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talesofoldandnew · 1 month
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he is the finest man on Earth, I don’t make up the rules. I woke up feeling like I could conquer the world now, thanks husband.
the hair, the beard, the suit, the hands— UGH! everything!!!!!
credit - @/joemillshair on IG.
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talesofoldandnew · 1 month
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his premature death and 20 seconds of screen time have bewitched me body and soul
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talesofoldandnew · 1 month
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the sun and the moon
original post: here
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talesofoldandnew · 2 months
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She would approve 🙂
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Smol gang here to tell u that everything will be okay!
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talesofoldandnew · 2 months
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… 𝑚𝑜𝑜𝑛𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑙𝑑 ✩✰
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talesofoldandnew · 2 months
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I am unwell
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talesofoldandnew · 2 months
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"You know those scenes where there is an Angel & a devil on the character’s shoulders? Aemond is the devil and Ewan is the angel."
— Harry Collett.
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talesofoldandnew · 2 months
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"he can do no wrong" well actually i think he did a lot of wrong things, and that's specifically what attracted me to him in the first place
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talesofoldandnew · 3 months
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“why are you tired? you haven’t done anything all day” the simple fact that i exist drains me. hope this helps
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talesofoldandnew · 3 months
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UHM?!
Pretty Little Thing
summary: After finding yourself at a holiday party you hadn't wanted to attend in the first place, Aemond Targaryen makes it worth while.
pairing: modern!Aemond x Reader
warnings: 18+/NSFW/MDNI - smut, oral fem receiving, fingering, spanking, praise, slight dirty talk, overstim, kissing, love bites, hand over mouth, titty play, allusions to Aegon being a creeper, alcohol, smoking, langauge
word count: 7.2k
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note: im back! grad school didn't kill me! hope you enjoy!
link to other stories from me!
To be notified when I post something new, be sure to follow @sapphire-writes-updates & turn notifications on 💙
Be there soon.
Alysanne had texted you nearly an hour ago, and with each passing minute you became more doubtful she’d be making an appearance at all.
You hadn’t even wanted to come. It’d been her idea and now she was blowing you off.
“We’re just exchanging the last of our things,” she’d promised on the phone several hours earlier, “You go on without me and I’ll meet you there.”
Yeah. Because it takes three hours to give your ex-boyfriend his stuff back. Totally.
Alysanne and Cregan Stark had been on and off again since you’d known her; this time was no exception. You knew from her first running later than I thought text that the night wasn’t going to go as you’d hoped. 
You decide to like her most recent message instead of replying, unable to stop the wave of annoyance cresting inside of you. 
You hadn’t even wanted to come.
An end-of-semester holiday party. Thrown by the elder Lannister siblings; twins Jason and Tyland. The kings of Casterly Rock are well known for their extravagant get-togethers and the unimaginable generational wealth that funds all their exploits. 
They’d long graduated from King’s Landing University, but you and Alysanne scored an invite courtesy of Cerelle Lannister, their younger sister, whom you’d been trying to avoid since you arrived. If Cerelle didn’t see you, perhaps you could escape the party unscathed.
That hope proves too good to be true as your name is called from across the room. You slide your phone back into your pocket as Cerelle approaches you. Her blonde hair hangs in effortless curls down her back, the emerald green top she wears accentuating its golden hues, along with her bright green eyes. 
You’re not exactly close with Cerelle, though she appears to enjoy your friendship, at least on a surface level. She’s part of the weekly book club you attend. Her grin widens as she reaches you, eyes drinking you in. 
“Darling!” she muses, pressing a kiss against your cheek.
“You wore it!” she says, fingers ghosting across the cashmere cardigan you’d chosen to wear that evening. Cerelle had bought it for you a few weeks ago, though you’d begged her not to; the price was more than you made in a paycheck.
Alysanne once referred to you as Cerelle’s Polly Pocket.
“She takes you out when she’s bored and plays dress up. It’s fucking weird,” she’d said. 
Cerelle’s lips curve upwards in a Cheshire cat grin as she slings an arm around your shoulder, bringing her glossed lips next to your ear.
“Stop moping in the corner like some dreary wallflower,” she purrs, brushing some hair behind your ear, “Have some fun! It’s winter break!”
Goosebumps break out on your skin at her affections. You laugh breathlessly shrugging away from her touch causing her to frown. 
“You haven’t had enough to drink,” she insists, reaching for another glass, “You’re much too antsy.”
“Alysanne was supposed to be here,” you tell her and she nods understanding, looping her arm through yours and giving your forearm a comforting pat. 
“Fashionably late as always, I suppose,” Cerelle drolls, pointing across the room, “There are lots of fascinating characters here who’ll distract you. Shall I spin a bottle to decide?”
“Hilarious,” you tell her, shaking your head.
“I never joke about a good shag,” Cerelle argues, gaze flickering about the room, “From the looks of it you could use it.” She turns back to you, matching your pout. “Don’t frown, you look too lovely.” She places her hands on your cheeks, thumbs tugging the corner of your lips upwards.
“Much better,” she praises as you hold the smile she’s decorated your face with, “Come on let's find you someone…don’t look at me like that! Someone to flirt with, that’s all. A bit of harmless fun.” 
You roll your eyes earning a pitch on the arm and you swat Cerelle’s hand away.
“There’s no one here I want to flirt with,” you insist, following her gaze around the room, “Let alone shag.”
