the-bookdragons-hoard

[the-bookdragons-hoard]

They/them pussy

[the-bookdragons-hoard]

This was so sweet.

shelter from the storm | s.r.

in which your son comes to your room in the middle of the night seeking the safety of his father's arms.

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: fluff content warnings: fear of storms, spencer reid dilf agenda, boy dad!spencer word count: 1.07k a/n: need to give this man a baby immediately oh my god it's so bad the voices

Spencer woke up first; the very first hint of a rumble caused his eyes to flutter open before he even heard the patting of the rain on the window. He glanced at the clock, only for it to read just past two in the morning, grabbed his glasses from the nightstand, and tried to nudge you awake.

He was a much lighter sleeper than you; years of being conditioned to wake up to the slightest vibration of a phone had caused that. While he’d gotten over his own fear of storms, Spencer always kept an eye out for them, knowing it was a trait that your toddler had acquired.

“Hmm?” You responded to his nudge, stuck between being asleep and being awake. With your eyes open only slightly, you saw the flash of lightning peek in through the blinds and immediately sat up. “Jamie?” You whispered your son’s name while Spencer flicked on the lamp on his bedside table.

The two of you shared a knowing look when you heard the pattering of bare feet on the hardwood floor. You left your bedroom door open just a crack, so all he needed to do was push the door open and peek his head inside. “Mama?” He whimpered just as softly as you’d whispered his name.

Jamie’s glasses were crooked on his face, thick black frames that surrounded his brown eyes. Sometimes, when Spencer looked at his son, it felt like he was looking at a reflection of his past—something he’d never experienced until he was born. Jamie clutched a stuffed teddy bear in his hand, wearing matching glasses you’d affixed to the animal so the two of them could match.

As soon as your three-year-old saw his parents sitting up in bed, his little face crumpled in relief. “Daddy,” he called this time, and before he knew it himself, Spencer was getting out of bed to gather his son in his arms.

“Hey, lovey,” Spencer cooed, crouching so he could pick Jamie up, adjusting the way the stuffed bear—named Garcia, after his godmother, and affectionately nicknamed Bearcia—rested so no one was being crushed. “It’s raining really hard out there, huh?”

Wrapping his arms tightly around his father’s neck, Jamie held on while he was brought over to the bed. Once he was within reach, you rested a gentle hand on his back but made no move to take him into your arms. Knowing that he could comfort his son when he was scared reassured Spencer; it told him he was a good dad. He never would have gone to his own father for protection, and that’s all he’d ever wanted to be as a dad—dependable, protective.

You hushed Jamie when thunder cracked again, “Oh, my poor baby.” Moving over on the mattress to rest your head on your husband, giving you the range to press a soft kiss on your son’s forehead.

The feeling of tears as they seeped through Spencer’s t-shirt broke his heart; it almost made him wish he could control the weather to his benefit. Instead of forbidding the storm, he craned his head back to meet Jamie’s red-rimmed eyes, “’s okay to be scared,” he assured him.

Jamie squeezed his teddy bear for comfort and looked at your bedroom window; the blinds were still closed to prevent the eventual morning light from getting in. The toddler mumbled something unintelligible about the rain before sniffling. He used the sleeve of his dinosaur footie pajamas to wipe his face before resting his head against his father.

Getting up from the bed, Spencer walked Jamie over to the window and opened the blinds so he could see the rain, hoping that taking the mystery of the storm away would take away some of the fear. “When the lightning goes again, if we count the seconds until the thunder goes, we’ll know how far away the storm is,” he explained to Jamie, smoothing the toddler’s hair from his forehead and swaying gently while they waited for the flash of light.

“Woah,” Jamie breathed when the lightning struck, childlike wonder lighting up his features while Spencer started counting. “Two,” Jamie joined softly, “Three, four, five, oh!”

Thunder rumbled, and Spencer couldn’t help but smile to himself when Jamie curled into his side for safety. “We counted five, and if we divide by five, that means the storm is one whole mile away.” He didn’t expect the three-year-old to understand the mathematics, but he knew Jamie liked to have things explained to him.

At some point, you’d crept out of the room, and Spencer didn’t notice until you were tiptoeing back in, holding Jamie’s blankie and setting it in the middle of your shared bed. “One,” Jamie started counting on his own at the next flash of lightning, “two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine!” This time, he smiled proudly up at his father when he finished counting, “More!”

Spencer nodded before closing the blinds once more. "That’s right; it means the storm is moving further away from the house.” He brought Jamie back to the bed, laying him down on his blankie with Bearcia in his tiny clutches. “Now we have to go back to sleep, and the storm will be all gone by the time we wake up.”

“Promise?” Jamie asked, big, brown eyes stared up at his dad as he sought reassurance.

He knew he might’ve been putting too much faith in the meteorologists, but nonetheless, Spencer nodded, “I promise.” He carefully took Jamie’s glasses off, setting them on his bedside table and turning on the nightlight you kept in there for nights like these.

Jamie settled into the big bed and cuddled his bear close. “Love you, daddy.”

A two in the morning wakeup call didn’t seem so bad when it ended like this. He finally found his way back to bed, pulling the covers over you and your baby, and once he took off his glasses and turned off the big lamp, Jamie curled into his side, resting his head on Spencer’s shoulder.

You poked your head up from your pillow, your smile glowing under the soft nightlight. Spencer could almost hear what you were thinking, imagining your voice as you cooed My boys.

Silently, so as not to disturb Jamie, Spencer mouthed I love you.

In response, you leaned over to press a goodnight kiss to his lips, and to Spencer, it was the same thing.

[the-bookdragons-hoard]

Advent Desires – Modern Aemond Targaryen x fem!reader

Summary: You are spending the evening with your friend Aemond. But you are bored while Aemond is absorbed in his book – but you have your ways of getting his attention.

Pairing: Modern Aemond Targaryen x fem!reader

Warnings: Smut; 18+; NSFW; Sex (p in v)

Author’s note: English is my second language, please forgive me if I made any mistakes (:

Word count: 1.4k

Other stories of mine

12 Days of Smuffmas

12 Days of Smuff

The winter evening settles over the city like a soft blanket, muffling the sounds of distant traffic and the occasional hum of wind against the window. Advent candles flicker on the side table, their tiny flames dancing with every shift in the air. Holly leaves are scattered around the room, a festive touch you had insisted on despite Aemond's indifference to holiday decorations.

He sits in the armchair by the window, an oversized wool sweater draped over his sharp frame. A well-worn book rests in his hands, his long fingers absently turning a page as his good eye scans the text. The glow from the nearby string of fairy lights cast soft shadows across his chiseled features, highlighting his sharp jawline and the silver strands of his cropped hair that fell just slightly out of place.

You lie sprawled on the couch, a blanket over your legs, flipping aimlessly through your phone. TikToks and Instagram stories can't hold your attention tonight, and every now and then, you glance over at Aemond, hoping he’d notice you.

He doesn‘t.

"You know," you say, breaking the silence, "it’s not very festive of you to spend Advent reading an old book."

Without looking up, he replies, "It’s not very festive of you to complain about it."

You sigh dramatically, stretching your arms over your head. The hem of your sweater rides up slightly, revealing a sliver of skin that catches his attention, even if he tries to pretend it doesn’t. His eye flickers up for the briefest moment before returning to the page.

"I’m bored," you groan, rolling onto your side to face him.

"Then entertain yourself," Aemond says, though there is a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Sliding off the couch, you pad across the room, stopping just behind his chair. Leaning over, you wrap your arms around his shoulders and rest your chin on his head, breathing in the faint scent of cedarwood and the crispness of the cold that still lingers on him from earlier.

"What are you even reading?" you ask, glancing down at the page.

He tilts the book slightly so you can see the title. The Art of War.

"Seriously?" you ask, incredulous. "That’s what you choose to read during the holidays?"

"Why not?" He closes the book deliberately, setting it down on the armrest. His hands are free now, and you suddenly wish you hadn’t pushed him quite so far. There is a glint in his eye—mischievous, calculating.

"I can think of better ways to spend an evening," you say, straightening up, but before you can move away, Aemond catches your wrist.

"Better ways, hmm?" His voice is low, smooth, and edged with amusement.

His grip is firm but not rough as he tugs you down into his lap. The movement catches you off guard, and you gasp softly, your hands instinctively gripping his shoulders for balance. His smile widens slightly at your reaction, the kind of smile that is more about power than warmth.

"You’re awfully restless tonight," he murmured, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. His fingers linger, tracing a line down to your jaw.

"Maybe I’m just trying to get your attention," you murmur.

"Well, now you have it."

Before you know it, his hand is in your hair, his long fingers interweaving the strands. He tugs gently, just enough to tilt your head back and expose your neck. A spark of heat flares through you, your breath catching as you meet his intense gaze.

"Aemond," you whisper, unsure if it is a warning or a plea.

He leans in closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he speaks. "Still bored?"

The holly leaves on the mantle catches your eye for a brief moment, a festive witness to the sudden shift in the room's energy. The teasing pull of his hand in your hair sends a shiver down your spine, and when his lips ghosted over your jawline, you can't hold back the quiet sigh that escapes you.

The advent candles flicker again, their light throwing soft shadows on the wall. Outside, the wind howles faintly, but in this moment, all you can hear is the sound of his breath mingling with yours as the tension between you grew thicker.

He pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you properly. "Satisfied now, or shall I keep going?"

Your reply is a mix of laughter and a daring smirk, your fingers tightening slightly on his sweater. "What do you think?"

He chuckles softly, the sound low and rich, as his hand tangles deeper into your hair. "I think," he says, his lips brushing yours, "you’d better be careful what you wish for."

You giggle as he leans in again and kisses you. But your giggling dies away as the kiss becomes more passionate. His hands slide to your hips and reposition you until you straddle him. You gasp slightly, your hands slide into his soft hair, pulling gently, drawing a growl from him.

Slowly, he pushes you closer to him, and his hands slide over your ass, guiding your movements. You feel his length pressing against you, only the fabric of his and your sweatpants separating you... but still you feel his cock twitching impatiently. Aemond starts to pull on your sweatpants, “Let's get these out of the way,” he mutters, and you nod eagerly.

You help him, and without much delay, your sweatpants are on the floor. You whimper as Aemond pulls down your sweatpants enough to release his erection. He pumps a few times and you watch his hand slide up and down his twitching length.

“Look how hard you make me... and I just wanted to read a book in peace,“ he mutters, and you bite your lip.

”Somehow I'm not sorry for it,” you whisper a little breathlessly and start grinding your pussy against him.

He growls as he feels how soaked your panties already are.

Your hands slide to the back of his neck as you whimper impatiently again. Aemond pushes your panties aside and lets his fingers slide through your wet slit until he reaches your nerve bundle and leaves circular movements. You moan and move your hips against his fingers.

You move your hips up and down, taking him deeper inside you, and you whimper. His thumb is still rubbing your clit as your hips slam against his. You completely soak his length, your juices dripping onto his balls.

He slides his cock against your opening while continuing to rub your clitoris. Slowly, he pushes upwards, again and again against your opening. Teasing you until the tip of his cock is covered with your juices.

“Gods, you're so wet,” he murmurs a little breathlessly.

“Aemond,” you gasp impatiently, your fingers digging into his neck. And then Aemond thrusts up, feeling your tightness giving way to his length.

He growls, “Fuck,“ as you push your hips down. You moan, your pussy fluttering around his cock, protesting the intrusion.

He leans in and kisses you roughly, while you slide your hand back into his hair, touch the softness and pull on it again. He groans and pulls away from your lips, pressing his face into the curve of your neck and biting you. You cry out as you feel the light sting.

You lean your forehead against his, your panting breaths mixing as he thrusts up, following your movements.

He feels your pussy start to clenches uncontrollably around his length and he grunts, starting to move faster, thrusting deep into you.

Your legs remain wrapped around his hips as you try to take him deeper. Aemond's teeth dig in deeper and you throw your head back and moan without a care in the world. His hips thrust against you, without mercy. Your slick coats his cock, dripping down his tight balls – it was fucking perfect.

“Cum on my cock, babe,” he growls against your skin, and you whimper, slamming your hips down over and over again, while his thumb rubs faster. Your eyes roll back as you come. You scream slightly and Aemond growls as your pussy clenches. Your orgasm triggers his and he covers your clenching walls in white.

Aemond's eye close and his head falls back, your hips still moving up and down, milking his cock. He breathes heavily, just enjoying your movements, until you slowly stop moving.

You lean forward, your face pressed into the hollow of his neck, trying to catch your breath. You smell his scent and kiss his skin gently. His hands glide over your back, caressing you.

“Maybe this was better than reading a book,” he whispers a little breathlessly, and you giggle.

[the-bookdragons-hoard]

Aww, so soft and cosy. I love how you wrote the banter between Tom and the reader. The giggles I let out...

A Christmas Tease – Tom Bennett x female!reader

Pairing: Tom Bennett x fem!reader

Summary: You and your boyfriend Tom are decorating the Christmas tree. Tom's enthusiasm is limited – but he knows how to make it interesting.

Warnings: Fluff; some dirty talk

Author’s note: English is my second language, please forgive me if I made any mistakes (:

Word count: 1.3k

Other stories of mine

12 Days of Smuffmas

12 Days of Smuff

The cozy little flat is aglow with the warm flicker of candles and the soft hum of the radio. Tom has been looking forward to a quiet evening, just him and you, basking in each other’s company without interruptions. But his sister Lois had other plans.

Lois had swept into the house earlier that day like a whirlwind, carrying a box of Christmas decorations and a cheery resolve that neither you nor Tom could easily argue with. “You can’t just ignore the holiday spirit!” she had declared, dropping the box onto the coffee table with a thud. “I’m working tonight, but you two can do something useful with your time. Decorate the tree!”

Tom had groaned loudly, slumping back on the sofa. “Decorate a tree? Why bother? It’s just going to stand there shedding needles.”

But Lois had turned to you with a persuasive smile. “You’ll help, won’t you? I’d do it myself if I wasn’t stuck at work.”

You hesitated, glancing at Tom. He gave you a pleading look, silently begging you to refuse. But there was something about Lois’s determined grin that made you relent. “Alright,” you agreed.

Tom’s groan grew even louder, but you simply patted his shoulder. “It’ll be fun,” you said.

Now, standing in the living room, Tom eyes the half-assembled Christmas tree with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. You, on the other hand, are happily untangling strings of fairy lights, humming to yourself. He leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching you with an expression that is part amusement, part exasperation.

“You know,” he drawles, his voice low and teasing, “we could be doing something a lot more interesting right now.”

You glance up, arching a brow. “Interesting like what? Watching you complain about decorating the tree?”

He smirks, pushing off the wall to step closer. “That’s not what I had in mind.”

Before you can respond, his hands are on your waist, his fingers brushing lightly over the fabric of your dress. You froze for a moment, a shiver running down your spine. “Tom..” you gasp, a blush was already creeping up your cheeks, “…hands off. We have a job to do.”

“Oh, I’m helping,” he say innocently, his lips quirking into a mischievous grin. His hands slide lower, and you swat him away, the blush on your cheeks deepening.

“Stop it” you scold, trying to keep your composure. But he just chuckles, leaning in close to whisper in your ear.

“Why? You don’t seem to mind.” His breath is warm against your skin, and you can feel your resolve wavering.

“Tom Bennett,” you say, doing your best to sound stern. “If you don’t start hanging these ornaments, I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” he interrupts, his voice full of mock innocence.

“I’ll make you sleep on the sofa,” you shoot back, holding up a bauble like it is a weapon.

He laughs, a rich, deep sound that makes your heart skip a beat. “Alright, alright,” he says, raising his hands in mock surrender. “I’ll behave. For now.”

But of course, he doesn’t.

Every few minutes, he finds some excuse to touch you—a hand brushing against yours as you reach for the same ornament, his arm slipping around your waist as he adjusts the lights, his fingers trailing down your back when he thinks you aren’t paying attention.

And then there are the whispers.

Tom has an uncanny ability to find just the right words to make your cheeks burn and your resolve crumble. As you crouch by the box of decorations, untangling a particularly stubborn knot of tinsel, he leans over you, his breath warm against the shell of your ear.

“You know,” he murmurs, his voice low and velvet-smooth, “if I were that tinsel, I’d wrap myself around you too.”

Your hands still, the comment catching you off guard. You glance up at him, a flush creeping up your neck. “Tom,” you say, though the warning in your tone lacked its bite.

“What?” he asks, grinning. “It’s true. That dress you’re wearing is a bit unfair, isn’t it? How’s a man supposed to think about baubles and lights when you look like that?”

You roll your eyes, attempting to ignore him as you focuse on unraveling the glittering mess in your hands. But then his hand brush lightly against the small of your back.

“I could think of a few better ways to use that tinsel,” he muses, his voice dropping into a husky undertone. “You’d look good all tied up in it… Remember that one time? When you were lying on your belly, unable to move? And I just grabbed your hips and…“

“Tom!” you gasp, spinning to face him, your face now fully aflame.

He laughs, utterly unrepentant, and snatches a length of the tinsel from the box. “Just saying,” he teases, wrapping it loosely around his hands. “It’s versatile stuff. Don’t blame me for having ideas.”

“Stop being ridiculous and hang it on the tree,” you order, your voice cracking slightly as you try to maintain your composure.

“Hang it on the tree?” he repeats, tilting his head as though considering the suggestion. Then, with a wicked grin, he drapes the tinsel across your shoulders instead, letting the silvery strands shimmer against your skin.

“There,” he says, stepping back to admire his handiwork. “Perfect. Tree’s done.”

“Tom Bennett,” you say, grabbing the tinsel and throwing it back at him, though you can’t help the laugh that bubbled up.

He catches your wrist before you can pull away, tugging you closer. “You’re blushing,” he notes, his tone both smug and tender.

“No, I’m not..” you retort, though your voice waveres under his intense gaze.

“Liar,” he whispers, his fingers trailing up your arm as he lets the tinsel slip through his other hand, the glittering strands brushing against your skin like a feather.

You shiver, swallowing hard as you struggle to hold his gaze. “The tree,” you manage to stammer, motioning weakly toward the half-decorated branches.

“Oh, I haven’t forgotten about the tree,” he murmurs, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “But I think it can wait a few minutes. Don’t you?”

Your breath catches as he tugs the tinsel taut between his hands, his smirk deepening. “Besides,” he continues, his voice dripping with mock innocence, “Lois said we should make it festive, didn’t she? I’d say this qualifies.”

“Tom!“

Your protests fell on deaf ears as he loops the tinsel over your head like a garland, letting it cascade down your shoulders. You swat at him, trying to hide your laughter, but he only grins, the glint in his eye unmistakable.

You sigh after he reaches into the box again to take a bauble and ‘accidentally’ runs his hand a little too far up your thigh.

“Focus”, you say, but you can’t suppress a smile.

“I am focusing,” he says, smirking as he took a step closer, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “Just not on the tree.”

You roll your eyes, still trying to fight back that smile. “If Lois knew how useless you’re being right now, she’d kill you.”

“Good thing she’s not here, then,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to that low, suggestive tone that makes your knees weak.

“Tom,” you warn, though your resolve is faltering.

“Yes, love?”

“Hang. The. Ornaments.”

“Fine,” he says with an exaggerated sigh, grabbing a bauble and hanging it on the nearest branch. “Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” you reply, though the flush on your cheeks betrays you.

Despite his constant teasing, the tree eventually starts to come together. By the time the star is perchs on top, you have to admit it looks pretty good—though you’d never let Tom take the credit.

As you stand back to admire your handiwork, Tom slips an arm around your waist, pulling you close. “See?” he says, his voice soft now. “Told you we could make it fun.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help smiling. “Merry Christmas, Tom.”

He leans down, brushing his lips against yours. “Merry Christmas, love.”

[the-bookdragons-hoard]

The Quiet by the Fire – Daemon Targaryen x fem!wife!reader

Summary: The last few weeks have been very stressful for your husband Daemon. Lots of council meetings and little one-on-one time took away the opportunity to relax. But you know how to help him unwind.

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x fem!wife!reader

Warnings: Smut; 18+; NSFW; Blowjob

Author’s note: English is my second language, please forgive me if I made any mistakes (:

Word count: 1.9 k

Other stories of mine

12 Days of Smuffmas

12 Days of Smuff

The corridors of the Red Keep are as still as the air outside, a biting cold that crept through the halls, settling into the bones. The torches lining the stone walls flicker and dance in the icy gusts that seem to seep from every crack. The warmth of the hearths in the chambers provides little comfort as winter claws at the edges of the castle.

You have been walking through the Keep for what feels like hours, searching. The echoes of your footsteps have been your only company, until at last, you find him. Daemon.

