for more.
she loves the rot.
she loves the way the maggots wriggle.
my girl.
my sweet, rotten girl.
ᴠɪ. ᴘᴏꜱꜱᴇꜱꜱɪᴏɴ.
she lets me inside.
the heat is blinding.
it's not sex.
it's absorption.
i'm trying to fuse our skeletons together.
i'm trying to weld my atoms to hers.
if i push deep enough,
maybe i'll touch her soul.
maybe i'll find out why she's so empty,
why she loves a man who is nothing but scars
and cigarettes.
i fill her up.
i want it to leak out of her ears.
i want her to taste me in the back of her throat
forever.
subtract to add.
skin to skin.
sin to sin.
ᴠɪɪ. ᴇᴘɪʟᴏɢᴜᴇ.
they will find us eventually.
they will pull her out of the rubble
scared and shaking and stained.
they will wash the filth from her skin
and tell her she is clean.
but she won't be.
she'll look at the moon
and think of my hands.
she'll look at a knife
and think of my mouth.
i broke her so well
she doesn't know how to be whole
without the piece of herself
i swallowed.
the book ends on a blank page, save for one small, frantic note written in red ballpoint pen, the ink bleeding through to the other side: if she leaves, i burn. if she stays, we burn. either way, the fire is beautiful.
⸜̑⸝͂ ⋮ ᴍᴅɴɪ﹐ a lil continuation of this post as i promised ⸜̑⸝͂
𝑛𝑜𝑡𝑒﹒ enjoy reading﹐ luvs﹒﹒ ₍ˆ⸝⸝. ݂ .⸝⸝マ
𝑤𝑐﹒ 758﹒
satoru looms over you, but his posture conveys no intimidation; instead, only a deep, languid affection that weakens your knees even before he makes contact. "up here, princess," he coaxes softly, his hand coming to cradle the back of your head. his fingers are long and cool against your heated skin, tangling gently into your hair to gather it away from your face.
he always treats you like something fragile, a prized possession he's afraid of breaking, even though you both know you can take it. you part your glossy lips, and the praise starts instantly. "good girl," he breathes out, a sound of pure contentment. "that's it, baby… just like that, relax for me." he hums, guiding you forward, letting you latch onto him, but he doesn't thrust into your mouth.
instead, he rocks with a slow, liquid grace. it's a drowning sensation, but in the best possible way—he fills your throat gradually, letting your muscles adjust to the thick, heavy length of him. he sets a rhythm that feels like a heartbeat, slow and deep. every time he nudges the back of your throat, he pauses, letting you swallow around him, humming in approval at the tight, wet heat he finds there.
"look at those pretty eyes," he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave, rough like sandpaper. he uses his free hand to stroke your cheek, the calloused pad of his thumb tracing the line of your jaw as you struggle to take him deeper, a soft whimper escaping you. it makes his fist tighten in your hair for a moment, the vibration of your voice too much as it shoots down his spine, leaving his jaw slack with pleasure. "you're doing so well, sweetheart. taking me in so deep… such a pretty girl. you were made for this, weren't you?"
the verbal affection is constant, a stream of consciousness that makes your head spin hotter than the act itself. he tells you that you're beautiful, that your mouth is pure fucking heaven, that he could stay here forever drowning in you. he doesn't constantly force you down on his cock; he lets you work for it, lets you take him at your own pace while he simply holds on for the ride, his grip tightening only when he sees you need the anchor. "such a good girl," he repeats, and it sounds like a prayer. "my sweet, eager girl… f-fuck."
when the tension finally coils tight at the base of his spine, his rhythm falters just a fraction. he pulls back slightly to give you room to breathe, but not enough to break the connection just yet. with a few more lazy thrusts down your raw throat, he releases a low, shattered groan before reluctantly pulling out, only to then spill himself in hot, thick ribbons across your flushed face. he paints your skin—your cheeks, your nose, your swollen lips—marking you in the most primal way, yet his touch remains impossibly tender.
he doesn't leave you feeling messy and wanting; he's too much of a gentleman for that. before you can even think to wipe your eyes, his hands are there, gentle as freshly fallen snow, gathering the hair from your forehead. he leans in, his eyes dark and filled with a swirling, possessive love, and presses his mouth to yours. the kiss is slow, languid, and perfectly dreamy. he licks into your mouth, tasting himself on your tongue with a soft hum of intense pleasure, completely unbothered by the mess he made.
he kisses you like he has all the time in the world, tasting the natural sweetness of your skin mixed with his own masculine release. he peppers soft, wet kisses along your jawline, down to the side of your neck, murmuring sweet nothings against your fluttering pulse. "you look so gorgeous like this, princess," he whispers against your heated skin, pressing a lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth. "my messy girl."
he pulls back just enough to look you in the eye, his thumb brushing over your pouty lower lip, smearing the wetness there. he smiles, that rare, genuine smile that melts his usually sharp features into something soft and overwhelmingly handsome. "you were so good for me," he murmurs, his voice soft with affection. "so perfect, so beautiful. let daddy clean you up." he reaches for a cloth, but before he wipes the mess away, he leans in one last time to kiss your forehead, sealing the moment with a sweetness that makes your heart ache with endless love.
⸜̑⸝͂ ⋮ 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑎𝑖𝑛𝓈﹒ ᴍᴅɴɪ﹒ ᴅᴅᴅɴᴇ﹒ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀᴀɢᴇ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ﹒ ᴍᴏᴅᴇʀɴ!ᴀᴇᴍᴏɴᴅ﹒
𝑛𝑜𝑡𝑒﹒ hi! ֯⸜̑⸝͂ idk if this'll be any good﹒﹒ but pls be aware﹐ this is an extremely dark fic﹐ u have been warned !! & tusm for taking the time to read & letting me share a lil piece of my soul w u all﹐ 𝑥𝑜﹒
𝑤𝑐﹒ 5﹒8k﹒
꒰ ⸜̑⸝͂ ᴍᴀɢɢᴏᴛ ᴅᴇᴀʀᴇꜱᴛ ⸜̑⸝͂ ꒱
⸌̑⸍͂ ⸜̑⸝͂ ⸌̑⸍͂
the bass from the club downstairs vibrated through the floorboards of the vip lounge; a rhythmic, thumping heartbeat that matched the pulse fluttering in your neck. the air was hazed with grey smoke, smelling of clove, expensive tobacco, and something sweet—like vanilla rotting in the sun.
you sat in the corner booth, your knees pulled up to your chest, trying to make yourself small. at sixteen, you felt like a ghost in a room full of viscous, snarling monsters that were starving for your untainted flesh. you were only here because your brother worked the door, and it was safer here than outside in the rain. then the door opened, and the rest of the room faded away into the background like drifting clouds.
aemond targaryen had walked in.
he didn't just enter a room; he infected it. he was twenty-nine, a relic of a city that chewed people up and spit them back out. he was shirtless under a worn leather jacket that hung open, revealing a canvas of dark ink. black spirals and stark geometric patterns climbed up his throat, curled down his arms, and disappeared into the waistband of his tight black jeans. he was a walking work of art, a fucking masterpiece—beautiful and terrifying—and the most irritating part was the fact that he knew it.
they often called him a man-whore, an entity that transfers from one body to the next, consuming affection and leaving behind heartbroken husks. he was a poet of the obscene, scribbling erotic filth on cocktail napkins before he forgot your name. but tonight, his singular eye—pale lilac and predatory—locked onto you.
he weaved through the crowd effortlessly, ignoring the hands that reached out to grab him, the tits that were thrusted into his face. he was a dragon that had scented blood. he stopped at your booth, towering over you, smelling of cigarette smoke and the musk of sex. "you're too young for the shadows, kid," he rasped, his voice like gravel wrapped in silk.
"i'm waiting for my brother," you lied, your soft-spoken voice trembling. aemond smirked, a crooked thing that showed too many teeth. he pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, tapping one out. he didn't offer you one; he just lit it, the flare of the lighter illuminating the sharp planes of his hardened face, highlighting the scar that was beneath his eyepatch. "sit with me," he commanded, sliding into the booth right next to you.
he didn't ask, he told.
you should have been terrified. you were, in a sense, but there was a pull toward him, a gravity that made it impossible to look away. he was the most alive thing you had ever seen. for four hours, you sat there while he smoked, while he drank amber liquor from a glass without ice, while he scribbled in a battered leather notebook. he didn't touch you, not at first. he just watched you, his gaze heavy-lidded and feverish, stripping away your defenses layer by layer, minute by minute.
he started to talk, and not small talk—no, he talked about death and desire, about the stupidity of the aristocracy, about the way the city lights looked like bruised skin at dawn. he read you lines from his notebook—erotic poetry that made your ears burn, words about fluids and teeth and sin. like a reflection in a mirror, he wrote, i see you clearer when you're terrified.
you were terrified, but you were also deeply fascinated by him. nobody had ever looked at you like you were the only interesting thing in the world. and so it came as no surprise to you that, only a week later, you were in his apartment. it was a mistake; you knew it was a mistake. he had picked you up in his sleek black car while you were walking home from school. you shouldn't have gotten in, but you did.
his place was a disaster zone of art and pure fucking chaos. canvases leaned against the walls, painted in violent slashes of red and black. there were ashtrays overflowing on nearly every surface, and books were stacked in precarious towers. aemond sat on a velvet chaise, watching you walk around the living room. he was shirtless again, his tattoos shifting as he breathed, "come here," he murmured, his voice a soft, hypnotic purr.
"i should g-go home… i-i have homework," you stammered meekly, nervously picking at the hem of your blouse. "fuck homework," he snapped, though not unkindly. "come here." and so—you obeyed. you stood between his spread knees, fidgeting slightly. he reached out, his hands rough and large, gripping your waist. he pulled you closer until your shins brushed against the cushion of the chaise. he looked up at you, and for the first time, you saw something other than hunger in his eye—you saw a terrifying sort of possession.
"do you know why i write, sweetheart?" he asked, his thumb tracing the line of your hip bone through your skirt. "um… because you're… talented?" you squeaked, soft and unsure. he laughed, a dry, cynical sound. "because i'm fucking hollow inside. i'm always trying to find a feeling that sticks, but they never do. the women, the liquor, the drugs… it's all just fucking static, baby. white noise."
he leaned forward, pressing his face against your stomach. he inhaled deeply, like he was trying to breathe you in and keep your scent inside of him forever. "but you," he whispered against your school uniform. "you're not white noise… no," he drawls, pausing for a moment before continuing softly. "you're an ear-piercing scream that drowns everything else out until only silence remains."
