🐉

i sometimes write stuff

[theficthatwaspromised]

Amusement (Aemond Targaryen x Reader)

PART TWO.

Pairing : Aemond x Female!Strong!Reader

Request : Hi can I request a Aemond fic where the reader is Rhanerya and Harwin’s daughter. And this takes place in episode 8 when Luke and Jace visit the pit where aemond is fighting and it’s when he asks if they have come to train and the reader and him fight. (Oh and can she have white hair cause I’m obsessed thank u.)

Word count : 1480

Warnings : Aemond being a sassy little shit, slight mention of blood and violence, choking.

He almost looks otherworldly. His movements are quick, precise and more than anything, elegant. His long silver hair shines like satin as he dodges Ser Criston’s sword once again, the sun caressing his frame in the middle of the training yard. The patch covering his scarred left eye only makes him more mysterious - intimidating, even - and makes the ease with which he supplants one of the best swordsmen on the continent even more baffling. And most importantly, it reminds you of the day he got it, six years ago.

You were only a child then, in fact you all were. When the shocking fight between your brothers, Jace and Luke, and your then much smaller uncle ended in such a tragic way, everything changed for the worst. The bonds that had begun to unravel were broken, and both sides of the family drifted apart. That night, before he left to return to King’s Landing, and despite all the animosity and hatred surrounding you, you silently held his hand. All that mattered to the innocent child you were was that as he closed an eye forever, Aemond, for once, wasn’t alone.

And here he is now, tall and agile, endowed with a grace that is rarely seen in a man. Something in the way he moves makes you shiver, or perhaps it is the result of the disturbing beauty that age has given his elongated features. “Nephews,” he greets, his eye landing on them as his body remains otherwise steady. “Have you come to train ?” He questions, causing your brothers to exchange such worried looks that you notice it even from the other side of the circle.

As people's attention slowly shifts away from the barely finished fight, you feel it coming to focus on Jace and Luke. The whispers had become a habit, the questioning of the blood that runs through the veins of Princess Rhaenyra's children has grown greatly over the years as your brothers have become more and more spitting images of the late Ser Harwin. It must have been gods-given luck that your hair was as white as snow, for you knew that you shared the same father. Thanks to this, some think you really are the daughter of Rhaenyra and Laenor, and so a few think that your brothers might be so too despite their appearances, but most people sense the truth. You wouldn't mind if it only affected you, but you couldn't bear your family being disrespected. 

“Actually, I did.” The Targaryen Prince’s back is still facing you as you speak, you’re practically certain he hasn’t noticed you yet. You’re still not really sure if you indeed want to fight him, challenge that boy you used to know, or if you just wanted to silence all of them whispering idiots, but as he slowly turns around to face you, you know there’s no way to escape now. 

Suddenly, you’re surrounded by nothing but silence. Your gaze is fixed on his, you find yourself unable to detach from it, almost as if he had cast a spell on you. He studies your face, probably trying to remember the features he once knew, but he does so in such an intense and unabashed way that you can already feel the fire growing in your stomach, and your palms becoming sweaty. After your face and your neck, it is on your body that the blue gaze lingers : the leather dress bequeathed by your mother, worn on the day she killed a boar, seems to be to his liking. Once his precise analysis is complete, the sharpest of smirks crosses Aemond’s face as all you see in his eye is challenge, curiosity, and above all, danger.

“Very well,” he mutters, just loud enough to be heard. “Shall we ?” He asks, spreading his arms as an invitation to join him. 

“My Lady you shouldn’t-” Ser Criston warns, or at least tries to, walking your way holding his hand out before being quickly interrupted by your opponent’s silvery voice.

“My dear niece’s desires are orders, Ser Criston.” He smirks, still focused on you, not bothering to look at Cole. “Give her a fucking sword.” He commands, and the brown haired knight complies. 

The sword he hands you is long and heavy, but it isn’t the first time you’ve raised one, far from that. Seeing the boys train made you want to master the art of sword fighting too, and it wouldn’t be lying to say you became the best fighter out of your siblings. However, it seems it will take more than skill to compete with your opponent : you have to take him by surprise. So, as your hands wrap around the handle, you let the sword’s weight bring it down, pretending it is too heavy for you to raise. As expected, this is greeted by chuckles from the attentive crowd, and a raised eyebrow from the silver haired Prince. 

“For some reason, I assumed you’d be strong enough to wield this sword.” He provokes, a proud grin on his face. Taking advantage of this fraction of a second where he is distracted by his own provocation, and also of the rage that it awakens in you despite yourself, you raise your sword and charge straight at him, in a movement as sure as it is precise. You feel his surprise when your swords clash, your gazes meet again, and that stupid smile of his only widens. He's proud of himself, he knows his words got to you, and that is enough to drive you mad in this instant. You growl as you lift your sword once more, hitting him again and again while he dodges, forming an intricate choreography to the rhythm of your anger. The more he manages to avoid your attacks, the more you come at him, feeling the heat grow more and more on your cheeks.

“One could think you seem offended,”  he states after stepping aside for an instant. “Do be careful,” he continues, bending down as your weapon brushes over his head. “Driven by such vigor, you could get hurt.”

You scoff, taking a step back to catch your breath, now both of you walking in a circle, playfully yet seriously studying each other. Both can play this little game, and you know exactly what to say to awake the sleeping dragon in him.

