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strangethlngs · 2 months

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── ❀⋆.ೃ࿔ somebody told me | steve harrington x fem!reader

✧ summary: [based on the song somebody told me by the killers] after breaking up with steve because of impending freshman year of college, both you and steve are haunted by what could have been. in an attempt to cope with the swirling emotions, you pursue a sexual relationship with eddie munson. halloween rolls around, and eddie invites you to a party. your blood runs cold in the midst of sweaty bodies when none other than steve harrington finds you in the crowd.

pre & post s3 steve harrington x fem!reader x slight fwb!eddie munson | angst, very slight smut vibes if you squint | no use of y/n

✧ word count: 4.8k

✧ warnings: MDNI! no full smut but talks of sex and sexual touching/dancing, use of marijuana, cigarettes, and alcohol, steve is an asshole, college struggles | if there is anything that i missed that should be listed, please let me know

✧ a note from s: hi everyone !! i listened to this song for the first time in a while the other day and immediately pictured this storyline and had to write it. this is my first ever fic on this account / first time writing for steve so please be gentle. i also want to put a disclaimer out there that don't write for eddie normally, but i did enjoy writing him in this fic so if everyone enjoys my eddie writing too i might add him to my list of those i write for. sidenote: as i was writing the party scene i couldn't get the image of steve harrington as jacob elordi in the club scene of saltburn out of my brain so enjoy that mental image xoxoxoxox

i'm so nervous to post this so plz lmk your thoughts & plz reblog/like/share to support my writing! enjoy <3

You gently pick at a loose thread on the quilt draped over Steve’s bed. You feel his eyes boring into your head, but you can’t bring yourself to look up at him and meet his eyes. You know they’re sad. Pleading. You can’t bring yourself to face it.

“I’m sorry, Steve. I really am… I just-“ you don’t know how to finish the sentence. You just what? You want to go into college single, why was that so hard to get out? It’s not like you and Steve had dated for years. You’d been casually together, only sporting the girlfriend label for the past 4 months. So why was this so hard? Had you known Steve wasn’t going to be able to get into the college you were going to, or most colleges for that matter, you wouldn’t have gotten as involved with him as you did. You never wanted to hurt him.

“You just what?” Steve prodded, not moving from where he sat, across from you on his bed.

“I don’t know Steve,” you struggle to get out, words failing you severely.

“I think you do. Just say it. At least give me the decency of a reason why you’re… dumping me.”

“I just think… when I leave in the fall,” you swallow, your voice pathetically getting smaller. “I should be single.”

He is silent for a moment.

“If this is a distance thing, we can just do long distance. We can make it work. I know plenty of people who were able to do that. I’m sure my manager at Scoops and I can work out a work schedule that leaves my weekends open. And we can alternate weekends to visit, or… or something,” he rambles on, shaking his head as if the idea of breaking up was not acceptable in his mind.

Maybe because, to him, it wasn’t acceptable. You were his dream girl. Even after a few months, you had him wrapped around your finger. He would walk through a wall of fire if you were on the other side. He hadn’t felt anything close to this since Nancy Wheeler. And you were nothing like Nancy Wheeler. And that’s one of his favorite things about you. But you hadn’t realized how deep his feelings for you ran, and you didn’t realize how deep leaving him would cut. It wasn’t easy for you either, sure, but at least you had a freshman year to look forward too. What did Steve have? Slinging ice cream? That insecurity of not being able to experience college at all was gnawing at him more than he’d let on to you.

“I just think this will be easiest for both of us in the long run… and who knows, maybe I’ll end up back in Hawkins after I graduate, or maybe in a few years you’ll be able to make it to college,” You offer, trying to be as gentle as possible. You stand up, walking to his desk to pick up your backpack.

Once you slip it on, you turn and finally make eye contact for just a moment, before he makes a noise between a scoff and a sniffle and breaks the eye contact, looking out his window. The vein in his neck twitches. You can tell something you said just set him off.

“You mean it will be easier for you.”

You furrow your brow. “What?”

He shakes his head and lets out a sigh, exasperated. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and slaps his palms on his knees.

“You know what… go and have fun at college. Go have fun and be single, while I stay here and make ice cream sundaes. That’s all I’m good for, right?” he sneers bitterly, his tone shifting from the soft pleading he just tried to offer moments ago.

You’re stunned and frozen to your spot next to his desk, hands gripping the straps of your backpack. “Excuse me?”

“I just don’t understand how you don’t want to even try to make this work. And I can only think of one reason you are refusing to try.”

You ignore the last bit, not even wanting to go there. “Steve, I just don’t think I have the mental capacity to maintain something between us. I worry I’d end up neglecting this relationship,” You really are trying to be a peacemaker here, but you feel Steve heating up, frustrated that his attempts to rectify this relationship were futile. Truth is, you don’t want to be single to date around. College was daunting as it is, and you wanted your time to be free to dive into your studies and figure out your place in this world. That, along with keeping up somewhat of a social life in a new big city far from the one boy you’ve ever actually liked would be hard enough.

“No,” He starts, shaking his head. “I think you want to be able to go out to parties and bars and flirt with and date whomever you’d like, right?” He spits, standing from his bed and folding his arms across his chest.

“Wow…” you slowly nod. You know he’s projecting, but damn if it didn’t hurt to hear your boyfriend you’d really started to fall in love with say. “If… if that’s what you think of me, I’m just glad I did this now.” You turn to leave before either of you say things you don’t mean, but Steve beats you to the punch.

“If that’s not the truth, why wouldn’t you at least give it a chance? You’re leaving me no choice but to believe that it’s the truth,” He saunters close to you. Angry Steve is not someone you are fond of. Sure, you had a huge crush on Steve junior year when he donned his iconic, yet asshole-ish King Steve persona. But you hated being in King Steve’s line of fire, just like you were right now. He’d grown and changed from those days, but if you got him upset enough, he would rear his ugly head. He stopped right in front of you, reaching around you to the door to exit his room. He gave you a look up and down you can only describe as pure disgust and muttered close to your face, “have fun with those college boys.”

You let out an airy laugh, his condescending words and tone sending you over the edge. You turn and fiercely walk to the staircase and stop at the edge. You know it’s a low blow. You know it’s hitting him where it hurts. But you’re so mad, you don’t recognize the man you’d gotten to know for the past few months. You spit out the sentence without thinking twice.

“I know you couldn’t possibly understand what I’m feeling because you couldn’t get into any colleges, but it’s not my fault you slacked off and didn’t get the grades. Don’t be bitter at me because I’m leaving in the fall and you’re not.”