"aemond…" you sighed, your hands resting on his broad shoulders, feeling the heat of his skin. "i want to possess you," he whispered suddenly, the words dangerously soft and forbidden. he looked up at you, his gaze intense. but you knew the truth, you knew what he really meant was, i want to possess you… but baby, i think you're the one possessing me. the words hung in the air, unspoken but understood. he had asked you to stay, and so you did.
the weeks with aemond turned into months. you became a fixture in his life, a secret he kept in the shadows. you met him in the back of dingy bars, in the alleyway behind the art gallery, in his apartment at 3 am when the insomnia got too bad. he was obsessed, devoted only to you.
he began writing about you constantly now. the way your heart beats is the only rhythm i care about, he wrote. your skin is a map i want to memorize blind, and, i want to crawl inside you and live in the silence.
it was completely fucked up; you knew it was fucked up. he was twenty-nine, a man grown. you were sixteen, practically still a baby. he was a man who had sex with strangers in filthy bathroom stalls just to feel something. fortunately, he wasn't sleeping with anyone else anymore. he spent most of his time holed up in his apartment, reading you poetry while he chain-smoked, looking at you like you were some divine deity he wanted to desecrate and worship at the same time.
one night, you were sitting on the floor of his studio, watching him paint. he had a cigarette dangling between his pale lips, ash threatening to fall onto the canvas. the song playing in the background—something haunting and synth-heavy—seemed to vibrate in your teeth. he stopped, turning to look at you, his remaining eye bloodshot, and his hands were stained with acrylics. "take off your sweater," he murmured casually, almost lazily.
"aem—" you started to protest, feeing shy. "please, sweetheart. i just… i need to see the canvas. i need to paint you, baby. not like the others… just you and your innocence." it was the vulnerability in his voice that undid you. this terrifying, inked monster of a man looked at you like a drowning man looking at a lifeline. sighing quietly, you pulled your soft, fuzzy pink sweater over your head. you were wearing a simple cotton bra—nothing special, nothing remarkable or sexy—but aemond thought you looked deliciously precious, angelic.
aemond immediately dropped to his knees in front of you. he didn't touch your breasts; instead, he pressed his face to your chest, right over your racing heart. he was shaking, holding onto his restraint with desperation laced with despair. slowly, carefully, he wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you tight against him, burying his face in your flushed skin. "can you hear it?" he whispered, his voice cracking painfully. "the static… it's all gone. when i touch you… it's quiet, baby. it's finally quiet."
you wrapped your arms around his neck, burying your fingers in his long, unkempt silver hair. you felt the wetness of his tears—you didn't know aemond targaryen could cry—soaking into your bra. "i'm here, aem," you cooed, trying to soothe his damaged soul. he pulled away slightly, looking up at you, his face anguished and achingly beautiful. "your mother would kill me," he choked out. "your brother, the cops… they would all kill me."
"i know," you whispered, feeling your chest tightening at his honest distress. "but i don't care, i don't care about any of it, baby." he gripped your shoulders, his fingers digging in. "i want to be the fucking air in your lungs… i want to be the blood in your veins," he confessed, his voice full of crazed passion. "i want to ruin you for anyone else; i want to be the haunting that follows you until the day you die."
if you let me in, i will never let you go. the words from another poem he wrote about you, the sentiment of the night. he was offering you a deal with the devil—and the devil was in love with you. he was offering you eternal devotion wrapped in a package of felony charges and moral bankruptcy. he was offering to possess you, body and soul.
you looked at him, at the tattoos that covered his chest—fire breathing dragons, skulls, naked women—and you didn't see a predator. you saw a man who was finally feeling something real and was terrified it would slip away. with a soft, shaky exhale, you leaned down and kissed him. it wasn't a chaste peck, you could taste the nicotine and the whiskey and the salt of his tears. you kissed him with all the confusion and intensity of your sixteen years, letting him consume you.
aemond groaned, a low, deep sound of pure surrender. he pulled you down onto the floor with him, covering your body with his. he didn't try to take your clothes off. he just held you, his face buried in your neck, his breathing evening out, the obsession finally quieting down into a warm, steady hum. you lay there on the hardwood floor, surrounded by the smell of paint and smoke.
you knew you were ruined, completely possessed by him, and as his arms tightened around you, claiming you as his own, you realized you didn't want to be saved. you just wanted to be the ghost that haunted aemond targaryen forever.
however, the quiet didn't last very long. the quiet was just the eye of the storm, the breath before the plunge. aemond pulled away from your lips, but he didn't go far. his forehead rested against yours, his breathing ragged and shallow. the scent of him—sage, stale smoke, and the metallic tang of heroin withdrawal—was suffocating. he looked at you with that singular, pale lilac eye of his, and the vulnerability that was there before gone, burned away by a feverish intensity that made your skin prickle with fear and desire.
"you taste like candy," he whispered hotly, his voice scraping against your ear. "pure and processed… it's fucking disgusting." he didn't say it as an insult; he said it like he was starving. "stay still for me, baby," he growled, annoyed by your constant squirming. he reached into the pocket of his discarded jeans and pulled out a switchblade. the snick of the blade opening sounded loud in the silent room. you flinched, your breath hitching in your throat. he laughed, a low, mean sound, enjoying your fear.
"shhh," he soothed, cooing softly, bringing the flat of the cold steel against your cheek. "i'm not going to cut you, not yet… i just need to get this off you, sweetheart." he slid the blade under the strap of your bra, and with a sharp flick of his wrist, the fabric snapped. the lace fell away, exposing you to the cold air and his burning gaze. you gasped, crossing your arms over your chest, instinctively trying to hide.
he grabbed your wrists, his grip bruising, and yanked them apart. "don't hide from me," he barked. "i painted you, so i own this canvas. now, be a good girl and open up for daddy." he didn't wait for you to comply; he pushed your legs apart with his knees, settling heavily between your thighs. the denim of his dark jeans was rough against your skin. you were trapped beneath the weight of him, a fly caught in a spider's web made of ink and bad decisions.
he tipped his head back, exposing the long line of his throat, then opened his mouth and let a long string of saliva fall from his lips. it landed hot and wet on your chest, right between your heaving breasts. you recoiled, a cry of shock and disgust escaping your throat, but he just watched it slide down your skin, mesmerized. "look at that," he breathed, his pupil completely blown with obsessive desire. "marking my territory, like a dog pissing against a tree."
he leaned down and pressed his face into the mess he'd made, rubbing his freshly growing stubble against the sensitive skin of your sternum. it hurt—a friction burn in the making—but the pain was sharp and grounding. he was claiming you, stamping his filth onto your innocence. "aemond, stop," you mewled, unable to reconcile the tenderness from moments ago with this sudden, degrading aggression.
"stop?" he chuckled, the sound vibrating through your chest. "you think i know how to stop? i'm a fucking junkie, baby—and you're the only drug that's ever worked." he sat up suddenly, stripping off his jacket and throwing it across the room. his tattoos writhed in the low light—snakes eating their tails, skulls grinning in the dark. he looked down at you, his expression unreadable, except for the hunger.
"touch me," he demanded. "touch the parts that hurt." he took your small, trembling hand and guided it to the grooves of his abs, then lower, to the waistband of his jeans. you could feel the heat radiating from him, the tension coiled in his muscles like a viper ready to strike. you hesitated; this was the point of no return, the line drawn in the sand, and he was dragging you over it—bleeding, without mercy.
"don't think," he coaxed, reading your hesitation. "just let me in." he forced your hand under the denim, wrapping your fingers around his hardness. he was hot, heavy, and leaking. you squeezed him experimentally, and he hissed, his head falling forward, his forehead hitting your bare shoulder. "fuuuck yes," he groaned. "that's it… you feel that, baby? that's what you do to me. that's what you've done to me since the moment i saw you sitting in that booth, all vulnerable and pretty, looking like a fucking porcelain doll—lost and alone, just begging to be taken."
he began to move your hand, forcing you to stroke his length. his rhythm was desperate, punishing. he was fucking your fist, using you to get off, his hips snapping forward with abandon. "i want to ruin you," he panted into your neck, his teeth scraping the soft, unblemished skin. "i want to be the first man to break you open; i want to be the only thing left when the dust settles." he grabbed your face with his free hand, forcing you to look at him. his eye was wild, blown wide with lust and something terrifying like devotion.
"kiss me," he demanded. "kiss me like you mean it, like you want to be consumed." you leaned up and pressed your lips to his. it wasn't a kiss; it was a collision. he devoured your mouth, his tongue invading, tasting of smoke and desperation. you felt dirty, used, and undeniably alive. you were sixteen, lying on the floor of a crack-den-chic apartment, making out with a twenty-nine year old criminal who wrote poetry about your demise.
and you loved it.
he broke the kiss, gasping for air. "turn over," he growled. "aemond, i-i don't—" you whined. "turn over," he insisted, his voice leaving no room for argument. with shaking hands, you rolled onto your stomach. you felt exposed, vulnerable, your face pressed against the hardwood floor. you could smell the paint thinner, the dust, the distinct musk of him. you heard the sound of his belt buckle clanking, the rasp of a zipper. then, his hands were on your hips, yanking you up onto your knees. your skirt was flipped up, exposing the simple cotton of your underwear.