As you enter your shared chambers, the first thing you notice was the soft glow of firelight flickering against the walls, casting long shadows. The room is quiet, too quiet—nothing like the usual chaotic bustle of court life or the hurried, harried days Daemon has been enduring recently.

There, seated in a large chair by the fire, is Daemon. His black leathers, the ones he usually wears in moments of war and conflict, are replaced by a simpler tunic, his sleeves rolled up slightly to reveal the lean muscles in his arms. He isn‘t usually one to sit idly by a fire, yet here he is, his back relaxed, eyes focused on the pages of a book. The glow from the fire catches the sharp angles of his face, his silver hair catching the light. The usual sharp edge of his gaze is soft, more serene, as though the world outside this chamber no longer exists.

For a moment, you simply watch him. He seems... tranquil. At peace.

You move closer, the chill of the hall still lingering on your skin.

Daemon’s head turns as you walk further into the room, and his lips curl into that signature smirk of his. The one you have come to know so well, one that speaks volumes without a word.

You can't help but smile back. "I’ve searched every corner of the Keep," you tease, taking a step forward. "You’re not easy to find these days."

“Ah, I have my hiding spots,” he replies, his grin widening as he sets down the book on the table.

"I’m surprised you’re not out there, causing chaos," you say, as you settle into a seat beside him, your knees brushing his.

Daemon chuckles, the sound rich and full, warming the room even more than the fire could. “The chaos has been… persistent enough without my help.” His tone shifts slightly, darker, as his hand moves to the back of your neck, fingers gently threading through your hair. “And besides, I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Waiting for me?” you ask, raising an eyebrow, though you know the answer. Daemon has always been full of surprises.

“Hmm,” Daemon grins again, his voice dropping to a playful murmur. “Yes. I’ve had enough of the world for the moment. Enough of the courts and the politics. Enough of everything, except for you.” His fingers slide to your cheek, his touch warm against your skin. “You know, there are few things in this world that can still my restless nature. But you, my love… You have a way of doing it.”

His words are gentle, but laced with that familiar heat, the one that could turn a tender moment into something much more.

You lean into his touch, the quiet that surrounded you both seeming like a strange luxury.

The fire crackles softly, and you let the warmth seep into your bones as you watche him—his face lit by the flickering flames, his silver hair shining even brighter in the dim light.

"You’ve been stressed," you observe, your voice soft. It isn‘t a question; it is a truth you both knew. “You don’t look it now, but I can see it in your eyes when you think I’m not watching.”

“Thats true,” he agrees. “But you know, sometimes… I long for something simpler.” His thumb gently traces the line of your jaw, and for a brief, quiet moment, the weight of his words settles in the space between you. “Something… like this.”

The calm of the room settles over you both, and you can feel the tension of his usual restlessness slowly melts away in your presence.

“So,” Daemon begins again, his voice returning to that cheeky tone you know so well, “now that you’ve found me, what will you do?”

You smile, feeling the weight of the day lift. “Maybe I’ll stay here,” you whisper, leaning closer to him. “And keep you company”

Daemon's grin widenes, his arms wrapping around you as he pulls you closer, the warmth of his embrace stronger than the fire that burned beside you.

“Good,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your ear. “That’s exactly what I was hoping for.”

For a moment, Daemon remains silent, his head resting against the back of the sofa, eyes closed, though you could sense his awareness of you in every breath he takes. His other hand, the one not holding you, idly traces the fabric of your gown, the tips of his fingers brushing over your shoulder and down your arm, as if exploring you in a way that is both familiar and new.

The room is warm now, not just from the fire, but from the shared closeness that has begin to envelope you both.

Daemon pulls you closer into his chest, an action so characteristically possessive that it makes you smile.

You can feel his breath against your ear, warm and steady, and you shiver slightly, from the intimacy of the moment. His touch is different now—gentler, more insistent in a way that makes your pulse quicken, even as his demeanor remains calm, almost contemplative. The stress, the frustrations that have hardened him in recent weeks seem to melt away in the simple act of holding you close.

His hand, which has been tracing idle patterns on your arm, slowly moves to your side, his fingers grazing the curve of your waist. The touch, light at first, soon becomes more deliberate, as if coaxing something from you—something that you know he needs but would never outright ask for.

"You’ve been a comfort to me," Daemon murmurs, "But you know, sometimes... I need more than just your presence."

You lift your gaze, meeting his eyes, and see the flicker of something familiar: that mischievous gleam, the same one he wears when he is being naughty. It is no surprise that Daemon’s playful nature can’t stay dormant for long.

You lean back slightly, enough to see his face fully. “What are you saying, Daemon?”

He shifts, pulling you closer again, so that his face is hovering near yours, his lips barely an inch from your ear. His breath is warm, his presence overwhelming. "I’m saying," he purrs, "that I need you to take my mind off things. The stress. The politics. Everything." His fingers, now trailing down to the small of your back, hold you tighter, as if marking you as his. "You have a way of doing that, don’t you?"

"You want me to take it away?" you ask, your voice teasing, a smile playing at the corners of your mouth.

Daemon’s grin is unmistakable, "That’s what I said."

You feel his body shift as he sits up slightly, his hands roaming with purpose, but his touch still tender enough to draw out that soft side of him that so few got to see. His lips graze your cheek, brushing lightly against your skin, and then hover just below your ear, his breath warm against your neck.

His words laced with both frustration and desire. "I have too much to think about. But when I’m with you…" He pauses, his voice darkening. "It’s different. I don’t need to think. I just need to feel."

The warmth of his body, the way his fingers lingers over your skin, is intoxicating. It isn’t just about the touch anymore—it is the quiet urgency in his actions, the way he can’t seem to help himself as he pulls you even closer, his body pressing against yours with that same undeniable hunger that is both possessive and desperate. You smile at him before sliding off the sofa. He watches you, seeming confused for a second. But then he feels you unbuttoning his trousers. A smile plays around his lips, “It seems to me you already have an idea how you could help me relax.”

You just smile and Daemon lifts his hips so you can pull his pants down. You bite your lip lightly as you release his semi-hard length from his pants.

His hand slides into your hair, gently gripping it while your hand glides along his length. You lean forward and your lips glide along his length. Daemon sighs lightly, leaning back slightly as you work your way up to his tip. You feel him get harder, his cock twitching slightly.

Your lips wrap around his tip and he growls as you suck lightly. “Oh Love... I think this helps me relax,” he murmurs and his hand slides further into your hair, gripping lightly. Inch by inch you take his length deeper into your mouth. A salty taste spreads across your tongue and Daemon growls. You swirl your tongue around the flesh, dipping into the slit every now and then to get him to moan.

You take his cock out of your mouth, your hand slides up and down while your tongue continues to play with his head. Daemon growls again and his hips push up slightly, you know that he is getting impatient. But you want to tease him. You continue to gently suck on his tip, denying him full pleasure.

“Don't tease me,” he murmurs, and you try to suppress a smile. But you take his length back into your mouth, take him deeper. Slowly you drag your lips down his shaft until you are tearing up and close to choking before pulling up and repeating this motion.

Daemon grunts with relief, but his hand tightens. But then you choke slightly as he suddenly thrusts up. You want to protest, but he thrusts again. His hand holds your head while he fucks you in the mouth. You try to breathe calmly, but you moan. Your throat clenches around the tip of his cock.

“Fuck, yes!” Daemon growls as you choke again. Your hands slide onto his thighs, supporting you as he fucks your mouth. Daemon grunts and you feel more and more precum filling your mouth. Tears well up in your eyes and you feel his cock twitch. You suck and try to take control again, but Daemon has you firmly in his grasp.

Your one hand lightly grabs his balls, massaging them while you suck. Daemon growls and thrusts violently into your throat. You gag and at that moment Daemon comes, spilling his cum deep into your throat.

He growls and grunts, thrusting his hips forward until the last drop of his seed has left his length. You try to swallow everything, but you can't prevent some of the cum from leaking out of your mouth. You are breathing heavily, but like a good wife, you lick along his cock until you have captured all the remains of his juice. Slowly you release his still slightly twitching length from your mouth.

You wipe your mouth and look at him. He's breathing heavily, his eyes are closed. His hand is still in your hair, but slowly your grip loosens, sliding down to your cheek. His eyes are still closed until you turn your head and kiss the palm of his hand. His eyes open slightly and he smiles.

Slowly he pulls you back up onto the sofa and you follow his movement. As soon as you are sitting on the sofa, he pulls you close to him, buries his face in your hair while he still tries to catch his breath.

[the-bookdragons-hoard]

A Dragon’s Respite – Modern Daemon Targaryen x fem!reader

Summary: It took a lot of persuasion and teasing to convince Daemon to spend an evening without distractions or work. But of course Daemon manages to add his personal touch to the evening.

Pairing: Modern Daemon Targaryen x fem!reader

Warnings: Smut, masturbation (w and m)

Author’s note:

English is my second language, please forgive me if I made any mistakes (:

Word count: 1.7 k

Other stories of mine

12 Days of Smuffmas

12 Days of Smuff

The snow falls gently outside the wide glass windows, blanketing the world in a serene hush. The streets of King’s Landing—now an upscale urban sprawl rather than the medieval bastion it once was—twinkled with Christmas lights. Every building, tree, and street corner is adorned with shimmering bulbs and festive cheer. Inside the penthouse suite, Daemon sits on the plush leather sofa, his silver hair catching the soft glow of the fireplace.

You watch him with a mixture of amusement and affection as he swirls the mulled wine in his glass. He’d reluctantly agreed to this—your idea of a quiet, stress-free evening. No office calls, no high-stakes business deals, no planning his next move in the corporate battlefield that he dominated. Tonight, it is just the two of you.

“Admit it, you’re enjoying yourself,” you tease, sinking into the couch beside him.

Daemon smirks, his violet eyes—striking and sharp—narrowing at you. “It’s tolerable,” he replies, the faintest hint of a chuckle in his voice.

You nudge him with your shoulder. “Tolerable? You’re sipping wine with me, surrounded by Christmas lights, and you’re warm for once. That’s more than tolerable.”

His gaze softens as he looks at you. “Perhaps,” he concedes. “But it’s not my usual kind of evening.”

“That’s the point,” you say, grinning. “You work too hard. Even dragons need to rest.”

Daemon chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that always sends a shiver through you. He leans back, draping an arm over the back of the couch. “You’re lucky I like you, or I wouldn’t tolerate being called a dragon.”

“You love being called a dragon.”

His grin widens, and you can‘t help but smile in return. You reach for your own glass of mulled wine, taking a generous sip. The spices dance on your tongue, warming you from the inside out. You sigh contentedly, the alcohol buzzing pleasantly in your veins.

Daemon’s gaze lingers on you as you drink, his thoughts evidently wandering. The soft curve of your lips as you sip the wine seems to hold his attention longer than usual. He isn‘t the kind of man to relax easily, but tonight, something about the atmosphere—and you—has him loosening the iron grip he usually kept on himself.

“You’ve had more than me,” he observs, his voice low and teasing.

“It’s Christmas!” you declare, setting your glass down. “Or close enough. I’m allowed to indulge.”

Daemon raises a brow. “Indulge, huh?”

You nod emphatically, the alcohol giving you a playful confidence. “You should, too. Stop pretending you don’t like this.”

He leans closer, his face inches from yours, his smirk turning wicked. “Oh, I like it,” he murmurs, his voice a low purr.

The firelight dances in his eyes, and you suddenly feel the air between you shift. His hand, warm and steady, brushes against your thigh as he adjusts his position. You are acutely aware of how close he is now, how his scent—spiced cologne mixed with something inherently Daemon—wraps around you like a silken thread.

“You’re blushing,” he points out, his tone dripping with amusement.

“I’m not” you protest, though the warmth spreading across your cheeks betrays you.

Daemon’s smirk deepens. “Liar.”

You can‘t answer with words. In one fluid motion, he leans in and captured your lips with his.

The kiss is everything you’d expect from Daemon —intense, passionate, and completely consuming. His hand slides up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing against your skin as he deepens the kiss.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead resting against yours, he chuckles softly. “This,” he murmurs, “is why I agreed to your little evening. You always know how to make me forget everything else.”

You smile, your fingers trailing through his silver hair. “You deserve it,” you whisper. “Even dragons need someone to remind them they’re human sometimes.”

Daemon laughs, a rare, genuine sound that makes your chest swell with affection. “Careful,” he says, his voice laced with amusement. “You keep saying things like that, and I might actually start to enjoy Christmas.”

You grin, pulling him back into another kiss. “That’s the plan.”

His hand lingers on your thigh now, his thumb drawing lazy circles over the fabric of your skirt. His touch is light, teasing, but his gaze is anything but.

"You know," he begins, his voice smooth and low, "for all your talk about me being human, you seem to forget just how easily I can make you prove it."

You blink at him, your breath catching. "Prove it?"

He smirks, that dangerous, knowing smile that always makes you feel like you are walking into a trap—one you don‘t mind at all. “You like to think you’ve tamed me tonight, dragging me into this cozy little scene, mulled wine and Christmas lights. But I’m still me, love. A dragon doesn’t change its nature.”

His fingers trail just a fraction higher on your leg, enough to make you shiver. You try to mask your reaction, but his smirk told you he notices. “Daemon..,” you begin, trying to sound admonishing, but the way your voice wavers betrays you.

“What?” he asks, feigning innocence, though the playful glint in his eyes says otherwise. He leans in closer, his breath warm against your ear. “You said I’m only human. Don’t you think I deserve to feel like it tonight?”

You swallow hard, your heart racing as his words sink in. He isn‘t even trying to hide the teasing edge to his tone now. “And how do you propose I do that?” you ask, trying to keep your voice steady.

Daemon chuckles softly, the sound vibrating through you. “For starters,” he says, his fingers toying with the hem of your skirt, “you could take this off. It’s distracting.”

You shoot him a mock glare, though your cheeks were burning. “Distracting? You’re the one who can’t keep your hands to yourself.”

He grins, unabashed. “Can you blame me? You put so much effort into tormenting me with this little thing,” he says, flicking the edge of the skirt playfully. “It’s only fair I return the favor.”

His hand lingers, his touch still maddeningly light. He is watching you closely, clearly enjoying the effect he is having. You can feel the heat rising between you, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife.

“Daemon,” you say again, this time softer, more breathless.

He tilts his head, his expression softening just a fraction, though the wicked gleam in his eyes remains. “What?” he asks, his voice a low murmur. “You’re the one who wanted me to be human tonight. This is me, being very... human.”

You bite your lip, trying to suppress the smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. He has a way of turning every situation to his advantage, always one step ahead, always in control. And yet, there is something disarming about the way he looks at you now—like you are the only thing that matters in the entire world.

“Fine,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “But you’re not as smooth as you think you are.”

Daemon laughs, a low, rumbling sound that sends shivers down your spine. “Oh, love,” he says, leaning in until his lips are a hair’s breadth from yours, “you have no idea how smooth I can be.”

You just stand up and start to slide down your skirt.

“Happy?” You ask, but before you can sit down again, Daemon's hand is on your hip.

“Not quite yet,” he says, and his finger slides under the waistband of your tights. He slowly begins to pull them down. You look at him, “That's not fair... why should I be the only one to take off all my clothes?“ you complain, but you do him the favor... after all, he is also spending an evening with you, without any distractions from work.

“Who says you're the only one?” Daemon suddenly says, and you look at him as you hear his belt open.

You smile slightly as he pulls down his trousers. When your tights are on the floor, you sit down next to him again, grinning. He sits there in his boxer shorts and a small bulge can already be seen.

“Someone is happy,“ you say teasingly and giggle as Daemon pulls you closer.

“Careful,” he grumbles as his lips meet yours. His hand slides up your thigh and he grabs your ass lightly as a gasp escapes your lips.

“Don't be shy, help yourself,” Daemon says teasingly.

He doesn't hesitate and lets his fingers glide over the already damp fabric of your panties.

“Mhm... someone is happy,“ he grumbles and you bite his lip lightly in response. Suddenly he pulls you closer to him. This sudden movement makes you gasp again, your hand slides to his thigh, gripping lightly to support yourself.

“Oh shut up,” you mutter, but your desire wins out. Your hand slides to his crotch and he growls slightly as his hips twitch slightly. A sound of arousal escapes your lips too as Daemon pushes your panties aside and smears the wetness along your folds.

You grind against his fingers lightly and whimper as you cup his balls lightly through the fabric of his boxers. He growls again and you feel his cock twitch. Slowly, you let go of his balls and slide your fingers up his length while his fingers lightly circle your clit, making you whimper.

Your hand pulls down his boxers and his length springs free. You bite your lip slightly and feel your pussy clench around nothing at the thought of what awaits you. But at that moment, Daemon pushes his fingers inside you and you moan out. Immediately, he feels your walls clench around his fingers.

“You like that, don't you?“ he grumbles, but only a whimper escapes your lips. Yet your fingers grasp his length, pumping him gently. He stutters out a shaky breath, a groan choking in his throat as he desperately tries to regain his composure.

”Fuck... look how hard you make me,” he grunts, and his face contorts with pleasure as you continue to stroke him. You don‘t mind that he has stopped his movements, breathing heavily.

You lean into him again, kissing him as your hand moves faster, gripping him tighter. He grunts and you smear the precum along its length. Your pussy flutters around his finger as he adds another finger, moving again and stretching you further. His fingers thrusting in and out, his palm rubbing your clit with each thrust.

When he suddenly pushes you onto your back. You gasp but you let him. Your fingers let go of his cock as you lay back on the sofa, taking off your panties and spreading your legs for him. You whimper as he hovers over you, pumping his cock. Your fingers glide to your clit, rubbing it, and Daemon growls as his hand slides faster up and down.

“Yes... rub that perfect little cunt for me,” he grunts, as his other hand slides back to your folds and he slides his fingers back into your cunt. You moan as he fingers you – his movements encourage yours to speed up.

Daemon growls, his hand pumping faster, his eyes fixed on your pussy. Drop after drop of precum drips onto your folds. Your fingers rub the precum along your cunt. Your wet walls clench around his fingers, the smacking sound of his penetrating fingers filling your room. Your moans get louder and you feel the pressure in your abdomen as his fingers push into you. The lewd, wet sounds increase your arousal and your back arches as his fingers curl against your spongy inner walls.

“Daemon,” you whimper, and he growls.

“Yes... come on my fingers!” He growls, and you cry out.

Your pussy clenches around his fingers, trying to pull them deeper. Daemon feels his balls tighten and he moans. He pumps faster, watching his fingers thrust into your spasming pussy. And then he grunts loudly. He pulls his fingers out of your pussy before he cums on it. He grunts, pumps his length and milks it completely. As if in a trance, he watches wave after wave of searing hot cum cover your pussy and abdomen.

You lie in front of him, your eyes closed and breathing heavily. Daemon pants, trying to catch his breath and enjoying the sight of you.

“Maybe we should have more relaxed evenings like this,” he murmurs, and you giggle slightly before he leans down and kisses you.

[the-bookdragons-hoard]

I had to think about what I could write. First, it was cute, and then it got spicy, and my brain short circuit like 🤯

Then I was sitting there like:

Yours and Mine

Pairing: Abraham (Grantchester) x f!reader Warnings: Mild angst. Mentions of infidelity. Smut. Words: ~6k

Summary: She is bored of her life as the vicar's daughter. Abraham feels trapped in an unhappy engagement that is more obligation than choice. Together they learn that life isn't what you allow to happen to you, but rather what you choose to make of it.

Author's note: Based on this request. No tag list. Follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications.

“How many rounds of ham and cheese have you got there, love?” her father asked, wrapping triangles of egg and cress sandwiches in waxed paper, before he placed them in a wicker basket.

She stopped buttering the slice of bread in front of her, stilling her knife as she paused to count the slices of bread piled off to the side. “Eleven so far, twelve once I’ve finished this one,” she said, before continuing to spread margarine out towards the bread's edges.

“I think that’ll be enough then,” he told her, hefting the second, already full basket for emphasis, “ham and cheese, egg and cress, tuna and sweetcorn. That’ll do nicely.”

She simply nodded. Truthfully, it had been enough several sandwiches ago. There was enough food to serve an army, let alone a traveller’s camp. She wouldn’t mind if there was a genuinely charitable act of kindness behind the gesture, but there wasn’t. It was her father’s attempt to be nosy, thinly disguised as a good deed.

