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wizard-on-whales · 3 months ago

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Devils Dance

(NSFW)

You're a violinist for the San Francisco Symphony, excited to work with your favorite band, but when you can't get a part right during rehearsals you hid away only to be found by the singer himself

Warnings: Smut, Unprotected sex, praising and degrading, semi-public, pet names

Word count: 2.6k

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Nothing had been going right today. First your alarm didn't go off on time which meant you were almost late for rehearsals, then when you finally got there you bumped into someone and they spilled their coffee all over you, and now you couldn't find your sheet music. You were digging through your violin case and folders, looking for it, but it was nowhere to be found. You let out a silent groan, frustrating already starting to spill out of you even though it was only 10 AM. You leaned over to the second chair violinist and asked if she had an extra copy of the music and finally luck was on your side because she did. She handed it over and you set it on your stand, getting to work practicing the familiar tunes.

Although you were a huge Metallica fan and had spent the last several days practicing and studying the sheet music there was one part that you could not get right. And sitting here practicing it in front of the whole orchestra and your favorite band was not helping your already terrible day. Several times now the conductor has had to stop and restart the entire song because of your mistakes, and as it happened again you couldn't help the tears falling from your eyes. You wasted no time before running out of the room, the hot streams of frustration and embarrassment trailing down your cheeks. You found a corner to hide in, setting your violin down in front of you. You wanted to throw it, smash it to pieces, but you held back.

You brought your knees up to your chest, dropping your head into them as you cried. You were sure your spot as first chair violin would be ruined after this. Another sob left your body as you curled further into yourself, wanting nothing more than to go home. You didn't hear the footsteps approaching you as you wiped your runny makeup off of your face. The hand that was gently placed on your shoulder made you jump and turn. Standing there was none other than James Hetfield himself, the man you have had a massive crush on for years. Your cheeks heat up, your heart racing in your chest as you quickly try to compose yourself.

“You alright?” He asked kindly, picking your violin up off the floor and moving it so that he could sit next to you. He sits the stringed instrument on his lap, plucking the strings slightly as he awaits your answer.

“Yeah, just…just a bad day,” You stutter, trying to smooth out your now wrinkled skirt. You tried to think of something else to say but god he smelled good and it was the only thing you could think about. Just the size of him and the feeling of his shoulder pressed against yours made your brain go blank. He was not a small man that was for sure, his broad shoulders and chest strained against the tight button up he wore and you were convinced if he made one wrong move a button would fly off.

“I noticed that. You sound great though, that part you can't get down seems real tough so I don't blame you,” His words seem genuine as he looks over at you. His fingers continue to fiddle with your violin and just as he grabs a tuning peg, his instincts telling him to turn it, you panic. You grab his hand to make him stop and he quickly pulls it away, noticing your worry.

“Sorry, I guess I wasn't thinking. They probably aren't like guitars are they,” He chuckles awkwardly, placing his hands off to his sides instead of the instrument.

“It's okay, same concept just a little harder,” You reassure him, your panic temporarily making you forget that you were upset.

“Play something,” He says, picking it up and handing it over to you. You stare at him in disbelief for a second before slowly taking the violin from him. You sit up a little straighter, positioning the instrument on your shoulder before taking the bow and placing it against the strings. You glance at him for a second and he gives you a nod. You take a breath before playing a song, deciding to play a version of Fade to Black that you composed yourself. It was a song you had prayed would be part of the album but unfortunately it wasn't. He watched intently as you played, a smile splayed across his features, and something else in his eyes that you couldn't quite pinpoint. You tried to avoid his gaze as you played but it was hard, his eyes were intense, drawing you in with interest and beauty. As you finished playing the intro to the song you removed your violin from your shoulder and awkwardly set it back down on the floor next to you.

“That was great! We should have added it to the setlist. Are you a fan then?” His praises cause you to blush, not expecting him to be so sincere. And the smile on his face as he spoke made you want to trip and fall right into his arms.

“Yeah..I've been a huge fan for years. I had posters of you all over my walls when I was a teenager and in college,” You admit shyly to him, trying to laugh it off so he didn't think you were weird. He chuckles slightly, his gaze still burning a hole through you. You catch his eyes flick down towards your chest for just a second before looking back towards your face. His tongue swipes over his lips and you finally realize what that look behind his eyes is. You feel as if he could devour you with just one look, ripping your clothes off with his stare.

“Oh yeah? What type of posters? Just me or the whole band?” His voice seemed to have gotten deeper somehow. You wiped your sweaty palms against your skirt, looking away from him for a second, but his gaze didn't falter.

