⸜̑⸝͂ ⋮ mdni, 18+ › book-canon!aemond 𝑥 little sister!reader ꪆৎ 𓏲 𝑛𝑜𝑡𝑒. hi, sweet bbs! ໒꒰ ⑅˶ᵔᵕᵔ˶꒱♡ i'm sry if u expected more from this drabble, but i'm currently on my period & i'm v horny.. ꒰∩∩ ྀིᥩ꒱ so this is literally just porn with v lil plot, lols. oki, happy reading, lil angels, & don't forget to lmk what y'all think! ⸜̑⸝͂ ⚔︎ ⊹ cw: pwp. incest. dubcon. manipulation. fingering. mean!obsessive!aemond. silver-haired!reader. possessiveness. aemond is lowkey v perverted in this. not edited.
you've always felt safest in the shadowy halls of the red keep, where torchlight flickers like caught breaths and the ancient stone seems to murmur warnings and lullabies in the same hushed tone. the walls bear the weight of centuries—of kings, queens, betrayals, and spilled blood—and you've grown up learning to read their silences as clearly as any chronicle. the salted wind from the blackwater bay slips through narrow windows and arrow slits, carrying the sharp tang of the sea and the distant, bone-deep rumble of dragons turning in their dens, as if reminding you with every gust of the legacy coiled in your veins.
as the youngest of the targtower brood, you drift after your siblings with the quiet inevitability of a shadow trailing the sun. aegon barrels ahead of you in bursts of reckless light—wild laughter echoing through the corridors, wine-stained mirth that bounces off stone as if daring the keep itself to scold him. helaena drifts beside him yet apart, murmuring her soft, cryptic visions to the embroidered sleeves of her gowns, fingers brushing along tapestries as though she senses truths woven between the threads. and then there is aemond—ever watchful, ever austere—his sharp, piercing eye finding you with the precision of a freshly sharpened blade's point, as if measuring every fear you hide and every truth you have yet to understand.
you move among them like the gentlest breeze after a storm, unnoticed at times yet woven into their orbit, a quiet pulse in the restless heart of a dynasty built on fire and blood. but it's aemond who watches you the most, his single violet eye tracking your every step since you were old enough to toddle after him on little feet. he's been your constant shadow, your shield, ever since that day long ago when he claimed vhagar on driftmark and returned with blistering fire in his veins, vengeance forming in his blackening heart, and his left eye swollen and bloodied, cut out due to the pug-faced bastard, lucerys velaryon.
you don't quite remember a time without his fierce protection, his unwavering devotion, the way he'd shove aside anyone who looked at you too long, his voice a low, furious hiss—she's mine to guard. nights like this, when the castle begins to quiet down and the moon spills thin, silvery beams through your chamber windows, you lie awake in your cool, silken sheets, heart fluttering like a caged bird.
the door creaks open without a sound; only you would notice, of course, attuned to him as the tide is to the moon. aemond slips inside, his tall frame cloaked in black, the faint click of his boots softened by the rushes. he's twenty now—all lean muscle, coiled intensity, long silver hair unbound like a warrior's mane.
you pretend to sleep, peeking through your silver lashes, savoring the quiet thrill of this game he enjoys playing with you, the one where he believes you innocent to his nightly visits. he approaches the bed with predatory grace, the air thickening with his scent—smoke from the dragon pits, leather from his riding gear, and something darker, uniquely him.
you feel the mattress dip as he sits on the edge, his large, calloused hand—scarred from reins and swordsmanship—reaches out to brush a delicate curl of your silvery-white tresses from your face. his touch is feather-light at first, tracing the gentle curve of your plump cheek, down to your elegant neck where your pulse flutters under his warm, rough fingertips.
"little sister," he coos, voice like a dark, velvety purr, laced with that teasing edge that always makes your cheeks burn with shame, your belly clenching with nerves, and your virgin cunt ache with uncontrollable desire. "always so sweet for me, so untouched, even in your dreams. tell me, sweet girl… do you dream of me yet?"
you stir then, as he intends, blinking up at him with your wide, naïve eyes—the soft-hearted girl he adores, who believes in the goodness of the world despite the poisonous vipers nesting in it. "lēkia? w-wha… what are you doing here? 'tis late..." your voice is a small whisper, breathy and uncertain, but there's no fear. no, you'd never fear your beloved brother.
he's always been your favorite sibling; after all, he's your loyal protector, the one who would chase off the young lordlings who pulled your braids and teased you mercilessly for your sensitive nature, and the one who always placed himself between you and father's cold disapproval. he chuckles, low and tender, leaning closer until his breath brushes your lips.
"can't your big brother check on his precious kin? or do you think i come for other reasons, hm? my naïve little dove, fluttering in her cage, all alone." his words sting just enough to make you squirm, but his eye burns with something deeper—obsession, raw and unyielding, the love that's always simmered in him since you came out from mother's womb, a babe he claimed in his heart long before he ever understood the meaning.
he's savored you growing up, your girlish body softening into soft, womanly curves under those modest gowns that mother always insisted upon you to wear, your laughter ringing like the sound of church bells in the gardens, always luring him to stand by your side, to stand guard and protect. no suitor would ever touch you; no, he's made quite certain of that with his devilish glares and whispered threats of his deadly wrath.
before you can protest, his mouth claims yours—not gentle, but starving, his tongue sweeping in to taste the addicting sweetness he often craves. you gasp against him, small hands pressing against his chest, feeling the hard planes of defined muscles beneath his tunic. he's possessive in his kisses, nipping your lower lip until it swells to his preference, drawing a small, meek whimper from you that he swallows down most greedily.
"so responsive," he teases, a low purr rumbling in his chest, pulling back just enough to watch your flushed face. "what would the court say if they knew their pure little princess melts for her brother's touch, hm? or are you far too dimwitted to see just how much you tempt me, hāedar?" he hums, raising a pale eyebrow.
the slight mockery curls his lips into a small, amused smirk, but his hand slides down your silky nightshift, cupping your plump breast through the delicate fabric, the pad of his thumb circling the hardening nipple until you arch into him, keening beautifully. you shake your head, sweet and stubborn as ever, soft curls tangling on the pillow, your mind a whirl of confusion and liquid heat pooling low in your belly.
"ae-aem… aemy, w-we shouldn't... mother would—" but your words dissolve into a soft, breathy moan as he pushes the shift up higher, exposing your heated skin to the cool night air. his large palm flattens against your stomach, tracing lower, fingers dipping between your plush thighs to find the slick, glossy folds of your cunt. he's touched you like this before, in the dead of night, teaching your body secrets your innocent heart doesn't yet fully grasp.
but he never takes that final step—no, he's never buried his cock inside you. at least, not yet; you already know your brother has always preferred savoring the chase, the way you bloom beneath his greedy hands like a precious bloom rooted in forbidden soil. "shh, sweetling," he soothes, though his tone drips with amusement at your naïvety. "i'd burn the fucking world to ashes before i would ever let another man have you, let alone touch you."
"no, you're mine, little sister, just as you've always been, ever since you left our mother's womb, crying and wailing into the night." his long, spidery fingers part your slippery folds, stroking the sensitive pearl of your needy clit with deliberate slowness, making your hips buck up involuntarily against his hand. you're wet for him already—embarrassingly so—your body betraying how much you've come to need these hushed, stolen moments with him, even if your soft, pious heart often whispers about how sinful your meetings with your older brother truly are.
he watches you intently, that sapphire gemstone glinting like an ominous warning in the moonlight, his obsession a living flame. he's loved you eternally, from the cradle, where he'd sneak in to just to watch over you while you slept soundly, to now, when he fights the violent urge to claim you fully, to pin you down and fuck you raw until you scream his name as his wife, his queen, unable to stop imagining your tiny cunt gaping, your belly full of his seed, your maidenhead torn apart, bloodied and spent, and bred like a common whore from the streets of silk.
you clutch at his broad shoulders, manicured nails digging into the fabric of his tunic, a soft gasp escaping from your pouty lips as he slips one long, nimble finger inside you, then two, curling them to stroke that sweet spot punishingly, making euphoric stars burst behind your fluttering eyelids. "ae-aemy... please, i-i can't—" you whine, babbling pure nonsense, your voice high-pitched and needy, not even sure what you're pleading for.
the stretch of his skilled fingers inside your virgin cunt burns sweetly with pain mixed with pleasure, your silken walls clenching around him as he pumps his fingers in and out, nice and slow and deep, the pad of his thumb still teasing your clit with quick, mean strokes. he leans down, capturing your nipple in his mouth, sucking hard enough to leave an obvious mark—his mark, hidden beneath your gown for the morrow.
"look at you; it's almost pathetic how eager you are for your brother's fingers… if not a tad endearing," he laughs, mocking, his voice gruff with restraint. his cock strains against his leathers, thick and hard and aching with the desperate need to stuff you full to the brim, but he ignores it, for now, focused entirely on your pleasure, on drawing out those sweet, breathy little cries that are music to his possessive soul.
"what a dumb, silly little girl you are, sister. thinking you could ever escape me," he chuckles, his voice dry and vicious. "i've thought about it, of course. i'd chain you to my side, keep you with me forever, and ride vhagar with you bound to me as we fly across the narrow sea, if i must." the words are half-jest, half-promise, a subtle threat, his free hand tangling in your soft, slightly matted curls to tilt your head back, exposing the slender column of your lovely throat for his teeth to graze, a clear warning of danger to come.
"i'd never leave you dry or wanting; i'd always keep you full of me, stuffed full of my seed—always safe, always loved, always mine," he continues with a cruel laugh, voice low and viciously gentle. "hmm... you know what else i think, sweet sister? i think you'd actually like that, wouldn't you?" he hums. "mmh, yes, i think you'd beg me to fill your belly with my sons," he taunts, smirking mischievously as his sapphire eye gleams with nefarious intent. "...and plenty of daughters, too. girls who're just as pretty as their mother."
the pressure builds, coiling tight in your belly as he quickens his pace, fingers thrusting deeper, slick sounds filling the chamber. you're naïve to the ways of men, but your body knows him, responds to his every touch like it was made for him. "come for me, little one," he commands, his eye locked on yours, intense and unblinking. "show me how much you love your lēkia." the orgasm that rips through your body crashes over you then, waves of endless ecstasy pulsing throughout your shaking limbs, your cunt spasming around his fingers as you cry out, muffled against his shoulder.
fat tears prick your eyes from the intensity, your soft heart overwhelmed by the forbidden bliss. he holds you through it, murmuring endearments laced with that teasing bite—my perfect, foolish girl—until your tremors start to fade. gently, he withdraws his hand from between your thighs, bringing his glistening fingers up to your lips. "taste yourself," he orders, and you do, shyly, your little pink tongue darting out as he watches with dark satisfaction.
then he kisses you again, softer this time, tasting the evidence of your sweet submission. and as dawn threatens the horizon, he rises, adjusting your shift with surprising tenderness. "sleep now, ñuha jorrāeliarzy," he coos, brushing a kiss to your forehead. "dream of me, as i dream of you—eternally." he slips from your chambers like a ghost, leaving you curled in the sheets, body humming with aftershocks, heart full of his obsessive love. of course, you know he'll return tomorrow night, and the next, chasing you in this endless dance he's destined to perform with you, his darling little sister. he's yours just as much as you're his, bound by blood and something fiercer, and in the quiet, you smile, safe in the knowledge that he'll never let you go.
-ˋˏ| summary: you meet a guy in a bar and decide to go back to his place, as weird as he might seem.
✧ | Pairing: Martin (in the modern world) x reader
✧ | word count: 2.3k
✧ | Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI, Oral (f/m receiving), 69 position, Martin is weird as hell but a pussy eating champ! Not beta proof<3
“So… what’s your name again?” You ask curiously, walking behind the man that holds your hand, guiding you through his home, and to his bedroom. You don’t complain, though, since you were out just for that; to get home with a handsome man.
There was this band that you never heard of playing near your house, and it took little for your brain to convince you to go. If something good came from it, you would get fucked. If something bad came from it, well… you hoped for the first one.
That’s how you ended up here, following a dude, which looks from head to toe like a metal head. His hair goes to his shoulders, coal black, which you assume he dyed it, and some graphic shirt with the words ‘Knotfest’ and all, wearing some metal stuff that you didn’t really know much about.
And you looked like a rock groupie, with a leather top that practically squeezed your tits and a dark jeans miniskirt with some boots. Yet, this mysterious man was still taller than you, and that was quite exciting, and a bit arousing.
“Eh, Martin” he says nonchalantly, as he grabs your hand, his bracelets really end up the detail of his fit, and you feel really horny now to lay with this dude. “Yours?”
You tell Martin your name, following him as he opens his bedroom door. To be fair, it is tidier than you imagined.
“Sorry the mess” he murmurs, moving the drone and an electric guitar out of his bed. You hum, looking around curiously, to the badly positioned posters, some rock-metal bands that you didn’t know about.
“Is that a snake?” You ask, watching the little head of the reptile in the middle of the dim light coming from outside.
“Uh- no, it’s a lizard”
A guy with a lizard as a pet. Okay.
“What is its name?”
“Lizard. I don’t like naming them-”
Great.
You look at him with a fake smile. The dick better be good you think, taking out your jacket and leaving it on a chair next to the desk.
“Be careful, spider likes to crawl near there”
You took your jacket off there, and you really hoped that he had a dog called spider because otherwise it would be strange as hell.
“Riiiiight” you say, leaving your jacket in a hanger of his opened closet. Whatever. “So… Apart from having a lizard and a spider… do you maybe also have… a cockroach?”
He lets out a huff, his lips turning upwards as he takes his shirt off. “No” Martin says. “I do have another thing, though, it’s very big”
You try to smile at his corny, cringy words. It’s for the dick. You repeat to yourself: The dick better be good. He better not finish in two minutes. He better knows how to eat pussy.
“Ha. Funny” you say as you start to take off those boots.
“How did ya meet the band?”
“Ehmm… A friend dated the brother of an ex of the bassist. I think” you say watching as he frowns his eyebrows slightly trying to make any sense as he lights up a cigarette.
“ah, nice” he says as he lays on bed as he smokes the cigarette, taking off his shirt as he remains only in those Adidas jeans of his. “Heard the songs before?”
“Once or twice” you say looking at the CD albums stacked on top of each other messily, and you move to grab a solitude piece of paper, as you can practically feel Martin’s eyes on your ass. “I liked the vocalist, quite handsome, don’t you think?” you unwrap softly the paper, away from Martin’s eyes.
It was an address. It piqued your curiosity.
“Aye, come here” his voice is soft as he extends his hand to turn off the cigarette on the glass ashtray, which has the shape of a dragon.
You turn around and walk toward his bed, and watch how he seems eager to have you. It’s hot to have a man drooling for you like Martin is now. And his erection is the living proof of it; it was obvious against his trousers that he was rock hard. You wondered if he was leaking as well.
You straddle his lap, a smirk forming on your lips as his hands move immediately to your thighs, cold hands moving slowly up to find their way to your ass.
“Sit on my face” Martin murmurs, words slightly stuck between his pants
“Hm? What was that?” You ask petulantly, pretending not to have heard.
“Come on, beautiful, sit on my face” he says, pushing your hips closer to his chest, trying to push your miniskirt up.
“Gotta take my panties off” you say softly to him, watching his lips as he licks them, savouring the ghosting taste of you.
“No, like this” he murmurs, eager to taste you. “I’ll eat you from behind even.” Martin proposes, more desperate than the last time “Please”
You might forgive cheesy comments for his eagerness. You sigh with a wide smirk, turning around as Martin places his big hands around your thighs, dragging your centre closer to his face.
Eager was the wrong word for it; he was desperate.
His hand moved your panties to the side, and his face almost nuzzled your cunt, before starting to press his tongue on your centre. You could hear his groan of pure delight, his hands caressing the skin of your thighs and ass as he delighted himself.
“Fuck” you said, but it was as if all the air from your lungs when out in that moan.
Martin’s hands were keeping you still, not allowing you to move your hips to grind his face as you wanted. You could hear his moans, the way he slurped and nuzzled his face on your cunt.
He was a pro, eating pussy as if he did it every day (maybe he did, god knows), and he didn’t seem to care for his lack of air in the matter. He was on it, devoted to eating your dripping cunt as if it was his last meal on earth.
Your hands are pressed on his stomach, and he has to forcefully let you go to breathe, and you sigh as you feel his breaths.
“Where did you learn to do that?” You breathe softly, as you can hear how he pants, catching his breath.
“A good pussy can make a man go feral, love” he says, moving your panties out of the way as his index and middle finger move to rub against your slit.
He was cheesy, and it was a bit weird. Yet it couldn’t bother you less, you had been with worse men, and Martin was good in other areas…, well, at least in sex and eating out a pussy. And it was more than average, so you were up to it.
Before he decides to keep on eating you, still caressing your clit as he catches his breath, you lean a bit on his torso, to try to pull down the leather pants, opening the zipper.
It takes you a bit, yet after accomplishing your mission, your hand grabs his dick to guide it into your warm, eager mouth.
He was well doted, and hard as a rock. He was leaking, and his tip was a bit pink compared with the rest of his cock.
God damn you if it didn’t make your mouth drool. Between him eating you out, and his leaking cock, you think you will go insane. He could have cheeky, cringe comments but you could live with it. You couldn’t live without him eating you out or his cock.
You are as enthusiastic with his cock as he is. Though, you start slower. You take the head on your mouth, sucking on it as you feel him groan against your pussy. It was fucking hot, and it had you moaning on his cock. You didn’t remember the last time your legs were trembling like this, and how much you wanted to feel a dick in your throat. It was a need, a primal need.
Martin was kind and nice, had his things, but god, you need to fuck him. You might even need to have his babies by now. You wouldn’t complain if he came all inside you, filling you with his cum, and making you pregnant. Fuck, it even turned you more on. What was this man doing to you?
You took more of his dick in your mouth, trying to take all of it, not minding if you choke on it. He was hot. More than hot, in truth.
Martin was relentless with his tongue, lapping at your cunt again and again, moaning loudly against it as he could feel how deep you were taking his cock in your mouth. Your hand moved to cup his balls, as your tongue tried to swirl around his tip. It drove him insane.
It was not long before you started to cum, moaning loudly, his dick slipping from your mouth as your thighs pressed against his face, riding his face and nose as he was making you cum. His tongue was as greedy as him, and he worked with his nose along your slit. And it made you cum hard, rolling your eyes back. “Fuck, Martin, just like that…” You say, hips grinding against his mouth in a desperate need to stretch the feeling a bit more.