The arrival of the travellers in Grantchester a week ago had been the most exciting thing to happen in the sleepy, little village for ages. Ordinarily, it was the talk of the parish whenever someone took down their net curtains to wash them, so a small community setting down caravans in Mr. Ruskin’s field had set the place abuzz. As the village’s vicar, her father had taken it upon himself to take food up to the camp. On the surface, it was Christian kindness, a warm welcome to Grantchester. She saw her father’s actions for what they really were though; he wanted to size them up, to have information to pass back to his flock when they asked. She found the gesture patronising, it suggested they couldn’t look after themselves. She didn’t want to argue though, her father was not a man to change his mind easily, or be reasoned with, so she simply swallowed down her trepidation and continued layering slices of ham and cheese.

As she suspected, they were met with a frosty reception upon their arrival at the farm. Those that were not in their caravans, stopped what they were doing to stare coldly at her and her father as they approached with their heavy picnic baskets.

There were fires lit, and dogs barked and chased each other playfully. Piles of timber laid in neat stacks, having been chopped for firewood, and laundry hung on makeshift lines between fence posts. They appeared self sufficient, and she cringed, casting her gaze down at the mud that was splattered across her olive green wellington boots as her father’s voice rang out in the eerie silence, punctuated only by the distant clucking of chickens and faint crying of a baby from one of the caravans.

“Hello there,” her father called out loudly, “I’m Father Thomas, the vicar of the local church, and this is my daughter.”

Embarrassment blazed against the surface of her skin, making her feel too warm despite the gentle breeze in the air, as he said her name out loud, laying the blame of this obvious insult at her feet alongside his own.

“We wanted to offer you a warm welcome to Grantchester,” he continued, oblivious to the hostile atmosphere he was creating. “These are for you.”

She dared to glance up as he gestured forward with the picnic basket he was holding, and saw that not one of the people standing before them made a move towards them, or reached out to take it. After a moment that felt like it stretched on for an eternity, a tall, slender man with an axe slung over his shoulder, hinged forward at his hips, spitting heavily upon the ground. Her lips parted in shock, icy cold fingers of fear creeping up her spine as she watched him, an obvious answer to their offering - ‘we don’t want it.’ 

She set down her own picnic basket on the muddy ground, her aching shoulders grateful to be free of their burden, and looked at her father with wide, imploring eyes. “I think we should go,” she whispered, low enough for only him to hear, “this was a bad idea.”

He set down his own basket, with a slight nod, before grasping her shoulder and marching her away. She walked quickly, her heart pounding with fright as her father kept a firm hold of her, but it paled in comparison to the second hand embarrassment that made her want to curl in on herself. They had offended them, she knew they had, and she had done nothing to stop it.

“Perhaps once they try the sandwiches they’ll warm up to us a bit, we just need to give them time,” her father muttered nervously, more to himself than to her, as he kept his eyes fixed ahead as they walked back through the village.

“They don’t want our sandwiches, Dad,” she sighed exasperatedly, “I’m pretty sure we annoyed them.”

Her father huffed, finally releasing her shoulder as their house came into view, the tendrils of ivy that clung to its red brick front a more than welcome sight. His voice blustered with annoyance as he spoke. “Well, with that ungrateful attitude, they won’t last long around here. Good riddance to them.”

She pursed her lips, fighting the urge to roll her eyes. Of course it hadn’t occurred to her father that perhaps the group just wanted to be left alone. However, in a village that thrived on gossip and needing to know the business of absolutely everyone, they had chosen the worst possible place to settle if it was privacy they were after.

“I’ve made a call to Mr. Ruskin,” her father announced, two days later, stepping into the kitchen as she stood at the sink, washing the plates and cups from breakfast. “You’re to go and collect the picnic baskets from our…visitors this afternoon.”

The word ‘visitors’ came out of his mouth as though it were dripping with poison. She knew the word he longed to use in its place, it made her prickle with annoyance, and she squeezed the sponge unnecessarily tight, watching as soap suds expanded out of it, spreading through the murky depths of the warm water in the sink.

“Why did you need to call Mr. Ruskin to let him know that?” she asked, her voice tight as she glanced over her shoulder at him.

“I’m doing home visits this afternoon, so I can’t come with you,” he explained, adjusting the white clerical collar of his black shirt as he gazed absentmindedly out of the back door of the house. “Mr. Ruskin knowing you’ll be there will help keep you safe.”

‘Keep me safe from what?!’ she longed to shout at him, but instead she took her frustration out on a teaspoon, scrubbing the silver of it harder than she needed to as she frowned.

“They don’t mean us any harm,” she finally said, raising her head to look at her father as he continued to stare out into the back garden.

“You are kind, my girl” he told her, turning to look at her with a soft smile, “foolish, but kind.”

He turned and walked from the kitchen, his silent way of letting her know there was no further room for argument. It frustrated her endlessly, the way he would silence her, simply by removing himself from the conversation.

When she arrived at the camp later that afternoon, the picnic baskets were both overturned. She thought for a moment that the travellers may have grudgingly accepted the food, until she crouched down to lift them up. The waxed paper inside had been torn to shreds, what little food scraps remained were teeming with maggots. A sharp sound of repulsed shock escaped her throat before she could stop it and she stumbled back from the sight, falling firmly on her backside to the muddy ground.

“Think the dogs have probably been at ‘em,” a gruff voice came from somewhere above her.

She lifted her gaze, meeting a piercing pair of blue eyes that stared down at her. As she looked over the sharp lines of his face, she recognised him as the man that had spat in response to her father offering the sandwiches. He wasn’t carrying an axe this time. He loomed tall over her, shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbow, revealing the tattoos that littered his forearms, his hands tucked into his pockets. 

She quickly looked away, busying herself with righting the wicker hampers. “I’m sorry,” she said hurriedly, her heart pounding hard against her ribs, “it was my dad’s idea.”

He hummed in acknowledgement, and for a moment she thought he would leave her to it, until he spoke again. “Your dad’s idea for you to sit on your arse in the mud too, or you want a hand up?”

Her head snapped back up to meet his icy stare once more, her jaw agape in shock at how he had spoken to her. When her eyes met his again, he had a hand extended out towards her. She hesitated a moment, then reached up. His hand dwarfed hers as he grasped it; his calloused palm was rough, yet warm against her own as he tugged her easily to her feet. She found she only reached his chest as she stood once more, and she hastily stepped back, tugging her hand free of his, to put some space between them.

“Thank…thank you,” she stammered, looking anywhere but him as she attempted fruitlessly to brush her skirt clean.

A lazy smirk spread across his face as he watched her, before nodding down at the picnic baskets. “You gonna be alright carrying those?”

“Well, they’re mostly empty now,” she sighed, stooping to grab one, “so I should be fine.”

He raised an eyebrow, eyeing her curiously. “You sure? Would hate for a spoiled little thing like you to fall over again.”

She straightened, her brow furrowing into a scowl as she stared defiantly up at him, clutching a picnic basket by its wicker handle. “I am not spoiled,” she argued, “but you’re rude!”

He grinned at her, the predatory flash of his teeth stirring something warm and uncomfortable within her, before he stooped to grab the other basket. “I might be,” he said with a shrug, as he stood upright once more, “but at least I can admit to my shortcomings.”

She found herself relaxing as he fell into step beside her, walking away from Mr. Ruskin’s field and back towards the village. He had an easy presence, and she felt vindicated that she had been right to insist to her father that she had nothing to fear.

“Well, at least your dogs enjoyed the sandwiches, even if you didn’t,” she offered with a small smile.

He didn’t return it, glancing quickly over at her before continuing to look in the direction they were walking. “It’s the first time anyone’s ever tried to tell us to sling our hook with sandwiches, I’ve gotta admit.”

“We don’t want you to leave,” she said quickly, turning her head to try and meet his gaze, “that’s not what it was.”

“You might not mind us being here,” he said, “but your old man certainly does. We’re not exactly the sort of people that have the welcome mat rolled out for them when we settle somewhere.”

“It’s not like that,” she insisted, but he cut her off, stopping and turning to face her.

“Isn’t it? What did your dear old dad tell you before you came here today? Did he tell you to be careful, warn you we might be dangerous?”

She opened her mouth, she wanted to deny it, but as she stared at him, she found herself unable to lie. She quickly pressed her lips together, feeling her skin grow warm at the memory of her father’s concern for her safety. If only he could see her now.

“That’s what I thought,” he said, almost triumphantly, as he turned and continued to walk. “I’m Abraham, by the way.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Abraham, I’m–”

“I remember your name, Miss. Thomas, don’t worry,” he said with a wink.

That uncomfortable warmth returned and she quickly looked away, blinking as though the action would clear the sight of his crude gesture from her mind.

“Anyone ever tell you you’re skittish?” he asked her, “sort of like a cat. Miss. Thomas the cat…a tom cat!”

He grinned then, and she laughed. “You’re ridiculous,” she told him with a slight shake of her head, “so what are your plans for while you’re in Grantchester?”

“Got a couple of horses we’ve paid to stable with the farmer whose field we’re staying in,” he told her, “once they’re in racing shape, I expect we’ll sell them and then move on.”

She had always loved animals, and her eyes lit up at the mention of horses. She so seldom ever saw any in the village. “You have horses?!”

His gaze softened at her palpable excitement. “Well, yeah, they’re what pull our caravans. But these ones are special. They’re thoroughbreds, trained ‘em myself. You wanna meet ‘em?”

“Really?! I’d love to!” she smiled widely, stopping and turning to face him as her house came into view.

“This home then?” he asked, holding out the basket he held for her to take.

“Yeah, best not to go all the way to the front door, just in case…”

She trailed off, unable to finish her sentence, feeling ashamed.

“No troubles,” he came to her rescue, seemingly unbothered by the snub, “swing by tomorrow, and I’ll introduce you to the horses, if you want?”

“That’d be nice,” she said quietly, her eyes filled with silent apology as they met his.

“Tomorrow then,” he said with a slight nod “see you later, Tom Cat.”

Her heart fluttered in her chest at the nickname, and she watched him walk away until he was out of sight. Her father had been wrong – it wasn’t Abraham she found scary, just the way he made her feel.

“This is Fergus,” Abraham told her, his voice almost reverent as he ran his palm over the forehead of a large chestnut and white horse, before turning to stroke the crest of an equally impressive grey thoroughbred with a black mane, “and this is Paddy.”

She smiled softly, her wellington boots crunching against the gravel as she moved closer to the open stable door, and reached out a hand to run her palm over the soft, white muzzle of Fergus. It felt like peach skin, surprisingly soft to touch, making her giggle. “Hello, handsome,” she greeted the creature that loomed before her.

Abraham smirked that lazy smirk of his as watched her, his arm stretched over the bottom half of the stable door to rub absentmindedly at Paddy’s withers. “Careful, you’ll make me jealous.”

“Do these ones pull your caravans?” she asked, glancing over at him, an attempt to change the subject and draw the attention away from how his words made her stomach flutter.

Abraham shook his head. “These ones are just for racing, trained ‘em myself. We’ve got vanners that pull the caravans. They’re in the field with us, they don’t like to be stabled, they enjoy their freedom.”

“Bit like you then,” she quipped, turning back to Fergus who had begun to snuffle at her hands as they rested upon the stable door.

Abraham grinned, plucking sugar cubes from his trouser pocket and passing one to her. “Just like me, Tom Cat. You’re good with horses, y’know?”

“I’ve always loved animals,” she admitted softly, watching in fascination as Fergus took the sugar cube from her outstretched palm, devouring it in several loud crunches. “I used to take in injured birds from the garden and nurse them back to health when I was younger. I wanted to be a vet.”

“Don’t you want to be anymore?” he asked, glancing over at her as Paddy took a treat from his hand.

“I do,” she admitted sadly, pushing away from the stable door to lean against the brick wall beside it, “but my dad won’t allow it. Since my mum passed away, I’m all he has, he needs me around to look after the house while he runs the parish council.”

“That doesn’t seem fair,” Abraham said, frowning slightly, as he stepped towards her, brushing his hands off on his trouser legs.

It wasn’t fair. None of it was. She felt trapped in Grantchester, as caged as the birds she once tended to, before setting them free again. Her mother’s illness five years ago had been so sudden, her passing even more so. Since then, her father had clung tighter to her than ever, refusing to let her out of his sight for fear he’d lose her too. She understood, but it was a stifling existence, her dreams snuffed out alongside her freedom.

She gave a slight shrug, eager to be rid of the melancholy that had settled over her like a shroud. “It’s just how it is. But what about you? What are your big plans once you sell these horses?”

He sniffed, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “I’m getting married,” he said. There was no joy or excitement in his voice as he said it though, it was a fact he relayed to her as though she had just asked him what the time was.

“Oh...well, that’s nice,” she smiled tightly, hating the way her heart sank at his admission “So, what’s her name?”

“Luella,” he replied, and again the response was flat, lacking in any enthusiasm. “Need to brush the horses down, you fancy lending a hand?”

Her brow furrowed at his sudden change of subject and she wondered why he was so cagey about sharing any details of his engagement. She decided against pressing the issue, not wanting to make an already uncomfortable situation worse, and accepted the brush that he held out to her.

She relaxed as she worked, enjoying the presence of the horses, but also the easy companionship and conversation that Abraham offered. He made her laugh in a way that meant that by the time the afternoon was over, her cheeks ached from the tug of smiling.

By the time she arrived home, her cigarette trousers were dusty with hay and horse hair. She left her wellington boots in the porch as she pried them off, not wanting to traipse mud and straw across the living room carpet.

Her father was settled into the high back armchair by the fireplace – the place he always sat when he was home, that had been his designated seat in the house her entire life. He looked up from the book he had been reading as she entered, giving her an appraising look from over the rims of his reading glasses as his brows raised slightly.

“And where have you been that’s brought you home in such a mucky state?” he asked.

“I was up at Mr. Ruskin’s, helping out with the horses,” she said, subtly backing away towards the stairs. It was a vague amswer, but honest enough that she hoped it wouldn’t prompt any further questions that he would be upset by the answer to. She was wrong.

Her father frowned slightly, tucking his bookmark between the pages he’d been reading, before he closed his book and placed it upon his lap. “Mr. Ruskin has no horses,” he prodded, sitting straighter in his chair.

“No, they’re Abraham’s,” she said quietly, placing a hand upon the bannister, as if the very action of touching the beginning of her escape upstairs could save her.

“There’s no one in the village by that name,” he studied her closely as he said it, making her squirm with discomfort.

Finally, she snapped, huffing exasperatedly as she threw her hands up in defeat. “He’s one of the travellers, but you knew that didn’t you? You just wanted to make me feel like I’ve done something wrong!”

Her father sighed, setting his book upon the arm of the chair, before he rose and came to stand before her. His features were soft, but there was something steely in his gaze, the look that meant whatever was about to leave his mouth was final. “Your naivety puts you in danger,” he explained, “I don’t wish to scold, I only mean to keep you out of harm’s way.”

“They weren’t dangerous to you when you were forcing your charity on them,” she argued, before shrinking back as the steel in her father’s eyes became fiery fury.

“A kindness they met with hostility,” he said, his voice raising slightly in anger. “They are not like us, do you understand? You’re to keep away from this Abraham, I won’t tell you again!”

“He’s my friend,” she protested, her voice weak even to her own ears. A sense of helpless desperation clawed at her insides, making her feel hopeless.

Her father turned his back to her, moving back towards his chair – his retreat from the argument letting her know that it was over. Nothing she said would matter. “Get a bath,” he said softly, sitting back down again, “you stink like a farmyard.”

It had been three days since she had seen Abraham, three days since her father had told her to keep away from him. She hated how she had been cowed into submission by him. Her compliance to his demands wasn’t through blind obedience, however, more out of fear for what her disobedience would mean for the travellers currently settled in the farmer’s field. Her father held power in the village, he led the parish council, one word from him and Mr. Ruskin would have no choice but to move them on. Keeping away meant keeping them safe, keeping Abraham here.

Her father had been called away to central Cambridge for the day for a meeting with the bishop, leaving her alone in the house, and she had chosen to spend her morning in the front garden. The sunshine beamed gently down upon her hair, warming her from head to toe as she knelt by the flowerbed, her gardening gloves caked in soil as she gently uprooted weeds, careful not to disturb the colourful pansies that decorated the edging of the lawn. The lurid pinks, purples and yellows were a stark contrast to the bright white of the picket fence that enclosed the garden – a very pretty looking prison, as much to her as it was the flowers.

“You avoiding me, Tom Cat?”

Her head snapped up at the sound of Abraham’s voice, her heart pounding as her eyes widened at the sight of him, taking in the way he smirked down at her as he leaned casually against the fence. “You can’t be here,” she hissed.

“Why not?” he asked, eyes narrowing as he stood up straight, almost looking down his nose at her. “Pal says he saw your old man headed up the station road this morning, so I know he’s not home.”

She moved to stand, not enjoying how the imbalance in their positions made him talk down to her, and tugged off her gardening gloves, dropping them into the flower bed. “If anyone sees you…” she sighed, tugging a hand through her hair, hating the way the words felt in her mouth as she said them. “Look, my dad’s told me to keep away, so I am. I’m not doing it because I don’t want to be friends, I’m doing it because I am your friend. He’ll have you run out of the village if I keep seeing you.”

“Alright, so we stop seeing each other then,” he shrugged, but there was a mischievous twinkle in his blue eyes that set her belly aflutter with nerves.

“What does that mean, exactly?” she asked, folding her arms around her middle as her eyes tightened in suspicion.

He grinned, his fingers absentmindedly tracing over the tattoo of a pin-up girl that adorned his forearm. “Maybe you’re doing something else you’d normally be doing when you’re…not seeing me.”

She rolled her eyes in exasperation as realisation dawned upon her. “So, you want me to lie?”

“Lie is such an ugly word, Tom Cat,” he scoffed, shaking his head as he leaned forward slightly, grasping the pickets of the fence, meeting her eye line. “What do you like to do in your spare time?”

“I dunno,” she mused, pursing her lips, as she poked absentmindedly at the flowerbed soil with the toe of her shoe. “I enjoy going to the library.”

Abraham hummed in acknowledgement, nodding as he appeared to think for a moment. “Alright, so let’s say you go to the library, you check out a book, you happen to bump into me on your way out. You’ve not lied about where you’ve been, have you? We can spend some time together in secret, and if your old man happens to ask anyone if you were, in fact, at the library then the answer’s a yes, and you’ll have a book to prove it.”

She huffed a laugh, unable to stop the way her mouth spread into a grin as she bowed her head slightly, before lifting her eyes back to his. “You’re a bad influence.”

“And yet I’m not hearing you say no to the idea, Tom Cat,” he grinned back.

And she didn’t say no. Over the two weeks that followed, her and Abraham met up in secret twice a week. She would go to the library, check out a new book – and return the one from her previous visit – always something she had read before, just in case her visits prompted any questions, she could tell her father what the book was about. Then Abraham would meet her around the side of the library building and they’d slip away into the woods together. They had found a clearing, away from prying eyes, with an old tyre swing that they took it in turns to mess around on, while they chatted, joked and passed away idle, sunny afternoons together.

“What book is it today then?” Abraham asked.

He was gently moving the tyre so it spun in slow circles as she sat in it, her latest borrow from the library clutched in her hands. She watched as the woods panned slowly around her, a glacially paced kaleidoscope of browns and greens. An involuntary smile playing upon her lips every time he spun slowly back into view.

“Anne of Green Gables,” she told him, “it’s one of my favourites.”

“Oh, yeah? What’s it about then?” he asked, placing a hand atop the tyre to halt its movements as she swung to face him once more.

The intensity with which he looked at her was almost too much, and she found herself dropping her gaze back to the floral design of the book cover as she answered. “It’s about an orphaned girl who’s sent to live with a family, and she struggles to fit in,” she explained, running her fingers over the edges of the pages. “She keeps getting into trouble, and there’s this one boy, Gilbert, who she hates to begin with, but they fall in love. They get married in one of the sequels.”

“And is that why you like it?” he asked, dipping his head to catch her eye, making her feel too warm beneath his gaze. “Because of the romance?”

“I guess so,” she admitted, with a slight shrug, suddenly feeling shy, “it’s not something I know much about.”

“No?” he asked, drawing back and cocking his head. “Never had a special someone, Tom Cat?”

She laughed then, finding the very idea ridiculous as she shook her head. “I’ve never even been kissed.”

He stepped closer then, one hand still holding the tyre steady, while the other grasped her chin gently, tilting her face up to look at him. Suddenly, it wasn’t funny anymore, and her lips parted as she sucked in a sharp breath, the tips of their noses brushing as that piercing stare of his dipped down to her mouth and back up again.

He pressed at her bottom lip with the pad of his thumb, tugging gently, and it made her insides boil, simultaneously wanting to pull away, to flee from him, while also longing to lean forward, to melt into him and stay there forever.

