Poetry & Fuel

Hannie. Angel Baby. 23. Reader, Writer & Lover. Nsfw. MDNI.

[desireangel]

- 💋Masterlist!

A collection of fics penned by little ol’ me for all of you to enjoy xx

- Key:

🥀 • oh, the angst!

💋 • she’s so sexy!

🍓• it’s fluffy!

🌹• a oneshot wonder!

- Aemond Targaryen:

Series + Multipart fics:

Infernal Desires

When your family is caught up in treasonous scandal, the Prince Regent makes an offer that is impossible to refuse. To avoid what certainly would have been death by his sword, your family promises you to a man who is followed by whispers of violence and sin.

Part One • Part Two

💋.

Dark Cherry

After months of a marriage that hardly harbours the passion that you'd dreamed about, you stumble across the reason for your husband's indifference and decide enough is enough. Aemond will learn just exactly what he's been missing out on.

Part One • Part Two • Part Three • Part Four • Part Five

🥀💋.

Honey & Venom

In exchange for an escape from his death, the curse upon Aemond had seemed an easy price to pay for an eternal life of strength and power. But when the time comes for his debt to be collected and a mysterious illness sends you to the doorstep of the reclusive and fearsome Lord of Harrenhal's century-old castle, Aemond is faced with the other half of his soul and the agonising realisation that perhaps the cost of his salvation will also become his downfall.

Series Masterlist

🥀💋. vampire!Aemond.

Oneshots:

Bad Things

Aemond is plagued with doubts and seeks refuge in the one place where he is at peace with himself; between his beloved wife's legs.

🌹💋.

A Good Girl's Reputation

It was the last place you wanted to be but nonetheless, you found yourself pulled along to a party you hosted by none other than the Targaryen's, only for spilled wine to force you into Aemond's shirt. A sight that had him dragging you to his bed, eager to corrupt the well-behaved girl who had set him ablaze with desire.

Modern!Aemond. 🌹💋.

xoxo, kisses! <3

[desireangel]

Hi Angel! Hope you’re well! 💞

I’m really loving ur Vamp!Aemond series! I was wondering if you have an idea of when the next chapter will be posted? No pressure!

Stay powerful 💓

Thank you my love! I’m so happy to hear you have enjoyed it so far <3

I’m about 1/4 of a way through the next part - but progress is slow! Otherwise I’m not quite sure although hopefully, I’ll have a burst of energy and time and I will be able to get through it soon :’)

[mourning-sapphire]

[silverdragonfly]

Pomegranate Seed

• Demon!Aemond x Reader • chapter 4 • masterlist

• 11 K •MDNI •

warning: In Dante's words, "Abandon all hope, ye who enter here." Read the warning here, or proceed with the chapter at your own risk.

summary: The second errand has arrived. And with it, a night out with your demon - one that promises more than just business.

a/n: to the most passionate, romantic, and devoted readers 🩶 Thank you for contributing to my inspiration. This chapter is in the spirit of Saint Valentine’s Day. Enjoy! 💋

“Yeah, I get it. It’s just that the scene in the restaurant fits the characters’ dynamic,” you stumble, adjusting the phone pressed against your ear. Your shoulder aches from holding it in place as your hands juggle grocery bags, a bagel teetering dangerously on the edge of falling while you climb the stairs.

“You know how fond I am of Jake?” Sue’s voice rises in pitch, and you wince, your grip tightening on the paper package. “Ever since I read about him, I can barely go on dates. I mean, I do, but I always think, Jake would’ve done this differently. You created the perfect man! But the restaurant scene—it’s just a bit off.”

You let out a sigh. Until now, you’d been proud of your decision—content with the result, even. At least, that was the case until Sue called.

“You mean it’s too spicy?” you ask, fighting to keep the annoyance from your tone.

“Nah, you’ll never catch me saying that. It’s just too…” There’s a pause, the faint sound of her gnawing on the end of a pencil filtering through the line. “Predictable?”

Predictable? Your stomach twists.

Distracted, your foot catches the edge of a step, and you curse under your breath.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine. Just climbing to the top floor. The elevator’s been broken for a week,” you mutter. The stairs seem endless.

As you approach your apartment, the hair on the back of your neck rises. Mrs. McKay’s front door is ajar, a sliver of shadow stretching across the hallway. Her fluffy dog, Gigi, sits perched on the threshold, her tail wagging with innocent glee.

Not now.

Scrambling for your key, you unlock your door in a rush, nearly dropping a bag in the process.

Gigi barks, sharp and high-pitched, and Mrs. McKay’s saccharine voice calls out, “Who’s there?” The sound startles you enough to make your pulse jump. You manage to slip inside, your back pressed against the door as the grocery bags tumble unceremoniously to the floor.

Your hands are stiff, aching from the strain as you fumble the phone back into your grasp.

“So, you’ll make changes?” Sue presses.

“I’ll think about it,” you reply, biting your lip.

Knowing Sue, predictable equals boring.

“Think thoroughly. Trust me—if you go bolder, it’ll be top-notch.”

“Bolder? Like wha—?”

The line disconnects, leaving you sighing with your eyes closed.

From the hallway, Mrs. McKay’s chatter fades as she speaks to Gigi, but the memory of your last encounter floods back unbidden—after Aemond had left your kitchen, having made a delicious breakfast. You couldn’t help but wonder where he had learned to cook.

Later that day, Mrs. McKay had cornered you in the hallway, her frizzy gray curls reminding you of a dandelion left to the wind.

In a conspiratorial whisper, she’d shared her grievances about Mr. Duncan, the neighbor you’d never met.

“That old pervert,” she’d hissed, her tone laced with indignation. "Watching porn at full volume! He could at least turn it down—he doesn't live alone in this house!"

Her declaration had left you mortified, cheeks burning as your heart raced. You’d nodded along, too stunned to respond.

“Next time, I’m calling the police,” she’d declared, as if waging war.

Since then, you’ve avoided both her and Mr. Duncan, haunted by the thought of thin walls and the precarious fragility of your reputation.

Shaking off the memory, you kick off your shoes and carry the groceries to the kitchen, unloading items automatically.

Today.

Today is day 21. Which means the next errand could be soon.

Unlike last time, you’d woken up alone in bed, with no trace of Aemond or his snake. You couldn’t help but feel… disappointed.

Later today, the nagging thought comes.

What will the errand be this time? Where will you go? When will he come? Will he come?

What if he’s forgotten?

The thought curls in your chest. Should you call him?

You shuffle into the living room, your mind half-focused on Sue’s words. Is the restaurant scene really predictable? You’d thought you’d taken a risk, but her doubt has turned into a splinter in your thoughts.

You must’ve been a real bore before Aemond came.

Then, out of the corner of your eye, you spot it—a package lying on your bed.

Your breath catches.

Changing course, you approach the bed, your pulse quickening as you take in the dark, matte box. It’s smooth beneath your fingers, and anticipation tightens around you as you lift the lid.

Inside, layers of dark blue lace cascade—a dress. The color steals your breath, rich and deep, almost the exact shade of his eyes.

A small note rests on top, its message succinct:

7 p.m. today.

It takes time to learn which jewelry suits you best, if any. The dress surprises you: floor-length, a deep slit revealing one leg, and a collar cradling your neck while leaving your shoulders bare. It’s elegant yet undeniably seductive. Alys would’ve chosen something bolder, you’re sure—a thought that almost makes you blush. Bringing a pair of loose earrings to your ear, your hands tremble slightly, weighing whether they truly complement the look.

You hate the butterflies in your stomach. You hate how loose and undefined the communication between you and Aemond feels. You can either summon him or guess his intentions on your own—no middle ground.

Your laptop’s glow flickers in the background. After rereading the restaurant scene today, you’re no longer sure about anything—not the choices you made, not even the moments leading up to it.

I’ll rewrite it when I get back, you resolve, nodding faintly at your reflection.

At exactly 7 p.m., your phone vibrates with an Uber notification.

A ride into the unknown, then.

The city lights paint fleeting patterns against the window—normally soothing, but not tonight.

“He must be lucky,” the driver says suddenly at a red light.

“Pardon?” you ask, startled, your gaze flicking to the rearview mirror.

“Your boyfriend,” he clarifies.

The statement catches you off guard. You shift in your seat, unsure whether to correct him or let it pass. Boyfriend.

“Got a date tonight?” he presses, glancing briefly at you before returning his focus to the road.

You barely manage to contain a nervous laugh. I wish I knew what this was.

“Right,” you reply, offering a vague nod before turning your attention back to the window.

Outside, the city rushes on, indifferent. And as the lights blur by, you wonder if this is the kind of night that changes everything.

When the car pulls up to the curb, your breath catches, a flicker of hesitation pressing against your ribs. The restaurant before you is nothing short of opulent, its grandeur designed to make an impression—and it does. Golden light spills from within, illuminating the polished marble steps, the sleek figures slipping past the velvet ropes. A porter holds the door open for a couple.

It’s not the kind of place you’d typically walk into. And yet, here you are.

The car door swings open swiftly, and at the sight of him, a warmth—reminiscent of relief—spreads across your chest.

Demon or not, he’s every inch the gentleman, stretching out a hand toward you.

“Here she is,” he murmurs as you step out, carefully gathering the side of your dress to keep from tripping. You catch him looking at you—he’s clearly content with his choice.

“My little dove,” he adds, his lips brushing your cheek in a ghost of a kiss. The familiar faint scent of smoke clings to him—he must have been here for a while, waiting.

“Aemond,” you manage, softer than intended. He’s dressed in dark blue, the first few buttons of his black shirt undone, revealing a silver snake chain around his neck. Simple yet impeccable. The colors mirror your dress too closely to be accidental.

“Let’s head inside.” A lazy smirk tugs at his lips. “I imagine you’re curious about your errand.”

Curious? That is a mild way to put it.

His hand hovers at your waist,  as he guides you forward. If nothing else, it’s clear he intends to make it abundantly obvious you’re with him—no questions, no doubts. The novelty of the feeling—and the feeling itself—is oddly pleasant.

Inside, the restaurant is a masterclass in seduction—dark wood, scarlet accents, and golden lighting all exuding luxury. Lush green plants add a vibrant contrast, the touch of color making the space feel alive.

A few heads turn. A few linger.

But the way his hand never quite leaves you as he guides you through sends a clear message. Back off. We’re together.

At the bar, he orders two shots without looking at the menu, his attention flicking to you instead.

“How have you been?”

Small talk? From him? Were you not so out of your element, you might have laughed outright. “Fine… I guess,” you reply awkwardly, acutely aware of the stares directed at you. A blonde woman shamelessly drools over him. The bitter pang in your chest is unexpected.

“Will you tell me why I’m here?” you murmur, leaning to him.

