Summary: The swing out back still moves, though no one’s laughed there in years. The Targaryen house is small, white, and heavy with silence.
Everyone in Dallas talks about demons in metaphors. But in the Targaryen family, it’s not a figure of speech. It’s real. It has a name.
Or two.
DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT. This story explores trauma, religious fanaticism, psychological disorders, and the long-lasting effects of extreme belief systems. Please do not read if any of this may be triggering or distressing for you.
Content Warnings: dubcon, noncon, incest, childhood trauma, religious guilt, oral sex (f receiving), mentions of blood and violence.
“Then said Jesus, Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do.”
Sweat poured down his temples, thick and stinging. His back locked up, pulled shoulders taut like ropes about to snap. Every thrust carved pain through his gut, the kind that twisted, sickened—but the burn in his throat wasn't what killed him. It was the screaming. Her screaming. Again and again, raw and endless, splitting the air like sirens. And she wouldn't stop. Because he wouldn't. Because he couldn’t.
Hunger churned in his gut, made his skin itch, peel, crawl. Every drop of sweat that slid down his spine and met his body sparked like gasoline on open flame. He braced himself on the bed with clenched fists, a need for more leverage. A mistake. Letting go of her wrists always was. Her nails bit into his chest, raked over the old, half-faded tattoo like she was trying to dig him out. The sting should've stopped him. Maybe she thought it would. Maybe pain was her only weapon now. Maybe she thought she had one chance to reach the pen on the side table. One chance to swing. One chance to kill.
Because if she didn't kill him, she knew the body left on the floor would be hers.
“Shut the fuck up!” he roared, the walls shaking with it—just like her jaw when his fist landed.
Pain bloomed in her face, sharp and immediate. The metallic taste of blood pooled in her mouth like old pennies. She didn't cry. She screamed. Louder. More animal than girl. But no one came. No one ever would. Who’d interrupt a starving dog mid-feast? That's what she was now. Flesh. Cap Heat.
“You worthless cunt, nothing but a rag to piss on,” he spat. His hands wrapped around her throat like they were made for him. His face hovered close, close enough to mock a kiss. If she’d had the will, she might’ve laughed. How romantic, she thought bitterly. "Pathetic cunt. You're barely alive, begging for every fucked-up touch like the garbage you've become."
He didn’t say it—he bled it. The words hit her face like spit and venom.
He slammed into her harder, like he wanted to break her in half. And maybe he was. Maybe he did. The pain bloomed sharp, searing from her spine down to her belly. It felt like fire licking up from the inside. Not warmth—heat. The kind that blinds. The kind she used to feel in the sun, back when she was a girl. Before it was her brother's hands, not summer, burning her.
She didn't like it. She'd said so. A long time ago. Before silence became survival.
“Stop,” she hissed, teeth clenched, voice strangled. Like she was biting the word in half to keep from screaming.
The thing above her—because he wasn't a man anymore—looked down with blown-out eyes, wild, glassy. His newly dyed black hair brushed her cheeks. He stands of rot. Not sweat. Not skin. Rot. He cupped her face like he owned it, shoved her head into the mattress like she was weightless. Like nothing. And being nothing, she realised, still hurt more than anything.
"You're just meat — a fucked-up, worthless slab. Shut the fuck up." His voice was low, final.
And then he drove into her again—hard. Punishment. Proof. Her eyes slammed shut. Her throat filled with glass. Tears finally came, but not from weakness. From force.
"Meat burns. You'll swallow whatever scraps I cough."
Each word scalded her skin like boiling oil. Each syllable soaked into her like poison.
“As it should be.”
The bed crashed against the wall, over and over, shaking the entire frame. She was slipping, body half off the edge, neck bent at a sharp angle. A ragdoll in the hands of something monstrous. From there, she could see it: the cross nailed to the wall. Rusty, dull. Still catching light. It almost looked beautiful. Once, it had.
The sound of him—grunts, breath, the wet slap of skin—faded into a sickening blur. His teeth met her neck. His fingers crushed her breast. His cock slid through the blood slicking her thighs like butter.
Her eyes never left the cross. A small smile touched her lips.
“I was there in the dark when you spilled your first blood.”
She thought the bones of her pelvis might crack before the thing slipped free—but it did, slick and trembling. Alicent lay flat, breath caught in the pit of her chest, but Viserys would call in the children before she’d even blinked, before the red-skinned, short-limbed thing was ready for air. Aegon was already at the bedside, his little fingers combing the damp strands on her head. He saw the silver and grinned, turned to Helaena like he'd found treasure.
“She’s not ugly.” Of course he’d be the first to speak. Of course that’s what he’d say.
Viserys chuckled, hands resting heavy on their tiny shoulders. Watched the crib. Hel shook him off like always. He didn’t mind. At least she was close this time—not vanished into the corners like she usually was.
“What’s her name—?” Aegon’s fingers slipped toward the cheek of the baby in the crib.
Alicent slapped his hand hard.
“Don’t touch her.”
She didn’t look at him. She never looked at them. Her eyes were locked on the girl, locked and unblinking.
She didn’t want them near. Didn't want them laying hands on what she’d torn from herself. She knew what they were. Knew what crawled under their skin. Their eyes gleamed too empty, their pale skin lay too still. Not even the silver of their hair could pass them off as clean. There was no God in them.
Viserys sighed, long and low. Aegon’s eyes flicked to his, searching for something—an answer, a defence. But Viserys had none. Their mother, he told himself, was tired. She always was. She had a headache. The day was hot. It was always something. Leave her be.
Maybe that was all he had left in him. Maybe even those words were too much.
The mother’s own shaking hand reached for the baby’s soft little face, still and peaceful. The girl didn’t cry. She just lay there, quiet as anything, wrapped up in white hospital blankets with her tiny hands curled into fists. Alicent thought about how one day those hands would have to fight back—because that’s the kind of world they were in. But for now, for just this small sliver of time, her girl could rest. Just a baby who needed her mama, her milk, her warmth, her eyes on her. Nothing more than what she could give, before the city air turned her lungs to dust too.
“Her name’s Rowan,” the woman whispered, so soft it barely reached the ears of her other kids standing near the door. They weren’t used to her being gentle. “Rowan Faith.”
That’s what that bundle of pink skin and cotton was to her. Her last hope. Her final shot at leaving something kind in the world. After this, there wouldn’t be anything else. No more lying in that stiff hospital bed, no more pushing blood-soaked curses out of her. No more of that awful feeling, like her body was being wrung dry before the baby even hit air. This was it. Her last goodbye to that kind of pain, her last offering to the dirt.
“Sis?” The voice came from the hallway, and all eyes turned except hers.
Gwayne stood in the doorway, hesitant, stiff in his boots. A little boy clung to his leg—barely three years old, hiding from the too-bright fluorescents of the hospital room. They already knew Aemond couldn’t stand that kind of light. Hurt his eyes. Made him flinch like something was crawling underneath them. Not that he ever said anything. He never said anything. Not even a cry.
“Don’t let him in.” Her voice was low and firm. Of all the kids she’d dragged into this world, that one crawled the deepest under her skin.
Viserys looked over at Gwayne and gave a nod. He took Helaena and Aegon by the wrists and eased them back from the bed. They could see their baby sister later. There was always time. That was how Viserys saw things—always putting off what didn’t burn. Always another weekend, another slow ride down Central Expressway. Except Sundays. Sundays were for church, and the Lord didn't give rain checks.
Gwayne stepped forward, but the little boy still held tight to his leg. His cheap blue sneakers slid a bit on the waxed floor, almost glued to his uncle’s heel. The redhead glanced down at the crib. So small. Barely a whisper of life. He remembered when Aegon was born—screaming, covered in blood, Alicent trying to shove him away before the nurses even got a look. She hadn’t wanted him either.
“I said take him out,” Alicent muttered. She still wouldn’t look at her brother or the kid at his feet. But her tone had changed. The mere scent of that boy put her on edge.
Aemond glanced at the crib, but there was no spark behind his stare. His eyes, sharper and colder than his siblings’, were set in a thin, pale face, skin so light the veins showed through like roadmaps. His hair was longer now—Alicent had long since stopped cutting it, didn’t even bother washing it. Unlike Aegon, who still got her hands in his hair, her fingers under his chin. Aemond didn’t get bathed unless Viserys remembered, or had energy after work. And he never did.
She could still remember trying to push him out. He didn’t want to come, or maybe she didn’t want to let him go. There was so much blood. The nurses looked scared. The doctor said they’d have to cut. She wasn’t surprised. That boy had no place being here. Should’ve stayed in the dark. He didn’t cry then either. Probably couldn’t.
“Sis, please,” Gwayne tried again, the same old pleading in his voice. Like maybe this time something would change.
She looked at him, finally, then down at the boy by his side. The devil dresses up as something good to fool soft hearts. Like a spider with sugar on its web, slowly pulling life into its mouth. That’s how it worked. That’s what she saw. He looked like a child, but something else lived in that body. Like the devil whispering to Jesus before the cross. She wouldn’t be fooled. Not her. She wasn’t soft anymore.
“I don’t want him in here.” Her voice was dry as dust.
Gwayne’s shoulders sagged, all hope knocked clean out of him. He didn’t know why he kept trying. Maybe because he thought the older kids didn’t see it. But they did. Aegon and Helaena were staring out the window, hands pressed to the glass, as if the wind meant more to them than the baby. But Aemond, he saw everything. The way he looked at their mother—it was like he was daring her to flinch.
Still, his eyes didn’t stay on her.
They landed back on the crib. The bundle of white. So tiny. Aemond tilted his head, just a little. His fingers slipped from Gwayne’s leg. Always silent, always floating in some place behind his eyes. Never really here. Like air bubbles caught behind glass. His pupils widened like he was seeing the sun for the first time. He didn’t move closer. Just stood there, his shoes squeaking just slightly, too tight for his growing feet.
“Faith.” His voice was a breeze. Just a breath. Could’ve been missed if someone sneezed.
But nobody did.
Every head in that room snapped toward him. Even Alicent. Even Viserys. Even the older kids at the window. Everyone. Because in three years, Aemond had never spoken. Not once. No babble. No whining for milk. Not even a sound when his arms showed little bruises from who-knew-what.
“Aemond.” Gwayne dropped to a crouch, hands on the boy’s bird-boned shoulders. “What did you just say?”
Hope cracked like lightning in his gut.
Alicent’s eyes met Viserys’s—wide, uncertain. They didn’t want to believe it. Could’ve been the air vents whistling or some nurse’s shoe squeaking in the hallway. Maybe just the floor mops squealing as they passed. Could’ve been anything.
But it wasn’t.
Gwayne looked deep into his nephew’s pale face, searching for more. But the boy had already gone quiet again. Drifted. Whatever spark had flickered inside him went out. And his eyes, once more, turned to gauze.
That moment faded, slipping into memory like a dream you weren’t sure you had. Gwayne held the boy a little tighter, like he could grab the words back. He couldn’t.
That too, was already gone.
"And after the earthquake a fire; but the Lord was not in the fire: and after the fire a still small voice.”
Her knees burned. So did the rest of her body. The blood was probably barely flowing to her feet by now, but Rowan didn’t falter. Her hands were clasped together on top of the stripped mattress—no sheets, no covers. She prayed again, mouthing words she didn’t believe in.
A voice in her head told her she was a fucking liar, and that God would know it.
If there were any magic left in the world—above the cotton candy clouds, a kingdom of truth or softness—could she…? No.
Even with the answer on the tip of her tongue, she still closed her eyes and repeated the words like a child saying lines in church. Maybe it reminded her of Sundays in her white dress, satin gloves pulled up tight. Her hair used to be so light then. Polished, clean. Sometimes she’d match it to the fake snowflakes in those stupid cartoons on the little TV in the living room. It was stupid. She knew. But it was the only thing she had to compare it to.
She lowered her head further, breathing deeply. Her chest rose and fell so calmly it hurt. So steady it made her brow furrow, unlike the small bruise at the corner of her lips. Strands of hair, now long enough to pass her hips, tickled her bare arms every time her head bowed again.
She told herself she would stop praying. But when had anything in her life gone as she thought it would?
"In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit." Her voice was no louder than her breath. She didn’t want it to carry through the walls. “Amen.”
She waited a few moments longer. For warmth in her chest. For a shiver. Anything.
Her mother used to say, ‘God will speak to you if you keep your ears and your heart open.’ That was bullshit. ‘God loves you, as a Father loves his child.’
Well. Maybe in this house, that phrase actually meant something. Just not how the priest with the golden walls and polished altar meant it.
She rose slowly. Her legs ached and protested, the joints stiff as if they'd forgotten how to move. A wave of pain shot through her lower abdomen—sharp as a punch—forcing her to grip the bed with one hand, the other curling protectively over her stomach. It burned. Like the devil was licking her clean. Like the beast had found the place where sin disguises itself as an organ. Where the sacred turns profane.
This is filthy. She remembered Alicent screaming that.
She remembered waking up that morning, thirteen years old, blood in her panties. Alicent’s eyes had gone wide with terror. The priest came to the house to bless her. He’d sprinkled holy water across her room, her bed. She remembered standing naked in front of him, while her mother scrubbed her raw with a worn loofah that scratched like fingernails.
She would never forget that day.
Barefoot, she left the room. The hallway ahead felt even narrower. The white paint was turning beige. Crosses hung in every room, glinting in silver or gold—or carved in wood, half-devoured by termites. There weren’t many family photos. One here. Maybe two. Most of them from when they were babies. Clumsy, torn, dust gathering thick behind the glass.
She passed the other doors. There were three bedrooms, but only one she cared to enter. She paused in front of it. The largest.
Inside, she walked without sound. She approached the nightstand beside the bed. Dark wood. The sheets were stretched tight. The smell of cleaning product still lingered. She made sure it was always tidy—this one room, at least. The rest of the house could crumble into dust. But not this one.
The only photo there was of a girl on a balcony.
Red curls tangled in the wind. An orange dress vibrant against the light. Her smile was wide and blinding, her teeth aligned so perfectly it almost irritated Rowan. She looked like the sun. Even with the photo faded, the colours dulled with age, she still glowed.
Rowan touched the photo. Fingertips sliding over the outline. A paper-thin smile ghosted across her lips. It was rare. Barely visible. Not enough to crease her face. She saw no resemblance. She was too pale. No round features. No curls. Just hair so straight she couldn’t even use clips. Aegon was the only one who looked like her. So much so that when he dyed his hair red one summer, you could mistake them if you didn’t look twice. It didn’t last long. The red faded to pink and he shaved it all off.
It had been a fun summer.
“Good night, Mom.” She said it softly. Without weight. Not what she felt—she didn’t want to make her worry. Even if Alicent couldn’t hear her now.
Carefully she walks away, leaving the room behind. This time she pulls the door shut. Like it oughta be. They all knew better now—what could happen if they left 'em open. Wasn’t too long ago, some dumbass prank turned into four weeks of scrubbing red paint off the porch and scraping marker off the mailbox. “Freaks” in fat black Sharpie across the fence, along with a bunch of other shit. Some true, most just bullshit. Didn’t matter. What mattered was the mess they left behind.
Inside, the old radio was still going, barely a whisper. No one really listened anymore. Same tired choruses, same lyrics they used to hum along to back when they were little and Mama had folks over on Easter Sunday, the backyard filled with pleated khakis and dollar-store heels. No one gave a damn about the radio now, but they still left it on. Every night.
The hum of it got swallowed by the TV, and without even meaning to, her eyes locked on the figure slumped on the couch, leaned over the coffee table like something thrown. He was out cold, wearing light denim jeans so worn they looked soft, button undone, no shirt. His face was mashed into the glass tabletop, half-buried in the chalky white powder smeared across it. His long black hair, sweaty and stuck to his cheeks, looked like it’d been dragged through hell. His lips were parted, a thread of spit trailing out, collecting against the glass like foam.
He didn’t move. Not even the twitch he sometimes did when he dreamt. Eyes shut, lashes brushing against cheeks sharp enough to cut, like the pocket knife he always kept on him. She stepped closer, close enough to touch him now, and her hand trembled as it reached out, touching the icy ridge of his shoulder.
“Em,” she murmured, soft like she didn’t really mean to wake him. Like maybe she hoped he wouldn’t.
Nothing. Not even a grunt. Rowan’s pale blue eyes scanned his back, memorising the map of old scars and half-faded tattoos he’d inked himself. Some done with a sewing needle and Bic ink, others carved in with that same damn knife he used to peel oranges out on the stoop. They were messy, out of line, no symmetry. Just marks. There was a “He sees me” scrawled down his left ribs in crooked black. A lonely “2” near the waistband of his jeans. Just under his throat, barely visible, the words “don’t open.” And above the hip, in shaky Latin: Non soli sumus. He told her once it meant we are not alone. The letters looked like they’d been scratched in by a drunk—uneven, off-centre, rough.
