(Modern Day) Khal Drogo x Reader...

IMAGINE….being new to town and your first impression of Drogo, “Khal”/President of the local motorcycle club known as the Dothraki.

((I may have….got too into this…I’m not sorry haha))

y/f/s – your favorite soda/pop/they’re called something different in England aren’t they? Or am I thinking of somewhere else?

 y/l/n - your last name

You were filling up the gas tank to your vehicle when the unmistakable rumble of motorcycles could be heard coming down the street. Lifting your hand to shade your eyes, you looked left and right and then left again just in time to see two dozen, if not more, bikes of different makes and models come speeding around the corner. Your breath caught, your eyes lighting up with curiosity, when you realized they were coming to the gas station, but your gaze was on the man in the front of the progression.

He was wearing leather from head to toe. His boots, his pants, and the sleeveless vest…all leather. He had bracelets on his wrists that you immediately wanted to know the use/story of. You had always liked long hair, and his was pulled up into a “man bun.” His legs were long and the tightness of the leather jeans showered the power in them. He was just…a very attractive and muscular man.

As the mc progression came to a stop, you quickly averted your gaze and tried to hide your blush as you finished pumping and put the nozzle back. You screwed the cap back on and closed the little “hood” to the gas tank before grabbing your bag from off the passenger seat and heading inside to pay.

There were two people already in line to pay so you moved to the back of the small room and grabbed a bottle of y/f/s and a candy bar before moving toward the cash register.

The girl behind the counter was a teenager, probably about sixteen, and seemed to find her nails were interesting than the money behind handed to her. She handled the transaction with the two people in front of you – an elderly man and a woman in her late thirties or early forties – all the while loudly, and obnoxiously, popping a piece of chewing gum.

Finally, it was your turn and you stepped up to the counter handing over a twenty and telling the girl which pump you had used. It wasn’t until you had finished speaking that you realized she wasn’t paying any attention. Huffing in annoyance, you turned your head to see what she was looking at just in time to see the biker man you had been checking out minutes earlier open the door and step inside under the soft jingle of the bell on top of the door.

“Hey Drogo,” the teen smirked and popped the gum once more. “We have those smokes you like,” she pointed out, sounding proud of herself.

Drogo was staring at you, a raised brow of curiosity on his face, as he replied to the teen with only a fleeting look and a, “Good. I’ll come in and get some once your brother comes in.”

The girl seemed to deflate some, a scowl pulling onto her face. “I can sell them to you,”

“You’re seventeen, last time I checked, girl. I’m not getting anyone in trouble.” The biker chuckled and you felt your stomach flutter. It was deep and low and so hot. “And who are you?” he was talking to you now, and you barely managed to find a voice.

“Y/n…my name is Y/n…Y/l/n. I’m new to town.” You tore your gaze away and once more handed the money to the teen and told her which pump you had used.

This time she did the transaction and then turned away, grabbing her cell from off the counter behind her.

“Y/n Y/ln. I’ll have to keep an eye out for you.” Drogo murmured, stepping closer to you as you went to move for the door.

You nodded, swallowing was difficult, “Alright. You do that.” And you practically ran for the exit.

His chuckle was the last thing you heard from him.

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Jason Momoa loves beer and throwing tomahawks.