Aemond mirrors you, closer than necessary, as if you’re two magnets pulled by a force to each other. “Will you admit you missed me?” he asks, brushing an invisible speck of dust from your arm, his fingertips skimming your skin.

You roll your eyes, though the corners of your mouth lift upward. “Are you going to ask me that every time we meet?”

“I wouldn’t have to if you were honest.”

Every time he’s gone, it feels like you’re worlds apart. But once he’s back, being next to him feels like the most normal thing in the world.

The bartender sets two glasses between you, the liquid inside an alluring, deep emerald. Aemond slides both toward you with a nudge.

"Drink."

“I can’t.” You shake your head, sitting up straighter. “I still have work after this errand. Can we just—”

“When I tell you to drink, I mean it.”

The teasing edge vanishes, replaced by something more dangerous. The change is always startling—one moment, a seducer; the next, he’s someone who doesn’t ask, only commands.

Tension knots in your stomach.

“Can you just tell me what’s going on?” you demand, hoping to match his tone.

“It won’t do either of us any good if you start overthinking what I’m about to tell you. And since I can feel your nerves, I’d suggest you drink,” he says, his tone sending shivers down your spine. “The sooner you drink it, the sooner you’ll be free,” he adds, nodding toward the shot.

The past few weeks, you’ve been trying to predict what the errand might be about, but if there’s anything you can be sure of, it’s that demons are anything but predictable. You glance at the liquid, then back at him. His gaze doesn’t waver. Reluctantly, you swallow hard and tip the glass back.

The burn is sharp, igniting a fire down your throat that makes you cough. You press a hand to your chest as if that might soothe the inferno.

"Unless you expect me to crawl on my knees," you mutter, wincing at the aftertaste, "I’m drawing the line at this shot." Whatever it is, the drink feels potent enough to knock over the devil himself.

Aemond’s body stills. The shift is imperceptible at first, but soon you capture it. You feel a shiver down your spine instantly, as if your body is telling you that humans don’t do this. Don’t go perfectly still.

“What?” you ask, blinking at him.

His lips part just slightly before curving. “The thought of you on your knees…,” he replies, and the sapphire color of his eyes burns with fire. If anyone could undo you with just their eyes, it’d be him.

Heat floods your chest, as if you’ve just taken another shot.

"Not happening," you whisper, willing yourself to hold his gaze. It’s harder than you’d like to admit.

"We’ll see." The reply comes without hesitation. It’s not smug, no—just weirdly knowing. Aware of the power he holds over you. The power you’re aware of too.

"You never just get to the point, do you?" You tilt your head, feigning mild exasperation—anything to regain an ounce of control.

"I’m here to make a pact," he says, leaning in until his knee brushes against yours.

A pact? In the restaurant?

"You’re my date," he adds, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

You blink at him.

"I’m what?" The question comes out louder than intended, drawing a few curious glances. The blonde woman’s glare now feels openly hostile. She wouldn’t hesitate to take your place if given the chance, you think, oblivious to the way your face frowns.

Aemond smirks. "This confused look of yours is delightful." He reaches out, tilting your chin so you’re forced to meet his gaze.

"That doesn’t make any sense," you say, your voice dropping lower. "Why would you need me?"

"These people…" He gestures subtly around the room. "They read between the lines. I don’t need them doing that. That’s where you come in.” His gaze flicks downward, just for a second, to the slit of your dress.

Perfect. Now you’re helping a demon make pacts.

"So I’m your distraction?"

"A breathtaking one." The way he says it—it isn’t flattery, just fact.

Under different circumstances, he’d make you blush.

“Is it too late to ask to babysit Vhagar instead?” you ask, shifting uncomfortably in your chair.

“Let’s see in three weeks.” He nudges another shot toward you, watching, waiting.

Knowing where the evening is headed, you grab the glass and down it in one motion. The burn doesn’t bother you this time.

“What do I have to do?”

He shrugs. “Be here. With me.”

So simple. And yet… suspicion crawls under your skin.

“If it doesn’t work?”

"There’s always a backup plan."

Those words are meant to reassure you, but the glint in his eyes suggests otherwise. The mischief there tells you everything—you might not like the alternative.

"I’m not going to like it, am I?"

You exhale, weighing your options. The entrance—and the exit—feel impossibly far away, as though the space itself has shifted, trapping you in place.

He only smirks, rising to his feet and extending his hand.

"Don’t worry, little dove. I’d never do anything to hurt you."

You wonder what would happen if you backed out now. What consequences would follow?

Sue’s "predictable" echoes in your head. Right, that’s what you’d be. Perhaps, if you want to be a more outstanding author, there are risks to be taken in your life.

Your hand hovers just above his for a moment before you give in. His grip is firm, his fingers settling over yours, intertwining with yours as he leads you deeper into the restaurant—into the unknown.

"Everyone’s staring," you murmur.

The realization comes slowly, drawn out by the awareness of countless eyes tracking your every step. It hadn’t occurred to you before how nerve-wracking it would be to be seen with Aemond.

The ladies' looks are almost palpable—they'd kill to be in your place. Meanwhile, the men’s lingering stares are devouring, as if they envy Aemond as much as they desire to be him.

A demon and his lady client.

You wonder if anyone can tell.

Aemond glances over his shoulder, meeting your gaze. “Let them stare,” he says, unbothered. His voice is calm, unconcerned, as if he’s long since grown used to the attention.

“What’s this work you mentioned?” he asks, plucking you from your thoughts with the ease of someone who has done it before.

"A rewrite," you answer, only now realizing the alcohol has settled into your veins faster than expected. The room seems sharper, every color richer.

“Of what?”

“A restaurant scene,” you reply, a hint of irony in your voice as your heels echo on the marble floor.

“Don’t,” he says over his shoulder.

You blink, disoriented for a split second.

"Don’t what?"

"Rewrite it."

He doesn’t turn fully, only angles his head slightly. "It’s good."

"Sue thinks—wait, what?"

Your breath catches, your mind sharpening against the pleasant haze as you finally catch the meaning behind his words.

"Did you read my notes?"

He says nothing.

But you feel it—the subtle curve of his lips.

Heat prickles along your spine. That means he knows.

He knows what inspiration you’ve drawn from him, what form it has taken on the page.

But before you can demand an explanation—or die of mortification—you find yourself standing at a table where six men sit, dressed in dark suits and polished shoes.

They’re oddly similar, like carbon copies of each other, moulded from suspicion and self-importance. Their eyes pierce into you, as if peeling back your layers.

“Ah, gentlemen,” Aemond says, his presence expanding, filling the space with his chilling aura, as if the very air trembles before the unseen force. “The wait is over.”

“You’re with a companion,” remarks one of the men with a cheesy grin—the kind that makes you instantly certain you’d never willingly hold a conversation with him.

“What a beautiful lady you are,” he adds, shaking Aemond’s hand before leaning in to press a kiss to the back of your hand.

“What an understatement,” Aemond says flatly, his tone tinged with boredom. Yet there’s something lethal beneath it, a subtle warning that makes the man release your hand. You’re grateful for that.

Though his smile doesn’t waver, something shifts in his eyes—a flicker of unease.

“Another chair for the lady,” the man commands a nearby waiter, his voice louder than necessary, as if trying to reassert his confidence.

“No need,” Aemond dismisses, already settling into the soft chair. He tugs on your hand ever so slightly.

Hint taken.

The men exchange puzzled glances as you ease yourself onto Aemond’s lap with a grace that feels instinctual, as if you’ve done this a hundred times before. You’re keenly aware of the elegant trick the dress’s deep slit provides, falling open to reveal the curve of your thigh—just the right degree of exposure. Enough to spark admiration. Maddeningly elusive.

“Shall we begin?” Aemond asks, securing his arm around your waist.

These men may wear ties and jackets, yet they are no longer the most authoritative here.

“Before we do,” one of them says, his earlier flattery now replaced by a wary tone, “can we be certain this conversation will remain… private? With all due respect, we didn’t expect another party to be present.”

Oh.

From “beautiful lady” to “third party” in record time.

Either Aemond catches your thought, or the same realization occurs to him, because a chuckle rumbles through his chest. Pressed so closely against him, you feel a suspicious note in it—a raw growl lurking beneath the surface.

A reminder that, despite his carefully concealed nature, his true form is never far.

“I’d trust her with my soul, were I to have one,” he finally replies, his tone light, yet his unblinking stare says it all.

Tread carefully.

The men exchange glances again, their unease more pronounced now. Aemond’s narrowed eyes and the faintly mocking glint within them suggest he knows exactly what they’re thinking.

They’ve come here to outsmart the demon—the unknown, dangerous force.

Could they be so naïve?

“Let’s begin, then,” one of them says curtly, eager to move past the tension. Wary of you or not, they won’t miss a chance to make a successful deal.

As the discussion shifts to the cold, calculated language of business, it’s not the words you follow, but their gestures, tone of voice, and facial expressions.

Their eyes—steely, cold—now spark with greed.

We want more is the phrase spoken between the lines.

And Aemond? He promises them more, stoking their hunger with each word he speaks. Sweet lies are woven with half-truths.

One of them licks his lips, like a starving man who’s just spotted a roasted chicken—ready to take whatever Aemond offers without a second thought.

Another gulps down his drink too quickly, amber liquid slipping past the rim of his glass, catching the dim light before disappearing onto his trousers. He mutters a curse, loosens his tie, then tosses it aside altogether.

When the desire grows, the patience wears off.

Two other men—likely brothers—share a striking resemblance, their crooked noses making them look like vultures. They exchange occasional glances, a silent language practiced for years.

A hunch tells you Aemond speaks the language just as well.

The man who first spoke to you is the Trojan horse.

It doesn’t take long to realize he’s not the leader of the pack, but the entertainer, the distraction—the one meant to pull attention onto himself.

And the last man—the one seated directly before you—has an unsettlingly pale complexion.

Might he be the one with the final say?

When his gaze meets yours, something cold rushes down your spine. Even his irises seem devoid of color—vast, empty. Terrifying.

You look away, lowering your chin onto Aemond’s shoulder, staring into the distance as if you could shake off that gaze.

Aemond’s hand presses more firmly against your waist—a silent reassurance. A reminder that no man in this room poses a real threat to you.

Because, in truth, the only one capable of devious, unspeakable, horrendous things is the one caressing you right now.

The hum of conversation fades into the background, replaced by the swelling music from the stage.

A petite woman with crimson lips stands under the spotlight, her voice soft yet striking, blending seamlessly with the deep resonance of the bass and cello—a rhythm both powerful and gentle at once.

(Can someone tell me if I'm wrong to be so mad about you?Mad about you...)

You inhale deeply, and his scent consumes you—bitter and earthy, touched with leather and smoke.

The kind that lingers. That seeps into your clothes, your hair, your bloodstream. That stays with you for days after he’s gone.

There’s a light trace of the sea in it, salt-kissed and untamed.