"look at this," he hummed, almost to himself. "so innocent… it's practically begging to be torn apart." he hooked his long, nimble fingers into the waistband and pulled. the fabric tore with a loud, sharp riiip, leaving you bare and vulnerable to his heated gaze. "i want to see what's mine," he panted. then, his mouth was on you. you squealed, your fingers clawing at the floorboards as your back arched like a cat. he didn't ease into it; he devoured you like he was starving, his tongue flat and broad, dragging through your folds in rough, wet strokes over your most sensitive parts. he was messy with it, loud, and unashamed.
the sounds were lewd—slurping, sucking, grunting. it felt like too much; the rough stubble on his chin rubbing against your thighs, the hot invasion of his tongue, the sheer depravity of the position. you tried to crawl away, the stimulation overwhelming, but he grabbed your thighs in a vice grip, holding you in place, claiming you as his own. "don't you dare run from this," he warned, his voice muffled against your hot, dripping flesh. "take it, take all of it."
he pushed his face deeper, his nose bumping against your entrance. he was breathing you in, groaning like a man possessed. you felt the knot in your stomach tightening, a coil of heat that was terrifying in its intensity. "aemond," you moaned, the sound broken and weak. "it's t-too much..." you whimpered, shivering. "no, it's not," he argued, pulling away for a second to catch his breath, his chin glistening with your wetness. "it's never enough, baby. i could fucking drown in your pussy and still want more."
eagerly, he dove back in, adding two long, nimble fingers alongside his tongue, stretching you wide open. you cried out, your back arching beautifully. the burn was a sharp sting, but beneath it was a dark, blooming pleasure that made your little toes curl. "i'm gonna fill you up," he mumbled breathily, his fingers pumping in and out, scissoring you open. "i'm gonna fill you up so full of me that you'll never be able to wash it out. you'll be walking around school, sitting in class, feeling me dripping out of you, reminding you who you belong to."
the image he painted was vile, terribly illicit. it was the ultimate corruption of your youth. and as you felt the pressure building, the white-hot heat rushing to the surface, you knew he was right. you were already ruined. he curled his fingers, finding a spot that made you see stars. you shattered, your body convulsing, a high-pitched, girlish scream tearing from your throat. you came so fucking hard, your walls clamping down on his greedy fingers, gushing into his mouth, sobbing and wailing like a newborn babe.
aemond growled, lapping up your sweet release like it was nectar from the gods. he didn't stop until you were a sobbing, boneless mess on the floor, completely at his mercy. he kissed the back of your quivering thigh, a gentle, possessive gesture. "good girl," he cooed, his voice low and raspy, soothing to your ears. he crawled up your body, covering you with his own. he didn't enter you—not yet—but he pressed his hard length against your asscheeks, letting you feel how close he was to the edge. "now," he breathed in your ear, his voice a dark promise. "we begin the real haunting."
you shivered, the cold air conditioning raising gooseflesh on your skin. you lay there pinned beneath him, smelling of sex and sweat and him. you were a sixteen year old girl, just ravaged by a man nearly twice your age on the floor of his studio apartment. and as he nuzzled into your hair, inhaling your sweet, addictive vanilla scent like it was the only thing keeping him alive, you realized the most terrifying part of it all. you didn't want to leave; you wanted to be haunted, you wanted to be possessed, you wanted to be aemond targaryen's forever.
time seemed to slow down, leaving you in a blissful daze. the room spun, a slow, lazy vortex of regret and craving. you were floating, untethered, staring up at the water-stained ceiling of his bedroom. aemond had carried you there. he hadn't just ate you out and left you on the floor; he had gathered you up, your limbs limp and useless, and cradled you against his chest like you were something precious, like an injured baby lamb that only he could fix. now he was smoking; the cherry of the cigarette flared in the dark, illuminating the sharp angles of his face. he was sitting on the edge of the bed, shirtless, and his tattoos—a history of violence and bad decisions—were on full display.
you watched the smoke curl up from his lips, a grey ghost disappearing into the dark. "don't look at me like that," he murmured, his voice rough. "like what?" you asked. "like i'm some hero," he scoffed, tapping ash onto the floor with a careless flick of his wrist. "i'm a villain, baby. i'm the monster in the story they tell to keep little girls like you inside at night." he turned to look at you then, and the contempt was gone, replaced by that devastating, terrifying intensity. he reached out, his hand hovering over your cheek, trembling slightly. "you're trembling," he whispered.
"i'm cold." you mumbled, your voice small and quiet. aemond reached over to crush his cigarette out in the overflowing ashtray. he moved then, sliding under the covers with you, pulling you into his warmth. he was like a furnace, burning with a feverish intensity that scared you as much as it thrilled you. you rested your head on his chest, listening to his heart beating—thump-thump, thump-thump—a steady, living drum. it was the most intimate sound you had ever heard. "you're so young," he said suddenly, his fingers tangling in your hair. "you still have baby fat; your skin is so soft it hurts to touch."
he sounded pained. he sounded like a man realizing he was holding a chick that had fallen from the nest, and he was the wolf waiting to eat it. "i'm not a child," you protested, your voice weak. "you are," he insisted, his grip on you tightening. "you're sixteen, sweetheart. you should be worrying about algebra and boys who don't know what a fucking clit is. instead, you're here with me. i've ruined you."
"i'm not ruined," you lied, pouting. he didn't respond; he just continued to hold you, his breathing ragged. you could feel the tension in his muscles, the way he was holding himself back. "why do you even want me?" you asked, the question escaping before you could stop it. aemond let out a shaky breath that sounded like a sob. he rolled onto his side, forcing you to look at him. in the dark, his eye was a pool of liquid silver. "because you're the only thing that's real," he whispered. "i move through life like it's a dream. i fuck, i drink, i write, and none of it matters. it's all static. but you? when i look at you, the static stops, and the noise fades away into nothing."
he traced the line of your jaw with his thumb, his touch reverent. "i look at you and i feel... sane. for the first time in my life, i feel sane. and that scares the shit out of me." he leaned in and kissed you, soft and slow. it was a kiss that tasted of nicotine and desperation; he poured his soul into it, trying to merge with you, trying to crawl inside your skin and live there. "you're my salvation," he whispered against your lips. "and my damnation." he rolled on top of you then, settling between your legs. he wasn't rushing this time. he wasn't the animal from the living room. he was a man in love, or the closest approximation of it that a creature like him could manage.
"you're mine," he declared, his gaze locking onto yours. "say it."
"i'm yours," you mewled, feeling a heat pooling low in your belly once again.
"again."
"i'm yours, aemond… all yours, only yours."
he groaned, burying his face in your neck. his hips rolled against yours, the friction sending sparks of pleasure through your oversensitized body. he was hard again, a demand against your belly. "i want to be inside you," he begged, his lips scraping against your ear. "i want to fill you up until you can't think of anything else. i want to be the blood in your veins. i need to possess you, body and soul. do you understand? i can't just love you, i have to consume you." the words were terrifying, but they settled into your chest like a heavy stone. you understood. you felt it too, the pull, the gravity. you wanted to be consumed; you wanted to give him everything, even if it hurt. "yes," you whined. "p-please..."
he kissed you again, harder this time, his tongue sweeping into your mouth, claiming you. one of his hands slid down between your bodies, finding you wet and ready for him. "that's my girl," he praised with a soft hum of greediness, his fingers teasing your raw, drooling entrance. "always so ready for me… so eager to be ruined." he smirked, lining himself up, the blunt head of his cock nudging against your fluttering opening. he hesitated for a split second, his eye searching yours, looking for any sign of doubt, but there was none. you were his, completely and utterly.
"look at me," he commanded. "don't turn away, i want to see your eyes when i take you." he began to push in, the stretch overwhelming, sharp enough to steal your breath. he was just so big, and you were so small, and there was pain, a sharp, stinging burn as your wet, bloodied walls tried to accommodate him. "there we go, baby… biiig stretch." but as he sank deeper, burying himself to the hilt, the pain transmuted into something else—a feeling of fullness, of being complete. you were finally whole, but only because he was inside you. aemond let out a short, shaky breath, his forehead resting against yours. "f-fuck," he choked out. "you feel like heaven, baby… you feel like… like coming home."
he began to move then, slow and deep. he wasn't just fucking you; he was worshipping at the altar of your body. he watched your face with a single-minded intensity, cataloging every gasp, every flutter of your lashes. "you're so beautiful," he praised, his voice thick with emotion. "my beautiful, tragic girl—my magdalene." he angled his hips, hitting a spot deep inside of you that made you see stars. you cried out, your nails digging into the ink of his broad shoulders. "shh… i've got you," he soothed, his pace increasing slightly. "i've got you, i've got you… daddy's got you."
"i love you," he said suddenly, the words raw and unguarded. "i think i loved you since the first moment i saw you, before i even spoke to you. i saw you sitting there in that booth, all pretty and lonely, and i thought, 'that one, that's the one i'm going to die for'." the confession hung in the air, heavy and binding. you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him in deeper, receiving his love in the only language he spoke—violence and devotion. "i-i love you, too," you gasped, the rhythm of his hips driving the words out of you.
he let out a sound that was half-sob, half-growl. he captured your lips in a messy, searing kiss, his tongue mimicking the rhythm of his cock. he was close, you could feel it. his movements became erratic, his breathing ragged. "come with me," he pleaded, his brow furrowed in concentration. "let me feel it, baby." you reached between your bodies, your inexperienced fingers finding your clit. you rubbed yourself in time with his frantic thrusts, the friction building the knot in your stomach tighter and tighter. with a high-pitched wail of "daddy," you tumbled over the edge. your walls clenched down on him, rippling around his thick length, greedy and desperate to keep him inside.
aemond choked out a curse, his body going rigid. he buried himself deep, flooding your womb with his seed. you could feel it, painting your insides, marking you from the inside out. he collapsed on top of you, his weight crushing you into the mattress. you lay there, your limbs tangled together, sweat cooling on your heated skin, his seed leaking out of you obscenely. he didn't pull out, he stayed inside you, keeping you plugged up faithfully. he buried his face in your neck, his breathing slowly evening out. "if you ever leave me," he whispered, his voice muffled against your damp skin, "i'll find you. i don't care where you go, i don't care if it takes ten years. i will find you."
the possessiveness in his tone should have scared you—it did scare you; but as you lay there in the dark, listening to the beat of his heart, you realized there was nowhere else you wanted to go. you were his; he had carved his name into your soul with his cock and his poetry, without mercy. and as sleep began to claim you, the last thing you felt was his lips pressing gently against your temple, a brand of ownership that no one else could ever touch or take away.
⏾
a week later, you find the black leather notebook tucked between the mattress and the wall, its corners dog-eared and stained with rings from glasses of cheap whiskey. the pages are thick, vellum, and the ink is jagged—scrawled in a haste that suggests if he didn't get the words out fast enough, they would eat him alive. it smells like him; cloves, old paper, and the faint, coppery tang that always lingers on his hands. this is his bible, this is where he dissected you, line by jagged line, before he ever touched you.