“Don’t worry, my Prince, there’s more to me than meets the eye.” You grin, brushing some dirt off your chin with your sleeve. “You’d see it if only you bothered to pig-, I mean, to dig a little deeper.” You wink and his look darkens, his jaw clenched and his knuckles turning white around the handle of his sword. “Oops”, you mimic, now facing a both enraged and somehow amused Aemond. Yet you thank the Gods he only has an eye, for two of those knives throwing blue irises would have killed you in an instant. 

You don’t have more time to think before he’s charging towards you, a swift movement of his sword disarming you before you can even react. His strength sends you flying a few feet behind and when you get back up again, he throws his own weapon and walks fast towards you, then firmly grabs your neck with his bare hand, pressing his chest against yours. Your hands come to cover his but his grip is strong, as he warns Criston and your brothers not to intervene with a single raise of his free hand, without having to say a word. 

Aemond’s heart beats loud against yours, his gaze rapidly switching from one of your eyes to the other, his nostrils flared by his furious breathing. His body is so close to yours you can smell his sweat and his musky scent, your eyes locked on his, refusing to surrender or beg for him to release you. That cocky bastard would love that way too much. Instead, you put more pressure on his hand, making him choke you harder. His jaw clenches once more at this, as he releases a carnal growl. Aemond’s lips turn into a pleased smirk, and he finally releases some pressure, allowing you to breathe again. 

“I did not expect much, but I’ll admit I feel some kind of…” he whispers as he pauses for a second, only to rub the delicate trace of blood from the corner of your mouth with his thumb, before bringing it to his lips, allowing the divine taste of the scarlet liquid to slip on his tongue, "... amusement."

You can’t control the shivers that run down your spine, nor can you help but to bite your lip to prevent a pleased moan from escaping your mouth. “I can feel that amusement growing in your pants,” you whisper back, and you could have sworn that as you broke free of his grip, you saw fire burning in his eye. 

please please let me know if you liked this, feedback is highly appreciated ♡ :)

PART TWO.

[augustinesstories]

A study in stillness - Benedict Bridgerton x Reader (Chapter 1)

Pairing : Benedict x Reader (you)

Dynamic : slow burn / ennemies to lovers

Summary : when all you crave is silence and all Benedict wants is to unravel the mystery that you are, only trouble can follow. In a world of whispers and watchful eyes, retreat is your only refuge—until a certain Bridgerton stumbles into your quiet. He asks too many questions. Looks too closely. And the more you resist, the more determined he becomes. Or a tangle of sharp words, stolen glances, and the danger of being truly seen.

Word count : 2.4k

Warnings : some details might not be fully accurate to the era and english is not my first language, apart from that, you should be fine.

You had promised yourself you would never attend another ball.

Not after the emptiness you felt in these grand rooms, where laughter seemed forced and the air thick with expectation. You had only been in London for a year and it already felt like an eternity. The faces were all too familiar already, their smiles too practiced, and you hated it. Every moment felt like a mask, every bow a display, every laugh a hollow note in a symphony of falsehoods.

Yet here you were, once again laced into a gown that you didn't really like, balancing a crystal coupe of champagne you had no intention of drinking.

Lady Danbury’s ball was suffocating—heavy with perfume, pride, and a kind of polished coldness you had come to know all too well. The room buzzed with whispers, with the subtle glances of people who couldn’t care less about each other, but who made sure to care about the right things. Who wore the right colors. Who danced with whom. It made your skin crawl.

You sought refuge in the east drawing room, away from the clamor and the ache in your feet from hours of standing. The room was dim, lit only by the moonlight slanting through the tall windows, and the scent of lavender and old books filled the air, soothing in its quietness.

A brief moment of peace. Until you heard it—the soft click of a door, followed by footsteps.

“I wasn’t aware the drawing room had become the place for sulking debutantes,” came a voice, smooth and confident, irritatingly sure of itself.

You didn’t have to turn to know who it was. The Bridgertons were as much an institution in society as the monarchy. Benedict Bridgerton—handsome, charming, the one who seemed to waltz through life without a care for what anyone thought. Or perhaps he simply didn’t care to hide it. You’d heard the gossip, of course. Everyone had. There was no escaping the rumors, but you had never met him. You simply knew the name and the image that went with it.

Still, you didn’t turn to face him. “Then consider this a lesson in awareness,” you replied coolly, turning just enough to glance at him over your shoulder. He looked impossibly composed, as expected, in his dark jacket with his cravat slightly loosened, as though he had just slipped out of the grasp of propriety. His eyes, though—there was a spark of something that you didn’t quite trust, not quite charm, but something more dangerous.

Benedict’s brow arched slightly, and he smiled, though it wasn’t one you would have called kind. “I see your wit is sharper than your regard for social grace.”

“And yet you followed me in here. Curious, isn’t it?”

He laughed, a low, rich sound that seemed to settle comfortably in the air between you. It irritated you more than it should have. You didn’t want him to be the type of man who could simply laugh off a barb like that.

“Tell me,” he said, stepping closer, his presence suddenly too large in the quiet room, “do you take this much pleasure in alienating everyone in the room, or am I a special case?”

You wanted to tell him to leave, to go back to the crowd where people adored him, where his reputation meant everything. You weren’t interested in playing his games. But instead, you simply murmured, “You’re special, certainly, though not in the way you like to believe.”

His eyes twinkled with amusement, a look you couldn’t decide if you hated or found oddly fascinating. There was something about him—something too confident, too sure of himself. He was not like the other men at the ball, who would have simply apologized for disturbing you and left. Benedict Bridgerton was the type to stand there and challenge you, to press, to keep pushing until you either gave in or grew too weary to fight back.

For a moment, there was silence again, the weight of his gaze pulling at you. You felt like a moth, trapped in the presence of a flame you had no intention of getting too close to.