“Tom Cat…” he breathed his pet name for her, little more than a whisper, and that was all it took for her defences to crumble, for her to lean the rest of the way in and press her lips to his. It was clumsy on her part, she didn’t know quite what to do with her lips, but he gladly dominated, his mouth moving against her own in a way that had heat licking between her legs as it pooled in her lower belly.

His hand dipping down, moving to grasp the bare flesh of her thigh beneath her skirt was what broke the spell, fear and guilt washing over her like a bucket of ice water. She pushed him away, causing him to stagger backwards, as she leapt down from the tyre, her eyes wild and heart pounding, as she sought to put some distance between them.

“No!” she shouted, trying to sound angry instead of upset as she planted her feet shoulder width apart, gripping her book so hard that her knuckles blanched with the force of it. “No! You don’t get to do that to me. I won’t…I won’t be a part of your adultery, you’re engaged! How dare you?!”

Abraham blinked, brow furrowing in confusion, steadying himself as he stepped towards her. “You said you’d never been kissed before, I was just–”

“Oh, and you just thought you had the right to be my first?” she seethed, too angry to allow him to finish what he was saying. “I’m just the poor little village girl, trapped in her boring life, who you come along to have some fun with before you go off to be free again, and live happily ever after? Is that it?! Am I a joke to you?”

By the time she finished speaking, her eyes burned with unshed tears and her chest heaved with the force of the emotions that boiled inside of her. She had never been so angry, so indignant in all her life.

“I don’t want Luella!” Abraham shouted back, the words exploding out of him the moment she had said her piece. It made her jump, startling her out of her own upset as she watched his face contort into an angry scowl, his nostrils flaring as he continued. “I never asked for her, and she doesn’t want me either. She’s been knocking off that farmer ever since we arrived here. It’s an arranged marriage, neither of us want it. So I’m not making an adulterer of you…I wouldn’t…I wouldn’t do that to you…”

“Oh,” was all she managed to breathe out, so quiet it was barely audible over the chittering of the birds within the woods. The outrage she had felt had dissipated so quickly, she didn’t know what to do with herself, she felt silly, overwhelmed by the need to apologise, but she held her tongue. Sorry wouldn’t undo any of this.

He exhaled heavily, dragging a hand through his coiffed hair, flattening it slightly. “I might spend my life on the road, but I’m not any freer than you are,” he said, his voice quieter than before, almost sad. “Meeting you…it’s made me the happiest I’ve been in ages, and if me kissing you has buggered that up, then I’m sorry.”

Her heart twinged at his words, her expression softening as she stared at him with sympathy. “You haven’t ruined anything. It was perfect,” she admitted, “I wish…I wish there was a way for me to make this better for you…easier for us.”

“Run away with me, Tom Cat,” he said earnestly, taking another step towards her, twigs snapping beneath his feet as he narrowed the distance between them. “Just you and me, let’s do it.”

The sincerity in his wide, blue eyes was almost too much for her to take, it was a crazy idea, and she couldn’t help the bark of laughter that forced its way from her throat. “You can’t be serious? That’s a reckless idea.”

She hated herself for saying that the moment she opened her mouth, seeing the flicker of hurt that crumpled his features momentarily, before he straightened, clearing his throat. “Yeah, was only joking,” he said quietly, “it’s a stupid idea.”

Her mind raced as she laid in bed that night. She couldn’t shake the guilt at laughing at him when he suggested they run away together. The more she thought about it, the less silly it seemed. They were both unhappy, trapped in lives that neither of them wanted or had asked for, and truthfully, Abraham coming to Grantchester had been the happiest she’d been since her mum was alive. Surely it couldn’t hurt to explore what their lives might be like if they threw caution to the wind and allowed themselves to pursue what their hearts desired? She would be out from beneath her father’s thumb, and Abraham would be rid of an obligation to a woman he didn’t love.

By the time their next meeting at the library came a few days later, her mind was made up. She returned her copy of Anne of Green Gables, not bothering to borrow a new book, too filled with breathless excitement as she rounded the corner of the building to meet her secret friend.

“How would it work?” she blurted, coming to stand before him as he leaned against the red brick building.

“How would what work?” he asked, eyeing her curiously as he pushed away from the wall.

“Us,” she replied, as they began to walk in the direction of the woods, “if we ran away together.”

“Seriously?” he asked, glancing sideways at her. “I thought you said it was a stupid idea.”

“I didn’t say it was stupid,” she sighed exasperatedly, as he helped her over the turnstile into the patch of woodland that had become their rendezvous spot. “I said it was reckless, and it is, but the more I think about it, the more I want to.”

She gasped as he crowded into her space, walking her back through the scattered twigs and leaves of the woodland floor, until her back made impact with the solid trunk of a tree.

“D’you mean it?” he questioned, grasping her chin, his eyes searching hers for any trace of insincerity. 

She nodded, feeling as though she had forgotten how to breathe as a grin spread across his face, lighting up his sharp features with pure elation.

He pressed a soft kiss to her lips, making her whine as he pulled away all too soon, just as she’d begun to kiss back.

“I’ll sell the horses,” he told her, before pecking his lips softly against each of her cheeks. “We’ll use the money to buy a little house somewhere. You can get a job at a veterinary office, just as a receptionist until you get more experience. I can get more horses, and earn my living training and selling them on. You could help me look after them, since you’ll be a vet. We could have chickens, and maybe a goat.”

Each statement was punctuated by a kiss, each promise delivered with a press of his lips to her cheeks, her nose, her eyes. It made her stomach flip as the idea of them running away together, building a future together, became more tangible.

“I want that more than anything,” she whispered, her hands balling into fists in the white cotton of his shirt.

“Then that’s what you’ll have,” he promised, nipping at her bottom lip.

This time, when his hand disappeared beneath her skirt, she didn’t stop him. Every nerve ending in her body cried out for his touch, and she clung to him, held up only by the front of his shirt, and the rough tree bark at her back.

“We’ll get married,” he murmured, as his fingertips danced along the inside of her thigh, the calloused skin a hardened juxtaposition to the softness of her own. “And we’ll have babies.”

She moaned, the sound foreign to her ears as he toyed with her knicker elastic, before dipping his fingers inside. She had never been touched like this before, and she pressed her face into the crook of his neck, her thighs trembling with the effort to keep her on her feet as Abraham swiped slowly through the wetness that had gathered between her legs. She focused on his voice, and all of the pretty promises he made, afraid that if she dwelled upon the physical sensation for too long then she would bolt like the frightened cat he claimed she was.

“I’ll make you feel like this every day, Tom Cat,” he uttered, his fingers swirling over her sensitive bud, causing her to keen and her hips to buck. “Because I’ll be yours and you’ll be mine.”

As his fingers dipped back towards her entrance, gathering more of her arousal to help aid in the circles he pressed against her, she mewled, the coil tightening in her belly, pushing her dangerously close to a sensation she had only ever experienced at her own touch.

“Would you like that?” he asked, speeding up his movements.

She nodded, her mind too foggy with the impending onslaught of sensation to form a proper answer, but that simply wasn’t enough for Abraham.

“Say it,” he insisted.

“Y–yours,” she keened, before white hot oblivion overtook her. Her body shuddered against the tree as she yelped in surprise, clinging tightly to him as she convulsed against his touch, a pleasant ache bursting forth and making her feel hot all over.

He worked her through it, only stilling his fingers when her hips began to move away from his touch instead of chasing it. “Mine,” he murmured back with a smile.

[the-bookdragons-hoard]

So beautifully written. My heart is yearning, and my teeth are rotting from all this fluff.

Aemond Targaryen - A Tapestry of Us

Summary - After four years of parenthood, they steal a quiet moment of intimacy, only to be interrupted by their triplets. Between sword fights and bedtime stories, love, laughter, and exhaustion fill their lives. Though even in the chaos, they are exactly where they belong.

Pairing - Aemond Targaryen x reader

Warnings - Sexual content (smut!)

Word count - 2095

Masterlist for Aemond • House of the Dragon General Masterlist.

It had been four years since I'd brought three beautiful children into this world—a journey that transformed my life in ways both exhausting and indescribably wonderful.

Viserra, Vaegon, and Viserion had become a lively, mischievous trio who filled our days with chaos and laughter, and yet, Aemond and I treasured each of them beyond measure. 

They were the very pulse of our hearts, and their boundless energy—though at times overwhelming—reminded us daily of the love that built our family.

As I entered our chambers, I quietly closed the door behind me, exhaling as I leaned against it for a moment before moving toward Aemond. 

I practically melted into him, collapsing into his arms, I pressed against him, burying my face in the crook of his neck, breathing in his scent—smoke and leather, a hint of something wild beneath. 

He chuckled, wrapping me close, his chest solid and warm beneath my cheek as I let myself rest in his embrace.

"Exhausted, are we?" he murmured, his tone teasing, yet gentle. I only groaned in response, too tired to feign anything but complete surrender.

"Vaegon and Viserion were eager to demonstrate their new sword techniques. Apparently, Ser Criston had taught them a series of 'perfect' moves they couldn't wait to show off." 

I pulled back a little to look into his one good eye, smiling at the memory. 

"They insisted on doing each one with exact precision—it took ages," I said, shaking my head with fond exasperation.

Aemond's eyebrow arched slightly, a knowing smirk gracing his lips. "And I'm assuming our dear Viserra wasn't particularly helpful?"

A louder groan escaped me this time. "That girl insisted I read her a princess story for the hundredth time until she could practically recite it from memory," I replied, unable to suppress a smile despite my exhaustion.

He chuckled, his hand finding its way to my hair, fingers slipping through each strand with tender ease. 

I closed my eyes, savouring his touch, allowing myself to melt into his embrace a little more.

"Are they asleep now?" he asked softly.

I nodded, letting myself lean into him as his hands settled on my waist, steady and reassuring. A pause lingered between us, a delicate silence filled with the soft rhythm of our breathing.

"So," I ventured, a spark of playfulness lighting up my voice, "what should two parents of sleeping children get up to?"

His eyebrow lifted, his eye narrowing with that familiar, mischievous glint. I traced a finger along his tunic, feeling the firm warmth beneath, my own heartbeat quickening.

"That depends," he replied, his hand slipping beneath the hem of my nightgown, his fingers grazing the sensitive skin of my thigh, setting every nerve alight. 

"What is it their mother desires?"

I tilted my head, breath catching as a slow smile crept to my lips. "Ravenous... for something only you can satisfy," I whispered, feeling his breath hitch as a thrill sparked between us.

His hand stilled for a moment, and he drew in a breath, his gaze darkening as it met mine. 

Slowly, he lifted the nightgown over my head, his touch reverent, as if he were unwrapping something precious. He took his time, every movement measured and careful, as he let his hands glide over my skin. 

I shivered, the cool air of the room mingling with the warmth of his palms.

His own clothes fell away with an ease that spoke of familiarity, yet every touch, every lingering moment felt new. 

He leaned in, his lips finding the curve of my neck, trailing a line of soft kisses that ignited a spark deep within me. 

I tilted my head back, offering more of myself, and he accepted it gladly, his mouth moving slowly, savouring each inch of skin.

He pressed his lips to my collarbone, his teeth scraping lightly before he soothed the spot with his tongue. I arched into him, craving more of that exquisite mix of pain and pleasure.

When our eyes met again, the intensity in his gaze made everything else fade away. 

He cupped my face, his thumb brushing over my cheek as if he couldn't believe I was there as if he wanted to memorize every detail.

"You are everything," he whispered, his voice rough with emotion.

My breath hitched as he lifted me, settling me onto the bed with a gentleness that belied the strength I knew he possessed. He followed, his body pressing against mine, his warmth enveloping me completely. 

There was no rush—only a shared rhythm, a dance of touches and whispered words that filled the space between us.

Slowly, he guided us together, our bodies meeting in a way that felt like coming home. 

I gasped softly, my hands finding their way into his hair, holding him close as he moved with exquisite care, each motion a promise, each breath a shared vow. 

His lips found mine, and the kiss was deep, unhurried as if we had all the time in the world.

Our bodies moved together, a slow, sensual symphony that spoke of love, desire, and everything in between. 

Each caress, each lingering touch, drew out every sensation, making the moment stretch endlessly. I held on to him, feeling every heartbeat, every sigh, as he murmured words of love against my skin.

"I've missed this," I breathed, pressing my forehead to his as we paused, our breaths mingling.

"And I you," he replied, his voice low and full of need.

He moved again, a slow and deliberate pace that made every nerve come alive. Our world narrowed to this—the heat of our bodies, the closeness, the connection. 

It was more than pleasure; it was the reaffirmation of everything we had built together, every moment that led us to this point.

Time became meaningless as we found solace and strength in each other's arms, letting the rest of the world fall away. 

When at last we stilled, hearts racing and breaths mingling, there was no need for words. 

We simply held each other, savouring the lingering warmth, content in the knowledge that here, in this quiet space, we were exactly where we belonged.

As we lay entwined, savouring the warmth of each other's presence, a soft silence settled over the room. Our breaths slowed in unison, hearts still racing but gradually finding a peaceful rhythm. 

We basked in the afterglow of love and comfort, a quiet bubble where the world's demands momentarily faded away.

Aemond's fingers traced idle patterns along my bare back, his touch soft and reverent. "This," he murmured, voice low and husky, "I've missed this more than I can say."

I lifted my head slightly, meeting his gaze. "Me too," I whispered, leaning in to press a lingering kiss to his lips. We closed our eyes, content to simply hold each other in the stillness.

The peace, however, was fleeting.

Suddenly, a loud banging erupted from the chamber doors. It came fast and insistent, each thud reverberating through the room. 

We both jolted upright, the spell between us shattered as reality came crashing back in.

Aemond groaned, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes. "Gods help me," he muttered, voice heavy with exhaustion and amusement.

I sat up, wide-eyed, clutching the sheets to my chest. "It can't be..."

The banging continued, accompanied now by the unmistakable voices of our children.

"Mama! Father!" Vaegon's high-pitched demand cut through the door, followed closely by Viserion's excited chime. "We need to tell you something!"

"And I'm thirsty!" Viserra's voice, more indignant and impatient than her brothers', punctuated the chaos.

"I thought you said they were asleep," Aemond said, disbelief mixed with a hint of wry humour in his voice.

I shot him an exasperated look, hastily gathering my nightgown and slipping it back over my head. "I thought they were!"

We scrambled to get dressed with the frantic energy of parents caught off-guard. Aemond fumbled with his tunic, his fingers betraying their usual precision as he hurriedly pulled it on. 

I laughed softly, unable to help myself as I fought to smooth my hair back into some semblance of order.

Just as Aemond was pulling on his breeches, the chamber doors flew open, and the triplets spilt inside in a flurry of excitement. 

Vaegon was at the front, brandishing a wooden sword proudly, while Viserion trailed close behind with a slightly smaller replica. Viserra, meanwhile, clutched her favourite toy dragon tightly, eyes alight with a mix of triumph and impatience.

Aemond turned to face them, arms crossed over his chest. "I was under the impression," he said, his tone a mix of mock sternness and playful affection, "that all of you were asleep."

Vaegon's eyes widened in innocence, though the mischievous glint couldn't be hidden. "We were... but then we weren't!"

"We had to show you something!" Viserion chimed in as if that explained everything.

Viserra nodded, unbothered by the intrusion. "And I'm thirsty."

I exchanged a glance with Aemond, biting back a laugh. He ran a hand down his face, clearly trying to maintain his composure. "Very well, come here."

The children rushed forward, piling onto the bed in a tangle of limbs and giggles. I adjusted my nightgown, pulling Viserra into my lap and smoothing the little girl's hair. 

"Did you at least try to go back to sleep?" I asked though I knew the answer before they all shook their heads vehemently.

Vaegon waved his sword enthusiastically, narrowly missing Viserion's ear. "We've been practising! Ser Criston said we're going to be the best."

"Almost as good as father," Viserion added, beaming at Aemond with hero worship clear in his eyes.

Aemond softened, his earlier exasperation melting away as he reached out to ruffle Viserion's hair. "I have no doubt you will surpass me someday," he said, voice warm with pride.

Viserra tugged on my sleeve. "Can we read a story? The one about the princess?"

I sighed, feigning weariness even as I smiled. "Again? But you already know every word."

"Please?" Viserra's eyes sparkled with hope.

There was no denying any of them, and soon we found themselves cocooned on the bed, the triplets nestled between us. 

I began the story, my voice weaving through familiar words as the children listened, occasionally chiming in with their favourite parts. 

Aemond lay back, one arm wrapped protectively around his family, his gaze soft and full of love.

As the story wound down, the triplets' eyes began to droop, but their energy was not yet entirely spent. Vaegon shifted closer to me and spoke up, a thoughtful expression on his face. 

"Mama, do you think we'll have another brother or sister one day?"

The question hung in the air, and I shot a sidelong glance at Aemond, who immediately perked up, a mischievous smile tugging at the corner of his lips. 

"That's an excellent question, Vaegon," he said smoothly, his one eye glinting with barely restrained amusement. "I, for one, think it's a splendid idea."

Viserra's eyes lit up with enthusiasm. "Oh, yes! I want a sister!" She leaned into me, practically bouncing. "Can we, Mama?"

Viserion nodded eagerly. "I'll teach them all the sword moves!"

I felt my cheeks flush and rolled my eyes at Aemond, who looked entirely too pleased. "Don't encourage them," I muttered, though I couldn't keep a smile from breaking through.

"Oh, but it seems they're very eager, love," Aemond replied, feigning innocence. 

He leaned in closer, his breath warm against my ear as he whispered low enough for only me to hear, "Perhaps we should consider their request."

My eyes narrowed, though there was a sparkle of humour. "You're enjoying this too much."

He shrugged, entirely unrepentant. "I'm simply a father who listens to his children."

"Uh-huh," I replied, giving him a warning look even as the corners of my lips twitched upward. 

Turning back to the children, I forced a mock-serious expression. "We'll see. But for now, it's time for bed."

Groans erupted from the triplets, but they settled quickly, our arms wrapping around them as they nestled closer. 

"Another babe..." Vaegon mumbled sleepily. "Maybe one day."

As the children finally drifted off, I looked at Aemond, shaking my head with affectionate exasperation. "You're going to pay for that later."

He chuckled softly, pressing a kiss to my forehead. "I'm counting on it."

Aemond met my gaze, both of us exhausted but content. "Next time, I'm barricading the door," he added, a teasing lilt to his voice.

I laughed softly, leaning into him. "Good luck with that."

We held each other, surrounded by the gentle rise and fall of our children's breaths. And as the first light of dawn crept into the room, we realized we wouldn't trade these moments for anything in the world. 

Together, we drifted into a light, precious sleep, knowing that chaos and love would greet us anew with every sunrise.

A/n - Kind of a part 2 for 'Embracing the Unexpected' also happy valentines day <3

Aemond tag list - @darylandbethfanforever9 @lessdepressy @veesuguru @targaryendestiel

[the-bookdragons-hoard]

This was so hot, I love how his brain short circuited and he went from cocky to moaning mess. 🥵🥵🥵

Snowbound Warmth – Tom Bennett x female!reader

Pairing: Tom Bennett x fem!reader

Summary: You and your boyfriend Tom had actually planned an evening at the pub. Meeting friends and spending a nice time together. But a snowstorm threw a spanner in the works. But that's just how Tom is: he doesn't let it spoil your evening.

Warnings: 18+ NSFW, blowjob

Author’s note: English is my second language, please forgive me if I made any mistakes (:

Word count: 1.7k

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12 Days of Smuffmas

12 Days of Smuff

The snowstorm has descended on Manchester with a ferocity that neither Tom nor you had anticipated. By the time the first flakes started to fall, Tom had been pacing about his room, eager to take you to his favorite pub, a snug little spot tucked into a side street. It was the kind of place where the laughter of patrons mixed with the clink of glasses and the occasional strains of a piano. He’d planned to get you both a few drinks, maybe even dance if the mood struck him.

But now, the world outside his window is nothing but a swirling blur of white. The snow comes down so heavily it obliterates the view of the cobblestone streets and gas lamps he loves. It frustrates him; plans dashed by something as uncontrollable as weather.

He lets out a low sigh, exhaling smoke from the cigarette perched between his fingers. The warmth of the room contrastes starkly with the winter’s chill seeping through the cracks in the old building. His gaze shifts from the window to you, sitting cross-legged on his bed, casually flipping through a magazine. You look so at ease, lost in the glossy pages, and it brings a soft smirk to his lips.

“Y’know,” he says, his tone teasing as he flicks ash into a tray, “I was really hopin’ to show off my fancy moves at the pub tonight.” He turns fully to face you, leaning against the windowsill, the cigarette dangling lazily between his fingers. “Turns out, Mother Nature’s got other ideas.”

