Our moonlight drive.
Summary: A night drive with your boyfriend.
Paring: Modern Aemond Targaryen x Female!Reader
Word Count: 700+
Warnings: Modern Aemond fluff to soothe the soul.
Author's Note: This story is dedicated to the lovely, the talented @babygirlyofthevale 💜 This is a drabble, sweet piece inspired by the masterpiece in motion Comet Donati by @inthedayswhenlandswerefew (chapter2, oh my goodness). A big thank you to my darling beta readers for your help!
Tags (Tumblr kindred spirits): @aaaaaamond @annikin-im-panicin @watercolorskyy @schniiipsel @sylas-the-grim @aemondx @fan-goddess @httpsdoll @theromanticegoist @hb8301 @lovelykhaleesiii
Night is coming with its amber smear of burnt oranges and yellows overwhelmed with the purple hue swallowing the last of the day’s light. The route is familiar, a routine drive towards your favorite sweet spot, and the windows are down, letting the cool air knot your hair.
It isn’t far and Aemond parks further back, quickly out and moving to grab your door; you smile with the gesture as he shows that he is firstmost a gentleman, especially when it comes to you. You follow his steps and he reaches for your hand without looking back, knowing fully well that you will take his hand, enlacing your fingers with his own, a perfect fit.
The ice cream parlor is a town antique, with a window opened for the late night crowd to come by. You order first and he leans against your backside, over your shoulder with the shimmer silver curtain of his locks spilling forward.
You feel the warm rumble when he adds, “She also would like sprinkles on top,” and reaches to take napkins from the dispenser.
You peer up at him, a warm glow of pleasure that he remembered, that he knows your simple pleasures.
There is a stone bench that you both straddle, facing one another with your treats in hand; he offers you a spoonful of his ice cream and leans forward to lick your waffle cone. The napkins he grabbed come in handy, helping the failing battle against the muggy night, the sweet spill of sprinkles over the cone’s edge.
Once done, more napkins are needed to clean up and he takes your hand again, leading you back to the car.
This is the only time you willingly place yourself in his blindspot, whenever he would drive but Aemond does not seem to mind it. He likes how you play the role of reconnoiter during daylight, but tonight the roads are empty and this allows you to sink comfortably into the passenger’s seat, enveloped in his scent of leather and his cologne, with a hint of smoke, and you enjoy the press of his large palm into the softness of your thighs, his thumb drawing small circles on the outside.
His vehicle is an imported stick shift, sleek and meticulous, allowing him the control he strives for in every aspect of his life. Aemond is careful, calculated, and you see this in the mirrors added, an extension and a reminder to his half vision; he always turns his head fully to check before a lane change, and this allows him a moment to look at you.
And you are looking back, ever watchful, ever aware of him. In this moment, the blue lumination from the dash gives an iridescent shimmer to the sapphire stone set in his scarred socket, an ethereal glow to the sharp contours of his face.
You feel the warmth return to your cheeks when you see the curl of his lips into a smile that only belongs to you.
“Do you trust me?” the low timbre of his voice asks.
And you do, with everything you have to offer, with every molecule wrapped within you thrumming with a loyalty that began from the moment you met. You remember the play of his perpetual smirk, both inviting and enticing, and what you felt bloom with the first kiss shared, sparked from the touch of his soft lips against your own. It is a feeling that grows still, a sense of comfort and safety with his intimate touches, igniting something that you were not aware existed within your heart.
You keep this to yourself though, and hum your acknowledgement, your grin gleeful. “Where you go, I go,” you remind him.
He does not turn homewards, but instead his long fingers curl around the wheel to rotate, to follow the vacant weave of road lit by his headlights and the settling nightglow. Aemond looks forward and you can see the dimples that line his cheek; only after he settles into gear does he reach for your hand, bringing it up to his lips for a gentle kiss and nestles the hold onto his thigh.
Your fingers curl around in response, a perfect fit.
arcie’s masterlist
349 notes
·
View notes