Without thinking, your arm drapes over him in a half-embrace, fingers slipping into his hair. Always impossibly soft.

Your fingertips tangle in the strands, trailing to his nape, and Aemond shifts—just barely. A tilt of his head, a fraction of movement, but enough. A wordless indulgence. Here.

A smile tugs at the corner of your lips.

Are you mad about him?

What an understatement.

You tell yourself it’s nothing but chemistry, a natural pull. Simple. Logical. A favor for a favor.

But some part of you—small, wary—knows better.

Knows that somehow, without permission, he has taken possession of a piece of you. Something unseen but real.

A part that aches in his absence and rekindles in his presence.

It is not magic, nor his infernal charm.

It is you.

And that, more than anything, unsettles you.

And yet, frustration simmers beneath the surface.

Alys.

The knowledge of her is turmoil in your head. The reminder of the choice you ought to make: between what you believe in and what you crave. Bitterness spreads through your chest, and you shake your head.

Go away, you whisper to the treacherous thoughts.

Shifting slightly, you realize how stiff your body has become. As you cross one leg over the other, the slit of your dress parts even further, slipping up to your hip, baring smooth skin to the dim glow. Aemond’s hand is instantly there—steadying, claiming. His thumb strokes idle, soothing circles. His touch sets you ablaze instantly.

A minor shift in perspective, and suddenly—you no longer hate this evening.

In fact, you almost wish it were just the two of you.

“I just don’t see how this is supposed to work,” one of the brothers interjects, his skepticism dragging you back into the moment. “Our investments will strengthen simply because we receive some information from you? Or are we just supposed to hope things magically fall into place?”

Why is he even here? He’s either too cautious or not desperate enough.

“To answer that,” Aemond says. He sounds patient—too patient. “I’d have to explain the nature of mine.”

His fingers trail lightly along your inner thigh, featherlight, ticklish, prompting an almost imperceptible exhale from your lips.

“Which,” he continues, almost lazily, “is none of your business.”

The man across from him shifts in his seat, undeterred. “If I’m to sign a contract, I want proof that it works,” he insists. “Is there any evi—”

“Right here.”

It takes a moment to realize.

He’s talking about you.

The men fall silent. As you turn, you find their eyes glued to you. 

“You’ve made a deal?” one of them asks, his voice laced with intrigue.

Aemond leans back in his chair, draping himself in the shadows like a king reclining on his throne, as if to say this part is yours to handle.

“Yes,” you reply, your voice husky.

“What did you ask for?”

“For what I wanted,” you deflect.

Aemond exhales a quiet chuckle. Rather than hinting at amusement, it points to his satisfaction.

My girl.

The men lean in, eager, insatiable in their curiosity.

“Did you get it?”

“It’s an ongoing process,” you murmur, shifting slightly in his lap. His hand, resting against your thigh, tightens—just enough to still you. Just enough to tell you there’s nothing to be nervous about.

“But yes.”

They’re waiting for something more, and for a moment, you consider toying with them—dangling a half-truth in front of their faces just to watch them reach for it.

“I don’t think I can explain it any better than this—things just… work out for me. With incredible ease. A minor effort pays off as if it were the work of years.”

They mull over your words, their curiosity piqued. What was it that you asked for? What was your payment? And perhaps the most intriguing of all—why are you with him?

A waitress interrupts the hive of thoughts, setting another round of whiskey on the table.

“Does the lady fancy a drink?” another man asks. A last-ditch attempt to coax more words out of you? Huh.

You barely spare him a glance. “No, thanks.”

Instead, you lean back into Aemond, allowing yourself the indulgence of his warmth.

The smirk on the man’s face lingers just a moment too long, his gaze dipping—just for a second—to your bare legs.

The air shifts.

It’s not something seen, but felt. A creeping chill, as though an unseen door had opened to something far colder than winter itself.

Aemond doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

And yet, something in the room has already begun to die.

His fingers tap once. Twice. A slow, deliberate rhythm against your thigh.

Soothing—for you. A warning—for them.

And they hear it.

The man who had dared to look immediately averts his gaze, clearing his throat, suddenly interested in the amber depths of his whiskey glass.

They throw their questions at Aemond again, testing, pushing, searching for cracks in his patience.

He lets them.

Because patience is a hunter’s game. And standing still always yields a greater reward.

Soon enough, you realize: You may not fancy a drink, but you certainly fancy his attention. His hand has been painfully still on your thigh. You stretch your leg elegantly, shifting just enough to catch his notice. But there’s nothing. No reaction. No indulgence.

Then your gaze falls to the chain around his neck—a serpent, its form coiled in silver. It caught your attention the first moment you saw it. Mindlessly, your fingertips trace its head. The metal is cool beneath your touch. He mentioned earlier that Vhagar is mad with you. Your brows furrow. Is that why she wouldn’t appear?

As if hearing your thoughts, Aemond hums, amusement flickering in his eye, which has little to do with the men still bickering across the table. Their petty quarrel is meaningless, a game they think they can win. But you know better—desire for more will always prevail.

He must hear some of your thoughts. What does it depend on? It worked when you were afraid. But what else?

I’m bored, you think. When will we leave?

Nothing.

You narrow your eyes. How dare you read my notes? You try to sound sharper, angrier.

Still nothing.

It still makes your ears burn, knowing he read the restaurant scene and what ensued in the bathroom. It was sensual, way too sensual. You had to take a shower afterward, seeking your own release, haunted by the eerie sensation of being watched. Even though you’d been alone in the apartment, just you and Vhagar. Even though you checked the bathroom door. Twice.

The heat crawls up your neck, unbearable now.

Then, an idea slinks into your mind. Gorgeous and wicked, making you bite your lip. You tug at his chain, just slightly.

I’d like to reincarnate the restaurant scene. The bathroom part, to be precise.

A moment passes. His expression remains unchanged. No reaction. But then—you catch it. The faintest movement. His Adam’s apple bobs.

The excitement grows in your chest. You’re like a child discovering Santa Claus is real. For the first time since you made the deal, his ability to hear your thoughts might backfire on him. Now sensing the power you possess, you’re willing to push further.

They’re so dull, you muse, feigning indifference. I’d rather let you take me against the wall than listen to another minute of this conversation.

His jaw clenches.

When his sapphire eyes meet yours, they glint with a warning.

“If we can think a bit further—”

“You cannot,” Aemond cuts in, his patience threadbare. His body stiffens beneath you, every muscle wound tight, coiled as if on the verge of snapping.

You trail your fingers along his jaw, as if to soothe.

Shhh.

The others exchange glances, oblivious to the undercurrent between you and him.

“I don’t know if we’re ready to sign it today.”

“Sign it today or never.” Aemond shrugs, the motion lazy, but his voice—his voice is pure command, final and absolute. No room for negotiation. No room for doubt.

You watch the sweat bead upon the forehead of the man who’s done most of the talking. The others fall silent, weighing Aemond’s words, his dangerous tone silencing their thoughts and reminding them not to test him further.

But you?

Fear doesn’t creep in.

Instead, your skin prickles with something far more potent—desire.

If there’s even a chance his urgency is tied to your own thoughts…

I’m not wearing underwear.

Aemond exhales sharply through his nose, muttering something in a language you don’t understand—but it sounds like a curse. A slow smile curves your lips. Now, you’re certain—you’ve won this round.

There’s a taut string within you, stretched thin, ready to snap at any moment. If you feel it, he must, too.

He doesn’t look at you. He doesn’t need to. His body speaks for him—his grip tightening upon your thigh, then easing, as if he can’t decide whether to press further or pull away. The hesitation lasts only a moment. Then, his long fingers ghost up the inside of your thigh, brushing against the fabric bunched at the bend of your knee. The touch is fleeting, nearly innocent. But now it feels far more intimate.

You shift, uncrossing your legs. The deep slit in your dress parts with the motion, baring more skin to the cool air, and more importantly—to him.

And still, he does nothing.

A fucking tease.

You bite your lip, but he’s already caught it—the way your thighs tremble just slightly. His head tilts, savoring the shift, the fact that for the first time, you’re the one to initiate this.

The men continue their droning, unaware of the game being played right before them.

Aemond’s patience is fraying. Yet he takes his time. His knuckles skim along the sensitive skin. Further. And further. Never enough.

Your fingers curl tighter around his chain, frustration and need bubbling under the surface.

“Careful,” he murmurs so low only you can hear, the word slipping past his lips like silk.

You almost curse, when one of the men speaks again.

“It all sounds very compelling, I must say,” he says, nodding his head. “What of the price?”

Aemond doesn’t respond right away. You know he already has everything settled in his mind—he just enjoys torturing them. Painting their dream life so vividly, only to remind them, through silence, that it may remain just a dream for the rest of their lives.

He’d play this game longer, indulge himself in the show, but this time…he could be indulging in far better things.

Finally, Aemond asks, “What are you willing to give?”

The man hesitates, then holds his gaze.

“Everything.”

Aemond tilts his head, pleased. His eyes flicker to you for a fraction of a second, as if to tell you, “soon.”

“A soul, then.” His voice bears no menace. “Each of you sacrifices your soul for the best life.” Just pure allure—like a siren’s song. Impossible to resist.

“Objections?”

No one dares to. Not to Aemond.

With a stretch of his fingers, Aemond calls forth six contracts, each landing with a resounding thud on the table in front of each of the businessmen.

“A signature, and we’re done.” Aemond’s voice is calm, almost too calm, as he watches the men reach for the contracts.

“We wish to read them carefully, though,” one man hedges. “No offense, but we wouldn’t want to fall into… the unpleasant pitfall.”

Your throat tightens. There’s definitely a pitfall, something Aemond doesn’t wish for them to know. Aemond responds almost mockingly, his lips curling, reminding you of the Cheshire Cat. “If you find one, let me know.”

The papers shuffle—a mindless, grating sound that only serves to remind you how much longer this meeting is dragging on. Their contract is far more extensive than yours, and with every page turned, your sighs grow heavier. It’s clear now: you’re trapped here for far longer than expected. The ache between your thighs doesn’t go away.

You glance at Aemond, wondering what he makes of this tiresome ordeal. What if they find something they’re not supposed to? But he gives nothing away. No irritation, no urgency—at least not outwardly. Instead, his hand resumes lazily along your thigh, tracing absentminded circles, as if there were only the two of you in the room.

Leaning in, you let your lips graze his ear, fingers curling loosely around the back of his neck. “I wish we were elsewhere.”

He hums, as if considering. “You’ve been so good. Sitting on my lap all evening,” he whispers against your neck. “Delicious, in your gorgeous dress.” His hand shifts higher, fingers teasing the sensitive inner plane of your thigh. “Do you like it?”

You exhale softly, your body stirring under his burning touch. “Mm. Yes.”