“Well..it was mostly just you. I had one above my bed that I loved,” You swore he could hear your heart beating against your chest with how fast it was pounding.

“Really? You ever touch yourself to it?” He asked the question so casually that it almost didn't register in your brain. Your voice gets caught in your throat as your face burns red. He smiles wider, your reaction telling him everything he needs to know.

“Did you look up at it with your legs spread wishing I was really there?” He comes closer, resting his hands on the floor on either side of your legs. You lean back a little as you feel his breath on your face, anxiety pooling in your stomach.

“C'mon baby girl, use your words. Did you?” He leans further forward, causing you to lean away again. You were resting on your elbows, looking up at him at this point. You bit your lip slightly, unable to speak so you just nod your head thinking of all the times your fingers worked themselves against your sensitive parts, the image of him in your head. You had always imagined what it would be like, what he'd smell like, what he looked like under his clothes but you never imagined it would actually happen. Now you were laying underneath him, his lips grazing your neck, his cologne invading your nostrils.

“Yeah? Fuck yourself with your fingers trying to imagine they were my dick instead?” His voice was raspy and quiet in your ear. By now his body was resting fully against yours, pinning you to the floor. You could feel his boner pressed against your leg. His hand slid under the edge of your skirt making you shiver, his calloused fingers grazing the skin as they trailed up your leg.

“Someone might see us,” You whimper, glancing away from him and up and down the long, empty hallway you were in the middle of.

“You'd like that wouldn't you? Solid proof that you got to fuck me for real,” A moan slips out of your mouth just by his words alone. The feeling of his warm and heavy body pressing you to the cold, hard floor made you ache between your legs. His hand trails even further up your thigh reaching the band of your panties. His fingers slowly graze you through the fabric causing your hips to jerk.

“God you're already soaked princess, I can feel it through these little panties,” You bit your lip at the words he's whispering in your ear and the feeling of his fingers slowly rubbing you. His lips finally press against your neck making you let out a moan. He nips the skin gently, making sure to not leave any marks that would be visible. You moved your hands from the floor and placed them firmly against his chest, feeling his strong pecs through the thin fabric of his dress shirt. You feel him smile against your neck as your hands wonder curiously over his chest, memorizing everything you can, hoping it isn't just a dream.

“I'm all yours, baby,” He whispers in your ear again while his finger slips your panties to the side to feel you further. You quietly whine, gripping his shirt as he slides one of his fingers into you. James hungrily connects his lips to yours, getting lost in the taste of you. His tongue pushes into your mouth, feeling every inch of you it can as it dances with yours. His finger slowly move in and out of your gummy walls, the wetness between your legs gradually increasing. He pulls his finger out, pushing two in, causing you to moan louder against his lips. You turn your head to the side, making his sloppy kisses stop.

“James please,” You cry out, his pace was painfully slow, making you beg for more. You didn't have to say anything else before he pulled his dripping fingers out of you and got to work on his belt. He unbuckled it, his eyes never leaving yours as he did. You brought your hands up to your chest and unbuttoned your coffee stained shirt, exposing your breasts to him. Lucky for him you had forgotten to put a bra on with the rush of the morning. A groan slips from him as he watches you squeeze the soft flesh. He pushes his jeans down just enough for his cock to slip out, holding the thing like a trophy in his hands. He gives you a smirk as he watches you drool over his size. You wanted to curse him for being right, all those times you stared up at that poster, your legs spread, wishing it was his dick in you instead of your fingers. Now it was actually happening and you were too drunk on the taste of him to be nervous. He pushed your legs further apart and situated himself between them, his tip grazing your entrance.

“You ready for all your dirty little fantasies to come true,” He grins with a whisper, his face dangerously close to yours. He grips your hips tightly as he drives himself into your wet walls. You throw your head back, wanting to scream in pleasure but only a quiet moan escapes.

“Gonna have to be quiet unless you want an audience,” James grunts into your ear before biting the skin. He jerks his hips, the size of him stretching you more than you had ever been, almost splitting you in two. You clutch his shoulders tightly, trying to hold on as he starts pounding into you. His body had you pinned down, making it hard to move but you couldn't care less. You grab the collar of his shirt, quickly unbuttoning the top buttons as he continues to thrust into you. His necklace falls out of his shirt, dangling in your face. You grab the back of his neck and pull him closer, connecting your lips with his exposed collarbone. He gladly lets you puppet him, groaning as you suck on the sensitive skin. He removes one of his hands from your hips before placing it above your head, supporting himself as he pushes deeper into your walls. You bite down harder, muffling your whines against his skin. You wrap your legs tightly around his waist, your heels digging into the top of his ass.

