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arcielee · 1 year

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Where Is My Mind?

Summary: Modern!FemaleReader’s subconscious has ruined her pussy. Paring: Aemond Targaryen x Modern!FemReader Word Count: 2579 Warnings: Smutty smut, masturbation, little bit of spanking, oral (fem receiving), p in v, language, drinking. Author's Note: I did not think I would do a part 2, but I really appreciated the feedback from my first reader insert attempt and loved all the kindred spirits I apparently have on this godforsaken social media platform. ♥ Also, thank you so much @f4ll-for-you for your time to read this over! Tags (kindred spirits): @narwhal-swimmingintheocean This is dedicated to @fan-goddess because you made a call out to something and I already had 1k with that in mind. Series: Call It Dreaming

It had been three agonizing weeks since that night-that dream?-in Westeros and peace no longer seemed to be an option for your pussy.

At first, after you woke up, hot, bothered, and naked on the couch, you were grateful your roommates utilized a Friday night in a way that your school and work schedule did not allow. You were quick to wrap yourself in the blanket and flee into your room.

You took a moment in your full-length mirror to survey yourself: the thin gash between your breasts was not bleeding, but still had a delicious sting to it, and you had no idea where your clothes were. It must have been some sort of fucked up sleep walking? You cringe at the thought, promising to never watch House of the Dragon outside the safety of your bedroom again.

It was a very sexy dream, you tell yourself, returning to your bed and collapsing back onto it. Your mind wanders back, remembering the warmth of his hands on your body, the ache between your thighs when he entered you, the sensations of his hard chest pressed against your body…

Your hand trails to your cunt, your fingers desperate to touch and tantalize yourself the way Aemond Targaryen had. Your brow furrows with your concentration, your breath quickens with your motion, and your orgasm comes but it is like the tepid stream of tap water and the faucet was twisted shut.

You almost cry. My subconscious has fucking ruined me.

The thought does not linger and you return to your busy schedule of classes from morning until the afternoon and then your internship that went well into the evening. It was self-inflicted, a last minute decision to throw yourself into a master’s program for historic preservation. Though the internship’s pay was pitiful, it was manageable, and you had peace with your work, taking pride in visiting sites, your documentation process and photography for your filework later.

It had been perfectly soothing until fucking recently and now every quiet moment led to intrusive thoughts of a specific, fictional, one-eyed prince.

You refused to be broken by your mind, after all you were a modern, independent woman with items purposefully purchased for whenever a situation called for a DIY orgasm. Your free time was on the weekends and you politely decline your roommates’ invitation to go out with the lie that your lady time has arrived. Only after they left could you truly cater to yourself and what you needed.

Candles are lit, fresh sheets, every toy out on the covers and you sprawl back on your bed, your hands careful to trace where his hands had been, the bruising grip of his large palms, allowing your mind to flutter back to the Red Keep…

…and much to your disappointment, you find that you are still unable to bring yourself the release you had felt that night.

This is fine, your subconscious has not ruined you, you think as you scroll through your phone to find blood and flesh, assuming that is what your body was craving.

You had an ex that was a suitable candidate; you dated briefly when you both finished your B.A. but found the next steps of both your academic careers required too much time. It was an amicable end and you still sent the occasional text.

These texts were unlike the polite ones sent before and he was quick to reply. A week later, you were wearing a fitted black dress with a ribbed texture and an apricot cardigan over it, and ankle boots. You walk to the small bar that is only a few blocks away from your apartment, leaving a bit early to request a spiced rum drink for some liquid courage.

Your ex finally arrives and he is still just as traditionally handsome in a House Stark sense-oh my goddess, leave that G.R.R.M. thought alone-with a big smile beneath his beard and exuding the same golden retriever kindness as before. The conversation is pleasant, catching up on each other’s life updates until the rum floods your brain and the insatiable ache between your thighs demands action.

You grab him and the two of you fall away into a corner of the bar, but the moment you taste his lips to your own, you knew no modern man would be able to soothe the consistent ache in your lower abdomen, to satiate the void that gnawed within you.

