Damn That Was So Good 😊

Damn that was so good 😊

Distraction

Modern!Aemond Targaryen x Reader

Summary: After your (ex)boyfriend cheats on you, you find comfort in an unlikely place: in the arms of your sworn enemy, Aemond Targaryen.

Rating: Explicit (18+ / Minors DNI)

Warnings: NSFW, referenced cheating, academic rivals to lovers, fingering, oral (f receiving), hurt/comfort, fluff, Vhagar cameo!!

Word Count: 4.5k

Anonymous Request:

"Modern Aemond story where the reader gets nastily cheated on by her boyfriend (ex boyfriend then I guess?) and Aemond helps her get over it? Maybe with prompt 64 ("I love the way you look when my fingers are inside you") & 85 ("I'm going to fuck you so hard you'll forget this guy's name")?"

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A/N: Ohhhhh boy, here we go! Thank you so much for the request, lovely anon ❤️❤️

This fic is NOT part of the Home for the Holidays series, so don't read it as a continuation of that--that would be very confusing. After you read this, lmk if you can tell I majored in history in college lmfaooo.

As per usual, not beta-read but thoroughly edited.

The prompt list used is linked here!

~ Reblogging fics is the best way to support your favorite creators! Reblogs are highly appreciated, especially if you are on my tag list ~

Feel free to submit requests as well! I love them.

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You didn’t know what you’d done to deserve this. 

You’d done everything for your boyfriend–ex-boyfriend now, you supposed–from cooking and cleaning to doing his fucking laundry, and none of that had been enough to stop him from cheating on you. 

When he’d said the pair of you needed to talk a few days ago, you’d told yourself it was nothing to worry about, that he’d genuinely wanted to discuss something.

You couldn’t have been more wrong.

“I thought you had a right to know,” he’d said, “I’m sorry.”

As if that somehow absolved him of fucking every other girl on campus. Asshole. 

You’d been a mess for at least a week after–you still were, honestly–but life went on, whether you liked it or not. Part of life, such as it was, included attending class, doing your exams, and everything else that went along with your final semester of senior year. 

Needless to say, you were less than thrilled to be stuck working on a group project with your academic rival–and bane of your existence–Aemond Targaryen. 

Of the entire History program at your university, you were constantly the top two in your department. Both of you were incredibly competitive, which only exacerbated the tension between you as you jockeyed for the highest score in every one of your classes. 

You’d been paired together on a project by your Imperial Russian History Professor–which you were certain was some kind of sick joke on his part–and had yet to make any progress on it whatsoever. Both of you had been putting it off, but as the due date quickly approached, you resigned yourself to working with him, if only to survive the semester.

That was, however, proving to be much easier said than done. 

He insisted that your project had to be about Peter the Great, while you pushed for Catherine the Great instead.

This argument was only the latest of many, but you thought you might lose your mind for real this time.  

“The project is about a great Russian,” he sneered, “Catherine was from Germany. You, of all people, should know that.”

“Oh my God,” you snarl, “I cannot believe you're being this obtuse--she was a foundational Russian leader, regardless of where she was from," you roll your eyes.

"Anyway, everyone is going to do a project on Peter. That's such an obvious choice."

“So you would prefer to present on the woman that fucked a horse?” he questions you dryly, a smirk forming on his lips, watching your reaction to his words. 

“You know that was a rumor made up by men who were afraid of a powerful woman,” your voice raises slightly, your face heating up in frustration.

Aemond tilted his head in amusement, his eye glittering in victory at the rise he'd managed to get out of you. You clenched your jaw, taking in a deep, calming breath through your nose. 

“You're impossible,” you say shortly, annoyed that he’s managed to get under your skin.

“And you're insufferable.” 

“Oh, fuck off, will you?”

“No, you're acting like a child.”

“Oh, I’m acting like a child?” you hissed, though your petulant tone did nothing except prove the accusation correct. 

“You are," he confirmed, looking so smug that you wanted to slap him across his pretty face. "What’s the matter?” he taunts, “Are you having issues with that little boyfriend of yours that’s always picking you up from class?”