“You’re too picky,” she muses, tapping a manicured nail against her chin as she scans the room, “What about Greyjoy?”
A shiver rolls through you, “No thank you.”
“Heard he’s good in the sack.”
You’d heard a lot of things about Dalton Greyjoy. None of which made you want to spend an extended period of alone time with him. You glance at Cerelle giving her a firm look. She sighs, returning to her mission.
“You need someone,” Cerelle insists after you shoot down several more options, “You haven’t been with anyone since—what was it again?”
His face flashes through your mind before you can help it. 
“Unimportant,” you quip, “Cerelle, I just want to—” Your words die as two new guests bound up the stairs into the main hallway. 
Suddenly, it’s as if all the air has been sucked from the room, your heartbeat echoing in your ears the only sound you can hear. You tug Cerelle closer, eyes wide.
“You invited them?” you hiss, as Cerelle frowns, following your gaze.
“Not me. Jason must have,” she answers, “It’s not a party without Aegon. Jay swears he has the best coke on this side of the Keep.”
Aegon Targaryen is relatively harmless as long as you keep your drink close. You’re more concerned with the tall figure who lurks closely behind him. Though the younger, Aemond Targaryen towers over his brother; his presence makes the room feel smaller, colder than it was moments ago. He’s dressed in all black, as he usually is, the silver chain around his neck the only other color. His long snow-white hair is braided down his back, an eyepatch securely covering his left eye.
He never takes it off.
Aegon pushes by his brother making a beeline for the kitchen where most of the chaos is localized. You can tell a new drinking game has begun by the sound of cheers and the echo of glasses clinking together. Aegon’s eyes lit up as he disappeared down the hall, eager to join the miscellaneous fun.
Aegon loves a good party.
Aemond watches his brother but lingers behind in the living room leaning against a wall. He extends a long arm to the bookshelf retrieving one with his long fingers. He flicks open a few pages, lips pursing. He glances up, violet eye meeting yours for the briefest moment. 
Your lips part and you look away, warmth flooding your cheeks. You had shared a couple of classes with Aemond, nothing more nothing less. He was quite mysterious. 
“Anyway,” Cerelle says, her attention wavering with each passing second, “Back to you drinking. I’ll get you another glass. Loosen up, pet.” 
You try to, you really do. No matter what her intentions are, Cerelle has been nothing but nice to you, so you allow her antics. An hour has ticked by and Alysanne has yet to respond to your latest text message. Squeezed between Cerelle and Sabitha Frey during another round of quarters you decide to plan your escape. 
“I’m going to get some air,” you tell her, rising from the couch. Cerelle rolls her eyes, “I’m not leaving, I swear!”
“You better not!” she says, perfectly sculpted eyebrows knitting together, “I’ll come to fetch you if you’re gone too long—you know I will.”
She’s telling the truth. 
“Five minutes,” you insist, forcing a smile.
Cerelle’s nose twitches but she lets it go and nods, returning her attention to the game.
Weaving through the sea of people you make your way outside letting the door shut behind you as you walk down a few steps of the front stoop. It’s colder than you expected, you can see your breath in front of you. 
You stand shivering, trying to decide what to do next. Reaching into your pocket, you check your phone for the time. You could leave, make your escape down the steps, and catch the last bus back to Maegor’s Holdfast. 
If you stay any longer, you’ll be forced to spend the night or dip into your savings to splurge on an Uber. It’s always crazy expensive on this side of town as if the drivers know the neighborhood is full of rich kids. 
The door opens and noise from the party fills the cool night until it slams shut once more. You roll your eyes expecting Cerelle as you turn your head. 
Only it isn’t her.
Aemond Targaryen lingers on the top step, reaching into his jacket pocket and placing a cigarette between his teeth. He finds a lighter a moment later, a nice expensive one, flicking it open with a sharp click. Fire blooms in the palm of his hand and you can just make out the three-headed dragon branded on the side of the silver lighter before it disappears into his pocket again.
He releases a cloud of smoke into the air, mimicking the one your breath makes. You turn away as he walks down a few steps, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. 
“You were in my class,” he says suddenly, his head tilting to the side, “History of The First Men, right?” 
You force your lips together. “Mhmm,” you answer, surprised he recognized you.
Aemond Targaryen didn’t seem the type to remember a random girl in his class. Smart as hells, he focused solely on his grades, paying little attention to the rest of the student body. He seemed to be the antithesis of his elder brother. Though incredibly different, supposedly they had similar lustful appetites. 
One for pleasures of the flesh, the other for academic validation.
Aegon Targaryen was a known party boy and ran in multiple social circles. He didn’t care about class or popularity; if there was sex, liquor, and drugs around, Aegon Targaryen would be there. 
However, there were stories about Aemond too that made their way around campus. 
“You alright?” he pressed, the silence laying heavy between you. 
“I shouldn’t even be talking to you right now,” you breathe, chuckling slightly as you rub your arms as the frigid air bites into your exposed flesh. 
Aemond quirks a brow at that, taking another drag of his cigarette. “Why’s that?”
“You’re sort of a banned topic at book club,” you admit, causing his lips to curl into a small smirk. 
“Am I?”
“Mhmm.”
Another moment of silence goes by before his curiosity gets the better of him. “Because?”
“Maris runs it,” you tell him, and he clicks his tongue, nodding to himself before taking another drag of his cigarette.