You don’t have time to see his hurt reaction before you turn on your heel and race down the stairs and out the front door. As soon as the words left your lips you felt guilty. He’d been so insecure with his college application troubles and you used it against him. But it was over. You slide into your car and quickly speed down the road. You take a shaky breath in and out as you drive, trying to put Steve in the back of your mind and bring college preparation thoughts to the forefront of your focus.

✧

You push through the front door of your dorm building, heaving your heavy backpack through the long hall. Your eyes ached from reading your textbook for hours to cram in a last-minute study session for your exam tomorrow. You were teetering on a failing grade; you just knew it. This class in particular, but all your classes your first semester, were kicking your ass. You couldn’t afford to pay to retake classes. The stress of juggling all these hard classes was bogging you down, and you still didn’t know what you even wanted to major in. It’s not an exaggeration for you to say college was definitely not the exciting, thrilling fun you thought it would be.

When you push your room door open, you’re greeted with the smell of liquor and cheap cigarettes. Neither of these things you were above, by any means, but not on a Tuesday night when you have an exam in the morning. On top of your grades being atrocious, your roommate was downright terrible. Throwing dorm room parties constantly, always up at the worst hours, and messy. So incredibly messy. And the worst part is, she doesn’t even like you. She acted as if you were the one intruding on her.

You push through the group of girls in your way, ignoring the snide remarks, throwing your backpack onto your bed, fishing out your wallet, and immediately removing yourself from the room. You trudge over to the vending machine, hoping for some kind of food before you force yourself to sleep through the inevitably restless night. You grab some candy and turn, nearly bumping into another person. You mutter an apology and step to the side, engrossed in opening the packet of M&M’s.

“Hey you’re one of the girls in room 13 right?” The voice from behind you asks. You turn and see a vaguely familiar girl.

“Yeah,” you respond.

“You got a call at the payphone earlier,” she steps up to the vending machine. “Some guy named Eddie.”

Eddie.

Throughout the awful college experience you’d been enduring, your one saving grace had been Eddie Munson. You thank the girl and nearly race up to the one of the phones down the hall. You shove in some quarters quickly and punch in the all-too-familiar number. He picks up on the second ring.

“Hello?” you hear his voice answer, and heat flushes over you. But not the giddy, lovey-dovey heat you’d had when you and Steve would have your routine nightly chats, back when you were still with him. This was a different heat. Darker, more lustful.

The summer after you’d broken things off with Steve, you found yourself having a harder time moving on than you thought you would. The things you’d said to Steve you knew you didn’t mean. His hurt face swam into view every time you thought about it. It was haunting you, and you’d do anything to forget about it. One of your friends had suggested Eddie, being a drug dealer and all. You couldn’t recall who Eddie was exactly, but you knew he sold things that could take your mind off real life, so you were set. Soon, you found yourself not just picking up weed from him. It became smoking with each other and ordering a pizza, getting to know each other at a surface level, watching stupid movies and laughing at stupid things. You didn’t like him, definitely not in the way you liked Steve. However, you were very attracted to him. So, when he made advances one night you two smoked in his van out at Lover’s Lake, you most definitely weren’t going to stop him. It was just a one-time thing, you’d both agreed. Until he called you a week later. Then it started to happen more often. When you left for college, you both expected things would fizzle out. Oh well, you’d had your fun rebound.

Though, on a particular Friday you were getting weighed down by the toll college was taking on you, you found yourself calling him from your dorm, asking if he was free that night. Phone calls between you and Eddie started to become more frequent. Usually it was, “what are you up to this weekend?”, followed by him saying something along the lines of, “you should come visit. I got a new batch from Rick, and we should smoke it and see how long we can go without touching each other”. Because of this, you started to make occasional trips to Hawkins to smoke weed and hook up to cope and escape your personal hell that was freshman year.

“Hey, you” You smiled into the phone.

“I was starting to wonder if you were ever gonna call me back,” you could hear him smiling on the other end of the phone too, a lusty drawl to his voice you detected immediately. “You weren’t cheating on me by being smoked out by some other college stoner, right?” he teased. The thing you liked the most about you and Eddie’s agreement was that you both knew where you stood. There were no complicated feelings involved.

“You know I would never,” you fake-gasp.

“So, listen,” you hear him shift on the other side of the phone. “There’s this huge Halloween costume party this weekend here in Hawkins. I’m not one for Hawkins parties… but this one actually sounds like it might be fun. Wanna come?”

“Most definitely,” you nod. “Are we coordinating costumes?” you tease, fiddling with the phone cord.

“Well, I actually have an idea, but it’s kind of...”

“I expect nothing less from you,” you cut him off. He begins to ramble about some Motley Crüe music video that he loves and how you could dress as one of the ‘hot chicks’ and he could dress as one of the band members and it would be ‘totally awesome’. He explains the costume details to you in the best way a male brain can, and you make a mental note to stop by a video rental store tomorrow to rent the music video and see what you’re working with here.

“I’ll be there Friday night, costumed up.”

“Oh, I do like the sound of that,” he breathed out. “I’ll be looking forward to it.”

✧

As you pull up to the party, Eddie makes a point to trot over to your van door and pull it open for you. Ever the gentleman, dressed head to toe in an undeniably incredible Tommy Lee costume.

“Why thank you,” you smile, taking his hand as you step out of the van. You could hear the bumping bass from the party all the way from where Eddie parked down the street.

“I meant what I said earlier,” Eddie started, giddily walking, already producing a joint and sparking up. “Your costume looks insane. I don’t know how you managed to do that within a few days,” he lets out a puff of smoke and hands you the joint.

You give a twirl and slip the joint past your lips. “It’s pretty easy to be out shopping for things when you wanna spend as least time in your dorm room as possible.” It was true. After your big exam, the rest of the week had gone by smoothly with you busying yourself by either being at the library or out shopping and crafting your costume.

You both pass the joint to each other a few times and before you know it, you’re both making your way through the people crowding the lawn. Just before you make your way into the house, Eddie stops to chat with some of his D&D buddies. You decide to leave him to his friends, it’s not like he’s your boyfriend or anything.

You already feel a bit tipsy, mentally thanking Eddie for roping you into taking a few tequila shots before leaving for the party. The inside of the house is dark and smoky, save for some flashing colorful lights illuminating the crowd of closely knit dancing bodies. You spot an opened, nearly full bottle of… Merlot? Was it merlot? You soon realized you didn’t care. Your fingers tighten around the sticky bottle, and you heartily swig it, the liquid grossly warm. Your feet take you to the edge of the crowd, immediately getting engulfed in the group of people, dancing to the music, happy and carefree to be anywhere but your dorm room.