That did it–you burst into tears. You tried to hide your face behind your hands, not wanting him to see you cry, even though it was a bit late for that now.

“Oh, shit,” Aemond’s eye widened, suddenly looking uncharacteristically panicked at your outburst. He scratched the back of his neck nervously, project now very much forgotten–you guessed someone having a mental breakdown in front of you would do that. 

“Did, uh…did something happen?” he asked, clearly struggling to find anything to say that might soothe you. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you this much. I was just giving you a hard time,” he winced as you hiccuped, trying to swallow your sobs. 

“No, I’m sorry. It's just…” you sniff. “You definitely…don’t want to hear about this, but…he cheated on me…sorry, I’ll get it together, I just–” you rooted through your school bag, searching desperately for some tissues. 

“Hey, hey, no, don’t worry,” Aemond’s voice is uncharacteristically soft, “I was being a dick. Here,” he hands you a pack of kleenex, watching your face cautiously. “Listen, you’re wicked smart–it drives me up the wall, believe me–and you seem nice--when you’re not talking to me, anyway,” he smiles faintly, and you let out a watery laugh at his joke.

“If he cheated on you, then he’s a bastard, alright?” he continues. You nod silently, wiping your tears away, though your breath still comes in sharp little gasps.

“It’s alright if this is too weird, but my apartment is super close by,” he tells you after a beat. “We could go there, and I could make you some tea, maybe? That always helps my sister when she’s upset.” 

You stare at him incredulously, not believing that Aemond Targaryen, of all people, was being so nice to you. You’d expected him to laugh at your tears or, at the very least, to pack up his things and leave you there. Not this. 

“You can say no,” he blurts out, taking your silence as a denial. “I just wanted to offer–”

“No, no, I’d like that,” you manage hurriedly, snapping yourself out of your doubtful thoughts. “Tea sounds...good.”

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Aemond’s apartment is incredible. It’s so ridiculously lavish that you think perhaps you’ve finally lost it and have started hallucinating.

His building had a doorman, of all things, and the elevator played soft jazz on the way up. You shouldn’t have expected anything else from the designer-wearing prince of King’s Landing University, but you were still thoroughly baffled.

The inside of his apartment was equally posh, with polished granite countertops and solid wood furniture glowing under the warm lighting. 

Aemond toed off his shoes at the door–they were Gucci, you noticed, because of course they were–and set about putting a kettle on while you snooped around his massive bookshelf that occupied half of the wall in the living room. 

His books were what you expected: history texts, a collection of philosophy books, and oddly enough, a copy of the Communist Manifesto by Marx–but one particular section of the shelf caught your eye: it was all Jane Austen–Pride and Prejudice, Emma, Mansfield Park, Sense and Sensibility.

You couldn’t believe what you were seeing.

Grinning broadly for the first time in days, you seized the copy of Pride and Prejudice and padded over the kitchen.

“Big romance guy, huh?” you teased, holding the book aloft. “Who would’ve thought? Aemond Targaryen is a softie.” 

His face turns a shade of scarlet you hadn’t thought was humanly possible. “Austen has lovely prose,” he grumbles, snatching the book from your hands, “don’t make me regret inviting you over.” 

“Oh, come on!” you laugh, grabbing for the book, stumbling when he pulls it out of your reach. “I love Jane Austen; I’m just surprised you do.”

“Why is that?”

“Because you’re all ‘I’m Aemond Targaryen, and I wear black leather, even in the summer. Don’t look at me, or I’ll kill you’,” you lower your voice in a poor imitation of his. “I never had you pegged as a romantic.”

“I don’t sound like that,” he complains, “and I can be extremely romantic, thank you.”

“Really? You? Romantic? Since when?”

“Since always. Just because you’ve never witnessed it doesn’t mean it’s not real,” he grouses, setting the book down on the counter and turning back to the stove to pour hot water into the pair of mugs he'd set out.

“Hm, I’ll believe it when I see it,” you snicker, accepting the mug he offered you gratefully. 

“Well, now that you’re single, who knows? Maybe you will, ” he quips back, arching an eyebrow at you. It’s your turn to go red, and you internally curse him for it, forcing a derisive laugh at his words.