And once you finish, your mouth goes back to his cock, to keep on sucking him off. “Fuck, you feel incredible” he rasped, as you moved forward, closer to his cock and have full access, as Martin’s hips pumped upwards to fuck your mouth.
You lay on his chest, his face back on the pillow, moaning loudly as you seem to try to drain him completely, deepthroating him as if it was nothing at all.
“Fuck, you are going to make me cum” He says, teeth gripped as his hand moves to grab a fist of your hair, to move your head down to allow him fuck your mouth deep as he wanted. His own head titles back in pure bliss and pleasure, moaning loudly as he uses your mouth as a desperate animal in need to cum. Not that you complain, it costs a bit more to breathe, and you were almost choking, but hearing Martin be so local, groaning, moaning and grunting was worth it.
His cum soon fills your mouth, and he keeps you still, the signal clear for you to swallow all of it, as his throbbing cock unleashed his hot cum.
“Swallow it… fuck, swallow it all, take what I give you…” he mutters in pure bliss.
As the last drops of cum are licked off his cock, he leans back and you move to his side.
“That was great” You mutter, looking at the ceiling. How could he be so great at it?
“Yeah. Cig break and round two?”
“Hell yeah”
You are with your friend when you search the location in the paper that you found in Martin’s room. You were supposed to go to the club, you were wearing your miniskirt and a top, really to party, but that man had eaten your pussy and fucked you like no one before, so you felt entitled to find what that was for.
“It’s cold” Your friend, Tamara, says. She was chewing gum as she followed you begrudgingly.
“It’s a fucking parking lot?” You ask looking around the empty street, the night made it lonely yet not totally isolated.
“Your darling buries the bodies here” Your friend says, obviously judging it all. “Can we go?”
“Look, there is a car” you point out, as the car seems to be jumping around due to the movements inside. “Gods, you think they are having sex?”
“Ew, you think he has a brothel in his car?” Tamara asks you, looking at the car as you both get closer. “Eww and you fucked without a condom… You could get an IST, and die”
“It is called an STD, and… I think he is not fucking anyone” you frown slightly, getting closer.
“Careful! What if his pimp is here…?”
“He is fighting someone!” You say looking inside the car, as you find Martin pressing the head of the other guy against the window.
Surely, Martin was a weird dude. He was corny as hell, and he had pets called like the species they were. Sure. He almost burned his hair as he smoked after sex, yes; and he also ate pussy like a champ and was hung as a horse.
“I am going there” You tell your friends. “The dick is worth it”
“Yikes”
As you walk closer, you feel your friend either staying behind or walking away, not that you care.
Martin had blood trailing down his forehead, and was lying in the passenger’s seat as his thighs choked the other guy he was with, holding his head still with his hands. Okay, whatever, a guy can have hobbies.
When he sees you, he starts rolling down the window of the car, as you lean closer to his height.
“Hey, darling- how did ya–”
“A girl has her secrets” you say, smiling as you see him. God, he was sexy as hell. “I want my pussy eaten”
Martin smirks, and he leans back to sigh at your request, as if the idea delights him. He still applies pressure to the other dude, who seems to pass out. Martin leans forward closer to your lips and whispers “Will ya’ wait ten minutes as I finish with this round?”
“Three” You bargain.
“Seven.”
“Three”
“Five and I’ll make you cum twice.” His final offer, and the time you had in mind. Offering lower than one wants always seems work to get your official deal, even with an extra.
“Deal” you accept with a smirk.
And what if he was fighting inside a car? You fancied Martin, and sure as hell he fancied you. Even if he has weird hobbies.
⸜̑⸝͂ ⋮ 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑎𝑖𝑛𝓈﹒ ᴍᴅɴɪ﹒ ᴅᴅᴅɴᴇ﹒ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀᴀɢᴇ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ﹒ ᴍᴏᴅᴇʀɴ!ᴀᴇᴍᴏɴᴅ﹒
𝑛𝑜𝑡𝑒﹒ hi! ֯⸜̑⸝͂ idk if this'll be any good﹒﹒ but pls be aware﹐ this is an extremely dark fic﹐ u have been warned !! & tusm for taking the time to read & letting me share a lil piece of my soul w u all﹐ 𝑥𝑜﹒
𝑤𝑐﹒ 5﹒8k﹒
꒰ ⸜̑⸝͂ ᴍᴀɢɢᴏᴛ ᴅᴇᴀʀᴇꜱᴛ ⸜̑⸝͂ ꒱
⸌̑⸍͂ ⸜̑⸝͂ ⸌̑⸍͂
the bass from the club downstairs vibrated through the floorboards of the vip lounge; a rhythmic, thumping heartbeat that matched the pulse fluttering in your neck. the air was hazed with grey smoke, smelling of clove, expensive tobacco, and something sweet—like vanilla rotting in the sun.
you sat in the corner booth, your knees pulled up to your chest, trying to make yourself small. at sixteen, you felt like a ghost in a room full of viscous, snarling monsters that were starving for your untainted flesh. you were only here because your brother worked the door, and it was safer here than outside in the rain. then the door opened, and the rest of the room faded away into the background like drifting clouds.
aemond targaryen had walked in.
he didn't just enter a room; he infected it. he was twenty-nine, a relic of a city that chewed people up and spit them back out. he was shirtless under a worn leather jacket that hung open, revealing a canvas of dark ink. black spirals and stark geometric patterns climbed up his throat, curled down his arms, and disappeared into the waistband of his tight black jeans. he was a walking work of art, a fucking masterpiece—beautiful and terrifying—and the most irritating part was the fact that he knew it.
they often called him a man-whore, an entity that transfers from one body to the next, consuming affection and leaving behind heartbroken husks. he was a poet of the obscene, scribbling erotic filth on cocktail napkins before he forgot your name. but tonight, his singular eye—pale lilac and predatory—locked onto you.
he weaved through the crowd effortlessly, ignoring the hands that reached out to grab him, the tits that were thrusted into his face. he was a dragon that had scented blood. he stopped at your booth, towering over you, smelling of cigarette smoke and the musk of sex. "you're too young for the shadows, kid," he rasped, his voice like gravel wrapped in silk.
"i'm waiting for my brother," you lied, your soft-spoken voice trembling. aemond smirked, a crooked thing that showed too many teeth. he pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, tapping one out. he didn't offer you one; he just lit it, the flare of the lighter illuminating the sharp planes of his hardened face, highlighting the scar that was beneath his eyepatch. "sit with me," he commanded, sliding into the booth right next to you.
he didn't ask, he told.
you should have been terrified. you were, in a sense, but there was a pull toward him, a gravity that made it impossible to look away. he was the most alive thing you had ever seen. for four hours, you sat there while he smoked, while he drank amber liquor from a glass without ice, while he scribbled in a battered leather notebook. he didn't touch you, not at first. he just watched you, his gaze heavy-lidded and feverish, stripping away your defenses layer by layer, minute by minute.
he started to talk, and not small talk—no, he talked about death and desire, about the stupidity of the aristocracy, about the way the city lights looked like bruised skin at dawn. he read you lines from his notebook—erotic poetry that made your ears burn, words about fluids and teeth and sin. like a reflection in a mirror, he wrote, i see you clearer when you're terrified.
you were terrified, but you were also deeply fascinated by him. nobody had ever looked at you like you were the only interesting thing in the world. and so it came as no surprise to you that, only a week later, you were in his apartment. it was a mistake; you knew it was a mistake. he had picked you up in his sleek black car while you were walking home from school. you shouldn't have gotten in, but you did.
his place was a disaster zone of art and pure fucking chaos. canvases leaned against the walls, painted in violent slashes of red and black. there were ashtrays overflowing on nearly every surface, and books were stacked in precarious towers. aemond sat on a velvet chaise, watching you walk around the living room. he was shirtless again, his tattoos shifting as he breathed, "come here," he murmured, his voice a soft, hypnotic purr.
"i should g-go home… i-i have homework," you stammered meekly, nervously picking at the hem of your blouse. "fuck homework," he snapped, though not unkindly. "come here." and so—you obeyed. you stood between his spread knees, fidgeting slightly. he reached out, his hands rough and large, gripping your waist. he pulled you closer until your shins brushed against the cushion of the chaise. he looked up at you, and for the first time, you saw something other than hunger in his eye—you saw a terrifying sort of possession.
"do you know why i write, sweetheart?" he asked, his thumb tracing the line of your hip bone through your skirt. "um… because you're… talented?" you squeaked, soft and unsure. he laughed, a dry, cynical sound. "because i'm fucking hollow inside. i'm always trying to find a feeling that sticks, but they never do. the women, the liquor, the drugs… it's all just fucking static, baby. white noise."
he leaned forward, pressing his face against your stomach. he inhaled deeply, like he was trying to breathe you in and keep your scent inside of him forever. "but you," he whispered against your school uniform. "you're not white noise… no," he drawls, pausing for a moment before continuing softly. "you're an ear-piercing scream that drowns everything else out until only silence remains."
"aemond…" you sighed, your hands resting on his broad shoulders, feeling the heat of his skin. "i want to possess you," he whispered suddenly, the words dangerously soft and forbidden. he looked up at you, his gaze intense. but you knew the truth, you knew what he really meant was, i want to possess you… but baby, i think you're the one possessing me. the words hung in the air, unspoken but understood. he had asked you to stay, and so you did.
the weeks with aemond turned into months. you became a fixture in his life, a secret he kept in the shadows. you met him in the back of dingy bars, in the alleyway behind the art gallery, in his apartment at 3 am when the insomnia got too bad. he was obsessed, devoted only to you.
he began writing about you constantly now. the way your heart beats is the only rhythm i care about, he wrote. your skin is a map i want to memorize blind, and, i want to crawl inside you and live in the silence.
it was completely fucked up; you knew it was fucked up. he was twenty-nine, a man grown. you were sixteen, practically still a baby. he was a man who had sex with strangers in filthy bathroom stalls just to feel something. fortunately, he wasn't sleeping with anyone else anymore. he spent most of his time holed up in his apartment, reading you poetry while he chain-smoked, looking at you like you were some divine deity he wanted to desecrate and worship at the same time.
one night, you were sitting on the floor of his studio, watching him paint. he had a cigarette dangling between his pale lips, ash threatening to fall onto the canvas. the song playing in the background—something haunting and synth-heavy—seemed to vibrate in your teeth. he stopped, turning to look at you, his remaining eye bloodshot, and his hands were stained with acrylics. "take off your sweater," he murmured casually, almost lazily.
"aem—" you started to protest, feeing shy. "please, sweetheart. i just… i need to see the canvas. i need to paint you, baby. not like the others… just you and your innocence." it was the vulnerability in his voice that undid you. this terrifying, inked monster of a man looked at you like a drowning man looking at a lifeline. sighing quietly, you pulled your soft, fuzzy pink sweater over your head. you were wearing a simple cotton bra—nothing special, nothing remarkable or sexy—but aemond thought you looked deliciously precious, angelic.
aemond immediately dropped to his knees in front of you. he didn't touch your breasts; instead, he pressed his face to your chest, right over your racing heart. he was shaking, holding onto his restraint with desperation laced with despair. slowly, carefully, he wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you tight against him, burying his face in your flushed skin. "can you hear it?" he whispered, his voice cracking painfully. "the static… it's all gone. when i touch you… it's quiet, baby. it's finally quiet."
you wrapped your arms around his neck, burying your fingers in his long, unkempt silver hair. you felt the wetness of his tears—you didn't know aemond targaryen could cry—soaking into your bra. "i'm here, aem," you cooed, trying to soothe his damaged soul. he pulled away slightly, looking up at you, his face anguished and achingly beautiful. "your mother would kill me," he choked out. "your brother, the cops… they would all kill me."
"i know," you whispered, feeling your chest tightening at his honest distress. "but i don't care, i don't care about any of it, baby." he gripped your shoulders, his fingers digging in. "i want to be the fucking air in your lungs… i want to be the blood in your veins," he confessed, his voice full of crazed passion. "i want to ruin you for anyone else; i want to be the haunting that follows you until the day you die."
if you let me in, i will never let you go. the words from another poem he wrote about you, the sentiment of the night. he was offering you a deal with the devil—and the devil was in love with you. he was offering you eternal devotion wrapped in a package of felony charges and moral bankruptcy. he was offering to possess you, body and soul.
you looked at him, at the tattoos that covered his chest—fire breathing dragons, skulls, naked women—and you didn't see a predator. you saw a man who was finally feeling something real and was terrified it would slip away. with a soft, shaky exhale, you leaned down and kissed him. it wasn't a chaste peck, you could taste the nicotine and the whiskey and the salt of his tears. you kissed him with all the confusion and intensity of your sixteen years, letting him consume you.
aemond groaned, a low, deep sound of pure surrender. he pulled you down onto the floor with him, covering your body with his. he didn't try to take your clothes off. he just held you, his face buried in your neck, his breathing evening out, the obsession finally quieting down into a warm, steady hum. you lay there on the hardwood floor, surrounded by the smell of paint and smoke.
you knew you were ruined, completely possessed by him, and as his arms tightened around you, claiming you as his own, you realized you didn't want to be saved. you just wanted to be the ghost that haunted aemond targaryen forever.
however, the quiet didn't last very long. the quiet was just the eye of the storm, the breath before the plunge. aemond pulled away from your lips, but he didn't go far. his forehead rested against yours, his breathing ragged and shallow. the scent of him—sage, stale smoke, and the metallic tang of heroin withdrawal—was suffocating. he looked at you with that singular, pale lilac eye of his, and the vulnerability that was there before gone, burned away by a feverish intensity that made your skin prickle with fear and desire.
"you taste like candy," he whispered hotly, his voice scraping against your ear. "pure and processed… it's fucking disgusting." he didn't say it as an insult; he said it like he was starving. "stay still for me, baby," he growled, annoyed by your constant squirming. he reached into the pocket of his discarded jeans and pulled out a switchblade. the snick of the blade opening sounded loud in the silent room. you flinched, your breath hitching in your throat. he laughed, a low, mean sound, enjoying your fear.
"shhh," he soothed, cooing softly, bringing the flat of the cold steel against your cheek. "i'm not going to cut you, not yet… i just need to get this off you, sweetheart." he slid the blade under the strap of your bra, and with a sharp flick of his wrist, the fabric snapped. the lace fell away, exposing you to the cold air and his burning gaze. you gasped, crossing your arms over your chest, instinctively trying to hide.
he grabbed your wrists, his grip bruising, and yanked them apart. "don't hide from me," he barked. "i painted you, so i own this canvas. now, be a good girl and open up for daddy." he didn't wait for you to comply; he pushed your legs apart with his knees, settling heavily between your thighs. the denim of his dark jeans was rough against your skin. you were trapped beneath the weight of him, a fly caught in a spider's web made of ink and bad decisions.
he tipped his head back, exposing the long line of his throat, then opened his mouth and let a long string of saliva fall from his lips. it landed hot and wet on your chest, right between your heaving breasts. you recoiled, a cry of shock and disgust escaping your throat, but he just watched it slide down your skin, mesmerized. "look at that," he breathed, his pupil completely blown with obsessive desire. "marking my territory, like a dog pissing against a tree."
he leaned down and pressed his face into the mess he'd made, rubbing his freshly growing stubble against the sensitive skin of your sternum. it hurt—a friction burn in the making—but the pain was sharp and grounding. he was claiming you, stamping his filth onto your innocence. "aemond, stop," you mewled, unable to reconcile the tenderness from moments ago with this sudden, degrading aggression.
"stop?" he chuckled, the sound vibrating through your chest. "you think i know how to stop? i'm a fucking junkie, baby—and you're the only drug that's ever worked." he sat up suddenly, stripping off his jacket and throwing it across the room. his tattoos writhed in the low light—snakes eating their tails, skulls grinning in the dark. he looked down at you, his expression unreadable, except for the hunger.
"touch me," he demanded. "touch the parts that hurt." he took your small, trembling hand and guided it to the grooves of his abs, then lower, to the waistband of his jeans. you could feel the heat radiating from him, the tension coiled in his muscles like a viper ready to strike. you hesitated; this was the point of no return, the line drawn in the sand, and he was dragging you over it—bleeding, without mercy.
"don't think," he coaxed, reading your hesitation. "just let me in." he forced your hand under the denim, wrapping your fingers around his hardness. he was hot, heavy, and leaking. you squeezed him experimentally, and he hissed, his head falling forward, his forehead hitting your bare shoulder. "fuuuck yes," he groaned. "that's it… you feel that, baby? that's what you do to me. that's what you've done to me since the moment i saw you sitting in that booth, all vulnerable and pretty, looking like a fucking porcelain doll—lost and alone, just begging to be taken."
he began to move your hand, forcing you to stroke his length. his rhythm was desperate, punishing. he was fucking your fist, using you to get off, his hips snapping forward with abandon. "i want to ruin you," he panted into your neck, his teeth scraping the soft, unblemished skin. "i want to be the first man to break you open; i want to be the only thing left when the dust settles." he grabbed your face with his free hand, forcing you to look at him. his eye was wild, blown wide with lust and something terrifying like devotion.
"kiss me," he demanded. "kiss me like you mean it, like you want to be consumed." you leaned up and pressed your lips to his. it wasn't a kiss; it was a collision. he devoured your mouth, his tongue invading, tasting of smoke and desperation. you felt dirty, used, and undeniably alive. you were sixteen, lying on the floor of a crack-den-chic apartment, making out with a twenty-nine year old criminal who wrote poetry about your demise.
and you loved it.
he broke the kiss, gasping for air. "turn over," he growled. "aemond, i-i don't—" you whined. "turn over," he insisted, his voice leaving no room for argument. with shaking hands, you rolled onto your stomach. you felt exposed, vulnerable, your face pressed against the hardwood floor. you could smell the paint thinner, the dust, the distinct musk of him. you heard the sound of his belt buckle clanking, the rasp of a zipper. then, his hands were on your hips, yanking you up onto your knees. your skirt was flipped up, exposing the simple cotton of your underwear.