But he didn’t speak again. He didn’t need to. His presence was enough, the tension thick between you, and all you could do was stand there, caught between the world of the ball and the solace of the quiet room you had sought for yourself.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Benedict smiled again, the same knowing, irritating smile. “I won’t keep you from your retreat, Miss…?” His voice trailed off, as though he expected you to provide your name, but you didn’t. You didn’t need to.

“Miss nothing, Mr. Bridgerton,” you replied softly, the words more a reflection of how you felt than anything else.

His smile didn’t falter, but there was something more curious in his eyes now. Something you couldn’t place. He didn’t press you for your name again, but instead, with a slight nod of acknowledgment, he turned on his heel and left the room as quietly as he had entered, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

The moment of peace you had sought earlier returned, but now it was tainted with something you couldn’t quite name—a mixture of irritation, curiosity, and something else you couldn’t afford to acknowledge.

You hadn’t expected to see him again.

Not so soon. Not in the quiet corner of the Royal Academy, on a day when the rain had kept most of polite society indoors. The gallery was nearly empty, echoing with soft footsteps and the occasional shift of fabric. It was a relief to be somewhere no one was watching you.

Until you felt him behind you.

You knew it before you turned. The shape of the silence changed. As if the air itself was bracing for interruption.

“Twice in as many days,” came the voice you’d already begun to dread. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were following me.”

You closed your eyes, just for a second.

Then turned.

He stood there, gloved hands behind his back, the picture of idle nobility. Benedict Bridgerton, in a navy coat that should have been too bold for the weather and yet somehow wasn’t. He looked at you the way an artist might look at an unfinished sketch—curious, critical, perhaps a little bored. And you hated that your breath had caught for the barest instant.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you said. “I’m here for the art. Not the commentary.”

“Ah,” he said, stepping closer. “But one so often enhances the other.”

You raised a brow. “And which do you consider yourself? The art? Or the commentary?”

“Both,” he said without missing a beat. “Obviously.”

You should have walked away. You meant to. But his tone was disarmingly light, and something in his expression—just beneath the smirk—suggested a challenge.

So you turned back toward the canvas before you, refusing to give him the satisfaction of your irritation.

It was a portrait of a woman, pale and sharp-eyed, draped in ochre and emerald. Her gaze was cold, but not lifeless. She looked like she was waiting for someone to disappoint her.

“Do you like it?” he asked, standing beside you now.

“No,” you replied. “But I respect it.”

He smiled, amused. “Harsh but fair. Like you.”

You gave him a sideways glance. “You know nothing about me.”

“Not yet,” he said. “But I’m quite good at studying people.”

“Is that what you’re doing now?” you asked. “Studying me?”

“Observing,” he said, with the kind of lazy elegance that made you want to slap him or kiss him or both. “There’s a difference.”

“And what have you observed so far?”

He tilted his head slightly, pretending to consider.

“You come to quiet places when you think no one’s watching. You keep your gloves on even when you fidget. You look at paintings like they’ve personally offended you, and you bristle every time someone dares to speak to you as if your silence is a door that needs forcing open.”

You stared at him.

“I could say the same of you,” you said. “Except you wear your charm like armor and expect everyone to find you delightful. When they don’t, you prod them until they do. Or until they crack.”

“And have you cracked, Miss nothing ?”

You couldn't help but smile a little at that. Somehow it didn't feel like an insult, and you knew he only called you that to make you give in and offer him your name. But you didn't. On purpose.

His lips twitched.

“Very well,” he said. “I’ll refer to you as the Woman in Grey until you offer something more useful.”

You looked down at your slate-colored gown and sighed. “How inspired.”

“It suits you,” he said, voice quieter now. “Unassuming. But sharp.”

That also shouldn’t have sounded like a compliment. And yet.

You stepped away from the painting, from him, but he followed—not too close, not quite a shadow, but present nonetheless. The corridor curved into another room, filled with landscapes this time, wide and aching. You stood before one of a field at dusk. It looked lonely.

“Is this another one you respect but dislike?” he asked.

You didn’t answer right away.

“It’s beautiful,” you said. “But I hate it.”

“Why?” he frowned.

“Because it’s still.”

He was quiet for a moment.

“That surprises me,” he said.

You sighed, not wanting to encourage him but still wanting to understand. “Why?”

“You seem like someone who enjoys stillness. Or at least cultivates it.”

You folded your arms. “That’s a mistake people often make. Equating stillness with peace.”

He looked at you then—really looked. Not the flirtatious glances he’d given you at the ball, not the charming tilt of the head meant to impress. This was different. There was something like recognition in his eyes, or understanding. You weren’t sure which was worse.

“What is it you do enjoy?” he asked, gently. “If not stillness. Or society.”

You didn’t know how to answer that. Not truthfully.

“Solitude,” you said at last. “And silence. When it’s mine.”

“You mean, when no one tries to invade it.”

You looked at him again, sharper this time. “Why do you care?”

He shrugged. “I don’t. Not really.”

“Then stop asking questions.”

“You’re the most interesting thing I’ve encountered all week. Let me have my fun.”

“I’m not here for your entertainment, Mr. Bridgerton.”

“You say that,” he murmured, “but you haven’t left.”

That did it.

You turned sharply and began to walk toward the next corridor, your pulse high in your throat. You felt exposed, raw, even though he’d done nothing but speak. That was the worst part. He hadn’t mocked you. He hadn’t flirted. Not really.

He’d seen you.

And you didn’t know what he planned to do with that sight.