“Yeah. Sure.”

You’d always thought him good-looking–how could you not with his shoulder-length silver hair and broad physique? His only flaw was his eye patch, which made him more attractive and mysterious. If it weren’t for how aggravating he typically was, you’d have had a crush on him long ago. 

“Was he?” Aemond asks, regarding you curiously over the top of his cup.

“Who?”

“Your ex,” Aemond clarifies. “Was he a romantic?”

“No,” you answer truthfully. “Quite the opposite. He actually forgot my fucking birthday this year.”

“And you stayed with him?”

“Fuck you.”

“Hey, I’m just asking,” Aemond grins at your sharp reply, unphased by the look of irritation that was spreading across your face. “It doesn’t seem like there’s much to miss about him, is all.”

You sigh, setting your mug aside. “There isn’t,” you admit after a beat. “I was planning on breaking up with him after the semester ended, honestly. He just beat me to the punch.”

“Hm.”

“Have I mentioned that I hate it when you just hum like that?” you snark, “Just talk like a normal person.”

He outright laughs at you, teeth flashing in the kitchen light. “Yeah, I think you’ve mentioned,” he leans on the counter easily, “once or twice or a thousand times.”

He sips at his tea again slowly, savoring it. “Well, from what you’ve told me, he was a cunt,” he comments airly, making you huff in reluctant laughter. “It sounds like you just need something to take your mind off things. A distraction.”

“Yeah,” you scoff, “I’m sure King’s Landing Tinder has only the best to offer.”

“Hm,” Aemond emphasizes his hum, grinning at the look of annoyance that crosses your expression in response. “It doesn’t--believe me. I was suggesting something more immediate.”

You snap your gaze to him, confusion coursing through you. Surely he couldn’t be implying what you thought he was?

“What do you mean?” you manage to ask, nearly choking on your words. 

“I mean,” he says, setting his mug aside and advancing on you slowly like a predator might approach their prey, “that I think there’s more to our little academic rivalry than meets the eye.”

He’s so close to you now that you’re sure he can hear how erratic your breathing has become.

“I think that you’re attracted to me, and now that you’re single, we have a chance to do something about it.”

You’re frozen before him, your mouth hanging open in shock, and your heart thumping wildly in your chest. You want to laugh at him or to tell him that he couldn’t be more wrong, but that would be a bald-faced lie. 

His eye lights up at your silence, a grin spreading broadly across his face. “Oh, you are attracted to me,” he looks triumphant, the same way he looked when he won a debate in class or scored better than you on an assignment. 

“You’re annoying,” you say lamely,  in lieu of outright denial, stepping backward, “and I don’t like you.”

“Perhaps, but you do want me,” he extends a hand, grasping at your hip gently, holding you in place, preventing you from continuing your retreat. Your breath hitches in your chest at the contact, and you swallow harshly, unable to tear your eyes from his sharp-featured face.

“Am I wrong?” he breathes, his face only centimeters from yours, “Because if I am, I’ll walk away. But I don’t think I’m wrong.”

You blink rapidly, your lips parted in disbelief. He was right.

As your attraction to your ex waned, you’d told yourself that the excited flutter of your heart when Aemond walked into your classroom was adrenaline in anticipation of the argument that was to come.

You realized now just how wrong you’d been. 

He was so close to you that you could feel the warmth of his breath on your lips. His hand on your side felt like it was burning a brand into your skin, marking you as his, and you found a strange delight at the thought.

You tried to tell yourself that this was a bad idea, that it was too soon after a breakup to hook up with someone, especially if that someone was Aemond. The excuses you tried to think of became weaker with each moment that passed with his gaze on you, dripping with desire.

“No,” you rasp, “No, you’re not wrong.”

“In that case,” he breathes, tugging your body in towards him, “if it’s alright with you, I'm going to fuck you so hard that you forget that guy's name."

Your eyes widen in shock at his lewd words, your lips parting slightly, a pathetic little whimper escaping you against your will. Your body floods with heat, pussy clenching, and god, you didn’t think you’d ever wanted someone so badly. 