“Aemond.” Her voice was firmer now, and this time his body twitched. A flinch in the arm, a stretch in the back.
His eyes didn’t open yet, but he was fighting it, barely. When he did, he looked past her—eyelids heavy, lashes stuck together, blinking against the TV light. She leaned in, and the scent hit her hard. Sweat, beer, something sour clinging to him like fog. Her heart felt like it slowed, her shoulders dropping as both hands braced on his frame.
“Come on,” she said, voice low against his ear, “I’m gettin’ you in the tub.”
He blinked slow, sluggish from the coke and whatever else was still swimming through his system. The pounding in his skull lit up the back of his eyes like headlights, and the flicker from the TV felt like a bomb going off in his ears. He groaned, a low, ugly sound—his stomach turning on itself, spine nearly folded in half. Food was out of the question. Just the thought of it made his gut lurch again. He looked like a sulky, fucked-up kid—not the angry bastard everyone else knew.
With her arm under his, she helped him up, dragging half his weight into her own body. Everything around him swam. The walls, the couch, her voice—it all blurred into this warm, sick noise. He slumped over her, deadweight. If Rowan wasn’t used to this shit, he would’ve taken them both down. But her feet held. She didn’t let him fall.
“Don’t be a pussy,” she hissed, breathing hard under his weight, one shoulder pushing under his arm. “Get your feet under you.”
He tried. Stumbled first, then caught himself. One foot. Then the other. Like she was teachin’ him how to walk all over again. It took all they had to get to the bathroom door. Only then did his eyes open wide enough to see her beside him. He was dripping sweat, face tight, trying not to just give in and hit the floor. His lips were pressed together, annoyed, ashamed. She looked like hell too. No, she didn't. She looked damn beautiful.
It should’ve been the other way. He was the big brother. He was supposed to be the one dragging her home from some busted party, fists ready, jacket thrown over her shoulders. He was supposed to be the solid one. But instead, he was just a heap of soaked denim and old pain, stinking of beer and regret.
His throat burned. It felt like swallowing gravel, like every bad thing he’d ever done was sitting at the top of his gut. He couldn’t remember picking up the coke. Couldn’t remember buying the beers. But he remembered the taste. Could still feel it coating his tongue. Just like the cigarettes he hated. Hated the smell. Hated the taste. Made his stomach twist and the hair on his neck stand up.
The bathroom was another climb. But they got there. She left him by the tub, moving to twist the faucet, water thundering down. She didn’t see his eyes as they caught the shadow on her face now—bruising. Her jaw. A deeper blue on her cheek.
He froze.
His gut clenched. He swayed, then dropped to his knees. She turned too late.
“Aem—”
But he was already over the toilet. Hands braced on the rim. Vomiting with such force it echoed off the walls. Beer and bile and whatever else came up in waves. Choking, coughing, gagging. Rowan knelt beside him, fingers in his hair, trying to keep him steady, trying to keep him from drowning in himself.
He wasn’t even thinking anymore, not about anything but the fire in his throat and the heat crawling under his skin. His whole body shook, like it wanted to shake itself out of its own bones.
"It's okay," she whispered, close to his ear, calm and steady, even when the stench curled around them. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t step back. Didn’t leave.
She watches him. Watches how his ribs pull in close like he’s folding in on himself, how there’s nothing left in his gut, how his lips part like they’re trying to say something—maybe cry something out—but he’s bone-dry. Doesn’t mean the feeling’s gone, no. That disgust is still in him, chewing him up same as the acid on his teeth. His whole body’s tense, bent like a scared cat, pushing like there’s more to give. But there ain’t. Not anymore.
“It’s alright,” his sister whispers again, pressing her body into his from behind, chin resting lightly on his head. “You’re alright. You’re okay.” She holds on like she means it, arms looped tight around his shoulders.
He tries to breathe. His hands come up and clamp around her arm, like he’s trying to anchor himself, like he needs to trap her there so she won’t slip away. Eyes closed, back still curving like something in him’s too tight, like even his bones are trying to shift loose. And through all that, she keeps whispering into his ear, over and over. That it’s fine. That he’s safe. That he’s here. And maybe it works. A little. Even if it takes time. Even if it feels endless.
Getting him up from the bathroom floor took more than it had in the living room. She didn’t let go, not once. Didn’t even move to flush the mess. Let it sit there, rot and all. They just stayed like that, his hand wrapped firm around her arm. She led him gently to the tub, stopped only to grab both sides of his waistband. Paused. He looked down at her with half-lidded eyes, chest rising hard. No point waiting, not while he was rocking like that.
She looked away when she pulled his jeans down, careful to bring his underwear too. Hands on her shoulders, Aemond stepped out of them. The air bit cold on his skin, hair on his legs standing up. His stomach clenched again—tighter, if that was even possible. They didn’t look at each other. Didn’t speak. He stepped into the tub and sank down without a word.
“Careful,” the youngest muttered, kneeling beside the tub, her body aching in places still sore. But she didn’t care.
Aemond just let out a breath, long and hard, like everything in the world had landed square on his shoulders. The water wasn’t hot. Wasn’t cold either. Just enough. Enough to clean him. Enough to keep him from turning blue. She grabbed the soft sponge off the rim and started with the side of his neck, watching the water run dark as it slid down.
No matter how slow she went, how gentle—he wouldn’t ease. Couldn’t. He leaned back, head against the tiled wall, eyes gone distant. When Rowan looked into them, it was like he wasn’t there. Like he didn’t see her, didn’t feel the sponge sliding down to his shoulder, didn’t notice the ends of his hair soaking into the water. Nothing.
She brushed some of his tangled black strands off one shoulder. That’s when she saw it—dried blood. Like crusted mud, thick and stuck to the skin. Something she hadn’t noticed before.
“What is it?” she asked, voice low. He didn’t answer. Didn’t even flinch.
She ran the sponge over it anyway, watched the blood melt into the water, dark red slipping down his chest, curling through the tub. It’s fine, she told herself. Everything’s stained in this house anyway. The more she wiped, the more the shape came through—an open wound, fresh. Or fresh enough. Something she couldn’t quite figure out.
“Did you do this?” she tried again, hoping maybe her voice would fill the silence. “It’s new, huh?” Rowan had learned to just say things out loud now. It’s not like he ever explained anything.
Aemond turned his face away. But now she could see clearer. And it looked less like something had cut him and more like his skin was tearing open from the inside out. Too raw to make sense of. But she would. Eventually. He always showed up with something new. His pale skin never stayed clean for long. Little red lines, dots, scrapes—they were just part of the routine.
She set the sponge aside and grabbed the thin bar of soap. They’d need more soon. They’d probably hit the Fiesta Mart or the corner store later this week, maybe. It’d been three weeks since Hel or Aegon had shown up. Usually, they came around. They’d sit on the porch, quiet for a while, before handing her a wad of bills thicker than her fist. Always to her. Never to Aemond. They didn’t trust him with it. Not after last time. She never asked where the money came from. Not since they’d moved houses. Hel and Aegon had their own shit going on. Still cared, though. Maybe too much.
“I was thinking about going to see Mom.” The words came quiet, but the way Aemond snapped his eyes to her made it feel like she’d shouted them.
She felt the tension spike under her hand, moving across his chest like fire. The soap still worked, even if it didn’t smell like much. His eyes—those pale, glassy eyes—just stared at her. Not blinking. Not looking away. Like he could punch holes through her with just that.
“You don’t gotta come,” she added. Figured that part was obvious by now.
But that sentence didn’t help—it didn’t make anything better. It didn’t matter if she didn’t want him to come, if he didn’t have to. She was going, and he would watch, like always, as she came back shaking. Sometimes so disturbed she couldn’t sleep for days, whispering the same words their mother once painted across the walls. The torment would start again, as if it had never ended. There’d be no escape. And eventually, the anger would wake up. And it would win. Again.
He braced his hands on the rim of the tub and rose slowly. Rowan let her hand drop, hollow in its defeat. She knew what bringing her up always did to him—sent him further away. As if he weren’t already halfway gone.
“Em,” she tried, quiet and broken. But it was no use. The damage was done.
He stepped out, naked and unbothered, and reached above her for the towel as though she weren’t even there. And Rowan didn’t move, not an inch, not until he’d already walked away—leaving a trail of water on the floor, disappearing through the door like a ghost.
She shouldn’t have said anything, the voice in her head scolded. But if she hadn’t warned him, she wouldn’t have made it out of that house at all. Rowan knew what she was doing—what she was asking of him, and what she was risking. But she was still their mother, wasn’t she? How could a child turn her back on the woman who birthed her? It would be like air leaving a room. Like purpose abandoning the lost..
"For I acknowledge my transgressions: and my sin is ever before me.”
It didn’t look like the rain would stop—at least, not from what Rowan could see through the window. The droplets slid down the glass, making almost-patterns, and the rickety ceiling made the thunder sound four times louder than it was, as if it echoed from inside the walls rather than outside them. There were a few leaks, but nothing too serious. Just enough to dampen a corner of the new lilac sheets she’d laid on the bed, or drip down the wood and onto one of the crosses nailed to the wall.
Her feet were pulled up close, head resting against the glass. The streetlamps outside gave the room what little light it had. Aemond’s breathing was soft behind her. She’d decided to let him sleep after all—and that’s what she did. She just sat there and watched. Watched him lie facedown, buried in the pillow like he was trying to shut out the world, even with his eyes already closed. He hadn’t pulled the covers over himself, though the cold had begun to raise goosebumps on his arms. Still, he didn’t seem to mind.
The youngest one turned her gaze from the storm and the half-toppled trees outside to look at him. Or rather, at the faint shape of him. Just a sliver of pale skin revealed each time the lightning flashed. Her arms tightened around her knees, drawing them in. Her thoughts spilt and stained like the puddles she knew would be waiting for her come morning.
He looked peaceful now. More than he usually did. Relaxed—even though he never truly was when she was around. For a long time, she’d believed he never would be. Not as things kept spiralling. Not with the way she always found him: face down in the coke, so high he could barely move. With a needle in his arm and veins bulging purple like bones beneath the skin. The times she had to carry him out, soaked in vomit, in piss. The times she’d stitched up his wrists herself because he refused to set foot in a hospital. The times she shoved her fingers down his throat just to make him throw up the handfuls of mummy pills he’d nicked from some forgotten drawer.
And still… she was glad he needed her. As twisted as that was. As exhausting. She shouldn’t want that. Shouldn’t crave being someone’s last resort. Shouldn’t need to watch someone sink just so she could drag them back up. But she felt it—in her stomach, in her chest, in the ache behind her knees after dragging him across the floor. She wanted to be a necessity.
Her bare feet hit the floor as she all but crawled into bed, slow and clumsy as if even that was too much to ask of her tonight. The mattress had long since gone cold, but it was the warmest place left, and she let herself sink beside him. She lay on her side, watching the mess of black hair against white linen. One leg slipped over his hips, her arms folded tight. Her face pressed close, trying to disappear between the strands of his hair and the sharp jut of his shoulder.
Sleep didn’t come. It never did—not easily, not naturally, and not when the cold clung to her like it did now. Not when the pain that had always lived inside her suddenly vanished, leaving only its absence. A hole. She let out a heavy sigh, and it spilled directly against her brother’s neck.
Or so she thought.
He wasn’t asleep. Not anymore. He hadn’t been since the moment the mattress dipped under her weight. But he didn’t move. Not straight away. Instead, Aemond turned his face slowly towards hers, and suddenly, they were eye to eye. Breath to breath.
And then the rhythm began. That familiar, sick tempo that started low and always climbed. Like their blood remembered something they weren’t supposed to. Like it craved to be closer than it had a right to be. And even thinking that—just thinking it—should’ve sent them both straight to hell.
But maybe that’s where they already were. And maybe, just maybe, that’s exactly what they thought they deserved.
A knot tightens in their guts, but it doesn’t stop her hand from reaching up to the nape of his neck, fingers weaving through his hair, though the older brother just stands there, letting it happen. He stays stock-still as his sister’s fingers glide along his jaw, tracing his face with invisible lines. Her index finger presses between his brows, then slides down the sharp bridge of his nose, lingering at the tip, studying a shape she knows by heart. Her eyes fix on it, as if it could sear into her vision as fiercely as the forbidden heat burning between her thighs. She knows there’s no absolution here, only reckoning.
Her delicate hand drifts to his chin, cradling it between her index finger and thumb, and Rowan wishes the room had a bit more light, just to see it clearly. To catch his eyes, though she doubts they’d show much feeling—likely they wouldn’t. It’s only when her thumb dares to brush across Aemond’s lower lip that his hand rises, wrapping gently around her wrist—not rough, not enough to leave a mark—and she yields to it. Slowly, he guides her hand away from his face, like a quiet refusal.
But it wasn’t. It never could be. And that’s his shame. One of many.
Their bodies move like a slow dance, practiced and deliberate, as she lies back and he shifts above her, settling between her legs. Everything’s unhurried, almost serene, from the soft rhythm of his breath against the younger girl’s face to his hands bracing on either side of her head. Rowan's legs rise, her feet sliding along his waist and thighs, urging him closer. Her hands find his shoulders, and despite the tension, despite the guilt weighing heavy in his chest, he leans in. But he doesn’t claim her lips—no, he can’t.
His nose brushes against her cotton nightgown, fresh from the wash and carrying the familiar scent of the same detergent as the Sunday suit he wore as a boy, drinking it in like a long-lost memory. His hands move to her slender thighs, his touch light, unsteady. His fingers are chilled, trembling even as they part her thighs to make room for himself, even as he breathes in the desire that clings to the edge of the younger girl’s panties.
His eyes stay fixed downward, never meeting hers, not even when her breath shakes, when her fingers weave into his hair, pulling him closer, refusing to let even an inch come between them. His guilt runs deep, but her want burns hotter. With those same unsteady hands, Aemond tugs her nightgown up until it bunches messily at her hips, revealing her panties with that small, telling stain. The sight makes his lips twitch.
The thin cotton of her panties isn’t pulled off; Aemond’s fingers just nudge them aside, enough to free the slick warmth that barely has a moment to breathe before his lips claim it, swallowing her almost entirely. Rowan’s back arches off the bed, eyes squeezed shut, the muffled sound of Aemond against her core making her toes curl against the sheets.
“Don’t stop,” she says, the words slipping out without a trace of shame, her voice carrying a weight that doesn’t match his own.
Aemond’s too caught up to dwell on it, his mind and mouth both fully pretty occupied. His tongue moves over her as best he knows how—side to side, circling from her entrance to her clit. No one taught him this; it’s just him imagining the taste of ripe, fresh fruit. He’s only learned to trace her curves with the tip of his tongue, finding the spots that feel like they’d damn him the most if he lingered too long, like Eve biting into forbidden fruit.
Sweat clings to their skin, soaking into the sheets and dampening their clothes. The older man’s arousal strains against the loose sweatpants he wore for the night, twitching each time his sister’s hips buck against the bed, grinding into his face and smearing her forbidden taste from his cheeks to his chin. Still, he’s there, gasping, drowning in it. His hands grip the sheets, sweat tracing a single line down his spine, matting the dark strands of hair to his forehead and cheek, sometimes catching between his lips and the rhythm of his tongue. But he doesn’t pause to brush them away.
Rowan’s movements grow wilder, like she’s trying to pull him under, and he lets her. One of her hands buries itself in the back of his neck, the other clawing at the pillow beneath her head, nails digging in to ground the overwhelming sensation. Her legs clamp around Aemond’s head, hips rocking up and down against the bed, her grip in his nape keeping him locked in place, not giving him a second to pull away.
Aemond’s hips can’t handle the strain, and they start grinding against the bed, chasing friction. His eyes squeeze shut tighter, low groans rumbling from his throat—sounds he rarely lets out—vibrating against Rowan’s skin. While his gaze stays fixed away from her, hers is locked on him, drinking in how wrong it feels to watch him rut against the bed they share, desperate, driven by the taste of her coating his lips, sliding down his throat with every swallow.
Her hand slips from the back of his neck to the mattress, both palms pressing into the bed, elbows propping her up just enough to see him. She wants him to look at her, to open his eyes and notice the flush on her cheeks, the sweat trailing down her neck, her parted lips—all because of what he’s doing to her. But he won’t, and she knows it. He can’t face it.
