#martin in the modern world

[venmondiese]

WEIRD HOBBIES

-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. 

[endless-ineffabilities]

In Your Modern World (a Chemical Override minishot)

Ewan Mitchell x actress!reader

a/n: so this lil baby is set some time in part 5, around late August, when they were at the height of their initial relationship. Also, this references the bonus chapter In the Modern World. No taglist for surprise minishots - I hope this will find the chem ov readers in due time! <3

series masterlist ▪︎ main masterlist

The reader and Ewan finally watch his music video. With some interruptions...

"So the concept to this is very straightforward. It's about Martin, and he's a recluse, an aimless youth of sorts, and..." Ewan's words come out in a nervous flurry as he places your laptop atop the duvet. "Do you remember what I told you about it? I mean... that was nearly two months ago, was it? But - "

You can't help but smile at his endearing ramble. "Baby," you say soothingly, letting him wrap an arm around your shoulders. "I'm sure I'll love it."

He presses a soft kiss to your temple. "I haven't seen the final cut myself. I hope I did well."

"It's already the music video of the year," you say with a smirk, brushing your lips against the corner of his, "as long as you're in it."

His cheeks flush, the sight of it making your heart flutter. You can't resist leaning in to kiss him again. It's meant to be momentary, but his hand finds its way to the back of your head, keeping you in place so that the kiss deepens. His other hand snakes its way underneath your shirt - his shirt, oversized on your frame - kneading the flesh of your waist.

"Kissing was a bad idea," he rasps. "Now I don't wanna do anything else."

"Oh, oh!" you gasp and pull back when his hand starts to inch your shirt upward, "Hold on there, baby. Music video time."

He groans in protest, his forehead resting against yours, a teasing smile on his lips. "Alright, then. But the next time I kiss you, there'll be no interruptions."

"Fine," you roll your eyes. Then you reach out and press play on the video.

It opens with Ewan as Martin, black wig and all, brooding heavily as he scrutinises his slimey pet. You spot something in the background immediately. It's right there for viewers to see.

Before you can process it, the shot quickly cuts to another scene of him with a thin paintbrush in his hand, hunched over some figurine. Then another, and another... Martin in his room, going about his humdrum and aimless routine. You spot it - yourself - flashing in and out of the frame.

To your side, Ewan is silently chuckling at your surprised expression. Your lips are parted slightly, eyes squinting like you don't believe what you just saw. He waits for it, gazing at you fondly, forgetting all about his piece of work playing on the laptop.

You let your thoughts win over, hitting pause.

As if in slow motion, you turn to face him, the question practically bubbling from your lips. "Was that me?"

"What was that, darlin'?" He absently twirls a lock of your hair, trying - and failing - to keep a straight face.

You raise your eyebrows, challenging him with a look that says Really?

He laughs. "Yes, I asked to have a poster of Alyna Rivers on Martin's wall. Seemed fitting."

"Seemed... fitting?" you reply. "A grunge boy with a poster of a medieval fantasy character? How does that make sense?"

"Martin likes her," he shrugs, grinning mischievously, "What can I say?"

"Martin?" you tease. "Or Ewan Mitchell?"

"Martin likes you," he taps the tip of your nose, "But Ewan... is in love with you. Completely obsessed."

You shake your head, unable to fight the rush of pleasant warmth to your cheeks.

"There is a difference, darling," he clarifies in a husky whisper.

You glance back at the screen, where the video is paused on a shot of Martin sitting in the car.

"Well, he is pretty hot," you admit with a smirk. "All dirty and reckless."

"Hmm," he chews on his lip, "is he?"

Your hand moves to press play again, but his own darts out to stop you.

His voice is a low, seductive rumble. "Think you can fix him? Think you can fix poor Martin?"

Your lips stretch out in a sultry smile, eyes glinting at his playful instigation. He nuzzles into the crook of your neck, giving in to the pull of distraction. The rest of the music video can wait; he's in it anyway, he's got some clue as to how it goes.

"I think I can, I think I can," you whisper humorously in that famous playground chanting, desire bleeding through your words.

"Lucky Martin," he breathes against your skin, "should I be jealous?"

Instead of answering, you lean forward, pressing your body flush against his and reclaiming his lips, remembering when he said that the next time you do, there will be no interruptions.

Martin can wait. Or he can watch, in the back of your minds, why the hell not?

You push the laptop aside, then climb on top of your boyfriend, straddling his thighs. He smirks openly, in pure satisfaction.

You ask, "Why don't we give him something to be jealous about?"

[aemsgirl]

In Spite of Us.

Modern Aemond x Reader.

Summary: Raised in an orphanage before being adopted by the same family, you and Aemond have always been bound by something deeper than childhood friendship. Darkness. Obsession. The kind of things that burrow into your minds and refuse to leave. In a world that couldn’t care less about either of you, the harsh truth remains: you’re all each other has—whether you like it or not.

Warnings: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT. Incest, drug and substance abuse, mention of graphic violence, mention of murder, mention of parental abuse, smut, degradation, possessive behavior, dub-consent.

Author's note: I'm deciding whether to continue. If you'd like to, please let me know.

In a world this fucked, it's no wonder it spits out people just as broken. Twisted up, chipped, and ready to snap. Minds that don't play by the so-called normal rules. You’re a glitch in the system, the full stop shoved into the middle of the sentence. A ticking bomb of chemical chaos, or maybe just the gnawing hunger that’s been chewing you from the inside out since day one. You knew it. Aemond knew it. Always did. You didn't fit, never would. For a while, that shit felt like a curse—like a weight tied around your neck. But then it became second nature, like breathing in poison and calling it air. You stopped fighting it, stopped letting it tear you apart. You didn't just wear it; you owned it. Hell, maybe you even died for it.

Aemond sometimes wondered where it all started. Maybe it was that hellhole of an orphanage, where they threw you both like trash. Not a home—just another cruel joke. A meat grinder, with its hunger pangs, freezing walls, and the constant line-up for scraps that were never enough. You were quiet, too fucking quiet, and that made people look at you sideways. But then there was him. The shadow that stood between you and the bigger boys who thought pain was a game. You didn't know why he gave a damn. Maybe it was that time you woke up in the dead of night and saw him sitting on the floor, staring at you like some ghost that couldn't rest. The dark didn't bother him, and his silver hair sure as hell didn't make him harder to spot.

He was there. Always was. And you? You were his shadow, just as much as he was yours. Years didn't change a damn thing. Then that joke of a family came along, slapped the word adoption on you both like it meant something. A better life? Bullshit. Things didn’t get better—they just shifted into another shade of misery.

Mum? She spent her days with a bottle of cheap wine in one hand and a cigarette in the other, blowing out clouds that reeked of fake watermelon. She used to say the sweet ones were best, even if they tasted like shit. And Dad? Oh, he loved Aemond’s silver hair. Loved it so much that when he was about to lose his temper, he'd hold onto him like some sick lifeline. But that didn't stop the scars. Those stayed, etched into his skin, courtesy of the belts and threads Dad liked to use.

Crying? Aemond didn't cry. He didn't have to. The silence screamed loud enough.

Years dragged on, and one day you weren't some helpless kid anymore. But the bullshit didn't stop—if anything, it cranked up a notch. You remember the screaming. How could you not? Dad’s twisted little excuses, his shitty jokes that got uglier every time, all just another way to go at you or Aemond. And Mum? She was barely even there—when she was, all she did was scream too. The sound of her begging still rattles in your head. “Stop. It hurts.” Over and over, bouncing off the walls like it could break something in him. It never did.

So, you did what you always did. Slid under the covers next to Aemond, the only refuge you had. Not that he reacted much. He’d just lie there, staring blankly at the ceiling, cold as death. It was like lying next to a corpse. But it was better than being alone. At least, that's the lie you kept feeding yourself.

It was during one of these times that you felt him react for the first time. His fingers slid down your thighs under the covers, gripping them firmly. They traveled up to your waist and disappeared under your shirt. His cold fingertips mapped your spine as if they were counting the bones there, his breath blowing at the back of your neck, and he leaned closer to bite your neck, hard enough to leave a mark on your jaw. You felt every sensation, as if the devil himself was licking your skin raw and bathing it in his saliva. When his hand found your breast and rolled your nipple between his fingers, you arched your hips back, and as you wiggled them, you found his member already hard under his loose shorts.

After that, it was like two beasts were being released from their cages at the exact same time.

Aemond turned his body and spread your legs, not even bothering to take off your shorts or yours panties, just pushing them aside. Pulling down his shorts revealed his cock, almost throbbing your name. At least that's what it seemed like, since he was calling for you. Grabbing your thighs, he parted them even more and thrust into you in one swift motion, until your groins slammed together. Over and over, growing in your ear, while using one hand to cover your lips, muffling the desperate cries of pain and ecstasy that escaped. His cock became a mess with your scent and the blood from your first experience, going deeper and deeper.

It was too much, for both your body and your mind. Your nails scratched into him as if you were ready to disintegrate him, the screams that had tormented your nights before vanished. Sweat clung to your bodies and the clothes you still wore, your walls squeezing him, pulling him even deeper. You felt whole, so fucking whole that your eyes rolled back. That was when you reached the first true orgasm of your life, before feeling Aemond pull out and spill over your belly, staining you in more ways than one. It was almost peaceful.

The peace shattered when the bastard stormed into the room. It didn’t feel real—more like some fucked-up fever dream. He yanked Aemond off you and threw him to the floor like trash. You tried to get up, but he was on you in an instant, his fist smashing into your face so hard it sent you sprawling back onto the bed. Your nose was leaking blood, your vision blurry as hell, but through half-closed eyes, you saw it all.

He mounted Aemond, his fists raining down in a storm of violence. But this time? This time wasn’t like the others. Something snapped. Aemond's thighs locked around the old bastard’s torso, flipping him over with a strength you didn’t even know he had.

That was it. That fucking line—the one that should never have been crossed—was gone.

Aemond let loose. His fists came down again and again, each punch sinking into the man’s face, his nose collapsing under the blows. Blood sprayed everywhere, pooling on the ground like a sick offering. Aemond’s knuckles turned black and blue, the flesh split and soaked in crimson, but he didn’t give a shit. He grabbed the bastard by the hair, slamming his head into the floor over and over, screaming like a man possessed.

The crack of his skull splitting open echoed through the room. Blood spread out like a dark halo around his head, but Aemond didn’t stop. No, stopping wasn’t in the plan. He wanted to tear the son of a bitch apart, piece by piece, rip him open from crown to toe, exposing every festering, rotting bit of ugliness for the world to see.

You saw it—the exact moment that piece of shit raised his hand and jammed his thumb into Aemond’s eye. That was it. No more waiting, no more thinking. You shot up from the bed, your hands grabbing the first thing in reach—a pen from your desk.

Your heart was hammering like a war drum as you moved in, the sharp tip aimed and ready. One step, and the pen sank deep into his left eye. You didn’t stop. Not until his face was a grotesque, unrecognisable mess, blood and pulp dripping down like something out of a nightmare.

When he finally stopped moving, you looked over at Aemond. His face was the same cold, detached mask he always wore, but his raw, trembling hands betrayed him. His silence was deafening.

You thought about saying something—hell, anything—but the scream cut through the room like a blade. Your head whipped to the side, and there she was. Your mother. Sliding to the floor, hands clamped over her mouth, her eyes wide with horror. She was still naked, her body a wreck from whatever that bastard had been doing to her before he’d turned his attention to you both.

There wasn’t time to think—fuck, thinking wasn’t even an option. You were on autopilot. Aemond was the first to move, landing a punch on Mum that sent her sprawling to the floor, her scream cutting off like a bad record. You didn’t even flinch. You were already moving, grabbing a backpack and shoving in whatever the hell you could find, yanking on the closest clothes without a second thought.

When you were done, you looked back at the scene—Mum on the ground, Aemond standing over her, the room still reeking of blood and chaos. You knew it then, as clear as the blood on your hands: you were fucked. This wasn’t something you could crawl back from. So Aemond found their stash of cash, shoved it into your bag, and bolted. No goodbyes, no second guesses. Just running.

Every moment after that was soaked in fear. The shitty motels you both crashed in, the greasy diners where you shoved down food that tasted like cardboard, the endless paranoia that came with every passing police car. Red and blue lights haunted the back of your eyelids, flashing like some kind of sick countdown. Every night, you stared at your fingers, half-expecting handcuffs to snap around them. But they never came.

The anxiety started to dull, forced out by exhaustion and the silence that hung between you two like a heavy fog. You never figured out why no one came looking. Maybe no one gave a damn about that bastard. Maybe the world had just decided to let you off the hook for once. Whatever the reason, the answers didn't come, and you weren't about to go digging for them.

Aemond was the practical one, the one with the plan—or at least the one who acted like he had one. He decided your next moves, no questions asked. He wasn’t afraid to dive headfirst into the filth, mixing with the worst kinds of people. And why the hell not? Everyone was scared of him. They didn’t see a guy—they saw a rabid animal, barely tethered. That suited him just fine. It suited you just fine. Fear opened doors, and Aemond kicked them wide open.

By working the right angles and talking to the right scumbags, you both found some good shit to sell, and before long, a shitty little hole to call home followed. He was always making extra stops, running his own little side deals with people who made your skin crawl. You didn’t ask questions, though. You knew better. Some of it was personal—his own brand of chaos that you didn’t dare get involved in.

And when things went sideways? When his preferences left a trail of wreckage behind? It always came down to you to clean up the mess. Blood, lies, broken promises—you were knee-deep in it, scrubbing his mistakes off the floor and praying no one noticed. That’s just how it worked.

So when you came home that morning, boots in hand, tiptoeing in like you were trying not to wake a sleeping beast, what you walked into didn’t shock you. Not really. You were past being surprised by shit like this. The living room floor was painted in scarlet, the blood so fresh it looked like it might still be warm.

And her? She was sprawled there in the middle of it all, like some fucked-up display. You couldn’t even tell what colour her hair was, not with how soaked it was in blood. Her throat—well, there wasn’t much of it left. Torn open, barely held together. Her face still stuck in this frozen mask of terror. Clothes? Forget it. She didn’t have a shred on her, just skin bruised all over like someone had been working her over for hours.

