ewansnose - Tumblr blog

ewansnose · 8 months ago

Text

THAT WAS SO SNSJDJSKS definitely one of my favorite fanfics here, love this so much. I can’t wait for the part 3 of this, the reader is FUCKED.

(If I was her I would make a pact with God because now she will meet the REAL devil

LOVE THIS!

Pomegranate Seed

• Demon!Aemond x Reader • chapter 2 • masterlist

• 9K •MDNI •

warning: In Dante's words, "Abandon all hope, ye who enter here!" Pure filth, and it’s only gonna get worse (a promise or a threat)

summary: It’s been three weeks since you made a pact with Aemond, which means it’s time for your first errand. While you intend to keep things professional, Aemond has other plans.

a/n: to the most passionate, loveliest, and devoted readers 🩶 Hope you find it delicious! 💋

It’s been almost three weeks since you and Aemond made a pact, and things have started aligning in your favor, as though by some unseen hand. You’ve become more active, more energized, more… alive. Every step you take feels infused with purpose, grace, and it’s almost as if the world shifts to make room for you. Men notice you, drawn in by the quiet allure of your presence, while women regard you with envy, sharp as a blade.

Your writing has transformed too. The words flow onto paper like water, effortless and seamless, twisting into sentences, unfurling into paragraphs, and finally, into chapters. The routine, once a struggle, now feels like a rhythm you can’t break. Morning until lunch, each session feels like a step closer to something… monumental. The plot unfurls in your mind with startling clarity, as if it had always meant to be this way. The characters pulse with life, their relationships burning with passion.

Sue, your editor, is in awe. She’s relentless, convincing you that the book will not just be good, but extraordinary—that it will propel you into the spotlight. She can’t stop gushing over the spicy scene in chapter 15, admitting Jack is the first fictional man she’d beg to fuck her. You laugh, awkward but pleased. But when you re-read the scene where your protagonist ties Susan using his tie, your thoughts inevitably stray to Aemond. You pray he never finds out how much of that scene was… inspired by him. The thought of him reading it makes your stomach twist. You fear his mockery, yet the darker part of you is intrigued to know what he’d do.

Today marks 20 days, which means the first errand should be given to you tomorrow. You sigh, rubbing the bridge of your nose, and for a moment, the pressure of your glasses feels almost unbearable. The Word document before you reads 1000 words—your daily limit, accomplished.

You glance to the side, your reflection caught in the vast mirror across the room. The flat is as small as ever, and this mirror, absurdly large, was an impulse purchase. You bought it to look at every day, to remind yourself that one day soon you would have more. A better life, a bigger place.

But despite the progress, there’s a lingering unease. A shadow of doubt creeps in whenever you think of Aemond. The errands, the obligations… what will he ask of you? The unknown always entails the memory of that night.

The way his belt pressed deliciously into your skin, how being blindfolded intensified every single sensation in your body cells. How his tongue swirled within you, making you cum again and again before he finally was inside you. Thick and hot. He consumed you, body and soul. You’ve been trying to convince yourself that that was the shame and guilt you felt. But the ache in the lower part of your stomach always screamed the truth at you. You want more.

Either it is your pride or stubbornness, but you’ve been fighting the idea of calling his name. And, very soon, you met Jacob. Confident, funny, perhaps a little too smug. You’ve been on three dates, and by the end of the last one, the hunger inside you grew insatiable. Surely, sex with Jacob would… fix things.

But no. What should’ve been the highlight of the evening—him going down on you—turned into a humiliating struggle. You had to guide him, your hands clutching his head, desperately trying to force him in the right direction, as he fumbled and slurped like a fool.

You cursed, seeking relief in desperate self-pleasure with your fingers later that eve. His name was practically on your lips that night, you were so close to giving in.

You shake your head, closing your laptop with a snap, trying to push the disappointment aside. If it’s not Jacob, then someone else will come along your way. With Aemond, the best way forward is to keep things strictly professional. No more affairs with demons. Mental note taken.

Moving to the window, your feet sink into the softness of the white carpet, another purchase for this flat you’re determined to make feel like home. You peer out into the darkness beyond. The forest is a mass of shadows, and the distant call of an owl reaches your ears.

Your gaze drifts to the windowsill, and you spot the dark stain from a cigarette. A promise to return.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow you’ll figure it out. Tomorrow, you’ll see him again.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

The sunlight’s warmth tingles your face—pleasant, like a delicate touch, a quiet promise of a nice day ahead. You stretch in bed with a soft sigh, eyes still closed, when suddenly the sun disappears, as if hidden by a cloud, making you furrow your brow in confusion.

A voice, a familiar, velvety whisper, so close it sends a shiver down your spine.

“Missed me, little dove?”

Your eyes snap open, heart racing in your chest as his face is inches away from yours.

“You?” you gasp, sitting up in bed, the blanket, a flimsy shield, instinctively pulled tight against your body. You clearly didn’t expect to see him first thing in the morning.

“Me,” he replies, his smirk curling. He lies on his side, relaxed, like a predator toying with its prey. His pressed suit—what you mentally call it—is gone, replaced by a dark vest clinging to his bare chest and grey plaid trousers that hang loosely over his frame. A chain dangles from his neck like a snake. He looks so different and yet so… gorgeous.

“What are you doing here so early?” you manage, trying to steady your breath and dispel the drooling thoughts, as if in fear he might read them.

“Admiring you.”

“And how long have you been doing that?”

“I don’t know,” he murmurs thoughtfully. “It was still gloomy. Will you believe me if I say I heard you moaning my name?” A devilish edge sparks in his sapphire-blue eyes, savoring your micro expressions as blush paints your cheeks.

“Lie,” you puff, standing abruptly from the bed, cursing yourself for choosing that flimsy, transparent pink peignoir.