Soon, it’s all too much—the stifling heat of the room, the building pressure. Aemond’s tongue moves sloppier, lost in the mix of his own spit and Rowan’s slickness spilling everywhere. His hips press harder into the bed, making the frame creak, the sound blending with the wet noises of his mouth between her legs.
“Fuck…” the girl mutters, her muscles starting to tense. Her hands clutch the sheets beneath her. “Fuck, I’m coming.” The words are filthy. Filthy like her, filthy like this house.
Aemond shouldn’t hear it, shouldn’t. Tears well in his eyes, blending into the mess of spit and juices smeared across his face. Rowan’s head falls back, hips bucking one last time as her thighs shake. The sweet and salty mix of her release and his tears floods his mouth as he takes everything she gives, her soft moans echoing off the walls, drowned out by the storm raging outside.
It’s not enough to stop his body from betraying him again. The taste, the friction—it’s too much, and Aemond spills into his sweatpants, pressing harder against the bed, lips still parted over the pulsing flesh between his sister’s thighs. His brows knit together, the damage already done.
The older collapses onto the bed, limp, but it doesn’t last. Aemond bolts upright, chest heaving, drenched in sweat, as if ants are crawling under his skin. Rowan wants to protest, but her tongue’s still heavy in her mouth. Aemond’s eyes drop to the wet stain on his pants, proof of what happened again. He can’t stand to look at it. His mouth turns bitter.
Before she can react, he yanks the blanket over her hips, hiding that damned, tempting sight. Her body trembles from head to toe, and when Rowan lifts her head, she sees it’s not just his chin that’s glistening—his eyes are wet too. The tears haven’t stopped.
“Brother—” she tries to say, voice thick with heavy breaths, but it’s too late, just like earlier.
Like a twister, he storms out, leaving her there, unable to bear the weight of it any longer, not even for a breath. He needs to scrub himself clean, to sink into that tub and pray—not to God, exactly. His skin feels like it’s crawling with roaches, unbearable little things skittering over his arms and legs, and they won’t leave.
They never do. They’re in his mind, on his tongue, in his soul. He can’t take it. He wants to say he hates her now, that he wishes her neck would snap in two. But deep down, he knows it’s himself he hates.
Rowan stays quiet, doesn’t chase after him—she knows better. The silence settles as she lies there, staring at the ceiling, legs still twitching. The sound of bathwater running and the door slamming shut fills her ears.
She sighs, eyes fluttering closed. She knows better than to wait for him to come back. He won’t, not until he feels his skin is clean. But it isn’t. And it never will be again.
you guys cannot be this dense, seriously. stop sharing photos that were clearly dug up by stalkers, people with actual problems. there’s a line, and it’s being crossed. ewan is extremely private, always has been. why are you spreading private photos of him as a minor? what’s the excuse “oh but it’s already on pinterest”? whoa, stellar logic. let’s try using some common sense and basic decency, yeah? his work is public. his life is not. if you can’t understand that, maybe fandom spaces aren’t for you
Summary: On Christmas Eve, Michael found himself alone, stuck in the quiet of his room, with no invitation to the Christmas party that everyone else was attending. He tried to distract himself, dive into something—anything—to kill the time. But it would’ve been easier if your arrogant, fucking beautiful face didn’t keep invading his thoughts.
Warnings: This will be Michael Gavey alone and bursting with need. Solo masturbation, nipple teasing, choking, whimpering, loud moaning, dirty talking.
By now, Michael swears he can see the letters burned onto the backs of his eyelids, etched onto the scratched lenses of his glasses. He’s been reading, re-reading, poring over the same pages for what feels like hours—not out of necessity, but out of sheer, exquisite boredom. Studying is beneath him; he doesn’t need it, not like the pathetic little plebs cluttering up Oxford’s hallowed halls. Especially not the ones fawning over Felix at tonight’s insipid Christmas party.
Not that Michael was invited, of course. NFI—no fucking invite. But who cares? Honestly, the idea of enduring that brain-dead circus of undercooked intellects is enough to make him laugh. Felix and his preening flock of hangers-on, spilling cheap wine and flinging around half-baked opinions as if they’re profound insights—God, it’s all so unbearably tedious.
Michael knows better. He's smarter than all of them combined. He doesn’t need their pathetic approval or their pitiful attempts at camaraderie. He's better than this. Smarter than this. And frankly, he knows it.
But even geniuses have their weak spots—turns out, he’s still human after all. The real issue? That old adage about idle hands being the devil’s workshop might as well have been written for him. And in his case, the devil wasn't some abstract concept—it was you. Yes, you. That insufferable, magnetic little thorn on its side, always lurking just out of reach. He couldn’t shake you—not in the university hallways, and apparently not in the supposed sanctity of his dorm room either.
What the fuck is your problem, anyway?
He’d clocked you from the start. And no, it wasn't because of your perfect face, or your body that made his stomach twist in ways he'd rather not name. It wasn't your eyes, either—though they had a way of locking onto him, melting his resolve with the precision of a surgeon. Nor was it how you always looked a little undone when you showed up late, messy but effortlessly captivating, like you weren't even trying. And it certainly wasn't the rare times you smiled—God, that smile—that fucking gorgeous, infuriating smile that seemed to light up the entire room and derail every coherent thought in his head.
Although, if he’s honest, he’s got a sneaking suspicion all of those things had more to do with it than he’d like to admit.
It was the way you were good. Not just good, but obnoxiously good. The kind of good that felt like a personal affront. You always seemed to know the answers before the question had fully left the teacher's mouth, every word perched smugly on the edge of your tongue, just waiting for the perfect moment to make everyone else in the room feel like an idiot. You weren’t mediocre—not in your looks, and certainly not in your intellect. And it drove him mad.
It wasn't a passing irritation, either. It burned. Deep. It clawed at him that there was nothing he could label you—no snide insult to fling your way. Idiot? Hardly. Loser? Not a chance. He couldn't even resort to the old “stupid, spoiled rich girl” trope, because like him, you were a scholarship student. No silver spoon. No trust fund.
There was nothing. Not a single flaw for him to latch onto. And that—more than anything else—infuriated him.
It was irritating him now—gnawing at him, scratching under his skin—until he threw the book back onto the wobbly table in front of him with a sharp slap of paper against wood. He let himself pause, tilting his head back and closing his eyes, feeling the ache of his body sink into the uncomfortable chair. His hand drifted to his face, thumb and index finger pinching the bridge of his nose as if he could squeeze out the tension gathered from hours of relentless reading. The release was brief—his hand dropped back to his lap with an exhale that was equal parts exhaustion and frustration.
And, of course, his mind began to wander. It always did.
He could still remember the only real interaction he’d had with you—back in those first few weeks after you’d arrived. Something stupid, trivial, forgettable. Except not for him. His brain, that obstinate bastard, clung to it like a dog with a bone.
The hallways had been chaos that morning, teeming with bodies and noise. Probably Felix and his band of sycophants stirring up their usual mess. He'd been trying to slip through, and apparently, so had you. He hadn’t even noticed he was behind you until it was too late.
The memory alone made his chest tighten. The smell of your hair, warm and clean, had hit him first, flooding his senses. Then the heat radiating from you, so alive it was almost unbearable. And finally, the proximity—too close, close enough to make his pulse hammer.
He’d had to touch you, his hands finding your hips without a second thought as he maneuvered past. “Excuse me,” he’d murmured, low and quiet, just beside your ear. And then your eyes—those fucking eyes—turned to his, locking onto him with an intensity that nearly stopped him in his tracks.
He remembers how, in that fleeting, charged moment, your bodies pressed closer together as he tried to move past you. How his hand lingered on your hips just a second too long, how your warmth seeped into him like some addictive, forbidden drug. And then, as he finally squeezed by, your hips brushed against his.
Holy shit!
The contact felt a jolt straight through him, lighting up every delicious, traitorous nerve in his body.
Michael bit his lip, the memory still fresh and alive, thrumming through his body like a pulse he couldn’t control. It was pathetic, he knew that. Laughable, even. And yet, there it was—the way it made him feel then, the way it was making him feel now. His gaze dropped, and he caught sight of himself: the loose black shorts he’d thrown on for the night already tented, his shirtless torso rising and falling with heavy, uneven breaths. The bridge of his glasses slid slightly down his nose, slick with sweat.
He could hardly believe it, how turned on he really was—how something so fleeting had embedded itself in him like this.
A low, involuntary sound escaped his lips as his head fell back again, resting against the edge of the chair. His hips shifted weakly, thrusting upwards in a desperate, almost instinctive rhythm, finding nothing but empty air. Torturous. Completely maddening. His fingers gripped the arms of the chair with white-knuckled determination, keeping himself grounded, holding back from giving in entirely.
No, not yet. He wanted to make it last, draw it out, at least for this fleeting moment. Since you were already so deeply in his fucking head, he might as well let himself indulge in it.
Slowly, so achingly slow, he let his hands drift from the arms of the chair, sliding up over his body. His fingers brushed against the flat of his stomach, gliding up to his chest, his touch igniting a shiver that made his back arch instinctively. Every inch of his skin felt alive, buzzing under his fingertips, alight with sensation.
And then you were there again, haunting him. He could see your hands in his mind—how effortlessly you wrote, quick and precise, how sometimes you’d press a fingertip to your lips to wet it before flipping to the next page. The memory crawled over him like fire, his skin burning with the thought of you, your face painted vividly behind his closed eyelids. Every inch of you felt so close, tantalisingly within reach—if only in the merciless confines of his imagination.
His fingers found his nipples, hardened and aching, and he rolled them between his thumb and forefinger, a shock of pleasure coursing through him. His hips lifted sharply, pressing against the frustrating barrier of his shorts, seeking some kind of release. A low, slurred groan escaped him, unrestrained, sweat dripping from his temple as his mind spun with thoughts of your smile—wicked and teasing—and your teeth, perfect and dangerous, that he was certain would leave marks he’d never want to forget.
Fuck. It was too much, all of it. Too much and not enough.
"Fuck, I'm so hard," Michael mumbled to himself, the words slipping out into the emptiness of the room, perhaps picturing how you'd react if you knew how much he was aching for you.
His hand finally ventures down, sliding under his clothes to free his erection into the cool air. He gazes at the precum beading at the tip, a clear sign of his arousal, almost laughing at how insanely turned on he is by the mere thought of you. A smile curves his lips, followed by a quiet chuckle. He's so wound up, it's almost absurd. With his thumb, he begins to circle the sensitive head of his cock.
"Oh, yeah," Michael whispers again, his lips parting, eyebrows knitting together as waves of pleasure wash over him. "Yeah, yeah, that feels so good." His words fade into the air, his other hand still on his chest, giving the nipple a sharp twist, heightening his sensations.
His breathing becomes labored, the pleasure intense yet unfulfilling. He craved you, only you. His hand moved to his mouth, thumb slipping between his lips, tasting himself, a moan echoing from deep within as he fantasized it was your essence he was savoring. He longed for the taste of your pussy, to dive between your legs with abandon, to explore every inch of that perfect cunt he imagined you possessing. The thought of you riding his face, using him for your pleasure, made his desire spike to new heights. He wanted to be the one to make you shudder, to feel your thighs clamp around his head as you took what you needed from him.
Withdrawing his hand from his mouth, he spits into his palm, the saliva making his hand slick, ready to simulate the wetness he'd bring out in you. His fingers then wrap around his erection, eyes rolling back as his hand grips him at the base, a silent moan parting his lips.
"Oh fuck," he murmurs, overwhelmed by the sensation, the throbbing of his cock almost punitive in its intensity.
Taking a deep breath, he begins to stroke himself, his other hand gripping the arm of the chair, nails digging into the fabric. His hips buck in rhythm with his hand, up and down, the mental image of you vivid in his mind. He imagines how snug you'd feel around him, how it would feel to stretch you with his thickness, to dive deep and watch your expression shift from clever to needy. Would you take all of him without protest? Would your moans fill the room? Would tears of pleasure brim in your eyes for him? Just the thought sends tremors through his legs.
"You're so tight," he vocalizes, not fully understanding why he's speaking it aloud, but needing to make the fantasy more concrete. "You little smug bitch, I want to fuck you so bad, so bad..." he repeats, almost like a mantra.
His hand accelerates, the pace frantic as he watches, his gaze fixed on his own arousal. His cock, slick with saliva and precum, is a mess, the head engorged, veins protruding like they're about to explode. He imagines himself thrusting into you, coated in your essence, shining with your desire. His chest is covered in sweat, his legs trembling, his toes curling in ecstasy.
"Oh fuck, I need you, please," he begs, as if by some divine intervention, you'd hear and materialize right there. "Please, please make me cum, please..." His plea, though soft, reverberates around him.
The hand that was clutching the chair moves to his throat, his grip tightening, a statement of need. He imagines it's your hand, while you ride him, those perfect breasts bouncing before his eyes. He craves the suffocation, the breath taken away by you and your sharp mind. His fingers press harder into his throat, moans escaping as muffled sounds, his other hand now punishingly fast, the veins in his forearm standing out with the effort.
"I'm cumming, fuck..." He cuts off his own words, his grip on his throat tightening further, not allowing his hand on his cock to slow. "Cum with me, fuck!" The words are barely audible as his body surrenders to the climax.
His eyes roll back, and he quickly moves the hand from his throat to cover his mouth, muffling the scream of pleasure as his release hits, cum spilling onto his stomach, his thighs clenching in desperation, his whole body tense with the image of you in his mind. Everything fades into numbness, except for the vivid image of you, the thought of fucking you.
Michael’s body slackened in the chair, sliding lower as his arms fell limp at his sides. His head tipped back, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion. When he glanced down, he saw the mess he’d made—his stomach sticky, his skin glistening with sweat, strands of hair plastered to his damp forehead. He was a wreck, a pathetic disaster, and all for someone who would never know.
A stupid grin crept onto his lips as his eyes wandered to the ceiling, a long, heavy sigh leaving his chest.
“I hate you so much,” he murmured to the empty room, his voice barely audible. A part of him almost wished you could hear it, wherever you were right now. Then again, maybe it was better if you didn’t.
A low chuckle rumbled from his chest, his head shaking faintly from side to side as that ridiculous smile lingered. Yeah, he hated you. Hated the way you got under his skin, the way you took up space in his thoughts without even trying. But, God help him, he should probably thank you—for making Christmas Eve marginally more interesting than the stale, lifeless pages of his books.
Summary: The lines tangle tighter, pulling you and Aemond into something neither of you can fully control—something that could cost you everything. But in the end, none of it matters. Not if the pain fades into something you can stomach. Not if you can tell yourself it’s worth it. Even if he leaves you in ruins, painted in black and blue.
Warnings: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT. Oral sex, violence, mention of illegal activities, incest, dub-consent, aggression, degradation, mention of blood, childhood trauma, mention of attempted suicide.
The mornings were fucking hell. Shafts of light pierced through every crack, heating up the room that was already suffocating with the windows closed tightly. You'd learned better than to leave them open, or anything else, for that matter. One slip and it was over—whether it was the cops or the worst of the fucking dragnet. Who wanted your head more at this point? Hard to say. Aemond wasn't making it any easier, carving his own path through this mess. The blood was heavy on your side, stained deep under your nails, but his? Worse. At this point, it was hard to tell. The chipped black polish on his nails was the only dead giveaway.
Aemond used to grunt in his sleep, tossing and turning, his restless movements making the bed feel like a battlefield. Meanwhile, you were as still as a statue beside him, and he couldn't help but wonder how the hell you managed it. But today? Today was different. He woke up without the usual weight of a hangover, his eyes snapping open, the light cutting through the room like a blade. His hand instinctively found his face, rubbing his eyes in an attempt to shake off the drowsiness, but it was futile. Some mornings, he just wanted a shock straight to the skull—anything to wake him up fully and get rid of that corpse-like heaviness dragging at his bones.
Rolling over, his gaze landed on you, as always. Lying on your side, eyes closed, still wrapped up in the sleep-induced haze. He knew you wouldn't wake up now, not with the crap you shoved down your throat every night just to knock yourself out. It was the usual routine. Him waking up first, having to shower alone, eating alone—shit, he didn’t even get to share the fucking morning with you. It pissed him off, made him want to pinch you from head to toe just to see if you'd stir, maybe open those damn eyes and remind him that you were still here. Still fucking human. Still present.
But he didn't move, not yet. Instead, he just watched you, lying there so still, almost serene. Usually, you were a pain in the ass—your tongue sharp, always quick with a retort, too fast for your own good. But like this? Like this, you were calm, a whole different side of you that made his gaze linger longer than it should. It was almost unsettling how peaceful you looked, and he couldn't shake the thought of how fucking strange it was to see you this way.
