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ladythornofrivia · 3 months

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👹 Match Made In Hell 👹 || Aemond x Reader (My Demon AU) (Part Three)

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🍒 a/n: this series is inspired by k-drama, and it’ll deviates from the canon, but still had the same atmosphere as the netflix version. i’m so sorry it took so long to update a new chapter!

🍒summary: reader, who has now made pact with the devil, must face the difficulties by the likes of her surroundings, and Aemond, who took pleasure on tormenting her, even divulge his dirty thoughts.

🍒 warning: Dark!Aemond, violence, blood, misogyny, mentions of cheating, Aemond is a demon in a fic, he’s a d*ckhead, but charming, reader is a b*tch, spoiled brat, smut, action sequences, oral sex, rough sex, public sex, hotel sex, hate sex, contract, blood kink, religion themes, knife play, sexual tension, Aemond in a red suit, money kink, p in v sex, breeding kink, sex in the club, sex in a hospital bed, toxic relationship, fake relationship, possessive Aemond, obsession, jealousy, stalking, blackmail, dom/sub relationship, wet dream, cunnilingus, fingering, squiriting, reader is a virgin, aemond is experienced, moaning, reader and aemond being horny, 69, lotus, sex on the wall, praise kink, creampie, daddy kink. Demon!Aemond has powers, but needs reader to fuel and restore his power. The story from the show will be different in fanfic. Inspired by K-Drama “My Demon”.

Chapter Three: Heiress’s Bitch

Afar from a thickened crowd of paparazzis and reporters, on the left side of the corner, there was Aemond, in a fanciful suit of black and green with gold-embroidered scarf hung loosely around his neck, leaning and beaming as his violet eye watched the spectacle, and you on the platform, microphone on the podium, distress overwhelmed you, attempting to cooperate on various questions, concentrating. Accidentally eyeing on a one-eyed devil, a former prince regent to the Greens, only for him to withhold the possession of your thin lacy pink thong that was once clinging between your legs, with his tongue licking over his gleaming, fanged teeth.

“You may now suffer and keep your empty, prideful head high as you wish, but soon I shall have a taste of you, my little angel,” his thoughts penetrated in your head.

The Devilish Prince is waiting outside the fitting room. And it bugged you to a point you want to strangle yourself to death. If Aemond wanna-be decides to torment by reviving you back, you have another chance to get rid of yourself again.

Why on Earth did he decide to pick you, or pick on you—you’re unsure. Thoughts stifled yet jumbled all at once that you hadn’t realized your top sleeve slipped from your shoulder, and your pink satin skirt is crooked, tilted on one side. Everything went wrong. So wrong all you crave at this current moment is to sleep or eat fast food or drink away. Or possibly thinking about crawling up to a hole and die. Or somewhat in that order.

You still couldn’t register in your head that Aemond Targaryen—as a devil—would step into your life—audacious and malicious! And superstitious!

The audacity is real!

A real good one at that. Aemond, a total bastard—jerk—a former Prince Regent—is in your world—your real world—one true flesh. A fucking prick with a demonic stick up in between in his legs is here. As much as you admire Aemond in the series, despite his war criminal activities, his charisma oddly exuding through screen, you can’t help but admire, but seeing him now, has shrank your heart to hate thousand times fold.

And here you thought, being in a room with devilish jerk has set your heart of fire—and not in a romantic idealistic way. You wanted to stab him with a Dark Sister. Over and over and over and over again. You wanted to hear his scream, for what he did to you. It was unbearable. Your purity, your maintained image dwindled in a flash.

Why can’t it be Cregan Stark? Or Robb Stark? Or Jaime Lannister? Jaime Lannister—Kingslayer has devilish charm you couldn’t resist. The problem is, you’re not blonde enough. And you’re not Cersei or Brienne of Tarth.

What about Loki? The God of Mischief? He’d be perfect. Tom Hiddleston with a devilish scheming smile he beholds and puts everyone on a chokehold. But all you got is the Aemond the former Prince Regent.

In all days, you shouldn’t be nervous. In a fitting room, you are alone, with your heart pumping. In an unusual circumstance, you should be ecstatic with your new attires to a press conference. Press conference might boost your business—or lowers—depending on which answer. There are several conferences you’ve dealt or saw before. One is from Philippines, the other is from Italy.

It’s a hassle as it already is. The question is; why does your “attempted” suicide had to be announced? Who could possibly leak the information? More importantly, who started a commotion—an accusation of you being suicidal? Your soul is dying from stupidity everyday, not to a certain of killing yourself from someone stupid—maybe that’s another list of stupidity, but surely there’s more to it.

You never thought of dying once. You never thought of injuring yourself. Keeping your held up high by doing hard-work is ultimately the best. Self-care and fashion lifestyle goes second. You love yourself too much to make a “jump” for the sake of a stupid man—a wild mongrel who has more worth of acting like in a zoo than a quiet and lavish luxury.

Picking another attire, before slithering out from the top, large hands abruptly rotated you, pinned you against the wall and meet his eye—Aemond.