You don‘t look up immediately, still engrossed in an article, but you hum in acknowledgment. That only spurs him on.

“Oi,” he says, stepping closer, his cheeky grin growing. “Don’t go ignorin’ me now. It’s bad enough the weather’s givin’ me the cold shoulder.”

Finally, you glance up, raising an eyebrow. “Are you sulking, Tom?”

“I’m just sayin’—seems like a shame for two good-lookin’ people like us to waste a night doin’ nothin’.”

You close the magazine and set it aside. “Well, what do you suggest? Unless you’ve got a snowplow hidden somewhere, we’re not getting out of here anytime soon.”

Tom takes a long drag of his cigarette, his eyes narrowing playfully as he considers his options. He blows out the smoke slowly, then stubbs out the cigarette in the ashtray on the bedside table. “Well,” he starts, his voice dropping into that familiar, mischievous lilt, “if we’re stuck here, we might as well make it… interesting.”

You tilt your head, intrigued. “Interesting how?”

“Oh, I dunno,” he says, sitting down beside you on the bed, his knee brushing yours. “Thought maybe we could find a way to keep warm. You know, since the snow’s got it freezing in here.”

You laugh softly, but his tone wasn’t entirely unserious. He leans back on his elbows, watching you with a glint in his eye, the kind that always spells trouble—or fun, depending on your perspective.

“You’re terrible,” you say, shaking your head.

“And you love it,” he shoots back, grinning. “Come on, what else are we gonna do? Sit here and stare at the walls? Nah, I reckon we make the most of it. Could even have our own little dance—no pub required.”

He pushes himself upright again, extending a hand toward you. “What d’you say? Give us a twirl, eh?”

You laugh again but take his hand, letting him pull you to your feet. There isn‘t much space in his modest room, but Tom doesn‘t care. He starts humming a tune, spinning you around with a surprising amount of grace.

It doesn‘t take long for his lack of rhythm to become glaringly obvious. His steps are clumsy, a bit too eager, and he nearly trips over his own feet as he spins you around. You can’t help it—you burst into laughter, doubling over as he fumbles to regain his footing.

“Oi, what’s so funny?” he protests, though his grin is wide. He catches your hands to steady himself, his eyes twinkling with playful defiance. “I’m a bloody brilliant dancer, I’ll have you know.”

“Brilliant?” you repeat through giggles. “You’re all left feet, Tom!”

He gasps in mock outrage as if you’d just wounded his pride. “That’s rich, comin’ from someone who hasn’t danced a single proper step tonight!”

“I can’t when you’re stepping all over me,” you tease, dodging his attempt to pull you closer.

“Alright, alright,” he says, raising his hands in surrender, though the smirk on his face tells you he isn‘t done. “If dancing isn’t your thing, maybe we ought to try somethin’ else.”

You narrow your eyes, wary but amused. “Like what?”

He doesn‘t answer immediately, letting the question hang in the air as he wraps an arm around your waist, tugging you close again. His other hand rests lightly on your hip, his thumb brushing against the fabric of your skirt. The touch is casual enough to feign innocence, but the cheeky glint in his eyes betrays him.

“Oh, I dunno,” he says after a beat, his voice dropping an octave. “Reckon I’ve got a few ideas.”

“You always have ideas, Tom. Doesn’t mean they’re good ones.”

His hand on your waist tighten just slightly, pulling you even closer. “I’ll have you know, my ideas are bloody brilliant. Genius, even.”

“Right,” you reply, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “Let me guess—this one involves me doing all the work while you sit back and enjoy yourself?”

“Now you’re catchin’ on,” he quips, his grin widening. He leans in, his breath warm against your ear as he murmurs, “What d’you say, love? Thought you might fancy makin’ me feel better after all this weather ruined our plans.”

You shov him playfully, laughing as he tumbles back onto the bed. “You’re ridiculous,” you say, shaking your head.

Tom props himself up on his elbows, watching you with that same cheeky smirk. “Ridiculously charming, maybe. Go on, admit it—you love me for it.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile betrays you. Snowstorm or not, Tom knows exactly how to keep things interesting—and keep you laughing, even as his hands wandered in hopes of turning the evening decidedly in his favor.

When you finally collaps back onto the bed, Tom props himself up beside you, his face inches from yours. “See?” he murmurs, his voice softer now. “Told you we’d find a way to pass the time.”

“Still terrible,” you tease. He leans in just slightly, his nose brushing against yours. “And still irresistible,” he whispers.

You giggle slightly, “Go on, tell yourself that,” you whisper teasingly and he growls slightly while his hand moves up your thigh. He kisses the tip of your nose, almost a gentle gesture if you didn't feel him gently pressing his growing hardness against you. You giggle again, “Somehow I think I know what you have in mind for how we can pass the time,” you whisper, and he pretends to be clueless. “I dunno what you mean...“ he mumbles with his typical grin. ”Ah... okay...“ you say and straighten up to slide off the bed. Tom watches you and raises his eyebrows slightly. ”Mhm... I think I like the way you think,” Tom says, leaning back relaxed, his arms behind his head, watching you.

You kneel between his legs, your hands gliding up his thighs, and you know how his cock is throbbing with desire in his pants. You bite your lip slightly, your hands sliding higher. Tom responds with a small growl as he watches your fingers play with the button of his pants. You slowly unbutton them, his hardness obviously pressing against the fabric of his pants.

Slowly, you push down his trousers, his length springs free. You reach for it, your teeth still not releasing your lower lip. You let your thumb slide over the tip of his cock, smearing the precum. Your eyes focus on Tom's face as his cock twitches in your hand. His eyes are closed and he moans slightly. You love these moments when his cheeky nature fades into the background and you just see pure emotion flowing through him.

Slowly, you lean forward and your lips close around the tip of his cock. “Fuck,” Tom growls, his hips twitching involuntarily as you gently suck. The salty taste of his precum spreads across your tongue. He slides one hand into your hair, gripping it lightly, while you try to take in as much of his length as you possible.

Your teeth slide gently over his skin and he grunts softly. Your muffled moans fill the room as more precum fills your mouth. His hips thrust up slightly, but this time deliberately, and you gag slightly. Your throat tightens around the tip of his cock and Tom groans.

Your mouth slides up and down, trying to get all of his length into your mouth. You try to breathe relaxed through your nose, but the thrusting of his hips prevents you from doing so. The hand in your hair pushes you down slightly and you moan again, feeling the throbbing between your thighs intensify. Your head bobs, lewd, wet sounds fill the small space you both occupy, accompanied by Tom's grunts.

“Yeah, babe... take me deeper in your mouth...” he grunts and you let your lips slide up and down faster. The thrusting of his hips becomes sloppy, his cock twitches violently in your mouth, almost impatiently. You continue to suck his twitching cock, swirling your tongue around the slick head, while your one hand starts pumping his length and then you hear the moan.

Tom’s legs tensed, driving himself deep into your salviating mouth once more, hot cum spilling down your throat as you eagerly swallow his cum. He is panting and gruntin while his cum is filling your mouth. His hand clenches in your hair and you moan, trying to swallow all his cum. When his cock stops twitching and you have swallowed everything he has given you, you release his cock from your mouth with a pop and wipe your mouth clean.

You look up at him and smile. He is breathing heavily, his eyes closed, a slight smile on his lips. You slowly get up and crawl back onto the bed. Even before his eyes open, you gently kiss his lips.

He hums contentedly, his breathing still heavy.

“Have you thought of something like that?“ you whisper and you feel him smile slightly.

“This is pretty close...” he mutters and suddenly grabs you. You squeal slightly, but giggle as he pushes you onto the bed and rolls on top of you.

[the-bookdragons-hoard]

Screaming, crying. You broke my heart with this! How could you?! 😫

Heart Without a Home

Pairing: Modern!Aegon II Targaryen x f!reader, Modern!Aemond Targaryen x reader Warnings: Angst, emotional infidelity. Word count: ~9k

Summary: Her and Aegon have been an item for three years, and she couldn't be happier, though she has grown to dread special occasions spent with his overbearing family, particularly his moody younger brother. A Christmas week with the Targtowers gets to the root of all of the ill feeling.

Author's note: Day twelve of Smuffmas - home videos and voyeurism. No tag list. Follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications.

The dull morning light of late December winter filtered through the curtains that they never remembered to close, the room silent save for the sounds of their quiet breathing. Aegon laid naked in her bed, sprawled on his front across her body, his head rested upon her bare chest with his eyes closed as she cradled him. Her fingertips gently massaged his scalp in soothing circles. She could feel from the oil within the roots that he was a few days past the need for his hair to be washed. Ordinarily she wouldn’t care; she loved it when Aegon’s fluffy platinum hair was a little on the dirtier side, it sat flatter to his head and looked less unruly, retaining the scent of peppercorn and bergamot that seemed to cling to him, that she had grown to love.

Yet she knew she would have to tell him to wash it, if only to save him from the disapproving comments from the woman from whom he had inherited his wild mop of curls, though hers were a vibrant auburn. It was Christmas Eve, and they were due to travel back to Aegon’s family home for three days; the shortest possible amount of time that his mother, Alicent, would allow and the longest that he would agree to. His younger siblings, Aemond and Helaena, usually always arrived the day before and stayed right through until New Year’s Day. That would have felt like a prison sentence to Aegon, so a compromise had been settled upon, and she intended to ensure it was as painless for him as it possibly could be. That included pre-empting his mother’s criticism of his hygiene and encouraging him to wash his hair.

“Come on, sleeping beauty,” she urged softly, shifting slightly beneath him as she stroked her hands down his back, “you need to jump in the shower.”

“Mmmm…don’t want to,” he groused sleepily, clinging tighter to her, nuzzling further into her body.

She chuckled, attempting to push the dead weight of him from her but failed miserably. “We have to leave soon. If we aren’t there by lunchtime then we’ll never hear the end of it from your mum.”

“Oh, god forbid we aren’t there for her horrible smoked salmon and cream cheese bagels,” he bemoaned, rising slowly up on his elbows to look at her, his brow furrowed in an expression that she was sure was intended to convey his annoyance, but just appeared adorably tired and grumpy to her. God, how she loved that face.

“But,” she countered, tapping his nose lightly with her index finger, “you get to be warm under all that nice, hot water while muggins here has to coax your dopey mutt outside in the freezing cold and try to convince him to go for a piss. I’d say you’ve got the better end of the deal.”

Aegon smirked, rolling off of her and onto his own side of the bed, nearest the wall, where Sunfyre’s bed was. He peered over the edge, watching as the large golden retriever laid on his back, all four paws in the air, snoring quietly. “You know, if you and the hound wanted to head back for a few days, I’d be happy to stay here,” Aegon muttered quietly, giving Sunfyre’s paw a playful shake, which caused the dog’s eyes to open, his tail wagging enthusiastically as he saw who loomed above him.

She rolled her eyes, disentangling herself from the sheets and rising from the bed, beginning to rummage through her chest of drawers for something suitable to wear to take the dog outside in. “Very funny. Shower. Now.”

“Ugh, fine,” Aegon huffed, pulling himself from the mattress. He paused, still utterly naked as he stood in the doorway. “Will you at least have a bacon sandwich ready for me when I’m finished?”

She turned to him, a black hoodie clutched in her hands, and tilted her head, her tone one of mock confusion. “And spoil your appetite for your mum’s lovely smoked salmon?”

“Oh, fuck off,” he grinned before heading across the hallway and into the bathroom.

She laughed, turning her attention back to getting dressed. 

Aegon’s playfulness had been what had first drawn her to him when they had met three years prior. There was a shitty, little live music venue that she frequented most weekends – The Blue Pearl – the sort of place that’s dingy, smelly, with damp in the walls, and toilets that are always blocked, yet somehow the bar still feels justified in charging the better part of six pounds for a pint that’s more line cleaner than it is beer. The night they had met there had been a local indie band playing there, which had drawn a crowd of less than twenty people. Aegon had burst through the doors, already half drunk, with three friends in tow and offered to buy drinks for every person in the place. That was how she knew he was different – nobody could afford to do that – this was the sort of place where if you were going to buy a drink from the bar, it would likely be a coke that you’d then add the vodka to that you’d snuck in inside a hip flask. His thousand watt smile had charmed her and, at the end of the night, when he’d insisted that he couldn’t possibly leave without a kiss and her phone number, she had known she was in trouble.

In the beginning, things hadn’t been that serious. Aegon was a party boy, and she knew she wasn’t the only girl he was seeing. She didn’t mind, and was happy to keep things casual, because he was fun to spend time with. But as time had passed, and feelings developed, she found herself the sole recipient of his affection and, therefore, was pulled deeper into his world, able to understand the full extent of the wealth he was born into and the trauma that that brought with it. Aegon rebelled against the status of his family, choosing to live in a rented house share with his friends, Martyn, Leon and Ed. The few times she had visited she had been disgusted by the squalor the four men had allowed the house to fall into. Once, Leon had bought everyone in the house a Cadbury’s Creme Egg as an Easter gift and Martyn had accidentally sat on his and squashed it into the sofa cushions. She had been horrified to find it still there when she’d visited again a few weeks later. There was also the crusty, old assortment of boxers and socks that covered the surface of the white, plastic picnic table that stood in the back garden; Ed had laid them out there to dry one sunny summer’s day, having done a rare load of laundry, and then just never bothered to bring them back inside. They were still there by Halloween.

She had been pleased when Aegon and Sunfyre had begun spending more and more time at her place, not just because it meant she didn’t have to endure the hovel that they lived in, but because the two of them made her cosy, little flat feel like a home. Now, she and Aegon basically lived together in all but name. He only ever returned to his place when he needed clean clothes or to cool off if they had argued.

Aside from coming from old money and, therefore, leading a lifestyle that was so extravagant it made her uneasy, Aegon’s family maintained a dynamic that was strained at best and volatile at worst. Thankfully, Aegon kept his visits limited to special occasions only, meaning they only spent time with the family for birthdays and Christmases. His mother was an anxious woman and, though it was clear she loved her children dearly, she was often overbearing, not knowing how to properly express her care for them all, so it often came across as needless fussing and nagging. Their father had passed away, and Alicent had remarried to a man named Criston. He was harmless enough, though so broodingly quiet that she went out of her way to avoid being left alone with him. Otto, their grandfather and Alicent’s father, was a stern man who reserved the harshest of his criticisms for Aegon. He disapproved of his decision not to join the family’s investment banking firm, regularly reminding his grandson that there was no stability in the events marketing startup that he had founded with his father’s inheritance money. Aegon’s brother, Aemond, was indifferent to the point of being cold, he offered little in the way of conversation, only speaking when spoken to, and seemed content enough to keep to himself. Besides Aegon, Helaena was her favourite of all the family. She wasn’t particularly warm, but her nature was gentle and if you engaged with her regarding a topic she found interesting, she would animate in a way that made her features light up as she talked excitedly.

Their father had a daughter, Rhaenyra, from a previous marriage. Though she had never met her, and she was never present at any of the gatherings she attended, her influence hung over them all like a shadow, creating contention and bitter resentment. Aegon liked a drink, but she hated how paralytic he allowed himself to become when visiting his family. A means to cope with the ill feeling, a way to make the time pass quicker, perhaps both, she couldn’t tell, but seeing him in that state broke her heart. He was damaging himself, but also reaffirming his family’s opinion that he was a waste of space. She knew he was anything but.

They just had to get through tonight and then Christmas Day, and then they’d be driving back home again by Boxing Day lunchtime. And if there was nothing else to look forward to, at least she could console herself with the abundance of gifts. Alicent always ensured that each of them had a huge pile to open. Hers were always fairly generic; high end skincare, an expensive bottle of bubbly, artisanal chocolates and designer label accessories, but each year there was also one that was so personal, so thoughtful, that it made her feel guilty for ever hesitating to come in the first place. The first year she had spent Christmas with them all, she had received a platinum bracelet inlaid with glittering sapphires, and last year she had been given a first edition of her favourite book, signed by the author. As dysfunctional as the Targaryens were, they were insanely generous to those closest to them.

***

The tyres of her little Fiat 500 crunched over the gravel of the driveway leading up to the property,  the lengthy track was flanked by rows of perfectly sculpted hedges, beyond which sat acres of immaculately manicured lawn on either side. The drive from the gates at the roadside all the way to the house felt almost as long as the journey from her flat. 

“Got enough petrol to make it up the drive?” Aegon asked, casting her a smirk from where he sat in the passenger seat, fingers drumming restlessly upon his knees.

“You make that joke every time we visit,” she sighed, turning the steering wheel to maneuver the vehicle as the gravel track curved around the large, circular fountain that stood at the front of the massive house.

“And I’ll keep making it until it gets a laugh out of you,” he quipped, turning to unclip his seatbelt.

Ordinarily, his earnest intent to make her smile would have made her heart melt, however, this time the sentiment fell upon deaf ears. She stiffened as the familiar feeling of inadequacy settled upon her like a stone as the faded red brick building, encased in trailing ivy leaves, came into view. As she had predicted, everyone was there already; outside was Alicent’s sleek, forest green Mercedes AMG GT, with Otto’s Rolls Royce Phantom and Criston’s Porsche Cayenne parallel parked at either end. She drove around to where Helaena’s sky blue VW Beetle was situated, with Aemond’s Triumph chopper propped precariously behind it, and pulled to a stop in front. It was the least intimidating of all the vehicles present, so she felt more comfortable leaving her beaten up little car there.

She turned the engine off and, as though sensing her discomfort, Aegon’s hand grabbed hers, intercepting her as she reached to unfasten her seatbelt.

“It’s just three days and two nights,” he reassured her, giving her hand a gentle squeeze, “we’ve got this.”

No sooner were they out of the car and unloading Sunfyre and the bags from their respective places on the back seat and the boot, than Alicent was hurrying from the house, her long auburn curls flowing behind her.

“We were starting to think you weren’t coming,” she said, kissing them both on their cheeks in greeting. She paused, looking intently at Aegon as her hands smoothed his hair, before calling over her shoulder to her husband, who was already making his way towards them. “Criston, fetch the bags!”

“Hello, you two,” he greeted softly, divesting them of their luggage, “safe journey?”

Sunfyre’s excited bark came in place of an answer. The large, golden dog bounded across the drive and into the house, wagging his tail.

“Oh god,” Alicent said, frowning in concern, “I don’t think Aemond has locked Vhagar away.”

“Right then, shall we?” Criston asked with a raise of his eyebrows, as Alicent chased after the golden retriever.

Once inside, she caught a quick glimpse of a fluffy, black cat racing up the grand, wooden staircase in the foyer, with Sunfyre in hot pursuit.

“I’ll take these to your room,” Criston gestured with their bags, following the same way the animals had gone.

“Shouldn’t we go and get the dog back?” she asked, turning to Aegon.

He shrugged. “He’ll come back when he’s ready. If Aemond didn’t want Vhagar used as a chew toy, then he’d have kept her shut away.”

Placing a hand at the small of her back, he moved her further into the house. No matter how many times she visited she would never stop being awed by the sheer opulence of it. The floors were polished hardwood, a dark mahogany hue that matched the panelling of the walls, which stopped three quarters of the way up to make way for dark bottle green paint and brass sconces. Alicent had decorated for Christmas, in an understated and tasteful manner as always. A garland wrapped around the bannister of the stairs, complete with crimson bows, and sprigs of holly had been hung from each fixture on the wall.

“I couldn’t find the cat, but I’m sure Aemond will sort her out,” Alicent announced, appearing from the kitchen with an open bottle of champagne in her hand, “we’re just through here.”

She ushered them through to the dining room. A large, oval table sat in the centre of the room, draped in a green and gold table cloth, with candles in the middle and places set for seven people. A spread of bagels, cream cheese and smoked salmon was plated and ready for serving. The head of the table nearest the fireplace set into the far wall had been left empty as always, a mark of respect for Viserys, the deceased patriarch of the family.

Otto was seated beside the empty space, with Helaena opposite him. Her large African grey parrot, Dreamfyre, perched upon her shoulder. Helaena was busy tearing pieces off of a bagel and offering them to the bird, watching intently as her large black beak pecked indelicately at them.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that at the table,” Alicent complained, placing the champagne into an ice bucket as Otto rose from his seat to greet his grandson with a clapped hand on the shoulder, and his girlfriend with a chaste kiss on the cheek, before taking his seat again, and gesturing for them to do the same. She sat next to Otto, with Aegon on her other side.

“I’m not keeping her in a cage,” Helaena protested, looking up at her mother with a slight frown as she continued to feed Dreamfyre from her upturned palm. “Vhagar and Sunfyre get to roam freely.”