It was like those beaches he’d seen in pictures, the ones with the waters so blue they looked almost unreal, like a fucking dream. On a hot day, you'd dive in without thinking, wanting to swim every inch of that vast, sparkling expand until your body ached and your lungs burned. But there was always a little sign, tucked away just out of sight, warning you: beware sharks. And even if it looked inviting, even if every instinct screamed at you to dive in, you knew better. One wrong move, and those sharks would rip you to shreds before you could even get tired.
Yet, the thought of being devoured, of sinking into that cold embrace, was oddly tempting. The idea of being consumed by you, torn apart and remade—yeah, that sounded fucking good to him. Almost too good.
Aemond's breath escaped him in a heavy sigh, as if exhaling his thoughts right along with the air, the weight of them pressing on him like an invisible burden. He tore his gaze away from you, reluctantly letting the stillness of your form fade from his view. With a sluggish movement, he sat up, his body protesting the action with every subtle shift. His muscles felt like they were made of stone, every tiny movement pulling at something inside him, making him ache. He glanced around the room to make sure everything was where it should be—nothing out of place. The blue light still bathed the walls in its soft glow, although it lacked the same intensity it had at night.
He stretched, hoping to shake off the lingering heaviness of sleep, but it only worked halfway, leaving a faint ache in its place. His eyes found you again, just from the corner.
Fuck this. Fuck you, he thought.
His gaze, whether he intended it or not, traced the contours of your body. The curve of your hips barely concealed by your panties, your torso only covered by a sheer white tank top, your breasts almost visible, your nipples subtly outlined, calling to him, even if unknowingly. Your body always beckons to him, regardless of the situation, the mood, or the moment. Every woman has an itch, and he knows yours is him. There's no other explanation, and he wouldn't accept any alternative.
His body moved as if he was being called by a siren. The not-so-gentle hands turned your body so you were lying on your back and giving him a better view. You groaned softly, but didn't really wake up. Your body, swallowed by heaviness and sleep, too heavy to actually do anything. Vulnerable, open. Everything Aemond likes, everything he wants. Like a fucking leech, or maggots crawling on dead flesh feeding on what's left of a life, he feeds on these moments. Control, pure and raw. Over everything, over you.
His fingers clawed at your legs, dragging himself across the bed like a really silently predator stalking its prey until he was nestled between your spread thighs, squatting on his heels. His fingers, cold and unyielding, scraped down your thighs, seizing your ankles with a tight grip. He dragged them, forcing your feet to frame his body on the bed, keeping your legs wrenched apart, exposing you. You were so fucking malleable under his hands, like he could take you apart and put you back together however the fuck he wanted, twist your body into any perverse shape his dark mind conjured. And he loved it, loved how you were his to corrupt.
"I'm hungry," he murmurs, the words dripping with that familiar, chilling tone. You've heard it before, countless times, in various contexts, knowing damn well what it means when he says it like that. It's not about food.
He fucking knows you remember, too. The times when there was no food, or when dad, that piece of shit, would beat you until you were sick. The leather belt, the shine of the silver buckle in the dim light, always after a meal, when your stomachs were full. And on your knees, he’d beat you until vomit painted the floor, until there was nothing left but the acrid taste of bile. He remembers that bastard's smile, how he'd grab him by the hair, forcing his face into the mess he'd made. He remembers the shaking, the pain, the hunger that followed. He remembers you.
Like a fucking feast, like you are now.
His fingers slithered over your skin, their tips sneaking under your tank top, feeling the fabric’s edge. He watched as goosebumps erupted across your thighs, your body betraying its response to his touch. Like it always fucking does. When his hunger was palpable, it didn't matter if your eyes were wide open or shut tight, if your mind was with him or lost in some dark dreamscape behind those lids. He'd always been this way, and you? You'd always allowed it. Ever since before that son of a bitch's death, when he first felt you wrapped around him, when you heard him jerking off to thoughts of you at night, whimpering into your ear, his hips grinding against you. You'd always let him because you want him; you fucking need him.
And you'll get it. You bet your ass you will.
His fingers ascend, dragging the fabric of your shirt with them, baring your breasts to his ravenous gaze. At the mere sight of your skin, his mouth waters. Your head turns aside on the pillow, a low moan escaping you. You feel the heat spreading through your torso, warm and alive. His fingers then travel down to your panties, hooking his thumbs into the waistband and slowly dragging them down your thighs, letting them fall to the floor. His eyes lock onto your pussy, so fucking perfect for him. Always so fucking perfect, so good. How in hell could something this delectable even exist?
"I'm hungry," Aemond murmured again, his teeth grazing his lower lip as he visually consumed your intimate space, as if he hadn't already memorized every inch with his own senses.
He lowers himself, almost flattening against the bed, his long fingers digging into the meat of your thighs. He takes a moment to savor the view from this angle, your little cunt in his face, his gaze traveling up past your breasts to your face, turned away, lips parted, teeth just visible. So fucking beautiful, it makes him want to rip your face to shreds with his bare hands, to create chasms with his teeth, to chew on the pieces. He could do it, he wants to do it. But somewhere deep down, he knows that even if your flesh were torn apart, you'd still be this oppressive tightness in his chest. And he fucking hates it.
"And you're going to feed me, aren't you?" he whispers against your skin, his breath hot as it fans over your heat, noticing the slight twitch of your leg beside his head, but nothing more.
His tongue extends from your entrance to your clit, dragging up to your lower stomach, the sensation of his warm tongue unmistakable even through the haze of your disjointed thoughts, the weight of your limbs anchoring you to the bed. His lips return with increased urgency, one hand gripping your thigh, pulling it to his mouth, his teeth sinking into the skin of your inner thigh, while the other hand rises to grab one of your breasts, his fingertips pressing into the flesh. Your breath quickens, your chest rising and falling with mounting intensity.
His tongue traced a path down your inner thigh before making its way back to your core, not wasting time before delving in. It rolled between your folds, coating them with his saliva. As his tongue danced over your entrance again, the taste of your arousal hit him, eliciting a moan from deep within. Your body responded to every touch, tightening, a dim light seeping through your closed eyelids, though the two purple pills you'd ingested the night before made full consciousness elusive, your reactions slowed, your desires muted.
"You're getting all wet for me, little dove," he murmured, his voice low, muffled by your pussy, with no intention of pulling away to speak further. "Dirty girl, I should rip your throat open for this." A growl rumbled from him, his eyes closing as he sank deeper, his entire being focused on the sensations his mouth was exploring, leaving all his senses tethered to the act of licking you everywhere.
Your lips part further, a moan slipping through, your brows knitting together, etching a line of tension on your face. Your hips begin to shift weakly on the bed, up and down, your whimpers soft and muffled by fatigue. Aemond responds with his own sounds against your intimacy, taking full advantage of your semi-conscious state to vocalize his pleasure unrestrainedly. His fingers play with the nipple he's captured, giving it a sharp tug to jolt you further into awareness. Your legs, on either side of his head, fall open wider.
It's too good, too fucking good.
So good that you're unaware when your fingers find their way to the back of his neck, tangling in his black hair, pulling him closer in an instinctive, desperate plea for more.
Aemond freezes.
Your heart pounded like a drum, the shock of wakefulness like a slap across your face. Sweat beaded at your temples, and when you looked down, Aemond's eyes were already locked on you, his mouth still against you. The room seemed to stand still, time itself arrested. The chill that ran through you was like a bolt of ice, your senses suddenly sharp but tainted.
You attempted to rise, but he pounced, his hands reaching for your neck while your legs thrashed to push him off. You knew you were doomed if he pinned you down. Aemond grappled with your flailing arms, your nails raking his skin each time he tried to seize your wrists. But your resistance was faltering, and you knew this could be the end.
His fist slammed into your jaw, snapping your head to the side, blood erupting from your nose onto the pillows. His thighs clamped over yours, holding you down, but you still fought. His hands pressed your shoulders into the mattress, aiming for your neck, when you clawed at his throat, your nails digging in deep. A pained grunt escaped him as he clutched the bleeding marks you left on his neck. You seized the moment to free one leg, using your foot to shove his chest back.
"You fucking bitch!" Aemond's yell reverberated, but there was no time for discussion.
You hit the floor with a thud, a groan of pain escaping you. You saw Aemond beginning to rise from the bed, coming for you, and despite the difficulty, you managed to scramble up, staggering as you bolted. You collided with furniture, each impact a jolt of pain, while behind you, Aemond closed in with purposeful strides, his fists balled, jaw clenched tight. He was boiling over, rage spilling out like steam from an overfilled pot, threatening to scald you.
You made it to the living room, positioning yourself behind the small glass dining table. Aemond appeared in the doorway, his heartbeat almost audibly pounding, the intensity of it pressing against the air in your throat. Your naked body felt too exposed, his gaze raking over you, but not with lust. No, this was the look of someone intent on tearing you apart, letting you bleed out.
"Stay the fuck away from me!" you scream, knowing your words would fall on deaf ears. This wasn't the Aemond you knew; it couldn't be, not in this state.
He moved to the other side of the table, effectively blocking your escape route to the kitchen where you might have grabbed a knife. His eyes, wide and void, met yours, almost lifeless. Your palms were slick with sweat, your feet rooted to the spot despite your mind screaming to move. The mantra echoed in your head, 'he's coming for you.'
"Run," Aemond said, his voice laced with a sinister glee, his smile all teeth, gleaming menacingly.
And you didn't hesitate.
Your feet propelled you forward, his hot on your heels, the air barely making it into your lungs. You clutched the bathroom door frame, ready to dart inside, when his arms encircled your waist, lifting you off the floor. Your legs flailed, your hands clawing at his arms to break free, his grip squeezing your ribs like a vise. He began to retreat, pulling you with him, but you reacted swiftly. Your elbow slammed into his ribs, and when he didn't release you, your head snapped back into his, his sharp cry of pain mingling with the force that sent you sprawling to the ground.
"Fuck!" he shouted, his fingers pressing against his newly bloodied nose, courtesy of your counterattack.
You scrambled across the floor, more like a creature than a human, managing to slip through the bathroom door. You locked it with trembling hands. The door shook under the assault of Aemond's fists, each impact making you jump back, landing on your rear. The wood seemed on the verge of splintering with every hit. Your eyes darted around; there was a small window, but it was too narrow for escape. You'd tried before; it was impossible.
"Open the fucking door!" he yells, his punch so forceful it seems to bruise his knuckles, but the pain is the last thing on his mind now, only you matter. "It's going to be much worse for you, much worse!" His voice drips with venom, and with truth; it would indeed be worse.
But you don't care. Using the sink for support, you stand, and in the mirror, you see the blood trails from your nose to your lips. Your hips will soon bruise from the collisions with furniture and the floor. Desperation grips you as you pull at your own hair, each knock on the door a reminder of your vulnerability. Until his foot slams into the door, and you turn just in time to see it buckle.
You need to do something.
With no time for thought, your fist smashes into the mirror, glass exploding in all directions. The sound halts Aemond's assault briefly, as does your sharp cry of pain, your blood now dripping from your cut knuckles onto the white tiles. You frantically search for the largest, sharpest piece of glass among the debris, feeling the sting of tiny crystals under your nails.
"What the fuck are you doing?" Aemond's voice escalates with new urgency.
With another powerful kick, the door gives way, splinters mixing with your blood on the floor. Aemond's gaze locks on the bloody glass in your hand, his own rage intensifying. Eye to eye, you brace for what's to come.
He's coming for you, so you come for him too.
Aemond steps forward, and so do you; the glass slices the side of his arm, drawing blood. He staggers back, clutching the wound, and you advance, but he quickly seizes your wrist, twisting it viciously. It feels like he might break it, your fingers crushed further into the glass, embedding it into your palm. A scream tears from your lips, tears at the corners of your eyes. You're forced to release the shard, which shatters on the floor. With a knee to your stomach, Aemond sends you crashing down, all air exiting your lungs.
Slowly, he kneels beside you, watching your mouth open in a silent scream, your hand clutching your stomach as if to hold yourself together. Fucking pathetic, he thinks, the urge to spit in your face, to make you swallow every piece of broken glass on the floor overwhelming him.
"I should make you chew this whole fucking glass right off the floor." His threat is punctuated by him grabbing your hair, yanking your face closer to his.
Your pained expression feeds into him. He's aware he's using you as a punching bag, treating you like you're worthless, and he doesn't feel an ounce of remorse. Perhaps he will when the rage subsides, but when does it ever truly subside? Was it ever meant to? He doesn't know. But he's hard, painfully so under his underwear, throbbing with every tear that escapes your eyes, consumed by a frenzy that's pure and intense.
He slams your head back onto the ground with all his might. You squeeze your eyes shut, but there's no escaping the pain. Both his hands encircle your neck, and to prevent any more tricks, he kneels on your thighs, his weight crushing your flesh, drawing a scream that's stifled by the lack of air. There's a high-pitched sound in your ears, reminiscent of chairs scraping or the squeaky springs of that old swing in the dilapidated playground where you once played, where you felt like you could touch the clouds when he pushed you. You almost wish you could now.
"Die! Why wont you die?!" Aemond screams into your face, but you know he's not seeing you; he's not screaming at you.
Your hands claw at him, your nails raking down his bare chest, only adding to your torment. Aemond's eyes close, his body shaking above you. His nails dig deeper into your neck, darkness enveloping your vision. Your back arches in one last attempt to free yourself, and a loud, pained moan escapes Aemond as he climaxes in his underwear, the sensation so intense it could have shattered him instead of you. The pressure becomes unbearable, your lips parting in a futile attempt to breathe. Your eyes close, and you're thrown into a cold, black abyss. Alone.
Nights always carried a kind of mercy. The cold slipped through the cracked window, brushing against the room like a quiet apology for the chaos that had come before. The neon blue light pulsed faintly, painting the walls with something soft, almost alive. You’d always thought the blue was too sad, but Aemond liked it, so it stayed. Yet tonight, when you opened your eyes, it wasn’t blue filtering through your lids. No, it was clear light—sharp and unkind. Strange.
Then the ache hit. It was everywhere, spreading from your fingers to your chest like it had been carved into your very bones. Every muscle in your body screamed, raw and heavy, like you’d become one giant bruise. And maybe you had.
Your eyes moved across the room, desperate to find him. Your chest tightened when you didn’t see him straight away, and panic started to set in. But just as you shifted, ignoring the pain in your ribs, the bedroom door swung open, and there he was.
Aemond stepped inside, his movements deliberate, his frame cutting a sharp silhouette against the light. He was dripping wet, his hair clinging to his shoulders in dark strands, wearing nothing but jeans slung low on his hips. In his hand, he carried a white plastic bag, casual as ever.
“Hey,” he murmured, his voice steady and low. The sound of it cut through the stillness, grounding you in a way that nothing else could.
You glanced down at yourself, noticing the oversized shirt hanging loosely off your shoulders and a pair of sweatpants that didn’t belong to you. His, clearly. You caught sight of your wrist next, carefully wrapped in white splints. The work was precise, too meticulous to have been done by anyone but him.
“Hey,” you croaked back, your voice barely above a whisper. It felt foreign in your throat, raw and strained. The bitterness in your mouth confirmed what you already suspected—he’d forced some medicine into you while you were out. It was just like him.
He moved closer to the bed, his gaze fixed on you as he settled on the edge. The space between you was thin, almost nonexistent, but it still felt like a gulf. You studied him, and he studied you right back. The marks on his skin stood out against the pale light—your nails had left their trails, violent and deliberate, carving down his neck, chest, and arms. There was a deeper wound too, one from the glass, glinting faintly in the morning light.
And he saw it too—the purple bruises on your neck, stark against your skin. His fingerprints. They sat there like inked tattoos. He likes them a lot.
“Do you want a picture?” Your voice cut through the silence, hoarse but steady, your words laced with that sharp edge he knew so well. It didn’t hurt anymore, and that was enough.
“Yeah,” he muttered, almost laughing under his breath. His eye traced your face like he was memorising it, his thoughts catching on the idea. If he had a camera, a good one, and if things were different—better—this house would be covered in you. Your face, your body, your marks. Everywhere. You’d be the only thing worth seeing.
The silence wrapped around you both, not oppressive, but present, like a third figure in the room. His hand, trembling with hesitation, inched towards yours. You caught the flicker of doubt in his movements, and without giving him a chance to second-guess, you reached for him. Your fingers threaded through his, clasping tightly, as if sealing a quiet promise neither of you dared to speak aloud.