ɪ. ᴀʟᴛᴀʀ ʙᴏʏ.
she tastes like bubblegum sin,
a rotten peach on the verge of collapse.
sixteen years of sunday school
and she's on her knees for me.
not for god.
for the ghost.
i want to peel back the skin of her ribcage
and curl up inside the warm, wet drum of her heart.
she asks me if i love her.
i tell her i want to eat her alive.
same thing, really.
ɪɪ. ꜱᴛᴀᴛɪᴄ.
the city is a dead channel,
white noise in my veins.
i put my dick in them to feel something,
i put needles in my arm to forget, but it's all just fuzz.
just grey snow.
until her.
she is the technicolour scream in a silent film.
her heartbeat is the new rhythm.
i want to mainline her fear,
shoot up the trembling of her hands.
she's the only fix that works.
she's the only thing that makes the quiet stop.
ɪɪɪ. ᴜɴᴅʀᴇꜱꜱᴇᴅ.
her underwear is cotton.
white.
it's a fucking joke.
a veil for a sanctity i tore to shreds three weeks ago
in the back of an alleyway behind the cinema.
when i peel it down,
i don't see a girl.
i see a raw, pink universe.
i see a place to bury my sins,
a warm hole to hide the monster.
i'm not a lover.
i'm an infection.
and she is the host,
willing, soft, waiting to be corrupted.
ɪᴠ. ʜᴀᴜɴᴛɪɴɢ.
they call it statutory.
i call it destiny.
let them lock me up.
let them put the needle in my arm
for stealing a piece of heaven.
it won't matter.
i've already dissolved.
i'm in the water she drinks,
i'm in the air she breathes in math class,
i'm the ache between her legs
when she crosses them tight.
you don't go to jail
for haunting a house.
you just rattle the chains
and wait for the lights to go out.
ᴠ. ᴄᴀɴᴅʏ. (ᴠᴏᴍɪᴛ)
her mouth is full of sugar
and lies.
she kisses me like she thinks i'm a prince.
i am the wolf.
i am the big bad wolf
and i chewed the grandmother's bones
before i even climbed the ladder.
i spit in her mouth and call it love.
i mark her neck with purple galaxies
and call it art.
everything i touch turns to ash,
but she just smiles and asks for more.
she loves the rot.
she loves the way the maggots wriggle.
my girl.
my sweet, rotten girl.
ᴠɪ. ᴘᴏꜱꜱᴇꜱꜱɪᴏɴ.
she lets me inside.
the heat is blinding.
it's not sex.
it's absorption.
i'm trying to fuse our skeletons together.
i'm trying to weld my atoms to hers.
if i push deep enough,
maybe i'll touch her soul.
maybe i'll find out why she's so empty,
why she loves a man who is nothing but scars
and cigarettes.
i fill her up.
i want it to leak out of her ears.
i want her to taste me in the back of her throat
forever.
subtract to add.
skin to skin.
sin to sin.
ᴠɪɪ. ᴇᴘɪʟᴏɢᴜᴇ.
they will find us eventually.
they will pull her out of the rubble
scared and shaking and stained.
they will wash the filth from her skin
and tell her she is clean.
but she won't be.
she'll look at the moon
and think of my hands.
she'll look at a knife
and think of my mouth.
i broke her so well
she doesn't know how to be whole
without the piece of herself
i swallowed.
the book ends on a blank page, save for one small, frantic note written in red ballpoint pen, the ink bleeding through to the other side: if she leaves, i burn. if she stays, we burn. either way, the fire is beautiful.
thinking lots of thots about ᴅɪʟꜰ!satoru gojo n ᴄʀʏʙᴀʙʏ!reader with face fucking but make it soft n gentle﹒﹒ stroking ur soft﹐ luscious hair n telling u what a good lil girl u're while he slowly fills ur throat with his long﹐ aching cock﹐ all deep n hot n pulsating in your wet, lovely mouth﹐ practically suffocating u﹒﹒ ⸜̑⸝͂ only to then give u—his sweet lil princess﹐ always so eager to please—soft﹐ dreamy kisses after he cums all over ur pretty lil face﹒﹒ mhm﹒﹒ ໒꒰ྀིっ⸝⸝ ˂ ꒱ྀིა
because satoru didnt pull out or use any protection in strawberry jam . . . is reader gonna end up pregnant ?? was that part of his plan all along .. ?? 🤔🤔
⸜̑⸝͂ ⋮ ꜱᴛʀᴀᴡʙᴇʀʀʏ ᴊᴀᴍ﹐ ᴄᴏɴᴄᴇᴘᴛ﹒ ꒱
oh, absolutely. that wasn't just carelessness or him getting lost in the moment—it was a calculated, biological imperative. for a man like gojo, who is used to getting exactly what he wants, when he wants it, pulling out would be a failure of control. so why would he deny himself the satisfaction of marking you in the most permanent way possible? yes, pregnancy was absolutely part of the plan. in his twisted, possessive mind, it's the ultimate seal, it's the collar he can't take off you.
think about it, satoru is obsessed with lineage and power, but this isn't about a strong heir for the clan. it's about binding you to him with a physical parasite that connects you two forever. he wants to ruin your body, to watch it change and swell because of him. he wants you to wake up every morning sick, knowing that the nausea is his seed taking root inside you. he gets off on the idea that you're carrying his "curse." he wants to see the genuine fear in your eyes when you realize your cycle is late, your turmoil descending into hysteria. he wants to be the one to hold the pregnancy test, laughing while you cry, because it proves he owns you completely.
he probably fantasizes about keeping you trapped in that apartment, barefoot and full, forced to nurture the gross consequence of his obsession while he hovers over you, feeding you more jam, touching your swollen belly obsessively, reminding you that you're just a vessel for his greed now.
so yeah, you're definitely going to end up being pregnant with his child. and in his eyes, that just makes the trap snap shut, nice and snug. besides, there's no escape when you're carrying a literal piece of the strongest sorcerer inside you. you belong to him, body and soul, and now, your womb belongs to him as well.
⸜̑⸝͂ ⋮ 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑎𝑖𝑛𝓈﹒ ᴍᴅɴɪ﹒ ᴅᴅᴅɴᴇ﹒ ɴᴏɴᴄᴏɴ﹒ ʏᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ!ꜱᴀᴛᴏʀᴜ﹒ 𝑛𝑜𝑡𝑒﹒ hi﹐ angels! ꒰𓏼 ྀིᥩ idk why i wrote this ﹒﹒it's pure filth! ⸜̑⸝͂ ꒱ 𝑤𝑐﹒ 2﹒8k﹒
꒰ ⸜̑⸝͂ ꜱᴛʀᴀᴡʙᴇʀʀʏ ᴊᴀᴍ ⸜̑⸝͂ ꒱
⸌̑⸍͂ ⸜̑⸝͂ ⸌̑⸍͂
the silence in your apartment is heavy, thick enough to choke on, but you know better than to make a sound. you haven't moved from the small, slightly concealed corner of your bedroom in hours. your knees are pulled up to your chest, arms wrapped tight around your legs, shaking so hard that your teeth ache. it's not the cold making you shiver, it's him. it's the realization that your sanctuary has been defiled, violated by a presence that feels like a never ending sickness clinging to the pink painted walls.
you stare at the bathroom door that is attached to your tiny bedroom. it's slightly ajar, and a sliver of light cuts through the darkness, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the stale air. you know what's in there, you know what he's done. satoru gojo, the strongest sorcerer, the man with the blinding smile that has most girls fawning all over him and those crystalline blue eyes that sees everything.
but he's not smiling now. you haven't seen his face, but you can feel his energy—the warped, distorted, suffocating weight of his cursed technique pulsating from your living room. he's out there, waiting, marinating in the filth of his own obsession. you made the mistake of thinking you could just be a colleague.
you thought his lingering touches on your shoulder, the way he invaded your personal space with a laugh, were just quirks of his eccentric personality. you were innocent, naïve to the rot festering beneath that pristine surface. you didn't realize that for gojo, "normal" boundaries are just suggestions he gleefully tears apart.
you squeeze your eyes shut, but the image branded on your retinas won't fade. when you got home today, you found them, and you had nearly vomited right there in the entryway. your dirty laundry basket—the one you always kept hidden in the closet—had been dumped out, with most of your undergarments missing. well, not just missing, but they were arranged.
he'd taken your worn panties, the ones you'd meant to wash days ago, and draped them over the back of your sofa chair like obscene decorations that he thought were pretty. he'd left the others, slick with his saliva and something else, sticky and wet, balled up on your kitchen counter. you didn't dare touch them. you couldn't, the sheer audacity of it, the biological nastiness of him marking his territory like some diseased animal, made your skin crawl right off your bones.
you hear a wet, slick sound from where you're hiding. a grunt, low, guttural, and utterly devoid of humanity. your stomach turns over, the nausea increasing. he's touching himself, and he's doing it on your plush couch. you can hear the creak of the sofa's springs, the rhythm of it, ugly and relentless. he's inhaling your scent, rubbing his face against your throw pillows, grinding against your soft, knitted quilts that smell like the lavender fabric softener you use while you hide in the corner of your bedroom like a frightened little girl.