Alicent rolled her eyes, taking her own chair at the opposite head of the table, next to Aegon. Her fingers automatically moved to straighten her cutlery. “Well, this is the last time any of you bring your wretched beasts with you.”

“You say that every time,” Aemond said quietly, slipping into the room with Criston trailing behind.

“Well, this time I mean it,” she said frustratedly, rubbing her temples.

Aemond sat between Helaena and Criston, which meant he was directly opposite her. It was as though the cloudiness of his left eye somehow intensified the stare of his right, and she squirmed beneath the intensity of his piercing blue gaze, suddenly grateful when Criston reached across to offer her a flute of champagne, giving her an excuse to look away.

“It wouldn’t be a problem if Aegon would keep that fucking mutt of his under control,” Aemond snapped, shooting an accusatory glance towards his brother.

“Enough,” Alicent commanded, forking a slice of salmon onto Criston’s empty plate, “have you and Helaena even bothered to greet either of them yet?”

“Hello,” Helaena offered with a soft smile, “when did you get here?”

“Literally just arrived,” she replied, giving a quiet thanks to Aegon as he passed the salmon plate to her.

“That’s nice,” Helaena nodded.

“Not the word I’d use,” Aegon muttered under his breath, earning himself a stern look from Alicent.

She served herself, before passing the plate to Otto. He paused as Helaena held her hand out, refusing his attempt to dish out food for her.

“I’m vegetarian, Grandad, remember?”

Otto bristled, eyes moving from the salmon and then back to his granddaughter. “Oh…right. Well, I’m sure your mother can find you some ham in the kitchen.”

“Can’t eat that either,” she said apologetically as he sighed in exasperation. She finally relieved him of the serving platter and passed it to Aemond, who promptly set it back in the centre of the table.

“Are you not eating?” Alicent asked, leaning forward to look at him with large, imploring eyes.

“Had a protein shake after my run,” he explained curtly, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest.

“Right,” Alicent responded, her tone clipped with annoyance. She raised her glass in mock toast, “merry Christmas, everyone,” then took a swig before setting it heavily back upon the tabletop and beginning to spread cream cheese across a bagel in hurried, angry movements.

“Maybe you could set some salmon aside for Vhagar?” she suggested to Aemond with a slight smile, attempting to ease the tension.

“It’s smoked, it’s bad for her,” Aemond replied irritably, causing her to shrink once again under the weight of his scrutinising stare.

Looking to her side, dread formed like a stone in her stomach as she watched Aegon drain his flute of champagne – doubtless, the first of many. The rest of the meal passed in tense silence, until they were finally all excused. 

The rest of the evening was awkward and uncomfortable, as Criston and Alicent busied themselves in the kitchen with meal preparation for Christmas dinner the next day, Aemond disappeared upstairs to his room, and Otto engaged Helaena in a game of Jenga that she seemed to be more interested in encouraging Dreamfyre to perch upon than actually play. That just left her with Aegon, and ordinarily she would love that, except for the fact that he had polished off most of bottle of champagne to himself at lunch, and had since demolished a bottle of red wine, so was now barely lucid as he sat next to her on the plush sofa, leaving her to watch Home Alone on the plasma screen TV by herself.

As the evening wore on, and everyone in the house slowly started making their way to bed, she decided it would probably be a good idea to attempt to relocate Aegon to his own room, instead of leaving him on the sofa where he was currently sprawled with his mouth open. 

She leaned over him, gently shaking him. “Come on, Aeg, let’s go upstairs.”

He groaned softly in his sleep but didn’t move or wake up. She sighed in frustration, tucking her arm around him and attempting to lift him. His dead weight was too much for her and he flopped heavily back against the cushions after she’d only managed to raise his torso by a few inches.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she hissed in annoyance, raking a hand through her hair.

“Problem?” Aemond’s voice asked softly from behind her.

She turned, seeing Aemond holding an unlit cigarette in one hand and a lighter in the other, clearly on his way through the living room to the French doors that opened out onto the patio of the back garden.

“He’s passed out and I can’t lift him,” she responded, her voice tired and resigned.

“Of course he is,” Aemond muttered with a roll of his eye. He pocketed his lighter and slipped his cigarette behind his ear, before moving towards the sofa. “Here, let me.”

She watched as Aemond crouched, tugged Aegon by his armpits into a seated position, and then hoisted him over his shoulder – his older brother's torso hung ragdoll down his back, while his legs draped across his front.

“Where do you want him?” he asked, his usually measured voice slightly strained under the weight of Aegon.

“Just in his room, need to put him to bed.”

She followed behind Aemond as he walked slowly through the living room, down the hallway and then up the stairs. It felt awkward to walk behind him in silence, but she supposed if there were ever a time for the pair of them to have their first proper conversation then it wouldn’t be when he was carrying her blind drunk boyfriend to bed.

Walking down the landing, he stopped at the third door on the left, gently pushed the door open with his foot before flicking the light on, then unceremoniously dumped Aegon onto the bed. His body bounced slightly as the mattress dipped and then righted with the force, but he remained fast asleep.

She looked around the room, seeing how neatly their bags had been left at the end of the bed. It was a shrine to Aegon’s adolescence; Blink 182 and glamour model posters were plastered across the walls, while lads’ mags and old beer mats were strewn across every surface. There was a framed photo that sat upon the bedside table, of a teenage Aegon grinning from ear to ear as he held Sunfyre as a puppy. Her gaze fell upon the dog bed in the corner, where he was sleeping.

“Shit, I forgot to take him outside for a piss before bed…”

“I’ll do it,” Aemond offered, leaning against the doorframe, “I was going out for a smoke anyway.”

“Thank you,” she smiled softly, turning back to face him as he whistled to get Sunfyre’s attention.

The dog stretched slowly out of his bed, his tail wagging lazily as he padded towards Aemond. “You know, you could use this as your get out of jail free card,” Aemond told her, his hand absentmindedly ruffling the dog’s ears.

“What do you mean?”

“Leave. While he’s still passed out. No one would blame you.”

She huffed in amusement, shaking her head. “I’m not ditching Aegon just because he’s had a bit too much to drink.”

Aemond eyed her appraisingly for a moment, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips. “Hm. Lucky Aegon.” He turned away, patting his thigh as he walked, calling out to Sunfyre, “come, hound!”

She laid there feeling restless and irritated for ten minutes; Aegon’s snores made it impossible to even entertain the idea of falling asleep. She climbed out of bed, pulling the curtain back a fraction as she watched Sunfyre amble around the lawn of the back garden, illuminated by the security floodlight, cocking his leg against Alicent’s rose bushes.

As her gaze fell upon the patio she made eye contact with Aemond, his face turned up towards the window as smoke rose in a delicate spiral from the lit end of the cigarette he held between two fingers. She hadn’t expected him to be watching her and the sight made her heart skip a beat, a shocked gasp escaping her as she let go of the curtain, allowing it to fall closed again.

“Fucking hell,” she whispered to herself as she climbed back into bed, waiting for her pulse to stop racing in panic, “I hate it here.”

***

“Are there any coconut ones?” Helaena asked, kneeling on the carpet in front of where Aegon sat on the sofa, pawing through a tin of Quality Street.

“Disgusting choice, and all yours,” he responded, plucking out a few of the blue foil wrapped chocolates and dropping them into her upturned palms.

Helaena smiled happily, turning away and crossing her legs as she began to unwrap one of them.

It was Christmas morning, and Aegon had woken up surprisingly early and blissfully hangover free. She attributed it to how early in the evening he had passed out, though she didn’t feel so fresh herself, having been kept awake half the night by his snoring and her own anxiety over her encounter with Aemond.

He had said nothing to her that morning, simply sat at the breakfast bar in the kitchen, sipping coffee and reading the news on his iPad. Aegon was not so serene, he had dragged Helaena out of bed and insisted she show him where their mother had hidden the Christmas chocolates.

“Oh, horrible children!” Alicent scolded, knotting her dressing gown at the waist as she entered the lounge and caught sight of the half empty tin of sweets. “What about breakfast?”

“It’s alright, Mum, I’ve got that covered. Here,” he plucked a Green Triangle from the container and carelessly sent it sailing towards her.

Criston stepped from behind her, reaching up and plucking it from the air before it could make contact with her temple.

“Unbelievable,” Alicent said in annoyance, throwing up her hands in resignation, “I don’t know why I bother.”

She looked guiltily at the pile of empty wrappers in her lap, then at Aegon, as Alicent stomped away with Criston in tow. “Maybe we should put them away.”

“Why would she buy them if she didn’t want us to eat them?” he argued, unwrapping a caramel swirl. “They aren’t just there for us to admire.”

“You aren’t supposed to sit and eat them all to yourself either, you greedy little shit,” Otto glowered, stepping into the doorway.

“Not to worry, grandad,” Aegon grinned, “I’ve got a toffee penny here with your name on it.”

“If you even think about throwing a chocolate at me, my boy, I will make sure you live to regret it.”

Helaena whipped around, wide eyed, and snatched the tin from Aegon, placing it on the carpet before slamming the lid back on. “We shouldn’t have these out if they’re going to upset people.”

“Good,” Otto conceded with a nod, “I trust the three of you plan on changing out of your pyjamas at some point today?”

“Would it be okay if I jumped in the shower?” she asked sheepishly, embarrassed to ask as she tried to ball up the sweet wrappers in her lap as discreetly as possible.

“There are four bathrooms in the house, dear, you don’t need to ask,” Otto responded with a curt nod, before ducking back out of the room.

She raked her hands through her hair, her mind feeling foggy with fatigue and her insides churning with a combination of too much early morning chocolate and dense unease. Aegon gripped her arm gently as she rose from the sofa, and she paused, turning to look at him.

“You’re in a mood.”

It was a statement, not a question. Aegon knew her too well, of course she was, but what was she supposed to say?

You got so fucking drunk last night that you passed out and basically left me alone on Christmas Eve, then kept me awake all night with your snoring.

Despite knowing what a tense situation this is, you’re not making it any better for yourself or anyone else by deliberately going out of your way to be antagonistic.

She said neither of those things. Now wasn’t the time to reprimand him or start an unnecessary argument; there’d be enough of those today. 

“Just tired, missing our bed,” she replied quietly, offering him a small smile of reassurance.

“Course you are,” he grinned, releasing her arm with a wink, “I’ll make sure to tire you out properly tonight.”

Helaena made a noise of disgust, clapping her hands over her ears, and she used that as her excuse to leave the living room, and head upstairs to one of the bathrooms.

Just today to get through, then we can go home tomorrow, she thought as she sat on the edge of Aegon’s bed, wrapped in a towel, skin still damp from the shower.

She had left the door ajar, and as it creaked open she expected to see Aegon walk through. She jumped slightly as Aemond appeared in the doorway instead.

His seeing eye widened momentarily, before he cast his gaze towards his feet. “Fuck, sorry, door wasn’t closed, so I thought–”

“Aegon’s downstairs, if you’re looking for him,” she interrupted, not wanting to suffer through any further awkward apologies.

“I was looking for you, actually,” he replied, his eye darting quickly away again as it landed upon her once more. “Mum wants to do presents, and I was coming upstairs to grab this anyway—” he lifted his silver camcorder in explanation, “so she asked me to get you.”

She was grateful that they had both seemingly reached a silent agreement not to address the accidental eye contact through the window from the night before – the more she thought about it, the more she realised there wasn’t really anything to talk about anyway.

“Be there in a minute,” she said.

He nodded, stepping out of the room and closing the door fully behind him.

Every time she visited, Aemond had his video camera out at some point. Alicent had gushed to her once about all of the videos he had captured over the years of special occasions, how talented he was at framing shots perfectly and then editing the footage into something that captured the mood of those precious memories. In the three years she had been a part of their lives, she had seen him filming plenty of times but never actually gotten to see the finished product.

Once dressed and back downstairs, everyone was already gathered in the living room, It’s a Wonderful Life playing quietly on the TV. Otto sat in the armchair, while Helaena sat crossed legged at his feet, with Dreamfyre perched upon her shoulder. On the sofa on one side of the coffee table, Criston and Aemond sat at opposite ends, Criston slowly sipping a coffee while Aemond fiddled with his camcorder. Aegon reclined with his feet up, stretched out across the sofa on the other side, a hand lolling down onto the floor, absentmindedly stroking Sunfyre. Alicent knelt beside the huge Norwegian fir tree in the far corner of the room, its red and gold ornaments twinkling as she sorted gifts into piles.

She patted Aegon’s legs gently, and he lifted them enough for her to sit before resting them across her lap.

“Aegon…” she began, quietly enough for only him to hear.

“Mmm?” he jutted his chin upwards slightly, regarding her with a gentle raise of his eyebrows.

“You know Aemond’s video camera?” she ventured, plucking invisible fluff from the leg of his jogging bottoms.

“What about it?” he asked, furrowing his eyebrows.

“Why don’t we ever see the videos he makes?”

“We do.”

She shook her head, keeping her tone hushed. “I never have.”

Aegon shrugged dismissively. “I guess not, but why does it matter? We don’t need to watch them, we were there, we know what happened.”

It wasn’t enough to sate her curiosity, but before she had the opportunity to press the issue further, Alicent ushered them over to the tree to grab their respective gifts.

Her and Aegon had exchanged presents at her flat the day before Christmas Eve, a means to preserve a piece of the festive period that was just for them, but also to ensure that the significance of their gifts for each other weren’t lost in the overwhelming abundance that his mother delivered on Christmas morning.

It was strange to her that everyone tore into their pile at the same time, rather than taking turns so everyone could see what everyone else had gotten, but as she watched Alicent perching on the arm of the sofa next to Criston, looking on with a soft smile as her children unwrapped their presents, she could understand why it was this way. Amidst the buzz of the sounds of tearing paper and gushing thank yous, it was the closest she had ever seen the family come to genuine happiness.

Alicent had gone way overboard for her as usual. She unwrapped Chanel No.5 perfume, a cashmere jumper, an Elemis skincare gift set and a pair of white gold hoop earrings. It was a large, flat present that piqued her curiosity the most though; it was heavy and solid, and as she pulled the wrapping paper away it took a moment for her to understand properly what it was; a map of the exact layout of the constellations in the sky on the day of her birth. Her lips parted slightly as she stared at it in awe, trailing her fingertips down the coolness of its smooth surface. Upon closer inspection, she could see that it was made of marble; a thin indigo slab which represented the night sky, with gold inlay mapping out the constellations. Tiny diamonds sparkled at each appropriate juncture, serving as the stars. Her breath caught in her throat, tears welling in her eyes at the thoughtful gesture.

It felt almost too personal, too intimate to be a gift from her boyfriend’s mother, and she wondered if perhaps Aegon had snuck another gift here for her. She patted at his leg gently, discreetly trying to get his attention as he was busy tugging the cap off a bottle of aftershave and giving it a sniff.

She turned the plaque towards him, tilting her head in silent question, but he simply shrugged, his bottom lip protruding slightly as he slightly shook his head to feign ignorance before turning his attention back to his own gifts.

“Wow…thank you, Alicent.” she said, looking across the room to where Alicent was sitting, watching as Helaena encouraged Dreamfyre to tear open a present with her beak.

“Oh, you’re welcome, love,” she replied, glancing up quickly with a bright smile, “I’m glad you like them.” Her attention then immediately went back to Helaena.

At Alicent’s quick dismissal, she looked around the room, everyone was preoccupied with their gifts or someone else’s, except for Aemond, who was filming – she hadn’t even noticed him start.

As the morning bled into early afternoon, Otto dozed in the armchair, while Helaena helped Criston and Alicent to cook Christmas lunch. The majority of her gifts had been put away upstairs, except for the plaque. She sat admiring it, unable to believe how beautiful it was, while Aegon sprawled out on the sofa, drinking Buck’s Fizz, with Sunfyre snoozing on his legs.

“I’m bored,” Aegon complained, causing her to look up from where she was sitting cross legged on the floor.

“Put something on the TV then.”

He wrinkled his nose, clearly unhappy with the suggestion. “There’s not anything good on. I think Aemond brought his Switch, we could play Mario Kart?”

“Guess you’ll have to ask him.”

“He’s always ages when he’s having a fag, just go and grab it from his room, he won’t mind.”

“You go and get it,” she retorted defensively, horrified by the idea as her voice raised an octave, “I’m not letting myself into your brother’s room and taking his belongings.”

“But look how sleepy Sunfyre is,” Aegon said, pouting his lip, “would you really be so cruel and make him move?”

“You’re so fucking lazy!” she scoffed, rolling her eyes.

Aegon laughed, dragging a hand through his hair. “Seriously, Aemond won’t care. But if he comes back in before you’re back down here, I’ll tell him what you’re doing, so he knows it was my idea. Sound good?”

She sighed, knowing he wouldn’t drop it until he got his way. She didn’t have the patience to listen to him pester her until Aemond came back inside, so she rose to her feet, placing her plaque on the coffee table as she stood. “So fucking lazy,” she muttered with a shake of her head as she left the room.

Nerves fluttered in her stomach as she climbed the stairs. She’d never been in Aemond’s bedroom before – she supposed it wasn’t really his room anymore, just the place he slept when he visited, but it was still his space and the idea of intruding upon it made her incredibly uncomfortable.

She paused as she reached his door, her hand hovering over the door handle, before drawing in a steadying breath and pushing it open.

The space was more orderly than Aegon’s was. One wall was simply book shelves, filled with rows and rows of hardbacks, there was a Deftones and a Tool poster stuck neatly upon the other walls, and Aemond’s computer desk and chair were tucked away in the far corner. At the centre of the room was Aemond’s neatly made bed. Vhagar lay curled up in the middle of the duvet. The fluffy black cat’s amber eyes cracked open to look at her inquisitively as she stood looking around the room, trying to figure out where Aemond would have put his Switch.

Bloody Aegon, she thought, until her eyes fell back upon the computer desk. Aemond’s camcorder sat upon the desktop, plugged into his open laptop. The case for his Switch lay next to it.

She walked over to the desk, fully intending to simply grab the Switch and then go straight back downstairs, but as she moved closer, the sight of her own face on the laptop screen captured her attention. It was a thumbnail of the video that Aemond had taken that morning within an open folder of multiple video files. She knew she shouldn’t snoop, it wasn’t her business, but seeing such a close up shot of herself made the urge to click irresistible.

The video started with a slow pan around the room, Alicent watching on as everyone else opened gifts. It lingered on Aegon for a moment, zooming in as he unknowingly leaned his face back at an unflattering angle, creating a double chin – she laughed at seeing this – then the shot moved to her, zooming out to capture her unwrapping the plaque, then zooming back in on her face, capturing her eyes welling up and the touched smile that tugged at her lips. The shot remained on her until the video eventually cut to black.

Her brow furrowed, a mixture of confusion and bewilderment stirring within her. Why was nearly the entire video of her? If Aemond was intending to create videos of happy family memories, then why focus solely on his brother’s girlfriend and not the people he was actually related to?

Unable to stop herself, she closed out of the video and clicked onto the next. This was one from back in the late summer, when Alicent had hosted a barbecue for Criston’s birthday. The camera panned around the back garden, with a brief zoom in of the meat sizzling on the grill, before zooming out again. When the camera fell upon her, it lingered, a full body shot at first, before gradually moving in upon her face, catching each sip of her drink, every time she touched her hair, or laughed.

“You looked beautiful that day.”

“FUCK!” she yelped, jumping as she turned wide eyed with fright to see Aemond standing behind her.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said calmly, “but you are in my room after all.”

She watched in disbelief at how unbothered he was as he moved to sit on the bed, ruffling a hand through Vhagar’s fur. The cat chirruped happily, the noise an obscenely cute contrast to the clawing dread in the pit of her stomach and the wild pounding of her heart against her ribcage. An acrid taste filled her mouth, sour and unpleasant, as she struggled to get the words out, wanting to understand why he’d been filming her.

“What the fuck?!” was all she was able to choke out.

“It’s not anything perverted, don’t worry,” he reassured her.

That was what worried her. She knew Aemond wasn’t being a creep, the videos hadn’t lingered on her breasts or anywhere that wasn’t her face. It would be easy to deal with, easier to shrug off if she could just explain it away as Aegon’s younger brother being a pervert, but this seemed like something deeper than that, and that scared her. 

“Are…are they all like that?” she asked quietly, her voice trembling.

“All the ones since I met you, yeah,” he admitted.

“Jesus christ,” she whispered, putting her head in her hands. A dozen different questions raced through her mind, none of them she was certain she wanted the honest answer to. She wanted to be out of this room, away from Aemond, to forget what she’d seen and everything he’d told her.