And you are no longer sure you speak about the dress.

His mouth moves to your neck, pressing feather-light kisses there, causing you to lean into his touch. “And I see you like being naughty.” His teeth scrape. “Imagine if they could hear your filthy little thoughts.”

Your stomach tightens. The idea alone—

“I was just bored,” you whisper in your defense.

“No, you’re not.” He leans back just enough to meet your gaze. “You’re just terribly, terribly needy.” His fingers slide higher, teasing where you crave his touch the most. “Do you want your reward for today?”

“Yes.” Your voice trembles on the verge of pleading.

His smirk is pure indulgence. “You could have had it properly,” he muses, thumb pressing into the soft flesh. “Like a good girl. We’d leave after this insufferable meeting, head straight to my apartment, and I’d let you have all that you wanted.” He exhales, feigning regret. “If only you were a bit more patient.”

Your body thrums with heat, with need—so much so that it takes a second too long to process what he’s just said.

“So now you choose: get it here, now—or not at all.”

The realization strikes you, eyes widening.

“But… there are people.”

He shrugs, utterly indifferent. “The choice is yours.” And just like that, his hand pulls away, retreating to a maddening distance. His head tilts slightly to the side, signaling that, to him, the conversation is over.

No. No, no, no—

The loss of warmth makes you feel unmoored, unsteady. He just can’t leave you hanging like this.

Your gaze flickers to the restaurant, scanning the dimly lit space. There are barely any customers left, the lights grow dimmer. The businessmen remain hunched over their contracts, too engrossed to spare a glance. Perhaps…

You bite your lip. No. That’s madness.

Aemond’s lips graze the shell of your ear. “I’d bet I could make you cum twice before they even reach section 5.6.”

You have no clue what the hell section 5.6 is, but that doesn’t matter. The idea alone makes something coil low in your belly.

You could say no. You could get up, fix your dress, pretend none of this happened. You could even take some revenge, whisper something cruel to wipe that smug look off his face, leave him wanting instead.

But none of those things happen.

It feels like you’re caught between an angel and a devil—except the angel lingers on your shoulder, while the devil… well, he’s right under you, ready to please you.

Your thighs press together, desperate for something, anything.

The time drags unbearably slowly.

If you’re quiet… if you’re careful…

His fingertips ghost along your knee, barely there, yet reminding you of what could be.

“Okay.” The word is barely a whisper, your voice as if it no longer belongs to you.

Aemond stills. He doesn’t move, doesn’t react—not immediately. Instead, he studies you, savors the moment.

A beat passes. Then another.

And then, he smirks.

“Okay—what?”

Your throat tightens. Of course. He won’t let you off that easily.

“I…” Your voice is hoarse, breathless.

Aemond raises a single brow, waiting.

Your pride and desire war within you. It’s always a dance with him.

“I want it now.”

His eyes darken, the victory sweet. Not because you’ve surrendered, but because he’s dragged it out of you. He holds your gaze, reveling in your desperation—because beneath it, he’s drowning in his own.

Your heart pounds as his hand moves at last, finally venturing closer to where you need him. His fingers pause at your outer lips, grazing over the damp heat gathered there, teasing. The torturously slow glide sends a sharp shiver up your spine, your thighs tensing in response.

Your fingers curl into the fabric of his jacket, grasping, anchoring yourself against the inevitable storm.

His mercurial nature is a torment you’ve learned to endure, but never predict. Sometimes he is ruthless, impatient—other times, he takes his time. Tonight, it seems, he has eternity.

A slow exhale shudders past your lips as he begins tracing idle circles over your sensitive bud— unhurried, devastating.

Are you mad about him? Or perhaps, just mad?

Your breath catches. Your thighs twitch. It is unbearable, this teasing. You know he feels the way you tremble, the way your body pleads without words. And yet, he waits for those. Your fingers tighten around the fabric of his jacket again, nails biting into the fine material. It’s a silent plea, a prayer—anything to make him move faster. But Aemond is patient. His pleasure is drawn from the unraveling, from making you feel everything before he gives you anything.

“I need more,” you whisper.

A hum vibrates in his throat, pleased, indulgent. And then, finally, he gives in.

More pressure. More friction. More of him.

The shift in pace is dizzying. Your body reacts instinctively, arching into him, fingers fisting in his clothes. A moan spills past your lips before you can stop it. You bite down hard in an attempt to stifle it, but it’s a futile battle. Those treacherous sounds are willing to let everyone know how good he makes you feel.

Does anyone hear you? Do they notice?

It no longer matters.

You bury your face against his neck, seeking refuge in his scent, the warmth of his skin. But refuge does not exist—not when he is the very thing consuming you.

The text is long, the room is dull, and your whimpers are so seductive and distracting. They try not to look. They try not to listen. But some things are impossible to ignore.

Your body moves in hypnotic surrender, as if you are not flesh and bone, but something more fluid, more enchanted—a silken ribbon, twisting under the masterful guidance of his hands. The tension winds tighter, coiling until it is unbearable—until it finally snaps. The molten lava spills through your veins, each nerve on fire before it settles into stillness.

You taste metal.

Your lip—bitten too hard.

But before you can think to wipe it away, his tongue skims over your mouth, licking the blood. Just the idea that you’re closer to the kiss than ever makes you tremble with excitement. But he doesn’t give you that. He pulls away.

Your mouth opens, words poised on the tip of your tongue—but they die there.

“I think I said twice,” he murmurs, no longer caring who hears.

A single finger slides inside you, curling in search of something that will ruin you all over again.

“Fuck.” It barely escapes your lips.

Through half-lidded eyes, you catch a flicker of movement—the man across from you casts a glance, his throat bobbing, before hurriedly lowering his gaze back to the papers. There is only so much one can pretend not to see.

A second finger joins, stretching you open, making you whimper, squirm. Not for his steady hand on your waist, you’d be on the floor.

A cough follows.

“All seems to be good,” a voice says, laced with forced nonchalance.

“Good,” Aemond echoes, his fingers never ceasing, his touch never relenting.

“So… we just sign it?”

You panic, the sudden awareness of the eyes on you tightening your chest. You try to squirm away, to stop him, but your body betrays you—only offering more of your surrender. His grip on you tightens, as though sensing your futile attempt to resist.

“Aha.”

You would hear the scraping of quills, the rustling of documents, were you not deafened by your own pleasure.

“We’d ask you to sign one of our papers. To commemorate the day.”

“Sure.” His voice is composed. As if you’re not falling apart on his lap. “Just give me a moment.”

Your breath catches, muscles tightening, toes curling as another wave of pleasure crests and crashes over you. Your body fights against the pleasure before surrendering fully, head tipping back against his shoulder. Your lips part in a silent cry, unable to contain the way he unravels you with nothing more than his hand and his patience.

Aemond shifts, ever so slightly.

The parchment waits.

He leans forward, still holding you against him, still keeping you in place. The movement presses you closer, forces your legs open just enough for one last, deliberate graze of his fingers. A soft, ruined whimper escapes you, for him to hear.

He takes a pen from one of the men nearby, his fingers slick with the evidence of your ruin.

He scrawls his signature, smooth and steady, as though nothing had happened. As if he hadn’t just reduced you to a trembling mess.

Six pairs of eyes will remember what they saw.

And the document itself will remember your scent.

As the realization sets in, you find yourself on the street. The city hums around you, though the crowd has thinned. Just a few figures move through the glow of streetlights, the distant wail of a siren weaving through the night air.

You’ve left as soon as you heard “the deal is done,” so as not to face those clients of his again. Not to see their greedy, judging eyes. You have no doubt they are not just dangerous, but the kind who take pleasure in hurting the innocent, the gullible. The kind you used to be. Or maybe you still are.

A cab slows to a stop a few meters away, waiting. Job complete. Duty fulfilled. And yet, you don’t move. Something keeps you rooted, as if the night isn’t finished with you yet. As if there are words left unsaid, a tension unresolved, an absence of closure.

You don’t have to wait long.

A presence at your side. The faintest whisper of fabric brushing your arm. You don’t need to look to know it’s him.

“So, that’s it?” you ask, watching the blur of passing headlights.

“That’s it,” he confirms. The soft flick of his lighter follows. The scent of burning tobacco curls into the air, familiar now.

The coiling feeling inside points to awkwardness within you. After such… encounters, he usually leaves, sparing either of you from dealing with the aftermath and silence. You steal a glance at him, but his expression is calm, almost serene.

“What was it you didn’t want them to know?”

“Does it really matter?” He exhales, the cigarette’s ember brightening as he takes a slow drag.

“I suppose not.” You shrug. “Just curious.”

“They’ll get what they desire.”

“It sounds like there’s a but coming.”

A pensive "hm" ensues, and that’s it. Just another slow drag, another lingering pause.

But then, a lurch in your stomach breaks it. You press a hand to your abdomen instinctively, regretting skipping lunch. Now that the tension is gone, you could eat a wolf.

Aemond notices. Of course, he does.

“You’re hungry.”

“Great observation,” you mutter, voice laced with sarcasm but lacking bite. You don’t remember whether something is energy-sustaining in your fridge, and you wonder if you should get a takeaway from the nearest restaurant. But your train of thought is soon interrupted as he speaks.

“Let’s get dinner.”

You blink at him, caught off guard. “You’re serious?”

“Absolutely.” Aemond flicks his cigarette away, crushing the ember beneath his boot, looking at you expectantly.

“But you don’t even eat.”

“Well, you do,” he counters. “How about you show me your favorite place?” There’s a note of curiosity in his tone, as this indeed bears a grain of interest to him.

“Favorite place?” you echo, still stunned by the change of conversation. The request lands heavier than it should. A simple thing, really. But since breaking up with Cregan, you haven’t gone out much. The thought of returning to places you once shared—where laughter had been easy, where memories linger in the corners of tables and menus—is enough to make your chest tighten. It’s almost as if your life had been held on pause since then.

You hesitate, the past threatening to drown you, until—

“Oh, I know just the one.”

And then—

His arm brushes yours, casual, but as you step forward together, his elbow hooks loosely with yours. A simple gesture, yet it carries a strange, grounding serenity. It feels oddly natural, as if you’ve been strolling the streets this way countless times before.

The city stretches ahead, neon signs flickering, pavement gleaming from an earlier rain.

Somewhere between one step and the next, a thought strikes you. “What does it really mean to sell a soul?” you ask, lifting your head to meet his gaze. The height difference makes it a bit awkward.

His eyes narrow slightly, a playful glint flickering behind them. “What do you think it means?”

“I don’t know. You demons are unpredictable.”

“Come on, you’re a writer. I’m sure you have some good ideas.”

“Serving you in their afterlife?”

“No.”

“Running your errands?”

“Already got you on it.”

You pout slightly. “Give me a hint.”

“No.”

“Will they die?” You lower your voice as an elderly couple passes by.