“I don’t think you can,” you challenge, rising on tiptoe to bring your faces closer together, drinking in the sight of his dilated pupil and slightly flushed cheeks. “But if you’d like to try, be my guest.”

It’s like your words are a starting gun for him, and he drags you flush to his body without hesitation, claiming your lips in a filthy, depraved kiss. It’s all teeth and tongue, and his fingers bite into your skin, but the twinge of pain only serves as encouragement. You bite at his lip, and he grunts, a hand sliding down to palm your ass roughly, his tongue invading your mouth possessively. 

You whimper at the thrill his touch sends through you, gripping his shoulders tightly, and he seizes you by your hips, lifting you onto the counter and slotting himself between your legs. You spread them willingly, letting him press himself against the apex of your thighs, and he growls like a wild animal.

He pulls back slightly, leaning just out of reach, his lusty eye raking over you, biting his lip in condescension as you try to chase after him, desperate for his kiss. “Eager, are we?” 

He looks so fucking smug that you want to slap him.

Before you get the chance to throw a scathing retort at him for his insolence, he’s on you again, fingers weaving through your hair and pulling, snickering under his breath when you moan.

His mouth is hot and wanting against yours, and you think that if he doesn’t touch you–really touch you–soon you might explode. 

You reach between you, grabbing firmly at the prominent bulge in his pants, and his lips falter against yours, unable to keep himself from reacting to your touch. It was your turn to grin in satisfaction, touching him through the fabric with long, purposeful strokes. 

“It would seem,” you smirk, delighting in the shuddering gasp he made at the contact, “that I’m not the only one who’s eager.” You punctuate your sentence with a harsh squeeze, and he curses loudly, seizing your wrist in his hand, stilling your movements. 

“You’re only just figuring that out?” he quips, though the starved look on his face makes the retort fall flat. “C’mere,” he grasps your ass, dragging you closer to the edge of the counter, grinding himself against you agonizingly slow, shutting you up with another fiery kiss. 

You’re so lost in the feeling of his lips and hands that you’re barely aware of it happening, but somehow, you end up in his bed.

Both of you are half-naked, your clothes abandoned haphazardly somewhere in the hallway, and you’re desperate as he trails blistering kisses down your chest, your stomach, and your thighs. He yanks your panties off entirely, his eye locked shamelessly at your soaked cunt. The fucker licks his lips at the sight of it, and you whine, moving to close your legs, flustered. 

“Ah ah ah,” he tuts, grabbing your knees in his large hands. “Keep them open, pretty girl. I want to see how wet I make you.”

He trails his fingers up from your knee to your dripping folds, running his middle and index finger through them, and you tremble at his touch, the muscles in your thighs tensing. He finds your clit with ease–something your ex could absolutely never do, no matter how many times you tried to show him–and you cannot control the way your hips buck up into his touch. 

You want him inside you now, but he seems to delight in torturing you, even outside of the classroom.

His touch on your bud is far too gentle to get you anywhere but just firm enough to drive you insane. Slowly–too slowly–he teases the tip of his finger at your entrance, exhaling heavily as he eases it in, watching it disappear inside you, his lip bitten between his teeth. 

He pumps his finger experimentally, eye flicking between your pussy and your face, gauging your reaction with the same calculated stare he gave you when you'd made a particularly salient point in an in-class discussion.

You want to stay quiet, to deny him the satisfaction, but then he starts to truly fuck you with his long, thick digit, and you can’t focus on anything besides how good it feels. He slips a second into your clenching heat, his expression half-feral as you keen at the intrusion.

"Fucking hell. I love the way you look when my fingers are inside you," he groans, his eye fixed on his fingers pumping steadily into you, wetting his lips appreciatively. “So fucking pretty.”

You whimper, bucking into his hand pathetically, desperately seeking more friction. He seems to know exactly where to touch you, and you’re quickly losing control of yourself, your gasps and whines increasing in volume no matter how hard you try to keep them in. 

“I can feel you clenching around me,” he murmurs, flicking his gaze up to your face. “You’re so tight; did that bastard even fuck you?” 

He doesn’t wait for you to respond. 