“It was loud and lingering,” he continues, his gaze hungry as it moves over your figure, making you feel it even with your back turned. You reach for your bathrobe, knotting it tightly around your waist, just as his eyes set you ablaze.

“So what’s my first errand?” you ask, your voice more clipped now, trying to regain control.

“You didn’t tell me if you missed me,” he tilts his head in a way that makes his hair fall just so, reminding you of its softness as you clasp it under his merciless tempo.

You shrug. “No.”

“Pity.” He pouts, though you know there’s no way your words hurt him. “Because I certainly missed you. And those little noises. And that tight cu—”

“Stop!” Your voice is a sharp gasp, but it’s the heat in your cheeks that betrays you.

He’s pleased with your reaction, savoring every moment of your discomfort.

With a soft hum, he rises to his feet, stretching his arms above his head. His waist is shamelessly slim in this outfit. His movement is feline, graceful, and you feel your knees buckle. And you mentally curse the universe for letting him have such an effect on you.

“Well, I see my little dove is bustling with excitement for her first errand,” he says, a chuckle barely concealed beneath the words. “Who am I to refuse?”

And the way he smirks tells you one thing: you’re going to hate it.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Standing in the middle of the living room, your arms crossed, nausea crawls up your throat. “Absolutely not.”

Aemond leans lazily against the windowsill, his long fingers tugging a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.

“Refusing your first task?” he asks, his tone laced with mockery. To him, it’s clearly an amusing game. “Don’t you think it’s a bit too early for that?”

The flicker of the lighter echoes in the room, and he takes a slow drag, tilting his head back slightly as smoke spills from his lips.

“Just give me a normal errand,” you demand, trying to steady your nerves. “And that’s it.”

He shrugs indifferently, exhaling another puff. “I’m only asking you to look after a pet.”

“A pet?” Your voice is laced with frustration. “A pet is like a fluffy, cute dog, or a grumpy cat that you visit to feed,” you blurt out. “Or at least a parrot. Not a demonic snake!”

A low hiss fills the room. You flinch, your gaze darting downward. Vhagar is coiled loosely near Aemond’s feet, her dark green scales glistening with a faint iridescence.

I’m here. And I hear you.

“She didn’t mean to offend you, love,” he coos to the creature, his voice sickly sweet, like a parent soothing a child.

You’d roll your eyes, if not for the memory of that night sparking vividly in your mind. The feeling of Vhagar twisting and writhing within you. The forbidden ecstasy of that night rushes back. You clench your fists, your nails biting into your palms as you force the memory down.

“It’s just for a few days,” Aemond reasons.

“No way! Days weren’t part of—”

“Well, let’s check the contract.”

With a flick of his wrist, the parchment materializes between his fingers, smoke curling lazily around it. He scans it briefly, holding it at an angle that invites you closer.

“See for yourself. What does it say about duration?”

You hesitate, your gaze flickering to Vhagar. The serpent is still, her head slightly raised, her eyes gleaming with an unsettling intensity. Maybe if she strikes now, you’ll be spared the torment of what’s to come.

Slowly, you step forward, the carpet muffling your cautious movements. Vhagar doesn’t so much as twitch, her coiled body a perfect picture of indifference.

Taking the contract, your eyes dart over the fine print. Your brows furrow. “It says nothing about the duration of the errand.”

“Exactly.” His voice is triumphant. Realization dawns with a cold finality—he can twist the rules however he likes.

“You asshole.” The urge to tear the paper into shreds burns in your chest, but before you can act, it vanishes from your grip, dissolving into the air like ash. Of course.

“Getting braver, aren’t we?” he chides, stepping closer. Every nerve in your body screams at you to move. “Haven’t you gotten what you wanted?”

His gaze drifts lazily around the living room, and you reluctantly follow it. The once-chaotic space now looks much better—organized, tidy, eerily reflective of your own thoughts.

His attention lingers on the wide-framed mirror. A flicker of curiosity crosses his face, his head tilting slightly. For a moment, you wonder what he sees.

The smoke from his cigarette curls toward you, snapping you out of your thoughts. You instinctively step back, wrinkling your nose.

“Don’t smoke here,” you snap. “My landlady will kill me.”

“Not if I kill her first.”

The casual delivery sends a chill down your spine.

“It’s a joke?”

He holds your gaze, unreadable, and for a second too long, he doesn’t answer. Panic rises in your chest at the thought of what he’s capable of—for amusement, or worse. Just as it crescendos, his laughter spills out, shaking his head at you. It’s so human, yet so terribly misplaced.

“Relax, little dove. I’m not killing your landlady.”

He stubs the cigarette out on the windowsill with deliberate ease, and you bite back a retort.

“I’ve got more urgent business to attend to,” he says, stepping closer, effortlessly closing the distance between you. His scent envelops you—rich, smoky, and intoxicatingly familiar. Your pulse betrays you, quickening as he invades your space.

“Which is why… I need your help. Vhagar can’t go with me.”

His voice drops a few tones lower, soothing, intimate. Irresistible.

Your breath deepens, caught somewhere between defiance and surrender, as he lifts your chin gently, forcing you to meet his gaze.

“She won’t bother you, I promise,” he murmurs. “You just need to feed her once.”

You hold his gaze, scrambling for an escape, a loophole—anything that might give you an out. But nothing comes. Staying with that creature is the last thing you expected. But he’s right. You are getting what you want.

“Why not ask me to do your laundry?” you say, the faint tremor in your voice betraying you.

The question amuses him. The corner of his mouth curls into a smirk that makes your stomach twist. “Who knows? That might be your next task.”

“Just for three days?”

“Just for three days.”

“Okay.”

“Thank you, little dove.”

With those words, he leans in, his lips brushing your cheek—a fleeting touch that burns. It takes every ounce of willpower to keep your hands at your sides, to resist the pull of him.