“Sooner or later. But not because of me.”

You huff in frustration. “Then I have no clue. Maybe I’m just a boring writer.”

Aemond tilts his head slightly toward you. “You’re better than you think you are.”

The warmth spreads across your chest, though a part of you wants to deflect, to say, No, I’m not.Instead, you smirk. “Who still has to do a rewrite.”

He doesn’t say a word. But somehow, this hits—not as if he didn’t hear, but as if he’s telling you that the choice is yours.

Then, bracing yourself, you ask, “Did you really read the chapter?”

“A small part of it.”

You gape at him. “I don’t believe it. Did you hack my laptop or something?” The rush of emotions distracts you, making you stumble slightly to the side. Aemond’s grip is immediate, pulling you back in place before you even process the tilt.

“Why would I bother? Your notebook practically screams read me lying at the corner of your desk.”

Relief washes over you. “Those are just vague notes.”

“Recognizable enough.”

Your cheeks warm. Oh. Of course, he’d recognize the traces of your previous meeting.

“Wanted to mock me?” you ask, growing defensive.

He looks at you, curious. “Why would I do that?”

“Why else would you read them?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, and you wonder if he’s crafting an excuse.

“I wanted to know what goes on in that pretty head of yours.” Your breath catches, your step faltering for half a second.

“You don’t seem to struggle reading my thoughts.”

“I hear them,” he corrects. “Some are louder—those are easier to pinpoint. But a lot simmers beneath the surface.”

You frown, trying to imagine what that must be like. “That’s beyond my understanding, I’m afraid.” Though, a part of you desperately wants to grasp it.

“Almost like being underwater,” he muses. “You hear voices from above, but the words are blurred.”

You blink, surprised by the unexpected poetry of his answer. “Wow.”

A smirk tugs at his lips. “I know. Mind-blowing, isn’t it?”

“Actually,” you counter, a slow smile creeping onto your face, “the mind-blowing part is that, for once, you actually answered my question.”

You halt, and he stops as well.

“You ought to promise you won’t read my notes without my permission again,” you say, and you mean it.

“Let me guess. If I don’t, you’ll strip me of the privilege of seeing your favorite place?”

You chuckle. “Trust me, I’ll come up with something more interesting. Besides—"

You tug at his hand, circling him so he faces the façade of the building. “We’re already here.”

His gaze lifts. “Mimosa Pizza,” he reads, the name rolling off his tongue as he inspects the exterior. Far less fancy than the restaurant you’ve just been to.

"Judging me?" you exclaim, feigning offense as you step backward toward the pizzeria.

“Never.” He shakes his head, and as if drawn by some invisible pull, follows you inside.

“Five foxes, three rabbits, two frogs, and only one teddy bear left,” the dart attendant announces. “Three hits in the apple with the darts, and you get to choose. If you miss slightly, I'll pick for you.” He looks young, certainly a high school teen doing his part-time job.

Aemond stands behind you, your presence drawing the attention of some people around. Probably, your outfits totally stand out against the casualness of the environment—almost as if you had stepped from another world into this one.

“Aren't people supposed to eat here?” You can feel the way Aemond leans in, studying the setup with mild distaste.

Your gaze follows his—past the dart stand, to the small crowd loitering near the entrance of the pizzeria. A man stands poised with a dart in hand, his date watching expectantly. He’s eager to impress, you can tell. A first date, maybe. A grand gesture of skill and charm.

Unfortunately, his skill is non-existent. Two darts veer wildly off course, one embedding itself into the plastic wall, causing a hushed series of giggles around.

“On weekends, they hold a darts competition,” you explain. “Winners get to take home a plush toy. But only couples can play.” You pause, then turn to him with a glint of hope. “Think you could win that teddy for me?”

“Why would you need it?” he asks, genuinely baffled.

“It’s cute.”

“It’s enormous,” he counters. “It’s half the size of your kitchen.”

“All the better.”

“It’s a collector of dust. Not to mention the layers it’s accumulated just sitting here.”

“Fluffy. Cuddly.”

“Your lungs won’t thank you.”

“Says who? The smoker?”

Another man in front lands three darts fairly close to the apple. Not perfect, but close enough. The server hands his date a fox, and they walk off, pleased. Another couple steps up to take their turn.

Aemond tilts his head at the bear, unimpressed. “Doesn’t even look like a bear.”

“I’ll forgive you for reading my notes if you get it for me.”

“What would you even do with it?”

You shrug. “Sleep with it?”

His skeptical look is lost on you, as you observe the couple ahead walking away, empty-handed.

The staff member turns to you with a polite smile. “Good evening! Enjoying the night?”

Aemond scoffs. “Falling victim to marketing schemes.”

You ignore him, staring hopefully at the teddy bear.

“That one? He’s been here for three months.” He sighs, as if the bear’s fate were a story told too many times. “Maybe tonight’s the night he finally finds a home.”

You smile at him, but before you can say anything, Aemond’s voice cuts in, his brows furrowing.

“Three months? He’s practically made of dust.”

You freeze. Slowly, you turn your head, leveling him with a glare. He stands there, arms crossed, posture oozing disinterest, judgment written all over his annoyingly perfect face.

It’s the final straw.

With a sharp "whatever," you step away, heading to an empty table in the distance. What did you expect from that self-assured demon ass?  That he’d play along for something as insignificant as a stuffed toy? Stupid.

Then—

Thwack.

A dart hits the apple, dead center.

Conversations dull. Heads turn.

Thwack.

Another.

A flicker of surprise crosses your face. You already know. Before you even look, you know.

Thwack.

You turn.

Aemond stands there, tall, unbothered, looking at the darts with mild disinterest.

The crowd murmurs in astonishment. The boy’s mouth is slightly agape as he watches the three darts land just in the apple—so damn precise. Perhaps it’s the first time anyone has shown real skill in this place.

Aemond exhales through his nose, as if even this is beneath him. He lifts a lazy hand, pointing.

“That brown, two-eared creature with the lopsided bow,” he says.

The teddy bear.

The boy blinks, hurries to fetch it, and hesitates only briefly before handing it over. His mouth is still open as he follows Aemond walking in your direction.

Your lips tug upward at the sight—a demon, tall, imposing, elegantly dressed, who sealed a pact and claimed six souls, now walking toward you holding a teddy bear.

You step forward, reaching out, and when your fingers brush against the plush fabric, a surprised breath escapes you. It’s softer than you expected.

A few people around gaze in your direction, touched by the scene.

“Thank you,” you murmur against the softness of the teddy.

Aemond doesn’t respond immediately. He stays still, watching you, almost seems like he’s… taking the moment in.

Then, just as quickly, he turns, heading toward the table you claimed earlier.

“I still get to read your notes, though,” he throws over his shoulder, a smirk playing on his lips.

You blink, the warmth of the moment instantly shattered. “Don't you dare!”

Now, there are three of you at the table: you and the teddy on one side, Aemond on the other. The pizzeria is cramped with small, haphazardly arranged tables, the air thick with the scent of melting cheese and oregano. You usually prefer places with fewer people, but this spot has the best pizza in town, and that is a game-changer.

You flick through the menu out of habit, though you already know what you’ll order. After a moment, you set it aside, only to find Aemond’s gaze fixed on the plush toy.

You stifle a laugh. Do demons have problems with toys?

“I’ll call him Ewan,” you announce, giving the teddy an affectionate pat.

Aemond’s stare drifts from the bear to you, as if trying to determine whether you’re joking. “And now you give it a name.” He sounds amused.

You roll your eyes. “Your snake has a name too.”

“That’s different.” He leans back slightly, fingers drumming once against the table. “She’s a living, highly intelligent creature.” A pause. “Besides, I didn’t name her.”

“Then who did?”

“She told me her name.”

You blink, momentarily thrown. “And yet you call my teddy weird?”

Aemond shrugs, nonchalant.

Then a waiter approaches—young, neatly dressed, and visibly nervous. You’d noticed earlier that he and another waitress had been engaged in a quiet but intense debate about who would take your table. The loser now stands before you, notepad in hand, wearing a polite yet wary smile.

“Good evening! Have you made up your mind?”

“One Hawaiian, please.”

The waiter nods, scribbling quickly before turning to Aemond. There’s a flicker of hesitation in the young man’s posture, his fingers tightening around the notepad as though resisting the urge to fidget.

Aemond doesn’t respond.

Just stares.

The waiter’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “A-And for you, sir?”

Silence.

Aemond tilts his head slightly, as if studying a new species. That alone is enough to make the poor guy visibly sweat.

You sigh, taking pity on him. “A glass of water, please.”

Relief floods the young man’s face. “Of course! Right away.” He nearly trips in his haste to escape, disappearing toward the kitchen like a man fleeing a crime scene.

“You need to learn to blink,” you mutter.

“I know how to blink.”

“Then do it more often. Your stare is terrifying.”

His lips curl into a sly smirk. “Who said I want it to be less terrifying?”

You huff. “Silly me.”

His smirk lingers for a second before fading into something more contemplative. He leans back, draping one arm over the chair’s backrest in an effortless sprawl, his fingers idly tracing the wood. “It’s a very human thing,” he muses. “Wanting to fit in. Social bonds matter to you.”

“Seems to be true for you too,” you counter. The implication of marriage burns on your tongue, but you hesitate to voice it.

Aemond knows. His stare sharpens, daring you to say it.

Not today, you decide.

Instead, he changes course. “What is it that you truly want to know about me?” He leans forward this time, elbows on the table, fingers laced as he rests his chin against them.

“As if you’d actually answer,” you say, not bothering to hide your disbelief.

“Let’s see.”

Over the past few months, questions have built up in your mind, a hive of curiosity buzzing at the edges of your thoughts. But now, in the moment, nothing decent comes to you.

Finally, you settle on, “You said you feed on emotions. Tell me how it works.”

He studies you for a beat before answering. “A bond is formed through a deal. Every time a human experiences an emotion, I gain energy from it. Since you’re emotional creatures, you make excellent sources of power.”

“So all emotions are the same to you?”

Aemond raises a brow, considering your words. You clarify, “If someone is grieving or suffering, does that also give energy?”

“The stronger the emotion, the better.” His voice is almost lazy, but there’s something unsettling in the way he says it. A shiver creeps up your spine at the thought—something out there thrives on pain.

Sensing your discomfort, Aemond adds, “But since humans make pacts for a better life, positive emotions prevail.”

You exhale. “But overall, it doesn’t matter to you what those people feel?”

“Not exactly.” He taps his fingers against the table again. “Emotions provide energy, but the bond has side effects. Greed makes a demon greedier. The same goes for anger.” His voice lowers slightly. “Lust.”

The way he says it makes you realize how tiny the table is, and how little distance there is between you. You can see his pupils dilated, studying your reaction. Like a cat watching a bird just within reach.