You took another step, then another, and there he was—Aemond. Lounging on the couch like it was just another Tuesday. Legs spread wide, head tipped back, a cigarette hanging lazily from his mouth, smoke curling up toward the ceiling. Blood covered him—his chest, arms, hands. It was everywhere, dripping down him like some grotesque masterpiece. The only thing untouched? His sweatpants, the one clean piece of fabric on him.

He didn’t even look at you. Just sat there, exhaling a long drag of smoke, like he’d just come back from a jog instead of whatever the hell this was.

"Where the fuck have you been?" His voice cut through the suffocating silence, sharp and loaded with accusation. You could have laughed—really could’ve—at the irony of him asking the questions when the room looked like this.

But you didn’t laugh. Not because it wasn’t funny, but because when you looked at him properly, you saw that he wasn’t in the mood for your shit. His eyes were hard, jaw clenched tight, teeth grinding into that cigarette like it had personally offended him. The black hair he’d been dyeing since everything went to hell was sticking to his pale, blood-slick skin, smoke curling around him like he was burning alive from the inside out.

He was pissed. You didn’t need to ask why.

“I went out for drinks,” you said flatly, like it wasn’t even worth a conversation, leaning down to drop your heavy boots onto the floor with a thud. That’s when it hit you—the ache in your thighs, sharp and unforgiving after hours spent dancing, grinding all that tension out of your body. You straightened up slowly, your muscles protesting, your gaze flicking back to him like you were daring him to say something about it.

"All night?" His voice was low, almost too soft. It was ridiculous, really—how the hell could he sound like a goddamn feather when everything about him screamed destruction? It was like he was about to rip you to shreds, but still, the tone came out smooth and menacing. "Are you sure?" The second question came, quieter, sharper.

You squinted at him, head tilting slightly, trying to piece together what game he was playing this time. Every time you left, it was the same damn thing. Coming back to that look in his eyes—something primal, dangerous, like he could rip through you without a second thought. Like he wanted to hunt you down, drag you back into the house, and break you apart, just like he did with the girl on the floor.

And goddamn it, you knew. You knew the thought had crossed his mind more than once. Every time you pulled some shit like this, he probably imagined slicing you open, testing how much you'd bleed. You didn’t even have to ask. You could see it in his eyes.

"Yes, all night," you answered, your voice sharp with irritation. He wasn’t the one who should be asking questions—not after the bloodbath he’d left on your favorite rug.

Aemond exhaled a thick cloud of smoke, stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray beside him. Slowly, deliberately, he stood up. His bare feet made no noise as he walked toward you, stepping over the body like it was just another object in his way. You met his movement with your usual defiance, head held high and chin up, not showing an ounce of weakness. But that only seemed to make things worse.

He closed the distance, stopping just inches away, his hot breath hitting your face. He tilted his head down, leaning in closer, nose brushing against your skin as he took a deep sniff, his eyes narrowing as he examined you for something he didn’t want to see. The smell of blood, alcohol, and sweat mixed in the air, the tension thick enough to cut.

"You let someone fuck you?" he murmured, his voice dark and low. He exhaled slowly, searching your scent for any trace of another man’s presence.

Your fists tighten, nails digging into your palms as the sharp, metallic smell of blood mixes with something unmistakably Aemond—anger, frustration, and that volatile edge of his temper that never seems to stay contained. You should be used to it by now, the question always hanging in the air, the same shit over and over. The way he digs into it like a damn animal, hoping to find something he can’t.

"No." The word slips out, tight and clipped, your jaw clenching as you force the response. You see it in his eyes—the search, that desperate need to find an excuse, something to justify whatever the hell this is.

A heavy sigh escapes his lips, shoulders dropping momentarily before he tilts his head back, the movement slow and deliberate. You watch the way his throat works with the motion, the sight making your own lips dry. Then, without warning, his hand is in your hair, fingers curling tightly around the strands and yanking back hard. The pain is sharp, like a dagger to your scalp, and you’re quick to grab his forearm, trying to pull him away, but it’s useless. His grip is ironclad.

"Fuck off!" you gasp, the sting radiating through your scalp, but instead of backing off, he tightens his hold, the pull sending a hot rush of tears to your eyes as your skin stretches, every nerve alight.

Without any kindness, he begins to drag you across the room until he reaches where the girl's corpse now lay cold. Kicking the back of your knees, he brings you down to the floor on them, holding tightly to your hair. He positions himself behind you, pressing your cheek against his, using his grip to angle your face better towards the scene.

"Are you lying to me now, you fucking bitch?" his words are poured directly into your ear, the tone so deep it seemed to vibrate from his chest.

"I already said no!” you answer through gritted teeth, the unbearable pain in your head made worse by the amount you drank the night before.

With a grunt, he forces your face to the ground, pressing your cheek into the blood that was there, his open palm on your other cheek. He takes a moment to observe you in that position, so fucking at his mercy. He could break your jaw right now if he wanted to. He could mix your blood with that of the filthy whore on the ground. He could; it would be so damn easy, and you knew it.

"Yeah? You know what's gonna happen if you keep this up, don't you, little dove?" He smirks, grinding your face into the blood, the scent overwhelming your senses as he presses his body against your hunched, aching back. "Come on, scream it out, you fucking know." His voice, though low, slices through the air like a command.

"Fuck you!" you spit back, defiance burning in your eyes, refusing to yield even as the pressure on your jaw intensifies, like he's contemplating grinding you into the damn floor.

His hand snakes up under your dress, yanking it up until it's bunched around your waist like a cheap trophy. You squirm, but he just smashes your face harder against the floor, a silent fucking threat. His fingers creep between your thighs, hunting for any trace of dried cum, like he's some kind of detective in this sick game. His thumb brushes over your panties, feeling the dampness—not the old kind, no. You're getting wet for him right now, aren't you? Pathetic as fuck. He shoves the thin fabric aside, prying your flesh open with his fingers, delving deep, his lips curling in a sneer even as he bites down on them, craving to dive in, to sink his teeth into you, to chew up that whole defiant attitude of yours.

"Look at the fucking mess you've caused," he spits out, his voice as thick and hoarse as yours. He yanks your face up, his hand clamping around your jaw like a vice, forcing you to see the body sprawled out in front of you like some fucked-up centerpiece. "This is your goddamn fault, it was supposed to be you." His whisper slices through your ear, loaded with venom.

And he fucking means every word. It was supposed to be you bearing the brunt of his rage, dealing with his insanity when you pull your disappearing acts, when you don't give a shit about how worried he gets, how out of his mind he goes imagining what you're up to out there. How many more times does he have to spill blood, just to stop himself from snapping that pretty neck of yours, to punish you instead of some random street whore who looks like you just to vent his frustration?

"Yeah?" you manage to retort, attempting a smirk but his grip on your face makes it a twisted effort. You push through, showing him how much you mean it. "Then do it now." You're practically daring him, knowing damn well you'd go through with it.

Silence hangs thick and suffocating. You watch his fingers stretch out, then curl back into fists, like he's psyching himself up to finally break you. You almost embrace it, judging by the calm breath that escapes. You're ready for it, but then he lets you go, suddenly, and if it weren't for your hands catching you, your face would've kissed the floor. Your eyes track him as he strides over, hoists the girl's body onto his shoulders like she's nothing but a useless sack of bones.

"Clean this shit up," he orders, his voice cutting through the air, and your glare deepens.

You watch him walk off, heading to the garage with the girl's body swaying like some macabre metronome. The moment he's out of sight, you're left alone with the blood pool, aching knees, a pounding headache, your dress still rucked up, and your panties askew. And the worst part? You're dripping wet, throbbing, feeling hollow inside. Maybe that's his real punishment. Fuck him.

The hours blended together in a haze of endless scrubbing. The floor was an unforgiving mess, and no matter how hard you worked, it seemed like it would never be clean again. He hadn’t come back. You could only imagine where he was, dealing with the aftermath of everything he’d left behind. The carpet was ruined beyond repair, and everything you'd used—the cloths, the sponges—was burned, destroyed to erase any trace.

It was second nature by now. The motions, the repetition, the burning sense of inevitability. You'd done this so many times, it was like your fingers had become one with the sponge, hardened by the constant, futile effort to make it all disappear.

When it was all over, you were drenched in sweat, and the shower stretched on longer than you'd meant it to. You scrubbed your hair, your skin, trying to wash away all the filth from the night's ordeal. Your muscles screamed from lack of sleep and a day spent scrubbing, the water initially running dark with the grime. But damn, it felt good, so fucking good. Stepping out, you towel-dried yourself, slipping into a pair of panties and a blouse that might've been black once; you couldn't tell anymore. It wasn't yours—it was his.

As you headed out, you knew you'd run into him, and right on cue, there he was. He'd just arrived, helmet still in hand. His clothes were different, suggesting he'd cleaned up somewhere—likely at one of the crew's places, probably asked for help to deal with the "problem," and as always, he managed it. He carried a bag, full from what you could see at this distance.

He takes a moment, his gaze lingering on you drying your hair in the hallway before he advances, his steps deliberate and unhurried. When he reaches you, his face is that unreadable mask, giving nothing away. You couldn't tell if he was still pissed, if he felt any satisfaction or relief, or if he was just numb. With him, you never could.

His fingers dive into the bag, emerging with a Twix bar, the golden wrapper catching the light in his eyes. A small smile plays on your lips, and he returns it with his own subtle smirk, just a slight curve, no teeth. He unwraps the chocolate slowly, and once it's free, he brings it to your lips, tapping gently against your bottom lip. You open up, taking a small bite, and from the look in his eyes, he's completely captivated by the sight. It's like he's back at the orphanage, remembering how you'd pester him incessantly for these, how your eyes would light up brighter than anyone else's. No wonder there are several of these stashed in the fridge now. Idiot.

You take the candy from his grasp, holding it yourself, but his fingers don't retreat; instead, they rise to your cheek, where there's a hint of red that might bruise. His doing, no doubt. His thumb gently strokes the tender spot as you take another bite, the slight pain from the bruise barely registering. Your eyes lock with his as he steps closer, his head dipping to plant a kiss on your jaw. His lips feel like ice against your skin.

You feel him take a deep breath, as if to confirm your presence. His mood seems to have lifted, even if slightly. His lips trace a path down your jaw, along your face, while his hand moves to the side of your neck. Another small smile graces his lips, sending shivers down your spine.

"You stink," you mutter, though there's no real venom in your words. True as they are, the potent scent of sweat and dirt from him is overwhelming.

He inhales deeply, grunts, and uses the hand that was on your neck to push your face aside, not gently but not with the force he could muster if he really wanted to hurt you. That wasn't his intent right then. Without another word, he snatches the towel you were using and vanishes into the bathroom, the door shutting you out, leaving you to chuckle quietly. The dessert? You polish it off in one more bite, savoring the taste.

Back in the room you share, the window is always open, blue lights casting a glow on your skin, mingling with the smoke you exhale. On the table in front of you lies a near-perfect line of white powder, like winter snow but with the harsh burn of the summer sun. You lean over, one nostril pinched by your index finger, and take a sharp inhale, making the yayo vanish. The bitter taste hits your tongue, stars pulsing behind your closed eyes. Your heart races, a bead of sweat trickling down your temple.

At the door, Aemond stands, observing silently. But soon enough, you catch his presence, tilting your head to see him. He's clad only in loose black shorts and white high-top socks, his black hair wet and dripping, his shoulders still marked with black, suggesting he's just finished dying it. The drops of water on him tell a story of their own. His pupils, dilated, nearly obscure the icy blue of his eyes, and his shoulders are relaxed, hinting the bath had been beneficial. Whether that's a good sign or not remains to be seen.

"Didn't you wait for me to start?" His voice carries that familiar low tone as he nods his chin toward the remaining coke on the table.

A mischievous smile curls your lips, and with a nonchalant shrug, you acknowledge his comment. It's not like the supply is dwindling; you have more than enough, stockpiling for both use and sale, probably more than you should use. Either way, he won't go without.

"Not very nice of you, sis." His tone could almost be called playful if it weren't Aemond speaking, and humor was the last attribute you'd attribute to him.

With deliberate, slow steps, as if he intends for every part of the room to sense his presence, Aemond approaches, and there's this glint in his eyes that you've never been able to fully describe. From childhood to now, it's been there—those dilated pupils, intense, his gaze almost vacant, like he's not fully there. It can seem manic, sending a chill through you under certain lights. It's a trait of his that has barely changed.

He stops at the edge of your chair, pausing for a moment. His thumb delicately brushes your nostril, wiping away the residual powder with an unexpected tenderness that seems foreign to him. Then, with an even slower pace, he kneels before you, between your legs. His hands glide down your sides, gripping your hips firmly, pulling you forward with a force that brings you to the chair's edge, compelling you to grab the backrest to keep from falling off completely.

"If you step out of line," he murmured, his gaze lifting to meet yours. One of his hands maneuvered your thigh onto his shoulder, positioning himself closer to your core. "You know I'm going to kill you, right?" The words were sweet, calm, but their sincerity was unmistakable. He would do it, and he could do it so effortlessly.

You nod, swallowing hard, not out of fear—oh, you wished it was fear—but it was heat, excitement, adrenaline, like sugar melting directly into your veins, ready to roll your eyes back in ecstasy.

"Yeah, you know," he whispered again, his breath hot against your panty-covered intimacy. "That's a good girl." His hands then traced down your thighs, exploring every inch of skin and hair as if they were part of a map he was memorizing.

You watch him intently, the cocaine still racing through your veins, making your heart pound and every nerve tingle. He reaches for the table, picking up the small pin with the remaining coke, and brings it close. With precision, he drops some on your inner thigh, using his pinky to form a line that leads directly to your pussy. He's always so calculated, so infuriatingly in control, it makes you want to tear your hair out.

Leaning in, he covers one nostril, then inhales, sliding forward until he's taken the coke from one end to the other, his lips meeting your panty-covered intimacy at the end. His pulse quickens with the drug's effect. The bitterness of the cocaine mixes with the sweet seepage of your arousal through the fabric. His lips, eager to claim ownership, find your taste more intoxicating than any drug. He swears your pussy is the ultimate narcotic, the only one that can truly bring him down, flowing through his veins smoother than heroin. It's a fucking god.