Maris Baratheon, the elder of a pair of Irish twins. Floris Baratheon, once the object of Aemond’s affection for about a half second, was royally screwed over when he left her for none other than Alys Rivers. Adjunct Professor. It was quite the scandal at the time.
You’re not exactly friends with Floris; closer to Maris if you had to choose. But it's the principle of things—girl code. 
“Floris and I were never exclusive,” Aemond comments.
“Yikes.”
So maybe Aemond Targaryen is just like every other guy. Though, you’re mostly sure he’s telling the truth. The story you’d heard was that he ghosted her. 
“She shouldn’t have assumed,” he continues, shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly.
You roll your eyes, blood boiling at his statement as annoyance begins to quicken in your belly. Aemond Targaryen seems more like his elder with every word that leaves his curved lips. 
“Right, of course not, how dare she,” is your sarcastic reply. 
Aemond tilts his head toward the sky, speaking around the cigarette. 
“You seem rather upset,” he accuses, “Funny, Floris never mentioned you.”
You turn to face him fully and he glances at you out of the corner of his eye. Folding your arms across your chest you jut your hip out. “We’re not friends. It’s the principle of it all. I don’t like assholes.”
His perfect lips curl slightly. “I’m an asshole?”
“Mhmm. At least Aegon owns up to his behavior, he doesn’t pretend he’s some suave guy doing nothing wrong.”
You swear a smile tugs at the corner of his lips as he plucks the cigarette from between them.
“Is that what I’m doing?”
“Sure seems like it.”
Aemond takes a step closer then. You have to tilt your head to look him in the eye. Something about being this close to him is almost unnerving, your stomach drops slightly as you focus on his prominent cheekbones. 
“It’s not my problem if a girl gets her hopes up after getting fucked properly,” he counters.
Your breath hitches in your throat and you back up, slightly slipping against the icy railing. Aemond reaches out, his hand curling around your bicep to steady you. It’s warm, almost hot; the heat seeps through your thin sweater in the shape of his fingers. 
There’s a tension between you as he holds your arm for a second too long, before the door opens and several partygoers stumble down the steps, forcing you to break apart. Aemond takes another drag of his cigarette from across the stairs as they laugh tumbling into the street. You’re grateful for the distraction, taking a moment to slow the frantic beating of your heart, and the slight flutter in your stomach. 
“So,” you begin, trying to break the awkward silence the partygoers left behind with their departure, “How do you know Cerelle?”
Aemond looks at you quizzically.
“How do I know Cerelle?”
You jerk your chin up in a hasty nod. Aemond chuckles, shaking his head and taking another drag.
“Family friend,” he answers, “Old money likes to stick together.”
You nod again, unsure of how to answer as he observes you. 
“Surely you’ve heard of the Westerosi Seven?” he asks.
You haven’t.
“The what?” 
“The seven families,” Aemond says, his tone indicating that this is somewhat common knowledge, “Generational wealth that can be traced back to medieval times. The higher lords and ladies. Near royalty.” He takes another drag.
“And you’re one of them?” you ask, crossing your arms. 
“My family, yes,” he answers, “And Cerelle’s. The Baratheon girls. Stark. They’re all quite close.”
“Interesting,” you tell him, glancing down the street again, “You sound like the mafia.”
Aemond holds your gaze, not denying your allegation. You release a breathless laugh, but unease settles in your gut. 
The door opens as if on cue, and Cerelle pops her head out. 
“Darling! Come back inside you’ll catch your death,” she calls, waving you forward. She spots Aemond out of the corner of her eye, and you don’t miss the look of interest that gathers in her green eyes as they flicker between the pair of you, “Targaryen.”
“CeCe,” he politely greets, choosing to use the nickname Cerelle often kept reserved for her family only. She doesn’t comment on Aemond’s choice. 
“Hope you’re being nice to my girl,” she says, the words clipped.
“Of course,” Aemond comments and you can’t help but feel like you aren’t there. 
Cerelle glances back at you, a smile decorating her face once more. 
“Come on, pet! In the kitchen.”
Her blonde hair disappears in the door. Aemond walks down the remainder of the steps tossing his cigarette to the ground and stomping it beneath his heel. 
“Best run along,” he muses, not turning to face you, “She doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
Annoyance prickles under your skin.
“She’s my friend—”
“You have got a very generous friend,” Aemond comments, turning to face you. He motions at your sweater. “Myrish, isn’t it?”
You cross your hands over your chest. 
“Mhmm,” Aemond hums glancing up at you from the bottom step, “I’d just be careful if I were you. Accepting gifts from rich strangers is a lot like Persephone eating the pomegranate seeds.” 
You scoff at the implication before turning away and heading back into the townhouse. Aemond does not follow; you don’t hear the door open as you hurry back up the stairs. 
The party has since moved completely to the kitchen, sans a couple making out on the living room couch. You enter the crowded space and crane your neck to see what everyone is cheering at.
It’s something happening on the marble island, but you don’t see what—that is until Cerelle sits up, her blonde curls cascading around her face, a lime between her pearly white teeth like a cat with a mouse. 
She smiles curling her finger, beckoning Aegon Targaryen forward. He leans against her, bringing his mouth to hers and stealing the lime. The juice flows down his chin before he lets it fall, pressing a sloppy kiss to Cerelle’s lips, earning several cheers. 