You force yourself to swallow down whatever your body just did in response. “And the stronger the bond, the more influenced you are?”

Aemond hums in agreement. “That’s why most demons avoid getting too close to their clients.”

“And yet, here you are,” you murmur, contemplatively.

“Just don’t flatter yourself.”

You don’t. But that feels like a small prick.

“And you always sense my emotions, right?”

He tilts his head again, a feline-like movement, almost hypnotic. “Yes. Though I don’t always know what they are.”

You blink. “You can’t tell?”

“Human emotions are… complicated.” He leans back slightly, searching for the right words. “Some blend together, make it hard to separate them. It’s like...” He pauses, searching for a comparison.

“Eating with your eyes closed?” you suggest.

His lips quirk. “That’s one way to put it.”

“Okay, then.” You lean forward, mirroring his earlier motion. “What do I feel now?”

He doesn’t answer immediately.

“Hunger,” he finally says. “Notes of satisfaction. But underneath, nervousness is simmering.” His gaze sharpens. “Something unpleasant stirred when I asked about your favorite place.”

The accuracy makes your stomach twist.

“I just…” You falter. A sudden, instinctive need to make an excuse wells up inside you, but you fight it back. Instead, you exhale and admit, “Your question made me remember my previous life. Back then things also improved suddenly, but then... everything fell apart.”

He says nothing. The weight of his gaze is too much, and the urge to look away, to focus on the table, finally wins out. Why would you even think about telling him that?

But then he says, “You have me now.”

Your breath stutters. When you lift your gaze, there’s no smirk. No teasing glint in his eye. Perhaps, you think, he’s just as uncertain about emotions as you are.

The moment is broken by the arrival of your food. A steaming, golden pizza lands on the table.

“Bon appétit!”

You blink, momentarily thrown off by the sudden shift. Your stomach tightens at the sight of food. Taking a bite, you hum at the delicious taste, savoring the melted cheese and sweet-salty tang of pineapple.

“You’re missing out,” you mumble between chews.

“Pineapples on pizza,” he remarks. “You never cease to impress me.”

“That’s the best combination.”

“It makes no sense.”

You grin, taking another bite. “You make no sense.”

He doesn’t argue. He just watches. Like something rare and fascinating. Something he doesn’t quite understand.

But maybe, just maybe—one day, he will.

Stepping outside, the air feels chillier than before. You pull the teddy bear closer to your chest, hoping it can offer you some warmth and dull the unease curling in your stomach. Tonight has unraveled in ways you didn’t expect. The beginning and the end feel like they belong to different stories entirely. And now, here you are—standing at the curb, waiting for a cab that will take you away from him. Yet there’s still one last unspoken thing.

Your lips part, ready to name the elephant in the room, to finally give voice to the thing that’s been gnawing at you. But at the last second, you falter. 

“You should tell me about the errands in advance,” you murmur, “So I can mentally prepare.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” 

There’s something careless in his voice, something that makes you wonder if, for him, tonight is just another moment to be tucked away, forgotten. A small, insignificant scene in his endless existence. 

You glance at your phone—four minutes until your ride arrives. Four minutes. Is that enough time to say what you need to? You chew your lip, hesitating.

It could end here. Maybe that way, it would be perfect, and you’d deal with the rest later.

“You should just say it,” Aemond drawls, hands in his pockets.

Of course, he already knows.

Your fingers tighten around the plush toy, gaze locked on the pavement. “Ever since I learned about her, I can’t let it go,” you say, regret lacing your voice. You wish—God, you wish—you could have remained oblivious. Or at least indifferent. But her touch lingers on your skin, too. You still see her true form hovering over you in your dreams. “You said it matters little,” you continue, voice barely above a whisper. “Yet it matters to me.”

Aemond’s expression shifts. That calmness you witnessed before is gone in an instant. “That’s the order of my world, not yours. You don’t have to overthink it.”

“But I do.” You force yourself to meet his gaze.

His arms fold across his chest. “What are you trying to say?” His lips twitch in annoyance. “Just spill it out already.”  It takes all the courage you have not to recoil.

“I’ll keep my end of the deal. I’ll run your errands.” You swallow, your throat suddenly tight. “But I think it’s best if… if nothing else happens between us.”

Silence.

Something in his expression shifts, like a crack in the stone. For a moment, you think he might fight you on this. That he’ll argue, that he’ll refuse to let you go.

But he doesn’t.

He just looks past you. Past everything.

Just minutes ago, things had felt almost perfect. Almost. But knowing he belongs to another, a demoness bound to him in ways you never could be, changes everything. It has to end here, while you still have the strength to walk away.

A brittle smile ghosts over your lips as you attempt to soften the blow. “I suppose… it’s like pineapple pizza for you. It just feels wrong.”

A sharp beep cuts through the night. Your taxi pulls over.

You turn slightly, glancing toward the open window of the car. “Just a moment, sir—”

But when you look back, your breath catches.

“Aemond?” You whisper his name, turning in place.

Your chest tightens as you scan the street, searching for any trace of him. A flash of silver hair, a shifting shadow beneath the streetlights—anything. But there’s nothing. Only strangers passing by, indifferent to your world tilting off its axis.

“Aemond?” You try again, but the name is swallowed by the darkness of the night.

No answer.

No sign of him.

If you'd like to be tagged in future chapters, please let me know here 💌 A kind reminder to all readers: every comment you share matters, as it fuels the writer's inspiration and passion. ♥️

[desireangel]

Lin???? I believe you have written the world’s sexiest man. And ohhhhhhh the ending!!! I can’t bear it my poor Aemond is in a bit of a stitch but it is so VALID. Masterpiece as always my friend!!! 😩😍♥️

[desireangel]

pls I come back to the internet to check in for 10 mins and Ewan for another Fontaines mv?? im afraid I cannot express my feelings of delight and excitement and happiness and

[desireangel]

hey guys! I’ve taken quite a good, long break to recuperate and recover from some health issues. Hopefully I’ll be back to my regular activity soon - sorry to those of you waiting on updates! Much love xx

[barbieaemond-deactivated2023102]

[aneurins-barnard]

Tom Bennett Ewan Mitchell

World on Fire Season 1, Episode 3

[greenowlfactif]

[silverspotted]

𝗔𝗘𝗠𝗢𝗡𝗗 𝗢𝗡𝗘 𝗘𝗬𝗘 — “𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗞𝗜𝗡 𝗦𝗟𝗔𝗬𝗘𝗥”

in the depths of chaos, a fractured gaze tells two stories:

one of power teetering on the edge, and the other of pain carved into flesh.

a union of triumph and torment, where victory tastes of blood and shadows linger in the soul.

look closer— can you see the storm raging within?

[desireangel]

send this to all your favourite moots and roll a snowball! KEEP THE SNOWBALL ROLLING!❄️🤍❄️🤍❄️

[pr3ttygrlz]

aemond targaryen council meetings s2

[hotdaemondtargaryen]

“Glynn-Carney's portrayal makes it nearly impossible to despise the king. In fact, one of the most harrowing scenes of House of the Dragon Season 2 is one that centers his pain. In the Small Council meeting after the brutal murder of Aegon and Helaena Targaryen's (Phia Saban) son Jaehaerys, the king bares all. Glynn-Carney portrays his character with such excruciating grief and searing rage here that you can perceive the mourning father within the incompetent ruler — albeit for just a brief moment.”

TOM GLYNN-CARNEY'S performance as Aegon II Targaryen is on TV Guide's list of the 10 Best TV performances of 2024.

[desireangel]

Honey & Venom | Chapter 1

Vampire!Aemond Targaryen x Fem!Reader

Summary: In exchange for an escape from his death, the curse upon Aemond had seemed an easy price to pay for an eternal life of strength and power. But when the time comes for his debt to be collected and a mysterious illness sends you to the doorstep of the reclusive and fearsome Lord of Harrenhal's century-old castle, Aemond is faced with the other half of his soul and the agonising realisation that perhaps the cost of his salvation will also become his downfall.

Word Count: 5.4K

Warnings: MDNI - Strictly 18+ ONLY. Dead Dove: Do Not Eat. Blood, sex and horror. Gore. Dub-con elements. Very similar to a soulmate type trope. This is set centuries after the Dance of Dragons: some deviations from canon. Dark!Aemond. Aemond and Alys are psychos together. Plenty detailed mention of sex. Lots of blood. It is about 2AM; I only (briefly!) did an edit run through once :0.

Author's Note: hello! in taking a break from Dark Cherry because my motivation was on the rocks for that one, this entire series has been planned out. I seriously, seriously couldn't wait to get into this one. This chapter is still pretty introductory and in pure me fashion; it ended up very heavy on the internal happenings etc. Some things may not make as much sense just yet but trust me, it will in chapters to come!

Anyways, I hope you enjoy and please let me know of your thoughts, feelings, advice, etc etc etc. Love you all!

(p.s: check out the prologue for a bit of important background!)

Series Masterlist. General Masterlist.

The storm that had taken place inside Aemond’s veins had calmed by the third day that had passed since your arrival. His mind had cleared and he’d finally managed to satiate the onslaught of violent hunger through other means, and while there was still an empty pit in the depths of his stomach that would fill with only your blood, he had to make do with poor merchant who had lost his way on his travels. 

As he sat at the armchair in the corner of the chambers he had readied for you all but centuries ago, Aemond realised that your recovery was quicker than he had anticipated. You didn’t fit well in the vastness of the bed that you lay in, lost among the sheets and cushions, your frame overwhelmed by the immensity of the room that was still one of the smallest that Harrenhal had to offer. 

Three days had passed and you had yet to wake from the first sleep you fell into. 

Fever had taken you for the first day and a half, quelled with the second dose of his blood that he had dripped from his wrist to your soft mouth. It was rather difficult to ensure you had swallowed it while unconscious but Aemond was familiar with such issues and had held your lips shut and whispered in your ear until your body had no choice but to swallow. 

Coming back to his senses after being forced so suddenly into a foreign, all consuming need for a stranger’s blood was like a slap to his face. Aemond had never met you before today but he had known exactly who you were as soon as the Shadow had lifted from him. 

The parchment in his hand felt heavier than it ever had before now. It crossed Aemond’s mind that he had no other way to be sure of who you were aside from the way you called to him just by your presence alone. He could swear that you were whispering to him, even in your slumber and in your silence, the key to his salvation and all the answers he had spent centuries tirelessly searching for. So softly and so distantly that Aemond couldn’t make out what you were trying to tell him; what he needed to hear. 

Yet he could almost feel the words your body and blood wished to tell him within his own veins, burning him from the inside out in a wordless call for him to return to you or you’d both turn to dust and ashes on the cold floor.

Moonlight that streamed in from the opened window cast a soft, pearly glow on your skin. Aemond scowled at the thought of how angelic you looked despite being amidst the evil and sin that tainted the walls of this castle. 