His tongue slides over your intimacy, and your hands grip the chair and table tightly. You know not to touch his hair; if you did, all hell would break loose. So you cling to the furniture, seeking some semblance of control. His lips savor you like you're the ripest, sweetest fruit, his tongue swirling, gathering saliva which then drips down your panties, blending with your own arousal. He makes you clench and clench, craving more without pause.

"Fuck," you moan, head thrown back, the fabric around your waist now feeling like an intolerable barrier. "You are so good, so good." The words spill out, not so much thought as they are a direct translation of the sensations coursing through you. In that moment, he felt so good.

His teeth graze your skin lightly, perhaps in response. His grip on your thighs tightens, leaving marks that would soon purple, claiming you as his. Again, and again. His hands travel up, fingers hooking into your panties, dragging them down your thighs, discarding the now-soaked fabric. When his gaze returns, it's to the sight of your pulsing, glistening flesh, the taste of you already imprinted on his tongue. It's the part of you he adores most, the most exquisite fuck he could never tire of. He feels like if his lips were bound, he'd chew through the ropes just to taste and devour you completely.

"You're so fucking beautiful." His thumb traces through your folds, finding your clit, the soft sound you make in response making him bite his lip hard enough to nearly break skin.

Leaning in, he first presses his nose against your clit, inhaling your scent like it's something sacred. He slides down, breathing you in. His tongue, slick with saliva, extends, slowly tracing from your entrance up to your clit, his eyes lifting to lock with yours, watching your reaction unfold. Your lips part in ecstasy, your eyes locked on his, painting a scene of paradise right before him. The warmth spreading through his body feels like floating on clouds.

"Such a good pussy." His voice is muffled by your heat, the vibrations echoing inside you like he's already within.

His lips work with such intensity that it sends a sharp ache through your core. He explores every inch, tongue rolling over every detail, collecting your taste, swallowing eagerly. His nose glides along, then his chin rubs against you, moving his head side to side, letting your arousal paint even his cheeks. He devours your pussy, and with every gush of your wetness, a moan escapes him. Your hands clutch the chair, almost breaking the wood in your grip, the pleasure coursing through you, as slick as your insides now feel.

Pulling away from your heat, he rises to your lips, sharing your taste. His hands find the back of your knees, lifting you effortlessly from the chair, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. You feel his hardness through his shorts, throbbing against you. With quick steps, he moves to the bed, sitting and pulling you onto his lap. Your tongues dance in a deep, wet kiss, the sounds unrestrained.

As he lies back, you follow, his hands urgently gripping your hips, pulling your thighs, trying to coax you higher, towards his face. He needs this, craves it more than air itself.

"Ride my fucking face," he demands, his breath heavy against your lips, breaking the kiss only to speak.

Encouraged, you move up the bed until your knees straddle his face. His hands swiftly guide you down, his face fully enveloped by your heat. His tongue plunges deep, while your hips begin to rock in rhythm. The heat is overwhelming; you yank off your shirt, revealing your breasts, nipples hard and waiting. His eyes catch the sight, his brows knitting together, a needy sound muffled by your pussy.

His hands travel up your stomach, fingertips tracing your ribs, causing your body to shiver, before reaching your nipples. He pinches them between his fingers, making you grind down onto his face with more force. Your hands cover his, urging him to tighten his grip, and he complies. He momentarily pauses to bring his fingers to your lips, allowing you to lick them one by one, then returns them, now wet, to your nipples, teasing and pinching the hardened peaks.

"Oh fuck, I'm going to cum, Em," you gasp, arching back, your hips grinding with a desperate speed, your nails digging into his forearms as he flicks his thumb over your nipples, mirroring the delicious torment on your clit.

He nods, his chin tilting to drive his tongue deeper. Your walls clamp around him, your movements faltering as your thighs weaken. You look down just in time to see him suck on your clit with renewed vigor, his teeth grazing it, pushing you over the edge. A raw scream tears from your throat, and you clutch the headboard to keep from collapsing forward. And he licks you, thoroughly, consuming every drop of your release.

Your body, now pliable and exhausted, allowed him to easily slide out from under you, lifting you just enough for his head to escape. You collapse back into a sitting position, your back still trembling, mouth open in a silent moan. Then, your ankles are seized, pulling you across the sheets until you're lying flat on your stomach, your thighs shaking and weak.

"You're such a dirty slut, aren't you?" His voice comes from behind, his hand tracing down your soaked inner thighs. "Such a good little slut." The words are punctuated by a sharp slap on your ass, the impact nearly twisting your body.

He observes the quivering form you've become, the fingerprints on your skin already starting to mark you. You look so beautiful, post-orgasm, with your essence still dripping from you, ready for him to drive you into oblivion. His hand dips into his shorts, freeing his throbbing cock. Looking down, he spits on it, using his fingers to spread the saliva along its length.

"Are you going to scream for me, sis?" he murmurs with a hint of malevolence. He steps forward, spreading your legs and teasing your entrance with the tip of his cock, watching you writhe. "Scream on my dick, scream. Do it for me, hm?" He bites his lip, savoring how your entrance clenches around his tip.

He thrusts just the head in again, watching you squirm before pulling back, using one fist to brace himself on the bed and the other to hold his cock steady. He teases you, inserting only the tip, making you moan and arch back, trying to take more, but he keeps it shallow. His eyes are glazed with desire as he watches you clench around him, your body begging for more.

"Please what, little dove?" he nearly spits out, pushing in a bit more before withdrawing again, leaving you empty, tight, and craving more.

Your hips sway side to side, arching off the bed in pursuit of him. You feel him enter you once more, his soft moans barely audible, just for you, and damn, how that makes you even wetter, soaking the sheet that's all too familiar with your scent and taste.

"Please fuck me," you whisper, turning to look over your shoulder, your eyes meeting his in what feels like a challenge.

It was like you'd just slapped him across the face with your words. Without a moment's hesitation, Aemond thrust forward, burying himself to the hilt, the hair at his pelvis meeting your ass. His hands dig into your flesh, gripping tight as he begins to pound into you, each thrust deeper and harder, his balls smacking against your drenched clit with every impact. His gaze drops to watch his cock disappear into you over and over, your arousal glistening on him, spreading to his lower abdomen. Your screams fill the room as your body rocks with each movement. The sensation is so intense, so overwhelmingly good, he feels like he wants to drive his cock right through you, straight into your skull.

"Fuck, you're so tight," he groans, seizing your hair with one hand, pulling it back to whisper close to your ear as he leans over you. "You can barely take me, can you? I'm going to draw blood from that tight little cunt of yours, like always." With that, he thrusts even deeper, eliciting a choked scream from you.

Your body shakes under his relentless thrusts. Your eyes are half-closed, tears at the corners; your feet lift, toes curling, saliva escaping from the corners of your mouth onto the pillow. The deep penetration is overwhelming. His gaze confirms the mix of blood with your arousal around his cock, spurring him to thrust in completely, grinding deep inside you, feeling your walls contract around him with fierce intensity.

"You look so pathetic like this, just a hole to use." He releases your hair abruptly, his hands returning to your hips, nails digging in.

With his last ounce of strength, he pulls your hips back, lifting them, positioning you on your knees. You attempt to prop yourself up with your hands, but there's no strength left, so you remain with your cheek pressed to the mattress. From this new angle, he can penetrate even deeper, turning your screams into whimpers of excruciating pleasure mixed with pain, your arousal now dripping down both your thighs.

"No, no..." you whisper, barely audible amidst your whimpers. "Fuck..." Your voice fades as your mouth hangs open, drooling onto the pillow, your fingers clutching the sheets.

"Yeah, I know, I know," Aemond replies, a small, genuine smile curling the corners of his lips. "Cum for me, cum nice and sweet for me." His hand comes down, delivering a sharp slap directly onto your clit.

Your hips instinctively try to escape, but he secures you with an arm around your waist, keeping you still, taking all he gives like the good girl he knows you are. He spits into his free hand, then returns it to your heat, circling and stimulating your clit, squeezing and flicking it, feeling it pulse under his harsh touch. Your walls constrict around him, signaling how close you are.

"Aemond, Aemond..." you try to warn, but the sensation overwhelms you before you can finish.

Your walls clamp down, a loud moan breaking free from your lips as your body convulses, your thighs trembling uncontrollably. Aemond's eyes roll back, the sensation of you gripping him so tightly driving him over the edge. A growl escapes him, more beast than man, as he wraps both arms around your waist, pressing his cheek to your back. He thrusts deep one final time, holding you there, ensuring every last drop of his release is spent inside you until you're left utterly spent. His cock pulses within you, matching the rhythm of your own spasms.

Your body collapses forward, and he follows, bracing himself so as not to crush you. He observes your closed eyes, your body sliding into what looks like a deep, heavy sleep. He loves you like this—silent, immobile, utterly vulnerable. The thought of your helplessness reignites his arousal, despite himself.

With a sigh, he withdraws from you, flopping onto the bed beside you. The room reeks of sex, mingled with the remnants of cocaine still in his nostrils and your taste, seared into his memory. You don't move, just manage to close your mouth with effort, your jaw sore. You don't anticipate tenderness or kisses; you know better than that. Silence fills the space, punctuated only by the sound of your breathing.

"What did you did with the girl?" you hear yourself asking, despite knowing better. Maybe you want to know, or maybe it's just the impulse of the moment.

"It's none of your fucking business," comes the expected, sharp reply. "Shut up and go to sleep." His tone leaves no room for further discussion. After moments like these, he's never in the mood for conversation, unwilling to soften because you've drained him with that perfect pussy.

He turns his back to you, lying on his side, and silence envelops you both. He doesn't want to talk, doesn't want interaction. He doesn't even want to hear your voice right now. Because, fuck, how much he truly craves all of that.

[klaus-littlestwolf]

Making Dreams a Reality -Martin Whitlock

I needed Martin content and there is only so many fics written so far and while many of them are fucking amazing, I’ve read them all so I figured, make your own (especially since several people asked for a Martin fic), and make him an Obsessive Yandere Stalker! So without further ado, Yandere Martin Whitlock!

Warning:This is a Dark Yandere!Martin fic with potentially disturbing content, know your limits before reading Dark stories.

This Dark Content includes: Stalking, Use of Roofies,Forced Oral in Sleep (Fem Receiving), Somnophilia, Non/Dub Con, Manipulation, Naked Photos Taken while Asleep,Use of Daddy Kink, Severe Obsession

DD:DNE

Martin had always been a loner, from a very young age he had no friends, was constantly alone, and preferred the company of his skink that he had had since he was 12. He was comfortable in his solitude and always had been…until her.

Y/n L/n. She worked in the bookshop across the street from his favorite Vinyl shop and he found himself going there more and more just to watch her through the window at the register, checking out customers or reading a book. In fact he was there so much that the owner of the Vinyl shop clearly noticed what he was doing and found it funny. The 60 something year old man commented on how “fine” the young girl truly was and that the boy should just “toss her over his shoulder and carry her on home” if he likes her this much.

The Vinyl shop in town was closed for only a day before it reopened with a new manager that was an older lady. She loved to play her music and sing, not caring at all about how long Martin hung around, often appreciating having a strong young man that is willing to help move the boxes of books upon delivery. She only ever commented on the girl he stares at once, encouraging him to go down the street to the flower shop and get her a bouquet to ask her on a date like men did in her day. He loved her sweet idea and made a mental note to bring her flowers one day when she was his girl to spoil her like she deserved.

His girl was lovely. The faces she would make as she read were adorable and Martin found he was smiling to himself every time she smiled or stuck her tongue out between her lips as she focused particularly hard as she counted money in the till. She was precious…and she was his.

As Martin laid in his bed, cum splattered across his stomach and chest after his third time jerking off that night, he knew that he couldn’t go on like this. His imagination could only get him so far.

He needed the real thing.

He needed Y/n…And so he would have her.

It was easy to put his plan into action considering he had been stalking her for almost a year by that point. He paid one of the guys he often does car-jitsu with to follow her in a very obvious way, steering her away from her usual direction home and towards the parking lot where they fight. Martin knew that if she was being followed that she would be drawn to a group of people and he was completely correct.

The first time he saw her out of work (when he wasn’t following her home as she’s just as much of a home body as he is) was from inside the car and he locked eyes with her, instantly trying to push down the reaction his cock was having from seeing the girl he’s wanted to shove it into for months as well as the adrenaline. He nodded his head to her, smiling and she blushed as she watched him pin the man, twisting his arm until he tapped out with the other one. She looked around apprehensively and he made a show of seeming concerned, opening the car door and stepping out, scanning over the small crowd quickly and seeing his buddy had disappeared like he was supposed to…Martin can take it from here.

‘Hi there. Haven’t seen you here before, I would’ve remembered you. Usually its always the same girls or kids recording us.’ He joked, chuckling awkwardly.

‘Oh, no. I’ve never-um…there was this big guy following me after work and I ended up here cause I didn’t want him to know where I lived…I’m sorry, I’m fucking you up right now!’ She apologized as the next guy was rushing Martin to get back into the car.

‘No, please don’t apologize love. Stay and hang out for a bit until you’re sure he’s gone, in fact I’ll walk you home. I won’t let anyone touch you, Scouts honor…I wasn’t a Boy Scout but you get it.’ He got her to smile and he loved it even more than every other smile he’d seen because he’d made it happen. ‘I’m Martin by the way.’

‘Y/n. Nice to meet you Martin, and thank you. Take your time, I’m not in a rush. I would love to see more of…this?’

And so she stayed. He went three more rounds before giving his place over to walk her home. He hated “quitting” but for her? He would tap out a million times over.

‘Where do you work? Must be close if you’re walking.’ Martin spoke, trying to get the basic knowledge that he needed to know out of the way without her realizing that he already knew it.

‘Oh, I work at Plot Twist, the book shop on the corner back there. It was always my happy place in school and when I turned 16 the owner offered me a job since I practically worked there anyway.’ She explained and he could see how much she loved it.

‘That’s cool. You like to read?’

��Constantly. It’s a perfect job, I get fantastic discounts and I get to read all day when I don’t have to stock or ring people up. Plus the coffee shop next door has great hot chocolate.’ She giggled.