“Mmmfuck.. Harder,” You moan, pulling him even closer. The cold metal from his necklace grazes against the exposed skin on your chest, making you shiver.

“I knew you'd be…fuck…dirty from the second I saw you,” He groans, pushing harder into you. His thrusts were deep enough you could feel him in your stomach. Everything in your body tingled, craving every bit of him.

“Thought you were being subtle, staring at me, but I knew this is what you wanted…wasn't it?” James leans down and kisses your breasts, biting your nipple harshly, making you squeal.

“Yeah…this is what..what I wanted,” James abruptly stops his movements and pulls out of you. You give him a puzzled look, having no time to react to him flipping you over with ease. He delivers a harsh smack against your ass, a moan slipping from your lips before he plunged himself into you again. Your hands grip at nothing against the floor as he pins your wrists together. His hips harshly smack against your ass, the sounds seeming to echo down the long empty hall. You weren't sure if you cared about anyone walking in on you anymore. He was right again, you'd like it if someone watched him fuck you like his life depended on it.

“Fucking hell,” He grits through his teeth. Your walls contract around him, drawing a groan from him. You could feel yourself getting close, the feeling of his thick cock, dragging against your tight walls at this angle was overwhelming. You didn't care if anyone heard your moans at this point, you were no longer holding back as his name spills from your mouth. Your sounds encourage him to push harder, his movements getting sloppy.

“I'm gonna cum,” You whine, the feeling washing over you, about to spill out. He grips you tighter, his cock twitching inside you.

“Yeah? Cum all over my cock, baby, do it,” His filthy words encourage you to let go. You swore it was the most intense orgasm you had ever had. You wanted to scream but nothing but a strangled whine came out. Your ears rang and your vision got blurry as you rode through your high, James hips still desperately snapping against your ass, chasing his own orgasm. His movements slowed as you felt his sticky cum coat your walls. He stayed inside you for a few seconds longer, pumping everything he could out of his cock before peeling himself out of you. Thick strands of his cum followed, getting on your legs and skirt, causing him to groan. He grabbed your panties that were only pushed to the side and snapped them back against your sensitive pussy, causing you to moan.

“They're probably looking for us,” James speaks, flipping you over onto your back. He keeps your legs wrapped around his waist, his eyes watching as his cum seeps out of you and soaks your panties.

“Mhmm.. probably,” You say quietly, your brain not able to think of much in your fucked out state. He grins at the sight of you, grabbing your arm and pulling a sharpie out of his pocket. He writes something on your arm before shoving the marker back into his pocket.

“Let's do this again sometime, yeah?” He leaves you with one last kiss, pinching your nipple, before shoving himself back into his pants and standing up, leaving you on the floor. You glance at your arm as he walks away, seeing his phone number sprawled across your forearm. You smile to yourself, wondering how the hell you got yourself into this situation, praying it wasn't just a dream.

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#james hetfield x reader #james hetfield smut #james hetfield fanfiction #james hetfield #metallica x reader #metallica smut #metallica fanfiction #metallica #papa het

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targaryenrealnessdarling · 7 months ago

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A Duet of Fire and Fate

Part One | Series Masterlist

Summary: his music school having been challenged by Riverrun Conservatory, Aemond is given the opportunity to come face to face with their top musician | Word Count: 4.7k~ | Warnings: smut (not with the main female character), toxic relationship, semi-public sex

Nothing quite compared to the low hum, and delicate whine of a cello. It had been that way for some time, ever since he'd discovered it.

Aemond still remembers the look on his mother's face, her chocolate eyes wide with pride and joy, when her son who was still freshly mutilated, resulting in the loss of sight in his left eye, took an interest in playing classical music.

The cello had become more than just an instrument to Aemond; it was his refuge, his voice in a world that had grown suddenly more silent and unforgiving. The accident had not just taken half his sight but had cast a shadow over his once bright future. Music, however, brought light back into his life, offering a path forward that he had never anticipated.

The Targaryen name, synonymous with power and prestige in other realms, here lent an aura of intrigue and expectation to his performances. Yet, it was Aemond's own skill, the raw emotion he channelled through the strings of his cello, that captivated audiences. His music was a blend of classical elegance and a palpable intensity that seemed to stem from the very depths of his being.

