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theficthatwaspromised · 2 years

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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 ?”

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