"look at this," he hummed, almost to himself. "so innocent… it's practically begging to be torn apart." he hooked his long, nimble fingers into the waistband and pulled. the fabric tore with a loud, sharp riiip, leaving you bare and vulnerable to his heated gaze. "i want to see what's mine," he panted. then, his mouth was on you. you squealed, your fingers clawing at the floorboards as your back arched like a cat. he didn't ease into it; he devoured you like he was starving, his tongue flat and broad, dragging through your folds in rough, wet strokes over your most sensitive parts. he was messy with it, loud, and unashamed.
the sounds were lewd—slurping, sucking, grunting. it felt like too much; the rough stubble on his chin rubbing against your thighs, the hot invasion of his tongue, the sheer depravity of the position. you tried to crawl away, the stimulation overwhelming, but he grabbed your thighs in a vice grip, holding you in place, claiming you as his own. "don't you dare run from this," he warned, his voice muffled against your hot, dripping flesh. "take it, take all of it."
he pushed his face deeper, his nose bumping against your entrance. he was breathing you in, groaning like a man possessed. you felt the knot in your stomach tightening, a coil of heat that was terrifying in its intensity. "aemond," you moaned, the sound broken and weak. "it's t-too much..." you whimpered, shivering. "no, it's not," he argued, pulling away for a second to catch his breath, his chin glistening with your wetness. "it's never enough, baby. i could fucking drown in your pussy and still want more."
eagerly, he dove back in, adding two long, nimble fingers alongside his tongue, stretching you wide open. you cried out, your back arching beautifully. the burn was a sharp sting, but beneath it was a dark, blooming pleasure that made your little toes curl. "i'm gonna fill you up," he mumbled breathily, his fingers pumping in and out, scissoring you open. "i'm gonna fill you up so full of me that you'll never be able to wash it out. you'll be walking around school, sitting in class, feeling me dripping out of you, reminding you who you belong to."
the image he painted was vile, terribly illicit. it was the ultimate corruption of your youth. and as you felt the pressure building, the white-hot heat rushing to the surface, you knew he was right. you were already ruined. he curled his fingers, finding a spot that made you see stars. you shattered, your body convulsing, a high-pitched, girlish scream tearing from your throat. you came so fucking hard, your walls clamping down on his greedy fingers, gushing into his mouth, sobbing and wailing like a newborn babe.
aemond growled, lapping up your sweet release like it was nectar from the gods. he didn't stop until you were a sobbing, boneless mess on the floor, completely at his mercy. he kissed the back of your quivering thigh, a gentle, possessive gesture. "good girl," he cooed, his voice low and raspy, soothing to your ears. he crawled up your body, covering you with his own. he didn't enter you—not yet—but he pressed his hard length against your asscheeks, letting you feel how close he was to the edge. "now," he breathed in your ear, his voice a dark promise. "we begin the real haunting."
you shivered, the cold air conditioning raising gooseflesh on your skin. you lay there pinned beneath him, smelling of sex and sweat and him. you were a sixteen year old girl, just ravaged by a man nearly twice your age on the floor of his studio apartment. and as he nuzzled into your hair, inhaling your sweet, addictive vanilla scent like it was the only thing keeping him alive, you realized the most terrifying part of it all. you didn't want to leave; you wanted to be haunted, you wanted to be possessed, you wanted to be aemond targaryen's forever.
time seemed to slow down, leaving you in a blissful daze. the room spun, a slow, lazy vortex of regret and craving. you were floating, untethered, staring up at the water-stained ceiling of his bedroom. aemond had carried you there. he hadn't just ate you out and left you on the floor; he had gathered you up, your limbs limp and useless, and cradled you against his chest like you were something precious, like an injured baby lamb that only he could fix. now he was smoking; the cherry of the cigarette flared in the dark, illuminating the sharp angles of his face. he was sitting on the edge of the bed, shirtless, and his tattoos—a history of violence and bad decisions—were on full display.
you watched the smoke curl up from his lips, a grey ghost disappearing into the dark. "don't look at me like that," he murmured, his voice rough. "like what?" you asked. "like i'm some hero," he scoffed, tapping ash onto the floor with a careless flick of his wrist. "i'm a villain, baby. i'm the monster in the story they tell to keep little girls like you inside at night." he turned to look at you then, and the contempt was gone, replaced by that devastating, terrifying intensity. he reached out, his hand hovering over your cheek, trembling slightly. "you're trembling," he whispered.
"i'm cold." you mumbled, your voice small and quiet. aemond reached over to crush his cigarette out in the overflowing ashtray. he moved then, sliding under the covers with you, pulling you into his warmth. he was like a furnace, burning with a feverish intensity that scared you as much as it thrilled you. you rested your head on his chest, listening to his heart beating—thump-thump, thump-thump—a steady, living drum. it was the most intimate sound you had ever heard. "you're so young," he said suddenly, his fingers tangling in your hair. "you still have baby fat; your skin is so soft it hurts to touch."
he sounded pained. he sounded like a man realizing he was holding a chick that had fallen from the nest, and he was the wolf waiting to eat it. "i'm not a child," you protested, your voice weak. "you are," he insisted, his grip on you tightening. "you're sixteen, sweetheart. you should be worrying about algebra and boys who don't know what a fucking clit is. instead, you're here with me. i've ruined you."
"i'm not ruined," you lied, pouting. he didn't respond; he just continued to hold you, his breathing ragged. you could feel the tension in his muscles, the way he was holding himself back. "why do you even want me?" you asked, the question escaping before you could stop it. aemond let out a shaky breath that sounded like a sob. he rolled onto his side, forcing you to look at him. in the dark, his eye was a pool of liquid silver. "because you're the only thing that's real," he whispered. "i move through life like it's a dream. i fuck, i drink, i write, and none of it matters. it's all static. but you? when i look at you, the static stops, and the noise fades away into nothing."
he traced the line of your jaw with his thumb, his touch reverent. "i look at you and i feel... sane. for the first time in my life, i feel sane. and that scares the shit out of me." he leaned in and kissed you, soft and slow. it was a kiss that tasted of nicotine and desperation; he poured his soul into it, trying to merge with you, trying to crawl inside your skin and live there. "you're my salvation," he whispered against your lips. "and my damnation." he rolled on top of you then, settling between your legs. he wasn't rushing this time. he wasn't the animal from the living room. he was a man in love, or the closest approximation of it that a creature like him could manage.
"you're mine," he declared, his gaze locking onto yours. "say it."
"i'm yours," you mewled, feeling a heat pooling low in your belly once again.
"again."
"i'm yours, aemond… all yours, only yours."
he groaned, burying his face in your neck. his hips rolled against yours, the friction sending sparks of pleasure through your oversensitized body. he was hard again, a demand against your belly. "i want to be inside you," he begged, his lips scraping against your ear. "i want to fill you up until you can't think of anything else. i want to be the blood in your veins. i need to possess you, body and soul. do you understand? i can't just love you, i have to consume you." the words were terrifying, but they settled into your chest like a heavy stone. you understood. you felt it too, the pull, the gravity. you wanted to be consumed; you wanted to give him everything, even if it hurt. "yes," you whined. "p-please..."
he kissed you again, harder this time, his tongue sweeping into your mouth, claiming you. one of his hands slid down between your bodies, finding you wet and ready for him. "that's my girl," he praised with a soft hum of greediness, his fingers teasing your raw, drooling entrance. "always so ready for me… so eager to be ruined." he smirked, lining himself up, the blunt head of his cock nudging against your fluttering opening. he hesitated for a split second, his eye searching yours, looking for any sign of doubt, but there was none. you were his, completely and utterly.
"look at me," he commanded. "don't turn away, i want to see your eyes when i take you." he began to push in, the stretch overwhelming, sharp enough to steal your breath. he was just so big, and you were so small, and there was pain, a sharp, stinging burn as your wet, bloodied walls tried to accommodate him. "there we go, baby… biiig stretch." but as he sank deeper, burying himself to the hilt, the pain transmuted into something else—a feeling of fullness, of being complete. you were finally whole, but only because he was inside you. aemond let out a short, shaky breath, his forehead resting against yours. "f-fuck," he choked out. "you feel like heaven, baby… you feel like… like coming home."
he began to move then, slow and deep. he wasn't just fucking you; he was worshipping at the altar of your body. he watched your face with a single-minded intensity, cataloging every gasp, every flutter of your lashes. "you're so beautiful," he praised, his voice thick with emotion. "my beautiful, tragic girl—my magdalene." he angled his hips, hitting a spot deep inside of you that made you see stars. you cried out, your nails digging into the ink of his broad shoulders. "shh… i've got you," he soothed, his pace increasing slightly. "i've got you, i've got you… daddy's got you."
"i love you," he said suddenly, the words raw and unguarded. "i think i loved you since the first moment i saw you, before i even spoke to you. i saw you sitting there in that booth, all pretty and lonely, and i thought, 'that one, that's the one i'm going to die for'." the confession hung in the air, heavy and binding. you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him in deeper, receiving his love in the only language he spoke—violence and devotion. "i-i love you, too," you gasped, the rhythm of his hips driving the words out of you.
he let out a sound that was half-sob, half-growl. he captured your lips in a messy, searing kiss, his tongue mimicking the rhythm of his cock. he was close, you could feel it. his movements became erratic, his breathing ragged. "come with me," he pleaded, his brow furrowed in concentration. "let me feel it, baby." you reached between your bodies, your inexperienced fingers finding your clit. you rubbed yourself in time with his frantic thrusts, the friction building the knot in your stomach tighter and tighter. with a high-pitched wail of "daddy," you tumbled over the edge. your walls clenched down on him, rippling around his thick length, greedy and desperate to keep him inside.
aemond choked out a curse, his body going rigid. he buried himself deep, flooding your womb with his seed. you could feel it, painting your insides, marking you from the inside out. he collapsed on top of you, his weight crushing you into the mattress. you lay there, your limbs tangled together, sweat cooling on your heated skin, his seed leaking out of you obscenely. he didn't pull out, he stayed inside you, keeping you plugged up faithfully. he buried his face in your neck, his breathing slowly evening out. "if you ever leave me," he whispered, his voice muffled against your damp skin, "i'll find you. i don't care where you go, i don't care if it takes ten years. i will find you."
the possessiveness in his tone should have scared you—it did scare you; but as you lay there in the dark, listening to the beat of his heart, you realized there was nowhere else you wanted to go. you were his; he had carved his name into your soul with his cock and his poetry, without mercy. and as sleep began to claim you, the last thing you felt was his lips pressing gently against your temple, a brand of ownership that no one else could ever touch or take away.
⏾
a week later, you find the black leather notebook tucked between the mattress and the wall, its corners dog-eared and stained with rings from glasses of cheap whiskey. the pages are thick, vellum, and the ink is jagged—scrawled in a haste that suggests if he didn't get the words out fast enough, they would eat him alive. it smells like him; cloves, old paper, and the faint, coppery tang that always lingers on his hands. this is his bible, this is where he dissected you, line by jagged line, before he ever touched you.
ɪ. ᴀʟᴛᴀʀ ʙᴏʏ.
she tastes like bubblegum sin,
a rotten peach on the verge of collapse.
sixteen years of sunday school
and she's on her knees for me.
not for god.
for the ghost.
i want to peel back the skin of her ribcage
and curl up inside the warm, wet drum of her heart.
she asks me if i love her.
i tell her i want to eat her alive.
same thing, really.
ɪɪ. ꜱᴛᴀᴛɪᴄ.
the city is a dead channel,
white noise in my veins.
i put my dick in them to feel something,
i put needles in my arm to forget, but it's all just fuzz.
just grey snow.
until her.
she is the technicolour scream in a silent film.
her heartbeat is the new rhythm.
i want to mainline her fear,
shoot up the trembling of her hands.
she's the only fix that works.
she's the only thing that makes the quiet stop.
ɪɪɪ. ᴜɴᴅʀᴇꜱꜱᴇᴅ.
her underwear is cotton.
white.
it's a fucking joke.
a veil for a sanctity i tore to shreds three weeks ago
in the back of an alleyway behind the cinema.
when i peel it down,
i don't see a girl.
i see a raw, pink universe.
i see a place to bury my sins,
a warm hole to hide the monster.
i'm not a lover.
i'm an infection.
and she is the host,
willing, soft, waiting to be corrupted.
ɪᴠ. ʜᴀᴜɴᴛɪɴɢ.
they call it statutory.
i call it destiny.
let them lock me up.
let them put the needle in my arm
for stealing a piece of heaven.
it won't matter.
i've already dissolved.
i'm in the water she drinks,
i'm in the air she breathes in math class,
i'm the ache between her legs
when she crosses them tight.
you don't go to jail
for haunting a house.
you just rattle the chains
and wait for the lights to go out.
ᴠ. ᴄᴀɴᴅʏ. (ᴠᴏᴍɪᴛ)
her mouth is full of sugar
and lies.
she kisses me like she thinks i'm a prince.
i am the wolf.
i am the big bad wolf
and i chewed the grandmother's bones
before i even climbed the ladder.
i spit in her mouth and call it love.
i mark her neck with purple galaxies
and call it art.
everything i touch turns to ash,
but she just smiles and asks for more.
she loves the rot.
she loves the way the maggots wriggle.
my girl.
my sweet, rotten girl.
ᴠɪ. ᴘᴏꜱꜱᴇꜱꜱɪᴏɴ.
she lets me inside.
the heat is blinding.
it's not sex.
it's absorption.
i'm trying to fuse our skeletons together.
i'm trying to weld my atoms to hers.
if i push deep enough,
maybe i'll touch her soul.
maybe i'll find out why she's so empty,
why she loves a man who is nothing but scars
and cigarettes.
i fill her up.
i want it to leak out of her ears.
i want her to taste me in the back of her throat
forever.
subtract to add.
skin to skin.
sin to sin.
ᴠɪɪ. ᴇᴘɪʟᴏɢᴜᴇ.
they will find us eventually.
they will pull her out of the rubble
scared and shaking and stained.
they will wash the filth from her skin
and tell her she is clean.
but she won't be.
she'll look at the moon
and think of my hands.
she'll look at a knife
and think of my mouth.
i broke her so well
she doesn't know how to be whole
without the piece of herself
i swallowed.
the book ends on a blank page, save for one small, frantic note written in red ballpoint pen, the ink bleeding through to the other side: if she leaves, i burn. if she stays, we burn. either way, the fire is beautiful.
happy easter! this piece is based off this request from my dear friend, @uncoveredsun. she's an aemond girly through and through so ofc i had to make this one extra nasty. love you bye.
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Summary: You return to the court that shaped you, only to find the boy you once commanded grown into something dangerous. He follows you still, but not like he used to.
WC: 7.9k
Warnings: 18+, targcest, power imbalance, dubcon, (light) violcence, degradation, smut, oral (f! receiving), sex (p in v), creampie, a little bit of brat!Aemond
Aemond Targaryen x OlderSister!Reader
They say nothing in the letter, but you know what it means.
The seal is plain. The wording neutral. Your presence is requested at the Red Keep, and your escort will arrive within the fortnight. There is no mention of the annulment. No word of House Tyrell or Ser Lyonel’s failure to bed his bride after seven long, silent years of marriage. No accusations. No apologies. Only a summons. Clean and simple and final.
The carriage ride feels longer than the voyage that first took you to Highgarden, but this time there is no veil, no lavender perfume, no bridal nerves tucked into your gloves. You wear your riding leathers beneath a heavy velvet cloak, the color too rich for a woman with no husband and no name. Your hands are bare. Your hair unadorned. Your mouth still set in that same quiet line, the one you learned to hold when the Reach looked at you like a storm they couldn’t contain.
The Red Keep has not changed since you left it. It rises above the city like a red god, towering and unyielding, its shadow spreading from the spiked towers to the streets below. The stones still glisten like blood when the sun hits them, casting an amber glow before dusk. The air still smells of oil and fire, a familiar tang of smoke and iron and promises burnt to ash. The guards still stiffen when you pass, their eyes bright with curiosity, unsure whether they should bow or look away and pretend they’ve not seen you. You catch your reflection in a shield as you walk through the gate, beneath the portcullis where you last saw the glint of sunlight on Aemond’s hair. You look like someone they thought was gone. A hush spreads in your wake, rippling through the corridors, a sweet echo of scandal that follows you like a shadow. Maids pause with linens half-folded. Courtiers shift and whisper as you pass, their conversations frozen. Your mother’s ladies offer faint, artificial smiles, the tilt of their heads betraying their impatience to be the first to tell her. You can hear the murmur before it reaches your ears. She’s back. She’s failed. She’s still childless. She was too proud, they say. Too cold. They say it in whispers, in glances, in silence that is more damning than words. They say the same things in King’s Landing that they said in Highgarden. Like a song passed from one musician to the next, they keep playing the same refrain. You recognize it all.
They know the match was political, a symbol more than a promise, a show of good faith as useless as a gilded parchment. That your wedding was a masterpiece of civility and nothing more. That Ser Lyonel Tyrell—gentle, golden, delicate—never once reached for you in the dark. That the garden never bloomed. That the Tyrells petitioned for annulment with grace and urgency, their letters riddled with concern for your soul. No heir. No bedding. No shame, only regret, tendered with the precision of an accountant’s ledger or a merchant’s bill of sale. And underneath it all, the unspoken truth: you were never meant to be someone’s wife. You were meant to be their burden. Their lesson. Their problem to solve.
When you left King’s Landing, you were Alicent’s daughter. Now you are something less and something more. The one who failed. The one who came back. The one who belongs nowhere except where others don’t want her.
You enter the throne room alone. No handmaid, no brother at your side, no welcoming line of lords eager to claim your favor. You walk with your spine straight, your chin lifted, each step purposeful. You expect to be ignored. Perhaps tolerated. Perhaps pitied.
You are not prepared for Aemond. Not for the way he commands the room like a lord, like a dragon, like something both regal and dangerous. The years have sculpted him into a stranger, one who stands just below the dais and a little apart from the others, his body angled toward the Iron Throne as if it belongs to him. His eye catches yours the moment you appear. You feel it—a burning and intrusive stare, hot and direct and deeply unfamiliar, as if he’s picking you apart, inspecting each piece polished or flawed. He is taller, much taller, than you remember. His shoulders broader, his stance lethal and still. The sapphire gleams cold and pitiless where his eye once was, a bright gem that seems to see everything, to miss nothing. His jaw is sharp now. His mouth cruel and knowing.
He wears the black of the court like armor, as if the velvet and silk could shield him from insurgents and assassins, and the longsword at his hip is heavy, solid, not for show. He watches you like a man appraising a threat, ready to draw blood, and when his lips curl, it is not in welcome.
You pause at the edge of the hall, and the years pause with you. Your gloves remain on. Your expression does not falter. But something inside you stills, freezes, like a river in winter.