As she breaks away she notices you, eyes lighting up as she slips off the counter. 
“Good, you didn’t leave!” she says giggling, “It’s your turn.”
“My turn?” you ask, heart dropping into your stomach. 
“Mhmm,” she says, dragging you forward, “Up now!” 
“Cerelle, I don’t—”
“Hush! Qyle Martell is doing it,” she says biting her lip suggestively, “Let the sexy Dornishman take a shot off you, alright?”
Your cheeks darken as he appears before you, arms wrapping around your waist and lifting you onto the counter like a lamb for slaughter. The crowd cheers and your eyes widen as you meet Qyle’s warm brown eyes. 
“Your sweater,” he says, motioning to it with his hand that clutches a bottle of tequila. 
You glance at Cerelle and she nods encouragingly. Over her head and in the doorway you spot Aemond. He didn’t leave after all. Instead, he leans against the doorframe, observing the chaos with a curled lip, as if the entire thing is beneath him.
Qyle whistles, drawing your attention back to him. He motions to your sweater yet again.
“Oh,” you tell him, moving to unbutton it. 
Thank goodness you wore a tank top underneath. Your fingers slip with nerves as you struggle to unbutton it. You’re the center of attention, peers cheering and chanting around you as you struggle with the bottoms. 
Quite the sacrificial lamb you are. 
“Here, can I help?” Qyle asks, reaching toward you, his fingers bumping against your own. The bottle of tequila sloshes. 
“No—no I’ve got it—oh!”
You’d moved wrong, done something wrong—or perhaps someone pushed him you’re not sure. Your head is buzzing with the noise of the room and suddenly the front of your sweater is doused in tequila. Qyle’s eyes are wide as Cerelle pushes him to the side as the smell of alcohol fills your nose. 
The room quiets momentarily until Cerelle’s bell-like laugh pierces through the silence. 
“Qyle you idiot,” Cerelle sneers, nose wrinkling with playful distaste, “You’re supposed to wait till she’s laying down—”
“It was an accident!”
“—and her sweater!” Cerelle growls in annoyance, “Go upstairs, pet, my room. Pick anything you like.”
You slide off of the counter, hurrying from the room, leaving the sound of music and chanting behind as you move deeper into the labyrinth of the Lannister home. 
Cerelle’s room lacks color and warmth. 
You’d spent the night once here before, crawling into the white feather bed after too much mulled wine. Cerelle had stroked your hair until you’d fallen asleep, only to awake the next morning with a severe headache and a churning belly. 
Popping the rest of the buttons, you peel the soaked sweater from your body and throw it in the hamper. You then walk over to Cerelle’s closet—double doors—and open it. Expensive. Perfumed. You’ve already ruined one pretty thing. Though Cerelle could hardly care about the expense, you do. You sigh, gently pushing through the soft fabric.
“Playing dress up?” a voice calls, and you turn to Aemond at the door. 
You close the closet door. You’ll just have to survive in your thin top. Aemond holds a glass of whiskey between his long fingers.
“Well, I suppose that was a given,” you answer him, sitting down on the bed.
Aemond watches you from the doorway, his arm raised above his head, fingers tapping nonsensically against the frame. 
“D’you want to see how you’re supposed to do it?” he suddenly asks.
“Do what?” you question, tilting your head to the side. 
“What Qyle was going to do,” he answers, and you understand his meaning. 
Aemond walks over to you, the ice rattling against the glass he lazily grips between his fingers, coming to stand in front of your legs. You’re not sure why he’s asking, what interest he has in you. But something in your belly tightens the closer he gets.
“Alright,” you give him a quiet answer, the word barely slipping past your lips. 
Aemond purses his lips, glancing down at your legs. 
“Spread them,” he says softly, motioning with the cup. Warmth creeps up the back of your neck and blooms on the apples of your cheeks. You lock eyes with him, focusing on the ring of violet that surrounds his pupil. You do as you’re told, knees parting; his gaze hypnotizing. “Wider.” 
Your skirt tightens against your thighs as you do so, but you spread your legs wide enough for him to stand between them. He takes a step forward and you’re forced to look up at him.
“Lean back,” he instructs. You’re beginning to notice how easily he slips into the domineering role. Again you follow his instructions, cheeks burning as you lean back, propping yourself on your elbows. 
You’re much more exposed without your sweater, the tops of your breasts visible in the thin top you wear. Aemond steps closer, looming over you, heat radiating from his tall form.
He reaches out, fingers caressing your cheek. You hope he can’t feel how warm they’ve become, feel your pulse fluttering against his fingers as they trail underneath your jaw and down your neck until they reach your collarbone.
“You’re to put salt here,” he murmurs, pressing against the dip of your collarbone for emphasis, “That’s first.” He leans down then, fingers trailing over your shoulder and down your arm leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. “Though we’re without.”
You swallow as his fingers continue to trace your collarbone. His violet eye watches you carefully before he pulls his hand away. He brings them lower, ghosting down your ribs until they reach your waist.
“May I?” he asks, fingers at the hem of your shirt. You give him a wordless nod, not able to trust your voice. Aemond pushes the fabric up slightly, revealing your navel. He holds the glass above your stomach; a drop of condensation falls causing you to flinch at the cool sensation.
Aemond flicks a brow at the constriction of your abdomen, “You’re quite sensitive.”
“It’s cold.”