Then the moment shatters like glass.

“The mice are in the fridge,” he says, his voice suddenly flat.

Confusion flashes across your face. “Mice?”

But when you blink, he’s gone, leaving behind only the faint trace of his scent in the air.

Your gaze falls to the plush carpet, where Vhagar lies coiled like a living jewel in the sunlight. Her dark, glistening scales seem to mock you, as if she knows what you’ve agreed to.

Your eyes catch your reflection in the mirror—flushed, disheveled, and disturbingly exposed.

Reality crashes down like a bucket of freezing water.

Fuck.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

You don’t know if it’s wise to leave the snake on its own. The thought lingers, gnawing at the edges of your plans. Canceling everything and staying home feels extreme, but going about your day while Vhagar prowls freely might be reckless.

Luckily, there’s no urgent need to venture out. Your next meeting with your editor and potential publisher is three days away, leaving you with ample time to focus on writing.

For most of the morning, you tread lightly, the floors creaking faintly under your tiptoes. You’re worried she might become restless in Aemond’s absence, that her sharp instincts might lash out without her master to temper them. Yet she seems content or rather, quietly certain. It’s as if she knows he’ll return, and you’re just another temporary fixture in her domain.

To your surprise, she’s claimed the new fluffy carpet in the living room as her throne, shifting occasionally to follow patches of sunlight that drift through the windows. When you pass by her on your way to your desk, her yellow eyes flicker for the briefest moment before settling back into an unfocused stillness.

Perhaps that’s a good sign.

Settling at your desk, you open your planner. The task for the day stares back at you: write a date night scene leading to a spicy encounter in a restaurant bathroom.

Each time you open a Word document and stare at the blank page and keyboard, doubt creeps in—you never quite believe the words will flow. But somehow, your fingers find the right letters, forming words that evolve into coherent, engaging sentences. They’re by no means perfect, but they bring immense joy, as if you possess a newfound power to translate the vision in your head onto paper with near-effortless precision. Writing feels as natural as breathing.

Jake gives Susan a compliment. It’s a small thing, but it lands, just as it always has. Despite all the years they’ve shared, the blush it summons to her cheeks is immediate. He asks for the bill, and she excuses herself to freshen up her makeup. Their eyes meet, her gaze lingering a fraction too long, and he catches the unspoken invitation. The restaurant bathroom is a haven of dark luxury: dim lighting, shadowed corners, thick doors that muffle the pounding bassline from the dining room. The air is heavy with an intoxicating mix of wood and floral scents. “Why didn’t we fuck here before?” he murmurs, his lips brushing hers as the door clicks shut behind them. Hot kisses follow, his hands rough and possessive. Her dress tears, the cold tiles beneath her back a stark contrast to the heat radiating from her body. An avalanche of sensation builds between her thighs. The sharp sound of a zipper, the rustle of fabric, and then he’s behind her, taking her with an urgency that matches the pulse of the music outside.

As you write, the scene takes on a life of its own. Your breathing deepens, a slow ache blooming low in your belly, heat pooling in waves that make it impossible to ignore.

Leg over leg, you press your thighs together, seeking some relief. What once felt like a chore—writing smut—is now a torment of its own kind. It’s foreplay in every sense of the word, which must be followed by release.

By the time Jake cums in your scene, your body is begging for attention. The thought of using a vibrator crosses your mind, but you pause, glancing at Vhagar.

She lies sprawled in the center of the carpet, her eyes half-lidded and unblinking.

No, I’m not doing it while she’s here.

You shift uncomfortably, your soaked underwear clings to you, almost enough to draw a groan of frustration.

Apparently, the passion you’d longed for has opened a floodgate you can’t control. Writing these scenes doesn’t help, nor does being perpetually single. If you don’t figure out how to manage it, you’ll inevitably end up calling his name—which is… unacceptable? Shameful? Letting him know how much you loved sex with him? How much you long to experience something even remotely similar?

You bite your lip.

Fuck. I’ll lose my mind if I don’t do something.

The shower feels like your only salvation. Shutting the door behind you, you twist the lock, checking it twice. The faint click feels reassuring, though the gap beneath the door is so narrow that not even a shadow could slip through.

The water sputters to life, droplets cascading over your skin, tracing paths down your shoulders, arms, and thighs, pooling at your feet. You let it soak into you, hoping it will wash away the flames licking at your insides.

Seconds stretch into minutes. Steam curls around you, fogging the glass, blurring the edges of the world. Still, you stand motionless, forehead pressed to the cool tiles, the contrast soothing against your feverish skin.

But the fire refuses to die. It gnaws at you relentlessly, twisting your need into something you can no longer deny.

So, you surrender. Your tentative hand slips down, fingers sliding between slick folds, gathering the heat before pressing against your clit. You circle it slowly at first, teasing, before finding the pressure you crave.

Your eyes close, and if on cue, the memory of that night creeps in.

His tongue. His insatiable hunger. That damned blindfold he tied over your eyes, leaving you sightless, helpless to the onslaught of his lips and teeth. A flicker of anger burns through you—how could he rob you of that sight? Of the longing on his face, the glimmer in his sapphire eyes as he devoured you. You know he didn’t look away, not even for a moment. If he could, he’d eat you entirely.

The thought tightens the coil of heat inside you, your walls clenching at the phantom memory of him filling you completely, stretching you to the brink.

Your fingers move faster, desperate, brushing against your g-spot as your thumb grinds harder against the swollen bundle of nerves. The pace quickens, but so does the ache in your hand. Your stamina falters, frustration bubbling up with each fleeting approach to release.

A moan escapes your lips—a sound caught between pleasure and exasperation.

And then, a prickle at the back of your neck.

You freeze.