Innocent. Pure. Soft. 

Out of place in his home, doomed to a fate you were undeserving of. The thought of it weighed heavy in his chest but he turned away from you, chiding himself for letting his mind wander where it was not welcome. Instead, his eye fell to the rough roll of parchment in his hands. 

Red seeped through to the other side of the paper. Another curse written in Alys’ blood, words he had studied over and over since the moment she had thrown it in his face. 

The price of your rebirth, my love. The debt that you owe me for all of this that I have done for you. And for the pain you will bestow upon me which I will never escape from. 

The price of his rebirth had already been paid. Yet Aemond knew there was no use in reasoning with Alys Rivers. Not when he had scorned her so strongly within her mind that even upon turning her into the same powerful creature she had created in him, and even upon making her his wife, she would not speak of her curse any further.

It was of no importance until Oliver had brought you through the gates of Harrenhal. Until Aemond had been face to face with the missing piece of his soul, gazing at him with a hurricane of emotions in your eyes and balancing on the brink of your death. 

Aemond wasn’t quite sure which of the villages or towns had sent you but he understood well enough that their doctor must have spun some tale of how you were not to be saved by any practitioner of the ordinary sort to direct you here. Had the doctor not upheld his end of the understanding the townsfolk had with their Lord, his little angel would have succumbed to a death far more peaceful than the one she now faces. 

You stirred, rustling the sheets and grumbling under your breath about an ache in your bones. The dryness in your throat had surprised you, and before you had even opened your eyes, Aemond was sitting on the edge of the bed with a glass of water held towards you. There was something dark and twisted that flashed through his gaze and he smirked, the corner of his lips raised in amusement.

The unfamiliarity of your surroundings startled you, and you gasped at the man who was beside you, jaw falling slack as you scrambled to sit up. Grumbling at a wave of dizziness, you scooted away from Aemond with a sleepy glare. You winced at the rawness in your throat, looking at the glass in his hand warily. 

Something lingered in the air around him. A dark, unsettling stillness that felt like a foreboding warning of suffering and panic. Lord Targaryen, as you had realised this man was none other than the Lord that you had been lead towards, had a face that was sharp and stern. The dark eye patch and scar along his cheek did nothing to undermine the radiating, inhumane sense of beauty that had thrown you off guard upon your first sight of him.

“‘Tis only water,” his voice was deep and low yet still oddly gentle. “I’ve practically brought you back from death, sweet thing. You do not need to doubt me.”

The entire room seemed to be covered in shadows save for the bed, which was under the light that streamed in from the window. You surveyed the rest of what you assumed had become your bedchamber with caution, looking for any sign of Oliver’s presence. There was nothing. 

Apprehensively, you reached for the glass and tried not to drink the water too quickly, ignoring the hum of satisfaction that sounded beside you. “Where is my brother?”

“Perhaps an Inn at one of the neighbouring villages.”

“He would not leave me here alone,” you grumbled, remembering the way he had fought to turn you around before you had been taken within the castle’s walls. Fear settled in your gut when you saw the careless shrug of the Lord’s shoulder, his eye trailing down your face and resting at your neck. 

Sweeter and richer. The scent of you had tugged at his restraint from the moment Aemond had known of your arrival at Harrenhal. But as you looked at him now, wide eyes gazing at him with a sense of fear mixed with a dangerous curiosity and your lips shining from the water you had just drank, he understood that he was mistaken in assuming things would be as straightforward as he had prepared for.

“Don’t worry about him,” Aemond’s fists clenched at his sides, fighting the urge to reach for you and have his way with your flesh. His patience had worn itself thin over the many years of his life but this was bordering on too much. 

It was as if you were sent to push him over the edge, so that he gave into whatever lay simmering under the layers of his skin, rushing through him with a primal need to sink his teeth and his cock into your perfect body. Aemond’s hand raised to your cheek, pausing in the moment that you flinched away with a gasp, before dragging the back of his knuckles along the skin of your jaw. 

Another hum from the depths of his chest and he felt the shiver of your body as a result. “Lean back. Be calm.”

“Be calm?” You practically gaped at him. “Why was my brother so afraid of you? What did he see–what did you say to him?”

A scowl grew on his face at the way you bypassed his command with an onslaught of questions. Aemond swatted at your hand when you raised it to push him away, tangling his fingers into your hair and pulling your head back with a tug. 

So pliable in his hands, you hadn’t fought him further than the sneer you had flashed him and it sent a satisfied rush right down to his core. All you needed to do was look at him, to be close enough so that all he could taste in the air was the homely sweetness of your blood and the deliciousness between your legs, and Aemond thought that he would be as hard as stone for the rest of his eternal life.

“Your brother is fine. I did nothing to him, he was merely tired from your travels–stop trying to scratch me. I am only trying to help you,” he smacked at your hands once again. With a swift movement, he dragged the skin of his wrist against his teeth and held it above your lips. “Drink. Just two drops. Clearly you are recovering well enough to be a nuisance already but we must return you to perfect health.”

The first small drop of warm scarlet against your mouth instantly made you gag, and you stared at him with a wide eyed shock and revulsion as you spat it back at him. It made him grunt, his frustration manifesting in a sharp jerk of the hand that had fisted in your hair. 

He was feeding you his own blood. 

You struggled, barely able to find the strength to form a strong fist before swinging it at him. It missed when he gracefully dodged your hit. 

“What is this–”

Aemond huffed, pressing his wrist against your mouth and moving his hand from your hair to your jaw. “This is what has saved your tiny little life.”

The doubt in your mind had yielded in a matter of seconds and you had forgotten all about the fleeting thoughts of what nonsense he could be speaking of. For blood was just blood and it was no miracle cure; it couldn’t possibly be. But whatever he had been doing, it had worked when nothing else had and your body felt one thousand times lighter than it had before. 

There was only a measly couple of drops that had hit your tongue, sugary and metallic, and before you could register anything, a moan had fallen from your lips. For a second, your eyelids drooped at the wave of ease and warmth through your body. 

Aemond’s fingers on your jaw tightened and he had pulled you into his chest in a single jolt. Much to his distaste, his body forever seemed to act on its own accord when you were near. It was a primal instinct that was forcing him to have you, body and soul, as a part of himself. That sound you had made from the taste of him, the feeling of your lips on his skin and the soft gasps that you failed to hold back had snapped the final string of his restraint. 

Blood and sex were one and the same for Aemond. His taste for depravity and sin came hand in hand with his appetite for violence and death. And while Aemond had to consume human blood to survive, it was more than just what he needed. He enjoyed the gore and the fear that he created, he enjoyed the power he held over life and death, and he enjoyed knowing that whichever poor soul had met its end at his hands had become a part of his own endless youth.

His cock was always quick to respond to the sight of blood. But this was different. For one, Aemond had never cared for his own blood. It was not special and it didn’t flow as freely as human blood did. And secondly, Aemond had never cared for much more than the momentary, physical release that sex gave him and the satisfaction of a good meal. Yet here he was, almost gagging with a new, unwelcome and frantic desire that he could not recognise. 

The shift was so fast that it had you dizzy, the slight buzz on your skin from just two drops of his blood lingered as you lifted your gaze to meet his. Being so close to him that the hardness of his body was flush against your own placed a veil over your mind, expelling all thoughts to run from your head. 

Amongst the arms of a Lord, held to him as if he intended to merge the two of you into one, you thought of nothing else but the loud rush of want in your veins. Still, there was a voice at the back of your mind that was screaming danger, and you winced at the harshness of his grip on you. 

“I am laying here in the home of a stranger, my lord. Forgive me for my worry if it offends you, but there is all the chance that you could hurt me. Or kill me.” When you spoke, your words were shaky. Head held high, you found the will to ignore whatever force was compelling your body to unite with his in every way that it could.

Aemond hummed. “I will not kill you.”

Lie. I will tear you limb from limb and bleed you dry. 

“I guess I have no choice other than to take your word for it,” you muttered, staring long and hard at the sheets that covered you. The phantom taste of his blood on your tongue was enough for you to doubt him. You would not stay here with him. “But I am feeling far better now. If you tell me where my brother is, I will leave by nightfall.”

“It is already past nightfall. And I do not know where he is.”

Curiously, it was indeed. Only upon looking towards the window did you notice that it was night. In the state that you had felt upon waking up, you could have sworn it would have been morning with the sunlight shining through the curtains. Aemond ignored your confusion. 

“You are yet to recover completely.” He gave you an odd smile, tight lipped and accompanied by a glimmer in his eye. The bed shifted as he let go of you with great hesitance, standing tall and moving towards the doors.  “Until then, you are a welcome guest in our home. Once you are freshened up, I hope you will join my wife and I in the dining hall for a meal.”

A hot bath and fresh clothes had done you well. About an hour had passed while you were tended to by Delya, the quiet young maid who looked to be rather uncomfortable in your presence. Delya had reminded you of your belongings that had been kept in the drawer beside the bed, your small bag squashed into the tight space. You pulled the faded blue cotton dress that you had packed. A dress that was fit for a woman of your standing, from a family not poor enough to be a part of the peasantry yet still without the sufficient riches to be nobility. 

From the moment you had stepped from your bath, you noticed the complete lack of mirrors in the apartment. Strangely enough, Delya had combed through your hair and helped you get ready without a mirror, ignoring you entirely when you had asked both about the mirror and about having your meal alone in your room. By the time that she was finished, you had accepted her reluctance to answer your questions. The only words she had spoken were the directions to the dining hall. There was a long, sideways glare that she had given you paired with her grin and she all but sang her instructions. 

Left, then right at the window at the end of the hallway, down the stairs and left again at the first turn. No earlier than an hour from when Delya had left you to yourself. 

Even though Delya had told you to wait for an hour, the deep pangs of hunger and a gnawing curiosity had sent you out of your chamber doors after the first thirty minutes. Candles were mounted onto the walls and the silence was so intense that you could hear them flicker if you strained your ears. It was still dimly lit with whatever light there was, reflecting off of the dark walls in orange hues. You could only see a short distance down the hallway to the right, shadows creating the illusion that the path down there would lead to a never ending void of black nothingness. 

So you turned left, as was the directions and let yourself admire the tapestries that hung on the walls. It would have been a grand and beautiful home had it been cared for with warmth and love. And you had the urge to discover more of it, reaching for the handle of the first door you had come across. After all, should the Lord of the Land have anything to say about it, it was he who had called you a welcome guest. 

Locked. As was the next door. And the next. 

With a shrug, you continued down the hallway, fiddling with the locked door handles as a pointless distraction from reaching the dining hall earlier than you were told to. But as you neared the end of the hallway, the window lighting up the final stretch with moonlight, you turned away suddenly from the doors and tapestries of the left wall.