This was a new sound for Martin that he had never heard before and it shot straight to his dick. ‘That sounds really cool, perfect for you. I’ve never been much of a reader but I’ll stop in sometime, I spend a lot of time in the Vinyl shop across the street, I’ve definitely seen you before-I knew you looked familiar.’ He teased making her smile.

‘Well, stop in and I promise I’ll find you something you’ll like. I’ll even give you my employee discount…this is me.’ She said stopping at an apartment complex.

‘Need me to walk you in?’ He offered but she shook her head.

‘You’ve done more than enough Martin. I really appreciate it.’

‘Anytime Y/n, it was really nice talking to you.’ As she moved to open the door he took hold of her hand and bowed his head before kissing her knuckle sweetly, grinning and making her laugh at his teasing.

‘Goodnight Martin.’ With that he watched her walk inside before turning and making his way back home, his erection pressing painfully against the zipper of his jeans.

He had touched her! Only her hand, but her skin was so soft he couldn’t help but imagine it on him everywhere. He was so focused on touching her that he hadn’t even asked for her number like he meant to but she had invited him to her work, he would get it tomorrow. For now, he knew he would be desperately fucking his hand until his cock was raw or until he finally passed out.

‘Welcome to Plot Twist, is there anything that you’re-Martin!’ He watched his girls face light up as he walked in and he was instantly thrilled that he brings her so much happiness. He did have to readjust himself though as she walked around the counter and pulled him into a hug, her breasts pressing to his chest. ‘Are you ready to find a book? What kinds of things are you into besides car fights?’ She teased and he found he couldn’t stop staring at her smile.

‘I’m…I don’t know? I love my skink and music I suppose-‘

‘Music!’ She cut him off. ‘What kinds of music? You strike me as a Hard Rock kind of guy, Maybe you’d be more into magazines? We have a tons of music magazines that you’d probably like? Rocksound? Revolver? I personally love Kerrang myself-‘

‘Oh, I love Kerrang! Gotta order it though, but it’s worth it cause they always have awesome interviews!’ Martin found himself truly surprised by her interest but he was happy for it, he had known that he made a good choice on Y/n and she just kept proving him right the more she talked.

‘Well you can get it here. We don’t get many copies but I always snag one off the top every month. I can do the same for you if you’d like and put it off to the side? Actually, there was one put on hold to be picked up before noon today and they never came, interested?’

‘Fuck Yeah, you are awesome! Gotta make sure I can keep getting them every issue, I have all of them dating back to the beginning.’ He really did have every issue but he knew that was likely to get her attention and give her a reason to come to his place.

‘Oh my God, what?! All of them?’ He nodded.

‘All the way back to June 1981, you should come and check them out sometime. It’s nice to talk to someone who shares my interests in this shitty town.’

‘I would Love that Martin, yeah! When?’ She asked, moving back behind the counter and looking along the shelf, pulling the magazine from the brown paper bag that it had been on hold in.

‘What time are you off? You can come to mine and hang out? Music, horror movies, pizza?’ Martin knew that with anyone else he would come off as awkward and weird but he knew his girl didn’t see that at all and she was quick to agree to the date.

‘Okay! Yeah, I’m done at 5 and I’m off tomorrow, so we can hang out for as long as we want.’ She scanned the magazine alnd applied her discount like she had promised before handing him the bag with a smile.

He didn’t know how long they stood there like that just smiling at each other but they were shaken out of it by the bell above the door that rang as a man walked in. ‘Okay, well I’ll come and meet you here at 5 then.’

‘See you then.’ With that he was out the door, turning back and smiling at her to see her watching him as well.

‘I’m here to pick up a magazine I put on hold yesterday. The name is Barker.’ Martins eyes widened and Y/n just seemed to roll her at him.

‘I said it would be held until noon, it is after noon sir, so sorry. Be here on time next time, like I told you-the magazine is very popular.’ He held in his snort until he got out of the store, grinning like an idiot and nearly running home to clean his room. He pulled out all of the magazines and ordered a pizza to be delivered at 6:30 before showering and washing the blood off of him from the night before that hadn’t come off from just scrubbing his face.

Martin thought about what Y/n’s hands would feel like. They would be soft and amazing, and he’s sure she would clean blood off of him after every night of car-jitsu. She would tend to him like a good girlfriend and he couldn’t wait for it, determined to feel exactly what her hands felt like that night.

He met her at the bookshop right on time and walked her back to his place where they spent the next hour reading through the magazines and talking about their favorite bands. She surprised him a bit with her knowledge but it only made him all the more confident that she was made just for him.

They ate dinner when it arrived and he decided that he couldn’t do without her anymore, he needed to ensure she didn’t leave him. He ended up doing something he knew was wrong but he couldn’t help himself as he made her tea and crushed up the sleeping pills into a white powder, pouring them into the hot drink before delivering it to her on his bed.

They laid there together and she willingly snuggled close to him as they watched her favorite horror movie, staying exactly like that until the medication began taking effect and her eyes began falling shut.

‘God I’m tired…must have been a longer day than I realized…I should get home.’ She yawned but his arm tightened around her waist.

‘You can stay. You shouldn’t be walking this late anyway. I don’t want anything happening to you.’ He admitted and she paused but nodded, not in a place to argue with how exhausted she was.

‘I’m sorry. I’m so tired…I-I don’t…’

‘Me too…I feel like I need a nap…’ Martin responded, pretending to be tired too, laying down onto the bed and giving her space before she did, pulling the blanket over her and closing his eyes and waiting for her to pass out. She actually snuggled up to what she assumed was his sleeping body before passing out.

That was way too easy. He made a vow that he would protect her from anything and everything from that moment on, never leaving her in any kind of danger other than himself considering how easy it was to drug her and she didn’t even question her sudden sleepiness.

He pulled the blanket back down, leaning close and nuzzling into her neck where he licked a trail up to her ear. ‘So fucking perfect Darling. Daddies gonna take such care of you…all mine! Gonna make you feel so good.’ His hands moved to pull at her dress, pushing it up and kissing down her chest and belly, shoving his face between her legs and inhaling deeply. ‘Fuck! I’m gonna taste you for fucking hours!’ He got the dress off of her before pulling out his phone and taking a picture of her pretty red lace panties. He couldn’t stop himself from taking another one before repositioning her and taking another. She was the loveliest thing he had ever seen and he was determined to convince her to pose for him later in their relationship.

Martin pulled her panties down her legs before leaning back down and kissing her thighs several times. She smelled of the pomegranate mango body wash that he knew she used as well as her arousal, a fact that just got him more hard when he realized that she was wet. Sticking his tongue out, Martin gave her cunt a test lick, tasting her for the first time and knowing that he would never get enough of her. He had waited for this moment for so long and it was just as perfect as he imagined, especially as Y/n let out a loud moan upon his lips wrapping around her clit, sucking firmly. It was him! He was here doing this! He was the one making her feel so good!

His cock was throbbing and he could barely stand it anymore, pulling his pants and boxers down before lifting her legs around his waist and resting his member against her slit. Sliding his cock up and down against her was made simple with just how wet she really was. ‘Fuck Y/n, so God damn perfect, aren’t you baby? Daddy’s good little girl, giving me your wet little cunt, never keeping her away from me again.’ He’d already had to wait a year for this moment, he would never wait again, he would make his baby so horny for him that she’ll allow him to use her whenever he wants. ‘You’ll be my needy little baby, won’t you? Yeah, you will. My desperate little Princess.’ He pressed his lips to hers, having to physically restrain himself from not only biting her flesh and leaving hickeys on her but from pressing his cock into her and filling her with everything he had just for her. It was for her, everything that he was belonged to her and Martin truly believed that the only place his cum belonged was inside of his girl-not yet though. He couldn’t risk losing her.

Instead he sat back and finished onto her stomach, panting heavily before taking one final picture, saving them into a private folder that needed a password to access and moving to clean her off. Martin enjoyed the act of cleaning her up, something that he knew he would continue to enjoy doing every time that they were together, determined to make her feel how loved she was. Pulling her clothes back on was simple before covering her with a blanket and laying snuggled up into her side, cuddling into her for the night.

Martin awoke the next morning around 9 and enjoyed his morning with her, watching her sleep peacefully for about 20 minutes before she began moving, opening her eyes just as he shut his and felt her moving around. He peeked his eyes open, watching her move the blanket and check her clothes, seeing that she was still dressed and he had to resist the urge to smirk.

Y/n laid back down, moving closer to him and snuggling him before he groaned, opening his eyes and stretching. ‘Good morning…how did you sleep?’ He asked, smiling at her and watching her blush sweetly.

‘Really well. Your bed is comfortable. I’m still a little groggy but I’m too hungry to care.’ He smiled wider at that, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her close.

‘Let’s order breakfast, I don’t want to move yet. You’re too comfy.’ He teased, nuzzling into her neck and she giggled, settling down against him and letting him enjoy his nuzzling as much as he liked. ‘You’re so soft.’ He spoke before taking a chance and kissing her neck softly. Y/n just tightened her grip on him and so he did it again, kissing up her neck behind her ear. ‘I’ve been dying to kiss you since I first saw you…tell me that I can?’ He whispered to her and she nodded, wrapping her arms around his neck as he moved to press his lips to hers. He settled a hand on her back as his other rested on her hip, rolling them over so that he was on top of her and her legs came up to wrap around his waist. Martin moved his hand to her exposed thigh and pushed it up her soft skin, hearing her moan. He pushed his hips up, grinding against her clothed cunt, her moan turning to a soft whimper and he could feel his cock harder than ever rubbing against her.

‘Don’t stop…Fuck Martin!’ She threw her head back as he trailed his lips back to her neck, sucking and nipping at her skin teasingly before she humped her hips up against him hard. His hands grabbed onto her thighs and he pulled her legs around him tighter, grinding down into her harder than before, feeling the needy mess that she was becoming.

‘You feel so good Princess.’ He mumbled, her hands tangling into his hair and pulling his lips back to hers. He licked her bottom lip and she parted them to let him in, his tongue tasting her for the first time and moaning loudly. He pulled at her dress and her hands moved to yank it over her head, leaving her in her panties which he got a quickly view of, enjoying her exposed tits before she pulled him back into the kiss. He humped his hips against her harder, her legs tightening before she released him again to pull her panties off and dragging his boxers down enough to free his leaking cock which instantly pressed to her slit, the head rubbing against her clit hard enough for her to cry out against his lips. ‘Fuck, you’re so wet…’ he mumbled, never pulling away from her lips. ‘Please? Let me inside? I’ll fuck you so good Princess…fuck! Let Daddy make you feel good…’ He lifted her waist to press harder to her wet slit, her pussy lips parting for his cock as he rubbed against her deliciously.

‘Want you inside me…please?’ She whimpered and he moved to take ahold of his cock, pressing against her hole and pushing into her in one deep movement.

‘Oh Fuck! So tight…perfect fucking pussy…’ he thrust up into her roughly, his tongue licking up her jaw to the shell of her ear while she continued whimpering like a needy whore. ‘Been thinking about this pussy since the moment I first saw you…I knew you’d be so tight for me! All fucking mine now, aren’t you baby?’

‘Yes! Yours Martin! All yours! Oh God!’

‘You wanna cum for me, baby? Wanna cream on my cock? Gonna squeeze me so tight while I fill this little cunt, aren’t you?’

She whimpered, nodding into his neck frantically. ‘Yes! Yes, please?! Please let me cum?!’ Y/n begged, Martin feeling the tears falling from her eyes onto the skin of his shoulder. God, she’s so desperate, he knew she was perfect but his girl is a little slut too. His perfect little slut to fuck and fill over and over.

‘Cum for me baby, cum for me while I fill your cunt full of me! Gonna fuck you until you’re leaking around my cock, my messy little pussy!’

‘Yes! Yours, g-gonna-Fuck! Oh God!’ She cried out quite loudly as she clamped down on his cock like the most beautiful vice grip he’s ever felt. A jolt of pleasure shot up his spine as he came, burying his cock as deep into her as he could and filling her womb with everything he had for her, immediately praying that it takes.

‘Such a little good girl for me. Gonna let your Daddy cum in this hole over and over again until your belly starts growing my baby. Fuck!’ He was still hard, not willing to stop fucking her yet now that he has her. He’s been waiting for her for too long.

‘M-Martin! Oh fuck! What-‘

‘I’m not done with you yet Princess. Told you your gonna be leaking by the time I’m finished!’ He tucked his arms under her back and lifted her up as he sat back on his knees, thrusting up into her body.

‘Oh God! So d-deep! Please-‘

‘Don’t worry Princess, I’m gonna fill you up again. Your womb will be stuffed full of me, I promise! Gonna give you my babies!’ She cried out, pleasure mixing with the pain as he rammed his cock so deep it hurt, fucking her harder than she thought possible but it was so perfect she never wanted him to stop. ‘That’s it Y/n! This body is all mine now, this tight little hole is gonna take everything I give her and beg me for more! Fuck! Take My Cum!’

‘Ahh! Too much!’

‘Never too much for my pussy, she takes everything I give her. Takes Me So-Ahh! Good! Fuck!’ He growled deep in his chest, one arm around her waist and the other holding her shoulder as he pulled her down onto his cock hard and shot his cum straight up into her body.

Y/n had never let anyone cum inside of her before and she never could have imagined someone filling her so much but she could feel the stretch from how full she was and it hurt but it felt so good she could only cry as she came on his cock, squirting around him and making a slick mess all over his thighs.

‘Fuck…such a mess you made my love. Did I make you feel so good you needed to squirt all over me?’ She nodded, tears still leaking from her eyes as he still held her down onto his cock, not about to move from her body. ‘You’re all mine now. I’m gonna fill you with my cum everyday until you are crying in pleasure.’ He promised, pressing his lips to hers softly.

Martin laid her back onto the bed and stayed deep inside of her, his cock kissing her womb perfectly after having battered it painfully with his cock and forcing his jizz into her. He kissed over her face sweetly as she began to drift back off to sleep after the physical exertion.

‘That’s my good girl, you go to sleep. When you wake up we’ll talk all about moving you in here with me. Gonna take good care of my girl and my baby she’ll soon be carrying.’ He swore, kissing her cheek softly before pulling the blankets up over the both of them.