The sensation is faint but unmistakable: the feeling of being watched.

Through the misted glass of the shower door, the room beyond feels heavier, darker, as though something lurks just out of sight. Your breath catches. You can almost picture it—a smirk curling on invisible lips, sharp claws flexing in silent amusement. The weight of its gaze presses on you, cold and mocking, yet it doesn’t interfere.

It just watches. As if telling you, Go on.

The thought sends a shiver down your spine, but the relentless tension in your body overrides any fear. You can’t stop—not now. Not when need has consumed every inch of you. Your fingers move with increasing intensity, your back pressed firmly against the cool tiles.

Closing your eyes, his face emerges in your mind, his dirty whispers echoing in your ear—shameful, praising, drenched in lust. You remember the way his seed spread within you, filling you completely.

A fleeting but shattering climax washes over you, leaving your legs trembling and your breath ragged. The water rushes over your skin, rinsing away the evidence of your efforts.

Your body sags, drained, as you fumble to turn off the shower.

Stepping out, you glance around the bathroom. The air is thick with steam, the mirror - fogged. The tiles are slippery beneath your feet.

No one is here.

As expected.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

The following morning nearly gives you a heart attack.

It’s time to feed Vhagar, and with dread pooling in your stomach, you retrieve the package of mice from the far corner of your fridge. Their small, lifeless bodies are cold to the touch, their stiff tails curling unnaturally. The sight fills you with a mix of regret and disgust.

Gripping one by its tail, you glance nervously at Vhagar. She lies coiled on the far side of the kitchen, her unblinking gaze fixed on you—or maybe just the meal dangling from your hand.

“You actually eat these?” you ask, wrinkling your nose.

Then it happens. The mouse twitches. Or so it seems.

Its tiny form jerks in your hand, and a phantom squeak echoes in the kitchen. The room seems to shrink, and your grip fails. The mouse plummets to the floor with a sickening thud as a startled yelp escapes your lips.

You scramble onto a chair in an instant.

Vhagar, however, is unfazed. She darts across the kitchen, and within a heartbeat, the mouse is gone, swallowed whole with a sharp hiss.

“Fucking hell,” you mutter, clutching your chest in a futile attempt to steady your frantic heartbeat. For the first time, you’re absurdly grateful for the snake’s presence.

Mentally cursing Aemond, you ease yourself off the chair and approach the kitchen counter again. This time, you move slowly, as though the remaining mouse might spring to life at any moment. Eyeing it from every angle, you wait for it to twitch.

Nothing.

Reaching for a fork, you give the mouse a cautious poke. Still nothing.

This one is definitely, positively dead.

With hesitant steps, you pick it up, inspecting it thoroughly for several minutes, reassuring yourself it won’t betray you like the last one.

“You want another?”

Vhagar doesn’t reply, but as she slithers closer, a knot of panic tightens in your stomach. Her cool, smooth scales brush against your bare feet, and you freeze, every nerve on edge, as she begins coiling around your ankles. Her loose grip stirs the memory of that night, and for a brief moment, you imagine her slithering higher.

“Okay, got it,” you blurt out, tossing the mouse onto the floor.

You flinch as Vhagar lunges, her jaw stretching impossibly wide. It’s grotesque yet mesmerizing, the way she swallows the mouse whole in one smooth motion.

You rush to the sink, scrubbing your hands vigourosly. The task is done, you tell yourself, mentally checking it off your list.

But as you glance back at Vhagar, now settled contentedly on the kitchen floor, a shiver creeps along your spine.

If the rest of your errands are anything like this, you’ll be sprouting gray hairs by the end of the year.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

When the evening of the third day arrives, you don’t know where to settle yourself. Time crawls unbearably slowly, and for reasons you can’t explain, you’re more anxious about Aemond’s arrival than before. You’ve avoided writing—it would mean revisiting the latest smutty scene for proofreading. The idea of sneaking into the shower for a quick release while Vhagar looms nearby and Aemond could appear at any moment feels like a violation of every unspoken rule. As if that weren’t enough, your health app has kindly reminded you that you’re mid-luteal phase, amplifying your neediness tenfold.

Bundled in a blanket on the sofa, you flip absentmindedly through the pages of a magazine. The words blur as your mind wanders. It’s nearly midnight when Aemond finally appears.

You want to curse him for being late, but the words die on your lips. He’s wearing a tailored dark coat, its sharp lines emphasizing his broad shoulders. A pearl brooch glints under the light - a perfect match for the single pearl earring hanging from his ear. His hair is slicked back, revealing the hard angles of his jawline. He looks like he’s just returned from a fashion show. Is this what demons do?

You feel woefully underdressed, sitting there in your shorts and oversized T-shirt. His presence makes you want to shrink into the cushions—or run a hand through your hair, at the very least. But you do neither, frozen under his sapphire gaze.

“You’re late,” you manage to say, your voice sounding steadier than you feel.

He hums softly, his eyes sweeping over you, pausing on the curve of your bare legs. Heat prickles your skin, and you cross your arms over your chest, suddenly aware of how thin the fabric of your T-shirt is.

“The little dove survived her first task?” he asks, his eyes narrowing.

“As you can see,” you reply, a weak attempt at matching his composure.

Silence stretches between you, making you shift uncomfortably on the sofa.

“Did you pierce your ear?” you ask, desperate to break the tension.

He shrugs. “Maybe.”

His reply makes your eyes roll.

“You couldn’t just answer, could you?”

Before he can respond, Vhagar makes her entrance, slithering toward him. As he kneels down, she effortlessly climbs his arm, winding her sleek body around his neck with a series of hisses that seem almost conversational.

“Really?” he murmurs, his gaze fixed on you while his words are directed to the creature. “I’m sure it has nothing to do with you. She’s just shy, that’s all.”