He notes your change in your demeanor and breaks away. “Hey, it’s cool if we just remain friends,” he offers with his token, genuine kindness, completely unaware of your internal warfare with your mind.

There is a moment you think to protest, but decide against it. “Yeah, thanks, sorry,” you reply with a defeatist sigh. “I have, just, really been off lately. I think it’s because of my lady time,” you renew your lie.

“Oh? I could just walk you home, if you want?” You shake your head, “It’s okay. I am a few blocks away. Thanks anyway.”

Your steps are determined and you make sure to stop at the mart on the way home, grabbing a pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream and a cheap bottle of red dessert wine. In the solitude of your apartment, you grab two coffee mugs, one for ice cream and one for wine, making it easy to walk back to your room.

You throw off your cardigan and shoes, plopping onto your mattress, and fumble with the remote to turn on House of the Dragon, starting at episode eight.

My subconscious has ruined me, was your last thought, bringing a spoonful to your mouth.

And here you were, once again, standing in his same room and he, Aemond Targaryen, is seated in the same leather chair and facing the fireplace. The fire crackles loudly and gives a golden hue to the side profile of the prince. His posture is perfect, with one leg crossed on top of the other, his arm poised on the armrest and his thumb running the length of his fingertips and back again.

“You lied to me.”

Your eyes widen as he pushes from his seat and squares off to you; he is wearing leather trousers and a loose, white tunic with the sleeves rolled up to show his toned forearms decorated with silver hair. His tunic is not laced up and his hard chest peaks beneath, moving with his steady breaths.

Your heart pounds against your chest at the sight of him, your mind reviewing your last lucid dream of this perfect man who spoke so few words and you knew that you would not dare to lie to him, dream or not. You chew your bottom lip and allow your tongue to wet it, taking slow steps towards him, counting in-between each step to resist throwing yourself at his feet.

“What do you mean, my prince?” Your tone is controlled, but you can feel the heat in your cheeks.

He hummed and you swear you saw the hint of a smile touch his lips. “You said you were a whore that my brother had sent,” he continued, taking deliberate steps to close the space between you two.

Oh, that, you remember the exchange and were quick to say, “My prince,” lowering your lidded eyes. “I had only said that I had been sent for your pleasure,” your tone is coy and your arms cross below your chest to showcase the bit of cleavage allowed with the scoop neckline, noting the dilation of his lavender eye that roams your figure. “You made the assumption that I was just another one of your brother’s whores.”

You now can see the curl of his lips and you sigh your relief. He steps closer and reaches his hand to touch your jaw; his touch elicits a physical response and goosebumps ripple over your body, your nipples peeking beneath your dress. His lavender eye drinks in your figure. “You never did tell me,” he murmured, his voice dark and velvet.

“I have been sent for your plea-” you tried to begin, but he was quick to cut you off.

“Where are you from?”

Your mind floods with a response: How do I explain I am from the 21st century and he is the figment of my sexy imagination? Your eyes remain locked on the prince and you struggle to control your voice, “I cannot say.”

His expression is unreadable and his only reply is his low hum, then his hand grasps onto your hips, turning you and bringing your body flush against his chest. He nuzzles into your neck, pushing your hair aside so his mouth can suck and nip at the nape. His large hands grip onto your stomach and follow your curves, moving to the hem of your dress and pulling it to your hips.

You moan from his warm touch as his fingers trace the lace of your cotton thong and move towards your center, titillating your slit. You feel your clit pulsing from his touch and he hums again, hugging you close with one arm wrapping around your waist and his other hand cupping your cloth cunt; his hips roll against you and you can feel his bulge grind against your ass.

“So fucking wet,” he groans against your neck and more goosebumps ripple in response.

“Yes, my prince,” you say with your exhale, twisting to face him and find his lips.

He opens his mouth to deepen the kiss and your tongue responds with long, languid movements to drink in the taste of his mouth. Your arms wrap around his neck, bruising your lips against his own, and his hands trail the curve of your hips and to your backside, feeling the bare flesh of your ass. His palm rises and slaps soundly against your skin; you squeal in response. “My prince!” You pull back, your cheeks and nose flushed from kissing.