"come on out," his drawls lazily, his voice drifting through the air, sing-songy but dripping with a viscous malice. "i know you're there, little one. i can hear your heart beating. it's so fast. it's cute." you clap a hand over your mouth, stifling a sob. how does he do that? even without his limitess active, his senses are predatory. he's toying with you, he wants you to run, he wants to hear you scream.
a thud against the wall makes you jump. he's thrown something. a bottle? it rolls across the hallway floor and stops with a hollow clink right outside your bedroom. slowly, you dare a hesitant glance through the slit of your door and see that it's an empty jar of strawberry jam, with sticky residue coating the wooden floor. he's making himself at home. he's eating your food, touching your beloved things, sweating and leaking all over your life like an unwanted stain. hastily, you shut the door, releasing a shaky breath.
the smell hits you then, wafting from under the door of your bedroom—a mixture of expensive cologne, stale musk, and something coppery and sharp. it's the smell of him. it's overpowering, and it feels like it's coating the inside of your nose, invading your lungs. "i'm getting lonely," he whines, the sound morphing into a dark, breathy chuckle. "don't you want to play, baby? i brought presents." you hear the rustle of fabric. then, a soft plop. something wet lands on the floorboards in the hallway outside your room. you don't look. you don't want to know what it is. another garment? a piece of trash he's licked clean?
the uncertainty is almost as bad as the knowing. he is disgusting. there is no elegance to this madness, only a raw, unfiltered grossness. he's not a romantic, tragic figure; he's a fucking pest. a poisonous parasite burrowing into your life, underneath your skin, unwilling to release its hold on you. he starts to hum, a soft tune you don't recognize, discordant and eerie. the couch creaks again, faster now. the sounds of his pleasure are wet and sloppy and grotesque, echoing in the small apartment.
he's not trying to be quiet, no—he wants you to hear how much he enjoys violating your space. he gets off on your fear, practically feasting on it. you feel dirty. you feel unclean just by existing in the same airspace as him. you want to scrub your skin raw with bleach, but you're trapped. if you move, if you make even a single sound, the barrier between you and him breaks. and you know, with a bone-deep certainty, that if he gets his hands on you, he won't let go. he'll consume you. he'll lick the tears from your face and ask for seconds, his eyes shining with that terrifying, empty light.
the doorknob to your bedroom starts to turn. slowly, deliberately. you stop breathing. the door pushes open, and the darkness of the hallway swallows the light coming from the bathroom. you can't see him yet, just a tall silhouette standing in the void. the air pressure drops, your ears popping. "found you," he purrs, smirking softly. the smell intensifies—sour, sweet, and putrid. he steps forward, and you finally see the white mess of his hair, the blindfold lowered to show one eye, swirling with a chaotic, violet-blue vortex that promises nothing but pain and suffering.
his mouth is open, panting, a string of saliva connecting his upper and lower teeth. he looks unhinged, fucking ravenous. he doesn't look like a god, he looks like a monster that has crawled out of the sewer to claim its prize. "p-please," you mewl, your voice breaking, the innocence draining out of you to leave only terror. satoru grins, triumphant and deranged, and it's the most grotesque thing you've ever seen. "that's the spirit, sweetheart," he hums, stepping into your sanctuary, tracking filth onto your clean floors. "now, hold still, baby. i want to see what you taste like when you're terrified."
you can't help but scream when he lunges at you, a raw, jagged sound that tears at your throat, but it's useless. he's on you before the sound even has a chance to bounce off the walls. his hand clamps over your mouth, fingers digging into your cheeks, and he smells worse up close—like musk, stale sugar, and that sharp, coppery tang of dried saliva. "shh, shh, shh," he coos, his face buried in your neck. he's inhaling deep, greedy lungfuls of your scent, his nose brushing against the frantic pulse of your jugular. "you smell so fucking good, baby. so much better than the laundry. but the laundry…. god, it got me so ready for this."
he drags you out of the corner. you kick, your heels scraping against the floorboards, but it's like fighting a steel beam. he doesn't even notice. he manhandles you effortlessly, tossing you onto the bed like a ragdoll. the sheets are damp. you feel it soaking into the back of your thighs—slick, cool, and utterly revolting. he's already soiled them. he's been lying here, leaking and sweat-stained, waiting for you before you even arrived home.
"look what i made for us," he says, climbing over you. he's heavy, pinning you down with his weight. the blindfold is gone now, both eyes swirling with that chaotic, dizzying light, but it's not majestic—it's manic. there are dark circles under his eyes, the whites of his eyes completely bloodshot. he looks unhinged, unwashed, real in a way that makes your stomach turn and twist angrily with fear.
he grabs your dainty wrist, his grip bruising. he forces your hand down between his legs, pressing your palm against the hardness straining against his trousers. "feel that, sweetheart?" he grinds against your hand, his breath hitching. "that's all you. i've been sitting here for hours, just thinking about your stupid face and your tight little body and your perfect cunt, making a fucking mess of myself. i had to stop three times so i didn't waste it all on the sheets."
you try to yank your hand away, but he holds it there, forcing you to feel the heat, the twitching of him through the fabric. "don't be shy, touch it. you owe me for making me wait so long…. my naughty girl." he reaches over the side of the bed and fumbles on the floor. there's a wet squelch as his hand comes back up. he's holding the jar of strawberry jam again. it's open, the leftover contents inside a disturbed, swirled mess of red and something clearer, something nasty and viscous.
"i got hungry waiting," he chuckles, dipping two fingers into the jar, scooping out a massive glob of the red jelly. forcefully, he yanks your shirt up to your chin, watching as the jelly drips from his fingers, thick and heavy and gelatinous, landing on your chest with a loud, wet plop. the cold shock makes you gasp, your back arching off the mattress. "sticky," he muses, watching the red slime slide down the curve of your breast. he smears it with the pad of his thumb, painting your skin in grotesque, broad strokes. it feels like being coated in slime. it's horribly degrading, and it's sticky and sweet and sickeningly intimate.
"taste," he commands with a low grunt, bringing his jam-covered fingers to your lips. you clamp your mouth shut, turning your head away. he grabs your jaw, hard enough to hurt, forcing you to look at him. "open up," he barks, the playfulness dropping away to reveal something jagged and cruel underneath. "don't make me force it. you don't want me to use your teeth for the jar opener next time, do you?" terrified, you part your lips with a shuddering breath. he shoves his fingers inside, the overwhelming sweetness of artificial strawberry exploding on your tongue mixed with the salty, bitter taste of his skin. it's disgusting. it's a violation of your senses.
"suck," he orders. you do, sobbing quietly around his long fingers, trying not to gag. he watches you with rapt attention, his pupils blown wide, his tongue darting out to wet his own lips. "good girl. choke on it a little…. i like that." he pulls his fingers out with a wet pop, strings of saliva and jam connecting them to your mouth. he immediately wipes them clean on your cheek, smearing the mess across your already tear-stained face. "now," he purrs, his voice dropping to a low, guttural rumble. "i'm done playing with my food."
he tears your shirt open with a loud riiip, bearing your soft breasts to his hungry gaze. he doesn't care, he's too lost now, too animalistic. he leans down and licks a long, hot stripe up the valley of your breasts, lapping up the trail of jam he painted there. his tongue is rough, too wet, leaving a glistening path of saliva that feels instantly cold in the air. "so sweet," he mumbles against your skin. "but you know what i'm really hungry for?" he smirks, sliding his hand down, tearing at the waistband of your skirt, snapping the elastic roughly. you cry out, thrashing beneath him, but he just laughs, a low, rumbling sound that vibrates through your chest. "fight all you want, baby. it just makes you tighter for me."
he forces your legs apart with his knees, settling himself between them. the damp mattress sticks to your skin, making you grimace. you can feel him, hard and insistent, grinding against your panties through the fabric of his trousers. "i'm going to ruin you," he whispers, pressing his forehead against yours, his breath hot and ragged in your face. "i'm going to fill you up so much you'll be leaking me for weeks. every time you walk, you'll feel it. every time you sit, you'll remember how i stretched you out and stuffed you full until all that's left of you is me."
he reaches down, undoing his belt with clumsy, frantic movements. the metal clinks loudly in the silent room. "look at me," he snarls when you try to squeeze your eyes shut. "look at what you did to me. look at how disgusting i am for you." he frees himself, and the sight makes you freeze, your breath stuttering in your throat. he's flushed, dark, angry-looking, the veins standing out starkly against the pale skin. he's leaking pre-cum continuously, a steady stream that drips onto your stomach, mixing with the jam and the sweat. it's a biohazard of fluids, a visual representation of his depravity.
"touch it," he demands again, grabbing your limp hand and wrapping it around his length. he's burning hot, pulsing in your grip. "guide it in. be a good little hostess." you shake your head, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes. "please, s-satoru, don't—" you plead, your voice raising in pitch as your fear consumes you. "that's not my name right now," he cuts you off, his hips jerking involuntarily, fucking into your fist. "right now, i'm just the thing that's going to wreck you." he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of your panties and yanks them down. the fabric tears, but he doesn't seem to notice, much less care.
he tosses the shredded fabric aside, where it lands in a heap with the rest of the dirty laundry. "last chance to scream," he coos, positioning himself at your entrance. he's huge, intimidating, and the sheer size of him makes you panic. "actually, scream all you want, sweetheart. nobody's coming to save you. infinity is up, the world is shut out. it's just you, me, and the mess." he pushes inside, and it's anything but gentle. it's a blunt, forceful intrusion that steals the breath from your lungs. you sob, your nails digging into his shoulders, but he just groans, a long, broken sound of relief.
"oh, f-fuck," he gasps, his eyes rolling back into his head. "so tight, so hot… you're squeezing me so hard. you love it, don't you? you love being stuffed full of me." he starts to move, too impatient to wait for you to adjust. deep, punishing thrusts start to rock the bed frame against the wall, loud and persistent. the squelching sound is loud, obscene—wet skin slapping against wet skin, the fluids mixing together to create a sloppy, cacophony of filth. the jam on your chest is smeared between your bodies, creating a sticky, sugary glue that binds you to him. he leans down and bites your shoulder, hard enough to draw blood.
you shriek, and he laps it up with his tongue, mixing the coppery taste of your blood with the sweet strawberry jam still on his breath. "mine," he chants with every thrust. "mine… mine….mine! fuck, you're my little strawberry… my little fuckin' angel! my sticky, sweet, crying little baby." he's sweating profusely now, the drops falling onto your face, salty and gross. his hair is plastered to his forehead, the white strands curling slightly. he looks beautiful and terrifying, like some ancient god come down to wallow in the muck with you. "shit, i'm gonna come," he warns, his rhythm faltering, becoming erratic. "i'm gonna come so deep inside you, gonna breed you full. get ready, baby. eat it up."
he slams into you one last time, harder than before, and stills. you feel him pulsing, throbbing inside you as he spills himself, a never-ending flood of heat that fills you up until you feel like you're overflowing. it's disgusting, it feels dirty and wrong and inescapable. he collapses on top of you with a soft, exhausted groan, his full weight crushing you, trapping you in the heat and the smell and the fluids. you can't breathe, you're sticky everywhere—jam, sweat, saliva, tears, and him. he nuzzles into your neck, purring like a contented cat, while you can only lie there beneath him, staring at the ceiling, feeling his seed running down your thigh, wondering if you'll ever feel clean again. "best snack ever," he mumbles sleepily, his voice muffled against your damp skin. "we should do this every day, don't you think? i'll buy more jam."