Your brows furrow. Shy? Is he talking about you?

“Is something wrong?” you ask, rising to your feet.

“Vhagar was sharing her concerns,” he says, his tone casual, as though discussing the weather. “But overall, she’s satisfied with you as her host.”

You huff, masking your relief with exasperation. You don’t want to know what concerns a snake could possibly have.

The question that’s been burning in your mind finally escapes your lips. “Where have you been?”

“Party,” he replies, his voice laced with indifference.

You blink, incredulous. “Party?”

“Are you going to repeat everything I say?” he teases, his narrowed gaze challenging you.

“You went partying for three days and left your snake with me?”

“Broadly speaking, yes.”

You gasp. “You said you had urgent matters to attend!”

“That was urgent,” he replies, setting Vhagar on the floor.

You open your mouth to retort, but his next words stop you cold.

“Did you change your mind?”

“Pardon?”

“Our evening can end with this tiresome conversation,” he says, stepping closer, his voice dropping to a murmur, and you immediately know where it’s headed, “or move toward something more… enjoyable.”

Your breath catches as the space between you vanishes. Again, his scent captures you, filling in your lungs.

“We’re not doing this again,” you blurt out, praying for the strength to hold your ground.

“Why not, little dove?”

“Because it’s wrong.”

He takes another step forward, and you instinctively back away until the sofa presses against the back of your knees.

“Can you imagine my surprise,” he murmurs, his broad hands settling on your hips, fingers tightening just enough to draw you closer, “when I was in the middle of an important conversation, and Vhagar sent me an image of you in the shower, pathetically fingering yourself, making those little mewling noises?”

Heat rushes to your face. “How did she—?”

“The door?” he interrupts with a low chuckle. You shiver at the brush of his breath, the warmth of it against your skin. “There are no doors for us.”

“I fucking hate you,” you snap, pushing at his chest, but it’s a futile gesture. His grip on your wrist is effortless—unmoving.

“All you had to do was ask her nicely,” he murmurs, his lips so close you can feel them vibrating against your cheek. “She could’ve made you feel good. Just like that night. But now... you’ve insulted her.”

His words make your eyes sting. Shame, embarrassment, lust. How the hell did you end up here?

"So, let me ask you one final time," he breathes, his grip tightening just enough to make you hiss. "Do we leave it here, or not?"

You want to push him away, you swear you do. But it seems there’s no strength left in your body.

“What’s in it for you?” you whisper, searching for the answer in his gaze.

“Let’s just say,” he smirks, “I have a vested interest in making you feel good.”

“What kind of interest?”

“This pact we made—you didn’t think it was just about errands, did you?”

Your stomach tightens. It’s never occurred to you that there might be more to your pact.

“Most demons feed on emotions,” he explains, his voice almost casual. “The better you feel, the more delicious it is for me.”

“And if I don’t want it?”

“That’s your choice, little dove.” His grip loosens on your wrists, but the power he exudes never falters. “Stick with your fingers. Or call Jacob again.”

“Stop prying into my life!” The words are sharp, but even as they leave your lips, you feel small. Vulnerable.

His laugh fills the room, deep and knowing.

“You can blame me all you want,” he says, the casual tone in his voice making you bristle. “But we both know I’m not the source of your frustration. You wanted passion? Now you have it. But you need to learn what to do with it—or with whom.”

Your fists clench at your sides. As much as you hate it, he’s right. But no matter how much your body craves him, your pride won’t let him win this twisted game again.

“See you in three weeks,” you say firmly.

You expect your words to sting, but his eyes light with pure amusement.

“Your choice.”

With that, he and Vhagar vanish, leaving you alone.

You collapse onto the sofa, tears welling up in the corners of your eyes. Why does it feel as if you’ve just lost?

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Your comfort show plays in the background, but the uneasiness in your lower stomach refuses to fade. As you try to focus on the plot and the characters' lines, your hand sneaks absentmindedly into your panties. As you feared, the wetness is still there, spreading like a broken kitchen tap that won’t stop leaking.

I hate him. I hate him. No doubt, this is his doing. Of course, he’s a demon—you shouldn’t have trusted him. He wouldn’t have given you what you wanted without a hidden trap.

You press your finger against the sensitive spot inside you, seeking relief, but it’s like trying to douse a fire with a single drop of water. Your head falls back against the sofa, and you bite your lip.

The vibrator is dead. The new one won’t arrive for two more days, and you can’t exactly call Jacob—not that you’d want to now.

Pathetic. His voice slithers through your mind, even when he isn’t here.

Your mind drifts to the snake, to his mocking words. “You could’ve asked her.” The memory sends an exciting thrill through you. The way her cool scales brushed your feet this morning...

The pressure inside builds, your breaths shallow and erratic. You let yourself think of him, of his hands, his voice, his smirk. And just as relief seems within reach, his name slips past your lips in a whisper.

“Aemond.”

The room feels suffocatingly still, as horror wraps around you. Have you just...?

You pull your hand from your panties, your breath hitching as you glance around. No, no, no! It was a mistake, you didn’t really mean it. You didn’t... The credits start rolling on the TV, and the room is dim. Too dim.

The floor creaks.

You freeze.

You don’t need to turn, to know it’s him, that there’s no escape now.

He steps out of the shadows, his expression unreadable. The glint of his dangling pearl earring and the sharp curve of his jaw catch the faint light, making him look almost ethereal.

“Am I interrupting?” Despite the teasing edge in his tone, his face is solemnly serious.

Your throat is dry, and all you can do is stare as he saunters closer, his eyes raking over you in your disheveled state.

He sits down beside you, and before you can process what’s happening, he grabs your hand. That hand. Lifting your trembling fingers to his lips, his tongue darts out, warm and wet, sliding over your slick digits as his gaze pins you in place.