The thought settled again at the base of your skull: If it doesn’t hurt anymore, it’s okay. Even if every inch of you was bruised and battered, flesh stained in shades of blue and black, it didn’t matter. It was just a body, after all—just skin and bone. Nothing more, nothing less.
When his gaze finally met yours, it wasn’t with the depth you might have hoped for. His eye held a flatness, void of the kind of emotion he wished he could express—or the kind you sometimes wished you could see. But you’d long since stopped expecting it. He didn’t know how to show it, couldn’t, and that was all right. You had learned to live in the spaces between what he gave and what he withheld. In the end, you told yourself, it would be bearable. Even if the walls of this house crumbled into ash one day, you’d both still be here.
Your eyes searched his, and his mirrored the same dance. Without warning, he pulled hard on your hand, yanking you forward until your chests collided. His arms snaked around your shoulders, locking you into him, as if he were holding on for dear life. Instinctively, your hands found his waist, drawing him closer, your fingers gripping tightly as if the two of you could weld together. Your face nestled perfectly into the curve of his neck—a hollow that seemed carved for you alone. A place to rest, and perhaps even to bite when the need arose.
Holding him like this felt steady. Familiar. Safe. Just as the bruises and scratches had their place, so did the moments like this—the quiet inhalation of his scent, the way your arms clutched at him like he might disappear. It was measured, restrained, the intimacy meted out in doses small enough not to overwhelm. Anything more would be unbearable, tipping into something too raw, too unmanageable.
“I brought you something,” he murmured, his lips brushing your ear. Slowly, he pulled back, just enough to meet your gaze again.
You said nothing, only watched as his hands left you to reach for the white plastic bag he’d brought in earlier. His fingers dipped inside, searching like a child eager to reveal a secret treasure. When he finally pulled it free, the golden wrapper caught the light, and your eyes locked onto the familiar shape of the chocolate bar.
Of course. It was always this. Sweetness. That was what he saw in you, wasn’t it? Something indulgent. You didn’t mind, not really. Even though you knew it was fleeting—your teeth would rot eventually, fall out maybe. The ants might come, leaving trails of fire across your skin. But none of that mattered, not when the sweetness melted on your tongue. He always brought it to you. Always.
You take the bar from his hand, tearing it open with your teeth like you’ve got no time for subtlety, the wrapper crinkling loud enough to fill the silence. Chocolate smears across your fingers as you peel it back, and you pause for a second, staring him down before sinking your teeth into it. A big bite—half the damn thing gone already. Aemond watches you for a moment, his lips twitching like he’s trying not to smirk, but then his gaze drops to his hands resting in his lap.
“You need a shower,” he says finally, voice low but firm, cutting through the quiet like a blade. “The Worm wants to see us at the club tonight.”
Your eyes flick up at that, unimpressed, because of course that bastard does.
“Why?” you ask, exhaling the word more than speaking it, your tone halfway between exhaustion and annoyance. You take another bite of the chocolate, letting it melt lazily on your tongue like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.
“A little daddy’s boy soirée or something,” Aemond mutters with a shrug. He’s got that look again, the one he always wears when he talks about this shit—a mix of disdain and quiet rebellion. He hates this scene, the pounding music that sounds like it’s on a loop, the suffocating crowds. But then he adds, “There’ll be some good fish,” and his eye meets yours. Just a flicker of understanding passes between you.
The Worm might be a total bastard, but he had a nose for opportunities, especially when it came to sales. The nightclub was his playground, his stage, and let’s not forget his little meth empire ticking along in the background. The man handed you a lifeline—or a leash, depending on how you looked at it—but saying no to him wasn’t exactly an option. He loved to remind you of that whenever he could.
“Yeah, wouldn’t want to keep him waiting,” you mutter, a dry laugh escaping as you finish off the last of the bar, the taste bitter-sweet as it disappears.
Aemond reaches over and plucks the wrapper from your hand, his touch light but deliberate, watching you as you stand. Every muscle in your body protests, stiff and aching, but you ignore it, your bare feet hitting the cold floor with a shiver that shoots straight up your spine. You don’t pause, though. You make for the wardrobe, pulling open the smallest drawer to grab a bra and panties from the mess of clothes stuffed inside. Aemond doesn’t move, doesn’t look up. His fingers stay intertwined, his expression distant, like he’s lost somewhere else.
It’s only when your hand reaches for the door that his voice cuts through again, quiet but razor-sharp.
“I’ll be watching you,” he says, his tone warning but calm, his eye finally lifting to meet your retreating form. “So don’t do anything stupid.”
You let a sly grin slip out before moving on. It's not like you meant to fuck up, not tonight. Could be exhaustion or whatever. Your mess wasn't like Aemond's, not some epic cleanup. Well, at least not usually. You know his real fear is that you'll slit your wrists open and finish what you sometimes started after...incidents. That wasn't your intention tonight.
Your feet drag you to the bathroom, now always wide open thanks to that morning's drama. Inside, it's all spick and span, the sharp scent of bleach hitting you hard. He'd cleaned up, but some things just don't wash away. The door with its frame fucked, the mirror with a new hole in it, and that's it. Everything else, gone, like it usually is. Sometimes you wish you two were like this floor - a little soap and water could sort it out. Fix it up.
You try not to overthink, just strip down and jump into the shower. It's like your second home, scrubbing until your skin's raw. Careful not to drench those bandages he wrapped around your wrist. Eyes shut, you let the water wash you off, even if it's just skin deep.
Drying off and slipping into your undies and bra, you pause for a sec. Just taking a breath before heading back to the bedroom. From the doorway, you spot Aemond in front of the mirror, the little pots of black and white paint open, brush at the ready. His hair's less wet, those heavy black boots already on his feet, leather jacket slung over his shoulders, no shirt beneath. He turns, eyes sweeping over you, unabashed. Head cocked to the side for a moment.
"Help me with this." It's not a request, it's a command, part of the routine.
You don't think twice before stepping up, and neither does he. Aemond slides down in the chair, legs spreading wider, an open invite. You take it, hands on his shoulders for balance, swinging a leg over to sit on him. His hands lock onto your waist, holding you steady.
"Want something special tonight?" you ask, leaning down for one of the black eyeliner pencils.
Aemond's gaze travels your body again, you sitting there like he's your personal, ragged throne. His eyes crawl back up to yours, meeting them dead on. Yeah, he wants something special, but it's not about the paint or the lines on his face.
"Just the usual," Aemond says, his eyes flicking back and forth between yours, pupils blown wide.
You nod, leaning in to start sketching the lines on his face with the precision of someone who's done this dance before. When Aemond does it himself, it's all over the place, but you manage to make it look halfway decent. Not that it's supposed to be pretty; it's more about the vibe. With the eyeliner, you draw from his eyebrows down to his nose, stopping at the tip, then circle around his eye, connecting back to the other brow. It's rough, forming something like a triangle - shapes blurred and edgy. Moving to the other side, his eyes track you, locked on as your face scrunches in focus.
"You know I wanted to kill you, don't you?" Aemond mutters, pulling your gaze to him for a split second before you both return to the task at hand.
He did want to, no question about it. There was that moment when he saw your eyes close, your body go limp on the floor, and he thought, "This is it." But then he stopped. He didn't regret it; he was fucking glad he did.
"You didn’t." That's all you manage, a whisper, the only reply you've got.
You've thought he might end you, on some other nights, on those dark moments when the beast in him roared to get out because of some shit you pulled - intentional or not. But intentions? They're meaningless here. Not yours, not his, even if his was to squeeze the life out of you.
Aemond just stared, maybe with a hint of appreciation or some twisted form of affection. He couldn't tell if he'd fucked up your head, if he'd made you blind to his true nature, the chaos he brought into your life. He saw himself as a plague, infecting everything he touched, and he reveled in it, in you.
"I should take you to the beach sometime." Aemond's voice was low, almost a whisper, and you couldn't help but smile a bit. He'd mentioned it before, but it always felt like a fantasy.
He loathes the beach, despises the sun. The sand that grinds into knees, leaving them raw. Mum and dad never took you, and before that, the orphanage was all shades of gray. There was no sun there, and his pale skin seemed to thrive in the absence of it. You didn't miss what you'd never known.
"Yeah? What do you want to do there?" You play along with the dream, knowing it's probably never going to happen.
Your fingers grab a brush, dipping it into the white paint. You start painting his face, careful not to touch the dark lines around his eyes. His breath is heavier now, chest heaving in what seems like a thoughtful sigh.
"I don't know, just watch you swim." His reply is soft, his words hitting you like a gentle wave. "Some Sunday just watch you get pounded by the waves and some purple and blue in the sky. Being the only motherfuckers filling the place with smoke.”
A low chuckle escapes you as you shake your head, your fingers continuing their task with the white paint, transforming his face into something that feels more like a phantom than the man you know. You'd like that, at some point, to see him in such a scene. Perhaps perched on that motorcycle in some secluded spot, hiding from the sun, a cold beer in hand. His blue eyes would mirror the sea, his silver hair the sky, though you know he'd never let them be seen again. It's all just a daydream.
"Would you be there?" he asks, causing your hand to pause, the brush set aside.
The question strikes you as almost absurd. There are so many answers to it. He's pulling himself into the abyss, into a personal hell with all its promised torment, and you'd follow if only to hold his hand. Your answer is always yes, never no. He knows this, and still, he asks.
"I would be wherever you were," you confess in a whisper, meeting his gaze with unfiltered honesty, more than you'd wish to reveal, more than you could ever conceal.
His eyes shift from yours to your lips, perhaps searching for the taste of those words, or seeking some unclaimed piece of your skin to press them against. He doesn't speak, but the silence says he'd be with you too. You're like a persistent bit stuck in his teeth; no amount of licking or prodding or thinking he's had enough or moved you aside would ever truly dislodge you. Ever.
You pause, focusing back on the brush, cleaning off the white paint and dipping into black. The brush follows the eyeliner's path, shaping the design more distinctly. It's not your best work, but it's far from your worst, even if it's not art gallery material. But it'll do.
"It looks good," you murmur, more to yourself than to him, knowing better than to stroke his ego too much.
Aemond's eyes are locked on your lips, reading your words off them rather than through sound. His breath is warm, careful not to move and ruin your work. He's learned from experience you wouldn't like that.
"Yeah, it does." His gaze shifts up, impatience simmering under his skin. Being still isn't his forte.
With the final stroke, you complete the look. The white paint has dried, melding into his skin like a second layer. As you move to get up, his hands reluctantly slide off your waist, resting back in his lap. You take a moment to admire him - the corpse paint fitting him like a second skin, like he was born to wear it. The desire to have him take you, right there over the paints, until your drool becomes part of the artwork, is intense.
"Take a look," you say, motioning towards the mirror, keeping your darker thoughts at bay. If you let them out, there'd be no stopping.
Aemond looks into the mirror, not seeing himself but the mask he's donned. It's good, it's something. Just paint, toxic and transformative, embodying much of him yet not all. It's good, truly good.
You head to the closet, pulling out one of the usual dresses - same color, similar cuts, limited choices. Slipping it on, the fabric clings to your body, barely covering your thighs, the straps mingling with those of your bra. As you adjust it, Aemond turns, catching the motion of you smoothing it over your hips, his teeth catching his lower lip. You're a vision of sin, a gift to behold, stoking the fire in his veins and elsewhere.
You sit at the bed's foot, tugging on your black knee-high boots, similar to his but with higher heels. Aemond approaches just as you zip up, standing close enough that you nearly collide when you rise. His silent steps are always so damn stealthy. Your eyes lock, and without a word, he kneels before you, your gaze tracking him down, lips parting slightly.
Your heart races. He lifts your dress, bunching it at your waist, revealing you in just your panties. You anticipate warmth, but what you feel is cold. Opening your eyes, you see the pocket knife he's just stuck in your panties.
"You know how to use it," he murmurs, his breath teasingly close to where you're most sensitive, a slight dampness forming. "So use it if you need to."
He stands, eyes never leaving yours, fingers sliding the dress back down, covering you once more. It's like a cold splash of reality or a sharp stab of withdrawal; he steps away, and you close your eyes, trying to steady yourself, regain some semblance of control. He moves to the table, grabs his keys, cigarettes, and lighter.
"I'm going to get the bike out of the garage. Don't delay." His tone is devoid of warmth as he heads for the door, leaving you in the center of the room.
You adjust your dress, feeling the pulse of anger and desire because that bastard always knows exactly what he's doing. The knife's tip, so provocatively close to your core, feels like a taunt. You hate him, more than when he breaks you apart. With that hatred, you move to where he was sitting and look at your reflection, noting the bruise on your jaw that you'll need to conceal with makeup. Not for the opinions of those at the club, you couldn't care less about them.
But, that's what you do. You cover his marks. And tonight, you'll do it again.
Summary: Raised in an orphanage before being adopted by the same family, you and Aemond have always been bound by something deeper than childhood friendship. Darkness. Obsession. The kind of things that burrow into your minds and refuse to leave. In a world that couldn’t care less about either of you, the harsh truth remains: you’re all each other has—whether you like it or not.
Warnings: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT. Incest, drug and substance abuse, mention of graphic violence, mention of murder, mention of parental abuse, smut, degradation, possessive behavior, dub-consent.
Author's note: I'm deciding whether to continue. If you'd like to, please let me know.
In a world this fucked, it's no wonder it spits out people just as broken. Twisted up, chipped, and ready to snap. Minds that don't play by the so-called normal rules. You’re a glitch in the system, the full stop shoved into the middle of the sentence. A ticking bomb of chemical chaos, or maybe just the gnawing hunger that’s been chewing you from the inside out since day one. You knew it. Aemond knew it. Always did. You didn't fit, never would. For a while, that shit felt like a curse—like a weight tied around your neck. But then it became second nature, like breathing in poison and calling it air. You stopped fighting it, stopped letting it tear you apart. You didn't just wear it; you owned it. Hell, maybe you even died for it.
Aemond sometimes wondered where it all started. Maybe it was that hellhole of an orphanage, where they threw you both like trash. Not a home—just another cruel joke. A meat grinder, with its hunger pangs, freezing walls, and the constant line-up for scraps that were never enough. You were quiet, too fucking quiet, and that made people look at you sideways. But then there was him. The shadow that stood between you and the bigger boys who thought pain was a game. You didn't know why he gave a damn. Maybe it was that time you woke up in the dead of night and saw him sitting on the floor, staring at you like some ghost that couldn't rest. The dark didn't bother him, and his silver hair sure as hell didn't make him harder to spot.
He was there. Always was. And you? You were his shadow, just as much as he was yours. Years didn't change a damn thing. Then that joke of a family came along, slapped the word adoption on you both like it meant something. A better life? Bullshit. Things didn’t get better—they just shifted into another shade of misery.
Mum? She spent her days with a bottle of cheap wine in one hand and a cigarette in the other, blowing out clouds that reeked of fake watermelon. She used to say the sweet ones were best, even if they tasted like shit. And Dad? Oh, he loved Aemond’s silver hair. Loved it so much that when he was about to lose his temper, he'd hold onto him like some sick lifeline. But that didn't stop the scars. Those stayed, etched into his skin, courtesy of the belts and threads Dad liked to use.
Crying? Aemond didn't cry. He didn't have to. The silence screamed loud enough.
Years dragged on, and one day you weren't some helpless kid anymore. But the bullshit didn't stop—if anything, it cranked up a notch. You remember the screaming. How could you not? Dad’s twisted little excuses, his shitty jokes that got uglier every time, all just another way to go at you or Aemond. And Mum? She was barely even there—when she was, all she did was scream too. The sound of her begging still rattles in your head. “Stop. It hurts.” Over and over, bouncing off the walls like it could break something in him. It never did.
So, you did what you always did. Slid under the covers next to Aemond, the only refuge you had. Not that he reacted much. He’d just lie there, staring blankly at the ceiling, cold as death. It was like lying next to a corpse. But it was better than being alone. At least, that's the lie you kept feeding yourself.
It was during one of these times that you felt him react for the first time. His fingers slid down your thighs under the covers, gripping them firmly. They traveled up to your waist and disappeared under your shirt. His cold fingertips mapped your spine as if they were counting the bones there, his breath blowing at the back of your neck, and he leaned closer to bite your neck, hard enough to leave a mark on your jaw. You felt every sensation, as if the devil himself was licking your skin raw and bathing it in his saliva. When his hand found your breast and rolled your nipple between his fingers, you arched your hips back, and as you wiggled them, you found his member already hard under his loose shorts.
After that, it was like two beasts were being released from their cages at the exact same time.