⸜̑⸝͂ ⋮ 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑎𝑖𝑛𝓈﹒ ᴍᴅɴɪ﹒ ᴅᴅᴅɴᴇ﹒ ᴅᴜʙᴄᴏɴ﹒ ʙᴏᴏᴋ!ᴀᴇᴍᴏɴᴅ﹒ 𝑛𝑜𝑡𝑒﹒ hi! ꒰𓏼 ྀིᥩ ﹒﹒i rmbr telling y'all that my works were gonna get a lot more darker & canonical ﹒﹒u have been warned ֯⸜̑⸝͂ ꒱ 𝑤𝑐﹒ 6﹒3k﹒
꒰ ⸜̑⸝͂ ᴍɪʟᴋ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏɴꜱᴛᴇʀ'ꜱ ᴛᴇᴇᴛʜ ⸜̑⸝͂ ꒱
⚔︎ ⸜̑⸝͂ ⚔︎
the night air is thick with the scent of damp earth and rotting leaves, a cloying perfume that clings to your skin like a second layer of grime. you are a small, fragile thing, a wisp of a girl who looks as if a strong wind might blow her away into nothingness.
your hair glows from the moonlight, your eyes are huge, glassy, and vacant, filled with a dreamy innocence that has no place in a world that has long since turned to rust and iron. you are a relic, a ghost of a time when magic was real and the gods were kind.
you stand at the edge of the god's eye, the water lapping at the shores like a hungry, slithering tongue. the moon is full this night, a heavy, blinding eye in the sky that watches you with indifference. you dance, and it is a clumsy, desperate thing, your bare feet slapping against the sharp stones and slippery mud.
you spin and twirl until you are dizzy, almost delirious, your tattered shift flapping around your petite frame, exposing your bruised knees and the sharp ridges of your ribs. you are performing a ritual for a kin that no longer exists—fairies, nymphs, spirits of the trees.
you whisper to the blistering wind, asking it to bring him to you, your knight, your savior, your true love. in your mind, he is a vision of light and steel and strength. he is gentle, he is warm, but the gods do not hear the prayers of the forgotten; they listen only to the roar of fire.
you dance until your breath comes in short, ragged gasps, your chest heaving with the effort. you ignore the pain, the sharp sting as jagged rocks slice into the soft soles of your delicate little feet. you believe that the pain is a price you must pay, that blood must be spilled for the magic to happen and reveal your knight.
you look down at your bloodied feet, leaving behind crimson footprints on the grey stones, and you smile a broken, delusional smile. he will come, you tell yourself. he will see the blood and know that i am worthy of his love, you think, a buzzing mantra echoing inside your head.
then suddenly, startlingly, the sky tears open with a fierce roar. the sound is deafening, a thunder crack that shakes the earth beneath you. the wind changes direction, turning from a gentle breeze into a violent gale that whips your hair across your face. you look up, shielding your eyes against the soft, drizzling rain, and your heart seizes in your chest. it is not a knight on a white horse, it is a dragon.
vhagar descends from the gathering storm clouds like a falling mountain, her scales are the color of dried blood and old bruises, her wings vast enough to blot out the moon itself. she hits the shore with an impact that nearly knocks you off your feet, the shockwave sending ripples across the lake.
the heat rolling off her body is immense, a furnace blast that smells of sulfur, burnt meat, and ancient decay. she opens her mouth, rows of serrated teeth glinting in the dark, and lets out a sound that is half-growl, half-sigh. you scramble backward, your wounded feet screaming in protest with every step, and you huddle against the roots of a gnarled weirwood tree.
you are trembling violently, your dream-like mind struggling to process the living nightmare before you. this isn't right, this isn't how the story is supposed to go. and then, he slides down from the dragon's back. he lands with a predatory grace, his boots sinking into the mud. he is tall, too tall—taller than any man has a right to be—a towering pillar of black leather and long, windswept silver hair.
he wears a long coat that billows around him, and at his hip hangs a sword that looks longer than you are tall. his face is a mask of cruel beauty, sharp and angular like a blade forged in ice. his hair is pale, almost white, blowing slightly in the wind generated by his beast. but it is the eye that terrifies you—a single, piercing violet eye, set in a face that looks as if it has never known a real smile. the other eye is covered by a dark leather patch, stark and brutal against his marble-like, alabaster skin.
prince aemond targaryen.
he scans the shoreline, his gaze dismissive, bored, until it lands on you. he stops, his posture turning rigid. the silence stretches between you and him, heavy and suffocating. he stares at you, and you feel like a baby mouse caught in the gaze of a fearsome hawk. you press yourself deeper into the tree roots, trying to make yourself as small as possible, hoping he will look away, silently praying that he will mistake you for a pile of dirty rags.
"a little stray," he purrs, his voice is low, a rough rumble that vibrates in your chest. he begins to walk over toward you, each of his steps deliberate, heavy, crunching on the gravel. you can smell him now as he comes closer—so, so close—the scent of smoke, sweat, and the metallic tang of freshly spilled blood. it is a raw, masculine smell that makes you want to gag, your stomach twisting with knots of nausea.
you don't run. you can't, your feet are too ruined, throbbing with every fluttering beat of your heart. still, you can only watch him come closer, closer, your eyes wide and shimmering with girlish tears. he stops right in front of you, blocking out the moon's ethereal glow. his shadow swallows you whole, consuming you entirely.
he looks down at you, his expression one of mild curiosity mixed with a distinct lack of empathy. he crouches down, bringing his face level with yours. the movement is sudden, yet graceful, like a large feline readying to pounce on its sweet smelling, vulnerable prey. "what are you doing out here, all alone, little one?" he asks. his tone is mean and mocking, the endearment sounding more like an insult than anything else.
you cannot help but tremble, clutching your stained shift that is caked with layers of grime. "dancing," you whisper, and you can't help but shrink into yourself even more, wincing softly from the way your voice sounds too thin and embarrassingly pathetic compared to his softly spoken, deep baritone. "i…i was dancing for the knight, m-my prince."
aemond huffs, a dark, dry sound of amusement. he reaches out, his large hand moving so fast that it causes you to flinch, but he doesn't strike you. instead, he grabs ahold of your chin, his gloved fingers digging into your sensitive skin. he forces your head up, forcing you to look him in the eye. the leather of his glove is warm yet terribly rough, abrasive against your soft cheek. "there are no knights out here, little girl," he croons softly, his pale lips lifting into a small, cruel smirk. "there are only dragons."
"but…h-he… he was supposed t-to come," you stammer weakly, tears leaking from your eyes and tracking through the dirt on your anguished face. "the old stories say…." you trail off, your voice soft and meek. "the old stories are lies told to little girls so that they don't cry themselves to sleep at night," he interrupts. his thumb strokes across your lower lip, pressing down hard enough to bruise. "look at you… you're all filthy. you're bleeding."
his gaze drops to your bare feet, seemingly enchanted by what he finds. he lets go of your chin and grabs your dainty ankle, yanking your leg up without warning. you cry out as the movement jars your injuries, making your breath hitch. he inspects your foot with clinical detachment, his eye narrowing. the soles are shredded, the skin hanging in ribbons, blood dripping and mixing in with the wet earth.
"disgusting," he murmurs, but there is a strange fascination in his voice. he runs his thumb over the raw, wet wound, smearing the blood around as though he's finger painting. "you have danced your feet to ruin for a phantom," he tuts, looking unimpressed with your efforts. you sob, the sound raw and ugly. "it wasn't a phantom… it was hope, my prince!"
"hope is a disease," he sneers. he looks back up at you, a soft smirk twisting his lips. "and i am the cure." suddenly, he stands up to his full height, dragging you along with him. you are too weak to fight, your legs buckling underneath you as you try to walk, failing miserably. luckily for you, the prince catches you easily, one strong arm wrapping around your small waist, hauling you against his hard body.
you are pressed up against his chest, your face buried in the rough leather of his coat. you can feel his heart beating, slow and steady, while yours races like a trapped bird in a cage. "please," you beg, struggling weakly against his possessive grip. "l-let me go…!"
"no," he drawls, his voice a low, deep purr. he begins to walk once again, dragging you along because your feet cannot support your weight. you stumble, your toes scraping the ground, sending fresh jolts of pain shooting up your trembling legs. he doesn't care. he doesn't even bother to slow down, you are simply a burden he has decided to claim as his.
more quickly than you'd like, you approach his fearsome mount, vhagar. up close, the beast is terrifying beyond measure. her scales are like indestructible plates of armor, and her eyes are like pools of molten gold. she lowers her massive head, sniffing the air curiously, her nostrils flaring as she catches your scent. a low rumble vibrates through her chest, a sound of pure hunger. "she likes you," he hums, sounding amused by his dragon's interest in you.
effortlessly, he hoists you up, grabbing you by the back of your shift and the waist of your small-clothes, and practically throws you onto the dragon's shoulder. it is like climbing onto a moving mountain—the scales are hot to the touch, radiating a feverish heat that burns through your clothes. you scramble for purchase, your small hands slipping on the smooth, hard surface.
"climb," aemond commands from below. he watches as you struggle, his eye glinting with sadistic pleasure. "unless you want me to leave you here for the wolves." terrified, you dig your fingers into the gaps between the scales, pulling yourself up. your feet dangle over the abyss, your bloody soles leaving streaks of red on the side of the dragon's neck.
you reach the saddle, a small perch on the creature's back, and collapse there, gasping desperately for air. aemond climbs up behind you with an effortless ease, settling down into the sturdy saddle, his chest pressing against your back. he is a wall of muscle and tension and rage. he reaches around you, taking the reins, his arms boxing you in. you are trapped, completely and utterly at his mercy.
"hold on, little girl," he murmurs in your ear, his breath hot against your neck, sending shivers down your spine. "or you will fall to your death."