Your lips part in a shaky gasp.

A low moan breaks the silence, but it isn’t yours. It’s his.

“As sweet as I remembered,” he murmurs, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment.

Shame and arousal war within you, and you know there’s no way you’ll resist him. As if sensing the shift, he lets your hand fall, his tone sharpening.

“Off,” he says, nodding at your shorts. “Now.”

You hesitate for only a second before obeying, slipping out of your shorts and panties. His gaze roves over you hungrily, his lips curling into a smirk as he stares at your bare sex.

“Good girl.”

He unbuttons his coat, revealing smooth skin, sculpted muscles, and a maddeningly slender waist. He looks utterly inhuman, impossibly beautiful, and you can’t tear your eyes away as he leans back, spreading his legs in a show of dominance. You feel you could fall to your knees at any moment.

“Here,” he says, patting his thigh. “Let’s see if you’re as desperate as you look.”

You straddle his thigh, feeling the hard outline of his trousers press against your core. The fabric is rough, yet it only heightens the burning need within you. He hasn’t even touched you yet, and you’re already trembling.

His lips brush against your neck, a soft kiss followed by a sharp nip that draws a gasp from your throat. “So needy,” he murmurs, his hands sliding to your hips. His thumbs dig into your skin, guiding your movements.

Your oversized T-shirt hits the floor, and his lips are on your breasts before you can even draw another breath. Unlike the last time, he doesn’t ease into it, his tongue flicks sharply against your nipple, eliciting a gasp that turns into a moan when his teeth scrape against the sensitive peak.

“Sensitive, aren’t you?” His voice drips with mockery before he sucks the bud into his mouth. The pull is deliberate, almost too rough, and your back arches instinctively, pressing yourself closer to him.

Your core grinds against his thigh in desperation, searching for relief, while his hands grip your ass, guiding you, controlling your rhythm. He shifts his mouth to your other nipple, biting down. Another cry escapes your lips.

“Shh,” he drawls, his hot breath ghosting over your damp skin. “You don’t want to wake up the neighborhood, do you?”

The fullness of your breasts, heightened by the hormonal changes, makes every flick of his tongue, every bite of his teeth, more intense.

Your fingers clutch at his hair. The stiffness from the hairspray yields under your grip, and you tug harder, desperate to make him feel even a fraction of what he’s doing to you.

You can't help but grind harder against his thigh, desperate for any friction to ease the burning ache. A part of you that knows you shouldn't is long gone—your body moves on its own, craving the delicious release.

He chuckles darkly against your skin, his mouth tugging at your nipple one last time before he pulls back to survey his handiwork. The peaks of your breasts are wet and tender, flushed from his attention, and the predatory satisfaction in his gaze makes your stomach tighten.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, indulging in the sight. “You’re already ruined, and I’ve barely touched you.”

His eyes drop to where your slickness coats his thigh, glistening under the dim light. A low, pleased hum escapes him, as he leans in close to your ear.

“You’ll come just from this,” he whispers. “I won’t even be using my hands. Pathetic little thing.”

His words are your undoing. The coil in your stomach snaps, and your climax crashes over you. Your nails dig into his shoulders as you ride it out, your moans escaping loud and raw.

When it’s over, you’re breathless, your body slumping against his. For a moment, you forget the rules and lean in to kiss him, but his hand catches your chin, stopping you.

“No kissing,” he reminds you with a smirk.

The reminder sends a fresh wave of shame through you, burning hot in your chest, but you bury it by nuzzling into his neck instead. His hand strokes your back, almost soothing. The final moment stretches endlessly, and you can feel your wild heartbeat gradually calming.

Without warning, he grips your waist and shifts you off him, forcing you back onto the sofa.

“Enough foreplay,” Aemond says.

Your gaze clings to him as he strides to the opposite end of the room, confusion flickering in your eyes as he drags a wide mirror from the wall, setting it closer to the center. He smirks, watching you struggle to piece together his intent.

“I thought we could make some good use of your new décor.”

You watch him kick off his shoes. A shiver runs down your spine as he unclasps his belt, the leather sliding through the loops with a sinister hiss. It falls to the floor with a thud, followed by his trousers and underwear.

Your breath catches, a strangled moan stuck in your throat. His cock, thick and veined, already glistens with precum.

“Come here,” he orders.

Your legs tremble as you approach, your body betraying your anticipation.

“On your knees. Face the mirror.”

You hesitate for only a moment before sinking to your knees, your hands lowering to the floor. Glancing at your reflection, a wave of embarrassment flushes your skin. You’ve never done anything like this—not with anyone.

He circles you slowly, like a predator savoring the moment before the pounce.

“All that stubbornness,” he muses, pausing behind you. His eyes meet yours in the mirror, dark and alight with sadistic glee. “All your silly defiance. Where is it now?” His finger traces a feather-light line along your spine, making you want to lean further into his touch. “You’re dripping like a bitch in heat. So I’ll fuck you like one. What do you say?”

The words hit you like a slap. You’ve already learned there are two sides to Aemond: one that whispers sweet nothings into your ear and another that is cruelly truthful. He looks at you expectantly in the mirror, but you only manage a curt nod as heat crawls up your cheeks—yet it’s not enough.

“Words,” he teases.

“Yes,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “Please.”

His smirk widens. “Good. But first, a small punishment for your naughty behavior.”

The belt slides into his hand as he kneels beside you, the leather coiled like a snake.

“Don’t worry, little dove,” he purrs, as he can hear your heart racing. “I’ll explain each one so your silly little brain doesn’t repeat the same mistakes.”

Nervousness and excitement swirl in your chest. The first slap lands on your right butt cheek, the sting sharp and sudden, making you flinch. Pain blooms, tangled with a strange, forbidden pleasure.