You lose track of time. After a while of dancing on your own and progressively letting the wine, tequila, and weed all take their effect, in the haze of the dark, smoky crowd, you hear a wolf whistle over the music in your direction. You took a spin, expecting to meet eyes with Eddie.

Your blood ran cold, and you choked the swig of wine you’d just taken. Steve’s beautiful face was illuminated by only the occasional flashes of light in the large room, a lopsided, drunk smile on his face. He stood closely in front of you, slightly swaying to the music. You quickly take in his Scarface costume, a small voice in the back of your mind immediately assuming that a beautiful, blonde Elvira is close by.

You both stare at each other for a minute, you stand still amid drunk dancing teens. You quickly realize you are obscured from wherever Eddie’s view happened to be by the large crowd around you, but why was that your first thought? You try to glance around to see if Eddie had decided to come inside, or if he was anywhere in eyeshot so he could rescue you. But you’re feeling Steve’s eyes raking over your body. Heat flushes over you, and you clamp your thighs together, stifling the thoughts and feelings washing over you prompted by his seductive gaze.

“What do you want”, you ask, it coming out snarkier than you’d meant for it to. You’re just… uncomfortable under his heavy gaze. But not uncomfortable, like you didn’t want him near you. No, no. Moreso… uncomfortable because when you saw him looking at you the way he did, a heat ignited somewhere in you. It had been so long since you’d seen his face, nevertheless seen him look at you with such… lust? Could you even call it that?

“I’d been trying to get over to you for the past 17 songs,” he retorted over the music, just loud enough for you to hear. “You are hard to track down, you know that?” More teens were dancing into you, of course pushing you and Steve closer. Too close. So close that you could smell that he had been drinking whiskey and smoking cigarettes. And his cologne. The cologne you’d complimented one of the first times you’d hung out. The cologne that reminded you of being close to him. Smelling it on his neck when you had been kissing his collarbone…. Heat flushed over your cheeks, and you’d hope he didn’t see it in the rhythmic flashing of lights. A particularly hard jab from a girl dressed as Madonna hit your arm, causing your bra strap to fall to your arm.

“I didn’t know you’d be here,” you choked out, frantically adjusting the strap of your top back to your shoulder, finally finding your voice again. You were suddenly feeling very self-conscious. Your hands grow sweaty as the wine bottle slips through your fingers. You take a swig, desperate to break the charged eye contact he was making with you.

“Did you happen to forget I still live here?” He snarked back, a goofy Steve Harrington smile on his lips.

“And so what if I did?” You respond, looking to try and brush past him. You need to find Eddie. He’s your crutch here. You need to remove yourself from the situation, because you know you’ll get in far too deep if he keeps looking at you this way. But his large frame steps in front of you, blocking you in between him and the group of girls behind you.

“You leave town onto bigger and better things and end up rightback next to me, huh?” He gives a cocky smirk and takes a sip from his cup, not breaking eye contact. “Funny how that works.”

“I’m just here visiting a friend,” You retort.

“Yeah, you know, I did hear about that…” He started, a hint of a scoff bubbling out through his lips. He leans close to your ear, one hand grazing the fabric on your forearm, dangerously close to the swell of your hip, the other hand clutched around his red solo cup. Beads of sweat form on your forehead, but not from the heat.

“Somebody told me you’re actually here with Eddie Munson,” he chuckled a bit, as if it was unbelievable. You pulled away and scanned his darkened and unreadable eyes, trying to get what he’s playing at. You notice the King Steve persona again, like you did the day you dumped him. You don’t know it, but something inside him flipped when he saw you dancing on the dancefloor, skirt riding up your thigh, bra strap slipping down your arm.

“Why do you care? I’m sure there’s some girl around here you brought,” you play it off like it doesn’t sting your tongue to say. You wanted to know so badly why he was asking. Did he care? Was he going to make fun of you? Was he hurt? Jealous?

“I just didn’t think he was your type, you know…” He persisted, raising his cup to his face, a dark smile starting to form as he speaks. “I mean… now that I think about it, something about him reminds me of Nancy. I think it’s the curly hair…” He said with a wink and a swig of his drink. You roll your eyes and cross your arms over your chest. You immediately knew what he was getting at. You’d been so insecure in your entire relationship with him that you were just his Nancy rebound. Idiotic Tommy and Carol would never let you hear the end of it with how different you were from Nancy, and it ate away at you and made you so insecure. Because you weren’t like Nancy Wheeler, like, at all. And with this comment he was not only insulting you, but your choice in having Eddie Munson as your date to this party. This was his response to the low blow you had made before leaving his house the day you broke up with him. You take a deep breath in, releasing your arms and shoving his chest with the top of the wine bottle.

“Was that the best insult you could come up with, Stevie? Is Eddie Munson making King Steve that insecure?” you mock him, the alcohol finally giving you your fiery attitude. “You know what, he may not be as manly as you think you are but trust me…” you drunkenly grab a fistful of his shirt and bring him close to lean towards his ear, “he’s more of a man than you ever were. Especially in bed,” you purr. You release his shirt and shove him away.

You’re expecting him to be stunned, to be speechless. King Steve, dethroned. But to your horror, he gives a dark, dry laugh.

The opening riff to a new song starts playing, and the crowd cheers, causing Madonna to bump into you so harshly that you’re thrown into a compromising position. Steve places his hands on your arms, steadying the both of you, so your back close to him, and he starts moving with the music.

“Oh, I’m not worried about him competing with the way I made you feel,” he leans in, millimeters away from your ear, hands sliding dangerously close to your hips. “I’m sure Eddie Munson doesn’t know you well enough to know the right ways to pleasure you like I did. Tell me,” he breathes, hot and close to your ear. Shivers run down your arms. “Do you let him use those pink handcuffs on you? You know… the ones I bought for you?”

Your mouth goes dry, numbly moving as his hands guide your body to the music with his. A gasp hitches in your throat as you feel him closer behind you.

“Just give me tonight… for old time’s sake. I think I need to remind you just how good I made you feel.” A shiver runs up your arm as his hand runs down your arm, gripping the wine bottle with his hand over the top of yours. He brings it up to his lips, your hand trapped under his. Once he swigs a few gulps, he slides the bottle down the front of your body, letting go of the bottle, but his touch lingering on your collarbone.