“I know how it must seem, but–”

“I don’t care how it seems, I don’t want to hear it,” she cried, grabbing the Switch case and bolting from his room. She took the stairs two at a time, her face burning hot and a lump forming rapidly in her throat.

Alicent and Criston had made a tremendous effort for Christmas lunch; an enormous turkey sat in the centre of the dining table, alongside a nut roast for Helaena, with side dishes of roasted chestnuts, potatoes, brussels sprouts, stuffing, carrots, gravy and cranberry sauce all in abundance.

Despite how delicious it all looked, she couldn’t begin to fathom eating any of it. Her stomach churned, she felt shaky and nauseated, her mind unable to focus on anything besides the videos she’d seen on Aemond’s laptop. The calmness of his reaction had unnerved her. Regardless of her lack of appetite, she kept her focus fixed upon her plate, determined not to look up and see him as he sat opposite her. She poked aimlessly at a carrot, pushing it around on her plate.

“You okay?” Aegon whispered, leaning across to her, “You’ve not eaten anything.”

“Oh no, do you not like the food?” Alicent asked with concern, having overheard.

She raised her head, immediately feeling guilty as she saw her mother in law’s brow furrowed in worry. The last thing she wanted to do was insult her cooking when she’d gone to all this effort.

“It’s lovely,” she said, forcing a polite smile, “just feeling a bit hot. I might pop out for some fresh air before I finish my plate.”

“I can make you something else, if you’d prefer?” Alicent offered.

She hated the silence that had fallen around the table, hated the eyes she could feel upon her.

“Really, this is delicious,” she reassured, slowly rising from her seat, “just need some air.”

She gently brushed off Aegon’s hand as he reached for her, offering him a tight smile as he looked up at her with a puzzled look upon his face. “Back in a sec.”

The cold air against her skin felt like the prick of a thousand tiny needles as she stepped outside, wrapping her arms around herself. She huffed out a shaky breath, sending a plume of white billowing outwards in front of her. She tried to keep her focus on the rose bushes that framed the perimeter of the lawn, a means to ground herself and draw her focus elsewhere, to anything but Aemond. She wanted to go home. She hadn’t done anything wrong, and yet she couldn’t shake the feeling of guilt, of the fact that she had unearthed something that now couldn’t be undone.

Hearing the French doors to the patio open and then close gently from behind her, she sighed, her shoulders sagging as she rolled her eyes, not bothering to turn around. “Honestly, I’m fine, Aegon, just go back inside.”

“It’s not Aegon, it’s me.”

She froze, the sound of Aemond’s voice made her heart lurch, but her initial shock quickly morphed into anger and she whipped around to face him. She watched as he cupped his hand around his lighter, the brief flicker of the flame casting an orange glow over his sharp features as he lit his cigarette.

“You shouldn’t have followed me out here.”

He narrowed his eye, observing her silently as he blew a tight line of smoke out through pursed lips. “Bold of you to assume that. I always have a cigarette after I’ve eaten.”

“If Aegon catches us–”

“If Aegon catches us, then what? What is there to tell him?”

“I don’t know, but something about this feels wrong.”

“You’ve done nothing wrong, so there’s nothing to tell him.”

“And what about you?”

“I’ve managed to say nothing for three years,” he replied with a shrug, taking another pull on his cigarette.

“Christ, Aemond, what does that even mean?!” she demanded, losing all patience, as she threw her hands up in irritation.

“It’s better that you don’t know,” he admitted, averting his gaze and exhaling smoke slowly through his nose.

“If it concerns me then I have a right to.” She folded her arms across her chest, staring at him defiantly.

His head snapped up, nostrils flaring as he advanced upon her, causing her to take a step back. “You want to know? Fine. Being around you is fucking torturous.”

“I—I’m sorry…” she stammered, as her heart hammered wildly in her chest, tendrils of fear creeping along her spine.

“No, I am,” he laughed bitterly, shaking his head, “because I’m so irrevocably, incomprehensibly, driven to the brink of insanity, in love with you that every moment I’m with you I spend cursing my luck that Aegon met you first.”

Her breath hitched, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes as her lips parted in shock. She stared at him in wide eyed disbelief, as he gazed back in saddened resignation, his cigarette burning to ash between his fingers.

“You can’t…we can’t,” she stammered, “I’m with Aegon, I can’t…”

“I’m not asking you to,” he whispered sadly.

“So now what?”she asked, her voice trembling as a tear slipped down her cheek.

“You go back inside,” he replied, reaching up with his free hand to wipe her tear away with the pad of his thumb. The gentle touch made her skin tingle. “And you say nothing, and I continue to love you from afar, just as it’s always been.”

Her feet carried her on autopilot, she felt numb, but paused in the living room to wipe her eyes and compose herself before heading back to the dining room. She grabbed for her wine glass as she took her seat once more, downing its contents in a single gulp and relishing in the way the burn in her throat and chest gave her something else to focus on.

Aegon grinned, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and tugging her close. “Glad someone’s found their Christmas spirit!”

God, how she wished that were true.

She felt like a spectator in her own body for the rest of the day, going through the motions but not really participating, simply acting on autopilot. She barely registered the arguments over post Christmas lunch board games, for once grateful that Aegon was so plastered he hadn’t noticed how far into herself she’d retreated. She kept stealing glances at Aemond, unable to believe his confession to her in the garden earlier. He was never someone she would ever have considered as a romantic prospect, because he was just so closed off. Now she found herself studying the way his snowy hair fell across his forehead, the sharp angles of his side profile, the gentle curve of his lips. She hated herself for it, as though on some level she was being unfaithful, even though she hadn’t asked for any of this.

Not even Aegon’s snoring was enough to penetrate through her wall of thought as she lay in bed with him that night. Aemond didn’t know her, not really, so he couldn’t love her. It was a silly crush, he’d get over it, and everything would be back to normal the next time they descended upon Alicent’s house for a visit. She kept the reassurance on a loop in her mind, allowing it to lull her into an uneasy sleep.

She didn’t think she had ever been so glad to pack a bag the following morning, as her and Aegon readied themselves to leave. She couldn’t wait to see the back of this place, to forget about all of this and just get back to the cosy life that she and Aegon shared together.

“Gonna have one last hurrah in mum’s rain shower,” Aegon told her, grabbing a pair of socks from his bag and giving them a sniff to make sure they were clean, “see how much of a dent I can put in the hot water before we set off.”

“Alright, but don’t be too long, I wanna get on the road soon.”

“You’re even more desperate to leave than I am,” he said, studying her carefully, “what’s going on?”

“Nothing,” she reassured him, stepping towards him and winding her arms around his neck, “just keen to get the drive over with, you know how much I hate it.”

He smiled, giving her a gentle kiss on the tip of her nose. “How could you hate it with me as your passenger princess? I’ll think up a playlist while I’m showering.”

She was zipping her bag up, looking around Aegon’s bedroom to make sure she hadn’t forgotten anything, when there was a gentle knock on the partially open door.

“Come in,” she uttered distractedly, grabbing Sunfyre’s tennis ball from under the bed.

She righted herself, stiffening when she saw it was Aemond. He hovered in the doorway, his posture one of awkward uncertainty as he held the plaque she’d unwrapped the day before in his hands. “You left this on the coffee table downstairs. Just wanted to make sure you didn’t forget it.”

“Oh, right…thanks,” she said quietly, taking it from him and wrapping it in a jumper before placing it in one of the bags.

“I just wanted to–”

“Listen, I–”

Both of them smiled coyly, before Aemond gestured towards her. “You go.”

She gave a nod, stepping closer to him. “Look, I just wanted to apologise for overreacting yesterday. It’s just a silly crush, and I’m sure with time it’ll fade.”

“Don’t do that,” he said with a frown.

“Do what?”

“Diminish my feelings.”

“I’m not, but you don’t even know me…”

“Did you like my gift?”

“What?”

“The plaque, you seemed quite choked up by it yesterday. And the book the year before that, and the bracelet the year before that.”

“Those were all from you?” she asked, her chest suddenly feeling too tight as her stomach churned with shock and unease.

“Yes, so I’d say I know you rather well. What did Aegon get you?”

“Headphones.”

Aemond cocked an eyebrow. “Very thoughtful.”

“Don’t do that,” she said, mirroring his stern tone from earlier.

He sighed. “Sorry, I’m not trying to mess things up for you guys.”

“Then what are you trying to do?”

“I just want you to be happy, and if it’s Aegon that makes you happy then I’m content with that. I know my love is wasted, but if you’ll allow it, let’s just carry on as we have been. It seems to have worked for us so far.”

She softened at his words, and he reached for her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. She found herself squeezing back, committing to memory how his palm sculpted to her own, his fingers covering hers.

“In another lifetime,” she whispered sadly, drawing back.

“In another lifetime we’d be fucking great together,” he smirked, “until next time.”

She watched as he disappeared from the room, fighting the urge to cry, knowing that Aegon would be out of the shower any minute.

As she settled into the driver’s seat, the car packed up and goodbyes exchanged, Aegon turned to her. “Told you we’d got it,” he said with a proud smile.

Yet as his hand reached for hers, squeezing it in reassurance, she could only think of how different it felt to Aemond’s.

Read on AO3

More Aemond fics

[the-bookdragons-hoard]

Sweet, drunk Osferth, my beloved.

Something to Prove

Pairing: Osferth (The Last Kingdom) x f!reader Warnings: Smut. Word count: ~3k

Summary: Osferth is keen to sate curiosity when questions are raised as to why he has women fighting over him.

Author's note: Day eleven of Smuffmas - party and position changes. No tag list. Follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications.

She was exhausted, and hot. It was a chilly winter’s evening, and yet her skin felt clammy. The air in the tavern hung humid and heavy, the place more crowded than it had ever been. Loud cheers, laughter and the crash of wooden flagons being knocked together in joyous toasting filled the space, the cacophony of it all so loud that she could scarce hear the shouts for more ale that rang out in chorus each time a group had drained their mugs.

Her tired feet carried her ceaselessly from behind the bar and back again each time she emptied her jug and needed to refill it from the cask. The flagstone floor was sticky underfoot, and she had to be careful not to add to the mess by spilling what she carried, as the shoulders of revellers jostled her while she worked her way through the crowd, refilling and topping off the drinks of those that held their cups out to her. She did not mind though, they had every reason to celebrate; Wintanceaster had achieved victory that day against the Danes. With the aid of Uhtred and his men, the city had been defended from invading forces. The battle had been fierce, yet those that had taken up arms against the Danes had fought bravely, cutting down the opposition and causing what little remained to retreat. Wintanceaster was safe once more.

Everyone present was eager to toast to Uhtred, to thank him for his help, and congratulate him for how valiantly he fought, yet it was another person entirely who captured her attention. Osferth, a warrior monk who had pledged his loyalty to Uhtred, fighting alongside him and his men – ordinarily, he wasn’t a man she would have looked twice at, yet tonight she could not keep her eyes off of him. Two days previous, she had witnessed two women fighting viciously over him, to the point that his lord had had to step in to separate them. She could understand such jealousy being expressed over Uhtred, Finan or Sihtric; they were surly, confident, everything one would expect when envisioning bravery and heroism. Osferth, though he stood at least a head taller than the three men he travelled with, was wiry, his demeanour timid and apologetic.

She was desperately curious about him and, without even being conscious of it, her eyes sought him out each time she made a pass of the room. He was lost in merriment, laughing and joking with Finan, slopping ale onto the floor each time he raised his drink. Perhaps she would never know precisely why he inspired such feelings of jealousy from other women, at least not from simply looking at him anyway.

“I need some air, will you be alright for a moment?” she asked the other barmaid, shouting to be heard over the noise, as she placed her empty jug back upon the bar.

The older woman nodded. “Go on, can’t have you fainting on me. Don’t be long though, they’re a rowdy bunch tonight.”

The bite of the crisp night air made her skin prickle as she pushed outside, rapidly cooling her sweat-dampened skin and making her shiver. It was refreshing. She leaned back against the rough stone wall of the tavern, the noise inside muffled to a dull hum as the wooden door thumped heavily closed behind her. She huffed a sigh, her breath puffing out into a white cloud against the inky black night sky.

A burst of the din from the tavern startled her as the door swung open again, quieting as quickly as it had come as the person who had stepped out gently pushed it closed. She looked over, her lips parting in shock as she saw Osferth, moving to lean his back against the wall on the other side of the door, next to her. She masked her surprise, offering him a tight lipped, polite smile in greeting, before looking away again.

“Are you alright, lady?” he asked her softly, a hint of concern in his voice.

“Mmm,” she affirmed quietly, smoothing her hands over the white apron that was tied around the waist of her linen dress. She kept her eyes fixed upon the ground, “it is warm inside. I just needed a moment to breathe.”

“Me too,” he replied, “I don’t think I have ever drank so much ale…may I…ask you something?”

She lifted her eyes to meet his, not moving her head as she cast him a playful sideways look and a smirk. “You already have.”

Osferth grinned, bowing his head as his eyes crinkled in amusement, and she lifted her face fully to watch him. “Yes, I suppose I have. But–” he turned fully to face her as he tucked his hands inside of the brown leather breastplate that he wore over his robes, “I have noticed you staring at me tonight, lady. May I ask why?”

Turning to face him too, she leaned her shoulder against the wall, her fingers fidgeting nervously with her apron. She didn’t want to tell him the real reason why, it was gossipy and impolite. “You fought bravely today, surely that is deserving of admiration?”

She watched his cheeks flush pink in the pale moonlight, as he looked through the window of the tavern, the soft glow of the lamplight inside illuminating the sharpness of his profile. He was quite beautiful to look at, she decided, as she studied the sharpness of his profile; an aquiline nose, strong jaw and high cheekbones. 

He offered her a shy smile as he looked back at her. “It is my lord, Uhtred, who is deserving of your praise. Most do not even know my name.”

“You are Osferth, are you not?”

His eyebrows raised slightly as his lips parted in surprise. “I am,” he answered, pulling his hands free of his breast plate to fold them over his chest as he studied her face. “Might I know your name, lady, and the real reason for your interest in me?”

Her skin grew warm with embarrassment, despite the frost that had begun to settle upon the ground. She told him her name, hesitating before revealing the real reason for why she had been looking at him throughout the evening. “I saw those women fighting over you the other day, and I was curious about it. Forgive me, it is not my place to wonder. I should get back inside, I have been gone too long.”

Without another word or a glance back, she pulled the door open, enveloped in heat once more as she weaved her way back to the bar. She concentrated on keeping the ale flowing for the rest of the night, doing her best to keep both her mind and her eyes off of Osferth. 

By the time the tavern closed for the evening, her body was practically crying out for the comfort of her bed and, thankfully, she did not have far to go. Her job included lodging – a small room located above the tavern, accessible from the outside of the building by stairs located at the back.

As she rounded the corner of the building, headed for the back of it, she gasped as she felt a hand grasp the top of her arm, accompanied by a soft whisper of her name. Heart hammering wildly and eyes wide with fright, she rounded on her assailant, preparing to defend herself against the worst.

She relaxed considerably as she stared up into the face of Osferth. He quickly let go of her arm, stepping back as he saw her fearful reaction. “Forgive me, I did not mean to frighten you.”

His eyes were unfocused, his posture suggestive of a state of drunkenness that he had not been affected by when she had spoken to him earlier; he swayed slightly upon his feet, his posture not as rigid as it had been before. She worried that his group had left him in such a vulnerable state, and wondered if perhaps he had sought her out for help.

“How much ale have you had, Osferth?” she asked softly, gently grasping the leather cuffs that encased his forearms, holding him steady.

He blinked slowly, a lazy smile spreading across his face as he stared fondly down at her. “Enough that I feel no shame for what I am about to ask, and not so much that I will regret it in the morning.”

She furrowed her brow in confusion, tilting her head slightly. “What do you mean?”

He turned his arms in hers, his own fingers gripping her forearms in return. She could feel how cold his fingers were through the sleeves of her dress. “Your question earlier…I should like to sate your curiosity.”

Her skin grew heated with embarrassment at his brazen suggestion, yet the chill of his skin worried her more. “Come, let’s get you inside where it’s warm.”

Osferth trailed after her up the rickety wooden stairs to the room she occupied above the tavern, hovering quietly behind her as her fingers, numb with cold, struggled with the key in the lock. It wasn’t much better once inside, but it was a roof over their heads at least – a roof much closer to Osferth’s head than hers, in fact. She had to stifle a laugh behind her hand, once she had gotten the lamp lit – Osferth stooped within the small place – she had never taken the time to consider his height before, but seeing him dwarf the space around him really emphasised just how tall he was.

She cast her eyes around the modest room, as though seeing it for the first time – the small double bed that was pushed up against the far wall, and the tiny window above it, the chest that sat at the foot ot it, and the rickety table and chair tucked away in the corner, with a cracked and dusty mirror that rested precariously upon the tabletop, alongside the wooden tub that she used for washing.

Looking back at Osferth, her tone was apologetic. “It’s not much, I don’t even have a fireplace, but it’s better than being stuck outside. It was wrong of Uhtred to just leave you like that.”

“I asked him to,” he admitted, as his gaze moved around the room, lingering on each item until he looked upon the bed. “May I?” he gestured towards it, “I’m going to end up bumping my head otherwise.”

She allowed herself to laugh then, and he laughed with her, the drunken haze of his blue eyes shining in the soft lamplight. She simply nodded, gesturing for him to sit on the edge of the bed, before joining him.

“Why did you want Uhtred to leave you?” she asked after a moment, acutely aware of how his thigh pressed against hers as they sat side by side.

“I told you before,” he said, turning slightly so that his body faced her, though he looked at her through his lashes, as his head was bowed, “I wanted to show you why those women fought over me.”

She scoffed in amusement, shaking her head. “That is highly presumptuous of you. What if I had said no?”

“You didn’t though, did you?” he asked, reaching out and gently taking her hand. The contact made her pulse race, but she didn’t pull away.

“It would have been unkind to leave you out in the cold…”

“You could have given me a blanket and allowed me to sleep it off in the tavern,” he reasoned, as his thumb stroked gentle circles against the back of her head, “but you invited me up here. And I think we both know why that is.”

“I just–”

Osferth shook his head as he lifted it, his eyes imploring as they stared into hers. “I was a novice. I know what it is to deny yourself what you desire. I saw that same look in your eyes tonight every time you looked at me. I no longer deny myself, and I don’t think you ought to either.”

Her breath hitched at his words, the weight they carried stirring a nervous fluttering within her. She hadn’t realised it until now, but her grip on his hand was now vicelike. “You’re drunk,” she whispered.

“You are beautiful,” he said sincerely, as his free hand reached up to brush a loose lock of hair behind her ear.

The moment that his lips were upon hers, something inside of her snapped, all restraint and sense of proprietary leaving her. She let go of his hand, both of hers coming to ball into the fabric of his robes not covered by his breastplate as she pulled him close. His nimble fingers tangled into her hair, causing her to moan, allowing his tongue to lick against hers as their kisses grew more urgent, the sticky sound of their saliva and panted breaths filling the small space.

She helped him to disrobe, unbuckling his cuffs and giggling as the straps of his leather armor tugged at his hair as she helped him to pull it over his head. Once both fully undressed, she was scared to look upon his naked form, afraid to let him see her, in case she lost her nerve. Before she had the chance to change her mind, she crawled on all fours onto the bed, presenting herself to him. It was how every other man she had allowed to hump her had taken her, so she didn’t see why Osferth would be any different.

He surprised her when he didn’t immediately grasp her hips and force himself inside of her. His fingertips trailed the length of her spine, making her shiver. She felt the mattress dip as he knelt upon it, leaning over her, his chest against her back as he nuzzled into her neck. No one had ever treated her with such tenderness before, especially not while intoxicated. She turned her face towards his, her heart almost skipping a beat as she saw the soft reverence in his eyes. He pressed a tender kiss to the corner of her mouth as his fingers dipped between her thighs.

His touch was gentle, exploratory. He stroked her in a way that made her ache and throb, gathering arousal from her opening before circling her bud with it. It felt nice to be prepared in this way, no one had ever taken such care with her before. Only when she bucked and mewled under his ministrations, the ache between her legs growing almost intolerable, did he notch the head of his cock against her and press forward. The stretch was slow, but pleasant, the fullness of him inside of her made her push her hips back against him, impatient to feel more of him.

She heard him exhale shakily, before giving her hips a playful squeeze and beginning to thrust into her. It wasn’t hard and fast, as she was used to, he took his time with each pull back and forward motion, as if he was getting to know her body, learning what movements made her whimper and sigh softly in pleasure. When he pulled out altogether, she whined in protest at the loss of him, looking back over her shoulder at him in annoyance. Osferth chuckled softly, before coaxing her onto her back.