Aemond doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t acknowledge you before others can see. He lets the others gather near, shields himself with their presence. Lord Beesbury greets you with a thin, perfunctory smile, obscured by his drooping white mustache. Ser Harrold offers a nod, polite and stiff as his back. The queen smiles and, with effort, makes it convincing. No one mentions the annulment. Not yet. Not in front of Aemond, who watches it all with quiet, simmering amusement.
Then, slowly, with intention and certainty, Aemond steps forward.
He does not bow. He does not smile. “Lady Maidenflower,” he says, just soft enough that only you hear it, enough that it stings.
You turn your head just slightly, exactly enough to make him feel the weight of your reply. “Still clever, I see.”
His eye sweeps over you like a blade. He is not hiding the weight of it, the roughness of the cut. “You returned untouched, then. I’d wondered.”
“Lyonel Tyrell was a poet,” you reply, because you have sharpened your own edges. “Not a fool.”
“Poets rarely have the stomach for conquest.”
You meet his gaze without blinking, without flinching, though your heart still remembers how to race. “And you’ve always had too much of it.”
“I was twelve when you left.”
You tilt your head, and the movement is easy, graceful, scornful. “You still are, most days.”
That earns you a smirk, slow and deliberate, a lord’s smirk. A dragon’s. “Not anymore.”
He takes a single step closer. You don’t move. You let him come.
The pause between you stretches, heavy and hot and alive with unspoken challenges and renegotiated terms. His eye dips to your mouth, and it is not quickly, not politely, not as a brother should. When it rises again, it lingers.
You turn before he can speak again, before he can make you doubt or remember. You offer him no parting glance, no farewell. But you feel it as you walk away—his stare on your back, weighty and hungry. Not a boy’s gaze. Not a brother’s.
Let him look. Let them all.
You did not come back for their sympathy or to stand around, shrinking, while they trample your pride. The thought of wilted and drooping pity is almost amusing, withered and limp like Highgarden’s banner when the wind dies, and you refuse to let it gather at your feet like a folder of discarded marriage contracts. You returned because the summons meant something. Because they wanted you here. Because the annulment meant nothing. Because they are beginning to remember who you are and what you are worth. The realm has no place for a woman like you—a woman with no husband and no duty and no shame to parade—except when it needs one. You are still a dragon’s daughter, flames running molten where other women leave room for fear, and it seems they’re starting to recall the heat of their own blood. They thought a marriage would change you. That the Reach would wear you smooth and pliable. That seven years of silence would make you weak, complacent, eager to return with their leash around your neck. They were fools. You have not softened. You have stripped away everything unnecessary. You have become what you always should have been: scaled, certain, and dangerous. Aemond would be a fool, too, if he still believes he knows the girl who left. If he thinks the same breathless, reckless fool of a girl stands before him, he is welcome to try and find her, to search and search and find nothing at all. He will not.
It’s a few days before you see him again. Long enough that the ache dulls, the whispers shift, the court forgets to look twice. You don’t. You feel him in every corridor. His stare in the back of your skull. The words he didn’t say sitting heavier than the ones he did. You don’t seek him out. Not really. But when the sound of clashing steel drifts through the windows one morning, sharp and furious, your feet carry you there before you can stop them.
The yard is already thick with the sound of clashing steel and barked commands by the time you arrive, drawn not by curiosity but by the unmistakable pitch of Aemond’s voice, rising above the rest. You round the corner and find him standing over a boy barely older than twelve, sword in hand, patience worn thin. The boy is sweating and panting, bleeding lightly from the lip. Aemond says something low enough you can’t catch, but the tone carries and your stomach knots.
"Enough."
Aemond doesn't turn right away. The boy does, blinking at you like he's been thrown a lifeline, desperate and unsure. You step down into the yard without pausing, hands still gloved, shoulders squared, a defiance in each step. You know Aemond sees you, but he remains fixed over the boy, as if your presence is a small interruption. As if you are the one who should wait. As if waiting for the exact moment when his controlled apathy strikes deepest. He finally shifts, looking over his shoulder with slow, deliberate disinterest.
"You are not his commander," you say, your voice sharp and unyielding.
"I am his prince."
You take another step. "And you're still picking fights with boys too small to fight back."
That gets his attention. His eye catches yours and holds. The cut is deep, unrelenting, meant to wound. A quiet breath passes through the onlookers. No one moves. The boy backs away quickly, too smart to stay where the lightning is about to strike. Aemond sheathes his sword, but only halfway. His smirk is faint but not amused, a taunt that is both familiar and new.
"Would you like to teach him, then?"
You tilt your head. "I'd rather teach you."
His smile sharpens. "Then show me."
The court knows you well enough not to question it when you shrug off your cloak and take the spare sword from the rack. Your tunic is laced tight, boots steady, sleeves rolled. You are ready before they realize it, before you realize it yourself. You know the forms, the weight of the steel, the cadence of Aemond's skill. But you don't know the way the court watches now, not with surprise but with certainty, as if expecting exactly this. As if you haven't been gone seven years. Aemond stretches his neck as you step to the center. He doesn't offer the usual salutation. You don't bow.
When you strike, it's without warning. It feels right. Quick. Merciless. He parries fast, steel hissing, and the first clash draws a ripple from the men watching. You dance around him, light on your feet, quicker than he expects. It is a dance you thought you'd forgotten. The rhythm is familiar but off. He's faster now. Stronger. You are sharper. Angry. His blade grazes your shoulder. Yours slices along his side. He doesn't flinch. You don't, either. The heat builds quickly, sweat blooming beneath your collar. He presses harder, with more force, more insistence, more precision than the boy you thought you remembered. You give ground only to take it again. You used to beat him with speed, with patience, with quick, calculated precision. Now he meets you at every turn, matching blow for blow, circling like a predator who knows exactly where to bite.
How much he’s changed. How much he hasn’t.
How much you have.
When he finally gets you on your back, it's not clean. You stumble on loose gravel. He takes advantage, a fierce flicker of triumph in his eye. Your sword hits the dirt. Everything that’s happened since you left King’s Landing—the whispers, the annulment, the letters filled with false concern, the look on his face when you returned—everything that should have made this easy pinches sharp inside your lungs, more painful than his grip. His boot lands between your legs, arm braced against your throat. Not choking. Just holding.
Too close. An echo you can’t outrun.
You expect him to move. He doesn't.
His breathing is rough. So is yours. You can feel the sweat on his wrist, the heat of his body over yours. You look up. His hair is wild. His eye is burning.
"Still think I'm just a boy?"
You don't answer. His grip tightens just slightly. His fingers brush your jaw. He leans in, slow and sure, gaze locked to your mouth like it means something.
You shove him. Hard. He stumbles back, laughter spilling from his chest, not loud but knowing, as if you just gave him the answer he wanted. You roll to your feet before anyone can help you. Your chest is heaving, cheeks flushed, skin hot. You don't look at anyone else as you retrieve your sword and your pride.
"Lesson over?" he calls.
The pause stretches between you. You don’t let it hold. You shrug on your cloak with deliberate ease, the same ease you’ve cultivated since you returned. The hush follows you back into the keep. You feel his eyes like fingers pressing into your skin, a touch that lingers and burns and doesn’t fade when you reach the corridor.
It’s still there at supper. Fresh, insistent. No one else notices the bread you don’t eat, the soup that cools in your bowl, the wine you drink without tasting. You’re the only one who hears the hollow ring of his boot against your sword, echoing through the hall with every half-heard whisper. It doesn’t soften when your mother asks if you’re well, when the maids bring the third course, when the candles burn low. When your mother tells you it was wise to come home, you nod, polite and unconvincing. You take your leave, and the walls feel closer, the halls longer, the air colder.
You don’t think of him. You don’t think of the weight of his body, the feel of his fingers on your jaw. You’re only thinking of the cold when you tighten your laces, only thinking of the chill when you pace the length of your room. The scratch of the quill in the chamber next to yours is louder than you’d like, and the letters on your desk are too frantic and familiar to answer. You are not restless. You are thoughtful.
You think so hard you don’t realize you’ve left your chambers until you find yourself walking without thinking, past the solar, up the stairs, down the hall to the wing where he sleeps. You don't plan it. You don't knock.
You push the door open without a plan, breath quick and shallow from the unguarded walk. He’s there, not surprised, not even questioning your intrusion. Shirtless, lounging in a chair by the hearth, legs spread, as comfortable and confident as if he owned the place. He might as well. The heat of the fire licks the dampness from his hair. A goblet of wine sits comfortably in his hand; his sword rests close by, in easy reach. He looks up at you with an expression that feels both new and old, the same practiced disregard you once swore would never cut you again. Like he expected this. Like he’s been waiting.
"Come to finish what we started?"
Your throat tightens. Something in your chest does, too. The echo of it ricochets in your bones, and you shut the door with more force than you mean to. The sound is too loud, too final, but not enough to break the smile on his face.
"You embarrassed me in the yard," you say. There's a catch in your voice you hope he doesn't hear. You step closer. He hums, not quite a laugh. Almost.
"You embarrassed yourself."
You bite back a retort. He watches you try, waiting for the hollow bite of it, waiting for something deeper.
"You put your hand on me." The words taste more bitter than you expect, and he hears it. You know he does. He shrugs, the carelessness deliberate, and finishes the rest of the wine in a single, slow swallow.
"You didn't tell me to stop."
Anger and something else lances through you, sharp and unmistakable. A flower blooming violent beneath your skin. "You're not a child anymore," you say. "Fine. But you are still beneath me." There's satisfaction in that. A small thrill. He sets the goblet down with a thin click, the faint trace of red staining the rim. His smile returns, slow and sharp, more a weapon than a jest.
"Not where it counts."
You don't think, just move, a breathless reckless fool, too sure and too hurt to stop yourself. Your palm cracks across his face and his head turns with the force of it. The wine sloshes in his goblet when you strike him, but he does not drop it. He sets it down on the table carefully, eyes glittering with something you don’t recognize. He looks back at you with a hunger you've never seen before. A hunger that burns like dragon’s blood, searing and inscrutable. Not in him. Not from anyone.
"Again," he says.
Your breath catches. There's no air in this room, this keep, this entire place. You stare at him. His smile flickers wider when you don't answer. You don’t have to. He knows. He knows. You step closer, and he rises from the chair as you do, caught on the same pull. The distance vanishes faster than you mean it to. Faster than you can stop. Fury frays and threads you together. The space between you disappears quick and final and damning.
"You think you've won something?"
He shrugs, every inch of his body unwound and lithe. "You came here."
"To remind you of your place."
"Remind me, then."
He moves too quickly. Or maybe you move too slow. His hands catch your waist and your spine hits the door hard enough to steal your breath. The night explodes in stars behind your eyes. He doesn't press. Doesn't hurt. Just holds you there with his body, chest against yours, breath hot on your cheek, the heat of him impossible to escape. You grab his wrist, digging in, nails biting soft skin. He holds the wince behind his teeth, gaze fixed on you like he'd die before looking away.
"Let go of me."
The words are hard.
"Lyonel never touched you, did he?"
Your hand tightens on his wrist, so hard it shakes. You slap him again, harder this time, and the crack of it splits in the air between you, a current setting stone to fracture.
He laughs.
"Again," he says.
You don't. But gods, you want to. You want to and you hate it and you hate him and you turn and leave before you remember how to breathe.
You leave him there with the taste of your own fury still on your tongue. Your hand aches. So does your chest. You don’t look back. You don’t sleep. Not really. You lie awake and stare at the ceiling, the canopy of your bed a cage you can’t escape, can’t untangle. His voice plays over and over in your mind. Lyonel never touched you, did he. The worst part is how softly he said it. Like a secret. Like a truth. Like he knew exactly where to cut, exactly where to let the worst of it bleed.
The candles burn low in your chambers. The chill nips at your windowpanes. You don’t feel it. You feel the ghost of Aemond’s fingers on your hips, his breath on your cheek, the tremor beneath his skin. Everything you thought you buried comes rushing back, rushing through you, rushing until it cleaves the air from your lungs. Why did you return? Why did you think you could stay away? You are not restless. You are not impatient. You are thoughtful, but that thought is wrapped around him like a noose. Like a bruise. Like a bright, sharp hope.
You came to win. You’ve already lost.
By morning, the bruises are already forming beneath the surface of your skin. The memory of Aemond's touch blooms purple and dark, echoes of his fingertips wrought in flesh. You wish the sensation of him would fade as fast. It doesn't. The court is louder now. You feel it in every corridor, every room, every shift in posture when you enter. It clings to you, an invisible murmur that grows teeth. No one says your name, but they don’t need to. You returned without a husband. Without a child. Without a claim worth anything except shame. You were sent to the Reach to secure the realm and came back with nothing but silence. So now they whisper.
She must have refused him.
She must have failed.
She must have been too difficult to want.
The echoes are just as loud as the words. Each clever jab works its way beneath your skin, seeds of doubt taking root and sprouting vines you can't cut through. Even your mother looks at you differently. Her voice is soft, but her eyes are measuring. The warmth she once kept for you has cooled into caution, as if your return might stain her skirts if you stand too close. Her questions come dressed as concern, but you know the shape of judgment. And the ladies at court, the ones who used to play cyvasse and braid your hair, now look through you like you’re made of smoke. They weave tales you can’t quite hear, tales that bleed from one mouth to another, tales whose edges are sharp and cutting.
They don’t ask, but their silence does. What did she do wrong? Was he kind? Did she cry? Did he ever touch her at all? Or did she come back just as she left, proud and unspoiled and completely alone?
You do not answer them. You do not give them the truth they seek, the truth that tugs too close to the center of you. You walk through the halls like nothing has changed, like you are still the same creature you were before. You are not. Aemond says nothing to you in court. He does not look your way unless others are watching, and even then, it is brief. Quick enough to pass as something else. But you can feel it. He lets the rumors curl around you like smoke, never once bothering to stop them. He could silence it. One word from him and the court would fall quiet. But he doesn't. He listens. He watches. He waits.
You find him in the yard again, a few days after the incident in his chambers. He's alone this time. No one dares train with him lately, not since the last sparring match left a knight concussed. He moves with that same quiet precision, that same lethal grace. The sun catches the sweat at his temple, his shirt already discarded and thrown to the side. Your skin prickles at the sight, at the memory of him even more unguarded, even more certain. You should leave. You don't.
You don’t know what you mean to say when you see him there, when you watch him move and remember the way he looked at you, the way he still looks at you. You don’t know what you mean to do when you feel the full weight of his indifference, of the stories he lets the court tell. But you are moving before you can talk yourself out of it. Before the bruises fade, before this second return becomes as hollow as the first. You are moving and it feels like a mistake, but you’ve already made that mistake before, already seen what comes of it. There's no going back. This time, you mean to win.
He sees you before you speak. Of course he does. He always does.
“You following me now?” he says without looking up.
“I could say the same.”
His blade drops slightly. “You never used to lurk.”
“You never used to be worth watching.”
He turns at that, slow and smooth. “Didn’t stop you before.”
You ignore the heat crawling up your neck. “I gave the orders. You followed them.”
“You think that’s still true?”
“You think it’s not?”
“You dragged me through the mud. Screamed at me in front of knights twice my size.”
“And you listened.”
He steps in close. “Try it now. See if I still do.”
Your breath catches. His voice drops, soft and deliberate.
“They say no man ever wanted you. That Tyrell barely looked at you. That you came back untouched because no one could stand the thought.”
You don’t answer. You don’t move.
He tilts his head, close enough to touch. “Is that why you hate me looking?”
“Because you’re not supposed to.”
He smiles, slow and awful. “I can’t stop.”
He steps closer, closing the gap with a slow, sure determination. You don’t move. You don’t even flinch. His face is inches from yours now, and everything about him pulls you in and splits you apart. You can smell the leather of his gloves, the salt on his skin, the faint scent of iron and heat. His hand lifts slowly. You feel the brush of his fingers at your jaw, soft, testing, like he’s taking measure of the space between breath and need and wanting. You could slap him again. You could turn and walk away. You don’t. Your breath is shallow. He watches your mouth.
You step back. You leave. You don’t speak. You don’t run. You walk away with your back straight and your heart hammering in your ribs like it’s trying to claw out.
That night, you dream of him. Of course you do. You dream of his mouth, the cut of his lips, the press of his body hot and unrelenting against yours. You dream of his hands, the rough drag of his fingers on your cheek, your skin, your throat. The way his voice dropped low, soft and deliberate. The way his voice dragged low when he said your name. You wake tangled in your sheets, flushed and furious and aching, and you cannot tell whether you want to kill him or keep him.
It starts with silence. It starts with rooms you pretend not to linger in, corridors you just happen to walk through, doors you pass more slowly than you should. It starts with you lying to yourself—small, careful lies you don’t quite believe. You don’t mean to look for him. That’s what you tell yourself. You don’t mean to, not at first. Not at first, but you find him anyway.
He’s in the yard. He’s in the hall. He’s at the table, two seats down, eating grapes one by one like they mean something. Every time you look up, he’s already watching.
You tell yourself it’s nothing. That you are only keeping an eye on him. That someone has to. That it might as well be you. But the lie doesn’t last. Not when the heat flares again behind your ribs every time he speaks. Not when you walk past the training yard and stop to watch. Not when your name comes from his mouth and you have to swallow hard before answering.
You avoid him. Until you don’t.
You find him at the edge of the godswood, on a day when the sun beats down like a curse and the wind is too warm, your thoughts too loud and insistent. He’s leaning against the old heart tree like it belongs to him, as if it's only there to hold him, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword. His head is tilted up to the canopy, eyes closed, jaw sharp. He hears you long before you mean to speak. Even from a distance, you feel the weight of his awareness. As you move closer, he turns slowly, the light catching on the scar beneath his eye, the gleam of the sapphire where it settles. He watches you like he’s been waiting.
"You’ve been restless," he says. "I can tell."
"You don’t know anything about me."
He pushes off the tree and takes a step forward. "I know you come looking for me and pretend you don’t."
You set your jaw. "You think too highly of yourself."
"No," he says, a crooked grin on his lips, closer now. "I think exactly enough."
You take a step back. He follows.
"What do you want?" he asks, voice low.
You hate the question. You hate that he asks it like he knows you don’t have the answer.
"Nothing from you."
He circles you now, slow and deliberate. "You used to look at me like I was a boy. Now you look at me like I might bite."