Instead, he leans down, pulling his fingers from you and licking a broad stripe up your cunt. He makes his annoying little hum at the taste, but it’s not so aggravating now. 

It’s fucking hot, for some reason, and you reach down, grasping at the back of his silver head, holding on to him for dear life as he devours you. 

He plays with your clit, his fingers drenched from your slick, and plunges his tongue inside of you, and you give up on even trying to stay quiet. It was no use. 

“Fu-uck,” your voice cracks into a pathetic squeak, your fingers tightening on his hair and pulling. You can feel him laughing at you, the thrum of it sending shockwaves through your body, and as much as you hate him for it, you couldn’t–wouldn’t–stop him now. It all feels so incredible that all you can manage is: “Please. More."

He fucks you with his tongue eagerly, as if nothing in the world could please him more, and you can already feel your orgasm building in your gut. To your displeasure, he removes his tongue from you, but you’re swiftly placated by him replacing it again with his fingers, swapping places with his mouth and suckling at your clit harshly. 

“Fuck, you’re sensitive,” his smug voice is muffled by your pussy, and you can only whimper in response. “Are you going to come already?” 

By way of response, you arch up off of the bed, coming apart with a cry, gripping at his hair so tightly that you think you must be hurting him, but he just sucks harder, his fingers driving into you steadily, easing you through your high, watching you in satisfaction from between your thighs. 

He draws back, grinning at you, his chin glistening with your slick.

“What was his name again?” he asks, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

You frown at him hazily, momentarily confused as to what he means.

“Your ex?” he prompts, eye glittering in self-satisfaction. “Don’t tell me you forgot already? Was I that good?”

Your cheeks burn with embarrassment as you realize what he meant.

“Fuck you,” you manage to gasp out, your chest still heaving. 

“Yes,” he stands, removing his underwear, the last barrier between you. His cock is hard and heavy between his legs, the tip of it flushed and glistening with pre-cum. “I intend to do just that.” He digs through his bedside table, retrieving a condom and rolling it down his length hurriedly. 

Lowering himself above you, he takes your lips in a heated kiss, palming your breast, his fingers tweaking lightly at your nipple. You can feel him smiling against your lips when you sigh in pleasure, and you curve into his touch eagerly. 

“Do you still want me to fuck you?” 

For a moment, you think he’s teasing you again, and you open your mouth to make a sharp retort. When you look into his eye, however, you see only tenderness–a gentle question as to whether or not you still want to go further. 

“Yes,” you croaked, suppressing the swell of emotion threatening to overcome you at such a small show of respect, “I do.”

He slips a hand between you, guiding his swollen tip to your entrance, pushing into you slowly and pausing to give you a moment to accommodate his size. It felt so good to be filled like this, with his weight crushing into you, his hot, thick cock twitching within your cunt. 

You nod to him, and he bends to kiss you tenderly, pulling out of you slowly and sliding back in again, keeping his pace subdued at first. 

“I thought you said you were going to fuck me,” you challenged. “As good as you feel inside me, this is not fucking.”

He lets out a pleased grunt and slams into you hard, grinning at the pleasured yelp you make at the force of it. 

The pace he sets is brutal, hips slapping against yours, your tits bouncing with every harsh thrust. He kisses down your neck, nipping at your sensitive skin, squeezing at your breasts with the hand he isn’t using to hold himself up above you. 

You moan desperately, planting your feet on the bed and bucking up to meet him, trying to get him still deeper. He gets the hint, hoisting your legs over his shoulders and using the new angle to drive down into you, leaving you at his mercy. 

“Tell me how it feels,” he demands raggedly.

“So good,” you warble, far beyond trying to hide behind a veil of indifference, “you’re so big.”

His eye lights with something dark and primal at your praise, and he lowers one of your legs, drawing the other up higher, dropping his head to take your lips into another all-consuming crush, drinking down your cries of pleasure. 

“Aemond, please,” you whimper against him, “please touch me. I’m so close.”

Somehow, he understands what you mean, plunging a hand down to where you are joined, using your wetness as a lubricant to rub your clit in quick, harsh circles, dragging you closer and closer to the edge.