After nearly a year he finally has her just the way he wants her and he will never let her out of his grasp again.

Aemond T. Masterlist

[demigoddessqueens]

every step you take

a/n - me thinks Ewan needs to be in more roles, music videos but that’s just me 🤷‍♀️

Masterlist 11

Yandere!Martin who is the type of obsessive who watches your every move

Where you go, who you see or talk to, all of it is his business

yandere!Martin who marks your skin with hickeys and love bites if you’ve been gone too long

Make out 💋 sessions go on for hours well into the next day if he wants, leaving you breathless and your lips flushed and pink as your cheeks are

Yandere!Martin who tugs at or steals bits of clothes to keep you closer to him, pinching and grabbing at any skin exposed to him

Even as he leans back as you plaster kisses all over his body, those firm arms are keeping you in place until he’s satisfied

[onemustimagineaemondhappy]

[ravenwing]

* Ravenwing is a place of myths and monsters.

Nestled in a cocoon of thick trees and vines, it is barred from the world.

The iron teeth of its gates spring from the ground and guard it with a jealous ferocity.

A sliver of its slate-dark roof juts out of the foliage, flanked by willowy gothic spires. A single orange light burns in the tall, narrow window; flickering in the dark, and pale during the day.

The house admits no visitors, and none but the foolish wish to enter the property anyway.

On its grounds, a serpentine hedge maze sits and waits, coming alive when the mist descends. Though it would be more accurate to say, when it rises.

No one can tell you for certain how it looks, or how large it is, or whether it hides something.

Whispers, thin and uncanny, became legends, that make conjectures about walls and shrines inside the maze, and howls echoing in the thick, consuming mist, floating on the silent night air, occasionally reaching the slumbering city.

Inside the house, they say, the architecture changes at will. Walls erect themselves, or else obligingly crumble; stairs move, and grow taller or shorter, tripping up unwelcome walkers and leading them into frustrating dead ends. Doors slam and curtains draw when the house’s ire is awakened. Lights go out and rooms drop precipitously into freezing temperatures. Even figures in paintings – figures no eyes have seen – move alongside you, eyes snagged on your form, peering beyond their frames and at times hopping into adjacent ones, to help or deter.

There are all sorts of critters around, that much at least is verifiably true. They can be seen crawling close to the gate, spilling into the land beyond. Never too far, though. Spiders, fat-bellied and astute; black cats with white sigils on their chests and white mittens on their large paws - a sign of luck. Critters that defy description and cataloguing, bugs in glimmering armor, even shadows, agile and articulated, guard the house and grounds.

The Steward of Ravenwing wanders around, rarely seen by anyone. He sleeps most of the day and takes up his nightly vigil when the Sun is long past its zenith. He looks lost and disheveled, often shoeless, in overlarge jeans and a worn shirt, like he’s not of the world. At least not entirely of this one. He talks to ghosts and shadows and spiders, and clams up around people.

Martin is a strange, harassed boy, and many days, he’s barely alive.

I never knew what love was, or how it vanquished terror, selfishness, or even common sense – until I loved him.

This is the story of how we met.

*

[alightcaseofohno]

Okay, so of anyone has seen both Rialto (2019) and the music video for Fontaines D.C's In The Modern World... could you see this as a ship

Because I can... and I think I may need yo write a fic about them.

(Ps; If anyone wants to... you know... roleplay a relationship between them. My dms are open, but I may not respond til around three, maybe half two pm).

[towriteloveontheirarms]

Ewanverse Masterlist

Martin (in the modern world by Fontaines DC)

V 1

Michael Gavey (Saltburn)

V 1

Osferth (The last kingdom)

V 1

[venmondiese]

MASTERLIST

───. ݁₊ ⊹ AEMOND TARGARYEN

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖࣪ CHARACTER STUDY

-ˋˏthe kinslayer

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖࣪ONESHOTS

-ˋˏ new year's celebration.

-ˋˏ playing with fire (i)

-ˋˏ burning fire (ii)

-ˋˏstress relieving purposes (i)

-ˋˏanxiety relieving purposes (ii)

-ˋˏa cure for a bad day.

-ˋˏsecret teamwork.

-ˋˏthe needs of a prince are the work of a whore

-ˋˏlittle box full of surprises

-ˋˏa prince's farewell

-ˋˏthe warmth of both bodies (+aegon)

-ˋˏdragon coins

-ˋˏsubtle love, daring words

-ˋˏcome to me, angel of music

-ˋˏ espresso

───. ݁₊ ⊹AEGON TARGARYEN

-ˋˏa king's farewell

-ˋˏthe warmth of both bodies (+aemond)

───. ݁₊ ⊹ MARTIN (in the modern world)

-ˋˏweird hobbies

───. ݁₊ ⊹ MICHAEL GAVEY

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖࣪ONE SHOTS

-ˋˏthis party is boring... wanna leave?

-ˋˏ one missing point

───. ݁₊ ⊹ FIRE & BLOOD SHIPS

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖࣪RHAENA X AEMOND

-ˋˏhidden touches

[aemsgirl]

In Spite Of Us.

Modern Aemond x Reader. PT2

Summary: The lines tangle tighter, pulling you and Aemond into something neither of you can fully control—something that could cost you everything. But in the end, none of it matters. Not if the pain fades into something you can stomach. Not if you can tell yourself it’s worth it. Even if he leaves you in ruins, painted in black and blue.

Warnings: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT. Oral sex, violence, mention of illegal activities, incest, dub-consent, aggression, degradation, mention of blood, childhood trauma, mention of attempted suicide.

The mornings were fucking hell. Shafts of light pierced through every crack, heating up the room that was already suffocating with the windows closed tightly. You'd learned better than to leave them open, or anything else, for that matter. One slip and it was over—whether it was the cops or the worst of the fucking dragnet. Who wanted your head more at this point? Hard to say. Aemond wasn't making it any easier, carving his own path through this mess. The blood was heavy on your side, stained deep under your nails, but his? Worse. At this point, it was hard to tell. The chipped black polish on his nails was the only dead giveaway.

Aemond used to grunt in his sleep, tossing and turning, his restless movements making the bed feel like a battlefield. Meanwhile, you were as still as a statue beside him, and he couldn't help but wonder how the hell you managed it. But today? Today was different. He woke up without the usual weight of a hangover, his eyes snapping open, the light cutting through the room like a blade. His hand instinctively found his face, rubbing his eyes in an attempt to shake off the drowsiness, but it was futile. Some mornings, he just wanted a shock straight to the skull—anything to wake him up fully and get rid of that corpse-like heaviness dragging at his bones.

Rolling over, his gaze landed on you, as always. Lying on your side, eyes closed, still wrapped up in the sleep-induced haze. He knew you wouldn't wake up now, not with the crap you shoved down your throat every night just to knock yourself out. It was the usual routine. Him waking up first, having to shower alone, eating alone—shit, he didn’t even get to share the fucking morning with you. It pissed him off, made him want to pinch you from head to toe just to see if you'd stir, maybe open those damn eyes and remind him that you were still here. Still fucking human. Still present.

But he didn't move, not yet. Instead, he just watched you, lying there so still, almost serene. Usually, you were a pain in the ass—your tongue sharp, always quick with a retort, too fast for your own good. But like this? Like this, you were calm, a whole different side of you that made his gaze linger longer than it should. It was almost unsettling how peaceful you looked, and he couldn't shake the thought of how fucking strange it was to see you this way.

It was like those beaches he’d seen in pictures, the ones with the waters so blue they looked almost unreal, like a fucking dream. On a hot day, you'd dive in without thinking, wanting to swim every inch of that vast, sparkling expand until your body ached and your lungs burned. But there was always a little sign, tucked away just out of sight, warning you: beware sharks. And even if it looked inviting, even if every instinct screamed at you to dive in, you knew better. One wrong move, and those sharks would rip you to shreds before you could even get tired.

Yet, the thought of being devoured, of sinking into that cold embrace, was oddly tempting. The idea of being consumed by you, torn apart and remade—yeah, that sounded fucking good to him. Almost too good.

Aemond's breath escaped him in a heavy sigh, as if exhaling his thoughts right along with the air, the weight of them pressing on him like an invisible burden. He tore his gaze away from you, reluctantly letting the stillness of your form fade from his view. With a sluggish movement, he sat up, his body protesting the action with every subtle shift. His muscles felt like they were made of stone, every tiny movement pulling at something inside him, making him ache. He glanced around the room to make sure everything was where it should be—nothing out of place. The blue light still bathed the walls in its soft glow, although it lacked the same intensity it had at night.

He stretched, hoping to shake off the lingering heaviness of sleep, but it only worked halfway, leaving a faint ache in its place. His eyes found you again, just from the corner.

Fuck this. Fuck you, he thought.

His gaze, whether he intended it or not, traced the contours of your body. The curve of your hips barely concealed by your panties, your torso only covered by a sheer white tank top, your breasts almost visible, your nipples subtly outlined, calling to him, even if unknowingly. Your body always beckons to him, regardless of the situation, the mood, or the moment. Every woman has an itch, and he knows yours is him. There's no other explanation, and he wouldn't accept any alternative.

His body moved as if he was being called by a siren. The not-so-gentle hands turned your body so you were lying on your back and giving him a better view. You groaned softly, but didn't really wake up. Your body, swallowed by heaviness and sleep, too heavy to actually do anything. Vulnerable, open. Everything Aemond likes, everything he wants. Like a fucking leech, or maggots crawling on dead flesh feeding on what's left of a life, he feeds on these moments. Control, pure and raw. Over everything, over you.

His fingers clawed at your legs, dragging himself across the bed like a really silently predator stalking its prey until he was nestled between your spread thighs, squatting on his heels. His fingers, cold and unyielding, scraped down your thighs, seizing your ankles with a tight grip. He dragged them, forcing your feet to frame his body on the bed, keeping your legs wrenched apart, exposing you. You were so fucking malleable under his hands, like he could take you apart and put you back together however the fuck he wanted, twist your body into any perverse shape his dark mind conjured. And he loved it, loved how you were his to corrupt.

"I'm hungry," he murmurs, the words dripping with that familiar, chilling tone. You've heard it before, countless times, in various contexts, knowing damn well what it means when he says it like that. It's not about food.

He fucking knows you remember, too. The times when there was no food, or when dad, that piece of shit, would beat you until you were sick. The leather belt, the shine of the silver buckle in the dim light, always after a meal, when your stomachs were full. And on your knees, he’d beat you until vomit painted the floor, until there was nothing left but the acrid taste of bile. He remembers that bastard's smile, how he'd grab him by the hair, forcing his face into the mess he'd made. He remembers the shaking, the pain, the hunger that followed. He remembers you.

Like a fucking feast, like you are now.

His fingers slithered over your skin, their tips sneaking under your tank top, feeling the fabric’s edge. He watched as goosebumps erupted across your thighs, your body betraying its response to his touch. Like it always fucking does. When his hunger was palpable, it didn't matter if your eyes were wide open or shut tight, if your mind was with him or lost in some dark dreamscape behind those lids. He'd always been this way, and you? You'd always allowed it. Ever since before that son of a bitch's death, when he first felt you wrapped around him, when you heard him jerking off to thoughts of you at night, whimpering into your ear, his hips grinding against you. You'd always let him because you want him; you fucking need him.

And you'll get it. You bet your ass you will.

His fingers ascend, dragging the fabric of your shirt with them, baring your breasts to his ravenous gaze. At the mere sight of your skin, his mouth waters. Your head turns aside on the pillow, a low moan escaping you. You feel the heat spreading through your torso, warm and alive. His fingers then travel down to your panties, hooking his thumbs into the waistband and slowly dragging them down your thighs, letting them fall to the floor. His eyes lock onto your pussy, so fucking perfect for him. Always so fucking perfect, so good. How in hell could something this delectable even exist?

"I'm hungry," Aemond murmured again, his teeth grazing his lower lip as he visually consumed your intimate space, as if he hadn't already memorized every inch with his own senses.

He lowers himself, almost flattening against the bed, his long fingers digging into the meat of your thighs. He takes a moment to savor the view from this angle, your little cunt in his face, his gaze traveling up past your breasts to your face, turned away, lips parted, teeth just visible. So fucking beautiful, it makes him want to rip your face to shreds with his bare hands, to create chasms with his teeth, to chew on the pieces. He could do it, he wants to do it. But somewhere deep down, he knows that even if your flesh were torn apart, you'd still be this oppressive tightness in his chest. And he fucking hates it.

"And you're going to feed me, aren't you?" he whispers against your skin, his breath hot as it fans over your heat, noticing the slight twitch of your leg beside his head, but nothing more.

His tongue extends from your entrance to your clit, dragging up to your lower stomach, the sensation of his warm tongue unmistakable even through the haze of your disjointed thoughts, the weight of your limbs anchoring you to the bed. His lips return with increased urgency, one hand gripping your thigh, pulling it to his mouth, his teeth sinking into the skin of your inner thigh, while the other hand rises to grab one of your breasts, his fingertips pressing into the flesh. Your breath quickens, your chest rising and falling with mounting intensity.

His tongue traced a path down your inner thigh before making its way back to your core, not wasting time before delving in. It rolled between your folds, coating them with his saliva. As his tongue danced over your entrance again, the taste of your arousal hit him, eliciting a moan from deep within. Your body responded to every touch, tightening, a dim light seeping through your closed eyelids, though the two purple pills you'd ingested the night before made full consciousness elusive, your reactions slowed, your desires muted.

"You're getting all wet for me, little dove," he murmured, his voice low, muffled by your pussy, with no intention of pulling away to speak further. "Dirty girl, I should rip your throat open for this." A growl rumbled from him, his eyes closing as he sank deeper, his entire being focused on the sensations his mouth was exploring, leaving all his senses tethered to the act of licking you everywhere.

Your lips part further, a moan slipping through, your brows knitting together, etching a line of tension on your face. Your hips begin to shift weakly on the bed, up and down, your whimpers soft and muffled by fatigue. Aemond responds with his own sounds against your intimacy, taking full advantage of your semi-conscious state to vocalize his pleasure unrestrainedly. His fingers play with the nipple he's captured, giving it a sharp tug to jolt you further into awareness. Your legs, on either side of his head, fall open wider.