"Maybe I think you should be put down."
He laughs, a soft huff that barely leaves his throat.
"Do you know what it did to me?" he says. "You left. Married some wilted flower. Let him look at you like a prize he’d never unwrap."
You flinch. He sees it.
"He didn’t even try, did he?"
You snap before you can stop yourself. "No. He didn’t. He was afraid. They all are."
The words hang between you like smoke, pulled from the center of you, unplanned and brutal. You breathe them in and try not to choke. Aemond steps closer. His voice goes quiet.
"I’m not."
You shake your head. You want to run. You don’t. He lifts his hand, not touching you yet, just hovering near your cheek.
"Say the word," he says, "and I’ll make you forget every man who ever disappointed you."
You slap him. His head snaps to the side, but he doesn’t recoil. He lets out a sound that freezes you in place. A moan. A real one. Low and ragged like it was dragged from his chest. When he turns back to you, there’s a flush high on his cheekbone. His lips are parted. His eye burns.
"I knew you liked it rough," he murmurs. "I remember how you used to throw me down."
You stare at him, breath caught halfway between a curse and a gasp. He leans in closer, slow, measured. You don’t move.
"You used to knock the wind out of me. You’d say I was too soft. That I’d never survive the yard unless I learned to take a hit."
"You never did learn."
"That’s not true," he says. "I learned to like it."
You shake your head again, but your fists stay at your sides. Your feet don’t move.
"You think this is a game."
"No," he says. "I think this is exactly what we’ve both been waiting for."
Your pulse roars in your ears. The godswood is quiet, but everything feels too loud. Too close. His breath brushes your cheek.
"Tell me to stop."
You leave him standing in the godswood, breath shallow, palms hot, the trees watching like they know what you almost said. You don’t speak. You don’t run. But you can’t quite breathe either. You walk back through the Keep like you’re sleepwalking, like you might burn through the floor if you stay still.
Night sinks in around you. The walls feel tighter. The fire in your chamber roars too hot. You pace. You pour wine you don’t drink. You open the window and shut it again. You think about sleeping. You think about forgetting. You think about how he looked at you when he said I’m not.
You tell yourself not to go. And then you do.
The hall outside his door is empty. The candlelight flickers low. The door isn’t fully shut. As if he left it waiting.
You don’t knock. You don’t speak. You step inside, and he’s already there. Shirtless, again. Hair damp. Leaning against the table like he hadn’t moved since the godswood. His eye finds yours and doesn’t flinch. You close the door behind you. You don’t lock it. He watches you cross the room without saying a word. He doesn’t ask why you’re here. He knows.
“I didn’t come for this,” you say.
He nods, slow. “Then say no.”
You don’t. He pushes off the table and walks toward you like he already knows how this ends. Like he’s dreamed it a hundred times and every version ends the same. He doesn’t reach for you. Not yet. He waits.
You’re the one who moves. Your hand fists in the collar of his shirt and drags him closer. Your mouth hovers near his, your breath unsteady, your body already too warm. You don’t kiss him. Not yet.
“I hate you,” you whisper.
“I know.”
And then you break. You kiss him like you’re furious. Like he’s the only thing that’s ever made you feel anything and you’d rather drown in it than say it out loud. His hands are everywhere. Yours are worse. There’s nothing careful about it. Nothing sweet. You don’t want sweet. You want to be ruined.
You want to ruin him back. The table knocks over. His back hits the wall. Your boots scatter across the floor. You don’t stop. You don’t think. You don’t ask. When he lifts you up and carries you to the bed, you let him. When he lays you down and looks at you like you’re the first real thing he’s ever wanted, you don’t speak.
He peels back your clothes with a precision that makes you ache, each layer a secret he's uncovering. Your shift falls away, and he stares at you like you're sacred. Like you're something he shouldn't touch but will anyway. His hands are rough, calloused from years of swordplay, but they move across your skin with a reverence that makes your breath catch. You don't want reverence. You want him to hurt. You want to hurt him back.
You flip him beneath you, straddling his hips, hands pinning his wrists above his head. His eye widens, pupils blown, a smile curling at the edge of his mouth. You lean down, hair falling around your face like a curtain, and bite his lower lip hard enough to draw blood. The taste of copper fills your mouth. He moans, hips bucking up against yours.
"Is this what you wanted?" you ask, voice barely above a whisper. "To ruin me?"
His fingers dig into your hips, bruising and possessive. "I wanted to be the one who touched you first."
You laugh, bitter and sharp. "Not everything is yours to claim."
"No," he says, flipping you beneath him with a strength that makes your breath catch. His weight settles between your thighs, delicious and heavy. "But you are."
You should fight. You should push him away. But your body arches into his touch, craving the heat of him, the burn of his skin against yours. His mouth finds your throat, teeth scraping over your pulse, and you gasp, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling hard enough to hurt. He hisses against your skin, the sound vibrating through your bones.
"Tell me to stop," he says again, but this time it's different. It's not a challenge. It's a plea. You can hear the need beneath it, raw and desperate. It would be so easy to tell him no. To walk away. To leave him as broken as you've been. Instead, you pull him closer.
"Don't stop," you whisper against his mouth. "Don't you dare stop."
He trails kisses of fire down your body, spreading your thighs open and bringing his face close to your core. His breath is hot, his mouth everything you expected and nothing like you imagined. You choke on a sound that might be a sob, that might be his name, that might be something you’ve never said to anyone. There is a feeling of novelty between your legs. You don’t know what to do with it, what to call it. You don’t know how to stop it. His tongue traces a path that makes you gasp, your body shuddering beneath him, and every scrape of his teeth sends a shock to places you forgot you had. He pins your hips with his hands. Holds you there until you think you might scream, might call him something you’ll regret. You writhe, helpless and hungry, his mouth pushing you toward something you can't recognize but can't resist. It's new and wild and terrifying. It's more than you were ready for. You feel it building beyond your control, burning through you, breaking you down, and he's relentless. You’ve never been this close to shattering. You’ve never wanted to.
When it crests, it's like wildfire—unstoppable, consuming, spreading through your limbs until you're arching off the bed, his name torn from your throat. He holds you through it, mouth still working, drinking in every tremor until you push him away, too sensitive to bear it.
He moves up your body like he's been waiting his entire life for this moment. He's like a predator, but one who is starving, respectful, already intoxicated by your essence. His mouth is slick, his eyes are wild, and his hair is tousled from your touch. When he kisses you, you taste yourself on his lips, and it sends a wave of heat through you. It makes you want to hide. It makes you want to be consumed.
He pulls back just enough to truly see you, and something raw and broken flickers across his face. You watch it shatter within him. You feel it cracking beneath your ribs.
His hands tremble as they explore your body. They're not hurried now, not greedy. Just desperately seeking. He wants to discover what makes you gasp, what makes you tremble, what makes you wrap your legs around his waist and dig your nails into his shoulders, calling his name like a curse.
Both of you are frantic, lost in something that has been building since the moment you returned. Since before that. Since before you left. Since forever.
When he finally sinks into you, the sound that tears from your throat is something between a sob and a moan. It hurts. Of course it hurts. But it's the kind of pain that feels like salvation, like something breaking open inside you that's been locked too long. He watches your face as he moves, drinking in every reaction, every gasp, every flicker of pleasure that crosses your features. His pace is relentless, punishing, exactly what you need and nothing like you imagined.
"Look at me," he growls, and you do. You meet his gaze and don't look away, even when it feels too intimate, too raw. His eye burns into yours, the sapphire gleaming in the firelight like a second witness to your surrender. "Say my name."
You bite your lip, refusing at first. His hand slides between your bodies, finding the place where you're most sensitive, and your resolve crumbles.
"Aemond," you gasp, the syllables breaking on your tongue like a prayer. "Aemond," you breathe again, and again, like a confession you can't keep hidden anymore.
His rhythm stutters at the sound of it, his name on your lips like a spell he never thought you’d cast. It tears through him, wild and fierce and reckless, like it can’t be contained. His pulse surges with the rush of possession, with a pride that borders on madness. The moment is electric, charged, impossibly taut. He crushes his mouth to yours, swallowing every moan, every gasp, as if your voice alone could undo him, as if all your protests only fuel him further. The pace is dizzying, the edge razor-sharp, and you’re close, so close to something you've never let yourself feel before. Not like this. Not this blinding. Your body arches into him, desperate and unguarded, and you cry out, nails scoring down his back, leaving trails that scream of violence, of passion, of the pain you both need and the pleasure you can’t tell apart. He hisses at the sting, but the sound is nothing like surrender.
"You're mine," he growls, branding you with his words, his teeth grazing your throat, the promise lethal and soft and everything you’ve ever wanted to deny. "Say it."
You choke out the word, shaking your head as you do, still defiant even as your body says otherwise. Even as it betrays you, traitorous and unrelenting, your resistance splintering like ash before a torch. "No." It's barely a whisper, a last stand against the fire, but even you don’t believe it. You clench around him, pulling him deeper, binding him to you with every shuddering breath. He tightens his grip in your hair, and the pull arches your back, exposing your neck, your pulse, the truth you're trying to hide.
"Lie to me again," he says, his voice fractured with desire, the edges rough, unsteady. "And see what happens."
His eye is locked on yours, shining full of hunger and something else. Something that makes you want to give in just to see what it would do to him. You meet his gaze with a challenge, despite the tremor in your voice, despite the pleasure that is slowly unraveling you. "I am not yours."
His lips curl into a smile that is nothing but teeth and intent. He slows his movements with devastating precision, pulling out so slowly it feels like a loss, thrusting back in to make you pay for every lie, for every second you didn’t admit you were his. The impact shatters your defenses, touching something deep inside that makes you want to come apart. Makes you want to break just so he can put you back together.
"Liar," he breathes, but the word is tangled with awe, with worship, with disbelief that he ever let you go. His hands are brands on your skin, holding you in place as he moves, marking you with fingers as determined as his heart, as his claim, as his promise.
You’re losing. You’re lost. Your resolve crumbles, rushing out of you so quickly you feel dizzy with it. The pleasure winds tight, impossibly tight, spreading through your body faster than you can stop it, faster than you can pretend you don’t want it. You’re on the brink, teetering at the edge, and you can’t pull back. Can’t stop it. Can’t stop any of it.
"Say it," he demands, pushing you to the point of no return, his rhythm pushed to the breaking point as his control slips. As he starts to fall apart with you. "Tell me who you belong to."
You want to fight him. You want him to bleed the way you did. You want to be empty of him. You want him to lose the same way you did. You want to give him nothing. You want to watch him break. You want him to hurt the way you did. You want to give him everything. You want him to know it. You want to ruin him as he's ruined you. And suddenly, you are. The word leaves your throat like it’s tearing you apart, like it’s putting you back together. The admission is pain and salvation. The confession is agony and release. "You." The silence shatters. Your resolve shatters. Something wild and desperate between you shatters. You come undone with it, unable to hold anything back. Your voice, your control, the last of your resistance. "You," you whisper, the sound already gone. "You, Aemond."
It breaks something in both of you. He kisses you then, deep and consuming, and you fall apart beneath him, waves of pleasure wracking through you, your release a storm breaking against the shore. He follows you over the edge, his own release a fierce, primal claim, his body tensing above you, inside you, around you. The sound he makes is raw, unguarded, nothing like the prince who holds his emotions in check. His forehead presses against yours as he shudders, as he spills himself inside you, marking you in the most primitive way. You think he might have forgotten how to breathe, how to hold back, how to be a dragon and not a man. You think you might have forgotten the same.
It leaves you both unmoored, wild and vulnerable, unable to hold anything back. Every moment is a fracture, a split-second proof of his soul laid bare. Every tremor a piece of you given in ways you never thought you could. Never thought you would. The heat of him, the weight of him, it should feel like too much. It should feel like surrender. You should feel conquered, defeated. But for the first time, it feels like exactly what you’ve been wanting. Exactly what you’ve been waiting for.
It takes an eternity for the storm to pass, for the world to settle around you, but you hold fast through it, to him, to each other. You feel it long after the shakes subside, after your bodies run out of breath and fury and will. The truth of it so potent you can’t suppress it. Can’t deny it. Not even to save yourself. For a moment, neither of you move. His breath mingles with yours, ragged and spent. His weight is heavy, but you don't push him away. You can't. Your fingers trace the scars on his back, mapping the history of a boy who became a man you didn't recognize. Who became a man you couldn't resist.
When he finally rolls to the side, you feel the chill of the room rush back, reminding you of where you are. Who you are. What you've done. You lie there, staring at the ceiling, your body humming with remnants of pleasure and something heavier. You should leave. You should get up, gather your clothes, and slip away before the castle wakes. Before reality returns. Before the weight of this settles fully on your shoulders. Instead, you stay.
His fingers trace lazy patterns on your skin, following the curve of your hip, the dip of your waist, like he's memorizing the map of you. Neither of you speak. The silence isn't uncomfortable, but it's heavy with things unsaid. With questions neither of you are ready to answer.
"They’ll know," you whisper, voice ragged from crying out his name.
He doesn’t flinch. Just looks at you—calm, unreadable—as if the words mean nothing at all.
"And?"
You swallow. "You don’t understand what they’ll say."
"I do." His voice is flat, unbothered. "They’ll say what they always do. It changes nothing."
You push his hand away, sitting up fast. "I’m not yours to claim."
His eye flicks to you, sharp and steady. "I never said you were."
That catches you off guard—but before you can speak, he adds, quieter this time:
"You chose this. Just like I did."
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summary: michael is desperate to get into oxford's prestigious bullingdon club; unfortunately for him, they command him to do the impossible to gain admittance
pairing: michael gavey x bimbo!reader
warnings: mature/explicit, 18+ (minors dni!), no use of y/n, afab reader, bimbo reader, mentions of hazing but nothing horrible/extreme, virgin!michael, breast/nipple play, praise kink, piv sex, protected sex (wrap it b4 u tap it), oral sex (f receiving), consensual filming, dirty talk, cursing, what i hope is saltburn-esque humor, mild size kink, mild angst but happy ending, let me know if i missed anything!
word count: 12.7k
a/n: images in the header are for aesthetic purposes only & are not used to describe the reader! she's back and she's long as hell but what else is new!!! this is my first time writing bimbo!reader and while she wasn't super bimbo-y, it was fun getting my feet wet! hope y'all enjoy!
likes, comments, & reblogs are very appreciated but never required!
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Michael
Michael couldn’t help but feel his heart speed up in his chest as he wound through the quiet corridors clutching tightly to the cryptic note he’d found stuffed in his pigeonhole that morning – just a page torn out of a standard notebook covered hastily written red ink; wholly un-intimidating as far as cryptic notes were concerned. Really, he was surprised to see they didn’t put more effort in; with as secretive and imperious as this little club was, he had been expecting some sort of extravagant stationary, perhaps even some gold embossing.
Coming to a stop in front of an unassuming janitor’s closet door, he narrows his eyes behind the gold frames of his glasses, staring at the door with a nearly accusatorial expression. Michael swivels his head once more, his brows furrowed as he checks and re-checks every door in the vicinity before turning back to the one he stands before. Scoffing, he unfolds the note with a little irritated sigh and quickly scans the page again, mouthing the words to himself for the millionth time that day.
The riddle had been easy enough to figure out, some trivial little lines about dead men walking, the mob, finding God, and looking to one’s heart pointed right toward some hush hush basement beneath the Merton College Chapel. That, and it didn’t take a genius to see that each line consisted of a specific number of words, pointing him right to the very door he stood in front of now – 129.
Fucking amateurs, he’d thought after cracking the code in under half an hour. But that was earlier. And now, as he stares at the stupid dull grey janitor’s closet door in front of him, Michael can’t stop the little tendrils of doubt from creeping into his periphery. He’s sure this is the right door and positive this is the right place and yet… janitor’s closet. He checks his watch, 11:50 PM on the dot, and glances up and down the dark, shadowy corridors once more, half expecting one of the twatty rich assholes to jump out and start snickering at him, making fun of him for thinking that a no one like him would’ve ever received an invite to a club like this.
Shaking his head, he reaches for the doorknob anyway, he’s come this far so he may as well. He freezes a little when it actually turns and his blue eyes go wide when he pushes the door open, shivering a little as he’s met with a wall of cool, dank air – eau de basement, just as he’d expected. A little actually impressed sigh passes his lips when he pokes his head in, an apprehensive smile blooming on his lips as he takes in the eerie red lighting spilling up the stairwell from the God-knows-what downstairs.
He winces as the door squeaks when he tugs it open but he doesn’t stop, emboldened now as he knows he had been right once again. He takes the stairs quickly, probably too quickly given that he hasn’t a fucking clue what or who could be down here, but before he can dwell on the idea too much, he’s faced with another corridor. This one, unlike the ones upstairs, is narrow and brick-lined and leads in only one direction, straight to another closed door at the other end.
Michael squints against the bright red light coming from a spotlight that had been haphazardly set up on the stone floor and walks down the hallway, his steps speeding up as he hears the janitor’s door above him open and close once more. His breath hitches a little as he opens the second door and quickly steps inside, like ripping off a band-aid.
He freezes once more when a strong hand latches onto his shoulder and quickly jerks him further into the room, making him yelp as he stumbles, trying to keep pace with whoever the hell is leading him.
“What the –”
Before he has time to so much as blink, his back thuds against a brick wall and finally he looks up, the vicious scowl he’d prepared morphing into a look of disturbed confusion as he eyes a row of other students, about fifteen and all men from the looks of it, dawned with black –
Oh, Christ, are those ski masks? He thinks as he eyes them up and down, How fucking banal… at least it’s not hooded cloaks. He nearly rolls his eyes as he scans the rest of the room, taking in the dim lighting interspersed with blues and greens from more of those stupid party boy spotlights. Glancing to the side, he sees another boy in his year, some guy he only knew from a few classes and passing glances in the hallways, but even still he’s comforted to not be alone down here, no matter how cliché this whole affair seemed.
His blue eyes snap forward as the door, the only door, to the room is opened once more and some other poor sap is hastily dragged across the room, only to be smacked on the wall to his left. Again, it’s just some other boy Michael knows from classes, though he doesn’t know why he expects any different – it’s not as if he knows many people outside of the forced proximity of a lecture hall. Which was really his only reason for putting up with this bother, for seeking it out in the first place; a quick flash of him placing a tightly folded up sticky note with his name and pigeonhole number in an old, beaten up copy of King Lear in the library played in his mind – the price he seemed to pay for loneliness.