“For dragging Jacob into our bed when you could have called me.”

He pauses, ensuring you meet his gaze in the mirror.

“For not telling me you missed me.” His syrupy tone is a stark contrast to the harsher slap that follows. The burn lingers, and your teeth sink into your lip to stifle a curse. He leans closer, brushing a few strands of hair away from your face.

“What was that, little dove? Say it again.”

“You’re an asshole,” you snap, your anger flaring through the haze.

“For calling me an asshole, then,” he says, as another slap follows. This one stings worse, but you manage to stifle the whimper threatening to escape.

“And for being a naughty little girl.” His voice drops, dark and thick, as his hand slips between your thighs. Your body stiffens, as his fingers find your slickness effortlessly, gliding through it before teasing your clit with maddeningly faint strokes.

“Making all those pretty little noises in the bathroom.” His movements shift, drawing firmer circles, the intensity making your eyes sting with tears. “Making me hard in the middle of an important conversation.”

Your back arches against your will, a desperate sound escaping your lips. But just as quickly as he touches you, he withdraws.

“She shouldn’t have spied—ah!” you gasp as another slap follows, the sharp crack of leather against skin blending with your ragged moan. Your elbows give out for a moment before you force yourself back up. How many more of these would you be able to take?

“She’s deeply wounded after all she’s done for you. You’ll have to apologize” he murmurs, and his hand fists in your hair, dragging your head up to meet his gaze in the mirror. There’s nothing gentle in the move, but it sends a pleasant wave through your body.

“Now,” he breathes, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, “be a good girl and say those precious words.”

His amusement only fuels your frustration, and the remnants of your stubbornness reignite.

“Come on, little dove, it’s easy. ‘Fuck me, please.’” He drew out every word.

“Fuck you,” you growl instead.

His grip on your hair softens, but another slap lands against your butt cheek, drawing out another involuntary moan from your lips—a sound that mixes both pleasure and pain in the most delicious way.

“Close,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your temple. “But not quite.”

“Fuck me, please,” you finally whisper, the words trembling on your lips.

“Gladly.”

The belt falls aside.

He presses his hands firmly into your hips, pushing himself inside you in one unrelenting motion. By now, with you flustered and deliciously naked on all fours, his patience has worn dangerously thin. A deep sigh, tangled with a moan, escapes your lips, the heaviness of him filling you completely. The angle feels impossibly good, stretching you in ways you never imagined. His thrusts are slow, deliberate torturously so and you know exactly what he’s waiting for. His hungry, calculating gaze tells you the punishment hasn’t ended yet.

“Harder. Please,” you beg, your body instinctively arches into him.

His smirk deepens as he looks at you in the mirror, his rhythm still slow but growing more powerful with each movement. The air is thick with the lewd sounds of meeting skin and slickness, and the heat floods your cheeks as you watch yourself in the mirror—needy, undone, and utterly at his mercy. You can’t help the blush that floods your face, as you watch the reflection of your desperate self. Your fingers dig into the rug, trying to steady yourself as he pushes harder, deeper. And in that moment, you know—no one will ever feel better than him.

His hair is tousled, his earring clicking with every thrust. Your breasts bounce with each savage push, and his eyes never leave them, greedily drinking in the sight of your body quivering under his control.

Your gaze flickers briefly to the carpet—its soft, white fluff now forever tied to the memory of him claiming you.

“That won’t do,” he growls, grabbing your throat, pulling you back against his chest, making you gasp. The new angle sends shockwaves through you, the depth of his cock burying deeper, harder. You choke, your breath caught in your throat, feeling the burn of him, the delicious intensity that mixes pain and pleasure. Your reflection in the mirror is all need, all hedonism—a perfect blend of lust and submission. The diamond tattoo between your breasts catches the light as you sway with his thrusts.

His hand finds your sensitive nipple, twisting and tugging with deliberate roughness. The roughness and possession send a jolt of pleasure straight to your core. Your back arches, a moan escaping your lips as he pulls your bud.

“You love this, don’t you?” he taunts, his voice dripping with smug satisfaction. “Being my dirty little whore?”

“Yes... yes,” you pant, the words tumbling out in a desperate, trembling chorus. It feels like the only word you’re capable of forming, your mind consumed by him.

The orgasm hits you like a wave, crashing through you. Your hips tremble violently, an earthquake of sensation rolling through your core. He groans, his thrusts erratic, desperate as he follows you over the edge. His seed floods inside you, filling you with warmth, and for a moment, everything stops.

He doesn’t pull away—no, he stays inside you, his cock softening but still deep to remind you who’s in control. His hand remains steady on your throat, grounding you, while his other continues squeezing your breast, as though he’s unwilling to let go. His kisses trail along your neck, slow and wet, coaxing you to lean, offering him better access. And through it all, you’re trapped in the reflection in the mirror—watching your body respond to his every touch, every bite, every movement.

A moan slips past your lips as you feel him stirring again, growing hard inside you. His hand drops lower, rubbing your clit with slow, lazy circles, teasing you until you're panting for him again. A moment passes, and then he thrusts into you again, knocking the air from your lungs and forcing a strangled cry from your throat.

The pleasure consumes you. Your body is overwhelmed, shaking beneath him, each thrust pushing you closer to the edge again. You remember the feel of the soft rug against your cheek, the way the fibers soothe your skin as he pounds into you.

When the next round begins, you lie on your back, legs draped over his shoulders, your hips raised as he drives into you with a savage rhythm. Through half-closed eyes, you catch the sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead, while your own hair clings to your damp neck, but you can’t be bothered to push it away. Your mouth falls open in a silent scream, eyes fluttering as waves of pleasure swell inside you. For a moment, no sound escapes—until desperate, mewling cries spill from your lips, raw and uncontrollable. Each time his name slips from your mouth, he rewards you with a low, “Good girl, sweet little dove.”