And Aemond was nothing if not a perfectionist at heart.

He perfected everything, to the point of madness some felt. And if he had not invited a feeling of deep, primal intrigue from every performance he gave, then what was the point? This innocent hobby at first, honed by his parents and caregivers alike, was now a way of life. A career. Something to strive for.

As he became older, this competitive nature never wavered once. He embraced it like a challenge to be met. And the conductor of this prestigious school, Otto Hightower, both a friend of his father, Viserys, a business giant well-known across all of Westeros, and conveniently his grandfather, expected nothing short of the best from his prodigious grandson.

He was never self-conscious either, even if he was easily noticeable and stared upon everywhere he went. And one might expect little attention from the opposite sex in a world of classical music and elegant instruments, but for Aemond this could not have been less true.

He attracted in every show, not only with his talent but with his haunting appearance. The straight long scar through his left eye was struck in the middle by a pale blue pupil, his other seeing eye stark in comparison. Women would watch his slender fingers strike fear, passion and energy into their hearts, wishing the very same could grip at their skin.

To their frustrations, he never acted on this popularity.

Alys Rivers was the only woman he ever reciprocated affections of some kind for. At least two decades his senior, his family had been less than impressed at her presence in his life. But there was no choice on their part. Aemond had made his, and Alys Rivers, like it or not, was his muse. A classical music lover at heart. And a professional critic no less.

One might be forgiven for thinking they disliked each other, they rarely exhibited romance. She was more akin to his manager than anyone else, critiquing his manner of playing and giving advice where he didn't want it. And he rewarded her, away from the prying eyes of the public, with quick, angry sex, exerting what control he did have, into intimacy.

She, like him, had a haunting presence to her, but one less mysterious. More overtly seductive. And though sometimes it seemed to irk Aemond, some felt as if they were still acquainted by convenience if nothing else.

Aemond always arrived early to Kings Landing Music College. The stuffy, wood-panelled room gave some semblance of comfort. There was something about the acoustics, the closeness, that felt almost womb-like. Safe. Familiar.

Meticulously, tuning his cello, he half-listened to the skinny, pink-faced Blackwood, practicing at the same time, “sound like a fucking dying pig.”

“Half dying,” Aemond murmured, with a roll of his eyes.

Otto waltzed in, clad in black slacks and a loose forest-green jumper, “Blackwood, get your fucking instrument in tune please. Fucking Cole could do a better job in violas.”

Criston twirled two Timpani sticks between his fingers, giving a look of mock offence from across the room, “just because I'm over here doesn't mean I can't hear you-”

“Alright, alright, before we begin today’s practice, I have an announcement,” Otto declared, his voice commanding attention. The room quickly fell silent, the anticipation palpable in the air.

“We’ve been challenged to a competition by the Riverrun Conservatory,” Otto revealed, his eyes sweeping across the room, measuring the reaction to his words. The announcement ignited a buzz among the musicians, the rivalry between the schools notorious for its intensity.

“This isn’t just any friendly showcase. It’s a direct confrontation on neutral ground at the upcoming city arts festival. We will be judged on technique, emotional expression, and the complexity of our performance.”

Aemond’s pulse quickened. Riverrun Conservatory had a formidable reputation, known for their strict discipline and innovative performances. The thought of competing against them stirred a mix of excitement and nerve.

Otto’s gaze swept over the room, lingering for a moment on Aemond, then moving on. “I want crispness, I want emotion, and above all, I want precision. We will begin selecting the repertoire tomorrow. Today, I want everyone to focus on their sections. I expect perfection and I will accept nothing less than your best.”

With a decisive turn, Otto left the rehearsal space, his footsteps echoing his determination. The room erupted into whispers and hurried discussions; the stakes had been set.

Blackwood sighed, stress gnawing and weighing on his face. “Fuck me, no pressure then.”

“Don't fucking shit yourself. It's only Riverrun,” a lanky guy mumbled behind his flute.

“Shut your fucking mouth!”

Aemond tuned his cello once more, a determined glint in his eye. He was eager to prove himself, not just as a formidable cellist, but as a key player in leading his school to victory. As the rehearsal began, the sounds of strings, woodwinds, and brass filled the room, each musician pouring their heart into the notes.

Aemond knew that every session, every note, would count. The festival was not just another performance; it was a proving ground. And he was ready to claim his place on it.