“Mhmm,” he agrees, turning the glass so more condensation falls; little raindrops begin to adorn your skin, “The liquor goes here.” His fingers ruin the pattern he’s created, rough fingertips swirling the dew drops around your navel, “Tequila.”
“We haven’t got any,” you breathlessly tell him, his touch leaving a scorched trail across your belly. 
Aemond brings his glass closer, pressing the edge against the beginning of your belly button, letting some whiskey pool there. Your hands clenched into fists as the cold liquid fills you up; you watch as it shakes slightly, overflowing. Aemond leans forward, catching the spill with his mouth causing a gasp that sounds more like a moan to leave your mouth. His mouth covers your navel and you can feel his tongue swirl around, collecting the liquid he poured there with hot, calculated strokes. 
His violet eye peers up at you from behind silver lashes, half-lidded as he hollows his cheeks sucking harshly. He reaches toward the side table, mouth never leaving you, to place his glass on the edge freeing his hand. You can feel his tongue circling your navel, gently probing the sensitive skin. You can’t help the giggle that escapes you at the ticklish sensation. Aemond presses his hands against your obliques before releasing you with a pop, his chin and lips shining. 
“That’s how it's supposed to be,” he murmurs, not moving from the spot between your legs. Some of his silver hair has fallen across his brow, and on instinct you reach forward, brushing it from his eyes. 
“There’s one more part,” you tell him, fingers grazing the beginning of the scar that mares his left brow before disappearing behind the patch.
“What’s that?” he asks, his gaze revealing he knows the answer. 
He just wants to hear you say it, you realize. 
Your lips part, fingers still somewhat tangled in his hair; the strands soft as silk between your fingers. 
“There was a lime,” you tell him, “The person….holds it in their mouth.”
Aemond pushes up then, his hands sliding up your sides until they’re pressed into the bed on either side of you, his face inches from your own. 
“Have you got a lime on you?” he asks, his breath warm on your face, the scent of whiskey strong between you.
“No,” you murmur, not knowing where to look. He’s so close you can see the flecks of blue and gold in the lilac iris of his eye, count his silver lashes, and notice the small indentation on the tip of his prominent nose.
He hums again, his eye dropping to your lips.
“Pity,” he says, lips down turning into a pout.
Your heart is nearly beating out of your chest with the way it's pounding incessantly against your ribcage. He’s so close your chests are practically touching; your nipples straining against the fabric of your top. His chain peeks out from under the collar of his shirt and your resolve crumbles. Your eyes flicker to his lips, tongue darting out to wet your own and he leans forward, capturing your lips in a heated kiss.
Your hands wrap around his neck as he kisses you; his lips so soft and firm against your own, skilled tongue parting them with ease to deepen the kiss. A moan doesn’t make it out of your throat as his hand cradles your jaw, the sound of soft kisses is the only thing you can hear besides the muffled hum of the music playing downstairs. 
Aemond pulls away then, the look is his eye ravenous as he lowers himself between your legs once more. For a minute you think he may grab his glass and do the party trick all over again, the kiss just a spur-of-the-moment thing. Instead, he pushes your skirt up, fingers digging into the flesh of your inner thighs. You realize a moment too late what he’s doing.
Riiiip!
“Aemond!” you squeak, as he rips the seam of your tights, “These were a new pair!”
“I can buy you another,” he says, pressing a kiss against the smooth newly exposed flesh, “Or perhaps CeCe can. You’re her favorite plaything, aren’t you?” 
Your cheeks burn at the statement, your mouth pressing together in a tight line. Aemond grins, nimble fingers undoing the zipper of your skirt and wiggling it down your legs along with your ruined tights.
“Oh she doesn’t like that,” he says, clicking his tongue, “But it’s true, isn’t it?” His hands are roaming higher now, grazing against your clothed center. You’re certain he feels the evidence of your arousal but he stays quiet about it. “That’s what you are, aren’t you? A pretty little plaything.”
“Fuck you,” you hiss, humiliation seeping into your veins, though it does little to quell the desire pooling in your belly. 
“No shame in that,” he says, shaking his head, “I understand Cerelle, entirely.” His fingers tug your panties down your bare legs, exposing your wet center. Aemond’s eye locks on it, lips quirking upward. “I like pretty things as well.”
“So I’ve heard,” you quip as Aemond’s second-hand joins the first. He swirls a finger low against your entrance and you clench as he drags it upwards.
“Have you?” he muses, circling your clit with minimal pressure, “And what have you heard?”
“That you’re as insatiable as your brother,” you manage to choke out as his thumb continues to tease your clit, “You just hide it better.” 
Aemond cocks his head to the side in silent agreement before pressing his face against you. A sharp cry leaves your lips as his tongue explores from your entrance up to your clit, the tip circling the sensitive button. 
Eyes rolling back in your head, Aemond nuzzles his face against you, tongue slipping down and pressing into your clenching hole. He hums in approval as you make another desperate noise as his tongue curves upwards inside of you. 
Seven hells, how is anyone’s tongue long enough to do what Aemond’s is doing? Your toes curl as his tongue hooks upwards against the front of your pelvic bone, thrusting against the sensitive patch of nerves that resides there.
“Oh gods—fuck—fuck!” you cry as he continues the repetitive movement of his tongue, waves of pleasure lapping up your spine, sending shivers through your whole body. “Hells Aemond…”
His nose presses against your slippery clit, rubbing against it in a way that stokes the pleasurable fire burning in your belly. His hands hold your thighs open and you throw your head back against the bed as the pressure inside you builds and builds and builds. Your back arches and your thighs tremble in his bruising grasp.