Maybe it’s the weed, maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the fact that the song that just started playing is one of your favorites and Steve knows it. But something in you chases the high that his touch is giving you. So, what the hell. You give in. You know it’s what you want, deep down, even if you were stone cold sober. You couldn’t deny that nights spent at Eddie’s trailer, long after Eddie had fallen asleep, memories of Steve haunted your memories. You couldn’t deny it, even though you wanted to pretend it didn’t keep you up some nights.

You begin to sway to the music, Steve’s strong body behind you guiding you to the rhythm. His touch never leaving you. It felt so right, like returning to a proper stasis after chaos for so long. It felt right and comfortable and normal. His hands wander your curves, and you throw your head back. Steve knew your body in a way Eddie never had. Intimacy with Steve wasn’t just about immediate sexual satisfaction. It was about intimacy. Steve had cared about you, actually cared. He wanted to make you feel good. You knew the persona he was playing up tonight was a front to hide how he really felt. He yearned for you, especially yearned to make you feel good. You’d refused to admit it since you started hooking up with Eddie, but Steve had made you feel good in a far different way. And the fact that he knew it simultaneously pissed you off and turned you on.

You feel Steve’s hand ghost up your arm and to your shoulder, and almost instinctively, as if you were back to your old ways, you let your head lull to the side. Steve’s lips immediately attach to the spot on your neck that he knows you love. You let out a moan, inaudible under the music. Your fingers tangle into his thick hair, willing him to keep going. His hands lightly trail up the front of your thin shirt, and you can feel his fingers brush against your nipple. And suddenly, he detaches his lips from you, much to your dismay.

You turn your head, sighing in protest, and turn to him, inches away from your face. His drunken breath fans across your face, intoxicating you more than any weed you smoked or wine you swigged tonight. The lights flash from behind his head, lighting up his beautiful features. His eyes fall to your lips, and his large hand moves from your chest to cup your cheek, and he pulls your face forcefully to meet your lips to his. He wastes no time making the kiss as sloppy as the environment you’re in calls for, his hands running wild. To your surprise, you feel your hand gripping his shirt, your body aching to get him even closer. You give into the sensation and let your hands tentatively rake down the front of his shirt. You waste no time slipping under his shirt, hands dancing up his torso, Eddie a long, distant memory. But your lips grow cold as he pulls away. He sloppily smirks at you, knowing he has you in the palm of his hand. You hate him for it.

“Ditch Munson and come home with me,” he says, still close to you. Under the smug façade he puts on, you can see that his eyes are almost desperate. Your brain tries to formulate a sentence to decline, but you look at his face and see Steve’s real self through the mask. Not King Steve, but the real, genuine Steve. The one you love. Lips puffy from crashing into yours, cheeks flushed, hair tussled from where your fingers had raked through it. The smell on his breath intoxicates you. He feels safe. Familiar. Something about him you can’t resist. You never could resist.

“Steve, I don’t want to get you tangled up in something complicated,” you find the words tumbling out of your mouth, suddenly feeling guilty for dumping him only to end up getting involved with another Hawkins boy. What a slap in the face that must have been. But he leans in and kisses you deeply, stopping your train of thought. When he pulls away, he keeps his face close to yours.

“Let’s worry about this in the morning, yeah?” He nods, encouraging you. You know you want to too; you just worry you’re going to hurt him in the process. His hand finds its way to your cheek again, his thumb brushing against your chin. “Let tonight just be… tonight, okay?”

You gaze up at him, brain racing through a million answers to give him in the span of a millisecond. But you respond with the answer you know deep down that you really want to say.

“Let’s get out of here,” You slide your arm around his and start to push through the crowd.

please do not repost anywhere. please do not plagiarize my work as your own. please do not use my writing for any AI purposes.

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lauraneedstochill · 2 years

Text

Make a move

summary: you think Aemond is too arrogant to woo you, but he’s got some tricks up his sleeve. pairing: Aemond Targaryen x F!Reader words: ~ 6000 warnings: a bit of bickering and teasing, it gets slightly heated (Aemond has a praise kink, but I doubt anyone is surprised), mostly it’s just silly fluff author’s note: this was inspired by “Crazy, stupid, love”, particularly the scene where Emma kisses Ryan (one of my favorite on-screen kisses!) and everything that follows. I recently rewatched the movie and had an idea for this story (also, I may or may not have a thing for men’s hands... you’ve been warned)

You keep mindlessly tapping your fingers on the wooden table, your cup of wine untouched. You don’t really notice the movement, too wrapped up in your thoughts, until your friend Margaret sneers.

“If you don’t stop, I might bite your hand off,” she says, sitting across the table.

“Then I’ll use the other one,” you huff but pause your fidgeting. “Better bite my head off, it will do us both more good.”

“But I like your head very much,” she pouts. “Is this about Thomas again?”

You groan, hiding your face in your hands and thinking back to the conversation you had earlier today with said man. Your emotions are a mix of annoyance and embarrassment as you can’t stop thinking about his words.

“He said the meeting will be of great importance. What if he...? You know,” you mutter, and Margaret huffs.

“I hope he won’t.”

“Hey, you are supposed to be my friend!” you playfully pinch her hand, and she fakes a gasp.

“I am your friend. And as your friend, I think you deserve way more than that sad excuse of a man,” her face gets serious for a second, and you feel your smile waver.

“Mar, you know I don’t have much of a choice,” you breathe out, and your heart sinks at the thought. “He isn’t that bad, really. He’s always been kind to me.”

“Sounds like every girl's dream,” she rolls her eyes. “And you want to settle down for a kind man? Nothing else?”

“What do you think my options are? Please, enlighten me since I’m clearly missing something,” you cross arms on your chest. You know she’s right and she means good, but your frustration gets the best of you.

Luckily, Margaret catches it and gives you a sympathetic smile.

“All I’m saying is that for as long as I can remember you’ve always dreamt of something more,” she extends her hand across the table and lightly squeezes yours. “We’ve been friends since we were little kids, and you are the most loving person out of everyone I know. Should I remind you who taught me how to dance? Protected me against my idiot brothers?” you giggle at the memory. “You’ve got an adventurous spirit and a heart of gold. You deserve an epic love story,” there’s a hint of sadness in her voice.

For a minute you sink into your thoughts again.

“And you think Thomas is not the one?” you sigh.

“He’s epically boring at best,” Margaret takes a sip out of her cup. “I know he’s not the one — and you do, too.”

“My parents approve of him,” you try to argue, but she’s quick to object.

“They only care about your approval. And they mistakenly took your lack of protest for it,” Margaret gives you a gloomy look.