“You’re quite good at pretending not to want attention,” he called after you, voice low and amused. “But you wouldn’t dress in grey silk with a neckline like that if you truly wanted to vanish.”

You stopped.

Turned.

And walked back to him, slow and deliberate.

He looked almost surprised when you stopped an inch too close.

“You think everything is about being seen,” you said softly. “You think every gesture is performance. Maybe that’s how you live. But not everyone wants to be painted and displayed, Mr. Bridgerton. Some of us simply want to exist without being interpreted.”

His smile faded. Just slightly.

“And yet here we are,” he said. “Interpreting.”

You straightened your shoulders. The gallery around you had gone still, too still—paintings staring out with their eternal, indifferent gaze while the gas lamps flickered above. You could still hear the faint echo of laughter and footsteps down the marble corridor, but here in the side hall, it was just the two of you. And the distance between you felt unsteady.

“You think you’re terribly clever.”

“I think you’re terribly interesting.”

Your breath caught, not because of the words but the way he said them—like he didn’t mean it as a compliment but a complication.

“I’ve only been in this world a year,” you said slowly, more to yourself than to him. “A year of gowns I didn’t choose and rooms full of names I’m expected to know. And then there’s you—waltzing through galleries like you own the air.”

He tilted his head, a slow smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He leaned in slightly, his voice a quiet drawl meant only for you.

“And yet,” he whispered, “you breathe it just fine.”

Silence followed. Heavy. Intentional.

“I don’t want to be a curiosity to you,” you said, softer now. “I don’t want to be another passing muse.”

That made something flicker behind his eyes. Not shame—something else. Thought.

“I don’t sketch muses,” he said at last. “I sketch what I can’t stop thinking about.”

You scoffed, rolled your eyes. “And how many poor girls has that worked on?”

He stepped closer. Not enough to touch. Just enough to shift the weight of the moment.

“Would it be easier,” he murmured, “if I were exactly who you expected me to be?”

Your throat tightened. You hated him for asking the question.

“I’m not interested in being part of your game, Lord Bridgerton,” you said again, more forcefully this time. “Find someone else to unravel.”

His smile was slow, infuriating. “Why do you assume I could ?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Why do you assume you couldn’t?”

A beat. Two.

Then, before you could blink, the door creaked behind you.

And when you turned back, Benedict was gone. Only the scent of him lingered—a hint of bergamot and turpentine, and trouble.

[ohsuestorm]

Daemon “as you wish, My Queen” Targaryen. HOUSE OF THE DRAGON “The Black Queen” (2022) dir. Greg Yaitanes.

[theficthatwaspromised]

YOUR WRITING IS INCREDIBLE!!! got cought off guard when you said English wasn’t your first language. Anyhow, I love this blog, please continue to write more stuff, sometimes.

🍪🤏

xx

thank you so much 🥺❤️

[theficthatwaspromised]

hi, are you accepting requests? i absolutely loved "amusement" <3

hiii yes I am! I received quite a few already and I try to combine 2 or 3 to make a fic everytime cause they tend to have things in common sooooo short answer is yes haha + thank you very much!! ❤️

[kcrra]

really don't have any words but a raw scream for alicent - the girl once too afraid to fly on dragon back with her best friend - responding to being face to face with a righteously furious dragon and rider by putting her body fully in front of her son.

an act not only born out of bravery and love but of the physical sacrifice that she knows all too well, even expects of herself, because that has been her entire life: body, womb, being, her entire personhood in service of king and country and crown, belonging not to herself but others to use as they wish. and this idea of her body not being her own but a tool for others protection, pleasure, power - whatever it may be, is paralleled in all her scenes this episode, brutal as they are. i am undone.

[theficthatwaspromised]

I would have loved to see this and cry my heart out rather than having to witness that creepy dude wanking to alicent's feet, and her weirdo ass of a son jerk off at the window like wtf

they were so desperate to make daemon one dimensionally evil rather than show his good side ugh

[aemonds-sapphire]

May I?

Summary: Aemond has a problem and needs you to give him a hand. Quite literally.

Warnings: NSFW. Cumplay. Handjob.

Word count: 1.6k

As someone who had been conditioned from an early age to abide by their whims, it shouldn’t be surprising to be summoned at this late hour.

It was more a matter of who.

Prince Aemond was one of utmost secrecy. An observer at heart, and as elusive as he could possibly be. He was known to depend mostly on himself, excusing most servants.

Your kuckles hit the wooden door and you awaited for a reply.

“Come in.”

You did so, immediately meeting his intense stare. Even with just one eye, Aemond always managed to make you feel uneasy.

Not forgetting your manners, you bowed lightly. “How can I be of service, your grace?”

With his hands laced behind his back, the young prince’s gaze never left you. “I was wondering…”

His low yet pleasing voice came to a stop for a brief moment. Aemond took a few steps in your direction befor he started circling you, just like a dragon does to its prey.

Sweat quickly gathered in your palms, and you couldn’t help but to clench both hands in concern. Prince Aemond lacked his brother’s daunting reputation with servanr girls, but that wasn’t enough to exempt him from guilt.

He took notice of your stiffness, halting his steps. “You may rest at ease. Unlike my brother, I do not partake in such activities.”

That should have come as a relief, but your body was still on alert.

Aemond resumed his pace, and you could swear he was getting closer and closer.

“May I kiss you?”

Your heart immediately skipped a beat.

“My prince?”

A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, revealing that facial expression that was so unique to him.

And just like an agile predator, he was suddenly in front of you. “You heard me,” he said, standing still. “I will not take what’s not given to me freely, so I’m asking you.”