Distantly, the bells of the chapel began to chime, signaling the hour. Once, twice, and eventually twelve times – midnight. Time to start the show, Michael surmises.
“Welcome, initiates,” one of the hooded men says in a tone that makes Michael glare judgmentally, his voice pitched down like some idiotic knock-off Darth Vader. He steps forward from the row they stand in and holds his arms out open at his sides, “Consider this your first foray into the Bullingdon Club.”
Again, he has to bite the inside of his cheek to hold in a scoff. This was all just so… juvenile? He was beginning to sincerely doubt that this was the über clandestine club that granted its members all sorts of connections to various businesses, societies, and insider information that even the richest of the rich couldn’t buy.
Unfortunately, his face seemed to betray more of his emotions than he intended and the masked boy steps forward once more, his dark eyes zeroing in on Michael.
“You,” he says gruffly, pointing a finger in his direction, “Something you wanna say, initiate?”
Out of habit, he pushed his glasses up on his nose before he spoke, perhaps foolishly bold given the situation.
“Doesn’t this all seem a bit much for three people?” He scoffs, shaking his head slightly, “I mean, masks, really?”
The hooded boy stops for a second and studies Michael closely, one hand on his hip, “What’s wrong with the masks?”
“Well, what’s the point? There’s, what, fifteen or sixteen of you? And three of us?” He asks, glancing around the room, which he now realized very clearly used to be some run-of-the-mill storage room, probably forgotten about by now.
The boy laughs sarcastically and shrugs his shoulders a bit, his voice back to its natural pitch, “It wouldn’t really be a secret thing if we just invited half the student body, mate.”
Michael supposes his reasoning is sound and says as much with a little hum and nod of his head, eyebrows raising dismissively.
“Anything else?” The masked boy asks, crossing his arms over his chest.
“The masks don’t really disguise you lot that well,” he observes, pointing at one of the other boys standing in the row, “That’s Harry from Multivariable Calculus.”
“Shit…” Harry mutters under his breath, the sound carrying through the concrete room. A few of the other boys in the row lean over and place comforting hands on his shoulders and murmur words of encouragement, much to Michael’s dismay.
“Why’re you here, initiate?” The lead boy asks, turning back to Michael.
“Dunno,” he shrugs again, pushing his glasses up his nose, “Friends, I guess.”
A couple of the boys in the row make little noises, mutters of empathy that make the blond’s eyebrows furrow together in confusion as he glances up and down the line.
“And this was your first thought? A secret society?” Harry from Multivariable Calculus asks with a little laugh, “Not like… chess or something?”
“Don’t really like chess…” Michael says with a little shrug. Apparently a good enough answer for Harry, who makes a little noise of understanding and nods his head.
After another moment, the lead boy clears his throat, which shuts up the rest. “Anyway,” he says, his voice falsely low once more. “Each of you will be given a task…,” his dark eyes glance between Michael and the other two boys as he paces in front of them, “Perfectly customized to challenge you, to push you to your absolute limits.”
The masked boy pauses his little speech and gestures back to three of the other boys standing in the row behind him who then step forward and walk over to the dank brick wall that Michael and the other two boys stand against. He studies the boy that walks towards him carefully, his eyes narrowing in suspicion when he notices how much shorter he appears to be.
Finally, the boy comes to stand before him and presents a plain white envelope, though Michael’s lips spread into a hateful smirk when he sees an all too familiar pair of old, beat up trainers on the boy’s feet.
“Oliver?!” He hisses meanly, shock lacing his voice as he jerks back the hand he had reached out for the envelope, wincing as his elbow collides with the cool wall behind him. He glances around the room, noting the few pairs of eyes that were on him, before fixing his gaze on the boy before him once more with a harsh glare, “You’re in Bullingdon?”
The boy in front of him hesitates for a second, cutting a sideways glance toward a taller boy that was busy presenting an envelope to the boy to Michael’s left, before he sighs and looks back at him, blue eyes peeking out of the holes in his ski mask. “Yeah,” he huffs, shrugging his shoulders defensively, “How’d you know it was me, then?”
“You look like a goddamn twelve year old!” Michael jeers, his voice low and vicious as his hands curl into fists at his sides, “How’d you manage to get into this club anyway?” He questions, seething, “They only let you in if you have the money or the marks and I know for a fucking fact you don’t have either.”
Oliver sighs again and rolls his eyes, which makes him see red and grit his teeth, although he doesn’t miss how the shorter boy’s eyes cut to the side again quickly. He opens his mouth, but before he can get a word in edgewise, the blond cuts him off with a little mocking laugh.
“Don’t tell me that’s fucking Catton,” Michael groans lowly with a shake of his head, breathing heavily as he feels the same sense of anger and betrayal he’d felt all those months ago well up in him once more, transporting him right back to the stupid damn pub, “You’ve got to be bloody kidding me, is this shite little club only full of cunts?”
“Look, I’m –”
Oliver starts to speak again, only to be cut off when the head boy traipses over to where they are, coming to stand ominously behind him with his arms clasped behind his back. His dark eyes dart between the two boys before he speaks.
“Problem over here, lads?”
“No,” Oliver answers quickly, staring warily up at Michael as he practically shoves the envelope into his arms, “Just complete the task, initiate. You have thirty-six hours.”
Before Michael can blink, Oliver turns his back and stalks back over to the other boys, taking his place in the row once more. The head boy looks Michael up and down appraisingly before nodding to the letter in his hands with a sly smirk.
“I can’t wait to see how you fare with that one, Gavey,” he says, his voice low and threatening, as if he’s in on the most delicious joke, “Remember, thirty-six hours, initiate.” He chuckles softly and departs, returning to stand in the center of the room.
Everyone stands still for a moment, Michael and the other two boys to his left and right holding their respective envelopes nervously, unsure if they were supposed to open them now or not. Thankfully, the head boy clears his throat, commanding all eyes to him once again.
“Initiates,” he says slowly, his voice no doubt already hoarse from this little farce, “Failure to complete your tasks will result in a permanent ban from Bullingdon; no second chances. We expect results as well as proof of those results,” his dark eyes scan over the three boys once more, one corner of his mouth turned up into a mean smirk, “We’ll be seeing you back in this location Sunday at noon. Your thirty-six hours begin now… have fun.” He finishes with a taunting laugh before turning and exiting from the room, the old door creaking as he pulls it open before disappearing into the faint red glow of the hallway, followed by the rest of the fifteen boys in an orderly line.
As soon as the old door closes, the sound of paper tearing echoes around the dimly lit basement as Michael and the other two boys hastily tear open their envelopes. Pulling out a little slip of paper, his eyes go wide as a wave of dread washes over him. His eyes scan over the paper again and again as he nervously shoves his glasses back up his nose once more, silently willing the chicken-scratch words on the paper to somehow change, to give him some other command.
His heart is pumping so loudly in his ears that he misses it when one of the other boys tries getting his attention, his head snapping up suddenly as a hand waves in front of it.
“Oi!”
“W-What?”
“What did they give you?” The boy asks, nodding at the scrap of paper in Michael’s hand.
He clears his throat and tries his best to come off as casual, though he hardly cares with the way thoughts begin racing through his mind. “Oh, um,” he starts, glancing down to read over the paper once more, “I just uh, have to sleep with someone is all.”
The other two boys gape at him for a moment before groaning frustratedly. The one that had first spoken to him holds his paper out and smacks it disdainfully with the back of his hand.
“What the hell?” He asks gruffly, glancing between his paper and Michael, “Why’s yours so bloody easy?”
“For real,” sighs the second boy, rubbing the back of his head, “Ours are damn near impossible. They must already be decided on you to go so soft. How am I meant to steal the fucking Selden Map from Bodleian?” He laments, brows furrowed as he stares down at the paper in his hands.
“Yeah, and I have to transfer ten thousand pounds out of the chancellor’s bank account and into mine!” The first boy sighs, shaking his head, “At least your mum’s head of conservatorship here, you can at least get within a stone’s throw of the map. I have to commit fucking wire fraud!”
The two boys grumble for another moment as Michael silently descends into a tailspin, his blue eyes unfocused as he stares at one of the dingy brick walls of the basement, trying desperately to formulate a plan, any plan. He merely glances up as the other to head for the door, spitballing ideas for each of their tasks.
“Isn’t your dad the president of Julius Baer? Can’t you just get him to pull strings?”
“Oh, yeah, fantastic idea! I’ll just ring him and ask the old man to commit a felony! What could possibly go wrong there?”
Michael tries to tune out their bickering as the three of them ascend the staircase and trail out into the hallway of Merton College Chapel once more; the two other boys don’t pay him any mind as they continue whispering amongst themselves, their voices trailing quietly down the hallway as he leans with his back against the cool metal of the janitor’s closet door.
Sighing, he reads over the directive again, his blue eyes catching on the sharply scrawled letters of a very familiar name, one that makes his cheeks flush and his heart race. He swallows nervously, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.
How could they know to do this? He wonders sheepishly. It’s not like he’d mentioned her to anyone; hell, he’d never even said so much as three words to her! No, his pathetic little crush was entirely in his mind.
Too much of a coward to even say hi, he bemoans, trying to stave off the sense of shame he felt as he considered how many times he’d finished with her name on his lips, her pretty face and soft curves and sweet smell and little girly outfits whirling around his head since he’d spotted her on the first fucking day; he’d pined ever since and she didn’t even know he existed! How could she?
This is fucking impossible, he thinks miserably, wishing that he had any other task. He’d rather steal the Queen’s own goddamn family jewels than this. He glances at his watch once more and groans when he sees it’s almost already two in the morning; pushing himself up off the door, he hangs his head as he scurries back to his dorm room, thoughts spiraling as he plots.
You
A laugh bubbles up past your lips as you sway your hips, your whole body vibrating as “Umbrella” blasts through the speakers while you dance with your friends, partying to celebrate the end of term.
“You can run into my arms, it’s okay, don't be alarmed!” You sing happily, yours and your friends voices mingling together with another peal of laughter; you take another sip of your drink as you move along with the beat of the song, savoring the fizzy strawberry daiquiri as you begin to feel a bit warm from the little rush of alcohol, already on your third drink of the night.
You smile proudly as you spot Felix in the crowd, his hazel eyes already fixed on you, or well, fixated on your chest. His attention makes you preen and you bite your lower lip, the sickly sweet taste of your cherry lip gloss filling your mouth as you purposefully bounce up and down on the balls of your feet.
The thin straps of your pastel pink dress hold on for dear life as your chest heaves enticingly, and you giggle when you see those hazel eyes widen just a bit, no doubt tracing over the glittering chain of your necklace, following down to where it settles, a little sparkly pink diamond nestling temptingly at your cleavage. You teasingly wink, blushing a little when you get a wink back, and go back to dancing with your friends, knowing from experience that Felix preferred to approach rather than be approached.
You dance with your friends for a few more moments, grinding up against any warm body you can find as a raunchier song begins pumping through the speakers, before you feel eyes on you yet again. Smiling at the attention, you glance around again, the low, colorful lighting of the pub making it hard to tell exactly which direction your admirer’s coming from.
Your eyes flit over a few familiar faces, you can’t help but sigh in relief when you notice that Oliver’s eyes are thankfully planted firmly on someone that is not you, though a confused little crease forms between your brows when you realize that Felix’s aren’t either. Turning your head, you sway along to the music still as you look around quickly, your feet beginning to ache finally from the precious little satin Chanel heels buckled around your ankles.
Your eyes finally lock onto an unexpected gaze, a fresh wash of pink coloring your cheeks as blue eyes glance shyly away from you. A little giggle titters past your lips as you lean over to one of your friends, patting her shoulder to get her attention.
“You know who that blond guy is? With the glasses?” You call over the music, nodding over in your admirer’s direction as he stands awkwardly back against the wall by the entrance, clutching a still-foamy pint.
She glances over before turning back to you with a little shrug. “Michael something, I think!” She says, her breath warm as she leans in closer so you can hear her, “I thought Oliver knew him!”
Your eyes immediately find the brunette, predictably following Felix around like a lost little puppy, before you look back over at Michael. You can’t help but feel a bit bad when you see him quickly look away from your direction again before staring intently into his pint glass, one hand shoved in the pocket of his khaki pants.
“I’m gonna take a breather for a second!” You yell over the loud music, leaning in close and cupping a hand over her ear.
“Aw, babe, come on!” She pouts playfully, tilting her head at you, “Stay longer!”
You shake your head with another little laugh and gesture at your feet, “These are sooo cute but they’re killing me!” You laugh, finishing off the last sip of your drink, “I’ll be over by the notice board!” You tell her, blowing a kiss as you walk away from the dance floor of the small, cramped pub.
Finally, you reach the little area by the front door and lean back against the wall, taking in a much-needed deep breath as you pull your little tube of lip gloss out of your bra and carefully reapply some more, smirking when you glance over out of the corner of your eye and see a certain blond boy already shyly eyeing you.
Rubbing your lips together with a little pouty pop, you tuck your gloss back in your bra once more before slowly approaching Michael, prettily manicured hands clasped behind your back to help shamelessly push your chest out more. His wide eyed stare makes you giggle and blush as you study him, eyes flitting appreciatively up and down his lithe frame; so much potential hidden away under a little button down and khakis.
“Haven’t seen you here before,” you tease, smirking when he blushes and all but chokes on his beer, coughing for a few seconds before finally speaking.
“I… Me?” He asks awkwardly, glancing around for seemingly anyone else you could be talking to.
Lucky for him, you find his awkwardness endearing. Truthfully, you had for months, never missing the way his eyes always happened upon you in a crowd. There was something impressive about the boy, something that had made your mind drift to him on more than one occasion, even if you were already under someone else.
“Of course you, silly,” you laugh softly, leaning against the wall next to him and tilting your head curiously, “You’re Michael, right?”
His eyes go wide again and nods wordlessly before finding his voice. “Yeah, Michael,” he says with a reserved little smile, “Gavey! Michael Gavey…” He adds awkwardly, cheeks flushing even more when you giggle, seemingly charmed by his inability to string two words together. He nods as you introduce yourself.
“I know,” he says before blinking, eyes going wide behind his gold framed glasses as he awkwardly glances away, “I just… I mean I’ve heard your name before, that’s all.”
“That’s all, huh?” You echo with a flirty little giggle, twirling a lock of hair around your finger as you let the moment linger, just wanting to push him a little. “What’re you reading?” You ask curiously, cocking your head to the side a little.
“Maths,” he nods quickly before looking down into his pint glass once more as if fizzling beer is the most interesting thing in the world, “I don’t really like it all that much, though… I mostly only picked it because I’m good at it.”
“Ooh,” you coo softly, nodding along with his words as you watch him carefully, “You must be wicked smart, I can’t do maths to save my life.” You comment with a little giggle, biting your lip when he seems to perk up at that comment and looks up at you with a little grin.
“I can do it in my head,” he says lowly, an unexpectedly cocky edge to his voice that has your heart picking up in your chest, “Ask me a sum,” he says, a challenging glimmer in his eyes.
You hum softly, biting your lip as you think for a second, “Uhm, seventy-two plus a hundred and thirteen?”
“One eighty-five,” he chuckles after no more than a second before scoffing a little, “Come on, give me one that’s hard, love.”
Love? The little pet name makes you raise an eyebrow before you laugh softly. “What do you mean a hard one?” You giggle, shaking your head, “That one was hard!”
“That was hard for you?” He teases, making your cheeks tingle as a pink flush settles over your skin, “What’re you reading, then?”
“Art history!” You chirp proudly, chuckling nervously when you see him roll his eyes a bit, “What? Something wrong with that?”
He shakes his head dismissively, quickly polishing off the last of his pint before setting the empty class on a table and turning back to you, pushing his glasses up his nose with a grin, “Ask me another one, then. Biggest numbers you can think of.”
You don’t know why, but something about his little challenge has you blushing again, like he’s testing you somehow. But still, you take a moment to think of some numbers, biting your lip and quirking your eyes up toward the ceiling.
“Six hundred thirty-two times… eight hundred ninety-one,” you hum, cocking your head to the side as you watch him closely. His eyes seem to glaze over, only for a second, before once again he’s spouting off numbers like a calculator.
“Five hundred sixty-three thousand, one hundred and twelve.”
Your eyebrows raise at that as you gawk at him. “Wow…,” you breathe after a moment, blinking as you stare up at him, “You’re, like, super smart, then?”
“Suppose so,” he says, smiling shyly again as he tucks both hands into the pockets of his khaki pants.
You study him for a moment as the conversation lulls, finding something endlessly fascinating about the boy; the way he could swing from being so cocky and self assured to shy and awkward makes your stomach do summersaults. Turning your head, you spot your group of friends still dancing and you look back at Michael with a little sigh as another upbeat song blasts loudly through the pub.
“D’you wanna get out of here?” You ask, smirking when he looks up at you shyly.
“W-What?”
“My dorm’s only, like, a minute from here,” you flirt, sweet and enticing as you make him blush somehow more, “We could go somewhere more… quiet?”
He stares at you for a moment, shocked that you’re asking him of all people to come back to yours before he nods and nervously runs a hand through his wheat colored hair, unsuccessfully trying to act casual. “Yeah, yeah, I can do that.”
“Yay!” You giggle happily, flirtatiously grabbing one of his hands as you saunter past him, heading for the exit, “C’mon, it’s like a five minute walk!” He nods wordlessly and you can’t help but smirk as he follows you like a lost little puppy.
True to your word, it’s only a few minutes later when you and Michael reach your dorm room, after you’d stopped for a minute at the entrance to your hall to chat with Farleigh, who seemed very interested in the nerdy boy following at your heels. You just couldn’t wipe the smirk off your face as you and Michael left him standing at the doors, mouth open and a wicked little gleam in his eyes; no doubt, he’d immediately scurried off to the King’s Arms.
The door to your room opens with a tiny squeak, blasted old building, and you all but prance inside, turning back to the blond boy still lingering in the doorway with a smile.
“Am I going to have to invite you in like a vampire?” You joke with a little laugh as you bend down to quickly undo the buckles of your heels, letting out a relieved sigh when you finally step out of them, leaving you in frilly white ankle socks.
Michael finally steps into your room with a huffed laugh and quickly kicks off his shoes, you smirk when you see his Star Wars themed socks. “‘M no vampire, love,” he quips, gold framed eyes darting around your room as he looks over every detail. You grin at the little blush on his cheeks and perch on the edge of your bed to watch him, head tilted ever so slightly.