It's too good, too fucking good.

So good that you're unaware when your fingers find their way to the back of his neck, tangling in his black hair, pulling him closer in an instinctive, desperate plea for more.

Aemond freezes.

Your heart pounded like a drum, the shock of wakefulness like a slap across your face. Sweat beaded at your temples, and when you looked down, Aemond's eyes were already locked on you, his mouth still against you. The room seemed to stand still, time itself arrested. The chill that ran through you was like a bolt of ice, your senses suddenly sharp but tainted.

You attempted to rise, but he pounced, his hands reaching for your neck while your legs thrashed to push him off. You knew you were doomed if he pinned you down. Aemond grappled with your flailing arms, your nails raking his skin each time he tried to seize your wrists. But your resistance was faltering, and you knew this could be the end.

His fist slammed into your jaw, snapping your head to the side, blood erupting from your nose onto the pillows. His thighs clamped over yours, holding you down, but you still fought. His hands pressed your shoulders into the mattress, aiming for your neck, when you clawed at his throat, your nails digging in deep. A pained grunt escaped him as he clutched the bleeding marks you left on his neck. You seized the moment to free one leg, using your foot to shove his chest back.

"You fucking bitch!" Aemond's yell reverberated, but there was no time for discussion.

You hit the floor with a thud, a groan of pain escaping you. You saw Aemond beginning to rise from the bed, coming for you, and despite the difficulty, you managed to scramble up, staggering as you bolted. You collided with furniture, each impact a jolt of pain, while behind you, Aemond closed in with purposeful strides, his fists balled, jaw clenched tight. He was boiling over, rage spilling out like steam from an overfilled pot, threatening to scald you.

You made it to the living room, positioning yourself behind the small glass dining table. Aemond appeared in the doorway, his heartbeat almost audibly pounding, the intensity of it pressing against the air in your throat. Your naked body felt too exposed, his gaze raking over you, but not with lust. No, this was the look of someone intent on tearing you apart, letting you bleed out.

"Stay the fuck away from me!" you scream, knowing your words would fall on deaf ears. This wasn't the Aemond you knew; it couldn't be, not in this state.

He moved to the other side of the table, effectively blocking your escape route to the kitchen where you might have grabbed a knife. His eyes, wide and void, met yours, almost lifeless. Your palms were slick with sweat, your feet rooted to the spot despite your mind screaming to move. The mantra echoed in your head, 'he's coming for you.'

"Run," Aemond said, his voice laced with a sinister glee, his smile all teeth, gleaming menacingly.

And you didn't hesitate.

Your feet propelled you forward, his hot on your heels, the air barely making it into your lungs. You clutched the bathroom door frame, ready to dart inside, when his arms encircled your waist, lifting you off the floor. Your legs flailed, your hands clawing at his arms to break free, his grip squeezing your ribs like a vise. He began to retreat, pulling you with him, but you reacted swiftly. Your elbow slammed into his ribs, and when he didn't release you, your head snapped back into his, his sharp cry of pain mingling with the force that sent you sprawling to the ground.

"Fuck!" he shouted, his fingers pressing against his newly bloodied nose, courtesy of your counterattack.

You scrambled across the floor, more like a creature than a human, managing to slip through the bathroom door. You locked it with trembling hands. The door shook under the assault of Aemond's fists, each impact making you jump back, landing on your rear. The wood seemed on the verge of splintering with every hit. Your eyes darted around; there was a small window, but it was too narrow for escape. You'd tried before; it was impossible.

"Open the fucking door!" he yells, his punch so forceful it seems to bruise his knuckles, but the pain is the last thing on his mind now, only you matter. "It's going to be much worse for you, much worse!" His voice drips with venom, and with truth; it would indeed be worse.

But you don't care. Using the sink for support, you stand, and in the mirror, you see the blood trails from your nose to your lips. Your hips will soon bruise from the collisions with furniture and the floor. Desperation grips you as you pull at your own hair, each knock on the door a reminder of your vulnerability. Until his foot slams into the door, and you turn just in time to see it buckle.

You need to do something.

With no time for thought, your fist smashes into the mirror, glass exploding in all directions. The sound halts Aemond's assault briefly, as does your sharp cry of pain, your blood now dripping from your cut knuckles onto the white tiles. You frantically search for the largest, sharpest piece of glass among the debris, feeling the sting of tiny crystals under your nails.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Aemond's voice escalates with new urgency.

With another powerful kick, the door gives way, splinters mixing with your blood on the floor. Aemond's gaze locks on the bloody glass in your hand, his own rage intensifying. Eye to eye, you brace for what's to come.

He's coming for you, so you come for him too.

Aemond steps forward, and so do you; the glass slices the side of his arm, drawing blood. He staggers back, clutching the wound, and you advance, but he quickly seizes your wrist, twisting it viciously. It feels like he might break it, your fingers crushed further into the glass, embedding it into your palm. A scream tears from your lips, tears at the corners of your eyes. You're forced to release the shard, which shatters on the floor. With a knee to your stomach, Aemond sends you crashing down, all air exiting your lungs.

Slowly, he kneels beside you, watching your mouth open in a silent scream, your hand clutching your stomach as if to hold yourself together. Fucking pathetic, he thinks, the urge to spit in your face, to make you swallow every piece of broken glass on the floor overwhelming him.

"I should make you chew this whole fucking glass right off the floor." His threat is punctuated by him grabbing your hair, yanking your face closer to his.

Your pained expression feeds into him. He's aware he's using you as a punching bag, treating you like you're worthless, and he doesn't feel an ounce of remorse. Perhaps he will when the rage subsides, but when does it ever truly subside? Was it ever meant to? He doesn't know. But he's hard, painfully so under his underwear, throbbing with every tear that escapes your eyes, consumed by a frenzy that's pure and intense.

He slams your head back onto the ground with all his might. You squeeze your eyes shut, but there's no escaping the pain. Both his hands encircle your neck, and to prevent any more tricks, he kneels on your thighs, his weight crushing your flesh, drawing a scream that's stifled by the lack of air. There's a high-pitched sound in your ears, reminiscent of chairs scraping or the squeaky springs of that old swing in the dilapidated playground where you once played, where you felt like you could touch the clouds when he pushed you. You almost wish you could now.

"Die! Why wont you die?!" Aemond screams into your face, but you know he's not seeing you; he's not screaming at you.

Your hands claw at him, your nails raking down his bare chest, only adding to your torment. Aemond's eyes close, his body shaking above you. His nails dig deeper into your neck, darkness enveloping your vision. Your back arches in one last attempt to free yourself, and a loud, pained moan escapes Aemond as he climaxes in his underwear, the sensation so intense it could have shattered him instead of you. The pressure becomes unbearable, your lips parting in a futile attempt to breathe. Your eyes close, and you're thrown into a cold, black abyss. Alone.

Nights always carried a kind of mercy. The cold slipped through the cracked window, brushing against the room like a quiet apology for the chaos that had come before. The neon blue light pulsed faintly, painting the walls with something soft, almost alive. You’d always thought the blue was too sad, but Aemond liked it, so it stayed. Yet tonight, when you opened your eyes, it wasn’t blue filtering through your lids. No, it was clear light—sharp and unkind. Strange.

Then the ache hit. It was everywhere, spreading from your fingers to your chest like it had been carved into your very bones. Every muscle in your body screamed, raw and heavy, like you’d become one giant bruise. And maybe you had.

Your eyes moved across the room, desperate to find him. Your chest tightened when you didn’t see him straight away, and panic started to set in. But just as you shifted, ignoring the pain in your ribs, the bedroom door swung open, and there he was.

Aemond stepped inside, his movements deliberate, his frame cutting a sharp silhouette against the light. He was dripping wet, his hair clinging to his shoulders in dark strands, wearing nothing but jeans slung low on his hips. In his hand, he carried a white plastic bag, casual as ever.

“Hey,” he murmured, his voice steady and low. The sound of it cut through the stillness, grounding you in a way that nothing else could.

You glanced down at yourself, noticing the oversized shirt hanging loosely off your shoulders and a pair of sweatpants that didn’t belong to you. His, clearly. You caught sight of your wrist next, carefully wrapped in white splints. The work was precise, too meticulous to have been done by anyone but him.

“Hey,” you croaked back, your voice barely above a whisper. It felt foreign in your throat, raw and strained. The bitterness in your mouth confirmed what you already suspected—he’d forced some medicine into you while you were out. It was just like him.

He moved closer to the bed, his gaze fixed on you as he settled on the edge. The space between you was thin, almost nonexistent, but it still felt like a gulf. You studied him, and he studied you right back. The marks on his skin stood out against the pale light—your nails had left their trails, violent and deliberate, carving down his neck, chest, and arms. There was a deeper wound too, one from the glass, glinting faintly in the morning light.

And he saw it too—the purple bruises on your neck, stark against your skin. His fingerprints. They sat there like inked tattoos. He likes them a lot.

“Do you want a picture?” Your voice cut through the silence, hoarse but steady, your words laced with that sharp edge he knew so well. It didn’t hurt anymore, and that was enough.

“Yeah,” he muttered, almost laughing under his breath. His eye traced your face like he was memorising it, his thoughts catching on the idea. If he had a camera, a good one, and if things were different—better—this house would be covered in you. Your face, your body, your marks. Everywhere. You’d be the only thing worth seeing.

The silence wrapped around you both, not oppressive, but present, like a third figure in the room. His hand, trembling with hesitation, inched towards yours. You caught the flicker of doubt in his movements, and without giving him a chance to second-guess, you reached for him. Your fingers threaded through his, clasping tightly, as if sealing a quiet promise neither of you dared to speak aloud.

The thought settled again at the base of your skull: If it doesn’t hurt anymore, it’s okay. Even if every inch of you was bruised and battered, flesh stained in shades of blue and black, it didn’t matter. It was just a body, after all—just skin and bone. Nothing more, nothing less.

When his gaze finally met yours, it wasn’t with the depth you might have hoped for. His eye held a flatness, void of the kind of emotion he wished he could express—or the kind you sometimes wished you could see. But you’d long since stopped expecting it. He didn’t know how to show it, couldn’t, and that was all right. You had learned to live in the spaces between what he gave and what he withheld. In the end, you told yourself, it would be bearable. Even if the walls of this house crumbled into ash one day, you’d both still be here.

Your eyes searched his, and his mirrored the same dance. Without warning, he pulled hard on your hand, yanking you forward until your chests collided. His arms snaked around your shoulders, locking you into him, as if he were holding on for dear life. Instinctively, your hands found his waist, drawing him closer, your fingers gripping tightly as if the two of you could weld together. Your face nestled perfectly into the curve of his neck—a hollow that seemed carved for you alone. A place to rest, and perhaps even to bite when the need arose.

Holding him like this felt steady. Familiar. Safe. Just as the bruises and scratches had their place, so did the moments like this—the quiet inhalation of his scent, the way your arms clutched at him like he might disappear. It was measured, restrained, the intimacy meted out in doses small enough not to overwhelm. Anything more would be unbearable, tipping into something too raw, too unmanageable.

“I brought you something,” he murmured, his lips brushing your ear. Slowly, he pulled back, just enough to meet your gaze again.

You said nothing, only watched as his hands left you to reach for the white plastic bag he’d brought in earlier. His fingers dipped inside, searching like a child eager to reveal a secret treasure. When he finally pulled it free, the golden wrapper caught the light, and your eyes locked onto the familiar shape of the chocolate bar.

Of course. It was always this. Sweetness. That was what he saw in you, wasn’t it? Something indulgent. You didn’t mind, not really. Even though you knew it was fleeting—your teeth would rot eventually, fall out maybe. The ants might come, leaving trails of fire across your skin. But none of that mattered, not when the sweetness melted on your tongue. He always brought it to you. Always.

You take the bar from his hand, tearing it open with your teeth like you’ve got no time for subtlety, the wrapper crinkling loud enough to fill the silence. Chocolate smears across your fingers as you peel it back, and you pause for a second, staring him down before sinking your teeth into it. A big bite—half the damn thing gone already. Aemond watches you for a moment, his lips twitching like he’s trying not to smirk, but then his gaze drops to his hands resting in his lap.

“You need a shower,” he says finally, voice low but firm, cutting through the quiet like a blade. “The Worm wants to see us at the club tonight.”

Your eyes flick up at that, unimpressed, because of course that bastard does.

“Why?” you ask, exhaling the word more than speaking it, your tone halfway between exhaustion and annoyance. You take another bite of the chocolate, letting it melt lazily on your tongue like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

“A little daddy’s boy soirée or something,” Aemond mutters with a shrug. He’s got that look again, the one he always wears when he talks about this shit—a mix of disdain and quiet rebellion. He hates this scene, the pounding music that sounds like it’s on a loop, the suffocating crowds. But then he adds, “There’ll be some good fish,” and his eye meets yours. Just a flicker of understanding passes between you.

The Worm might be a total bastard, but he had a nose for opportunities, especially when it came to sales. The nightclub was his playground, his stage, and let’s not forget his little meth empire ticking along in the background. The man handed you a lifeline—or a leash, depending on how you looked at it—but saying no to him wasn’t exactly an option. He loved to remind you of that whenever he could.

“Yeah, wouldn’t want to keep him waiting,” you mutter, a dry laugh escaping as you finish off the last of the bar, the taste bitter-sweet as it disappears.

Aemond reaches over and plucks the wrapper from your hand, his touch light but deliberate, watching you as you stand. Every muscle in your body protests, stiff and aching, but you ignore it, your bare feet hitting the cold floor with a shiver that shoots straight up your spine. You don’t pause, though. You make for the wardrobe, pulling open the smallest drawer to grab a bra and panties from the mess of clothes stuffed inside. Aemond doesn’t move, doesn’t look up. His fingers stay intertwined, his expression distant, like he’s lost somewhere else.

It’s only when your hand reaches for the door that his voice cuts through again, quiet but razor-sharp.

“I’ll be watching you,” he says, his tone warning but calm, his eye finally lifting to meet your retreating form. “So don’t do anything stupid.”

You let a sly grin slip out before moving on. It's not like you meant to fuck up, not tonight. Could be exhaustion or whatever. Your mess wasn't like Aemond's, not some epic cleanup. Well, at least not usually. You know his real fear is that you'll slit your wrists open and finish what you sometimes started after...incidents. That wasn't your intention tonight.