You lean up on your forearms to watch him, his violet eye intently watching your face, studying your reaction. You can tell he’s smug at the effect he’s having on you. He would often get that same look in his eye in class after he proved someone wrong or made a more intelligent point. How you must look to him now; all spread out before him, flushed and slack-jawed, dewy-eyed and pretty. 
You’re a pretty toy to play with. Just want he wanted. 
His tongue leaves your fluttering pussy and you whine at the loss of contact. He mumbles something that sounds an awful lot like needy before two fingers sink inside your warmth to replace what he took away. 
Aemond’s tongue returns to its place around your clit as his fingers curve upwards replaying the motion from before. The stimulation now is much harsher, the pads of his fingers dragging effortlessly against your spongy walls, curling with brutal intention; relentlessly pressing against the swelling spot inside of you. 
His warm, wet tongue against your clit only hastens the tightly winding ball of pleasure in your gut and you feel your walls swelling around his fingers as your release knocks the wind out of you. 
You come with a strangled cry, hands gripping the bed sheets as your abdominal muscles contract to the point of pain, all your muscles going taut as warm waves of euphoria rush through you. 
Aemond releases a choked chuckle of appreciation as he feels you tighten around his fingers. He fucks you through it, stretching out the wave of your orgasm until your legs are trembling and the overstimulation causes you to hiss at him.
“Stop, stop, please.”
“Alright…shhh,” he says, pressing a kiss to the top of your mound and gently pulling his fingers from your fluttering walls, “There you go, that’s a good girl. You did so well for me.”
You can’t help but warm at his praise, the ringing in your ears fading as your chest swells. Aemond is on you once more, lips pressed to yours the mingled taste of whiskey and you hot on his tongue. 
“Are you going to let me fuck you?” he murmurs between sticky kisses, “Hmm?”
“Aemond…” you breathe into his mouth, hoping that is enough for him.
You can feel him smirk against your lips and know instantly it's not. He tuts disapprovingly, pushing you back against the mattress, his face dipping into the crook of your neck.
“What would Floris say?” he teases, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to your neck. Your hands wind around his neck, fingers digging into his scalp. His braid is all but ruined. “I thought you said something earlier,” he continues, nipping and sucking at different spots on your neck, humming with pleasure when he locates a spot that has your back arching. 
“I don’t—”
“Loyalty, I recall,” he purrs, his hand snaking down your side, gripping the meat of your thigh and hoisting it around his waist, “Something like that.”
“Aemond,” you whimper helplessly as he grinds against you, the feeling of his hard cock concealed by his trousers driving you close to madness, “Aemond please.”
“You’re going to have to say it,” he insists, kissing your cheek, “Come on, say it.”
“I want you to fuck me,” you tell him, “Please Aemond—gods.” 
“They can’t hear you,” he taunts, capturing your lips in a bruising kiss, “You’re all mine.”
You frantically nod, nose bumping against his as his lips curl into a greedy smile. He removes his shirt with one hand before he rolls off of you and onto his back, motioning to you with his hands. 
“Go on then,” he says, “Take what you want.”
With shaky hands, you undo his belt above the sizable tent in his pants before dragging the zipper down and releasing his cock. He’s bigger than you expected, both in length and girth, the reddened tip already weeping in anticipation. You stroke his velvety shaft once before he grabs your wrist, pulling you toward him. 
His hands pull your shirt from your body as you straddle him, his cock nudging at your folds. Aemond’s hands slide up your back, undoing your bra and freeing your breasts. 
“You’re gorgeous,” he murmurs, hands cupping the sizable mounds, “Gods, you’re so lovely.”
Your face burns at his praise as you raise your hips before gripping him in your hand and guiding him inside of you; gently letting yourself slide down his length, inner walls fluttering around him at the new sensation. Shuddering on top of him you whine at the stretch. “Gods—”
“You can take it,” he murmurs, squeezing you softly in encouragement, “Come on baby, that’s it, just like that.”
Slowly you let him bottom out in your warmth, happily seated on his cock feeling incredibly full. You brace your hands on his chest as he pinches both of your nipples, your jaw slacking in response. Aemond lifts his hips slightly, gauging your reaction as your eyes screw shut.
“That feel good?” he asks, his voice a rough whisper.
“Yes,” you breathe, slowly starting to ride him, hips lifting and returning to his with a soft smack. 
“There she goes,” he murmurs, hands dropping to your hips, squeezing, “Take what you need, gevie.”
A breathless moan escapes you as you ride him, his hands guiding you through the movements. The hum from the music downstairs matches the ringing in your ears. 
Aemond drops his hand from your waist bringing it to the apex of your thighs. His lips part as he watches you rise and fall on his cock, his length coated with your arousal. 
“That’s it,” he coos, his tone bordering on one of condensation, “Just like that—there’s a good girl.” His thumb brushes against your clit as he says it, a broken moan leaving your lips as pleasure ignites your veins. 
His movements are soft, tantalizing, and brutally calculated as he circles the sensitive button; his other hand clings to your waist, hard enough to bruise. Surely they’ll be memories of his touch when you wake; dark purple petals blossoming on your soft flesh at first light. He guides your movements as they become sloppier the closer you get to your release. 