With his cello perched on his back as if it were an extension of himself, Aemond strode toward Otto’s office. The familiar weight of the instrument reassured him, steadying his nerves as he prepared to discuss the imminent arrival of their rivals from Riverrun Conservatory.

Upon reaching the heavy oak door, Aemond knocked with a confident rhythm and was quickly greeted by Otto, who peered out from behind a mountain of musical scores. His deep-set eyes and beard, more salt than pepper, gave him an air of aged wisdom.

"Aemond, what's the matter?" Otto asked, noticing the urgency in Aemond's posture.

Stepping inside, Aemond carefully leaned his cello against the wall. "I've heard that Riverrun will be arriving tomorrow to practise here, in preparation for the festival. They’ll be using some of our facilities. I wanted to discuss how we can use this to our advantage, especially since their star pianist is said to be among them."

Otto raised an eyebrow, a slight grin playing at the corners of his mouth. Perhaps he saw the cunning nature reflected in his grandson he perceived in himself.

"Indeed, they will be here. It’s a rare opportunity to observe them up close, to learn their strengths and possibly their weaknesses. We’ve managed to arrange different practice times to ensure there’s no direct overlap, but our paths will certainly cross."

Aemond nodded, his mind racing with possibilities. "If we could subtly observe their practice sessions, we might glean insights into their preparation and techniques. It could inform our strategy and help us focus our rehearsals where we need the most work."

Otto walked over to his desk and shuffled some papers, revealing a schedule. "Here are the timings. Riverrun’s sessions are slotted just after ours in the adjacent rooms. It’s crucial we keep our interactions professional, but keep your eyes and ears open. Understand how their pianist integrates with their ensemble— it’s not just about her solo performance."

"Should we consider adjusting our pieces or rehearsal focus based on what we learn?" Aemond asked, his voice low.

"Potentially," Otto responded, tapping his fingers on the desk. "But let’s not be hasty. First, observe. See if there’s a particular piece they struggle with or excel in. We’ll adjust our strategy based on solid evidence, not assumptions."

Aemond felt a surge of tactical excitement. "I’ll make sure our section leaders are discreet but observant. We can use this chance to refine our performance to outshine theirs."

"Exactly," Otto agreed, handing Aemond a copy of the schedule. "Use this opportunity wisely. We need every edge we can get against Riverrun. Remember, they are guests in our school, so maintain the highest standards of respect and professionalism at all times."

With a firm nod, Aemond picked up his cello, feeling a renewed sense of purpose. As he left Otto’s office, he knew the next few days could define the outcome of the festival. The challenge was daunting, but Aemond was ready to lead his school not just to compete, but to win.

Aemond was barely through the front door of his apartment before Alys was barraging him with questions. Her fine lips were lacquered with red, fingernails painted a charcoal black as she poured herself a coffee.

“I heard about the competition. Riverrun is notorious. Sure you can handle it?” She smirked behind the rim of her cup.

He sighed, setting down his cello, “yes, I can fucking handle it.” That was his only response before sinking into the sofa, laying his head flat back against the sofa, eyes shut, as if he wanted her to disappear.

He was somewhat ashamed to admit the way he tensed and then relaxed at the way her fingers expertly kneaded his shoulders, massaging the stress from him. But even more so as they trailed down, sharp nails ghosting over his neck had his lips parting and his trousers growing tight.

“Now, now. You know I only want you to do better,” she cooed, “and you will get better, with the right critique.”

He could hear her smile, her tone light and sensual as she trailed off.

Aemond turned his head and looked up at her where she was looming over him, her thumbs still pushing circles on his sore muscles.

“Critique?”

Alys’s lips curved up in a knowing smile, her gaze fixed on him with an intensity that seemed to pierce through his weariness. Her green, emerald like eyes, were like daggers, hooking and reeling him in somewhere dark.

"Of course, critique," she murmured, her voice a melodious blend of challenge and tease. "Every artist needs it, even the great Aemond Targaryen. Especially with Riverrun breathing down our necks."

She moved around the sofa with the grace of a cat, setting her coffee down on the table before moving her legs either side of him, brushing her clothed core beneath her skirt against his growing hardness. "I watch, I listen, and I provide feedback that no one else dares to give you."

Aemond sighed, shifting to look at her more directly. The red of her lips was stark against the softer hue of her face, a deliberate pop of colour that matched the sharpness in her words. "And how exactly does your 'feedback' help me tonight?" he asked, his tone a mix of scepticism and intrigue.

