My Hyperfixation With Star Wars Men Is Concerning At This Point.

My hyperfixation with star wars men is concerning at this point.

He's so dreamy and I'm here for it

The things he could do to me 🤭🤭

sons & daughters. aemond | vhagar outtake.

— pairing: aemond targaryen x fem!reader

— type: outtake from this series

— summary: news of your pregnancy reaches the red keep.

— word count: 1,396

— tagging list: @tvangelism @aemondwhoresworld

Aegon had jested about it during a Small Council meeting—had suggested that you, mayhaps, would birth a whole litter, which would come out of your cunt, howling at the moon.

Aemond had stood abruptly, a lump in his throat, unable to hear—to take—anymore. His palm had twitched to unsheathe Blackfyre and cut his brother's tongue from his mouth for such salacious slanders.

He'd exited the room swiftly, Alicent and Otto concerned that they may need have his room barred from the outside again. That, perhaps, this would be the last straw before madness finally overtook his senses.

He'd not gone to his chambers, however.

Instead, he'd made way to a horse in the yard, swiftly climbing atop it, kicking his heels against its sides as tears stung his eye—desperate to take to the sky where he could fall entirely apart.

He's nigh-on sobbing once he reaches Vhagar. Once he has, she raises her head, letting out a distressed rumble from deep in her gut—sensing her rider's agony.

He nearly slips as he mounts her, tightening a leather belt around his middle as she stands, flapping her wings, gradually rising and rising and rising, until they've disappeared above the clouds.

And then Aemond breaks.

He doubles over, weeping into the saddle, clutching at his dragon—mayhaps his only true friend—unable to bear it.

Without you here to comfort him, as you always did when he was a boy—Gods, even the one evening when he'd had you back in his embrace had consoled all those years of torment he'd spent alone in your absence—he knows naught what else to do. He has never felt so far gone before. Not even the night your brother took his eye.

He knows it, even if he does not want to believe it. That he will remain steadfast through the rest of his days waiting for you to return to him. Delusional.

For you are the only girl—woman—he can so much as stand the touch of. Particularly in terms of intimacy. He abhors his excursions into the Street of Silk, but how else is he to obtain even a modicum of tenderness with you so far from him now?

Paying them to call him uncle—to lie and tell him that they love him and that they'll never leave him—does little to soothe him. In fact, it only serves to make him feel considerably worse.

There is a hole in his chest which you used to fill.

Broken pieces which fit so perfectly together have now, instead, turned to shards of glass that cut so deep he cannot staunch the bleeding of his shattered heart.

Had you always hated him?

You were supposed to be together. Were supposed to have been his. What had gone wrong? What had he done to curse himself so time and again?

First, to be born to a loveless father, and then a mother who he knows resents him at times—he can see it in her eyes. Her love had been easier to hold when he was young and still just a soft, green boy—mayhaps it had been the same with you, as well.

He'd thought you would've enjoyed what you'd seen when you finally reunited after all those years apart from each other's loving embraces—a man hardened and educated. So often he had carefully chosen items for his wardrobe, even the way he did his hair, out of a boyish fantasy of you wandering into the Keep again and setting your soft gaze upon him once more. He needed be sure you would like that which you saw. Instead... You'd seemed nearly frightened of him.

He'd never harm you. Don't you know that? Don't you understand? He would raze the world to ashes and embers just to hold you one last time. He would do anything you asked of him—anything—if it even might please you.

And then there was Aegon—always mocking and taunting him. For being too soft, too sensitive. So then he had become otherwise, and still it was wrong.

He cannot win.

And now he is disfigured. Horribly maimed. He is not whole. Physical or otherwise. Not with you forever belonging to another.

That is why. Cursed. Kinslayer. He had taken Lucerys' life, and now his has been stolen away as well. For he feels a dead man walking—sleep-walking. Only in his dreams with you does he find rest.

To think of you resting in his... Do you dream of him, at least? The thought of that man inside of you, however...

He wants him dead. Wants him to answer for the crime of sentencing him to an empty life without you—forcing him to suffer through, instead, holding you forever in his heart while you have cut him from your own.

Like an ugly tumor.

Is that what he is?

Something to be dispersed of. An eye already he has lost. Perhaps he should remove further organs, then. A beating heart, for example. What use is it now when the thing which it had once beat for is lost to him? When now it only serves to ache?

Vhagar begins to turn direction without Aemond's command, a rumbling in her chest for one which had never even laid a hand on her.

He'd never had a chance to introduce you.

He'd wished to. Had known she would love you as well.

She looks northward, ready to burn that stone castle—root you out and bring you south once more where you belong.

But he knows it is no good—even if every part of him is urging him forward: to war. He would not consider it an unprovoked attack.

Lord Stark signed his death sentence the moment he began to covet that which was not his.

He doesn't understand you, Aemond is sure. He never truly will. For you are half fire, the other half—his own blood. These northern lords speak of honor. Have you told him, then? The things the two of you did as children? Things fit solely for adults?

He's sure you withheld the story of you nearly begging him to take you against the weirwood tree at the Red Keep—dishonoring your new husband's 'Gods'. It is not true love, then, is it? To be forced into hiding pieces of yourself from he which you took vows to be bound to by your very soul.

Perhaps he should've forced you, then. Forced himself upon you. Ruined.

You would've had no other recourse than to bind yourself to him, then.

But to think of you like that... Begging him for mercy as he steals away that which he'd so desperately wished to be freely given to him for so long—he abhors the very thought of it.

He cannot tolerate a life of raising this other man's child, elsewise.

He fears what he would do to it once it emerged into the world—with a head of brown hair and a stranger's eyes staring up at him.

He would not love it.

He would loathe it. Would have half-a-mind to feed it to his dragon while you watched—reminding you once and for all who you truly belonged to.

He shakes his head—refusing to let that violent madness overtake him yet again. It has repeatedly since your wedding to that foul, northern savage. Has cost him quite a few pieces of furniture within his chambers, even.

His wrath had frightened even his brother—the king—in those moments of black rage. The fearful look on his face, however, had filled Aemond with satisfaction, if naught else.

He commands Vhagar to turn back round then, but she does not initially obey—instead diving, soaring more quickly before leveling once more.

"We cannot," he states in High Valyrian. "Not yet."

She roars.

"Mayhaps the time will come. And then we will burn them all and retrieve that which was stolen from us."

She slowly begins to turn, King's Landing coming back into sight.

Aemond solidifies himself.

You will return. He is sure of it.

Lord Stark will not be enough for you.

He merely needs bide his time until your senses return to you at last.

He has always been a patient man.

And you are certainly worth waiting for. His love.

I love it when men look sad 😔

It just has something special, like I just want to hug them 😔 I love miserable men

My fixation with him is not normal.

our book boyfriend is finally back tmrw‼️