It seemed rather ironic that the very man who had onced claimed the dragon Vhagar with no permission, was now so adamant in getting it.

A few more seconds rolled by, and you finally maneged to muster a few words. “I don’t understand… why.”

As if expecting that very reply, Aemond took a deep breath. “You’re very pleasing to look at. I’m good at keeping my urges at bay, but these past few days have been torture.”

Panic settled in you. “Have… have I done something to offend you, my prince?”

“Offend me? Not quite. I feel like my body has been craving something in particular, and it’s been robbing me of sleep.”

Silence once more.

You could hear the rhythmic thumping of your heart as the young man took yet another step towards you.

“Why can you not rest, my prince? Is it your bed?” Your voice was but a whisper in a pathetic attempt to regain your posture as a servant.

Aemond offered a chuckle in return. “It’s my cock.”

In that moment, your lips parted in awe.

“Pardon me, but I really need this taken care of.”

His gaze lowered to the front of his tight pants in clear hopes you’d follow suit.

And follow suit you did.

The outline was faint. Easily missed by those less observant. But it was there, and had your eyes fixed on it.

There was something alluring about having the young prince so willing to let his guard down for your attention.

“May I kiss you?” Prince Aemond repeated the question, lowering both hands to the lace that circled his waist. “Please.”

There was this sense of urgency in his voice that sent shivers down your spine. Even so, you were still rooted to the floor, unable to fulfill his request.

However, Aemond Targaryen clearly had no issue dancing around his impatience.

And he had no issue begging.

“Please.”

You tried to talk, but you just couldn’t speak. The quick turn of events prevented you from doing so. Your eyes would dart from his long fingers to the prominent bulge as if deciding which option was more attractive in that moment.

Aemond was now so close, you could feel his kuckles come into contact with your robes, and even though he wasn’t directly touching you, it was enough to make you shudder. His blue eye was on you as he waited in silent agony.

You took in how charming he was. While many found him to be frightening, you couldn’t see it right then and there. His long and silvery hair absorbed the warm tones of the flames ablaze the nearby fireplace.

Half of his face was shadow while the other was fire.

“You may, your grace.”

The moments that followed, left you breathless. He wasted no time claiming your lips with his. You expected roughness, but through his desire, Aemond still managed to hold back, with one hand hastily undoing your robes while urging yours downwards.

“You’re so beautiful…” he mumbled in between kisses and you gasped as your fingers touched his covered hard cock. “So…”

He was thrusting into your hand in no time. Even through his clothes. The motion almost threw you off balance, and it had Aemond guiding you until your back was hitting the stone wall behind you.

With your breasts now exposed, he kept the rhythm with his hips while pinching your nipple with his free hand. The other was firmly on top of yours, keeping you own in place.

“Prince Aemond…” you moaned as he finally wrapped his lips around one nipple and having you clenching around nothing.

He was suckling on it with such despair and intensity that you were sure there would be marks across the sensitive skin in no time.

Aemond really was hungry for more.

Before you could moan louder, he stopped altogether, releasing your nipple with a loud wet sound that filled your ears in delight.

“I want you to look at me.”

You did as you were told and brought your eyes to meet his. He carefully removed his eyepatch, revealing his saphire eye. You’d never seen it before and your reaction was enough to have his expression morphing into something else.

“Does it bother you?”

“No.”

He clicked his tongue. “Don’t lie.”

Unsure of how else you could prove it, you brought one hand to his face and had the tips of your fingers trace the vertical scar that framed his eye.

He flinched under your touch. Aemond would never hesitate to make contact with someone (especially in battle), but letting someone else make contact with him was much different.

Not wanting to overdo it, you started lowering your hand once more, but not before he caught it, bringing the fingers that had just traced the ragged edges of his pride to his lips. One by one, he kissed the pads as if in gratitude.

You thought the heated moment between you two had passed, but Aemond had other plans as he brought you to grip his bulge again. He hastily freed his cock, and you felt warm liquid coating the back of your hand, and you couldn’t resist taking a look at how the tip of his cock leaked in anticipation.

“Eyes on me.”

His voice rumbled in his throat, and for the first time that night, you saw his eye closing in pure bliss when you wrapped on your fingers around him.

It took you a few sloppy strokes to get the hang of it and to figure out how he liked his cock handled. He didn’t hesitate fucking your hand, further spreading his precum along the length and producing the most mesmerising wet sounds.

Not even Aemond Targaryen was able to keep his composure, and had to keep his balance with one hand on the wall, beside your head. Wetness began to drip from you, coating your folds.

Your body was making sure you were ready to take him. All of him.

“Tighter…” he instructed before lowering his face to plant a few kisses on your neck.

You did so, drawing out delicious moans from him. Aemond had wanted you to keep eye contact with him, unaware that desire fogs even the sharpest of minds.

He was in no position to make demands.

You had him in the palm of your hand. Literally.

And through wet kisses and a few bites, you felt a guttural groan rip through his throat as he stilled. A few more caresses brought him over the edge. The underside of his cock pulsed violently, spilling streaks of cum across your hand and forearm.

You didn’t let go of his cock until he was completely drained.

“Fuck…”

His breathing was erratic and you saw several beads of sweat streaming down his face. He took one look at you, before collapsing against your shoulder.

You gave him a few minutes to recover and you hadn’t even noticed that you’d been pressing your thighs together in a foolish attemp to relieve some of the tension.

He eventually straightened up, and dragged his eyes across your hand. Without giving it too much thought, you brought it to your lips and slowly licked two fingers clean.