Aemond turned his body and spread your legs, not even bothering to take off your shorts or yours panties, just pushing them aside. Pulling down his shorts revealed his cock, almost throbbing your name. At least that's what it seemed like, since he was calling for you. Grabbing your thighs, he parted them even more and thrust into you in one swift motion, until your groins slammed together. Over and over, growing in your ear, while using one hand to cover your lips, muffling the desperate cries of pain and ecstasy that escaped. His cock became a mess with your scent and the blood from your first experience, going deeper and deeper.
It was too much, for both your body and your mind. Your nails scratched into him as if you were ready to disintegrate him, the screams that had tormented your nights before vanished. Sweat clung to your bodies and the clothes you still wore, your walls squeezing him, pulling him even deeper. You felt whole, so fucking whole that your eyes rolled back. That was when you reached the first true orgasm of your life, before feeling Aemond pull out and spill over your belly, staining you in more ways than one. It was almost peaceful.
The peace shattered when the bastard stormed into the room. It didn’t feel real—more like some fucked-up fever dream. He yanked Aemond off you and threw him to the floor like trash. You tried to get up, but he was on you in an instant, his fist smashing into your face so hard it sent you sprawling back onto the bed. Your nose was leaking blood, your vision blurry as hell, but through half-closed eyes, you saw it all.
He mounted Aemond, his fists raining down in a storm of violence. But this time? This time wasn’t like the others. Something snapped. Aemond's thighs locked around the old bastard’s torso, flipping him over with a strength you didn’t even know he had.
That was it. That fucking line—the one that should never have been crossed—was gone.
Aemond let loose. His fists came down again and again, each punch sinking into the man’s face, his nose collapsing under the blows. Blood sprayed everywhere, pooling on the ground like a sick offering. Aemond’s knuckles turned black and blue, the flesh split and soaked in crimson, but he didn’t give a shit. He grabbed the bastard by the hair, slamming his head into the floor over and over, screaming like a man possessed.
The crack of his skull splitting open echoed through the room. Blood spread out like a dark halo around his head, but Aemond didn’t stop. No, stopping wasn’t in the plan. He wanted to tear the son of a bitch apart, piece by piece, rip him open from crown to toe, exposing every festering, rotting bit of ugliness for the world to see.
You saw it—the exact moment that piece of shit raised his hand and jammed his thumb into Aemond’s eye. That was it. No more waiting, no more thinking. You shot up from the bed, your hands grabbing the first thing in reach—a pen from your desk.
Your heart was hammering like a war drum as you moved in, the sharp tip aimed and ready. One step, and the pen sank deep into his left eye. You didn’t stop. Not until his face was a grotesque, unrecognisable mess, blood and pulp dripping down like something out of a nightmare.
When he finally stopped moving, you looked over at Aemond. His face was the same cold, detached mask he always wore, but his raw, trembling hands betrayed him. His silence was deafening.
You thought about saying something—hell, anything—but the scream cut through the room like a blade. Your head whipped to the side, and there she was. Your mother. Sliding to the floor, hands clamped over her mouth, her eyes wide with horror. She was still naked, her body a wreck from whatever that bastard had been doing to her before he’d turned his attention to you both.
There wasn’t time to think—fuck, thinking wasn’t even an option. You were on autopilot. Aemond was the first to move, landing a punch on Mum that sent her sprawling to the floor, her scream cutting off like a bad record. You didn’t even flinch. You were already moving, grabbing a backpack and shoving in whatever the hell you could find, yanking on the closest clothes without a second thought.
When you were done, you looked back at the scene—Mum on the ground, Aemond standing over her, the room still reeking of blood and chaos. You knew it then, as clear as the blood on your hands: you were fucked. This wasn’t something you could crawl back from. So Aemond found their stash of cash, shoved it into your bag, and bolted. No goodbyes, no second guesses. Just running.
Every moment after that was soaked in fear. The shitty motels you both crashed in, the greasy diners where you shoved down food that tasted like cardboard, the endless paranoia that came with every passing police car. Red and blue lights haunted the back of your eyelids, flashing like some kind of sick countdown. Every night, you stared at your fingers, half-expecting handcuffs to snap around them. But they never came.
The anxiety started to dull, forced out by exhaustion and the silence that hung between you two like a heavy fog. You never figured out why no one came looking. Maybe no one gave a damn about that bastard. Maybe the world had just decided to let you off the hook for once. Whatever the reason, the answers didn't come, and you weren't about to go digging for them.
Aemond was the practical one, the one with the plan—or at least the one who acted like he had one. He decided your next moves, no questions asked. He wasn’t afraid to dive headfirst into the filth, mixing with the worst kinds of people. And why the hell not? Everyone was scared of him. They didn’t see a guy—they saw a rabid animal, barely tethered. That suited him just fine. It suited you just fine. Fear opened doors, and Aemond kicked them wide open.
By working the right angles and talking to the right scumbags, you both found some good shit to sell, and before long, a shitty little hole to call home followed. He was always making extra stops, running his own little side deals with people who made your skin crawl. You didn’t ask questions, though. You knew better. Some of it was personal—his own brand of chaos that you didn’t dare get involved in.
And when things went sideways? When his preferences left a trail of wreckage behind? It always came down to you to clean up the mess. Blood, lies, broken promises—you were knee-deep in it, scrubbing his mistakes off the floor and praying no one noticed. That’s just how it worked.
So when you came home that morning, boots in hand, tiptoeing in like you were trying not to wake a sleeping beast, what you walked into didn’t shock you. Not really. You were past being surprised by shit like this. The living room floor was painted in scarlet, the blood so fresh it looked like it might still be warm.
And her? She was sprawled there in the middle of it all, like some fucked-up display. You couldn’t even tell what colour her hair was, not with how soaked it was in blood. Her throat—well, there wasn’t much of it left. Torn open, barely held together. Her face still stuck in this frozen mask of terror. Clothes? Forget it. She didn’t have a shred on her, just skin bruised all over like someone had been working her over for hours.
You took another step, then another, and there he was—Aemond. Lounging on the couch like it was just another Tuesday. Legs spread wide, head tipped back, a cigarette hanging lazily from his mouth, smoke curling up toward the ceiling. Blood covered him—his chest, arms, hands. It was everywhere, dripping down him like some grotesque masterpiece. The only thing untouched? His sweatpants, the one clean piece of fabric on him.
He didn’t even look at you. Just sat there, exhaling a long drag of smoke, like he’d just come back from a jog instead of whatever the hell this was.
"Where the fuck have you been?" His voice cut through the suffocating silence, sharp and loaded with accusation. You could have laughed—really could’ve—at the irony of him asking the questions when the room looked like this.
But you didn’t laugh. Not because it wasn’t funny, but because when you looked at him properly, you saw that he wasn’t in the mood for your shit. His eyes were hard, jaw clenched tight, teeth grinding into that cigarette like it had personally offended him. The black hair he’d been dyeing since everything went to hell was sticking to his pale, blood-slick skin, smoke curling around him like he was burning alive from the inside out.
He was pissed. You didn’t need to ask why.
“I went out for drinks,” you said flatly, like it wasn’t even worth a conversation, leaning down to drop your heavy boots onto the floor with a thud. That’s when it hit you—the ache in your thighs, sharp and unforgiving after hours spent dancing, grinding all that tension out of your body. You straightened up slowly, your muscles protesting, your gaze flicking back to him like you were daring him to say something about it.
"All night?" His voice was low, almost too soft. It was ridiculous, really—how the hell could he sound like a goddamn feather when everything about him screamed destruction? It was like he was about to rip you to shreds, but still, the tone came out smooth and menacing. "Are you sure?" The second question came, quieter, sharper.
You squinted at him, head tilting slightly, trying to piece together what game he was playing this time. Every time you left, it was the same damn thing. Coming back to that look in his eyes—something primal, dangerous, like he could rip through you without a second thought. Like he wanted to hunt you down, drag you back into the house, and break you apart, just like he did with the girl on the floor.
And goddamn it, you knew. You knew the thought had crossed his mind more than once. Every time you pulled some shit like this, he probably imagined slicing you open, testing how much you'd bleed. You didn’t even have to ask. You could see it in his eyes.
"Yes, all night," you answered, your voice sharp with irritation. He wasn’t the one who should be asking questions—not after the bloodbath he’d left on your favorite rug.
Aemond exhaled a thick cloud of smoke, stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray beside him. Slowly, deliberately, he stood up. His bare feet made no noise as he walked toward you, stepping over the body like it was just another object in his way. You met his movement with your usual defiance, head held high and chin up, not showing an ounce of weakness. But that only seemed to make things worse.
He closed the distance, stopping just inches away, his hot breath hitting your face. He tilted his head down, leaning in closer, nose brushing against your skin as he took a deep sniff, his eyes narrowing as he examined you for something he didn’t want to see. The smell of blood, alcohol, and sweat mixed in the air, the tension thick enough to cut.
"You let someone fuck you?" he murmured, his voice dark and low. He exhaled slowly, searching your scent for any trace of another man’s presence.
Your fists tighten, nails digging into your palms as the sharp, metallic smell of blood mixes with something unmistakably Aemond—anger, frustration, and that volatile edge of his temper that never seems to stay contained. You should be used to it by now, the question always hanging in the air, the same shit over and over. The way he digs into it like a damn animal, hoping to find something he can’t.
"No." The word slips out, tight and clipped, your jaw clenching as you force the response. You see it in his eyes—the search, that desperate need to find an excuse, something to justify whatever the hell this is.
A heavy sigh escapes his lips, shoulders dropping momentarily before he tilts his head back, the movement slow and deliberate. You watch the way his throat works with the motion, the sight making your own lips dry. Then, without warning, his hand is in your hair, fingers curling tightly around the strands and yanking back hard. The pain is sharp, like a dagger to your scalp, and you’re quick to grab his forearm, trying to pull him away, but it’s useless. His grip is ironclad.
"Fuck off!" you gasp, the sting radiating through your scalp, but instead of backing off, he tightens his hold, the pull sending a hot rush of tears to your eyes as your skin stretches, every nerve alight.
Without any kindness, he begins to drag you across the room until he reaches where the girl's corpse now lay cold. Kicking the back of your knees, he brings you down to the floor on them, holding tightly to your hair. He positions himself behind you, pressing your cheek against his, using his grip to angle your face better towards the scene.
"Are you lying to me now, you fucking bitch?" his words are poured directly into your ear, the tone so deep it seemed to vibrate from his chest.
"I already said no!” you answer through gritted teeth, the unbearable pain in your head made worse by the amount you drank the night before.
With a grunt, he forces your face to the ground, pressing your cheek into the blood that was there, his open palm on your other cheek. He takes a moment to observe you in that position, so fucking at his mercy. He could break your jaw right now if he wanted to. He could mix your blood with that of the filthy whore on the ground. He could; it would be so damn easy, and you knew it.
"Yeah? You know what's gonna happen if you keep this up, don't you, little dove?" He smirks, grinding your face into the blood, the scent overwhelming your senses as he presses his body against your hunched, aching back. "Come on, scream it out, you fucking know." His voice, though low, slices through the air like a command.
"Fuck you!" you spit back, defiance burning in your eyes, refusing to yield even as the pressure on your jaw intensifies, like he's contemplating grinding you into the damn floor.
His hand snakes up under your dress, yanking it up until it's bunched around your waist like a cheap trophy. You squirm, but he just smashes your face harder against the floor, a silent fucking threat. His fingers creep between your thighs, hunting for any trace of dried cum, like he's some kind of detective in this sick game. His thumb brushes over your panties, feeling the dampness—not the old kind, no. You're getting wet for him right now, aren't you? Pathetic as fuck. He shoves the thin fabric aside, prying your flesh open with his fingers, delving deep, his lips curling in a sneer even as he bites down on them, craving to dive in, to sink his teeth into you, to chew up that whole defiant attitude of yours.
"Look at the fucking mess you've caused," he spits out, his voice as thick and hoarse as yours. He yanks your face up, his hand clamping around your jaw like a vice, forcing you to see the body sprawled out in front of you like some fucked-up centerpiece. "This is your goddamn fault, it was supposed to be you." His whisper slices through your ear, loaded with venom.
And he fucking means every word. It was supposed to be you bearing the brunt of his rage, dealing with his insanity when you pull your disappearing acts, when you don't give a shit about how worried he gets, how out of his mind he goes imagining what you're up to out there. How many more times does he have to spill blood, just to stop himself from snapping that pretty neck of yours, to punish you instead of some random street whore who looks like you just to vent his frustration?
"Yeah?" you manage to retort, attempting a smirk but his grip on your face makes it a twisted effort. You push through, showing him how much you mean it. "Then do it now." You're practically daring him, knowing damn well you'd go through with it.
Silence hangs thick and suffocating. You watch his fingers stretch out, then curl back into fists, like he's psyching himself up to finally break you. You almost embrace it, judging by the calm breath that escapes. You're ready for it, but then he lets you go, suddenly, and if it weren't for your hands catching you, your face would've kissed the floor. Your eyes track him as he strides over, hoists the girl's body onto his shoulders like she's nothing but a useless sack of bones.
"Clean this shit up," he orders, his voice cutting through the air, and your glare deepens.
You watch him walk off, heading to the garage with the girl's body swaying like some macabre metronome. The moment he's out of sight, you're left alone with the blood pool, aching knees, a pounding headache, your dress still rucked up, and your panties askew. And the worst part? You're dripping wet, throbbing, feeling hollow inside. Maybe that's his real punishment. Fuck him.
The hours blended together in a haze of endless scrubbing. The floor was an unforgiving mess, and no matter how hard you worked, it seemed like it would never be clean again. He hadn’t come back. You could only imagine where he was, dealing with the aftermath of everything he’d left behind. The carpet was ruined beyond repair, and everything you'd used—the cloths, the sponges—was burned, destroyed to erase any trace.
It was second nature by now. The motions, the repetition, the burning sense of inevitability. You'd done this so many times, it was like your fingers had become one with the sponge, hardened by the constant, futile effort to make it all disappear.
When it was all over, you were drenched in sweat, and the shower stretched on longer than you'd meant it to. You scrubbed your hair, your skin, trying to wash away all the filth from the night's ordeal. Your muscles screamed from lack of sleep and a day spent scrubbing, the water initially running dark with the grime. But damn, it felt good, so fucking good. Stepping out, you towel-dried yourself, slipping into a pair of panties and a blouse that might've been black once; you couldn't tell anymore. It wasn't yours—it was his.
As you headed out, you knew you'd run into him, and right on cue, there he was. He'd just arrived, helmet still in hand. His clothes were different, suggesting he'd cleaned up somewhere—likely at one of the crew's places, probably asked for help to deal with the "problem," and as always, he managed it. He carried a bag, full from what you could see at this distance.
He takes a moment, his gaze lingering on you drying your hair in the hallway before he advances, his steps deliberate and unhurried. When he reaches you, his face is that unreadable mask, giving nothing away. You couldn't tell if he was still pissed, if he felt any satisfaction or relief, or if he was just numb. With him, you never could.
His fingers dive into the bag, emerging with a Twix bar, the golden wrapper catching the light in his eyes. A small smile plays on your lips, and he returns it with his own subtle smirk, just a slight curve, no teeth. He unwraps the chocolate slowly, and once it's free, he brings it to your lips, tapping gently against your bottom lip. You open up, taking a small bite, and from the look in his eyes, he's completely captivated by the sight. It's like he's back at the orphanage, remembering how you'd pester him incessantly for these, how your eyes would light up brighter than anyone else's. No wonder there are several of these stashed in the fridge now. Idiot.
You take the candy from his grasp, holding it yourself, but his fingers don't retreat; instead, they rise to your cheek, where there's a hint of red that might bruise. His doing, no doubt. His thumb gently strokes the tender spot as you take another bite, the slight pain from the bruise barely registering. Your eyes lock with his as he steps closer, his head dipping to plant a kiss on your jaw. His lips feel like ice against your skin.
You feel him take a deep breath, as if to confirm your presence. His mood seems to have lifted, even if slightly. His lips trace a path down your jaw, along your face, while his hand moves to the side of your neck. Another small smile graces his lips, sending shivers down your spine.
"You stink," you mutter, though there's no real venom in your words. True as they are, the potent scent of sweat and dirt from him is overwhelming.
He inhales deeply, grunts, and uses the hand that was on your neck to push your face aside, not gently but not with the force he could muster if he really wanted to hurt you. That wasn't his intent right then. Without another word, he snatches the towel you were using and vanishes into the bathroom, the door shutting you out, leaving you to chuckle quietly. The dessert? You polish it off in one more bite, savoring the taste.