“You are aware that I can’t wait forever, right? I’m not getting any younger.”

“Nor smarter,” she snickers.

“Not everyone is lucky to meet the love of their life at the age of ten-and-two,” you frown. Margaret and Jamie got married three years ago, but they have been betrothed for seven prior to that.

“Fair,” she beams, and you can’t stay irritated for long. They are still ridiculously in love with each other, and you are really happy for her. You just wish to feel that, too. You crave that indescribable feeling of longing and wanting and caring for someone else — and being loved just as much in return.

“Maybe the concept of love is overrated,” you ramble. “It was easy to believe in when I was a kid but... As I am growing older, it’s getting harder to cling to hope, I guess. And I’m trying to make an effort and meet new people and... to show just enough character to not scare them away,” you quote your mother. “Yet all of them just make me feel nothing. At all. And I—” you realize that Margaret isn’t listening, her gaze is on something else behind your back. “Hey, I’m pouring out my heart of gold,” you hiss, and her sight shifts to you.

Before you can question her behavior, she informs. “Someone’s been keeping an eye on you.”

“Margaret, I’m trying to have a serious conversation about my future,” you fight the urge to turn around.

“Maybe this is your future!” she winks, and you grunt at her silliness.

“We are in a tavern out of all places! I’d rather take a kind man as my betrothed than a drunk one,” you’re about to scold her, but your friend’s eyes go wide.

“His hair,” her voice is barely above the whisper. “I can make out the strands of silver,” Margaret slightly leans towards you. “You know what that means?”

“That you had too much wine? Mayhaps we should head home,” you suggest, but your friend protests.

“Sit down!” she shushes. “He is coming over here,” Margaret puts on a smile that looks painfully forged. The never-ending chattering of people around you makes your head hurt, and you’re too tired to play along.

“Mar, it’s been a long day, and the last thing I want is to waste my time entertaining some man’s arrogance and...,” you don’t get to finish because he interrupts your train of thought.

“What if a man entertains you?” his voice is low and cocky. You close your eyes for a second, taking a deep breath. You don’t want to make a scene in a public place so you pull yourself together, thinking that you can talk your way out of this ridiculous situation.

But when you turn to him, your eyes meeting his, your plan is suddenly forgotten.

He is taller than you, a black cloak covering most of his body and his head, so your attention is naturally drawn to his face. He wears an eyepatch, and you look over his sharp features — his prominent nose, high cheekbones that flow down to the curved contour of lips, plump and alluring. Margaret was right about the hair, but she failed to mention the color of his eye. Taking that into account, it’s not hard to guess that he’s a Targaryen. Which means that he definitely is arrogant.

Well, two can play that game.

You ignore his question and pointedly don’t stand up in his presence.

“To what do we owe the pleasure of your company?”

“I believe the pleasure is all mine,” he is only looking at you.

“We just met, you should not jump to conclusions,” you feel Margaret kicking your leg under the table but dismiss her warning.

“Sharp tongue,” he notes.

“Will this be a problem?” you challenge him.

“On the contrary,” it sounds like he’s actually enjoying it.

It is tricky to read his intentions. But when his gaze is concentrated on you, it makes you feel like there’s no one else in the room, and that sensation is thrilling.

“What brings you here, if I may ask?” you press, trying to ignore the unknown feeling creeping up on you.

“It is a nice tavern, wouldn’t you say so? Since you are here, too.”

“No, I mean what brings you to our table. There are plenty of others you could’ve graced with your presence.”

“Something must’ve caught my eye,” he says, and you see a hint of a smile on his lips.

“Some thing? Well, the interior isn’t very eye-catching if you ask me. But we might have to disagree on that.”

“You aren’t being very agreeable, it seems.”

“That’s what servants are for, and I’m not one,” you’re being defiant yet it doesn’t bother him.

“Please, do tell me more about yourself,” he swiftly pulls up a nearby chair and sits right next to you, his eye never leaving your face.

“Should you pull another one? For your ego, since it takes quite a lot of space.”

He squints at your words, and the corners of his mouth turn into a grin.

“I think we have that in common,” he bites back, but there’s no anger in his voice. If anything, the man looks curious, and you have to admit that you don’t take offense at his wit.

“Are there any other far-reaching conclusions that you managed to come up to?” you turn your body to him, so now you two are opposite each other.

“I only got here a few minutes ago. But I am a great observer should you give me a little more time.”

“Am I supposed to take your word for it? You are not as convincing as you think,” you impugn, so he pauses briefly.

“You don’t trust people easily, do you? How’s that for an observation,” his voice gets quiet, but his gaze is piercing.

“Men,” you correct him. “I don’t trust men.”

“Any of them dared to break your trust?” he gets a little closer, and you instinctively gravitate toward him.

“That would’ve required them to gain my trust first,” you retort.

“And what would it take for me to do so?”

“Do you expect me to make it easy? That’s not very observant of you,” your grin matches his own.

“Nothing good comes easy,” he murmurs, and you involuntarily lay your eyes on his lips. “But I expect it to be worth it.”

You feel a pull toward him, something that’s hard to describe but oh so natural to give into. His confidence isn’t intimidating but rather attractive, and you can’t help but notice how his gaze warms up your whole body. He makes you feel wanted without even doing anything.

But then you think of Thomas. Of the upcoming meeting and your future that depends on it. And you know you can’t throw it all away for some silly conversation with a self-confident stranger. No matter how enjoyable it seems to be.

You bite your lip and look away from him.

“That is enough entertainment for today,” you put some distance between you two. When you give him a quick glance, you catch a shadow of disappointment on his face.

“Didn’t take you for a quitter,” the blond comments.

“You should manage your expectations.”

“Maybe I should manage yours,” he has some nerve.

“That would be very time-consuming,” you suddenly realize that he’s sitting in your way, and it looks like he isn’t going to move.

“Are you in a rush?”

“I am” — “She isn’t,” you and Margaret say at the same time. You feel your cheeks heating up as you give her a death stare.

“Has anyone told you that you look charming when you are embarrassed?” he remarks, and you want to wipe the smirk off his face. Preferably with your lips. You mentally scold yourself and push that thought away.

“Does this usually work for you?” you get up, thinking of a way out.

“You tell me,” he leans back on his chair with a shit-eating grin on his face, clearly aware that he's blocking your exit.

“Cornering women in taverns is your way of courting?” you think how to distract him, but nothing springs to mind. “And then what, you just drag them into your man cave?”