It sends tingles up your spine, your chest and neck growing warmth as you edge closer to the precipice of pleasure.
No other man has made you finish before.
“Are you close?” Aemond murmurs, never stopping his attention to your clit, the subtle movement of his hips thrusting up into you, “I know you are—can feel you clenching around me.”
Your head falls back, mind foggy as you desperately grind against him, trying to ignore the burn in your hamstrings. Aemond’s hand leaves your hip crashing down against your ass with a loud smack. You yelp in surprise, head jerking forward, nails clawing into the hardened muscles of his chest. Aemond’s hand remains where he’d spanked you, fingers curling into the meat of your ass as he releases a breathless laugh; his eye flickers to where your nails dig against his pale flesh, leaving a trail of red behind as they scrape down his chest.
“Answer me,” he demands, and you quickly nod earning another stinging slap, “With your words gevie. Use those pretty lips.”
“Yes,” you practically gasp, “Yes, Aemond I’m close—”
“And you want to cum, don’t you?” he murmurs, lips curling into a smirk, “Do you want me to make you cum?”
“Yes, Aemond please—” the sentence dies with a moan as he plants both feet on the mattress, bucking his hips up against yours at an inhumane pace. Your eyes screw shut, mouth hanging open in ecstasy as all the muscles in your body tense followed by a sudden burst of euphoria pulsing through you. 
Aemond hums in satisfaction as you ride your high, blood rushing in your ears as you shake on top of him, clenching around his thick length. He’s careful to pull his thumb away from your sensitive clit as your eyes flutter open, eyebrows scrunched together at the overstimulation. But his compassion is short-lived as he hooks his arm around your waist, flipping you onto your back and slotting his body on top of yours. 
His cock is removed for merely a moment at the switch of positions before it’s stretching into your once more earning a sharp gasp. Aemond’s hand covers your mouth in an instant, his face buried in the crook of your neck once more. 
“Shhh,” he coos, placing a kiss under your ear, “Hear that?” he asks, thrusting gently into your warmth causing your eyes to roll back in your head. “Listen.”
His hips continue their gentle roll against yours, slowly stoking the pleasurable fire that is reigniting in your belly. Limbs still tingling from your previous orgasm, you blink rapidly trying to focus on what he’s asking. 
The music downstairs has died.
“Everyone’s going home,” he murmurs, through another kiss, “We’d best be quick. Would hate for lovely Cerelle to find her pet in such a position.”
Embarrassment burns your cheeks and he chuckles, keeping his hand over your mouth as he slings your leg over his shoulder, deepening the angle of his thrusts. The head of his cock bullies against your sweet spot almost lovingly as he drags his cock in and out.
“Keep quiet,” he murmurs, the sound of silence deafening with the lack of music, “Can you do that?” He’s rather cruel with his question, delivering a particularly harsh thrust as he asks, then clicking his tongue in disapproval at your muffled moan. “Thought not.”
So his hand remains as he plows into you, the sounds of your pleasure muffled but still desperate as you claw at his shoulders. 
“That’s it,” he encourages, “Cum for me again, just like that.” His pelvis grazes against your clit, the friction only aiding in his efforts of making you reach your release once more. His violet eye scans your face before he dips to your collarbone, nipping the sensitive flesh with his teeth and you cum with a desperate cry against his hand. 
“There you go,” he coos, the words breathy and broken his hips faltering as your walls clamp down around him, “Squeezing me so fucking tight—fuck.” He regains his pace with renewed enthusiasm as your walls continue to flutter around him. Aemond removes his hand from your mouth pressing it into the mattress beside your head. 
Nerves raw from the continued stimulation a tear rolls down your cheek as he chases his own release. Aemond leans forward, hot tongue darting out to catch the salty stream as he hums in satisfaction. 
“We’ll have more time next time,” he whispers the promise against your cheek, “I want to explore what other pretty noises you make.” His lips capture yours then, swallowing the whimper you release. 
“I’m very curious,” he murmurs against your lips, slinging your other leg over his shoulder, pushing your knees back beside your ears. “And I’m very thorough.” A silent scream leaves you as he slams back into you, toes curling as you cum again, vision going white with the force of it. 
Aemond’s hips meet yours a few more times and then you feel his cock pulsate inside of you before the warmth of his release fills you to the brim. You’ll need to make a trip to the pharmacy, but you’ll think about that later. He stays like that for a moment, buried to the hilt inside of you as you both try to regulate your breathing. 
Aemond lowers your legs gently from around his shoulders and brushes some sweat-soaked hair from your forehead. 
“Are you alright?” he asks, and you nod as he kisses you sweetly.
“Just fucked out,” you assure him, a pleasurable ache radiating down your thighs. Aemond hums, carefully pulling his softening cock from your warmth.
The emptiness takes your breath away as he stands. “Wait here,” he orders, walking towards Cerelle’s bathroom. He returns a moment later, washcloth in hand. You push yourself onto shaky forearms as he carefully cleans the mess between your thighs.
“Thank you,” you tell him, face burning from his attention.
“No need for thanks,” he insists, “It’s the bare minimum.”
“For you maybe.”
Aemond flicks a brow toward his hairline, his violet eye meeting yours. His expression is curious, but you sense he’s not going to push you to elaborate. You hold his gaze. 
Not tonight.