“It’s, uh, it’s cute in here,” he observes, his voice a low hum as he takes in your frilly, lacy curtains, plush white rug, and equally girlish floral bedding, all encased in the faint pink glow of the heart-shaped fairy lights strung up around the room, “Just like how I imagined…” He breathes, so lowly you doubt he meant to say that bit aloud.
“Like you imagined?” You echo with a little giggle, quickly reapplying your lip gloss before setting the little tube on the corner of your desk.
“I just… I – It’s just very… you, is all I meant,” he stutters, running a hand through his hair awkwardly, the apples of his cheeks flushed a dark pink.
His awkwardness is so endearing, you can’t help but grin. The more time you spend with him, the more interesting he seems to become; this bumbling, nervous boy is so different from the one you’ve seen on campus so many times. On campus, he’s comfortable, quiet still, but with a definite air of confidence – clearly in his element as he prowls through bookshelves in the library or explains some complex math formula in the quad.
“So, you think about me often, then?” Your voice stays sweet, innocent almost, though you can’t help but tease him; he’s so pretty when he blushes.
“No!” He answers quickly, whipping his head toward you from where he’d been studying the various pictures tacked up on the walls, everything from boy band posters to stills from Clueless and Legally Blonde. “I mean, yes, sometimes, I…,” he fumbles again and pushes his glasses up his sharp nose, “I think about you a normal amount.” He says finally, glancing at you quickly before looking away.
You hum softly and stand before walking toward him with a kind smile, though you don’t miss the way he keeps glancing down at your cleavage, or the way his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat when he swallows nervously.
“A normal amount?”
“Mhm,” he nods, gaze unsure as you come to stand in front of him, teeth biting into your plush lower lip as you twirl a piece of hair through your fingers, “As much as I think of anyone else.”
“So…,” you breathe, drawing out the word as you reach up and fiddle with the collar of his button down shirt, the turquoise gingham a bright blue blip among all the blush tones of your room, “Every time I’ve caught you looking at my tits in the library or in the quad or in the hallways… that was just a normal amount?”
You giggle as his eyes go wide, his lips opening and closing like a fish out of water. Deciding to take mercy on him, you run a finger down his chest, playfully fiddling with the buttons on his shirt.
“Relax, I’m not mad,” you shake your head, smiling when the tension in his shoulders visibly eases, “Why wouldn’t I want a cutie like you staring?”
His lips part at that as he sucks in a little breath, blue eyes widening behind his glasses. “You think I’m… cute?” He asks breathlessly, heart pounding under your fingertip.
Your teeth sink into your bottom lip once more as you nod, cocking your head to the side just slightly as you peer up at him. “‘Course I do, honey, what’s not to like?”
Again, he gawks at you, blinking in shock and swallowing nervously.
“I –”
“I do have one question though…,” you tease, pouting a bit as you slowly and carefully undo the very top button on his shirt, relishing the way his breath hitches in his throat.
“Y-Yeah?” His voice breaks, making you giggle while he blushes somehow deeper.
“Mhm,” you nod, undoing the second button and pausing when you find a splash of hair across his chest, the same shiny wheat color as the hair on his head, causing a familiar knot to begin twisting itself up in your belly, “Why were you at the end of term party?”
He blinks for a second, evidently taken off guard. “I… W-Was it invite only?”
His question nearly makes you snort and you shake your head, the corners of your lips twitching as you try not to laugh. “No, sweetie,” you peer up at him through your lashes as you rest your hand against his bare chest, smirking ever so slightly when he shivers, “I just meant, I haven’t seen you at parties before… doesn’t really seem like your kind of thing.”
“I, well,” he stammers, the bottoms of his glasses fogging up from the heat radiating off his cheeks, “I just –”
“It’s for that club, yeah?” You ask finally, giggling at the shocked expression on his face.
“How do –”
“You lot are not nearly as sneaky as you think,” you laugh cheekily, bouncing excitedly on the balls of your feet, “Plus, I heard Felix and Oliver whispering about something to do with tasks a few weeks ago… and boys are very bad at keeping secrets once you get their cocks out.” You add with a little giggle, taking Michael’s hand once more and dragging him over to your plush bed. You sit him on the edge before all but climbing in his lap, smiling cheekily as you straddle his thighs, your knees digging into your soft bedding.
“So,” you start, holding onto his shoulders to balance yourself and smiling a little when he finally touches you, lightly resting his hands on your hips, “What’s your task, hm? I heard they made them, like, particularly brutal this year.”
“I don’t think I should say,” Michael murmurs with a little shake of his head, making you pout.
“Oh, come on!” You bounce on his lap a little, not missing the way his eyes seem to be drawn to your breasts like magnets, “I want to help! Is it something at the King’s Arms?”
“N-No, I really don’t think –”
“I know they keep the important rugby trophies there,” you think aloud, still playing dumb, just wanting him to say it, “Is that it? D’you have to steal one? One of the boys that works there owes me, I could get him to let you in after hours…” You prattle on, speaking faster and faster as Michael shakes his head beneath you.
Finally, he seems to reach a breaking point and his grip on your hips tightens. “I have to fuck you!” He blurts out before sighing.
“Oh, really?”
“I… I have to fuck you –”
“Mhm?”
“And prove I did somehow.”
“How interesting!”
He narrows his eyes at that and peers up at you suspiciously, studying you carefully. You can’t help but giggle, loving the way you feel when his eyes are on you, and you smirk when he finally blinks in realization.
“You… you knew this whole time, didn’t you?”
A sly smile spreads across your lips as you nod, squirming excitedly on his lap. “Like I said,” you chuckle with a little shrug, “Not. Sneaky!” You tease, punctuating each word with a little boop to the tip of his nose, unable to resist.
He stays silent for a moment, gazing up at you with a strange mixture of awe and unease before he finally speaks through a deep sigh. “So, I suppose this is the part where you tell me to leave?”
Well, that comment throws you off. You cock your head to the side, confused, as your eyebrows furrow together. “Why would I ask you to leave?”
He sighs again and grits his teeth, looking dejectedly at the floor. “Come on, love,” he mutters, looking anywhere but you, “I-It’s not like you’d ever want to –”
“Ever want to what?” You ask with a frown, gently grabbing at his chin and tilting his head up, forcing him to meet your gaze, “You think I don’t wanna fuck you, honey?”
“Well, I –”
“Michael,” you say pointedly, raising your brows as you smirk slightly, staring deeply into his blue eyes, “I’m the one that came onto you, yeah?”
“I… I suppose.”
“Mhm,” you hum, nodding your head as you run your fingers through his short hair, not missing the little sigh that leaves his lips when you push yourself closer to him, your chest pressing tightly against his, “And while I’m not thrilled at our first time being for some stupid little task –”
“It’s,” he cuts you off shyly, shaking his head ever so slightly, “It’s – I’ve never…” He stammers, nervously gripping at your waist once more.
You can’t help but smile softly, so charmed by him over and over. You nod your head knowingly, raising your brows just a bit. “I know, honey,” you whisper reassuringly, “We don’t have to, I’ll let you take a pair of my panties or whatever else, but we don’t need to do anything.”
He sighs up at you again, so taken with you he feels like he could scream, and shakes his head more, grabbing at your hips tighter, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. “N-No, I… I want to,” he nods, swallowing anxiously, “I do, I just… don’t really know what I’m doing.”
You nod again, listening carefully as he speaks. “So, is it all new or…?”
He shakes his head and smiles a little, shyly, though the sight of it still makes that knot in your belly tighten further, making you blush on his lap while butterflies swirl around inside you. “I’ve kissed before,” he says lowly, chuckling awkwardly as he seems to get bolder, causing you to shudder when he lightly rubs his hands over your waist and hips, “And done… hand stuff.”
You giggle at his boyish explanation and bite your lip when you smile at him, wiggling in his lap as a heat begins to settle at the apex of your thighs. “Can I kiss you, honey?”
His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat again, making you want so badly to press soft, glossy kisses to it, but you resist, determined to make this good for him.
“Yeah,” he nods eagerly, blue eyes fixated on your lips.
You smile softly before leaning in and finally pressing your lips against his, both of you sighing at once. One of his hands stays at your hip while the other comes to rest in the small of your back, pressing you more tightly to him as your lips move together, his motions surprisingly fluid and practiced.
You make a small noise in the back of your throat when you feel his tongue licking at your bottom lip, and eagerly allow him access with a little sigh. Your fingers busy themselves with unbuttoning the rest of his shirt, making him shudder beneath you when you skim your hands over his bare chest and stomach as his tongue flows with your own, the bitter, coffee-ish flavor of the pint he’d had earlier still on his tongue.
Impatient, you pull back long enough to look at him for reassurance, smiling when you earn a little nod. You kiss him once more before tugging his shirt off, flushing when he groans lowly as you trail kisses down over his jaw and neck before swiping your tongue greedily over his Adam’s apple, making his breath hitch.
“F-Fuck,” he sighs brokenly, bolding tracing over your thigh until his fingers are tucked up under the silky, baby pink material of your dress. His touches make you shiver as goosebumps bloom over your skin, making you whine against the pale column of his throat, “Can I?” He breathes, fingers toying with a strap of your dress while the others slowly inched the bottom of it up higher and higher.
“God, please,” you mewl, nodding against his throat, your head on his shoulder. He shudders at the feel of your breath on his neck and nods once before tugging at the bottom of your dress. You sit up to help him, whining when you feel his hard length pressing against your thin, lacy underwear, “You don’t need to ask, Michael. Want you to take me however you want.” You whisper as he tugs your dress over your head, blue eyes meeting yours for a second as he nods before they skim lower, widening as he takes you in on his lap wearing only a bra and panties.
“Holy shit,” he breathes, making you giggle shyly as you lean in and softly kiss over his cheeks, “You have…you’re – you’re perfect,” he sighs, brazenly cupping your breasts, skimming his thumbs over your nipples through the thin pink fabric of your bra and smiling proudly when he feels them harden at his touch, “You’re perfect, but these are… holy shit.” He repeats, his voice breathy and mesmerized as he takes in your chest for another moment while you softly card your fingers through his golden hair.
You gasp through a little giggle when you feel his length twitch, even through his trousers, and wiggle on his lap, blushing when the movement earns you a broken groan. “Yeah?” You whisper cheekily, watching as he marvels at your chest for a second longer before quickly unclasping your bra and shrugging out of it, tossing it down onto the floor with his shirt and your dress, “What about now?” You tease, proudly arching your back as you bite your lip.
He groans again, louder than he has all evening, and instantly ducks his head down. The feel of his soft lips wrapping eagerly around one of your nipples makes you cry out, gasping sharply as he sucks at the sensitive bud before he runs his tongue over it. You cradle the back of his head in your hands, fingers lightly pulling at the short strands of hair, as he switches from one breast to the other, kneading whichever one is free with his hand.
Needing something, anything, you finally pull him off of your chest after a few moments, laughing when he all but whines, and smiling even more when you take in his disheveled appearance – blond hair sticking up at odd angles from where you’d run your fingers through it, cheeks flushed as his glasses sit crooked on his nose, and his blue eyes staring up at you hungrily.
You shift back on his thighs just enough to snake a hand between the two of you and he gasps when you cup the bulge pressing against the zipper of his khakis. “You want me to suck your cock?” You ask cheekily, lightly squeezing at his length.
He surprises you by shaking his head no,gulping slightly with an awkward laugh before answering. “I do, I really fucking do, love,” he breathes, kneading at your breasts as he stares up at you sheepishly, “B-But I really want to last and if you… if you suck it, I –”
“Okay, okay,” you stop him with a kiss, “We’ll table it for next time.”
“N-Next time?” He questions, fighting to keep his eyes open as you press kisses against his neck once more. You nod against his shoulder and press kisses up to just beneath his ear.
“I’m not letting you go that easy, honey,” you whisper, chuckling when he shivers. You spend another moment softly kissing and biting at his neck before speaking again, “Have you ever eaten anyone out?” You question, pulling back to look at him.
He shakes his head, his eyes flicking between both of yours as he looks up at you. “No.” He answers simply, his voice hardly a whisper.
You can’t help but smirk coyly and cock your head to the side, running a finger through the little patch of hair on his chest just to see him shudder. “You wanna try it?”
He nods eagerly and surprises you once again by quickly swinging you around, maneuvering you until your head rests on the pillows of your bed. You squeal at the movement, laughing with him as he settles over you, his narrow hips slotting easily between your thighs as you silently marvel at his unexpected strength, the shock of it going right between your legs.
“You want me to lick your pussy?” He asks lowly, grinning when he sees your eyes widen ever so slightly.
“You’re quite something, huh?” You breathe, still gazing up at him in surprise.
“Observant,” he shrugs, smirking as he sits up, kneeling between your legs, “You aren’t the only one who is, love.” He teases, quickly undoing his belt and trousers and groaning as he pushes them down his thighs, stopping at his knees.
Your eyes go wide at the size of his length, it’s clearly very impressive and it’s not even out of his plaid boxers yet. That smirk stays plastered on his face as he leans back down to hover over you, hastily removing his glasses and sitting them on your desk before sloppily kissing you for a moment, surprising you yet again by trailing wet kisses down your neck.
“Michael…” You sigh dreamily, arching your back toward him when he starts kissing over your chest. He groans from deep in his chest, mouth pressed against the fat of your breast.
“Fucking hell,” he curses, teasing your nipple again with the tip of his tongue, “Say it again, love.”
His simple command sends shivers down your spine and you mewl, squirming underneath him, “M-Michael!” You moan again, fumbling over your words as he sucks at your breast again before he lifts his head.
“Good girl,” he purrs with a sly, easy smirk that makes your heart jump, a soft sigh tumbling past your lips. He shifts further down the bed, kissing down over your ribs and stomach, his confidence seemingly growing every time he presses his lips against your skin; the thought makes your head spin.
Finally, he hooks his fingers into the lacy sides of your panties, and his eyes peer up at you as he tugs them down over your hips before flinging them onto the floor. “Oh, my God…,” he sighs, staring greedily at your pussy, a broken groan sounds from his throat when you spread your legs more.
You bite your lip and giggle, smiling shyly as you tangle your fingers in his hair once more. “Like what you see?”
He nods his head rapidly, making you chuckle again as he stares up at you, an almost pained expression on his face. “I… uh, w-what now?”
He’s so endearing, you can’t help the little sigh that leaves you and you sit up a little, leaning back on an elbow as you use your other hand to spread your center open. You bite your bottom lip once more when he whines a little, seeing you all spread out before him, flushed folds already slick and shiny.
“Lick here, honey,” you whimper as you skim your fingers over your clit, so keyed up from only a few kisses that you gasp a little when you feel yourself clench; Michael looks like he may pass out.
Ever the dutiful student, he gives you one last look before diving in. Your head falls back with a whiny gasp as his tongue snakes over your clit, just as you’d instructed. A long, shuddery moan leaves him, vibrating against your cunt and you watch as his blue eyes all but roll back in his head.
“Just like that, Michael,” you praise, tugging at his hair ever so slightly, which only serves to make him moan more. Your chest heaves as you watch him, determined not to let your eyes squeeze shut while he licks and kisses and sucks at your pussy like a man possessed, “Holy shit!” You whimper loudly when he pushes his tongue into you, groaning lowly when he feels your walls clench around it as he presses his nose perfectly against your clit.
“You taste so good,” he gasps, wrapping his hands around your thighs to keep you exactly where he wants. He peers up at you through blond lashes as he feasts on you, sucking eagerly at your clit and savoring the way you shiver and squirm from his motions.
Unbelievably, you already feel that warm, familiar tug in your belly beginning to grow, making your whole body feel flush and taut. “Just like that, just like that,” you whine urgently, grabbing onto his hair tighter and guiding his mouth exactly where you need it, your eyes finally rolling back and fluttering shut, “Holy fuck, don’t stop!”
Michael grunts as you tug at his hair, his own hips rutting greedily against your pretty bedding — cock throbbing so hard there’s no doubt he’s leaked through his boxers. He watches you carefully, studying your movements and reactions as best he can while he rhythmically licks at your clit.
“Oh, shit!” You cry not even a moment later, your whole body seeming to stutter as your muscles finally relax. You mewl as your high finally washes over you, savoring the way Michael groans into your cunt as he feels it contracting on his tongue. Your eyes stay squeezed shut as shivers roll up and down your spine, shuddered cries leaving your lips.
Just as his touches begin to border on overstimulation, you have enough wherewithal to push him away, and he releases your center with a lewd little pop.
“Was that good?” He asks through a breathless laugh, swallowing as he looks up at you, evidence of your arousal still shining on his lips and chin.
“Good?” You huff, eyebrows raised as you gaze down at him, “You’re sure you’ve never done that before?” You question in disbelief, chest still heaving.
He smiles shyly, already pink cheeks seeming to flush deeper from your praise as he chuckles. You cup his cheeks when he leans over you again, whimpering as you taste yourself on his tongue.
“You’re unbelievable.” You sign as he kisses down your neck again, making him chuckle against your skin.
“Just observant,” he grunts, shuddering when you wrap your legs around his trim waist. You gasp as his length brushes over your still sensitive pussy, impossibly hot and hard even through the thin fabric of his boxers. His fragmented sigh makes you smile and you tug his head up, blushing as you look up at him.
“You ready, honey?” You breathe, giggling when he nods his head again eagerly, his hips stuttering instinctually against your center. “Here, let me…” You trail off, the two of you separating for a moment as you lean over and pull open the top drawer of your desk, pulling out a pack of condoms and tearing one off before laying back down.
You watch enraptured as he kneels between your legs again, pulling down his boxers finally. “Holy…” you gasp when his cock finally bobs free, twitching up to rut against his lower stomach; he’s long and thick, curving a little as veins run up the underside, leading to a flushed, leaking head. He smiles shyly again at your attention as he shuffles awkwardly out of his trousers and underwear, kicking them off and onto the floor.
You hand him the condom and watch as he rolls it on, giving him a little reassuring smile as he does. Once it’s securely in place, you pull him back to you, eagerly kissing him once more and wrapping your legs securely around his waist. Both of you moan in unison when his length glides through your folds, the head catching perfectly on your clit.
He pulls away with a little gasp, hovering over you as he glances down at your hips. “S-So, I just…” He trails off, watching as you reach down with one hand, grunting softly when you wrap your hand around his cock.