“They come voluntarily,” it looks like your words struck a chord, but he keeps up the facade of indifference. “I happen to live nearby,” he notes casually.

“We both know that’s not exactly true,” you scoff with a tilt of your head. You are positive that the walk to the castle will take at least thirty minutes.

“Want to bet?” he sits up straight.

“And what do I get out of this?”

He looks you up and down before answering:

“Me.”

He’s pushing his luck at this point.

You glance around and take note that the tavern is packed with people, and no one is paying attention to you. You also realize that Margaret already sneaked out and is standing at the door. She raises an eyebrow with a silent question, as if asking what are you going to do.

That’s when you decide you can push some boundaries, too.

Your eyes are back on the man in front of you. Without giving it a second thought, you step closer to him.

“Was that supposed to make me weak in the knees?” you whisper, and his face expression melts into an amused one. Seizing the moment, you yank your dress up and throw a leg over him. He immediately looks down at the exposed skin of your thigh, his mouth is slightly agape as he’s now sitting between your legs. You see him tensing up, his fingers clenching into fists as if he’s fighting the urge to put his hands on you. You think that if he does, you are not going anywhere. You wouldn’t want to go anywhere — the realization makes you tremble, and you know that you don’t have much time.

You boldly place your hand on his shoulder, pressing him back onto the chair.

“I hate to break it to you, but you are not that impressive,” you say, throwing your other leg over him and successfully moving away.

When you get to the door, the look on Margaret’s face is priceless. You grab her by the arm and drag her outside in a hurry, merging into the crowd of passers-by.

“I need you to explain what the h—” she starts, but you interrupt her.

“Please, don’t,” you snarl. “Don’t say anything, just give me five minutes.”

You can’t even explain to yourself what happened back there and why you did that. You think of his gaze roaming over your body, the depth of his voice and the curves of his lips. You tell yourself that you need to get him out of your head as soon as possible. You fail miserably.

One week later, you are dining with Thomas at his house, and yet your mind wanders back to the arrogant one-eyed man. Aemond, as you’ve learned — and it wasn’t that you wanted to, but fate had other plans.

And by fate, you mean Margaret.

Once her five minutes were up, she couldn’t stop talking. By the time you came home, you got his whole backstory — the second-born son of the King, has two brothers and two sisters, rides the biggest dragon in the world. Overly confident, stubborn, wears an eyepatch because he doesn’t want to scare the ladies of the court. Usually doesn’t talk much.

Unlike Thomas who gathered his whole family and can’t stop blabbing. You struggle to participate in their conversation, giving polite smiles left and right. You don’t know what to expect of the evening, and it makes you nervous. And not in a good way. All of a sudden the possibility of marrying Thomas doesn’t seem to be the best.

From the corner of your eye, you catch him standing up, clearly readying himself for a speech. He has a manner of pursing his lips every time he’s agitated, and it looks weird. That’s also how it felt when he kissed you, which is probably the reason you haven’t done much kissing after that. You wonder what it’s like to kiss Aemond. Just thinking of it makes your heart rate speed up, and you nervously gulp half a cup of wine.

“I gathered all of you today to make an important announcement,” he starts his pompous monologue, “that may not come as a surprise to some of you.”

You cautiously look at the door.

“But, as of recently, I received inspiration to change the course of my life. And I decided to devote myself to the service of Gods.”

You nearly choke on your drink. In all the years you’ve known Thomas, he’s never been to the Sept once.

“And I wanted to grant you this privilege to be the first ones to know.”

You’ve got to be kidding me. You wait for any other announcements — literally anything else — but Thomas goes back to chattering, also accepting pointless congratulations. It takes you ten painfully long minutes to get a chance to talk to him alone.

“May I have a word?” you inquire, and the two of you move to the far end of the room.

“It is about your speech,” you clarify. “It might sound silly, but I thought that you were planning... Um,” you’re trying to formulate your concerns. “I was wondering, how would you describe our relationship? Or the prospect of it, I should say,” you give him a tight smile.

“Oh,” his face pales slightly.

Your facial expression mirrors his. Oh?

“I am actually glad you asked,” he awkwardly takes your hands in his, and you notice how sweaty his palms are.

“You know, you’ve been a great companion of mine,” his voice is as weak as his smile. “And I am forever grateful for those moments that we shared as they only brought me joy,” his hands feel like jelly, and you don’t want to hold them. Like, ever. “But now that I’m choosing to follow my destiny,” you do your best to suppress a chuckle at his dramatic phrasing. “I decided that... I need some time to figure out how I feel. About us.”

You look at him, dumbfounded, his words sinking in.

“You need... some time?” you drawl, feeling an emotion bubbling up in your chest. You are not sure what it is. “You? Need to think about us?” you repeat, and he nods, his brows furrowed at your reaction.

There is a moment of silence, and then you hear yourself laughing. You can’t control it as you’re overcome with emotion, your laughter only growing stronger, to the point of you tearing up a bit. The emotion is relief. There’s no way you’ll ever marry this man.

“I am the one who should be glad, Thomas,” you shake his hand while he seems wildly perplexed, all of his guests staring at you. “Thank you for your honesty, really. I hope you will be successful in all your endeavors, marriage included.”

He opens his mouth to say something, but you already turned around.

“Where are you going?!”

You stop for a second, your thoughts rushing back to the conversation with Margaret. To that evening in the tavern.

“I have a meeting, it’s of great importance,” you say and quicken your pace. You reach the tavern when it’s already getting dark, the weather is cloudy, and your coat is wet in the light drizzle. You walk in a daze as you’re torn between being excited and anxious. There is a chance that Aemond won’t be there. That he doesn’t remember you. That he’s with someone else. That he had a change of heart. That he...

You spot him almost immediately after you walk in.

Coincidentally or not, he’s sitting at the exact same table you were at the first time you met. You stay still as his eye absentmindedly wanders around the room and then lands on you. Aemond stands up — way too quickly — and you see a well-known grin growing on his face. Your eyes dart to his lips, and the question pops up in your head again.

You feel the pull — and before you can think, your body follows it.

He keeps his gaze on you, his brows rising at the speed of your approach. You cover the distance in a heartbeat, your hands reaching his face, and he slightly flinches, probably because your fingers are cold from being outside. And then you stand on your tiptoes and crash your lips onto his without any hesitation.

He gasps, surprised and frozen for a moment. It takes just a couple of seconds for him to melt into the kiss, and his hands are instantly on your waist, pulling you closer to him. Aemond’s lips are way softer than you anticipated — and it’s the only thing on your mind. His mouth on yours, warm and exploring, the slow pacing of the kiss that leaves you lightheaded and yearning for more.