“Aemond, what are you—”

His lips plunged against yours. Those damnable smooth lips, drowning the squeak in your throat, one hand held your neck while the other pinned against the wall.

He pulled away, and undo your outfit in one swoop.

“I’m hungry for a moment, darling,” he purred, untucking his trousers. In between the opening, hardened cock stretched in the undo zipper, and your legs hiked around his waist, his body pressing you down until the space enclosed. Grunting, Aemond thrusts into your cunt, panting together.

“Aemond, not here,” you said in a strained tone.

“Shut up, you fucking cunt,” he said, biting your lower lip, drawing a wet scratch, taste of iron left in your mouth and his scathing teeth, as his pounded movements became sloppy and messy, heavy with breathing and muscles on his legs fatigued.

Nevertheless, he quickened his pace, and his semen spurted in your tight folds, leaving you breathless.

“Aemond, you—”

“Get dressed, stupid bitch,” he ordered, shoving you forcefully back on the wall. “Don’t make me repeat myself, little girl. Have your white outfit ready.”

Choking, your soft hands grasp against his, but not powerful enough. “I was going for pink—”

“Fucking bitch, I’m not asking you,” he seethed, hand strangled on your neck. “Did I not make myself clear?”

Under his grasp, your eyes blurred, chest constricted and deprived from air. “Why are you doing this? If you hate me that much, why did you decide to fuck me?”

“Isn’t obvious? You’re so hideously repulsive, I can’t stand the sight of your feeble appearance. That lousy and bratty mouth of yours needs to be shut. I can’t stand the noise—the sighs—you make in the fitting room.” He loosened you and watched you dropped on the ground. “A little girl like you has no place in a woman’s world.”

Absconded from the fitting room, tears ran down on your face. Picking yourself up off the ground, numbed fingers swiped across your wet cheeks.

Could he really be comparing you to someone else? There’s no way. Even in a form of a man, a devil’s no better beside the lousy man.

As you stepped out of the dressing room, the assistants had no expression but an obvious mark of reddened blush on their cheeks and neck, as Aemond had a scowl etched on his princely visage.

~~~

On a Sunday mass, everyone bowed their heads with prayer as the priest preached regarding to loving your enemies, and forgiving others’s sins. Though this is a quiet mass—a private mass, more like. As a sign of good luck. A prayer.

Aemond found it ridiculous. His eye stared and lanced at the back of your head as you kept yourself down, memorizing the priest’s words and its uniquely hymn.

Aemond, in his cherry red suit, kept an eye on the family. Blessed, no one is able to notice his true form except in a disguise of your butler.

“Let us pray,” the priest said, “Our Father, who art in Heaven, hollow be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in Heaven…”

Aemond never heard of prayers like this before. For him, it’s a fascination, but a grotesque sound in unison. The recital conjured him back to the days where Queen Alicent and Otto Hightower are highly dedicated to the Faith of the Seven, how his mother wore the ornaments of seven-pointed star on her lavish gowns in most days. King’s Landing’s walls were adorned in statues and stars—their holy grail to keep the place from evil’s perseverance.

To him, as a Westerossi, this is nothing new.

Aegon’s holy grail is drinking and whoring, while Helaena’s is her insects and her children she bore with brother-husband. Aemond’s holy grail is history, books, swordsmanship and Vhagar, the largest dragon in Westeros—he recalled it all too well. He figured that there were no dragons in this world—your world, but has airplanes and helicopters—that’s how you were transferred into the hospital, just down by the isolated beach, carrying you in his arms, unbothered if someone sees you and him strolling casually out from the deep waters. Despite all the deeds he has done, Aemond found your modern world amusingly impressed.

When the prayers are done, there was a bread and wine communion—again, new and beyond from Aemond’s religious practices in Westeros’s Old Gods and New, something about Jesus and his twelve disciples at the last supper. His eye watched over your feeble and small stature gracefully taking the offer. He eyed on the paintings. Scanning the room, you see nothing but marbled statues of historical figures and angels depicted from a human’s eye, paintings and depictions of Old Testament and New Testament in the Bible fascinated him more than his own religion, something about religious emanates soothing and sinister to the past testimonies in the past of mankind. If Faith of the Seven were decorated in paintings like this, maybe Aemond would’ve been convinced. He could’ve been as a sworn servant to the religion, a maester in a way—never to be wed, forever devoted to the goodwill of guidance to sinful peasants and subjects to the light.

Though, your mind differs. There weren’t any sincere prayers and mournful thoughts in your head, rather shrouded by a dark aura, something he can’t pinpointed. He watched you taken your seat as the mass hymn a song regarding to praising God.

And there, the Devil awaited.

~~~

As the future president of the AURORA company, you strolled and mounted inside the car—assurance within you is hanging by a thread, but you kept yourself in check, telling yourself that this won’t take a while. But beforehand, Aemond’s hand blocked you from entering the copper and black sports vehicle.

“Don’t touch my Vhagar,” he reminded, rather strictly. His violet eye gleamed—no, darkened within his short warning.

“Vhagar? Are you serious right now? I can open doors myself,” you shot back, the feeling of inadequacy hadn’t left in your chest since the fitting room on the previous day.