Your feet drag you to the bathroom, now always wide open thanks to that morning's drama. Inside, it's all spick and span, the sharp scent of bleach hitting you hard. He'd cleaned up, but some things just don't wash away. The door with its frame fucked, the mirror with a new hole in it, and that's it. Everything else, gone, like it usually is. Sometimes you wish you two were like this floor - a little soap and water could sort it out. Fix it up.

You try not to overthink, just strip down and jump into the shower. It's like your second home, scrubbing until your skin's raw. Careful not to drench those bandages he wrapped around your wrist. Eyes shut, you let the water wash you off, even if it's just skin deep.

Drying off and slipping into your undies and bra, you pause for a sec. Just taking a breath before heading back to the bedroom. From the doorway, you spot Aemond in front of the mirror, the little pots of black and white paint open, brush at the ready. His hair's less wet, those heavy black boots already on his feet, leather jacket slung over his shoulders, no shirt beneath. He turns, eyes sweeping over you, unabashed. Head cocked to the side for a moment.

"Help me with this." It's not a request, it's a command, part of the routine.

You don't think twice before stepping up, and neither does he. Aemond slides down in the chair, legs spreading wider, an open invite. You take it, hands on his shoulders for balance, swinging a leg over to sit on him. His hands lock onto your waist, holding you steady.

"Want something special tonight?" you ask, leaning down for one of the black eyeliner pencils.

Aemond's gaze travels your body again, you sitting there like he's your personal, ragged throne. His eyes crawl back up to yours, meeting them dead on. Yeah, he wants something special, but it's not about the paint or the lines on his face.

"Just the usual," Aemond says, his eyes flicking back and forth between yours, pupils blown wide.

You nod, leaning in to start sketching the lines on his face with the precision of someone who's done this dance before. When Aemond does it himself, it's all over the place, but you manage to make it look halfway decent. Not that it's supposed to be pretty; it's more about the vibe. With the eyeliner, you draw from his eyebrows down to his nose, stopping at the tip, then circle around his eye, connecting back to the other brow. It's rough, forming something like a triangle - shapes blurred and edgy. Moving to the other side, his eyes track you, locked on as your face scrunches in focus.

"You know I wanted to kill you, don't you?" Aemond mutters, pulling your gaze to him for a split second before you both return to the task at hand.

He did want to, no question about it. There was that moment when he saw your eyes close, your body go limp on the floor, and he thought, "This is it." But then he stopped. He didn't regret it; he was fucking glad he did.

"You didn’t." That's all you manage, a whisper, the only reply you've got.

You've thought he might end you, on some other nights, on those dark moments when the beast in him roared to get out because of some shit you pulled - intentional or not. But intentions? They're meaningless here. Not yours, not his, even if his was to squeeze the life out of you.

Aemond just stared, maybe with a hint of appreciation or some twisted form of affection. He couldn't tell if he'd fucked up your head, if he'd made you blind to his true nature, the chaos he brought into your life. He saw himself as a plague, infecting everything he touched, and he reveled in it, in you.

"I should take you to the beach sometime." Aemond's voice was low, almost a whisper, and you couldn't help but smile a bit. He'd mentioned it before, but it always felt like a fantasy.

He loathes the beach, despises the sun. The sand that grinds into knees, leaving them raw. Mum and dad never took you, and before that, the orphanage was all shades of gray. There was no sun there, and his pale skin seemed to thrive in the absence of it. You didn't miss what you'd never known.

"Yeah? What do you want to do there?" You play along with the dream, knowing it's probably never going to happen.

Your fingers grab a brush, dipping it into the white paint. You start painting his face, careful not to touch the dark lines around his eyes. His breath is heavier now, chest heaving in what seems like a thoughtful sigh.

"I don't know, just watch you swim." His reply is soft, his words hitting you like a gentle wave. "Some Sunday just watch you get pounded by the waves and some purple and blue in the sky. Being the only motherfuckers filling the place with smoke.”

A low chuckle escapes you as you shake your head, your fingers continuing their task with the white paint, transforming his face into something that feels more like a phantom than the man you know. You'd like that, at some point, to see him in such a scene. Perhaps perched on that motorcycle in some secluded spot, hiding from the sun, a cold beer in hand. His blue eyes would mirror the sea, his silver hair the sky, though you know he'd never let them be seen again. It's all just a daydream.

"Would you be there?" he asks, causing your hand to pause, the brush set aside.

The question strikes you as almost absurd. There are so many answers to it. He's pulling himself into the abyss, into a personal hell with all its promised torment, and you'd follow if only to hold his hand. Your answer is always yes, never no. He knows this, and still, he asks.

"I would be wherever you were," you confess in a whisper, meeting his gaze with unfiltered honesty, more than you'd wish to reveal, more than you could ever conceal.

His eyes shift from yours to your lips, perhaps searching for the taste of those words, or seeking some unclaimed piece of your skin to press them against. He doesn't speak, but the silence says he'd be with you too. You're like a persistent bit stuck in his teeth; no amount of licking or prodding or thinking he's had enough or moved you aside would ever truly dislodge you. Ever.

You pause, focusing back on the brush, cleaning off the white paint and dipping into black. The brush follows the eyeliner's path, shaping the design more distinctly. It's not your best work, but it's far from your worst, even if it's not art gallery material. But it'll do.

"It looks good," you murmur, more to yourself than to him, knowing better than to stroke his ego too much.

Aemond's eyes are locked on your lips, reading your words off them rather than through sound. His breath is warm, careful not to move and ruin your work. He's learned from experience you wouldn't like that.

"Yeah, it does." His gaze shifts up, impatience simmering under his skin. Being still isn't his forte.

With the final stroke, you complete the look. The white paint has dried, melding into his skin like a second layer. As you move to get up, his hands reluctantly slide off your waist, resting back in his lap. You take a moment to admire him - the corpse paint fitting him like a second skin, like he was born to wear it. The desire to have him take you, right there over the paints, until your drool becomes part of the artwork, is intense.

"Take a look," you say, motioning towards the mirror, keeping your darker thoughts at bay. If you let them out, there'd be no stopping.

Aemond looks into the mirror, not seeing himself but the mask he's donned. It's good, it's something. Just paint, toxic and transformative, embodying much of him yet not all. It's good, truly good.

You head to the closet, pulling out one of the usual dresses - same color, similar cuts, limited choices. Slipping it on, the fabric clings to your body, barely covering your thighs, the straps mingling with those of your bra. As you adjust it, Aemond turns, catching the motion of you smoothing it over your hips, his teeth catching his lower lip. You're a vision of sin, a gift to behold, stoking the fire in his veins and elsewhere.

You sit at the bed's foot, tugging on your black knee-high boots, similar to his but with higher heels. Aemond approaches just as you zip up, standing close enough that you nearly collide when you rise. His silent steps are always so damn stealthy. Your eyes lock, and without a word, he kneels before you, your gaze tracking him down, lips parting slightly.

Your heart races. He lifts your dress, bunching it at your waist, revealing you in just your panties. You anticipate warmth, but what you feel is cold. Opening your eyes, you see the pocket knife he's just stuck in your panties.

"You know how to use it," he murmurs, his breath teasingly close to where you're most sensitive, a slight dampness forming. "So use it if you need to."

He stands, eyes never leaving yours, fingers sliding the dress back down, covering you once more. It's like a cold splash of reality or a sharp stab of withdrawal; he steps away, and you close your eyes, trying to steady yourself, regain some semblance of control. He moves to the table, grabs his keys, cigarettes, and lighter.

"I'm going to get the bike out of the garage. Don't delay." His tone is devoid of warmth as he heads for the door, leaving you in the center of the room.

You adjust your dress, feeling the pulse of anger and desire because that bastard always knows exactly what he's doing. The knife's tip, so provocatively close to your core, feels like a taunt. You hate him, more than when he breaks you apart. With that hatred, you move to where he was sitting and look at your reflection, noting the bruise on your jaw that you'll need to conceal with makeup. Not for the opinions of those at the club, you couldn't care less about them.

But, that's what you do. You cover his marks. And tonight, you'll do it again.

[kaelatargaryen]

Never getting over it

bts of ewan mitchell as martin for the fontaines d.c. ‘in the modern world’ music video.

photographed by emma jones.

[hoosbandewan]

Ewan Mitchell + smiling (requested by anon! <3)

[alightcaseofohno]

I mentioned this before, but if anyone is up for an RP with Jay from Rialto and Martin from Fontaines D.Cs music video for In The Modern World PLEASE LET ME KNOW

Just comment, and we can follow each other and then discuss in dms. Begging 🙏

[mitchellnman]

Always Hungry.

MDNI.

PAIRING: Martin x reader

WARNINGS: pwp, mentions of bruises and scrapes (martin) pussy eating. Reader is afab, but there's no gendered pronouns or use of y/n. Hastily written, no beta reader we die like victorian children.

WORD COUNT: 942.

A/N: Hi hello I haven't written a fic in 2 years but Martin made me crawl from my grave please enjoy!

—

Martin's room smelled like incense. Cheap incense, bought online with a holder that made the smoke look like a waterfall. Martin only burned the incense to cover up the smell of sex and sweat, in case the landlord came knocking. It mostly worked, unless you pulled back the blankets on his bed. Then, it was all him, musky and heady and sweet, and you, more or less the same.

He was feeding his skink some blue worms, to match his blue eyes, and the blue candy that poked out from between his lips. He smiled. Martin always smiled when his skink ate, her blue tongue flicking out. She was a silly little creature, lacking a few brain cells, but cute nonetheless. More importantly, she seemed to like you, when you scratched under her chin, or held her little hands with your fingertips. Martin liked it too.

He was shirtless, only in a pair of black jeans that hung low on his hips. You followed the curve of his spine with your eyes from under his hair, down to his waist, and further down, his pants only halfway covering his perfect ass. He was covered in bruises, scrapes, and what you supposed you could call rope burn, from seatbelts digging into his skin. He was beautiful in a nihilistic sort of way, as if Chuck Palahniuk had specialized in paintings instead of novels.

You pushed away from the wall you were leaning on as you watched him, unable to resist touching him anymore. Your cheek brushed over his shoulder, fingers tracing up his sides. He smelled like you, and like sugar. His jaw flexed as his tongue rasped over the candy. Your hands moved up his back, cold fingers on warm skin.

Martin set the skink down in her tank and turned around in your grasp. He regarded you for a long moment, his eyes piercing as he tried to read your mind. You had half a mind to tell him everything you thought. His fingers cupped your chin, and tapped your lips. A wordless request for you to open your mouth. You did, and he brought his lips to yours, pushing the blue raspberry candy into your mouth. You kissed around it, your senses overwhelmed by the artificial flavor. Blue raspberry, what was it, really? Certainly nothing that occurred in nature.

His black hair fell around both of your faces, shielding you from the sunlight that was streaming in through the window. He made an obscene moan, and pushed the rest of the candy into your mouth with his tongue.

"Finish it." He whispered. His blue tongue darted out, and licked your lips. He smiled, a devilish thing that could only mean sin was on his mind. With that knowledge, you took his hands, and walked backwards to the bed. Your thighs hit the mattress, and you fell back. Your tongue pressed the candy to the roof of your mouth so you didn't choke on it.

He descended upon you like an animal, ravenous after starving for days, his hands pushing your shirt up over your ribs. His blue tongue darted out and licked your skin, teasing for only a moment. Then he bit down, nipping at your stomach with that same grin. His large hand squeezed your crotch, concealed by a pair of his sweatpants. His palm pressed against you, slowly massaging you through the fabric.

Martin sucked a mark into your skin, below your belly button. His head dipped down further, sniffing at your crotch, his nose pushing against your clit.

You smiled, and your hands found a home in his hair. It was a little greasy to be sure, but it was soft on your fingers, and he moaned so sweetly when you tugged on his dark locks.

His clever hands tugged your pants down around your ankles, and he didn't give you a moment to breathe. How could he, when you were the best thing he'd ever tasted? Vaguely, he wondered if he could make a candy that tasted like you.

His tongue swiped over your clit, and you shivered with want. Your thighs pressed against his cheeks as his head dipped lower, intent on devouring you.

"Martin," you gasped. "I have to go to work—"

You could feel him smile against you, his breath hot against your cunt as he laughed.

"Should have thought of that before..." He teased, utterly merciless. He pushed two fingers inside of you with ease, still slick from last night, and this morning. In fact, he could still taste himself inside of you.

Your back arched as he found your sweet spot with a practiced ease. Your hands curled in his hair, and the moans he made sent vibrations straight up your spine, like a low bass played from a quality speaker.

He coaxed you to your peak, and you came with a loud cry, your vision going utterly white with previews of heaven. He held you in place as you thrashed, a large hand pressing into your thigh.

When you opened your eyes again, his head was on your stomach, cheek resting against your skin. Martin was smiling, obviously pleased with himself. His nose and chin were shiny with spit and slick, his chest pressed against your core, just enough to keep your body thrumming.

“Call out. Spend the day with me.” He said. His fingers traced over your skin, drawing nonsensical patterns, writing invisible sheet music that only made sense to him.

“Martin…”

“Please.”

It was hard to resist him. Him with his blue lips, and shiny chin. Him with his black, messy hair. You sighed, and admitted defeat.

“Fine.”

[towriteloveontheirarms]

Other people might have moved on from this already, but I am still here

Sweet Like Candy (Martin x Reader)

Summary: If there was one thing you would always see when you pictured Martin, it was that blue stained tongue of his. You would tease him often, wondering if he ate anything but that sticky, blue candy. But there was another thought that crossed his mind. If it stained his tongue, could it stain you?

Just a little short fic for our favourite greasy weirdo and his...oral fixation.

CW: MINORS DNI,afab reader, she/her pronouns, Martin being a little weirdo (it's why we love him), mentions of violence and injury (car-jitsu), oral (f receiving, car sex (oral only), profanity, innuendo, Martin being an oral king.

Words: 925

This was how Martin liked you best, spread out in nothing but one of his shirts, a barely there skirt and some torn fishnets. Thighs held open as he left heated kisses in a path to where he knew you wanted him most.