“You act as if no other man has handled you this way,” he smirks. “Wherever you come from, do the men there make you feel a certain way?”

Fuck me, I have never felt like this, but you feel shy with his question and instead say, “My prince, I have been searching for the pleasure you gave me and I have yet find anything that compares…”

Your answer is petting his ego, yes, but gods he was pretty. You did not expect him to speak further and your body pines to feel his touch, his lips once more. “And when you search to recreate,” his lips curl with his words, “the pleasure I gave you, did you use your hands?”

His tone is low, husky with his question and your cheeks burn when you nod yes.

“Show me. I want you to touch yourself.”

Before you can comprehend what he said, his hands grab the small of your waist and bring you back towards the bed. He pushes you back, your dress still bunched around your hips, and climbs on top to find your lips for a slow, lingering kiss before moving lower to grab the lace strings to remove your thong.

The cool air nips at the wetness between your thighs and he brings your fingers to his mouth, suckling to lube them. Your back arches from the tickle of his tongue to your fingertips and you pull back your hand, letting it fall between to caress your swollen slit, your eyes never leaving him.

He takes a step back and moves his hands to unlace the top of his trousers, his hand reaching to caress his cock and his steady gaze never leaving you. It feels sinful and you feel the first crest of pleasure wash over, a soft sigh slipping from your lips.

“Daor,” his voice pulls you from the edge, his gaze darkened on you. “Nyke mērī vestās renigon.”

No. I only said to touch.

He pulls the loose tunic over his head, his silver hair spilling onto his shoulders and his leather trousers low on his hips, his Adonis belt prominent on his toned abdomen. He moves to press his hands onto the peaks of your thighs, pushing the dress further up and you are quick to peel off the rest in time to see him dip between your thighs.

His mouth finds your center and you smother yourself in the bunched fabric of your dress as his tongue runs your slit. Aemond pauses and peers at you for a moment. “I need to hear you,” he says, his breath warm on your cunt and you are quick to throw the dress aside.

He returns his attention, his tongue lavishing you; your hands are eager to comb his silken hair and he hums his pleasure into your cunt. Your moans grow wanton and the pleasure builds towards your crescendo when he stops suddenly.

You prop yourself onto your elbows to look at him and the curl of his lips seem wicked. “I have been waiting for you to return to me,” he said simply. “You will not have your release until I decide.”

Before you can protest, he moves quickly, his hands sink into your flesh with his hold and flipping you onto your stomach, drawing you closer towards the bed edge until your legs drop and your feet touch the cobblestone. You feel his chest press against your backside and the tip of his cock pressing against your entrance before he sinks into you. You moan with his delicious stretch and he gives a low groan as he bottoms out in you, falling forward and pressing his lips to your spine.

“Just as I remember,” he growls, before his hands grab onto your hips and he ruts into you with a brutal pace. Your arms stretch in front to grab hold of anything as you feel him crash against you, his hip bones digging into the softness of your ass and reaching a depth that has your nipples taut with pleasure.

“My prince,” your cries are pitiful and you can feel his breath on your spine.

“Ñuha brōzi,” his tone husky. “Vestragon ūja.”

My name. Say it.

“Aemond, please,” you obey, the crescendo building again and you see stars flitting across your vision. “Aemond, Aemond…”

He can feel the flutter of your cunt but his pace does not cease until he feels you clenching, crying out as your orgasm rolls over your entire body; his thrusts slow with his release and he falls forward, wrapping his arms around you to hold you flush against him for a moment.

You are torn between the fortune of another successful sexy dream and your realization that your subconscious has absolutely ruined your pussy, but you push the thoughts aside when he pulls you back beneath the covers. You curl up against the prince, your head resting against his chest while his fingertips travel the length of your spine and back.

“You said I kept you waiting,” you say shyly.

He hums at first and then he says, “I imagine you will leave me again.”

“I will need to,” you feel an ache with your words. “But I will stay as long as I am able to.”

Aemond hums again and turns to pull you against his chest. You feel the press of his lips to your hairline and feel the flush of goosebumps with the murmur of his words, “Sȳz riña.”

Good girl.

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