"It helps because it makes you think. It makes you feel. Isn't that what music is about?" Alys replied, her hands now moving down from his shoulders, her fingers tracing lines across his chest through his shirt. "Besides, seeing you tense up like that, only to melt under my touch—it tells me where you're holding back. Not just here," she said, pressing briefly into a particularly tight spot. Then, her touch sank to his belt, then drifting lower and stroking his growing erection, teasing his length slowly.

"But here too."

Her approach was intoxicating, a dangerous mix of personal care and professional critique. "You're brilliant, Aemond, but even brilliance can be polished," she continued, leaning in to whisper against his ear. "Let me polish you, make you shine brighter. Let me push you to be the best, and then push a little harder."

Aemond felt the dual edges of her influence—the softness of her caress, the hard truth in her critique. It was a manipulation he allowed, perhaps even welcomed. Her presence was woven into his life, a thread that was both comforting and controlling. Sometimes too tight.

With two needy hands on her buttocks, he rolled up her skirt around her hips, dipping between her welcoming thighs, his ego somewhat inflated to find she was wet already. Alys did little else in reaction than assisting to undo his belt, taking his hard length in her hand and seductively massaging from base to tip.

He pulled her forcefully against him, fingers dug into her pale skin as she hovered over him and sank slowly, splitting herself open on his cock with a practised moan. Her hips moved instinctually, stretching to accommodate his thickness over and over.

Between grunts and curses, Aemond was rarely vocal. Sex was a way to dispel frustration and invite inspiration in his clear head afterwards. Alys could be anyone. But he had to admit, he found her interesting, if not for her advice.

Her manicured and rounded nails dug into his neck as Alys moved on him with vigour, one hand stealing between them to circle her bud to try and hurtle herself towards completion.

It had occurred to Aemond that she was similarly using him in the same way.

With a bruising grip around her waist, Aemond jutted up into her shakily, coming hard within Alys’ quivering walls in the aftermath of her orgasm. And once she gained her breath, she peeled his hands off her as if he were suffocating. His member slid out of her, softened and slick with her moisture.

Alys straightened, stepping back to observe him, her eyes assessing as she wiggled her skirt back down. "Tomorrow, I'll come to the rehearsal. I want to see how you handle yourself with Riverrun watching. I'll be watching too, taking notes." Her tone was playful yet serious, a reminder of her dual role in his life.

As she retreated to the kitchen, Aemond lay there, a part of him resenting the ease with which she shifted roles from lover to critic, yet another part eager to prove himself worthy of her praise, his heart going fast still in the aftermath of their hastened sex.

He knew that Alys's critiques, though wrapped in seduction, were aimed at forging him into a sharper, more formidable musician. In the complex symphony of their relationship, her motives played out in chords, each note crafted to challenge and change him.

The next day dawned crisp and clear, the early morning sun casting long shadows over the grounds of the music school. The building was abuzz with the nervous energy of anticipation, the air vibrating with the undertones of an impending musical clash.

As he made his way through the corridors to the rehearsal room, he could hear the murmur of voices, the tuning of instruments, and the occasional burst of laughter or a sharp command. Today, the halls of his own school would play host not just to its students but also to their rivals from Riverrun Conservatory.

Aemond entered the rehearsal room to find it already half-filled with his peers, each one keenly aware of the significance of the day. The room was set up with chairs and stands arranged in a precise semi-circle, awaiting the arrival of the Riverrun musicians.

Before long, the members of Riverrun Conservatory began to filter in, their expressions a mix of confident smiles and cautious glances. The room's atmosphere thickened with the tangible sense of competition, each group eyeing the other, assessing and reassessing.

Amid this tense backdrop, Alys slipped into the room, a notepad clutched in her hand and a pen poised for action. Her presence was a sharp reminder to Aemond of the dual aspects of their relationship. She caught his eye and offered a slight nod, an unspoken signal that she was here in her professional capacity.

The rehearsal began with Otto taking the lead, his voice firm as he called for attention. "Let's begin with a warm-up. Remember, while we share our space today, let's show our guests the level of excellence we strive for."

Aemond took his place, settling his cello between his knees. His fingers danced over the strings, tuning with meticulous care, his gaze occasionally drifting to the Riverrun musicians who were setting up nearby. Among them, he noticed a young woman, stood between two other boys who looked over her at one another with smug smiles. They were most certainly either violinists or cellists. But the woman between them, he saw, had such delicate fingers, this had to be the pianist he had heard so much about.

All watched them perform with a sort of challenging, stoic expression, as if judging every movement, every chord and sound made. Every choice scrutinised. In the corner of his eye, between glances at the music, Aemond noticed Alys scribbling down notes.