"where are we going?" you cry out, your voice lost in the wind. "home," he proclaims. "to the red keep, to war." vhagar begins to move, preparing to launch herself into the open sky. her muscles shift beneath you, a terrifying sensation of endless power and might. she spreads her massive wings, and with a single, mighty thrust, she launches herself into the air.
the ground begins to fall away, and the lake becomes a mirror, then a simple puddle, then just a tiny speck of nothingness. the wind screams past you, tearing at your thin clothes, freezing your skin and making your teeth chatter. you squeeze your eyes shut, terror gripping your racing heart. you have never left the ground before, and you had never needed to.
you have never known the world was this big, this empty, this cold. you can feel aemond's chest vibrating against your back as he cackles into the night sky, a dark, joyless sound. he enjoys your fear, so much so that you believe he feeds on it. "open your eyes," he commands. "no!" you wail, your girlish voice full of stubbornness and terror. "fucking open them!" he snarls angrily, lacking patience, one of his hands leaves the reins and grabs ahold of your hair, yanking your head back.
you are forced to look at the world below—a vast, dark tapestry of dark forests and flowing rivers, lit only by the pale moonlight. it is beautiful and horrifying. "this is what true power looks like, little one," he smirks, his cold lips brushing against the delicate shell of your ear. "this is what you were dancing for, not some knight in shining armor, but a dragonrider who burns the world to nothing but ash."
you look down at your poor, aching feet, watching as they dangle in the open air. the blood is dried now, flaking off your skin in the wind. you think of the stories you used to tell yourself as a child, about the gentle knight who would take you away to a castle made of clouds. you realize now how stupidly foolish you were, how utterly naïve.
the man holding you is not a savior, he is a monster, a killer, and you are nothing more than a plaything he found in the dirt. as vhagar banks and turns toward the south, toward king's landing and the war waiting there, you feel a strange, heavy numbness settling over you. the hope is now gone, completely extinguished, burned away by the heat of the dragon's back and the coldness of the prince's blackened heart.
you are forever lost, you think to yourself. you are flying into the mouth of hell, and the worst part is, a small, shameful, twisted part of you is glad you are no longer alone, because the silence of the shore was so much louder than the scream of the wind. and the arms of the monster, for all their cruelty, are the only things holding you up. "you are mine now, little girl," aemond growls, his voice cutting through the roar of the restless wind. "do not forget it."
"i won't," you whisper tearfully to the grey clouds, and you realize it is the truth. you are most certainly lost in the wrong century, indeed. and as the ominous glow of harrenhal fades into the distance behind you, leaving only the dark, uncertain void ahead, you close your eyes and let the darkness steal you away. the dance is now over, and the nightmare has just begun.
⋆ ⋆ ⋆
the descent into king's landing is a blur of grey stone and black water, the city below looking like an old, festering wound on the landscape. vhagar lands outside the city's gates with a bone-shaking thud, her claws gouging deep furrows into the scorched earth. the handlers scramble away, hiding their faces, terrified of the one-eyed prince and his trembling, wild-eyed cargo.
aemond pulls you from the saddle with a roughness that makes your teeth click together. you cannot stand; your feet are too ruined, swollen and throbbing, the dried blood cracking as you try to put weight on them. he doesn't wait, he growls in annoyance and simply hoists you over his shoulder, ignoring the gasps and horrified stares of the dragon-keepers. you bounce against his back, the smell of dragon musk and his own sharp, metallic scent filling your nose.
moments later, you arrive past the gates, and aemond stalks through the corridors of the red keep like a shadow brought to life. the torchlights flicker and dance against the stone walls, casting long, distorted shapes. the servants bow low, scattering like roaches, refusing to look at the small, bleeding creature he carries that is covered in layers of filth. you're an ugly stain on the pristine crimson of the castle, unworthy and burdensome.
without hesitation, he kicks open the heavy oak doors of his private chambers. the room is sparse, cold, and smells of old parchment and spiced wine. he strides to the bed and dumps you onto the warm furs. you land in a heap, your small body sinking into the pelts of wolves, stags, and bears. you whimper, curling into a tiny ball, trying to hide your face. "get up," he commands, his voice echoing off the stone walls.
"i… i-i cannot," you sob, sniffling softly, holding your aching feet. "it h-hurts, my prince." aemond sighs, resisting the temptation to roll his eye. "then crawl," he says flatly, his tone full of boredom. he begins to unbuckle his sword belt, the heavy clink of metal sounding like a death knell in the quiet chamber. he tosses the weapon onto a table, then starts to work on the laces of his riding leathers.
you watch him with wide, frightened eyes. he is stripping away the layers of the prince, revealing the cruel, cold-hearted man beneath. the man who killed his own kin, the man who laughs at burning cities. his chest is pale and scarred, a map of violence etched into his skin. he is all hard lines and lean, corded muscle, stark and intimidating.
"you are my wife now," he purrs, pulling his simple cotton tunic over his head and tossing it aside. his hair is loose around his broad shoulders, a silver curtain. "bought and paid for with blood and dragonfire. now, you will learn to serve like a proper lady-wife." he walks over to the bed, towering over you. you look so small, so pathetic, lying there in your dirty, torn shift. the contrast between your fragile, bruised body and his towering, predatory form is sickening.
"turn over," he orders, sounding impatient. you hesitate, and he snarls, reaching down to grab your arm and flipping you onto your stomach. you cry out as your weight presses onto your injured feet, but he doesn't care. he climbs onto the bed behind you, the mattress dipping under his weight as he mounts you from behind. "p-please, my prince," you mewl, burying your tear-stained face in the furs. "b-be gentle…"
aemond laughs, a low, nasty sound. "gentle is for the weak, gentle is for the dead, sweetheart." he mocks. suddenly, he reaches down and roughly grabs the hem of your thin shift, and with a violent jerk, he rips the fabric down your back. the cold air hits your skin instantly, making you shiver, your skin breaking out with gooseflesh. you can hear the fabric tearing, feel the cold air on your bare back, your legs, your buttocks. you feel terribly exposed, completely vulnerable.
"look at you," he murmurs, his hand trailing down your spine. his touch is hot, calloused, and rough. "skin like milk, soft as a babe." he squeezes your tender flesh, his fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruises. you squirm, trying to get away, but he pins you down with one hand on the back of your neck. his grip is pure iron, strong and possessive. you are paralyzed, facedown in the wolf pelts, your heart hammering wildly against your ribs.
"i will break you, little girl," he whispers against your ear, his teeth nipping gently at the lobe. "and then i will put you back together as something useful." you hear the rustle of him discarding his trousers. the air shifts, and then you feel it.
he kicks your legs apart with his knees, rough and uncaring. you are lying there, bare and trembling, your bloodied feet forgotten in the face of this new, immediate horror. he spits into his hand, the sound wet and crude in the silence, and smears it between your legs. it is not for your pleasure, it is merely to facilitate the taking.
he lines himself up and pushes in, violent and deep. you scream, it is a raw, guttural sound that tears at your throat and comes from your very soul. he is huge, splitting you open, forcing his way inside a body that was never meant to take him. there is no preparation, no gentleness, only the brutal, searing intrusion of his cock. it feels like he is tearing you in half, like a hot blade being driven into your guts.
"take it," he hisses, not stopping until he is buried to the hilt. his hips are flush against your ass, his heavy balls resting against you. he holds himself there for a moment, savoring the tightness, the heat, the way your body spasms around him in shock. you are sobbing uncontrollably now, your fingers clawing desperately at the furs, trying to find purchase, trying to escape the pain, the torture.
"so fucking tight," he groans, his voice vibrating through your back as his face twists in pleasure. "you're gripping me… f-fuck." he whines, beginning to move. it is not a rhythm, it is a punishment. he pulls out almost all the way and slams back in, hard enough to rock the bed and knock the breath out of your burning lungs. the sound of skin slapping against skin is loud, wet, and disgustingly primal.
slap, slap, slap, slap.
"please… s-stop," you choke out, but he only laughs. "stop? why would i stop? this is your duty, little wife, your purpose." he leans forward, covering your body with his. his chest presses against your back, trapping you. you can feel his sweat dripping onto your feverish skin, slick and hot. his breathing is heavy in your ear, harsh and ragged. he smells like iron and salt and musk, a sensory overload that makes your head spin.
he reaches around and grabs your throat, squeezing just enough to restrict your airflow. your vision spots, black and white dots dancing in front of your tearful eyes. the lack of air makes the pain sharper, more immediate. you are drowning in him. "do you feel that?" he growls, snapping his hips harder, faster. "that is a dragon claiming his prey."
the pain is blinding, it radiates from your core, shooting up your spine and down to your curling toes. you can feel yourself tearing, feel the wet slickness of blood mixing with his spit and your own reluctant arousal. it is a violation of the highest order, a desecration of everything you are. he grabs your hair, yanking your head back, arching your spine painfully, beautifully. "look at the wall," he commands, gesturing to the tapestries of his family. "read the words of the valyrians, of my house—fire and blood."
you can't read, you can't see. all you can feel is him, filling you, ruining you, again and again with each brutal thrust. he shifts his angle, hitting a spot inside you that makes you squeal, a strange, unwanted jolt of electricity that cuts through the scorching pain. it is horrible and shameful, your body is betraying you, reacting to his brutality with a spark of pleasure that makes you sick to your stomach.
"see?" he mocks, feeling your involuntary clench around his shaft as he practically drills into you from behind. "your body knows its place even if your mind does not." he fucks you like an animal, with no regard for your comfort or your humanity. he uses you like a vessel, a thing to dump his rage into, his seed. the bed creaks and groans under the onslaught, the sound rhythmic and mocking to your fragile heart.
sweat drips from his nose onto your cheek. you can feel the tension coiling in him, the way his movements become more jerkier, more desperate and sloppy. he is close. "say my name," he demands, panting loudly, his hand tightening on your throat. you can barely breathe, let alone speak. "aem... ae-m….aemond," you wheeze. "again," he huffs, his voice cracking as your cunt continues to strangle his cock.
"ae-aemond…" you whimper, breathless. "husband," he corrects, slamming into you so hard you see stars. "h-h-husband," you hiccup softly, sobbing, feeling saliva dribbling down your chin as you stammer. with a final, guttural groan, he buries himself deep inside you and stills. you feel the pulse of his cock as he spills himself into you, the heat flooding your insides, marking you from the inside out. it is a dirty, wet feeling, unmistakable and humiliating.
he collapses on top of you, his full weight pinning you to the bed. you are crushed, unable to move, unable to properly breathe. his heart is hammering against your back, slowing down gradually as the minutes pass. for a long moment, the only sound in the room is your combined breathing. you are crying silently, tears soaking the furs beneath your flushed face. he is panting, recovering from the intensity of his orgasm.
finally, he slowly pulls out, savoring the feeling of your velvet walls clinging to him greedily. the sensation is obscene, a wet squelch as he leaves your body. you feel empty and aching, throbbing with a residual pain that echoes every beat of your heart. you feel fluids leaking out of you, running down your thighs, a sticky, gross reminder of what just happened.
he stands up, completely unashamed of his nudity. his body is gleaming with sweat, pale and powerful with defined, lean muscles. he looks down at you with a satisfied sneer, clicking his tongue in vague annoyance. you are a mess—torn shift, bruises blooming across your skin like spring flowers, blood and semen trickling down your legs.