Aemond’s lips parted in surprise as you pooled the droplets on your tongue.

“Was not expecting that. Does it taste good?”

You offered a mischievous grin. “May I kiss you?”

He swallowed hard before nodding and placing his finger under your chin as he covered your lips with his. Aemond was more than willing to taste his own cum as he eagerly took it from your tongue.

-

Aemond Masterlist

[theficthatwaspromised]

I feel unholy and happy. this is hot as hell 🌋

[emmaziadarcy]

HOUSE OF THE DRAGON 1.02 | The Rogue Prince 1.10 | The Black Queen

[theficthatwaspromised]

Lord Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, Lord of the Tides, Master of Driftmark and dragons burning shit to the ground enthusiast

[moonlittragedies]

Saw this doing the rounds on Facebook 😂

[theficthatwaspromised]

Luce : what's nine plus ten?

Aemond : twenty one

[theficthatwaspromised]

Vermithor breathing fire and throwing his head around when Daemon sang his song like "hell yeah that's my fucking jam bro"

[hvitserkk]

What of Rhaenyra? The former heir cannot, of course, be allowed to remain free and draw support to her claim. She and her family will be given the opportunity to publicly swear obeisance to the new King.

[daenerys-stormborn]

House of the Dragon + in memoriam: Lucerys Velaryon

[theficthatwaspromised]

sweet boy 🤍

[theficthatwaspromised]

🥵, 🐶, 😴, 🛩,📱?

🥵 - Would you rather be too hot or too cold? Too cold !! I hate the hot weather, my body is not made for it

🐶 - Do you have any pets? I have two actually : a cat and a brother

😴 - What’s the longest you’ve ever gone without sleep? Probably something like 24 hours maximum, I love sleeping way too much so I probably couldn't last more

🛩 - If travelling was free, where’s the first place you’d go? Iceland baby

📱 - Favourite app on your phone? It has to be tumblr at the moment, so much fun stuff happening here with hotd

Thank you so so much for asking and please keep blessing us with ur writing 💛 would love to know your answers to these questions too !!

[theficthatwaspromised]

can someone please very calmly tell Aemond that life isn't a fucking staring contest

like boy we know you only have one eye left but that's not a reason to shoot life-threatening spine-chilling blood-curdling hair-rising daggers at literally everyone with it

[theficthatwaspromised]

Amusement II (Aemond Targaryen x Reader)

PART ONE.

The people asked for a part 2, and the people shall be satisfied.

Pairing : Aemond x Female!Strong!Reader

Word count : 3k

Warnings : 18+ (MINORS DNI), explicit, choking, slight mentions of blood and violence, Aemond being a sassy little shit (again).

To say that the day had been tempestuous would be an understatement. The reunion with Aemond alone would have been enough amusement for at least a whole year, but the dinner that had just ended in a quite heated way had provided you with your dose of entertainment for the century to come. It all had started well, though, but while Viserys' words touched the hearts of some, at the other end of the table there was a disturbing mix of tension and indifference that did not bode well. Sitting like the prince he was, straight and elegant, Aemond seemed quite indifferent. But the rare times you felt his gaze on you, it burned you like fire.

Everything had escalated very quickly: a mocking laugh from Luke, a very special toast from Aemond, a few punches and provocations later, the sweet family dinner had come to an end. You hadn't even had time to take sides, and to tell the truth it wouldn't have been of much use. It was like an infinite loop, lulled by strong jokes and resentments too old to be erased so easily.

Your mother's instructions were clear: go back to your quarters. However, it would have been far too frustrating to go to sleep after a dinner like this. All these childish provocations probably affected you less than your brothers, still you could feel the headache they were starting to cause. It's a big breath of fresh air that you needed, so, discreetly, you took the path to the place that felt most familiar to you here.

At such a late hour, the training ground should be deserted. But the familiar sound of metal clattering makes you realize that you're not the first to have had this idea. As you quietly descend the stone stairs, you begin to make out his slender figure in the half-light. The silence is broken only by his growls and furious breathing, punctuated by the sound of his sword striking the armed mannequin in front of him. The moonlight reflects off his blade and his hair, it almost softens his concentrated features. Like you, perhaps, he needed to let off steam after his “final tribute”. His pride must have been piqued by Daemon's interruption in the little game he had been leading so far. Without too much effort, armed only with his charism and his finely chosen acerbic words, Aemond had almost succeeded in provoking a war.

Walking silently along the walls, you end up leaning against the table on which the weapons are laid out during the day, a little further back. There is something quite hypnotizing about Aemond, in the way he stands, moves, speaks or reacts. He has both this very diplomatic, noble and proud look, and this frightening facet, the one that lets you know that everything can flip in a thousandth of a second if he wants it to. 

He lands a final blow before sheathing his sword, his heavy breathing raising his shoulders as he stands still with his back to you. You gulp as you hold your breath, silently admiring his build. His leather outfit is flattering to say the least, perfectly fitted at the shoulders and cinched at the waist. Your secret admiration is interrupted by a confident voice that is more hoarse than usual.

“Come on out,” he commands, his smirk almost audible. “Even a deaf man could have heard you coming.” 

You roll your eyes, an amused smile tugging your lips. “And even a blind one could notice your… discontent,” you answer, taking only a few steps forward. You stay a few feet away from him – as a precaution – with your arms crossed on your chest, as much to make you look confident as to fight the cold.

“The only thing that discontents me is your presence,” he replies, turning around to face you. “You could do us both a favour and retreat to your chambers, as your dear mother requested, if I recall correctly.” He imitates you, crossing is arms, and raising his eyebrow. He really can't help but be an ass, can he ?