He presses your body into his, lifting you up with ease, and your feet leave the ground. You tug his hood further down so it covers most of your face, too, and then you slide your thumb up the sharp line of his jaw. His tongue runs over your lower lip, and you feel a wave of heat rising in your stomach.

You pull away before you can take it too far.

“You remember me?” you ask him, panting.

He hums, his eye focused on your lips.

“Still believe that nothing good comes easy?” you mimic his words, but he ignores your jesting.

“Definitely,” Aemond looks you in the eyes, keeping his hands on your waist.

“Is the bet still on?”

“Yes,” the corners of his mouth curl.

“Lead the way, then.” By the time you reach the castle, the rain is pouring in full force, and your clothes are drenched. The two of you rush through the streets, your hands intertwined, and it feels like it only takes about ten minutes before you sneak into his chambers, both out of breath and giggling.

Only when you take a look around the unfamiliar settings, it suddenly dawns on you that you are all alone with a man you barely know, and your bravery starts fading away.

Whether Aemond notices the change in your mood or not, you can’t tell, but he respectfully keeps his distance.

“You need to get out of these,” he points at your coat and dress. “They’re soaking wet.”

“Is this your way of trying to get me naked?” you eye him suspiciously, making Aemond scoff.

“I just don’t want you to catch a cold,” he honestly states. “I’ll fetch you a shirt of mine.” Sensing your doubts, he adds, “Don’t worry, it is long enough.”

He brings you the shirt and politely turns away, going to the other end of the room to light the fireplace. On his way there, he removes the cloak and the jacket, his upper body only covered by the same piece of clothing he gave you. You watch him carefully, noting the movement of his back muscles as he bends down.

The sparkling glow of fire brings you back to reality, and you hastily remove your clothes, leaving the undergarments on, which are luckily dry. You put on his shirt, and it barely reaches your knees, but the material feels nice and comfortable. While Aemond is still busy with the fire, you glance over his room.

It’s spacious and simply furnished, and your attention is drawn to a couple of shelves nearby. You look at the tightly packed rows of books, some of the hardcovers are worn out from old age. You catch the familiar naming and pull one of them out, gently flipping through the pages.

“You take interest in philosophy?” his voice startles you. You missed the moment he came back, and when you take your eyes off the book, you see him leaning on the nearest shelf, looking at you inquisitively.

“I do, indeed,” you confess. “And I read this one so many times, my own copy pretty much fell apart.”

“You can take mine,” Aemond offers.

You notice that despite his cockiness, his presence is actually very calming. Everything is easy with him — striking up conversations, making jokes. Taking his hand in yours, running in the rain. Kissing.

Your heart skips a beat, and you sheepishly move on to another topic:

“Shouldn’t you change as well?” you refer to his shirt, but he shakes his head.

“No need.”

“Oh, was it the Targaryen’s dragon blood that helped you dry up?” you tend to jest when you’re nervous, and right now is no exception.

“My cloak is too thick for the water to soak through. But I like your version, too,” his lips ripple into a smile.

You can help but smile back. “Thank you for the shirt.”

“It looks really good on you,” the words smoothly roll off his tongue and ignite the familiar burning deep in your core. He keeps his gaze on your face, your eyes locking for a moment.

You look away first, letting out a timid laugh.

“I must admit, I like this way of courting better,” you place the book back. “But you can cut it short. What’s your move?”

“My... move?” Aemond gives you a quizzical look.

“Yes, your big move. Show me,” you request eagerly.

“Don’t know what you're talking about,” he looks down, his aplomb faltering.

“What do you usually do to impress a lady?”

“I don’t really need to do anything,” Aemond shrugs.

“What a humble individual you are,” you chuckle and give him a minute to think. “So what is it?”

“I just told you...,” it seems like he’s trying to dodge the topic, which only sparks your curiosity.

“Oh, come on! You princes always have a move. Let me guess, you speak to her in High Valyrian? Men like to talk big,” he snorts. “No? Try to win her over with your...,” you gesture at his bookshelves, “...precious collection? Although it’s risky because what if she’s not into reading, that would be awkward,” and then it hits you. “Wait, it’s the dragon, isn’t it? You show her your dragon? Got to make sure it’s well-fed, though, otherwise you’ll have a date with a roasted —”

“It’s my sword,” he cuts you off, and you swear you can see him blushing at the confession.

“Um, your sword? Is this a metaphor for someth—”

“Gods, no. I mean the actual sword. The one you grip with your hand and poke people with.”

“That description didn’t help,” you tease, and he groans.

“You know what I mean,” Aemond gives you a pointed look, but his face flushed pink, and you can’t take him seriously.

“I do, you just look really charming when you are embarrassed,” you say cheekily, which makes him huff. “My apologies. Please elaborate on the sword. How does it work?”

Aemond hesitates but then realizes that you will never let it go, so he gives in.

“I bring my training into the conversation. And then I... show them,” he talks with his hands when he’s uncomfortable, and you find it endearing.

“And that’s it?”

“Pretty much,” Aemond nods.

“They watch you train, and that’s what does it for the ladies?”

“I don’t know why, I never gave it much thought.”

“Well, someone should. Can’t imagine it ever working on me.”

You feel a sudden shift in the air as Aemond slowly looks up at you. You’re standing a few feet apart, and he’s yet to initiate anything, but once again, it only takes a look from him for you to feel a familiar flare-up of the tantalizing desire.

“I’m not going to take you to the training yard in the pouring rain,” he concludes.

“But it’s not about the place, is it? Must be something about you,” now you’re the one champing at the bit to see what the fuss is all about.

“I don’t have a sword on me.”

“Opt for something smaller, I am sure it will do,” you hint at the dagger that you’ve seen him carry, and wait expectantly for him to agree.

Aemond reluctantly contemplates your suggestion, then sighs and goes to get his dagger which he left next to the cloak.

You wonder if the ladies are attracted to his competitive spirit. If they enjoy the feeling of danger they get at the sight of steel, the cold shine of it, the clang of swords. Or maybe it’s the urge to take sides and root for the winner?

And then you see Aemond rolling up the sleeves of his shirt, — and your breath suddenly hitches.

The room is lit by fire, the warmth of it illuminating his skin, casting shadows that frame every muscle of his arms. He takes the dagger in one hand, the movement fast and honed, and your eyes follow it. You notice the scattering of his veins that go down his wrist and into his palm, the blue lines tightening with every swirl. The silver blade catches and reflects the light, but you are focused solely on his flexing muscles.