Carefully, you position him at your entrance and angle your hips a little. “Go on, honey,” you encourage with a soft smile, running your other hand over his chest.
Nodding once, he presses forward and swears he sees God. “F-Fucking hell,” he groans, loudly sighing your name as he carefully guides himself into you, absolutely in awe at the way your hot cunt grips him. His eyes squeeze shut, his hips resting firmly against yours as his chest heaves, breaths coming in short, sharp pants.
You aren’t fairing much better, head spinning at the way he splits you open, pressing incessantly at each and every sensitive spot within you. You pant against his neck as he stills, pressed deeply within you.
“D-Do… fuck, do I just…?” Michael stutters, giving half-hearted little thrusts to test the waters.
“Yes!” You answer instantly, anxiously nodding up at him as your hips wiggle against the bedsheets, making him swear and shudder above you, “Just move, honey, do what feels good.”
He groans again and gives a little nod before experimentally moving his hips again, pulling out more this time before pushing back in. “Shit,” he breathes above you, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he grunts with each roll of his hips.
You pant underneath him, spurring him on by pressing your feet against his backside, urging him to move faster and faster as the frilly lace from your socks tickles his pale skin. “You’re doing so, so good, oh, my God,” you breathe, your voice high-pitched and whimpery as you tangle your fingers in his hair again, knowing by now that it drives him crazy.
Above you, Michael’s hips slowly but surely begin to stutter, his thrusts starting to peter out as his breathing picks up. “I’m —!”
“Wait!” You blurt suddenly, smiling wickedly as he comes to a screeching halt, pushing himself up enough to stare down at you with wild eyes, “I have an idea…” You tease with a little giggle.
“W-What?”
“You have a phone, yeah?”
“…Yeah?”
“One that can, like, take video?”
“Yes?”
“Grab it,” you laugh, pushing him off of you with a laugh. He rolls his eyes with a smirk but does as you ask, clumsily pulling himself from your heat before stumbling over to where his khakis had landed. He shuffles about for a second before pulling a silver phone from the pocket of his trousers.
“Now what?” He asks curiously, positioning himself back between your thighs, cock twitching meanly.
“Film me.”
“What?!” He gapes at you, brows creased.
“Film me, honey,” you giggle, biting your lip conspiratorially, “For your little task, you need proof, yeah?”
“Well, yeah, b-but I can just take your panties or something, I don’t —“
“Or you could bring back something better…” You smirk, shrugging your shoulders playfully, “We don’t have to but… it could be kinda hot?”
He pauses for a moment, eyes flicking between you, your pussy, and the phone in his hand before he nods once, curtly. “We… we can try it.”
“Yeah? You wanna?”
“Yeah,” he quips, catching you by surprise as a mean little smirk spreads over his lips, “Wanna see the look on Catton’s face when he sees you creaming on my cock.”
Your eyes widen and you huff out a shocked laugh, a zing of electricity lighting behind your eyes. “You’re insane,” you say softly, an endeared smile on your lips.
He snickers, his whole demeanor seeming to change before your eyes as he transforms from this shy, stuttering boy into an astonishingly cocky man. “You like it, love,” he teases, grabbing his dick and positioning himself at your entrance yet again.
“Wait!” You giggle again, blushing as he groans.
“You don’t want to anymore?”
“No, no, not that,” you assure him, affectionately running your hand down one of his shockingly muscular arms, “You can film me… on one condition.”
“‘N what would that be?”
“Take me on a date.” You breathe, suddenly shy. You know he’ll agree to it, but even still, your heart pumps wildly in your chest.
He stares at you for a second, blinking dumbly as he processes your request. “You want me to take you on a date?” He asks, flushing so deeply that the soft pink hue cascades all the way down to his chest.
Giggling, you nod your head, giving his forearm a reassuring squeeze. “You need to start giving yourself more credit, honey.”
He sighs at that, a little astounded huff, before he’s suddenly grabbing at your calves and pushing your legs up toward your shoulders, all but bending you in half, anxious to get his cock back into you. You gasp at the movement, and chuckle at his eagerness, a sound that morphs into a whiny moan when he slides back home.
“Christ,” he grunts, shoulders heaving as he gets used to the way you feel around him once more, “Y-You feel so good, love, fucking perfect.”
“You’re so big,” you whine, nodding as you look at him like he hung the stars in the sky, “You’re so good, Michael, you have no idea.”
He groans above you, hands shaking as he grabs for his phone, flipping it open and quickly opening the camera as his hips rut into you, making the springs of your bed creak softly.
As soon as Michael gives you a little nod to let you know he’s filming, you truly put on a show — or well, you at least stop trying to quiet yourself down and be conscientious of the people in the rooms next to you. The way he has your legs bent back makes him feel somehow bigger and causes his cock to hit that sensitive spot within you with pinpoint accuracy every time he thrusts in, making you clench around him and moan loudly each time he moves his hips against you.
You watch as he angles the camera down a bit, no doubt pointing it at the spot the two of you are joined together, letting the camera record his cock sliding in and out of you. When he moves it back up, however, to get your face as evidence, you plaster on the cheekiest grin you can muster.
“H-Hi boys,” you tease breathlessly, smirking as you lean up on one elbow. You wave with your other hand before blowing a kiss to the camera, which makes Michael cockily laugh.
“Fuck, I gotta…” he mutters after a few more seconds, carelessly dropping his phone down on the bed before roughly grabbing at your thighs with a bruising grip, one that makes you mewl and arch your back toward him. The two of you moan and whimper in unison as he begins thrusting wildly, seemingly too worked up to care about anything but cumming.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” You chant over and over, head spinning as he bullies your sweet spot.
“That’s it, love,” Michael murmurs, his voice gruff and low as he stares down at you, strands of his hair sticking to his forehead; he looks wilder than you’ve ever seen him, the thought only serving to push you closer and closer to the edge. “S-Shit, that’s it. Fucking come for me, cream on my cock; please, please, please,” he murmurs, leaning down to press desperate kisses against your neck and collarbones.
The new position causes his pubic bone to rub deliciously over your clit, making you seize beneath him with a loud whine. Your toes curl, heels still pressing into the small of his back. “M-Michael, holy fuck!” You practically squeal as your high finally washes over you once more, stars dancing behind your eyelids as you go lax and pliant underneath him.
The feel of your walls pulsing around his cock has Michael reeling, his hips somehow thrusting even faster as he both desperately wants to cum while also never wanting this feeling to end. “C-Cum, honey, cum,” you pant softly, cupping his cheek with one hand and turning his face toward yours.
That does him in and the rubber band in his belly viciously snaps, making him shudder above you as his thrusts come to a halt, cock twitching wildly inside you as he empties himself into the condom. You watch him in awe, taking in every detail from the way his nose scrunches up as his eyes squeeze close to the way he whispers your name over and over like a prayer.
The two of you lay in silence for a moment, his breath warm against your neck as he slumps against you trying to catch his breath.
Eventually, you can’t help it anymore and let out a breathless giggle, which only intensifies when he props himself up on an elbow to peer down at you with a smirk.
“Something funny?”
“Just,” you breathe, trying to calm yourself enough to get words out, “Just… wow,” you finally say, giggles petering out as you look up at him, the soft gleam in his eyes makes your heart clench in your chest.
“Good wow?” He blushes, looking down between the two of you as he pulls himself from your walls with a little hiss.
“Very, very good wow,” you confirm, grinning as you watch him pull off the condom before he peers up at you with a sheepish grin. “Tie it off, honey,” you instruct, smirking as he does just that, before nodding to the little wastebasket by your desk.
He gets up with a groan and quickly tosses the condom in the trash before turning back to you, the bashful look on his face making you blush.
Unable to resist, you grin at him and spread your arms with a giggle, wordlessly inviting him for a cuddle, which he gladly accepts. The bed creaks slightly as he lays back down, relaxing his head on the pillow just beside yours. Again, the two of you stay silent for a moment, content to merely gaze at one another, before he shyly looks away and sighs.
“I…,” he starts, blue eyes blinking and flitting around your room as he gathers his thoughts, “Thank you,” he finally says, looking back at you with a little half smile.
Your brows furrow at this as you grin at him. “What’re you thanking me for?”
“Well, f-for… this,” he says, gesturing vaguely at the two of you before sitting up just slightly and fishing around in the blankets for a second. “And this,” he sighs, holding his phone up before twisting around to set it on the corner of your desk, turning back to you. “I just… I know you didn’t have to, is all, so…”
You cock your head to the side as you prop yourself up on an elbow, eyes narrowing as you study him closely. “And people have the nerve to say I’m thick,” you joke, lips spreading into a wide grin as you gaze down at him, “I wanted to do all this, Michael. I’m the one that came onto you, remember?”
“W-Well, yeah, but —“
“No buts!” You laugh, pressing a finger against his lips as you shake your head, “I have eyes too, you know.”
“What does that mean?”
“You haven’t been the only one watching someone for months,” you giggle shyly, pressing your forehead against his, “I meant what I said about that date, too.”
His arms wind around your waist, holding you tight as he processes your words with a dumbstruck smile, blushing under your gaze. “Whatever you say, love,” he concedes finally, pressing his lips against yours sweetly.
He yawns tiredly when he pulls away from you after a moment, which only makes you yawn as well, and you glance over at the little clock on your dresser. “Christ,” you gasp, turning back to him, “I didn’t realize it’s already almost four… you can crash here, if you want?”
He considers it for a moment, knowing he has to be back in that stupid little basement by noon and making a mental map of where exactly your dormitory is in relation to the Merton College Chapel. “I… I can stay, yeah,” he finally nods after a moment.
“You’re sure?”
“Love, I’m not sure my legs work well enough yet to walk out of here anyway.”
Michael
Groaning, Michael slowly blinks his eyes open, rubbing them softly as he sits up in bed with a yawn. Blindly reaching over for his glasses, he’s confused when he doesn’t feel them in their usual spot and finally opens his eyes properly.
He stares, confused for a moment as to how exactly he somehow got transported into what appears to be Barbie’s damn dream house, before the events of last night come flooding back to him.
“Holy shit,” he breathes when he turns his head and sees your still-sleeping form beneath your flowery sheets, your hair tousled wildly on the pillow as your shoulders rise and fall evenly still with each breath. Looking around, he finally spots his glasses and puts them on before reaching for his phone, and cursing again when he sees the time.
11:47 AM.
He practically falls out of your bed as he tries to extricate himself from the sheets, and he hears you wake with a start behind him as he grabs wildly at his clothes on the floor.
“Michael?” You ask questioningly, your voice still hoarse from sleep as you, frankly fucking adorably, rub at your eyes before fixing him with a curious look.
“Gotta, shit, gotta run,” he explains quickly, cursing as he nearly loses his balance trying to tug his trousers on, “Need to be at Merton Chapel in, like, Christ, ten minutes!”
“Ohh,” you giggle softly, watching with amusement as he finishes getting dressed, hair and clothes so disheveled that he’s sure he looks like the very definition of the walk of shame.
Just as he’s tugging his shoes on and making a mad dash for the door, you stop him. “Here,” you smirk, holding out the same lacy pair of pink panties you wore last night, “For proof,” you explain, nodding to the phone in his hand, “Along with that. Should be more than enough,” you giggle proudly.
He smiled sheepishly as he pockets your underwear. “T-Thanks,” he nods, turning to leave before you stop him once more.
He can’t help but blush when you lean in and press and quick kiss to his lips, your cherry chapstick rubbing off on him some. Pulling away, you playfully smack his chest with a little grin. “Go get ‘em, honey.”
Nodding, he smiles again before finally pulling your door open and bounding down the hallway. “I’ll text you, love!” He calls, peering back just before he rounds a corner, “About that date!”
It’s 11:58 on the dot when he flings the basement door open, only to be pulled over to the same stupid dank basement wall, his back hitting it once more with a dull thud.
Glancing around, he sees the ski-masked boys again, all fifteen of them, standing in a row with the head boy slightly out of line. To his left stands one of the other initiates, clutching a black tube of some sort.
The basement stays silent for a moment before one of the masked boy’s watch alarms goes off just as the bells in the tower begin to chime.
Once, twice, all the way up to twelve. Noon.
Right on cue, the head boy steps forward even more and looks between Michael and the other initiate. “Your friend couldn’t be bothered to show his face, then?” He asks, dark eyes peering at the boy next to Michael.
He scoffs and shakes his head, glaring at the head boy. “He’s still at the bank!” He snaps, “All the way in bloody Switzerland,” he kicks at the dirty stone floor as he explains, “Dickhead,” he finally mutters lowly under his breath.
“Shame,” the head boy quips, clasping his hands in front of his waist, “Some men are simply not cut out for Bullingdon.”
The boys in the row behind him nod knowingly, each making some little noise of affirmation until the head boy quickly stops them, holding a fist up by his head, bringing it back down to his side when they shut up.
“So, initiates, what’ve you got?”
The boy next to Michael steps forward first and hands the black tube to the head boy with a sigh. “There,” he says, gesturing to it, “There’s your bloody map. My mum could get sacked for that.”
The head boy pops open one end of the tube, a document sleeve Michael now realizes, and gingerly extracts a rolled up piece of parchment from it, unrolling it just enough to confirm it's what they asked for.
“Well done, initiate,” he nods, seemingly impressed as he flashes a smile at the boy, white teeth gleaming creepily through the slit in his ski mask. Carefully, he rolls the document up again before sliding it back in the tube, “Your commitment to Bullingdon will take you far. Welcome to the fray.”
The boy stands still for a moment, eyeing the document tube with an almost regretful expression before curtly nodding and taking his place back against the wall.
“And then there was one,” the head boy murmurs, dark faze fixed on Michael, “I seem to remember we gave you quite the… interesting task indeed, initiate. How did you manage?”
Smiling damn near arrogantly, Michael all but skips up the head boy and proudly pulls your panties from his back pocket, letting them dangle from his index finger. “See for yourself.”
The head boy grabs them by the edge and studies them for a moment, turning back to the row of boys behind him with a questioning glance. The boy Michael knows already to be that cunt, Oliver Quick, glances between him, the panties, and Michael, before cutting a sideways glance to a tall boy standing next to him.
“These could be anyone’s,” the head boy says, turning back to Michael as he shakes his head, “You could’ve nicked them from your sister or something, we’ll need more than this, initiate.”
“Don’t even have a sister,” Michael quips, shrugging his shoulders with a little frown.
“Okay, like, your cousin or something then –”
“Don’t have a female cousin,” he says with a shake of his head, “All boys.”
“The point still stands!” The head boy finally snaps, making Michael bite the inside of his cheek to hide a little laugh, though the corner of his lips still quirks up in a smirk, “You haven’t got any proof, do you? Is that why you’re stalling?”
Huffing a little laugh, Michael finally lets himself smirk meanly and steps closer to the head boy as he pulls his phone from his pocket, flips it open, and navigates to his video gallery. “Is this enough proof?” He teases, pressing play on the most recent video.
The picture is small and grainy but there’s no doubt as to what’s happening as the sound of your pretty whimpers and moans echoes around the brick basement, along with the wet smack of Michael’s cock driving into you again and again.
The head boy stares at the screen still as curiosity gets to a few of the boys in the row behind him and they all come crowd around Michael’s phone, eyes widening behind their ski masks and mouths falling open.
The tallest one, the one Oliver keeps glancing at, lets out a long sigh as he peers down at the small screen and brings a hand up to his head as if he were going to run it through his hair before remembering the mask he has on. With him this close, Michael finally notices the little silver barbell stuck through his eyebrow and shivers as his lips curl up into a sadistic Cheshire cat smile, a tidal wave of savage pride crashing through his system.
Finally, fucking finally, I get something he wants, he thinks as your breathy moans continue to pour from the speaker of his phone, tinny and muffled in some spots where he’d accidentally covered the microphone, but beautiful, beautiful and because of him.
After a moment, the video ends, the tiny phone screen reverting back to it’s little thumbnail as the head boy peers up at Michael, the rest of the club members taking their places back in line, though he can’t help but notice that Felix’s broad shoulders are slumped now and Oliver stands ever closer to him, like some kind of fucked up bodyguard.
“I’ll be damned, initiate,” the head boy sighs with a shake of his head, “I really didn’t think you had it in you.”
He watches as Michael merely nods and pockets his phone again, holding it tightly in his fist even still. After a second, he smiles widely and claps a hand on his shoulder, shaking him slightly.
“Welcome to Bullingdon.”
Some time later, Michael finally exits the basement, a few of the club members, sans ski masks now, nodding goodbye to him as they disperse across campus, meeting adjourned.
He wasn’t really sure what he’d been expecting from the initial meeting but it was mostly them prattling on about where exactly they had all their grubby little fingers, poked in seemingly every facet of society from Parliament to local newspapers.
Braggy cunts, Michael thinks as he ambles outside, glancing up at the sky as he steps into the Mob Quad, surrounded by stony old buildings.
Smiling to himself, he pulls out his phone and quickly finds your number in his contacts list, blushing when he sees you’ve taken the liberty of adding some girly heart emoticon next to it. He hardly has time to press it against his ear before you answer.
“Well?” You demand with that now familiar giggle, some unfamiliar pop song playing in the background.
“I’m in,” he confirms, nodding to himself as he slowly walks in the direction of his dormitory, “Thanks to you.” He smiles like an idiot when you laugh.
“Don’t sell yourself short, honey,” you tease, he can picture your bright, glossy smile in his head, “You earned that spot.”
Michael merely shakes his head with a happy little sigh. “So,” he starts, clearing his throat and pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, “About that date… I was thinking the King’s Arms? Tonight at six, if that works?”
“Oooh, tonight at six,” you repeat teasingly, an image flashing in his mind of you twirling your hair around a perfectly manicured finger, “Someone’s quite eager, hm?”
“Can you blame me?”
“Hmm, I suppose not,” you giggle, pausing for a second, “It’s a date then.”
“Fantastic,” Michael sighs, trying with every fiber of his being to sound casual and cool about the whole thing, even as his heart threatens to beat out of his chest.
“See you tonight, Mr. Bullingdon,” you tease, making a little kissy sound into the phone before hanging up.
Michael pauses for a moment, standing to the side on the pavement as he nods to himself. If it weren’t so fucking cheesy, he’d raise his fist in the air, victorious, à la Judd Nelson at the end of The Breakfast Club.
Instead, he flips his phone back open and navigates back to your video. Sighing, he stares at the little thumbnail for a second before deleting it, pocketing his phone once more, and continuing back to his dormitory.