“What can I say, I guess not all of us are sweet little mommy’s boys.” You shrug, offering him your best sarcastic smile, although you were not lying : Aemond probbaly was the scariest guy in this castle but the way he looked and spoke with his mother had not escaped you.

“That is not what I am usually depicted as.” He scoffs, looking half amused, half pensive.

“And how are you usually described then ?” The question comes out of your curious mouth before you can even think it over, and the sudden interest you demonstrate doesn’t go unnoticed. A discreet but mischievous smile crosses his face while he once more stares down at you, like he just won a first round by winning your curiosity. 

“Less pleasantly,” he answers, without wanting to offer you more information and without seeming touched. On the contrary, he seems almost amused, satisfied.

It's not hard to guess that he likes verbal jousts as much as sword fights. And it's not hard to notice how much he seems to enjoy having the upper hand in this game either. What would happen if he was, say, destabilized?

“Yeah well, I'll admit you really can be an asshole when you want to,” you shrug, as impassive as possible. “But at least you're a pretty one,” you add, a playful smile on the corner of your lips as you revel in the short look of surprise on his face. 

Aemond stays silent for long seconds, staring right back at you, as if to know if you're really mocking him or if there's a hint of sincerity behind your words. Years of self-depreciation mixed with a certain indifference to other people's opinions must have made him a little impervious to compliments, whether sincere or sarcastic. Nevertheless, you regain control thanks to this confusing reply and that's what seems to annoy him above all: this conversation is not innocent, it's a game and you both want to win it.

“Have you got nothing better to do but to mess with the pretty asshole that I am ?” He quotes as he steps closer, the sudden realization that this time there’s no one but the two of you in this training yard making you gulp. 

You don't let yourself be intimidated—or at least you don't show it—and try to ignore the familiar warmth that creeps into your belly as he approaches. “I find this quite entertaining,” you admit and he chuckles.

“Did our earlier encounter and tonight’s supper not entertain you enough ?” He questions, now clearly amused, easily guessing the real meaning behind your words : you’re enjoying this little game just as much as he is. But you want to go further, sting him so that he really reacts, even if you’ll probably regret it. The temptation is too great, the duel too natural, the feeling too pleasant.

“It was indeed a lot of amusement. I especially enjoyed the part where you left with your tail between your legs,” you innocently call back, immediately noticing the way he tenses up a little. There’s a gloom in his eye that lets you know you’re starting to get what you want, but you also know he won’t let you win without a fight. 

“A bloodbath would have been rather inappropriate. Although Harwin Strong’s blood wouldn’t be a tragic loss,” he smirks, and now it’s your turn to tense. Coming from anyone else, you probably could have ignored it. But this name coming out of his mouth, and this perfectly assumed and insolent violence makes you boil. He really is an asshole. That smug expression he bears is enough to make your jaw clench, though you refuse to break eye contact and admit this one did affect you. Your heart is beating faster and he probably can hear it from where he’s standing, waiting for your reaction. 

You sigh as you pull yourself together, crossing the distance between you to come and plant yourself right in front of him. He doesn't move, stoic, but staggers slightly when your cold hand cups his cheek. You ignore your racing heart and the jolt that runs through your whole body against his skin, and give him a fake sympathetic smile. “How frustrating it must be, hiding behind witty jokes and provocations, when all you really desire is the attention you will never obtain,” you whisper, outlining his defined jaw all the way from under his ear to his chin. “You are and you will always be nothing but the second son,” you pout, and before you can mimic the cheeky expression he was sporting just seconds ago, his hand grips your wrist tightly. He holds it hostage next to his face, his furious glare betraying his rising anger.

“You know nothing about my desires,” he growls, tilting his head until his mouth is just next to your ear. “And dare not speak of them when you are too stubborn to accept your own,” he murmurs and you can feel his content smile against your ear. His thumb wanders over your wrist until he finds that perfect spot where he can feel your pulse, and thus guess how flustered you are just with those little words. The effect he has on you is obvious and it drives you mad. Without allowing him to have control any longer, you opt for the easy and safe answer, turning your head to face him, your noses almost touching.

“I accept them,” you lie, stolid. “But not all desires should be satisfied.” You frown when he snorts at your answer. He doesn't let go of your wrist but he pulls back a little, licking his lips.

“How disappointing,” he chuckles. “What a proud coward you have grown to be,” he says, an insult all the more vexing because you know it to be false. You glare at him and pull your wrist away from his hand, making him groan. Aemond likes control, and you like taking it back.

“At least I've grown. You’re still that weak little boy, too scared to ask for a dance,” you spit, eyes locked in his. The tension between you is more than palpable, it emanates from your two boiling bodies, but he furiously crosses it to come and grab you by the neck, pushing you back until you are wedged between him and the table behind you. All the restraint he has shown so far seems to have disappeared to give way to his ferocious nature. He tilts your head back by lifting your chin, both your hands grip the rough table for balance as he pushes his body against yours. 

“You’re the one who should be scared, my dear.” He pushes his thigh between your legs, the material of your dress far too thin to protect you from this delicious pressure and he notices it, smirking at the sound of your quiet whimpers.“Should I ever wish to really dance with you, I highly doubt you could handle it,” he says, his lips trembling over yours, both in anger and in lust. You squeeze your thighs around his leg, making him groan, your body burning with anticipation as you use your last ounce of willpower to speak clearly, wanting him to know you're the one in control.