First, you noticed the putrid, rotting scent. It made you gag, and you instantly lifted your hand to cover your mouth and nose, sleeve pulled far over your fingers. When you frantically searched for the source of it - maybe an open door, or something decomposed stuck to a spider web, there was nothing. 

Until you cast your eyes to the floor, gasping and gagging once more. The drop in your stomach and a stab of fear in your gut forced you forwards, following the pool of scarlet that seemed to start only inches away from your feet. 

It went on towards the end of the hallway, where it turned around around the corner to the right, away from the staircase that was to the left. At parts, it was merely streaks that had been dragged from a larger puddle of blood and left thinner stains. And at others, it pooled and settled, marred with bits of what you could only assume was flesh and fabrics. 

There was a dizzying, strong flush of prickling heat that rushed over you and while it seemed like in an instant, you could hear more and feel more and smell more, you couldn’t focus on anything coherent within your mind.

A distant curdling scream that came from a man, followed by another one that cried for help pulled you out of your shock. Whoever had bled so much had surely met a violent and painful fate and you were suddenly hyper aware that something or someone had done this only moments before, right where you stood. 

The trail of blood turned in the direction away from where Delya had directed but at the sound of another cry for help, muffled from distance, you turned right and followed it. Another gag, and you turned to rest against the opposite wall, hunching over and retching emptily. There was nothing aside from bile to lose in your stomach.  

When you looked to see where the blood led, it stopped only a few more feet down the corridor, disappearing under a door that was left only slightly ajar. 

Suddenly, upon noticing the way the door moved gently as if it had only just been opened, all you felt was a white, ringing dread. Instinctively, your legs moved to turn around and the only thing that you could piece together from your panic was to run. 

You screamed the moment you felt him behind you, his presence making you yell out and your only reflex was to move forwards and away from him. In an instant you had moved towards the door, to hide behind it maybe–you had no idea, only for a strong arm to pull it shut, slamming it into your body that was now pressed tightly against the hardwood. The heels of your slippers slid atop the blood but before you could fall, a hard, strong body had caged you in.

There was dread in your body like you had never felt before and no matter how hard you gasped and panted, you just could not breathe. Again, a scream of agony and terror that was louder, and echoed now that you were forced against the door and you sobbed at the thought of what may lay behind it. 

It was Aemond’s chest flush against your back, a hand flat against the wood and the other gripping your hip with a fierceness that shot a bolt of sharp pain up your side. His face fell to the valley of your neck, inhaling strongly against your skin and when you cried, struggling against him to turn and run, he growled. “Do not turn around.”

Something about Aemond was different. It was not as if you knew him before at all but there was a strange strength in his body, you hadn’t felt it when he had held you just hours ago. Whenever he was near, your body screamed at you that he was dangerous, that you needed to leave and be far away from him and this place. Nevertheless, you were drawn to Aemond amongst your fear of him. 

Now, you had every urge to flee. And you struggled even more, without thinking to, pushing against Aemond as he was hardly affected by how you fought him. If anything, he would continue to force himself unbearably closer.  Tears that welled in your eyes blinded you as you tried to glance to the side, hoping and praying that there would be someone who could get him away from you. 

Aemond smelled woody and smoky under the sickly stench of blood and flesh. It overwhelmed everything, and it seemed like he was more animal than man with the way his chest heaved against you, and he snarled into your skin. When you grunted, shoving as hard as you can, all he did was drop a hand to push your face forward. Again, Aemond told you to stay still. 

“You can try and fight me all that you wish,” he chuckled, the deep vibration of his voice against the skin of your neck made you whimper. “It will be of no use. There are many dangers among these halls and I am the worst of them. But you do not need to be afraid of me. I will not hurt you.”

You sobbed. “What have you done to that poor–”

Aemond delighted in the way that you trembled, the tempting scent of you taking his mind entirely by tenfold. It was his hopeless charge to resist sinking his teeth in the soft flesh that his tongue swiped across, the heaviness of your frightened heartbeat pulsing against his lips. 

“You have no idea how divine your terror smells,” he muttered deeply, flexing the fingers that were pressed into your hip. You could feel all of him. And the hardness of his cock pressed against your backside sent a heat straight down to your core when Aemond nipped gently at the skin above your pulse point. “There is only so much of your torture that I can endure before I lose the last of my control, my dove. Nothing tastes better than fear and lust. And your body sings with both for me.”

The Shadow of bloodlust that befell him and what was left of his precious family was no stranger to Aemond. In his centuries of life after the war that had taken everything from him, he had never felt it so absolutely and so relentlessly. 

For lifetime after lifetime Aemond had waited eagerly for the moment you would come to him so that he could rid himself of the weakness you were certain to bring him. Because you were here to die and in your death, Aemond would be freed of his sorrow and his torment. 

Aemond had convinced himself that when the time came, that he could resist. That he had the strength to pay the price he owed easily. That if he tried enough, you would never become so important to him that losing you would mean to lose a part of himself. Thinking of it now that you were here, in his home and in his arms, it would be a difficult task. 

Nonetheless, now that you were here and now that Aemond knew what it meant to need you to satiate the new incessant, uncontrollable hunger that he was burdened with, it was his cross to bear. Eventually, once your blood is free of illness and you have served your purpose, Aemond could indulge in you without consequence. There was a tug at the thought, deep in his gut and in the hollows of his chest, that he refused to acknowledge. 

“What is happening in there? Is that person–did someone kill him?” You were finding it difficult to breathe. The sounds coming from the other side of the door had stopped and you turned to look at him, only for him to grunt and keep you in place.  

“He came to us like this. Dying. I may be able to help him just as I’ve helped you.”

He wasn’t even trying to be convincing. There was more to what he said than just his words, and when you swallowed thickly and squirmed against him, Aemond let his lips return to your neck. The soft, tingling sensation on your skin made you whine, scrambling to make sense of everything that was happening. 

It was horrid. Sinful. Disastrous. Shameful. 

Here was the man in whose home you were witnessing such horror. The man who was naught but a stranger, no matter how your entire being felt as if you were reuniting with a lost part of your soul. But the way Aemond’s voice caressed your nerves, calmed you and set you into a very different frenzy was absolute and irrevocable. You were terrified in a way that you had never felt until now yet there was a thrum of desire between your legs, and your body urged you to both run away and melt into him. 

“There is nowhere for you to run away to,” he drawled. Aemond’s hands were everywhere as he kept you pinned against the door with his body, squeezing your hips, the flesh of your backside and thighs. If you pushed against him, he would only breathe out a laugh muffled into your neck and squeeze harder. “It delights me to have found you like this. And while I enjoy your fear, my dove, you are in no state to be so distressed.”

You wanted to scream and scratch at him. “Who are you?”

“You already know my name. It is all you need.”

“That’s not–why did you hurt that man?” The sensitivity of your skin under his touch jostled all of the thoughts in your brain into a mess of nonsense. “This is not right–”

“Of course it is. All of this body,” Aemond couldn’t help but smother his lips into your skin, licking and sucking kissing across your neck. He yanked at the sleeve of your dress until it had ripped right off, nipping his way across the newly exposed skin of your shoulder. “All of its perfect dips and curves, your skin and everything beneath it. It was made for me. There is nothing more right, my dove, than this.” 

“I don’t understand,” you gasped, arching into him when his kisses grazed a sensitive spot along your bicep. Gingerly, Aemond held your arm to the side, making his way to your wrist. “Please, I do not understand.”

A hum was the only response he gave you, sighing as he dragged the tip of his nose over the underside of your wrist. Aemond’s hips rutted forward, rubbing his throbbing cock against you in the moment that he had taken a loud, desperate breath in. You realised that he was smelling you again and turned to watch him. Quick as lightning, he turned his face away from you but placed a tender kiss to your wrist. 

Red had been streaked across your arm, smudged all along the expanse of your skin. It wasn’t your own and when it came to your mind that it was the same blood of whoever the man behind the door was, you cried out. Catching a glimpse only of his chin and lips messy with the blood, the haze of arousal lifted from your mind as if someone had beat you out of it. 

“Stop–stop, please,” you thrashed and thrashed, hoping it would shove him off you somehow. “Please, my Lord.”

Aemond understood what you pleaded for. His hips stilled but he kept you pressed against the surface, your wrist grazing his teeth when he spoke. “As much as I ache for you, I will not fuck you yet. Not if you do not want me to. But a taste of you is the least I deserve and I cannot deprive myself of it any further.”

There was something animalistic in the way he spoke. Something had overcome him, something far different to the version of him you experienced just before. But before you could think on any of it further, a sultry, feminine voice called for him. Instantly, Aemond had pushed you away, snarling audibly at the dark haired woman who had approached from the other side of the corridor. 

You felt the relief of it instantly. But your breath still caught in your throat and you fell to lean on the door in the absence of Aemond’s body holding you upright. 

The Lord’s back was turned to you and you could see the tenseness in his muscles through the billowy, bloodstained shirt that he wore. Aemond was silent, seething quietly as the dark haired woman stepped into him, her nimble fingers reaching to stroke his cheek and rest at his jaw. You couldn’t see much of her, but she was speaking to him, softly so that you couldn’t hear her.  

Aemond was unnaturally stiff, a stark contrast to the softness of the woman who had saved you from something you couldn’t even bring yourself to think about. 

Briefly, you wondered if she was the wife he had mentioned earlier. It would make sense if she were but you caught her eye over his shoulder before you could consider that any further. Her eyes, simultaneously cold and calculating while also kind and warm, flickered towards the direction from which you came. 

At the subtle nod of her head, a sign that this was your chance to leave, you forced yourself to move. All but sprinting back down the halls that lead you here, you were surprised to find Delya standing outside your chamber doors, watching as you rushed inside and slammed the heavy door shut behind you. 

More silence. But the sound of pained wails rang around in your head as you closed your eyes for a moment, catching your breath and trying to stall the panic that caused you to retch once again. The image of so much blood, chunks of flesh and torn clothes was stuck in the forefront of your mind. 

It took only minutes to drag whatever furniture you could to pile it in front of the large door. There was little chance anyone could push the door open with such a blockade by the time you were done. Yet it did nothing to quell the fright and worry that you felt as you collapsed against the bed, a sudden weakness crashing into you all at once. 

Sleep did not come easy. But in the rush of all that had happened, you hardly noticed that the curtains had been drawn while you were gone. They were large and heavy, and had you the strength to look behind them, you would have seen that it was already morning.

[goodquoteco]

[hoosbandewan]

12 DAYS OF AEMOND TARGARYEN-MAS

Day Seven: Aemond's slutty walk

[pret-boy]

Matching your freak is beautiful and all but what you really need is a boy who's infatuated with your freak. Down bad for your freak. Deeply intrigued by your freak. Eager to see more of your freak. Supportive of your freak. Gets bricked up witnessing your freak, even.