Back in the room you share, the window is always open, blue lights casting a glow on your skin, mingling with the smoke you exhale. On the table in front of you lies a near-perfect line of white powder, like winter snow but with the harsh burn of the summer sun. You lean over, one nostril pinched by your index finger, and take a sharp inhale, making the yayo vanish. The bitter taste hits your tongue, stars pulsing behind your closed eyes. Your heart races, a bead of sweat trickling down your temple.
At the door, Aemond stands, observing silently. But soon enough, you catch his presence, tilting your head to see him. He's clad only in loose black shorts and white high-top socks, his black hair wet and dripping, his shoulders still marked with black, suggesting he's just finished dying it. The drops of water on him tell a story of their own. His pupils, dilated, nearly obscure the icy blue of his eyes, and his shoulders are relaxed, hinting the bath had been beneficial. Whether that's a good sign or not remains to be seen.
"Didn't you wait for me to start?" His voice carries that familiar low tone as he nods his chin toward the remaining coke on the table.
A mischievous smile curls your lips, and with a nonchalant shrug, you acknowledge his comment. It's not like the supply is dwindling; you have more than enough, stockpiling for both use and sale, probably more than you should use. Either way, he won't go without.
"Not very nice of you, sis." His tone could almost be called playful if it weren't Aemond speaking, and humor was the last attribute you'd attribute to him.
With deliberate, slow steps, as if he intends for every part of the room to sense his presence, Aemond approaches, and there's this glint in his eyes that you've never been able to fully describe. From childhood to now, it's been there—those dilated pupils, intense, his gaze almost vacant, like he's not fully there. It can seem manic, sending a chill through you under certain lights. It's a trait of his that has barely changed.
He stops at the edge of your chair, pausing for a moment. His thumb delicately brushes your nostril, wiping away the residual powder with an unexpected tenderness that seems foreign to him. Then, with an even slower pace, he kneels before you, between your legs. His hands glide down your sides, gripping your hips firmly, pulling you forward with a force that brings you to the chair's edge, compelling you to grab the backrest to keep from falling off completely.
"If you step out of line," he murmured, his gaze lifting to meet yours. One of his hands maneuvered your thigh onto his shoulder, positioning himself closer to your core. "You know I'm going to kill you, right?" The words were sweet, calm, but their sincerity was unmistakable. He would do it, and he could do it so effortlessly.
You nod, swallowing hard, not out of fear—oh, you wished it was fear—but it was heat, excitement, adrenaline, like sugar melting directly into your veins, ready to roll your eyes back in ecstasy.
"Yeah, you know," he whispered again, his breath hot against your panty-covered intimacy. "That's a good girl." His hands then traced down your thighs, exploring every inch of skin and hair as if they were part of a map he was memorizing.
You watch him intently, the cocaine still racing through your veins, making your heart pound and every nerve tingle. He reaches for the table, picking up the small pin with the remaining coke, and brings it close. With precision, he drops some on your inner thigh, using his pinky to form a line that leads directly to your pussy. He's always so calculated, so infuriatingly in control, it makes you want to tear your hair out.
Leaning in, he covers one nostril, then inhales, sliding forward until he's taken the coke from one end to the other, his lips meeting your panty-covered intimacy at the end. His pulse quickens with the drug's effect. The bitterness of the cocaine mixes with the sweet seepage of your arousal through the fabric. His lips, eager to claim ownership, find your taste more intoxicating than any drug. He swears your pussy is the ultimate narcotic, the only one that can truly bring him down, flowing through his veins smoother than heroin. It's a fucking god.
His tongue slides over your intimacy, and your hands grip the chair and table tightly. You know not to touch his hair; if you did, all hell would break loose. So you cling to the furniture, seeking some semblance of control. His lips savor you like you're the ripest, sweetest fruit, his tongue swirling, gathering saliva which then drips down your panties, blending with your own arousal. He makes you clench and clench, craving more without pause.
"Fuck," you moan, head thrown back, the fabric around your waist now feeling like an intolerable barrier. "You are so good, so good." The words spill out, not so much thought as they are a direct translation of the sensations coursing through you. In that moment, he felt so good.
His teeth graze your skin lightly, perhaps in response. His grip on your thighs tightens, leaving marks that would soon purple, claiming you as his. Again, and again. His hands travel up, fingers hooking into your panties, dragging them down your thighs, discarding the now-soaked fabric. When his gaze returns, it's to the sight of your pulsing, glistening flesh, the taste of you already imprinted on his tongue. It's the part of you he adores most, the most exquisite fuck he could never tire of. He feels like if his lips were bound, he'd chew through the ropes just to taste and devour you completely.
"You're so fucking beautiful." His thumb traces through your folds, finding your clit, the soft sound you make in response making him bite his lip hard enough to nearly break skin.
Leaning in, he first presses his nose against your clit, inhaling your scent like it's something sacred. He slides down, breathing you in. His tongue, slick with saliva, extends, slowly tracing from your entrance up to your clit, his eyes lifting to lock with yours, watching your reaction unfold. Your lips part in ecstasy, your eyes locked on his, painting a scene of paradise right before him. The warmth spreading through his body feels like floating on clouds.
"Such a good pussy." His voice is muffled by your heat, the vibrations echoing inside you like he's already within.
His lips work with such intensity that it sends a sharp ache through your core. He explores every inch, tongue rolling over every detail, collecting your taste, swallowing eagerly. His nose glides along, then his chin rubs against you, moving his head side to side, letting your arousal paint even his cheeks. He devours your pussy, and with every gush of your wetness, a moan escapes him. Your hands clutch the chair, almost breaking the wood in your grip, the pleasure coursing through you, as slick as your insides now feel.
Pulling away from your heat, he rises to your lips, sharing your taste. His hands find the back of your knees, lifting you effortlessly from the chair, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. You feel his hardness through his shorts, throbbing against you. With quick steps, he moves to the bed, sitting and pulling you onto his lap. Your tongues dance in a deep, wet kiss, the sounds unrestrained.
As he lies back, you follow, his hands urgently gripping your hips, pulling your thighs, trying to coax you higher, towards his face. He needs this, craves it more than air itself.
"Ride my fucking face," he demands, his breath heavy against your lips, breaking the kiss only to speak.
Encouraged, you move up the bed until your knees straddle his face. His hands swiftly guide you down, his face fully enveloped by your heat. His tongue plunges deep, while your hips begin to rock in rhythm. The heat is overwhelming; you yank off your shirt, revealing your breasts, nipples hard and waiting. His eyes catch the sight, his brows knitting together, a needy sound muffled by your pussy.
His hands travel up your stomach, fingertips tracing your ribs, causing your body to shiver, before reaching your nipples. He pinches them between his fingers, making you grind down onto his face with more force. Your hands cover his, urging him to tighten his grip, and he complies. He momentarily pauses to bring his fingers to your lips, allowing you to lick them one by one, then returns them, now wet, to your nipples, teasing and pinching the hardened peaks.
"Oh fuck, I'm going to cum, Em," you gasp, arching back, your hips grinding with a desperate speed, your nails digging into his forearms as he flicks his thumb over your nipples, mirroring the delicious torment on your clit.
He nods, his chin tilting to drive his tongue deeper. Your walls clamp around him, your movements faltering as your thighs weaken. You look down just in time to see him suck on your clit with renewed vigor, his teeth grazing it, pushing you over the edge. A raw scream tears from your throat, and you clutch the headboard to keep from collapsing forward. And he licks you, thoroughly, consuming every drop of your release.
Your body, now pliable and exhausted, allowed him to easily slide out from under you, lifting you just enough for his head to escape. You collapse back into a sitting position, your back still trembling, mouth open in a silent moan. Then, your ankles are seized, pulling you across the sheets until you're lying flat on your stomach, your thighs shaking and weak.
"You're such a dirty slut, aren't you?" His voice comes from behind, his hand tracing down your soaked inner thighs. "Such a good little slut." The words are punctuated by a sharp slap on your ass, the impact nearly twisting your body.
He observes the quivering form you've become, the fingerprints on your skin already starting to mark you. You look so beautiful, post-orgasm, with your essence still dripping from you, ready for him to drive you into oblivion. His hand dips into his shorts, freeing his throbbing cock. Looking down, he spits on it, using his fingers to spread the saliva along its length.
"Are you going to scream for me, sis?" he murmurs with a hint of malevolence. He steps forward, spreading your legs and teasing your entrance with the tip of his cock, watching you writhe. "Scream on my dick, scream. Do it for me, hm?" He bites his lip, savoring how your entrance clenches around his tip.
He thrusts just the head in again, watching you squirm before pulling back, using one fist to brace himself on the bed and the other to hold his cock steady. He teases you, inserting only the tip, making you moan and arch back, trying to take more, but he keeps it shallow. His eyes are glazed with desire as he watches you clench around him, your body begging for more.
"Please what, little dove?" he nearly spits out, pushing in a bit more before withdrawing again, leaving you empty, tight, and craving more.
Your hips sway side to side, arching off the bed in pursuit of him. You feel him enter you once more, his soft moans barely audible, just for you, and damn, how that makes you even wetter, soaking the sheet that's all too familiar with your scent and taste.
"Please fuck me," you whisper, turning to look over your shoulder, your eyes meeting his in what feels like a challenge.
It was like you'd just slapped him across the face with your words. Without a moment's hesitation, Aemond thrust forward, burying himself to the hilt, the hair at his pelvis meeting your ass. His hands dig into your flesh, gripping tight as he begins to pound into you, each thrust deeper and harder, his balls smacking against your drenched clit with every impact. His gaze drops to watch his cock disappear into you over and over, your arousal glistening on him, spreading to his lower abdomen. Your screams fill the room as your body rocks with each movement. The sensation is so intense, so overwhelmingly good, he feels like he wants to drive his cock right through you, straight into your skull.
"Fuck, you're so tight," he groans, seizing your hair with one hand, pulling it back to whisper close to your ear as he leans over you. "You can barely take me, can you? I'm going to draw blood from that tight little cunt of yours, like always." With that, he thrusts even deeper, eliciting a choked scream from you.
Your body shakes under his relentless thrusts. Your eyes are half-closed, tears at the corners; your feet lift, toes curling, saliva escaping from the corners of your mouth onto the pillow. The deep penetration is overwhelming. His gaze confirms the mix of blood with your arousal around his cock, spurring him to thrust in completely, grinding deep inside you, feeling your walls contract around him with fierce intensity.
"You look so pathetic like this, just a hole to use." He releases your hair abruptly, his hands returning to your hips, nails digging in.
With his last ounce of strength, he pulls your hips back, lifting them, positioning you on your knees. You attempt to prop yourself up with your hands, but there's no strength left, so you remain with your cheek pressed to the mattress. From this new angle, he can penetrate even deeper, turning your screams into whimpers of excruciating pleasure mixed with pain, your arousal now dripping down both your thighs.
"No, no..." you whisper, barely audible amidst your whimpers. "Fuck..." Your voice fades as your mouth hangs open, drooling onto the pillow, your fingers clutching the sheets.
"Yeah, I know, I know," Aemond replies, a small, genuine smile curling the corners of his lips. "Cum for me, cum nice and sweet for me." His hand comes down, delivering a sharp slap directly onto your clit.
Your hips instinctively try to escape, but he secures you with an arm around your waist, keeping you still, taking all he gives like the good girl he knows you are. He spits into his free hand, then returns it to your heat, circling and stimulating your clit, squeezing and flicking it, feeling it pulse under his harsh touch. Your walls constrict around him, signaling how close you are.
"Aemond, Aemond..." you try to warn, but the sensation overwhelms you before you can finish.
Your walls clamp down, a loud moan breaking free from your lips as your body convulses, your thighs trembling uncontrollably. Aemond's eyes roll back, the sensation of you gripping him so tightly driving him over the edge. A growl escapes him, more beast than man, as he wraps both arms around your waist, pressing his cheek to your back. He thrusts deep one final time, holding you there, ensuring every last drop of his release is spent inside you until you're left utterly spent. His cock pulses within you, matching the rhythm of your own spasms.
Your body collapses forward, and he follows, bracing himself so as not to crush you. He observes your closed eyes, your body sliding into what looks like a deep, heavy sleep. He loves you like this—silent, immobile, utterly vulnerable. The thought of your helplessness reignites his arousal, despite himself.
With a sigh, he withdraws from you, flopping onto the bed beside you. The room reeks of sex, mingled with the remnants of cocaine still in his nostrils and your taste, seared into his memory. You don't move, just manage to close your mouth with effort, your jaw sore. You don't anticipate tenderness or kisses; you know better than that. Silence fills the space, punctuated only by the sound of your breathing.
"What did you did with the girl?" you hear yourself asking, despite knowing better. Maybe you want to know, or maybe it's just the impulse of the moment.
"It's none of your fucking business," comes the expected, sharp reply. "Shut up and go to sleep." His tone leaves no room for further discussion. After moments like these, he's never in the mood for conversation, unwilling to soften because you've drained him with that perfect pussy.
He turns his back to you, lying on his side, and silence envelops you both. He doesn't want to talk, doesn't want interaction. He doesn't even want to hear your voice right now. Because, fuck, how much he truly craves all of that.
Warnings: smut, unprotected sex, masturbation, foul language, loss of virginity, cum control.
English is not my first language, so I hope you will forgive me if there are any mistakes.
oneshot.
Michael’s good at a lot of things, and he knows it. Brilliant, really. Genius, if we're being honest. Maths? Please—he’s never even touched a calculator. Numbers are his domain, his sanctuary, the one place where he feels entirely at ease. Books too—though never fantasy; he’d rather lose himself in something real, something concrete. But everything else? Social skills? A complete disaster, really. Painful to watch.
It’s not as if anyone’s queuing up to see what’s behind those smudged glasses or that same red sweater he pulls on every Monday. And that's fine. Honestly, it is. He's made peace with it. It’s their loss, isn’t it? That's the mantra he clings to, the thread keeping his fragile ego intact: They're the ones missing out. And God, doesn’t he need to believe it.
When you arrived in Oxford, it hit him hard. Why? Because even when he was buried in the silence of the library, there you were, watching him. Always watching. Maybe intending to read a book—upside down, no less—or lounging with your legs thrown over a table, headphones blaring as if you couldn't care less about the world around you.
Michael Gavey isn't used to being seen. For fuck’s sake, he’s Michael Gavey. Nobody. Invisible, as he’s always preferred. But then you came along, and suddenly, invisibility wasn't an option. You became something else entirely: a problem, a distraction, a bloody nuisance he couldn’t seem to get rid of. And maybe, deep down, that’s what scared him most.
So, naturally, his response was to start staring back. Maybe if he leaned into being a proper weirdo, you’d back off. But no, of course not. You didn't flinch. You just stared right back, unwavering, unbothered. It didn't take long for one of the teachers to step in, warning him, of all people, to knock it off. And you? You just smiled. Smiled like you'd won some secret, twisted game, baring all your teeth like a predator who'd just cornered its prey.
When he squinted at you, furrowing his eyebrows in some attempt to decode whatever the hell was going on, you simply glanced at the table, still grinning like you had a secret you were dying to keep.
What was your problem? Were you planning something? Was there a game being played here, something sinister he couldn’t quite see? The questions clawed at him, gnawed at his focus, and yet, no answers came. Only that smile. God, he hated it.
Things weren't improving, no, they were deteriorating rather quickly. And it all took a turn for the bizarre when, in the dead of night, he awoke still half hard, with his shorts drenched in cum and his mind? Cluttered with vivid memories of a particular dream from the previous night. Never had he scrubbed a piece of clothing with such fury in his life; this treacherous body was doing him in. And the most egregious part? His cock was a bloody jest, because even after such mortification, he had to wank off once more just to make the torment subside.
That day, the Oxford corridors felt like they were smoldering beneath him, each step fueling the inferno inside his chest. His sneakers might as well have been on fire for how much he burned with rage. And then he saw you, loitering by your locker, looking infuriatingly calm as always. It was like you wanted to drive him insane.
He stormed over, slamming your locker shut with a single hand, his nostrils flaring like he was ready to tear you apart—not literally, of course. Well, maybe a little. He was unraveled, utterly tormented, and you? You were only making it worse.
“Stop.” The word came out flat, almost pitiful, his voice cracking under the weight of his irritation. His blue eyes, usually so sharp, were clouded and bloodshot, as if they’d been scorched by his fury.
“With what?” you asked, tilting an eyebrow, that insufferable smirk tugging at your lips. Carefree. Effortless. It made his teeth grind in pure frustration. He didn’t even understand why he felt so unhinged—just that he did.