Aemond, without showing his obvious grimace, escorted you inside the car, lifting the car door in an upward direction, leading you inside the passenger’s seat and drove you all the way to the press conference.

~~~

For the press conference, things hadn’t been gone so smoothly. Paparazzis invaded the moment you arrived, dubbing you as “Miss Future President” of AURORA.

Reports bombarded you with useless inquiries and what outfit you were wearing. Obviously you wanted the people to focus on your outfit more than your “suicidal attempt”. As for Aemond, hands on his back, striding alongside you until you reached the platform with your pink suit with gold buttons and your simplistic threads of gold bracelets and thin necklace on your neckline, your hair tied up in a low ponytail, long framed bangs slightly tucked (hair reference).

“Are you ready to set hell on stage, Miss Future President,” Aemond mocked.

Nonetheless, you disdained him with cold shoulder, and stepped onward to the clear-glass podium, formally address the issue to a recent event. Cameras clicked and reporters typing on their laptops, then you began to speak in two languages, which Aemond doesn’t recognize, nonetheless his curiosity piqued.

Endless topics from reporters came, already slandering accusations disguised as questions, but you handled it well.

Rabbit questions like regarding to comparing your nightly activities to your ex-fiancé, how both are reckless and childish—nepotism. Then partying, then other scandals that are once addressed as false had been brought up again—their resolved minds can sometimes fickle.

Until…

“You may now suffer and keep your empty, prideful head high as you wish, but soon I shall have a taste of you, my little angel,” his thoughts penetrated in your head.

“What the—you fucking—”

The press conference grew in silence, cameras flashing. The crowd is in awe of your random reaction.

“Pardon me,” you uttered, cheeks reddened. “I’m still in quite state of shock since I have been taken to the hospital. Forgive me.”

“As the next president, what is your next move for the Aurora company?”

Several cameras clicked.

“Regarding to the AURORA company, nothing is set in stone. When the next project is ready, I’ll be the first person in the company to inform you and the media. That will be all.” Bowed, you stepped off the stage.

Your back inclined to a bow and left, leaving the press rowdy, bombarding you with questions, questions that involved and regarded to personal affairs with your ex-fiance and the CEO of EDEN company.

Meanwhile, Aemond’s mischievous smile grew, taking the scenery in.

And the only thing he could utter, within a crowded noise was—

“This…should be interesting.”

Tucking your rosy light-laced underwear in his pocket, saving his dessert for last as he watched you disappear through the doors.

~~~

“I want my underwear back, you asshole.” Stomping outside the AURORA building with heavy huff. Pink heels clicking the pavement as you went your way to the wide parking lot.

Aemond’s violet eye flickered. “Only if you say “please”.”

“Fuck no. Give it to me! What if I have blood on my thong, are you still going to play yourself?”

“A deal’s a deal, Miss President. Keep this up, you’ll get more scandal,” he reminded, his teeth gleamed.

“I thought you said you’re going to help me, not humiliate me. I almost cussed out to hundreds of paparazzis and reporters because of your perverted ass! Don’t tell me you also have my bra?” Pulling the fabric, you spotted your croquette lace bra shielded your chest beneath the pink office suit.

“This is rather fun. I’d rather have this, than a formal way of ending the conference. Dare, I must say you have an exquisite taste in wearing these contraptions you women covered your maidenhood.”

“The fuck is wrong with you?”

Aemond’s platinum hair swayed. “Your face is quite amusing. Don’t get yourself hurt, Miss President. Otherwise, you’ll get sick from your anger issues.”

Raising your fist, the mark on your wrist glowed. Bemused, Aemond clicked his tongue as he stopped your motion with his hand caught your marked wrist, his other hand—still holding your thong—his index finger swished, his tongue clicked. “Ah, ah, ah, that’s not how our deal supposed to go, little angel.”

“Go to—”

“Hell?” Aemond’s brow flicked. “But I’m already here.”

Then he released you; the mark went black as he successfully dodged your punch before giving him a menacing glare, marching down at the sports car.

As you went your back to the car—Vhagar—Aemond began with, “So, what are you going to do now, Miss President? Are you going to let yourself fall, or are you going to give them hell?”

You didn’t look at him in the eye. “I want to go back to my apartment and rest. And don’t you dare talk inside my head! It’s creepy enough as it is. It makes me think you’re Voldemort instead of Prince Aemond of House Targaryen.”

His brow flicked. “Who’s Voldemort?”

“Your twin!”

“I don’t have a twin. Besides, I’d rather be the eldest child in the family.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, just take me back to my apartment.”

Aemond hummed. “As you wish, Miss President. When an angel is there, a devil also is present. Never forget.”

“Never forget also the you’re my bitch.”

“On the contrary, my dear,” he sneered. “A Devil is no slave to anyone.”

“And I’m an Heiress to the AURORA company. Therefore you’re my bitch—Heiress’s Bitch.”

Huffing, both you and Aemond then mounted inside the sports vehicle, Aemond geared his shift and stirred the wheel to a sharp turn, maneuvering right then swerved on the road.

A first step to hell has commenced.

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