Every inch of you feels like it’s being devoured, and you love it. Your nails dig into the rug as you struggle to breathe, overwhelmed by the rush of pleasure.

As you approach your climax once more, his growl rumbles against your skin, his breath hot and heavy in your ear. The orgasm that tears through you this time feels infinite, your body spasming around him, squeezing him as you fall apart in waves of ecstasy.

When he pulls out, a whimper escapes your lips at the loss, your body instinctively aching for him to fill the void he left behind. Through the haze of pleasure, your half-lidded gaze follows as he strokes himself a few times before his seed spills onto your skin, painting your breasts and stomach—marking you, as if to say, “You. Are. Mine.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

You hear a noise coming from the bathroom, but all you can do is lie back, letting the rug press soft against your skin. Your body feels weighted, content, and you give in to the calm.

When he returns, he's already wearing his trousers. Of course, he's not the type who would stay. You sit up slowly as he kneels beside you with napkins, his disheveled hair lending him a boyish charm.

The pull of sleep grows stronger, like a familiar shadow closing in around you—just like that night. No need to ask if it’s his doing. You already know.

There’s something oddly comforting about his presence now that his roughness and cockiness have faded. Even the angles of his face seem less severe, as though the sharp edges of his jawline have magically softened.

An impulse takes hold of you, and you lean forward, placing a soft kiss on his cheek. His skin, warm and smooth, feels tender under your lips. The gesture is simple yet catches him off guard, and in that fleeting moment, you seize your chance. With a quick motion, you tug at the clip-on earring with your teeth. It falls onto the soft carpet with a muffled thud. No piercing on his earlobe.

You lean back, your lips curving in triumph. “I fucking knew it.”

His chuckle reverberates through you, and you feel an urge to laugh in return. And before either of you can say anything, your body collapses back onto the rug, surrendering completely to the pull of sleep.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

You frown at the sound of your alarm blaring next to your head. With eyes still closed, you fumble for your phone and manage to shut it off.

As expected, you’re in your bed. No clothes. No Aemond.

Your body aches deliciously, every movement a reminder of him. His marks bloom across your skin, and once again, you’ll have to cover them with foundation—especially those on your neck.

The meeting with Sue and the publisher is just two hours away. Your stomach flutters at the thought. This could be it. Things might finally turn around.

You throw yourself into your morning routine, humming a tune as you rustle up breakfast. You almost spill your coffee when you spot a note attached to the mirror: “We should have one in your bedroom.” Cocky asshole. Yet the idea makes you feel giddy. A few moments later, you admire your sleek black suit. Nude lipstick and high heels add elegance and confidence. As you adjust your blazer, you realize something’s missing—a finishing touch to complete the look. At that moment, your heel clicks against something on the rug.

You pick up his earring, rolling it between your fingers. Its design is intricate, shaped like a key with a pearl crowning the top. A sly smile creeps across your face as you clip it on.

The taxi ride feels like an eternity, your heart racing the closer you get to the office. What if they didn’t like the sample as much as you think? What if this is all a misunderstanding? But you shake off the creeping doubts. If the publisher agreed to meet, they must have loved the first few chapters. There’s real potential here—a chance for a breakthrough.

Walking into the office, your heels echo against the polished floor, mirroring your growing heartbeat.

“Here she is! Our little star!” Sue’s voice rings out the moment the elevator doors open, her bright yellow dress a stark contrast to the muted office tones. As she strides toward you, her arms open in a warm greeting. Yes, there’s been a drastic shift in your relationships over the last few weeks.

“Hi, Sue,” you say with a smile, but she pulls you into a hug before you can react.

“Did you write another smutty scene?” she whispers conspiratorially.

“Almost there.”

“Good! The publisher is already in my office. You’re going to love her!”

Following Sue, you enter the room to find a figure standing with her back to you. She’s dressed in a dark cherry-colored suit, her curly hair cascading to her lower back as she gazes out at the city skyline.

“Y/N, meet Alys Rivers—my dear acquaintance and, hopefully, your future publisher.”

When Alys turns to face you, your breath catches. She isn’t conventionally beautiful, but there’s something undeniably magnetic about her. Her emerald-green eyes gleam knowing like she’s seen it all—and her lips, painted crimson stand out against her pale complexion.

You swallow, an awkward “Oh” escaping your lips before you compose yourself. “Nice to meet you, Miss Rivers,” you say, extending a hand.

“The pleasure is all mine,” she replies, her grip warm and confident. Her voice laced with an accent you can’t quite place draws you in.

“I’ll leave you two to chat,” Sue says, bouncing toward the door. “Meanwhile, I’ll grab some coffee.”

You know she has an assistant for that, but it’s clear she’s giving you and Alys space to talk.

Once the door is shut behind Sue, Alys speaks.

“I’ll be direct,” she says, her eyes never leaving yours as she sinks into the sofa, gesturing for you to join her. You hesitate just for a moment before taking the seat beside her.

“It’s not every day I’m impressed by an emerging writer, but the first three chapters I read? Simply exquisite.”

“Thank you so much, Miss Rivers. It means a lot to hear that,” you reply, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks.

“Call me Alys.”

You nod, offering a small smile.

“I’m ready to offer my help with publishing,” she continues in a businesslike manner. “But before we get into the details, there’s one matter I need to address.” She pauses, her gaze locking with yours. “And I need your complete honesty.”

Her emerald eyes bore into yours, and your stomach flips.

“Of course.”

She leans forward slightly, her gaze locking with yours at the same level. Her presence is suddenly suffocating. And then, in a voice so calm, she asks, “Why are you wearing my husband’s earring?”

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. ♥️

#everyone #I NEED A AEMOND DEMON FOR ME

702 notes · View notes