“What the hell do you want?” he barked, his voice echoing down the corridor. Heads turned, a few people pausing to glance at the scene, but you didn't so much as flinch. No fear, no embarrassment. You just leaned lazily against your locker, staring at him down like you had all the time in the world.
“Your number, to start with, would be great.” The words hit him like a physical blow. His pupils dilated so fast it felt like the world had tilted. If darkness swallowed everything right then and there, he was convinced he’d still see you.
And that’s when everything shifted. You weren’t messing with him—not in the way he’d thought. No, you were interested in him. The realisation hit Michael like a slap, and even then, his perpetually self-loathing brain struggled to piece it all together. For once, his stupid mind was just that: stupid.
But then the messages started, tentative at first, and something clicked. You actually got on—really got on. It was strange, almost unnerving, how much you seemed to have in common. You liked some of the same nerdy things as him, and he found himself listening to bands he’d previously written off because you mentioned them. Slowly, the conversations moved out of his phone and into the library, where you started sitting at the same table.
People noticed, of course. Curious glances trailed after the two of you, some even daring to linger when Michael—Michael Gavey, of all people—was caught smiling. Not a smirk or a grimace, but an actual smile, albeit half-hidden behind his hand. But it was there, and for once, he didn’t mind. Not entirely.
And then, on a Friday night when everything seemed eerily serene, the text message arrived. 'Do you want to come to my dorm?' Panic ensued. Perhaps it's a tad presumptuous to assume you want to fuck him, isn't it? Yet, he was presuming precisely that. But the truth is, Michael has only kissed one girl in his entire life; otherwise, his knowledge comes from pornography, books about the human anatomy, and the hushed conversations in the men's locker room. And it's not that he didn't want to; in fact, he wanted to, desperately so, but the truth was that no one seemed sufficiently captivated to offer him the chance. But you, you were offering. Maybe. What does one do with that?
He took a shower, donned his usual jeans and a white shirt, slipped on his sneakers, and even spent time before the mirror wrestling with his blond hair, to little avail, of course. He decided he wouldn't be a coward; he had this chance, maybe, and he wouldn't squander it with timidity. He made his way to the girls' dorm on campus, garnering more than a few disdainful looks from the passing girls. It was just because it was him; if it were Felix sneaking in, they'd be all smiles. But who cares? There was only one person he hoped would truly appreciate his presence. He reached your door, his breath caught in his throat, and knocked so feebly that perhaps he thought you wouldn't even hear. Pathetic, honestly.
But you heard him, and when you opened the door, he froze for a moment. You'd just taken a shower; your skin was still slightly flushed from the hot water, wearing an oversized shirt, once black but now faded to grey, and some pajama shorts that honestly looked more like his underwear than actual shorts. He swallowed hard, managing a crooked smile. You leaned against the doorframe, your smile much more genuine.
"You came." The words slipped from your lips with such ease, rolling off your tongue with a genuine satisfaction that straightened his crooked smile.
"Yeah, well. It's not like I have anything better to do, of course." His reply lacked the sharpness he'd rehearsed in his mind, accompanied by a glance at the floor and a stupid, silly smile.
"Yeah, of course." You laughed, rolling your eyes, and turned your body to give him space to enter, if he wanted to, though he looked as if he might bolt at any second.
But he didn't run away; no, he actually stepped inside. The room was like most others, yet he was struck by how orderly it was. Like any typical dorm, there was the TV, the two single beds, a small table, and in the corner of an adjacent smaller room, the bathroom. The scent of cleaning products lingered, indicating you'd taken the time to tidy up before inviting him over. This shouldn't have pleased him as much as it did, but it did.
"Just take off your sneakers before you lay on the bed," you said with that nonchalant tone of yours, picking up the TV remote from the table.
He glanced at the paused movie on the screen before turning his attention to the bed. His mind wasn't exactly racing as he sat down, beginning to untie his sneakers, but his focus soon shifted to the side of your face. He was transfixed by how your hair framed your features, how your lips were so perfectly shaped, and how your eyebrows slightly furrowed in concentration. He had to run a hand over his face, nearly knocking off his glasses, to bring himself back to reality, blinking several times to refocus on removing his sneakers.
"I chose 'Evil Dead,' but they didn't have the classics." Your voice drew his gaze upward again. You casually made your way to the bed beside him, practically throwing yourself down, causing the mattress to bounce. "Is that a problem for you?" you asked, turning to look at him, your eyes locking with his.
His throat visibly tightened as he swallowed, while you didn't even blink. For a moment, he found it a rather amusing jest. What could a girl like you, with the most beautiful eyes he'd ever seen, with lips that curved into the brightest smile he could imagine, possibly want with him? He was either the luckiest bastard in the world or the biggest delusional of the year. But that was fine, at least for now.
"No, it's not a problem at all," Michael mumbled, unsure if he was referring to the movie choice or something else entirely. But it would suffice either way.
He saw you smile widely, and you felt you should, noticing his blue eyes dilate behind his glasses. Looking down where you had crossed your legs beneath you, you tried to focus and simply pressed play on the movie. The low noise from the TV soon filled the room, the colors of the film painting your faces and reflecting in Michael's glasses. The silence was comfortable, as always. The sounds of calm breathing filled the space, but well, his eyes weren't really on the TV; they were on you. To the point where he had to rest his hand on his face, just to appreciate it, perhaps.
"You know, watching a movie works better when you're looking at the screen," you commented, your eyes still fixed on the screen, though you felt the heat from his gaze on your cheek.
"I prefer to watch you." His words were barely above a whisper, but they reached you, making your smile widen even more.
Your eyes flicked to him, while his remained steady, though he felt his palms sweating against his cheek. He was nervous, and his attempt at an impassive expression wasn't fooling you. The words that left his lips were just truths, and seeing you smile, it was good to see you smile, it brought a subtle curve to his own lips. Sighing, you drew your knees up to your chest, resting your chin there, unsure of what to make of his words or of him. Just as he was unsure of what to make of you or how much you unsettled him.
"I hate almost everyone here except you." Your words mirrored his in tone, quiet, perhaps too intimate to slip out.
They made him pause, just looking at you, wondering. Time seemed to stand still, the screams from the movie not reaching your ears; things were quiet, almost silent. And that's when his hand rose, wrapping around the back of your neck, perhaps with the most courage he'd ever mustered in his life. Your lips parted slightly when you noticed him shifting on the bed to get closer, and you responded in kind, leaning towards him, your hand hesitating before also reaching up to the back of his neck, slipping between the golden strands to hold him firmly. Bringing your faces close, your breaths began to mingle, and soon all that was reflected in his glasses were your lips, all his attention focused solely on them.
"You're trouble, and you want to know why?" Michael whispered, your gaze falling to his lips as they formed the words. They were thrown at your face, raw and direct. "Because it seems like after I met you, there's been something wrong with my brain." He lifted his thumb to trace your bottom lip, as if to commit it to memory.
"Yeah?" Your response lacked strength, not truly. "That's good, because it seems like after you I'll never be the same." Whispering another confession, now it seemed more than fitting, even with your breathing too rapid to say much more, or what you truly wanted to.
A faint smile touched Michael's lips, perhaps an attempt at composure before he leaned in closer. Tilting your heads in opposite directions, your noses brushed against each other, the taste of each other's breath mingling on your lips, shared. His lips were the first to part, capturing your lower one slowly, almost tentatively, until yours responded, capturing his upper lip. The kiss started slowly, your lips moving together with an unhurried grace, despite your quickening breaths at the contact. His free hand found your waist, attempting to pull you closer, while your hand tangled in his hair, gripping it almost in a fist.
But it wasn't enough, far from it. Leaning forward, Michael guided you both down onto the bed, supporting himself with each hand on either side of your head, positioning his body between your legs, which parted to welcome him. One of his hands slid down to your thigh, lifting it and pressing it against his side, your hips naturally seeking each other, and his already hardened cock brushed against your increasingly aroused intimacy. Sounds escaped between kisses, your hands sliding to grip his back, when Michael pressed your bodies together again, rolling his hips and drawing out a sly moan from his own lips, making it difficult to continue kissing you.
Your hands reached for the hem of his shirt, attempting to pull it up, but his hands caught yours, pinning them above your head, fingers intertwining there, as he pulled back just enough to look you squarely in the eye. His heavy breathing made his chest rise and fall, sweat causing his glasses to slide down his nose.
"I..." the words seemed reluctant to escape as he gazed down at you, your lips flushed and your chest heaving. He didn't want to dissuade you, but he had to say it. "I've never done that."
Your only response was to lift your head from the bed, seeking his lips and succeeding in a gentle capture, with him lowering himself to return the kiss. Though not deep, your teeth nipped at his lower lip, tugging gently, perhaps trying to draw him closer. Your fingers pressed against his above your head, yearning to be free, you just wanted to touch him, feel him, it didn't matter if he was inexperienced, if you had to guide him step by step, or if this was all you would have, feeling him like this above you.
"Just touch me, I don't care," you murmured against his lip, without the strength for more words, which in response prompted him to roll his hips against yours again, closing his eyes with a moan, just as your head tilted back, lifting your hips to meet his movement.
His hands released yours, and you quickly grabbed his shirt, pulling it up and off him, and he reciprocated, lifting yours inch by inch until he could pull it over your head. Without a bra, your breasts were bared to him, making him pause. His lips went dry as he took in the sight of your hardened nipples, ready for attention, despite his momentary hesitation. You saw it in his eyes, in how they flickered to meet yours, and your hand reached to caress his cheek before grabbing the back of his neck, gently guiding him toward your chest, arching off the bed to ensure he understood your consent.
And he understood more than clearly, leaning down to kiss the space between your breasts before moving to one, enveloping it with his mouth entirely, using his hand to squeeze it firmly. The sensation of your skin against his mouth elicited a low sound from him that vibrated through your body, prompting you to grind your hips against his already hard cock. His tongue followed, swirling around your nipple, sucking as if his life depended on it. His mouth salivated, saliva running down your chest, glistening your skin with his essence. His free hand went to your other breast, squeezing it tightly, his lips trailing kisses to the other side, his tongue sliding along until it reached your other nipple, circling it with fervent enthusiasm.
"Fuck," you murmured, your intimacy throbbing, squeezing as you leaned on the bed to create friction against his erection, making him to bite the nipple in his mouth to stifle a loud moan.
His lips left your chest, observing the glistening, swollen flesh from his attentions. His eyebrows furrowed at the sight, going straight to his core. He looked down to where his hardness met your shorts, stopping himself from climaxing right there, taking deep breaths.
"Tell me..." his words trailed off, his lips struggling to draw in breaths. "Tell me how to be good for you." His whisper was broken, he was too far gone to really care about it.
You smiled, even in the throes of your overwhelming need for him. One of your hands took one of his, slowly guiding it to your core, and he watched intently as you slipped it inside your shorts and soaked panties, biting his lip as his expression contorted with pleasure. Slowly, you positioned his fingers perfectly over your clit, starting to move them in circles, making your breathing quicken further. Fortunately, Michael was a quick learner, or perhaps just desperate enough. Your fingers left his as he took over, moving them faster, circling over your soaked clit. You tried to reach for his hardness in his pants, but with his free hand, he caught yours and pinned it to the bed.
"Don't." The words came out swiftly, a desperate command because he knew well that if you touched him, he would cum right then and there.
You accepted it, not attempting to touch him again. Feeling his fingers slide over and over your most sensitive spot, the sounds began to fill the room, the wetness so intense it seeped through your pajama shorts, and he could hardly believe his incredible luck. His eyes moved to your face, noticing your parted lips, your cheeks flushed red, and your breasts, still glistening from his saliva, seeming to beckon him. One of your hands gripped his wrist, and he could see from your expression how close you were. The hand that had been holding yours to the bed released it, moving to the back of your neck, lifting your head to make you look down.
"Watch," he murmured, sliding his thumb perfectly over your clit, and you felt like stars were bursting behind your eyes even as you complied and stared.
You saw his hand moving inside your shorts, the veins in his forearm pulsing with the effort, the muscles there flexing. His hand held you tightly, almost encompassing your neck. And when his fingers started moving side to side, you knew you were finished. Your lips parted completely, a groan trapped in your throat escaped, you tried to throw your head back but his grip prevented it, and then, your walls clenched, he could feel the pulsing around his fingers, your belly flexing as you reached your climax, clamping your legs around his forearm.
Your body goes limp on the bed, your thighs still trembling as his hands slide from your neck down to your thighs, smearing his taste there. He grips the hem of your shorts, pulling them down along with your panties. When his eyes meet your pulsing, glistening pussy, a sigh escapes him, eyes closing momentarily to regain control. You hear the sound of his pants being unzipped, him kicking them off along with his underwear. Your eyes open just in time to see him grip the base of his cock, bringing the head to your sensitive clit, eliciting a tight, desperate moan from you.
"You're so beautiful." he murmurs, dragging the precum-slick tip of his cock across your clit, making your walls clench as he watches. His free hand runs down the inside of your thighs, ensuring they're coated in your own wetness.
He squeezes his eyes shut in pure ecstasy, rubbing his cock from your clit to your entrance, gripping the base tightly to stave off his climax. Your thighs tremble, your hands gripping the sheets, but nothing seems to alleviate the intensity, there's no escape. You're consumed, completely. Your hips start to move desperately for contact, even as your body protests, your fingers threatening to tear the sheets apart. He rubs once more, the almost sinful sounds echoing off the walls, mingling with his low moans and the contractions of his stomach. You can tell he's doing everything in his power not to cum.
"Can I?" He opens his eyes to whisper, looking directly into yours, and with no strength left to speak, you simply nod.
He sighs deeply before positioning himself at your entrance and pushing inside, feeling your walls resist yet yield as he presses in until fully seated, your groins meeting. A drawn-out moan escapes your lips as his head falls back, a soft groan leaving his throat followed by a sequence of breaths that made his entire body tremble. Michael pauses, trying and failing to calm his racing heart and the overwhelming sensation of your hot, tight insides. Leaning forward, he rests one hand on the bed while the other removes his glasses, setting them aside. Your hands rise to the back of his neck, bringing his forehead to yours, holding it there as he makes the first thrust. Both of your lips part, your moans and breaths mingling.
His thrusts were deep, yet slow. He would withdraw almost completely before sliding back in, each time making your eyes squeeze shut tighter and your head press against his. The sweat on your foreheads seemed to meld you together, turning you into one entity. His eyes opened, burning into your face, and you met his gaze, your eyes filling with tears of pure pleasure as he thrust even deeper.
"I like you," he murmurs, cupping your cheek as his other hand grips the headboard, making the wood creak. A smile graces your lips, almost cut off by his cock sliding in deeper.
"I like you too," you manage to reply between ragged breaths, your fingers tightening around the back of his neck as if it's your lifeline.
He brings his lips to your forehead, giving you a long, lingering kiss, his breath warm against your skin. Then, he brings his hand to your mouth, and with that signal, he starts thrusting with all he has, making you scream into his hand, which hopefully muffles the sound. He rests his own mouth there to also muffle his moans, feeling sweat run down every part of his body, mixing with yours. The bed bangs against the wall, your eyes roll back when he hits that sweet spot inside you, your hands lifting to dig your nails into his back. As your walls clench around him, he feels your climax spill out, soaking the sheets and his lower abdomen. With a louder moan, he quickly pulls out, his cock spilling his cum over your belly.
He releases your mouth and the headboard, letting his full weight rest on you, his head finding solace in the crook of your neck. Your arms encircle his neck, keeping him close as your entire body trembles with the aftershocks of pleasure. Both of you are exhausted, both satisfied. Michael's thoughts drift back to the early weeks of knowing you, how he wished you would vanish, and now, how he dreads the thought of you leaving, like everyone else. The irony might have drawn a bitter laugh from him if he weren't so physically spent.
"I wasn't bluffing," you hear him murmur into your neck, capturing your attention amidst the sensations still coursing through your body. You slowly turn your head towards him.
"What?" you whisper, perhaps fearful that even a slight increase in volume might make this moment slip away, just as much as he is. His eyes, those blues that most people overlook, capture your senses.
"I really like you." Hearing those words again, this time not in the heat of the moment, did something different to you stomach, perhaps quickened your heart more than the entire act itself, burned your skin more than anything else.
Drawing him closer with your hand, you adjust his position so he lies on your chest, where he places a gentle kiss. Your fingers delve into his hair, and you cast a brief glance to the side where his glasses still rest. A smile graces your lips because the truth is, you are utterly and hopelessly in love with the genius Michael Gavey. The irony is that he doesn't seem genius enough to realize it.
titsay
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