And when their performance came to an end, Riverrun Conservatory clapped, alongside their conductor, Lyonel Strong. He was burly, red-cheeked, strict but well-meaning, as far as Aemond had heard. But the way he and Otto Hightower looked at one another was akin to some secret rivalry nobody else was privy to.

Alys slid up to Aemond’s side as he began to tidy his instrument away, her presence immediately electric. “See that man?” she whispered, nodding subtly towards Lyonel. “He conducts with his heart on his sleeve, not a metronome like Otto. That’s why they play with such passion. It’s infectious, captivating.”

Aemond nodded, absorbing her analysis. He knew of her critical acumen, but there was a personal edge to her voice now. “You sound almost admiring,” he observed, watching her closely.

Alys’s expression darkened slightly, her emerald eyes flitting back to Lyonel. “I might admire his style, but not the man. Not after everything.” She sighed, a sound more resigned than angry. “He might be the maestro of emotions, Aemond, but off that podium, he’s a different story.”

Aemond did not inquire further. If he was being truthful with himself, he didn't much care for Alys' personal grievances.

“Keep a close eye on their cellist,” Alys warned from the sidelines, watching Riverrun tune and start up their instruments for their own warm up.

As Riverrun began their performance, Aemond’s attention initially settled on the cellist, analysing his fluid technique and the rich emotion flowing from his strings. However, his focus soon drifted to the pianist, who was poised before her instrument like a painter in front of a blank canvas. Her movements were almost ethereal, feather-like, as her fingers danced across the keys, each note floating into the air with a delicate precision that seemed to transcend the mechanics of the piano itself.

The pianist's performance captivated Aemond, her connection with the music evident in the subtle sway of her body and the gentle closing of her eyes as she played. It was more than mere execution, it was an embodiment of the piece, a true manifestation of feeling and artistry.

Alys, standing beside Aemond, watched the pianist with a discerning eye. After a moment, she leaned closer to Aemond and whispered, "See how she plays? It’s like she’s not just striking notes, but weaving a spell. Each touch is thoughtful, precise yet so naturally expressive."

Aemond nodded, fully absorbed in the performance. He could see what Alys meant—the pianist wasn’t just playing, she was performing in a way that made the piano speak directly to the audience. It was an inspiring display of how technique served as the foundation for emotional expression.

"Her approach is impressive," Alys continued, her voice a mix of professional respect and genuine admiration. "That’s what we need to aim for, Aemond. It’s not just about the notes, but how you make them feel alive, how you connect them to the listener’s soul."

Watching the pianist, Aemond felt a surge of inspiration mixed with a competitive drive. He realised that this was the standard he needed to meet and exceed. The way the pianist’s performance resonated in the room, how it seemed to stir the hearts of all who listened, including his own—it set a clear benchmark.

As the piece drew to a close, and the final note lingered in the air, a hushed silence fell over the room before applause erupted. The pianist looked up, her expression serene, almost surprised by the intensity of the audience’s reaction.

Aemond clapped, his applause thoughtful, infused with a newfound respect and a burning motivation. He turned to Alys, a determined look in his eyes. "I see it now," he said. "But she's nothing special. Our pianist is just as good."

“Just as good isn't enough. We have to be better. We need to surpass them—to be so outstanding that Riverrun feels like just a prelude to our performance. They shouldn’t just be impressed by us; they should be overwhelmed."

Aemond’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he processed her words. He watched the pianist from Riverrun mingle with the crowd, her presence still resonating with the lingering notes of her performance.

The shy, timid prodigy. A story written a million times. He felt as if he saw right through her, and no way was that washing with him.

“Meet me in the supply room before lunch,” Alys whispered, turning on her heel before Aemond could reply. The swing of her hips as she moved towards the Riverrun musicians and indication of what she wanted from him. All she ever wanted from him.

Aemond merely watched on from the sidelines, arms crossed. Alys mingled with them all, shaking their hands and wishing them luck in the weeks of practice and competitiveness to come. And when she finally shook the hand of the pianist, his gaze flickered between his lover and the delicate frame of this stranger he had yet to know.

Everything about her was different to Alys. She wore sheer black tights, and sensible shoes. Her skirt was flowy and ended mid tight, covered only at the top by her high-necked top, also black. And it was here he recognised a similarity in her and Aemond's dress sense.