Especially now…

You always met him after a night like this. Waiting in his apartment until he was done, meeting him at the car sometimes or lounging on his bed until he came home sore and bruised. Martin was almost always ready to pounce on you the second he saw you.

His adrenaline high after yet another night of bloodied car fights. You never questioned his hobby, Martin loved that about you. His nose still ached from where he had clocked quite the punch, blood smeared across his skin. But you liked him like this. An almost wild, feral intensity about him.

The blue packets of candy littered the car floor, and the second you saw them, you giggled. You were laid down in the backseat of the car, Martin nestled between your legs. Impressive considering there wasn’t much room back here.

“Stick out your tongue, baby?” 

Martin rolled his eyes, but complied. Slowly rolling his tongue out and showing the blue streak down the entire muscle.

Every time, you teased him about that blue tinged tongue of his. He’d never outright told you why it was always blue, but you weren’t blind. There was no shortage of blue candy wrappers in his car, in the bin by his bed. You’d even found them in the pockets of his jacket once, when you’d borrowed it. You honestly questioned if he ever ate anything else.

But you put a thought in his head. Would it stain your skin? Could he mark you up with blue stains that could only have come from him? It wasn't going to stop him trying. 

His hands were suddenly gripping your thighs tighter, tugging them as wide as they would go. Kisses rougher than before, fingers hooking under your fishnets and tearing a hole right down the middle. Leaving no barrier no between his mouth and your center. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d worn panties around him - he either ripped them or took them off and kept them.

You could see a flash of something behind his eyes as he dipped his head back down to kiss another path over your inner thigh. Those bright blue orbs flicking between staring up at you and down at where his lips and tongue were meeting your skin.

Rough kisses were followed with laps of his tongue, smirking when the faintest tinge of blue trailed after. Your hips bucking up to chase his mouth, a silent plea for him to just get on with it. His laugh made you roll your eyes in annoyance. But they soon rolled back again in pleasure.

“So pretty,” he mumbled, and you could feel the rough pad of his finger trailing a line down your thigh.

You couldn’t help it, sitting up on your elbows and looking down. Even in the dim light of the street lamps outside, you could see the faint tint of blue on your skin. There was only one place that could come from. That damned blue tongue.

You were about to speak, when you felt the warmth of his breath of your folds. Soon followed by a long, deep swipe of his tongue. If there was one thing you could always say about Martin…he knew exactly how to pleasure you.

Hands still holding your thighs apart, twisting his body to dive as deep in your warmth as he could. Martin could already taste the tangy sweet mix of you and the candy on his tongue.

“So sweet, my pretty girl…sweet like candy…” he groaned into you, the vibration of his voice only adding to your pleasure.

He went slow. Long, leisurely laps at your already soaked core. He could see it even then, little hints of blue mixed with the juices that already coated your folds. Your hand was quick to weave into his hair, grinding yourself down in your impatience. But Martin wanted to savour the moment.

This was his prize, winning his fights and all that. Your sweet, soft body was his trophy. Your panting moans of his name was the only plaudit he needed.

“Martin…fuck please…don’t stop…” you keened out, back arching off the seat as your leg hooked over his shoulder.

He didn’t mind the bite of your boot against his back, the rubber sole a heavy weight. The way you dug it in, in the desperate hope of making him lap at you faster.

His fingers dug hard into your hips, pulling you harder down onto his face. The rhythm of his tongue now faster, head shaking side to side as he buried his face almost far enough to suffocate. His own grunts and groans of satisfaction mingling with your ever louder moans.

It wasn’t long before he felt your legs begin to shake, muscles quivering beside his head as your inner walls clenched around his tongue. His fingers found your pearl, adding the smallest amount of pressure in circles until you were spilling over his tongue. Your hand was tight in his hair, nails scratching his scalp as you sighed out his name one more time.

“That’s my girl…” he praised, kissing his way over your mound, his tongue following his lips and still leaving soft blue streaks.

Martin hoped they'd stain. Mark you in a way that was his, and his alone...

Tagging my Ewan girlies!

(if you want adding or deleting let me know)

@legitalicat @thenameswinter99 @tumblin-theworldaway @anjelicawrites @aemondsbabe

@aemondsbabygirl @kaelatargaryen @sylasthegrim @towriteloveontheirarms

@hoosbandewan @thought--bubble @multyfangirl

[fayesia]

Freak

Martin (In The Modern World - Fontaines D.C.)

warnings: nsfw 18+, readers lowkey mean to Martin, p in v, unprotected sex, cunnilingus, doggy style, handjob, squirting, fingering, spit play, creampie, hair pulling, rimming (brief), p with a little plot, filthy words on a screen :D

You were always cautious. Walking the same route home. Past the cobbled roads, the dark forested pine trees, and old abandoned buildings. None screamed safety nor comfort, neither of which you expected when moving into the area.

As long a you were free. Successfully escaping the pressures in your life, the heavy weight of hands pressing and pulling you, moulding you, into what they wanted you to become.

So, yes, maybe walking the same route every day to get home wasn't ideal. But neither was the sight you had to witness as you walked across the parking lot in front of your house. The car parked in it. The only car.

In it was him. Your neighbour. That freak. That beautiful fucking freak. A man clambered out, shoving the passenger door open while blood ran from his nose and mouth. His neck marked with ligatures of varying pink and red hues. Pushing past the small crowd forming he briskly stumbled away, the crowd shifting as people left and newcomers joined.

You know you should've kept walking, walking the same damn route, but you didn't. What's that's saying? Curiosity killed the cat. Well, consider yourself the cat.

Making your way over to the edge of the crowd, you stood watching, keeping at least a meter distance so as not to draw attention. His head turned to the window, the side one facing you. His mouth dropped open to reveal a blue stained tongue. Freak. You grimaced. Yet your eyes were unable to remove themselves from the sight in front of you. Your legs were stuck, glued to the cement, your brain ordered them to move, but no movement was made.

Your eyes focused on the scene in front of you, snapping you out of your disassociation, the shuffling of the crowd parting ways. Boys rode off on their bikes, women clutched their bags whispering with one another, and hooker resembling teenagers scoffed sauntering off, losing interest at the dark-haired man in the car.

The very one slumped in the car seat, heavily battered and bloodied as well as unconscious.

You turned to leave, taking two steps before swivelling back on your heels. You stood considering for a few moments the result of what your actions may cause. If the butterfly affect would, in fact, impact what was to happen due to your next decision. Well fuck that, you don't really care about the result of your actions, at least not since you moved here.

Pulling the drivers side door open, you leaned in, tentatively you waved your hand across his face. Was he awake yet? No.

Fuck. Well then. Poking him didn't work either. Grabbing his shoulders, you leaned closer.

"Martin. Martin. Wake up, Martin!"

He grumbled, regaining consciousness, but also the from the pain of his injuries. Pulling him up from the seat, a task proven easier than expected due to his thin build. It suited him. In his own way. Wrapping his arm around your shoulder, you hauled him the short walk to your house beside his. The height difference made it more a half drag on his part. You spoke in hopes of providing some comfort.

"Nearly there, Martin. Nearly home."

You didn't really like the freak, but you weren't a heartless human. His reptiles had escaped to your garden more times than he'd like to take responsibility for, and so had his toy helicopter. Resulting in more hostile neighbourly conversations between the both of you than you'd have liked, considering the majority of them happened at 2am, when he was normally awake.

Unlocking the front door, you manoeuvred Martin's flopping body onto a kitchen chair, dragging it across the floor with a loud screech that jolted him awake.

"What are you doing?"

"Calm down. I'm just trying to help. Now sit still."

You didn't mind the silence, wetting some paper towels with rubbing alcohol as you gently wiped the blood and grime off his pasty white skin. The kitchen was filled by the low hum of your broken refrigerator and the hisses coming from Martin's mouth with every swipe against his skin. His eyes followed you, throwing away the dirty tissues and packing up the first aid kit, placing it in the cupboard before making your way back to the sink.

Stood across from the seated Martin he looked up, shifting in his seat with a pink hue dusted over his cheeks.

"Guess I should go then."

"Umm yeah, let me see you out."

You both walk to the door in silence until his voice scratches out down the hallway.

"You wouldn't happen to have seen my snake have you...I left the side window open again...you know-uhm the one across from your garden."

"Again! Seriously! How many times have I told you. I don't want to see that creepy snake in my garden. What if it bites me -"

"Hey! He's friendly."

"No, i doubt that. It's probably a freak. Like you!"

He angered at your words harshly shoving you against the hallways narrow walls. There was barely any space for two people to walk, so being pinned left you feeling even more trapped. It was like the temperature had increased ten fold, your eyes widened at the close proximity between the two of you. He breath was hot and heavy against the side of your face, daring you to keep talking, but you knew better, rather content with glaring at him.

His fingers dug past the material of your faux fur coat while yours held tightly on his forearms. The silence seemed to drag on with the two of you looking into each others eyes. But it was more than that, both looking past each others iris, the pupils and the nerves, looking into each others souls.

And then he kissed you. Just like that.

His lips were on yours, and you could taste the distinctive artificial flavoured candy only just overpowered by the cigarette he must've smoked earlier.

It was suffocating and comforting. Yet freeing and ferocious. As if you had finally given into a craving after so long, like you were sinning after years of celibacy.

Your hands grappled at each other clothes, needing to remove the thick confines you were in. Various articles of clothing littered the hallway, creating a breadcrumb trail to your bedroom. His hands dug into your hair, only deepening the kiss once you were straddling his lap on your bed. Oxygen wasn't a necessity in this moment. It was the taste of each other that you both were surviving off of.

Discarding your bra, Martin removed his shirt, leaving him in his boxers. He positioned you on all fours facing away. Cold, long fingers dragged your panties off you, and you were bare to him, no feeling of shame, just need, as your arch deepened. His hand caressed the path of your spine where he lay gentle kisses, kneeling behind you, he played with the softness of your thighs and hips. The silent room was now filled by your whines of pleasure.

His mouth was on you, exploring every part of you, tasting and savouring you like it was his last meal. His tongue traced from your leaking hole down to your clit where his lips suckled more noises from you. He brought two fingers to your cunt, spreading your folds as his tongue moved through the mess of your juices and his spit, only spreading it down your inner thighs. You pressed back against Martin's face, moaning out in pleasure but his hands hooked around your thighs holding you in place while his mouth worked on you.

You were so close. "Fuck yes just like that, I'm gonna fucking come don't stop- don't you dare fucking stop."

Your words only spurred Martin on, his thumb prodded at your hole wetting it with a mix of fluids before unexpectedly moving it to your tighter hole above. The action drawing out even louder noises from you. He smiled at that and you could feel the change of expression against your pussy. "Come for me."

You didn't need asking twice, clenching the bedsheets you whined into them, your cunt gushing around Martin's tongue and drenching the bottom half of his face. Small droplets ran down his chest as you fell flat against the mattress, angling your head to see a smiling Martin.

God, what a freak.

But you thought it with a small smile this time.

One that was covered by Martin's lips once again, his body embraced yours. You tugged at his boxers, and he pulled them off barely separating from you before leaning his head back to groan up at the ceiling. Your hand wrapped tightly around his cock. It fit comfortably in your hand, what lacked in girth was made up by length.

He thrust into your hand, jerking to feel more stimulation from you, which you were sure to provide. You were comfortably laying with his cock in your hand, his hand moving to separate your thighs, leaving you open to him. His hand coming down to explore your pussy while your hand continued working on him. Entering two of his fingers you arched at the movements, your own fingers were not of the same length or thickness. Moaning out, Martin was kneeling beside you, your hand jerking him off as his fingers worked in and out of you, his thumb occasionally rubbing against your clit.

It was art. The type the Greeks would've painted. The type found in the Renaissance era.

Pure pleasure and carnal desire.

You felt your release nearing, but when Martin twitched in your hand, he removed his fingers and moved. You huffed in annoyance about to speak your mind, but his hands grabbed your body, quickly flipping you over, the same way he did to the men in that car.

Pulling your hips up and pushing your back down, you were in the same arched position as before. He breathed heavily, almost hesitant, but the teasing movement of your ass was almost too much for him to bear. Holding his cock he spat onto your cunt as he pushed the leaking tip through your folds, only further adding to the mess of your pussy.

The tightness wrapped around his cock, almost pushing him out, but the further he entered, the more your cunt sucked him in.

The two of you made noises that bounced off the walls and were certainly heard from outside your window, neither you could give less of a fuck though. His hand clutched your hair while the other guided your hips back against him with each thrust. There was nothing gentle about his movements but that only made you crave more, the feeling of his cock entering you roughly with each movement had you releasing more liquid along the length of him. It collected around the base of his cock making his movements pass easier.

He hauled you up by your hair, his front pressed against your back, his lips against your ear, licking and nipping at the soft flesh. Bringing your hands up to his head, you pulled him into a kiss. Your fingers ran through his slightly greasy hair, the black soft locks tightly wrapped around your fingers while his tongue explored your mouth.

The change of position only prompted his dick to reach even deeper inside of you. Your moans increased while his hands moved around your body, first around your throat, then down to your tits where he roughly grabbed at them and pulled at your nipples, finally coming down to your clit where his fingers rubbed harshly, spreading more of your wetness around.

That was your breaking point. Your hands reached for anything to hold onto, which was Martin's forearm. Your sharp nails dug harshly into his skin, marking it with red crescent shapes, and his dick pummeled harder into you. The both of you were nearing release. Whispering into your ear, he urged you,

"Come for me. Come around my cock, wanna feel you fuckin' tighten your pussy 'round me."

And so you did.

With a few more thrusts into you, he bottomed out as you threw your head back, moaning Martians name. You doubt he would realise with how much noise it was said with.

But he did. He relished in it.

He'd go so far to believe its what made him cum as quick as he did after you. Still deep in you his cock released his cum, with near animalistic groans and arms that embraced you tightly, willing to never let go.

The thick liquid collected inside you and as his now soft dick was pulled out you could feel it drip out between your thighs, his face nuzzled into the side of your neck as the two of your softly caught your breath, relishinng in the sex of pent up tension. The sheets now soiled by your choices. The result of angry words said in the flurry of an argument.

The consequence of fucking your freak neighbour.