Your cunt clenches around his cock, your legs trembling from the effort, tears gathering at your waterline from how exquisitely painful the pleasure he’s giving you is. 

“I’m never leaving this sweet pussy–fuck,” he snarls. “So. Fucking. Good,” he punctuates each word with a rough snap of his hips. 

You come with a loud, broken cry, your body shaking beneath him, and he groans at the feeling of your walls fluttering around him as you reach your peak, his thrusts growing sloppy, slamming into you one, then two more times before he shudders, spilling into the condom with a choked moan.

After a moment, he gently releases your leg, his head hanging heavily, his pale chest heaving from the exertion, eyelashes fluttering, a lazy, satisfied smile creeping across his features. 

“Are you alright?” He breathes. “I wasn’t too rough with you?”

“Not at all,” you manage, “I’m not alright, though. I think you fucked me too well.”

He snickers breathlessly at the compliment, slowly pulling out of you, pressing his lips to yours delicately, a sharp contrast to the sex you’d just had. Your heart aches at the sweetness of the gesture, and you return the kiss, hoping that he feels the same rush of emotion that you do through it. 

He rises unsteadily, disposing of the condom quickly and pulling a pair of sweatpants over his hips. He returns your panties to you and hands you the cotton t-shirt he’d been wearing, grinning at you sheepishly.

You pull both on, uncertain as to whether he expects you to go now that you’ve fucked, but your question is answered when he lays back down beside you, tugging you firmly against his warm, bare chest. 

A loud, indignant meow sounds from the doorway, and you jump, taken off guard. You quickly find the source of the noise: A large, elderly black cat glaring into the room as if to say, ‘Hey, can you keep it down?’

Aemond chuckles, rising again from his place beside you. “I fear I forgot my manners,” he tells you, scooping that cat into his arms and carrying her back over to the bed. “I would like you to meet my lovely roommate, Vhagar.”

“Hello, Vhagar,” you coo, extending a hand for her to sniff. To your delight, she slams her head up into your palm, erupting into loud purrs. You smile, scratching the old girl behind her ears gently, and she closes her eyes, leaning into your touch. 

“Hm. Well, that’s unexpected,” Aemond muses, stroking a hand down her back affectionately. “She doesn’t like many people. You should be flattered.” He leans back into the pillows, regarding the pair of you curiously.

“I suppose this means you’ll have to come by here more often then. For her sake,” he teases, though you’re sure you hear a hint of sincerity in his voice. 

“I suppose I will,” you reply, turning to look at him. “Strictly for Vhagar.”

“Naturally,” he studies you, choosing his words carefully before he speaks again. “Would you stay here tonight, perhaps?” he asks, “for Vhagar?”

“Hm,” you mimic his characteristic teasing hum. “Just for her?”

“Not just for her,” he replies without hesitation. “I think it’s safe to say that we both are…aggravatingly fond of you.”

You lean towards him, pressing a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth and then to his lips. 

“In that case, I suppose I’ll have to,” you murmur. “But this doesn’t mean I’m going to stop trying to outdo you in class.”

He chuckles under his breath, stealing another swift peck. “That would be no challenge. As much as it pains me to admit it, you’re far better than me at history,” he kisses you again.

You nuzzle into his shoulder, smiling against his skin. “Well, if we took a romance novel class together, I’m sure you’d emerge victorious,” you mumble.

He snorts, pressing a kiss to your head. 

“Oh, you wouldn’t stand a chance.”

Vhagar creeps up the bed, curling, and settles heavily into Aemond’s lap with an audible huff, and you snuggle deeper into his embrace. 

The three of you lay in comfortable silence, and as you begin to doze, you think to yourself that perhaps you ought to write your bastard of an ex-boyfriend a ‘thank you’ note. 

Without his indiscretions, you might not have ever felt so complete.

You really didn’t know what you’d done to deserve this.

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re: aemond's bookshelf with Marx on it: long live aemond the comrade!! (i didn't make this, i found it on twitter ages ago so creds to whatever genius was behind this gem)

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Like this fic? Read my other works here!

Personal Rec: A Dragon Without Wings mini-series (contains spoilers for future seasons of HOTD)

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