"go and clean yourself up," he sighs, walking over to a basin of water. he splashes his face, not looking at you. "you look like a slaughtered pig." you lie there for a minute, unable to move. your body feels broken, your spirit fractured like a dog's bone. you think of the moonlit dance, the hope of a knight. it seems like a memory from a different life, a different person. and for just a short, quiet moment, you feel like the garden and the grave.
slowly, painfully, you drag yourself to the edge of the bed. your feet throb in protest, but that pain is distant now compared to the blistering fire between your legs. you reach for the torn remnants of your shift to cover yourself, shivering in the cold air. aemond turns back to you, a small towel in his hand. he watches as you struggle, his single eye cold and calculating. there is no remorse, no humanity, only the dangerous darkness of his possessiveness.
"you will stay here," he insisted, his voice flat. "you will not leave these chambers unless i command it. you are now the dragon's whore, and you will learn to embrace the fire... or you will be burned; the choice is yours." he picks up a flagon of wine on the table and drinks deeply, some of the red liquid spilling down his bare chest and stomach. he wipes it away with the back of his hand, staining his skin.
"and tomorrow," he announced, turning his back to you to look out the window at the city below. "tomorrow, we fly again." you curl up into a ball on the furs, pulling the shredded fabric around you. you close your eyes and try to summon the image of the moon, the dance, the knight. but the image is corrupted, burned away by the violet eye and the scent of dragon. you are no longer lost in the wrong century; you are trapped in the dragon's lair, and it has just begun to feed.
⋆ ⋆ ⋆
the days bleed into weeks, a grey and crimson haze of pain and sweat. you exist in a state of perpetual twilight, shut away in the high tower of the red keep. the servants bring you food—roast meats, heavy stews, thick with grease and spice—but you eat very little. you are fading, your petite frame becoming even smaller, a fragile bird with clipped wings. your feet, once ruined, have begun to heal, scabbing over into ugly, twisted knots of scar tissue that ache with every step you take, but you don't run anymore. there is nowhere to run.
aemond comes to visit you every night. sometimes during the day, too. he is a storm that never ceases, a force of nature that consumes everything in its path. at first, it was just violence. he would take you with the same brutal efficiency he used to train in the courtyard with ser criston, grunting and sweating, using your body to slake his ravenous lusts. he would leave you trembling and bleeding, staring at the ceiling until he returned once more.
but slowly, as the weeks start passing, the texture of the nightmare begins to change and shift into something new. it begins with the gifts. one evening, he returns from the city not with blood on his hands, but with a small, velvet box. he throws it onto the bed where you are curled up, staring at the wall. inside, nestled in black velvet, is a necklace. it is heavy, made of interwoven silver chains, set with stones the color of fresh bruises—deep amethysts and black diamonds that sparkle and shine prettily.
"put it on," he commands. you fumble with the delicate clasp, your fingers shaking. it is cold against your throat, a weight that pulls you down. it is beautiful, but it feels like a collar. "you look like a princess," he muses, his voice lacking its usual bite. he is standing a few feet away from the foot of the bed, watching you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. "my princess."
you look up at him, your fawn-like eyes wide and glistening with unshed tears. you are so needy, so starved for affection that the simple compliment makes your heart flutter traitorously in your chest. you hate him, and you fear him, too, but you are desperate for him to look at you as something other than a piece of meat. "t-thank you, my prince," you whisper softly, your breath hitching slightly in the back of your throat.
he crosses the room in two long strides and grabs your face with his large, bare hands, only to lean down and kiss you. it is not like the brutal crushing of before—it is hungry, devouring, but strangely reverent, like a husband kissing his beloved wife. he bites your bottom lip, tasting the sweet, coppery tang of your blood, but then he licks it away, his tongue delving into your mouth as if he wants to consume your every breath. he pulls back, his thumb stroking your cheekbone softly, affectionately.
"i have killed many men, little one," he admits, his eye searching yours. "i have burned cities to ash, slaughtered innocents without an ounce of mercy…. but i have never possessed anything as soft as you." you lean into his gentle touch, your body betraying your mind. you hate yourself for it, but you can't help it. you are so, so lonely, and the silence of the tower is deafening to your heart, your soul. the touch of his hand, even the hand that chokes and bruise and kills, is the only thing that makes you feel real.
"i am yours," you murmur, the words slipping out before you can stop them. it is the truth, you have no choice otherwise. aemond's single eye narrows, seeming pleased by this admission of obedience, but also disturbed by it, as if your submission is a puzzle he cannot quite solve. slowly, over time, he begins to change the way he touches you. the sex changes, too.
it becomes grosser, wetter, more intimate. he spends hours between your thighs, his face buried in your cunt, licking and sucking until you are sobbing and thrashing and pleading, your body overwhelmed by the intense pleasure that feels like pain. he is obsessed with your taste, with the sweet scent of your arousal mixed with your fear. he calls it your "nectar" and drinks it down like it is the most delicious, most finest wine he's ever consumed.
he holds you afterward, too. this is the worst part, you think, the part that breaks down your defenses the most. he wraps his large body around your small one, tangling his legs with yours, burying his face in your hair. he talks to you in the dark, low, guttural whispers about his childhood, about his distant mother, about his unworthy brother. he tells you things you suspect no one else has ever heard from him.
"they look at me with pity," he mutters, his hand stroking your arm. "or hate. never... this. never want." you turn in his arms, facing him. you can barely see his face in the gloom, but you can feel his breath on your face. you reach up and trace the line of his jaw, your fingers brushing the leather patch as your fingers trail up. he flinches but doesn't pull away, allowing you to touch him.
"i do not hate you, aemond," you confess, your voice a soft, breathy whisper. and it's true, you don't. you are too broken to hate him now, too needy. "you should," he says, gripping your wrist hard. "i am a monster, sweet girl," he acknowledges, squeezing you tighter against him. "perhaps… but you're my monster," you say softly, the words feeling foreign and yet right.
he groans, a sound deep in his chest cavity, and rolls on top of you. he enters you slowly this time, filling you up inch by inch. you squeak, your body stretching to accommodate him. it still hurts, the stretch is too much, the pressure too intense, but there is a sick sort of comfort in it. he is heavy and hot inside you, a physical anchor in a world of blood and madness. "mine," he grunts, thrusting deep. "only mine."
"yours," you agree, your voice hitching with every hard snap of his hips. he moves with a slow, grinding rhythm, designed to drag out the sensation. he wants to feel every inch of you, he wants to memorize the texture of your insides. he kisses your neck, your shoulder, your breasts, marking you with his teeth and tongue. he leaves bites that will bruise, purple and black flowers blooming prettily across your soft, smooth skin.
"i will keep you forever," he whispers, his voice ragged with want. "i will never let you go, never let you leave me. even when the sun burns out and the moon ceases to shine, you will still be here in this bed with me." it should sound like a threat, it should terrify you. but as you look up at him, seeing the twisted, desperate love in his eye, you feel a strange, heavy warmth settle in your stomach. you are so needy, so fucking desperate to be loved, even if the love is ugly and warped by a cruel, lonely prince.
you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him in even deeper. you kiss him back, your tongue sliding against his, tasting the blood and the wine. you moan into his mouth, a sound that is part pleasure, part surrender. "y-yes!" you keen, panting. "k-keep me… keep m-me, please, my prince!"
he breaks, his jaw slackening from your plea to be kept, to be his. then, his control snaps. he starts to fuck you in earnest, pounding into you with the force of a battering ram. the bed slams against the wall, the rhythmic thudding echoing through the room. it is gross and sweaty, the sound of skin slapping skin wet and loud and obscene. he is dripping sweat onto you, his hair plastered to his forehead, the silky strands curling slightly at the ends.
"look at me," he grunts, snarling and feral, grabbing your chin and forcing you to meet his gaze. "see who owns you, who owns this tight, sweet little cunt." you look into his violet eye, seeing the fire burning there, the madness, the twisted love. you see the monster, the kinslayer, the dragon rider. and you see the man who worships the ground you walk on, in his own sick, contorted way. "aem-aemond," you cry out, your nails digging into his shoulders.
"say it again," he growls, grinding his pelvis down against you each time he thrusts back inside, making your swollen clit ache and twitch. "aemond…. husband… mine." he roars, a sound of triumph and utter possession, and buries himself to the hilt. you feel him pulse and explode inside you, filling your womb up with his seed, claiming you from the inside out. it is a sticky, wet heat that makes you shiver, your little toes curling.
he collapses on top of you, his breathing ragged and shallow. he doesn't bother to pull out; instead, he stays buried inside you—softening but still present—keeping you plugged up, keeping his mark inside you. sweetly, he nuzzles into your neck, licking the sweat from your warm skin. "my little wife," he hums, his voice thick with sleep and deep satisfaction. "my strange, little ghost."
soothingly, you begin to stroke his hair, your fingers tangling in the damp, silver strands. you feel safe—terrifyingly, sickeningly safe. you have lost yourself completely. the girl who had once danced under the moon is dead, burned away by the dragonfire. in her place is this new creature—a pet, a wife, a whore. you're now just a strange girl that is cherished by a dark prince, an obsessive monster.
you lie there in the dark of night, listening to the wind howling outside the castle walls. you are trapped in a never ending nightmare, but as aemond's breathing evens out and his arms tighten around you in his sleep, you realize with a jolt of shame and desire that you never want to wake up. you have fallen into the dragon's bloodied maw, and you have found the warmth you were always looking for.
it is ugly, it is wrong, but it is yours, forever. eventually, you close your eyes and drift off to sleep, dreaming of spilled blood and the ethereal glow of moonlight, and the feeling of being completely, utterly owned by your monstrous prince.
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