Alys on the other hand exuded sexuality. Tight fitting skirts and dresses, no tights and heels at least four inches high. And while Alys wore a sleek straight style, the pianist was loose and free, if not slightly frizzy.

He watched the two women talking animatedly. Alys no doubt congratulating her on how well she plays.

He'd never been in more need of a cigarette then right at this moment.

“I apologise for him, he’s usually more expressive on stage than off,” Alys joked lightly as they approached, teasing Aemond in her usual manner.

The pianist extended her hand to Aemond with a firm, confident grip that surprised him. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve seen your performances online,” she stated, her tone straightforward, skipping the usual pleasantries. Her directness was refreshing yet unexpected.

Aemond took her hand, a bit taken aback by her assertiveness. “Thank you,” he responded, realising only after the words left his mouth that she hadn’t actually complimented his work, just acknowledged it. “Your performance today was quite remarkable.”

“Thank you,” she replied, nodding politely, her smile brief. There was no reciprocal flattery, no effusive praise—just a clear, concise acknowledgment.

Her straightforwardness intrigued Aemond. It was rare for him to encounter someone who didn’t engage in the typical exchange of mutual admiration among peers, especially when one had just praised the other. Her confidence and lack of concern for social niceties made him rethink the usual dance of compliments that often felt more obligatory than genuine.

Their exchange maintained a professional veneer, but Aemond felt a distinct chill in the air as the pianist held his gaze with an unyielding intensity.

“I'm interested. How do you prepare for a performance of this calibre?” She asked in a probing manner, clasping her hands behind her back. And when she swept her hair out her face, a dash of her perfume hit him, light and floral, he noted.

“I focus deeply on the composition's technical demands," he responded crisply, his voice carrying a cool, almost detached quality. "Emotional expression is secondary to flawless execution.”

She bit back a smile he noticed before she could hide it, “that is quite a disciplined approach.”

"It’s the only way to ensure a performance is beyond reproach," he stated flatly, eyes scanning the room. "Judges appreciate perfection.”

“And the audience?”

He shrugged, “whether they do or not, it doesn't change my approach.”

She nodded, leaving a long pause, as if laying a trap, “interesting,” she mused, "I always believed that connecting with the audience was the true measure of a performance’s success."

“Emotions are too subjective.”

Alys, sensing the growing tension, interjected with a light laugh. "Aemond here is all about the technicalities when it comes to music. He believes in precision over passion."

The pianist tilted her head slightly, considering his response with an analytical gaze before a playful glimmer appeared in her eyes. “Are all aspects of your life subject to such rules?” her tone light, but probing. “Musicians are usually branded as romantics, after all.”

Aemond's brow twitched, a subtle annoyance. “There is a time and a place. In a competition, it's about control. Discipline.”

She hummed, slightly amused, “how practical. Does it not get lonely, striving so often for perfection?”

He shrugs, “it doesn't matter. Wins are measurable, feelings not so.”

“Musicians are not remembered for their wins. They're remembered for the feelings they tease out of people.”

Aemond’s gaze held steady, impressed by her ability to intertwine light-hearted banter with serious debate. “Maybe so, but I’d rather be remembered for setting records than stirring hearts.”

There was a long pause, her eyes never leaving him as if trying to piece together a delicate and intricate puzzle. And she had to bite her lip to contain her smile, simmering frustration in his chest.

“Interesting,” she mused, releasing her lip from between her teeth.

She finally broke their intense gaze, stepping back slightly as she prepared to leave. "Thank you for the conversation, Aemond. It was... enlightening," she said, her tone serious and reflective. "I'll be interested to see how your focus on the technicalities plays out in the competition. Good luck."

With a formal nod, she turned and walked away, her demeanour composed and professional. Aemond watched her rejoin her group, the interaction leaving him with a lingering sense of disquiet. Her straightforward, no-nonsense approach had challenged his views subtly yet profoundly, pushing him to reconsider the balance between technique and emotion in his performances.

Something he'd considered very little.

And as he fucked out his frustrations with Alys in the supply room, pushing her front against the wall and plunging into the tight warmth and solitude she offered, the encounter had ignited a new sense of challenge within him, or perhaps it was a hint of doubt, unsettling the confidence he had always felt in his methodical approach to music.

The usual clarity with which he viewed his musical career was now clouded with questions, thanks to a simple yet impactful exchange. It was a confrontation of ideals that made him both wary and intrigued.

It was clear now that the competition had escalated to more than just notes and rhythms—it was a clash of philosophies, a duel of passion in dual meaning.

And he was prepared to meet it head on.

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