“Are you staying here?” he asks, standing when he’s done, handing you pieces of your clothes.
“I think I have to,” you answer, putting your skirt back on and glancing at the clock, “The last bus is long gone.”
Aemond frowns, reaching for his phone.
“I’ll have my driver take you,” he says, unlocking his screen.
“You don’t have to—”
“It’s no trouble,” he insists, placing the phone against his ear, “Cole. Ten minutes. Thank you.” He hangs up quickly leaving no time to argue.
“Thanks,” you mutter awkwardly while finishing dressing. You walk to Cerelle’s large mirror and attempt to fix your sex hair. Your eyes widen in horror as you tilt your head to the side, leaning closer to get a better look. 
“Aemond,” you hiss, fingers pressing against the three red marks sure to bruise, “I look like I’ve been mauled by a bear.”
Aemond walks up behind you dragging his fingers down the curve of your neck and over your collarbone. Goosebumps appear in their wake. Three more red marks lead a path down to the top of your right breast. Several sizable mouth-shaped love bites. 
Aemond rests his chin on your shoulder, meeting your eyes in the mirror.
“Think of them as a gift,” he tells you, the curve of his lips pressed against the skin of your neck.
His hand curves around your waist, the other slinking up to turn your face towards him. He hums appreciatively, kissing your lips, then your cheek. Down your neck to your shoulder. You glance in the mirror once more, catching his eye. 
There’s something new there. Almost possessive. 
His grip on your waist tightens and he presses his teeth into the soft flesh of your shoulder.
Outside, snow begins to fall.
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talesofoldandnew · 3 months
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by Comicname
👍
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talesofoldandnew · 3 months
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Ewan Mitchell as Aemond Targaryen House of the Dragon 1.09 - “The Green Council”
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talesofoldandnew · 3 months
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talesofoldandnew · 4 months
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drop your favorite tom pic
there’s too many but here’s one.
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talesofoldandnew · 4 months
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ewan giving his attention to fans that were calling his name and smiling at them, ewan mentioning the fan mail and saying it motivates him, ewan bending his knees when hugging people to be at their level and always looking so happy in fan photos…i love him so much, he’s out there proving that he is the sweetest <3
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talesofoldandnew · 4 months
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I agree with EVERYTHING you say here my friend, totally with you here. Sometimes silence is gold if you only manage to shit bricks outta your mouth. I say what I say.
How are we all feeling the day after??
I wanted to make a post and maybe nobody cares but there's just a few things I want to get off my chest after yesterday.
First of all I LOVED the sense of community on here, how we all anticipated this new content as if it was Christmas coming early, how we freaked out over every new photo and clip together, feeling anxious and overly excited, this is what fangirling is all about for me. A HUGE thank you to everyone who shared videos, took the time to make gifs and edits. I'm not going to name blogs or tag people in this post but you all know who you are. This fandom is blessed with all of you❤️
Next up: Ewan❤️❤️ I had some concerns beforehand knowing he's so introverted but I feel so proud of how he handled this whole thing, so happy to see him happy and see how warm the fans accepted him and made him feel loved. Brazil, you did an amazing job! You could tell it really helped him feel comfortable as well, and while he was clearly very nervous I could see the joy and how proud he was whenever he gave a great answer. Prepared or not, that doesn't matter, it was wonderful to hear him talk so thoughtfully about Aemond. I also loved how open and sweet he seemed, hugging everyone, engaging with fans and even taking selfies afterwards. I had NOT expected that part and it makes me so hopeful for the future.
But...you know I was getting to the bad stuff, right?
I also got severe flashbacks from previous fandoms yesterday and I did not like it one bit.
The more content there is the more people have opinions. They don't like what he's wearing or how he/his hair looks, they analyze his every move in the panels, question his answers or worse question his entire personality and sexuality.
Even if some comments feel harmless it's all a lot of negative energy that gets put out there. And it opens doors we should not open.
Can we as a fandom please stay out of Ewan's love life/sexuality? It has nothing, absolutely nothing to do with us or why we all adore him so much. It changes nothing about who he is, it does not affect your own life at all. Literally not at all.
You don't like his outfit? Cool, that's fair, it was a bold choice, I understand it's not everyone's cup of tea. But is it really necessary to point that out and make several posts about it?
I know this is the internet generation's right to state their opinion on everything, and maybe this is my age showing, but sometimes there is truth in "If you can't say anything nice don't say anything at all."
I don't want this to be a call out post because it's not and I'm the last person to call people out, I've made comments in previous fandoms as well that I'm not proud of, I think we all have esp in the heat of the moment. And maybe I'm too sensitive because I've seen it happen in other fandoms, how quickly the negativity and gossip can take over and ruin a good thing.
I don't want this to happen to this fandom cause despite some petty drama it's been such a fun, amazing space for me over this past year and I'd like that to continue.
I guess this a general soft request to all of us to be a little kinder next time we get new content, maybe don't be so critical and just enjoy what we're getting?
(Because lord knows chances are he's going back into his cave for months now lol)
Anyway, I don't want to end on a negative, yesterday was amazing and I'm still shaking. I feel so proud to support Ewan, he's really something special, I feel that even more after yesterday. And despite the negative I'm also proud to be part of this fandom and this little community on here and I'd love to freak out with all of you a lot more often in the future ;)
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talesofoldandnew · 4 months
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Ewan Mitchell | CCXP23, 12.02.23
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