 “There’s only one way to find out,” you reply and without giving him time to process your words, you close the distance between your lips in a furious kiss. He growls against your mouth and he grips your hair tightly, making you moan in pain and pleasure. He presses you against the table and one of your hands grips his collar, pulling him even closer. There's nothing romantic about it, it's an exquisite blend of fury and desire, as your tongues fight for dominance while your bodies push, pull, and collide. He pulls your hair back and you gasp, allowing him to attack your mouth again, his tongue marking it as his territory. His moves are feral and you’re a thirsting mess already, and the feeling of his own arousal between your thighs only flusters you more. 

His free hand finds your hip and he holds you tight, grinding languidly against your craving body. This fucker sure knows how to turn you on, and when his fingers move all the way down to lift your dress in a hungry movement, you bite his lip hard enough to make him groan. You smirk as he takes a step back, fuming, his eye shining with sin. You take the opportunity to take a deep breath, panting, but soon he grabs you by the neck, turns you around and has you bent over the table. You whine as your chest and cheek hit the rough wood, cutting your skin. He's pressed firmly against you, holding your wrists in place flat on the table. 

“Still think you can handle it, hm ?” He groans, and you feel him hard against you as he slides his hand under your neck to pull you up quickly against his chest, holding you in place thanks to his grip around your neck, your head pressed against his shoulder. Your back is fully pressed against him and you are unable to move, his arm keeping yours glued to your chest. With his other hand he lifts your dress again, as his mouth brushes your cheek. The heat between your legs grows more and more when he leans in to lick the wound on your cheek.“I’ll have you begging on your knees for more,” he murmurs and your eyes close as you feel his fingers brush against your thigh, slowly sliding up to reach your undergarments. They quickly make their way underneath it, and you gasp when his rough fingertips run through your slit, your legs shaking under his touch.

 “Aemond,” you whine, and the sound of his name coming from your mouth is exquisite. He groans again, louder. Your lips part and a strangled gasp escapes when he starts playing with your wet and sensitive skin, your clit rolling under his fingers. It’s rough and messy but it feels so good, and when he pushes his fingers inside of you, you purr his name out again, only making him harder against your back.. 

“Look at you,” he exhales against your ear and you start shaking as you feel the pleasure grow more and more every time his fingers move in and out of you, but he holds you in place, his hand still firmly gripping your neck. “So vulnerable,” he smirks. “So docile around my hand.” 

He feels you tightening around his fingers and, in a pleased grin, removes his hand from your throbbing cunt. So close to release, you let out a hungry moan you can’t contain, expressing just how much you ache for his touch - and he fucking loves it. He licks his lips and the sound it makes right next to your ear is enough to have you throwing your head back on his shoulder, pleasure and frustration driving you mad. 

“Hm”, he growls, taking a moment to fully savour his dominance to the sound of your tortured whimpers. You are soaking wet, the warmth spreading from between your thighs to your belly where his hand is now resting. Your pleading eyes look up only to be met by his ferocious gaze, the smirk covering his lips widening. “Some desires do need to be satisfied, do they not ?” he murmurs, staring down at you, his hand sliding down oh so slowly. His fingertips brush your skin and leave a trail of shivers on their way to your aching clit, barely caressing it. 

Your eyes roll back as you try so hard not to give in, to resist the urge to scream for him to release you from this torture, and the sight of you biting your lips to cover the exquisite sounds of pleasure coming from it only make him want to push you more - to make you beg, to give you what you deserve. He starts drawing circles around your most sensitive spot, his thumb moving so slow, making you convulse each time it passes over it. It is getting harder and harder for you to breathe, to think, to resist. You moan loudly into his ear when two of his fingers are buried into you again, moving in and out languidly again, and again. It feels so right, you don’t care how wrong it is any more. He stops only for a second, and that is enough for him to make you turn to face him, his hand moving from your neck to grasp your hair. Aemond’s trembling lips brush against your own as his other hand finds its way back under your dress, right to where it was - where you want it to be. 

You can’t take it no more, barely standing on your legs, you grab his vest with trembling hands in a silent plea for him to give you release. He pulls you closer. His gaze doesn’t leave yours and there’s a spark in it that conveys an order : keep fucking looking at him. With whimpering lips you give in, desperate and craving for more. “Aemond,” you whine, almost inaudible, “please.” And that is all he needed to hear. 

His grunt is feral, and now his palm swirls in circles around your clit as he pushes his fingers into you, deep and precise, such perfectly timed thrusts that have you clinging to his chest. Your mouth opens as you almost reach ultimate pleasure and he crashes his lips against yours, swallowing your cries when you cum loudly in his mouth. Your thighs tighten around his hand, your whole legs shaking, but he keeps going, holding you firmly. 

When he decides it's over, that you've had enough, he releases the panting mess that’s left of you and steps back just a little, admiring his work. He smirks, proud and victorious, and you can easily read the “I told you you’d be begging” on his face, even though he doesn’t say it - he doesn’t have to. Instead, he simply readjusts his vest, now back looking like the decent man he claims to be. 

“Enough amusement for today, I think,” he hums after a few seconds. “Let’s save some for tomorrow, shall we ?”

[nobodys-archive-deactivated2023]

i think in the wake of game of thrones season 8 being so mindbogglingly horrible, people tend to forget how stupid seasons 5-7 were as well. my favorite moment in the show still remains when cersei blew up the most revered religious building in the country with the most popular royals inside and it had zero - and i mean literally zero - consequence. not even a mildly negative reaction from the people of kingslanding. imagine if the president of italy blew up the vatican with the pope and the kardashians inside and no one batted an eye.