He’s maneuvering the dagger with ease, almost carelessly, yet you know that every motion is well-practiced through years of training. His long fingers grip the hilt, revealing the sharp outline of his knuckles. The steel silently cuts through the air, again and again, but your eyes are glued to his hands. The way they move, the power that he holds in them. The things he can do with them, with his fingers. The way they will feel on your bare skin and in your... You swallow, letting out a shuddered breath.

“Are you weak in the knees yet?” his words bring you out of your trance, and you blink a couple of times, trying to shake the feeling off. Your body is so heated, you’re surprised you are not sweating yet.

“Is this the point when the ladies throw themselves at you?” your voice is hoarse, and you take a deep breath in an attempt to calm yourself.

Aemond stops his movements. You feel your skin tingling with anticipation, waiting for him to finish what he started, but he doesn’t budge. For a short while, you’re taken aback by the change in his demeanor — and the realization strikes you.

“Wait, how many ladies were here before me?”

“I never said I take them here,” he puts the dagger back in its sheath, averting his gaze.

“But you told me that you do your... thing with the sword for them.”

“In the training yard, with other people around us, yes.”

“So then you just leave them all hot and bothered? Aemond, that is cruel,” his actions confuse you, but while you’re looking for an explanation, he turns back to you and finally meets your gaze.

“It would’ve been cruel to lead them on when I feel nothing for them,” he reveals, and you discern the raw honesty in his words. And you know exactly what he means. It’s the tiresome attempts to find someone who will spark your interest, to spot a connection, all of those efforts leading nowhere and making you feel like you’re the one at fault. But you aren’t — and he isn’t, either.

Aemond looks almost ashamed of letting out something so personal, but you welcome the intimacy of this moment.

“I shall consider myself lucky, then,” you say softly.

He gives you that same look that makes you feel like the world around you disappears.

“You are... something else,” Aemond mumbles.

You guess that he isn’t used to being straightforward about his feelings, nor does he know how to express his affection with words. You really, really want to kiss him again.

The boyish grin reappears on his face.

“Did you mean I left you all hot and bothered?” Aemond narrows his eye.

“I never said that,” you smile coyly. “Maybe you should’ve tried a little harder.”

“I happen to have some tricks up my sleeve,” he takes a step towards you and, before you can ask for details, you feel his fingers on your ribs as he starts tickling you, and you immediately burst into laughter.

His touches are light, fingers grazing against your clothed skin as he subtly moves you further into the room until your legs bump into his bed. Losing your balance, you fall on it, your back met with the fluffiness of thick blankets. Aemond hovers over you, and you can’t stop giggling, trying to wiggle away from his tickles.

Wrapped up in the moment, you make a careless move, your hand brushing up his cheek — and you suddenly see a bright gleam of blue on the right side of his face.

Aemond freezes at the spot, halting his actions, and momentarily flinches away. You are gawking at the sapphire, unable to form a coherent sentence.

He makes a move to fix his eyepatch, but you stop him.

“Don’t,” you catch his hand mid-air, your grip delicate but firm, and he doesn’t fight it. You would’ve been surprised by your own quick reaction if only your mind wasn’t completely occupied with the sight in front of you.

It looks like the gem absorbs all the light in the room, shimmering with various shades of blue. It’s cut in a way to imitate a surface of an eye, the sides of the sapphire polished and blending into each other. There is a depth to it, bright sparkles drowning in a color that’s close to black, and the spillovers are mesmerizing.

You bring your hand closer to his face, to the area that’s been left covered and unloved, and touch the skin with the tip of your finger. He lets you.

“Wow,” you breathe out, gently tracing his scar. “This is the most badass thing I’ve ever seen.”

Aemond looks at you in disbelief, his eye fixed on your face, and his lips parted.

“...What?” he manages to ask.

“You look like a pirate. A really badass... sky pirate?” you suggest, and he lets out a light chuckle, still not entirely sure he believes you.

So you shamelessly continue.

“A pirate with his own dragon. The largest one in the Seven Kingdoms as I’ve heard,” you can almost feel him swelling with pride. “He charms the ladies with his fighting skills — and has a gem for an eye? Incredibly irresistible,” your index finger circles the area around his sapphire.

He listens attentively, holding his breath.

“A prince who is as good with his sword as he is with his wit, fond of reading and isn’t averse to mischief. Any lady of the court would’ve been fortunate to get a hold of such treasure,” you remove the eyepatch and tenderly cradle his face. “Yet I am the one who’s been honored to see all of him,” you glance from the bright gemstone to his eye and back. “Honestly, it’s kind of hard to pick which one I like more...,” you are barely able to notice him sharply lower his head, and your words die down.

Without a warning, Aemond covers your lips with his, the intensity of the kiss pulling the air out of your lungs right away. He’s been holding back the first time, but he isn’t now, and the passion sets you ablaze. His tongue slips into your mouth, easily tangling with yours, and you moan at the contact. Aemond skilfully unbuttons your shirt, and the second his fingers touch your skin, you shiver, the quivering sensation washing over you. His hands slowly slide down your ribcage, tracing the curves of your body, making your back arch, your chest flush against his, your heart pounding. He contours the bend of your hips, then presses his palms there, his touches rough, claiming, burning. You move your fingers up the base of his neck and run them through his hair, and he releases a shaky sigh. Aemond relishes in the feeling of your compliance, the fervor of it, your body being so needy and welcoming, until you are both gasping for air.

“Was that impressive enough?” he rasps, and you look up at him through your lashes, spellbound and breathless. His pupil is dilated, gaze clouded with lust, your noses adjoin.

“Yeah-yes. Yes, very,” you utter, at a loss for words.

“Good. Because I’m about to outdo myself,” he tightens his grip on your thighs, picking you up and moving into the middle of the bed. Your head barely touches the pillow when his lips are on yours again.

🔥 my masterlist

English is not my first language, so feel free to message me if you spot any major mistakes

#aemond targaryen x reader #not gonna lie the main reason I'm finally posting this is because a few ppl on AO3 liked it and it gave me a *little* boost of confidence #kinda??? I mean it also took me a few days of trying to convince myself to post it on tumblr #(also I've been staring at this draft for 4 hours)#my confidence is non-existent lmao #my stuff #aemond targaryen #aemond x reader #aemond x y/n #aemond x you #aemond targaryen x y/n #aemond one eye #oh god how many tags can I come up with #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond targaryen fanfics #aemond targaryen fics #hotd fanfiction

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