“What are you doing?” she asked, feeling prone and exposed in this position. Her eyes raked over him, he was thin, but corded with lithe muscle and small faint scars that covered his torso. His cock stood proud between his legs, flushed at the tip and shiny with her wetness.

He stared at her with similar appreciation as he grasped the base of himself. “I do not wish to rut you like an animal,” he told her. He pushed her thighs apart, leaned down and dragged the flat of his tongue against her dripping sex, making her cry out in surprise. Osferth grinned as his face reappeared from between her thighs, grasping her calves and placing them over his shoulders, before plunging back inside of her.

The angle knocked at a spot inside of her that made her throw her head back, screwing her eyes shut, her legs shaking as his hips started to move again. She clutched the bedsheets to ground herself, her knuckles blanching with the force of her grip.

“There you go,” Osferth whispered breathlessly, holding her legs firmly against his body as he rocked his pelvis, “this is how you should look – worshipped and carefree.”

She dared to open her eyes, lifting her head to look upon the place where their bodies joined. She watched in rapt fascination as he disappeared inside of her, drawing back each time to reveal his glistening shaft and the light thatch of curls that sat at the base of it.

His eyes were hooded as he watched her and he let go of her thighs, allowing her legs to rest of their own accord against his shoulders as one hand moved to tweak one of her nipples into a stiffened peak, while the other snaked between their bodies and began circling her sensitive pearl with his thumb.

“It is too much,” she protested weakly, writhing beneath him, the dual assault on her senses making her feel as though she would lose all control.

“Nothing is too much for you,” Osferth reassured her. The hand upon her breast moved back to her thigh as he turned his head to kiss the inside of her knee. “Almost there, I can feel it.”

She could feel it too. The insistent bullying of his cockhead against her sensitive walls, coupled with the relentless rubbing of his thumb against her swollen bundle of nerves were rapidly tightening the coil in her lower belly. She felt his erection begin to pulse, and the sensation pushed her over the edge. He pulled out as she cried out in ecstasy began to spasm, groaning as he painted her lower belly with pearly ropes of his spend. Their bodies shuddered together, utterly lost in the throes of their shared peak until, finally, Osferth collapsed beside her, panting heavily.

He gathered her against his chest, holding her close, not caring that her skin was sticky with his release, and she couldn’t help the contented smile that spread across her face.

“It has never been like that for me with anyone before,” she confessed quietly.

“Do you feel like you understand now why those women fought over me?” Osferth asked playfully, “if not, I’d be more than happy to show you again.”

She giggled, lightly swatting his chest. “You have certainly proven yourself, though I would never say no to another demonstration.”

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[the-bookdragons-hoard]

This fic is so cute. I forgot it was smut. I was like 😳 when the spicy scenes came.

Just for the Taste

Pairing: Michael Gavey (Saltburn) x f!reader Warnings: Masturbation, smut. Word count: ~3k

Summary: Growing increasingly frustrated with the pace things are going at between her and Michael, his girlfriend takes matters into her own hands, quite literally.

Author's note: Day nine of Smuffmas - stockings and sex toys. No tag list. Follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications.

She had met Michael in her first month at Oxford university. It was a Saturday night and, unlike the vast majority of people living in her college, she had opted to stay in instead of hitting the town to spend her student loan in one of the many pubs. She had a tutorial on Monday and was determined to impress the computer scientist who would be leading it. Her entire weekend revolved around getting ahead with the required reading in order to have a full understanding of the previous week’s lecture topics. She wanted to be able to talk about them at length, and share her ideas in a comprehensive manner.

Her stomach had dropped as she had reached into her backpack, feeling that her Discrete Mathematics textbook was missing. She cursed under her breath, realising she had left it on the table in the Bodleian Old Library. It closed at 4pm on Saturdays, so she’d have to wait until it opened tomorrow to go and fetch it back.

A lack of a textbook wasn’t enough to deter her though. On average, of students that applied to the Computer Science course at Oxford, only 17% were interviewed, and only 5% were successful. She was acutely aware of how fortunate she was, but also how hard she’d worked to get here, and wasn’t about to let that lapse.

A thorough Google search yielded nothing useful, all of the PDFs she managed to unearth were outdated editions and would have been of no use to her. She decided to go door knocking – the time will pass anyway, she figured, and there might be someone in their room that had a copy of the textbook that she could borrow. A long shot, but it was either that or lose an evening of studying, and she wasn’t prepared to do that.

Unfortunately for her, the Computer Science course wasn’t an especially sociable one – the difficulty of the subject matter and competitive nature of the field it eventually lead into wasn’t a breeding ground for fast friendships, and with only 44 people on the course who were all more than happy to keep to themselves, she had no idea where any of them were actually staying. There had to be at least one in her college though.

The first three doors she knocked on yielded no response, the fourth was answered by a flustered, barely dressed girl, who stared at her in wide eyed bewilderment as a male voice from within the room called out “tell them to go away!”

Her skin ablaze with embarrassment, she descended the stairs and was fully prepared to give up after receiving no response from another two doors, before the one in the far corner creaked open, causing her to turn to face the noise. A bespectacled pair of blue eyes peered out at her, narrowed in suspicion.

“Do you have any idea what time it is?”

She glanced at her watch – just after 9.30pm. “Yeah, it’s not late…”

“What are you doing?” he asked her. His voice was quiet, but laced with derision. “Are you pissed?”

She shook her head, slowly approaching his door as she clasped her hands in front of her. His stare was piercing and intense, yet his posture was so rigid she got the sense that he’d likely slam the door on her if she moved too quickly.

“I haven’t been drinking,” she said apologetically, “just need to borrow a textbook. You’re not on my course so I doubt you could help me anyway.”

“What are you reading?” he asked, his posture softening slightly, though he didn’t open the door any wider.

“Computer Science.”

“Hmm. I’m reading Maths, so–”

Her eyes lit up, a surge of hope making her heart soar. “I need a copy of Discrete Mathematics,” she said excitedly, “I don’t suppose you have one?”

“Not a physical copy…”

She visibly deflated, her heart sinking in disappointment as her shoulders sagged. “Nevermind then. Thanks anyway.”

“I’ve got a PDF,” he said, opening the door wider as she turned to leave.

She stopped in her tracks, her gaze drifting to where his fingers clutched the USB drive that was clasped to the belt loop of his tan coloured cargo trousers with a carabiner clip. “From what year?” she asked quietly, as her eyes lifted back up to his.

“2005.”

She grinned. That was exactly the year she needed. “You’re an absolute lifesaver,” she told him, her voice breathy with relief.

“I think the file might be too big for me to send over email though,” he admitted.

“Could you not just lend me the flash drive? I can give it straight back tomorrow morning.”

He pursed his lips, eyeing her from head to toe. “How do I know you will? This is a one gigabyte USB drive, it’s valuable. You might steal it.”

She grinned, until she realised he was being serious. “I live in the room directly above yours,” she told him, gesturing upwards towards the ceiling, “so you’ll know where to find me.” She gave him her name, as she fiddled with the clasp of her watch, removing it from her wrist and holding it out to him. “Here, insurance, so you know I’m not trying to steal from you.”

The faintest hint of a smile ghosted across his lips as his eyes crinkled in amusement. “Alright, fine,” he relented, taking her watch from her and slipping it into his pocket. He unclipped the USB drive and handed it to her. “I’m Michael, by the way.”

“Thanks, Michael,” she said with a coy smile, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She made her way back upstairs to her room and spent the rest of the night studying then, true to her word, on her way to the library the following morning, she knocked on Michael’s door to give him back his USB drive.

“I’m glad to see you’re a woman of your word,” Michael said playfully, as she clipped the drive back onto his carabiner, his cheeks flushing at her close proximity.

She held out her wrist and, silently, he clasped her watch back around it. Her skin tingled as his fingers brushed across it, their eyes meeting as their breaths simultaneously caught in their throats.

From that moment on, her and Michael were inseparable. The attraction was instantaneous, deepened by a shared love of mathematics and a refusal to toe the line when it came to the unspoken social hierarchy in place at the university.

Michael was a virgin, and so they took things slowly. She had had a long term boyfriend before going away to university, so she had had sex, but wasn’t overwhelmingly experienced. The split between her and her ex had been amicable; both going away to study in entirely different cities, they had wanted to give each other the opportunity to focus on their respective courses, rather than the pressures of maintaining a long distance relationship.

Things often turned hot and heavy between her and Michael. As their kisses grew feverish, his hips grinding of their own accord against hers, she could feel he was hard, knew that he wanted her, but was often left disappointed when he would hurry to the bathroom for a cold shower before anything truly interesting could happen between them. She cared for him, so she was happy to wait, though the sexual frustration was beginning to take its toll on her.

She had never been more grateful for the bullet vibrator she had brought with her to university, though it was costing her a small fortune in batteries – it had never had so much use before.

Three months into their relationship, she was beginning to get desperate. They had arranged to watch a film in Michael’s room that evening, so she decided to make it more than obvious that she was eager to take things a step further.

She pulled on lace topped hold up stockings and a black, lacy lingerie set, covering it with the red woolen jumper that Michael had left in her room the last time he was there. It fell to her mid thigh, so it wasn't immediately obvious that she had no other clothing on underneath.

They had fallen into the comfortable habit of leaving their doors unlocked when they were expecting each other to come over, so that they wouldn’t have to knock. She let herself straight into his room, finding Michael hunched over at his desk, fiddling with a Blockbuster DVD case to open it, so he could insert the disc into the CD drive of his laptop.

“What we watching then?” she asked, letting her rucksack drop from her shoulder onto the floor as she perched on the edge of his bed.

“Revenge of the Sith,” he answered, turning in his seat to look at her, “it’s a Star Wars film. I thought, erm…”

He trailed off, his lips parting slightly as he pushed his glasses up his nose. She followed his line of sight, seeing that the hem of his jumper had ridden up as she’d sat on the bed, revealing the lacy tops of her stockings. She smiled, knowing her outfit was having the desired effect, before looking back at him.

“You thought what?” she asked innocently, settling back properly on the bed as she moved a pillow behind her to lean against. She didn’t bother to pull the jumper back down, wanting to leave no room for doubt as to what her intentions were.

Michael swallowed thickly, before shaking his head. “Doesn’t matter, let’s just watch the film.”

As the film played, she could hardly concentrate, the closeness of Michael next to her, the heat of his body so close to hers was a distraction. Their fingers were entwined upon the sheets between them, a gesture of closeness and intimacy, but it wasn’t enough. She needed more.

Slowly, she moved his hand onto her thigh, leaving their fingers interwoven there for a few moments while she gauged his reaction. His eyes flitted to hers and he offered her a tight smile before he returned his attention back to his laptop screen. He made no attempt to move his hand away, so she left it there.

Gradually, she disentangled her fingers from his, pulling her hand away until only his remained on top of her thigh. His thumb absentmindedly began to stroke at the lace of her stocking, tracing the swirling pattern of the material as he continued to watch the film.

She had no idea what was occurring on the screen; the light sabers, the red and black face of Darth Maul, it was all just a blur of colour to her as her pulse raced beneath Michael’s touch. His hand moved higher, fingertips brushing against the soft skin of her inner thigh. It took all of her restraint not to just grab his hand and place it where she needed him most, knowing that she shouldn’t rush him. At a maddeningly slow pace his fingers inched their way up, her core throbbing with desire and the crotch of her knickers growing damp with arousal the closer he got. As his fingertips reached the hem of her underwear, so close to pushing underneath, the credits of the film began to roll and Michael moved his hand away, climbing off of the bed towards the desk where the laptop sat.

She wanted to scream in frustration, every nerve ending in her body felt ablaze, desperate to feel something, anything and he was painfully oblivious to all of it.

Not in the mood to answer his questions about what she had thought about what they had just watched – she hadn’t been paying attention anyway – she stood up, tugging the jumper down and slipping the shoes back on.

“Night then,” she called over her shoulder, not giving him a chance to respond as she hurried out of his room and back up the stairs towards her own.

She knew she was being rude and incredibly unfair to Michael, and that they would likely have to discuss at some point how his apprehension towards physical intimacy was affecting her, but right now she was a pent up mess of hormones and arousal and she needed release.

Slamming the door closed the moment she stepped into her room, she flopped down onto the bed, roughly tugging her underwear down her legs and tossing it to one side. She reached into the bedside table drawer, feeling around until her fingers wrapped around the familiar shape of her bullet vibrator.

Thank god, she thought, switching it on and bringing it between her legs, sighing in relief as she pressed it against her swollen clit and her eyes fluttered closed. Her breaths grew heavier as she moved the toy in tight circles to aid the gentle rumble against her sensitive bundle of nerves.

She froze as the door swung to, her eyes snapping open to see Michael standing there.

“Hey, you left your bag, so I– oh, shit, sorry!”

“Wait!” she pleaded, turning the toy off and chucking it down onto the bed as she moved into a sitting position. “Don’t go.”

He let her rucksack drop to the floor beside his feet, closing the door behind him and resting his back against it. His eyes were glued to the floor, his cheeks ablaze as he struggled to find the words. “Were you…were you…um…”

“Yeah, yeah, I was,” she admitted shamefully, feeling her skin grow warm with humiliation.

“Is that why you left so quickly? Because you wanted to…”

He looked so dejected, so sad, so hurt, it made her want to burst into tears. She’d have done anything to take away the furrow of his brow, the disappointed look in his eyes. “Yes,” she whispered, hating herself for the answer.

“Do you not want to with me then?” he asked, his voice so soft she had to strain to hear it.

“Of course I do,” she insisted, “that’s why I was doing…what I was doing.”

“I don’t understand,” he admitted, finally looking up to meet her eye, his back still pressed against the door as she sat on the bed.

She sighed, raking a hand through her hair, unable to keep the frustration from her voice as she tried to explain. “I want you, Michael, but I appreciate that you’re a virgin and I don’t want to push you before you’re ready. I have needs though, I’m sorry…”

“You shouldn’t have to apologise for that,” he reassured her, pushing away from the door and slowly approaching the bed, “I am ready, I just never realised you wanted to, you never said.”

“I’ve been dropping hints left and right, did you not see what I was wearing tonight?”

“Yeah, my jumper,” he answered, rubbing the back of his neck, “just assumed you hadn’t done any washing for a while.”

She groaned, fighting the urge to laugh – for an intelligent guy, he could be so incredibly dense. “I want to fuck you! Is that clear enough?”

Michael nodded, his gaze falling upon the toy that lay discarded beside her. “I don’t know what I’m doing though. I’ve always just been able to do maths in my head, never needed a calculator before, but I know they help people. Maybe that–” he pointed towards the vibrator, “could be my calculator, could help me.”

“What do you mean?”

“Show me how to fuck you.”

The bluntness took her breath away, but the intensity of his stare left no room for argument. “Alright,” she nodded, picking the toy up once more.

Michael stepped clumsily out of his shoes, then moved to the foot of the bed, kneeling upon it. “Go on then, show me.”

She could feel nervous excitement fluttering in her belly as she laid back, allowing her legs to fall open, giving him an unobstructed view of her most intimate area, before she pressed the bullet back against herself and switched it on.

Michael inhaled sharply, his hands coming to rest upon the knees of her bent legs, holding them open as he watched her intently. “What does it feel like?”

“It…it feels good,” she whispered breathlessly, slowly circling the toy against her bud, “there’s pressure, but it feels nice.” 

She gazed up at him as she panted and moaned softly, seeing the way his pupils dilated subtly. His hands moved to his belt, tugging it open, causing her to bite her lip, a mixture of arousal, curiosity and disbelief all fought for dominance in her pleasure-addled mind as she watched him unzip his trousers and free his hardened length. It was long, thick and slightly curved, the tip weeping with arousal.

“Can I?” he asked, gently grasping her wrist to coax her hand away from herself. 

She nodded, allowing him to move her arm to her side, the toy still buzzing in her hand. She gasped as he replaced the toy with the flushed head of his cock, rubbing it in circular motions, allowing it to notch against her clitoral hood.

“Like this?” he asked, his voice strained, and she simply nodded, desperately fighting the urge to buck her hips from the exquisite pressure he was applying.

“Shouldn’t…shouldn’t your first time be special?” she uttered, voice thick with desire.

“We’re not fucking, we’re learning,” he said softly, his gaze never moving from between her thighs as he continued to stroke himself through her slick folds, “and besides, it being with you automatically makes it special.”

Her heart fluttered at his words, they would have been romantic were it not for the lewdness of what they were doing.

“Now,” he said, pulling back slightly and grabbing her wrist again, “show me what else you do with this toy.”

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[the-bookdragons-hoard]

Kissin' in the Blue Dark

Pairing: Abraham (Grantchester) x f!reader Warnings: Choking, smut. Word count: ~2k

Summary: Less than enthusiastic about the game of Cluedo he's been forced to play, Abraham finds his own form of entertainment.

Author's note: Day seven of Smuffmas - board games and breath play. No tag list. Follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications.

“Look at what I got in town earlier!” Cora said excitedly, holding up the white box and shaking it for emphasis, causing the contents to rattle.

“What is it?” she asked, reading the word ‘Cluedo’ across the front.

“It’s a board game,” she explained excitedly, turning over the box to study the back of it. “A murder mystery. You have to guess who the murderer is, what weapon they used and in what room they murdered the person. I’ve been wanting to play it for ages.”

“Oh, right,” she replied, attempting to feign enthusiasm she didn’t really feel. Truthfully, the concept sounded boring to her, she had never enjoyed forced fun. “I’m sure you and Ronnie will have loads of fun playing that.”

“You need six people to play it,” Cora told her, lifting her gaze back to her, “maybe you and Abraham could come over for a game?”

“Oh yeah…maybe…that’d be nice,” she said, nodding and giving a tight smile. There was absolutely no way Abraham would ever agree to sit around and play a board game, it just wasn’t his idea of fun at all, but she didn’t want to be rude to Cora and tell her that. “Anyway, I’d better get off, got a hot date with a pile of ironing!”

“See ya, love,” Cora called to her, before closing the caravan door as she walked away.

Unfortunately, the game of Cluedo happened a lot sooner than she had anticipated – that same night.

Abraham came back from tending the horses, his clothes thick with the scent of the stables, and wrapped his arms around her waist as she stood ironing one of his shirts. She smiled as his warmth enveloped her, his back pressed tight to her chest, and turned her face to his, her lips meeting his in a soft kiss.

“Good day?” she murmured against his lips as he pulled back slightly to look at her.

“Yeah, was alright,” he replied, giving her a gentle squeeze, then flopping down on the settee. He sat with his legs spread wide, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips as he watched her working behind the ironing board. “Pal and Ronnie have a fresh batch of homebrew ready. Ronnie said we should go over tonight for a few drinks.”

“Sounds good,” she replied, placing the iron down and beginning to button the shirt closed. She shot him a playful smile. “You should have a bath first though, you stink of horses.”

“Bloody cheek,” he grinned, standing and giving her a playful swat on the bottom.

Later that evening, they sat in Cora and Ronnie’s caravan, with Pal and Freda. It was a tight squeeze for the six of them, all crowded around the fold out dining room table. She had Abraham’s thigh pressed tightly against her to the left and Freda’s on the right, with barely enough elbow room to lift her glass to her lips. Several brown, glass bottles of strong home brewed beer were scattered across the tabletop, and a half empty bottle of gin was slowly making its way around them too.

The small space was warm, her cheeks felt flushed, and everyone’s voices grew progressively louder the more they drank, all attempting to be heard over each other. A look of realisation passed across Cora’s face, her eyes went wide, and she clapped her hands, causing a hush to settle over the circle they were sitting in.

“I know what we can do, we’ve got enough of us for it,” she exclaimed, before standing and reaching up to grab the Cluedo box from the shelf behind her.

She felt her heart sink knowing what was to come, it would sour the mood around the entire table.

“What you got there then, Cor?” Pal asked, eyeing the box with curiosity as he rolled a cigarette.

“Cluedo!” she replied happily, placing the box heavily in the centre of the table. “It’s a murder mystery board game.”

“How d’you play it?” Freda asked, sliding the gin bottle across the table to Ronnie.

“So, there are cards for the murder suspects, weapons and rooms, and one of each is chosen at random and placed into an envelope – that’s the answer. The rest of the cards are split out between us, and we each get to play a character and move around the board, between the rooms and guess, based on our cards, who we think the murderer is, what weapon they used and which room they did it in. You all get stuff to take notes with so you can keep track of what’s been guessed wrong. If you guess correctly you win, if you guess wrong then you’re not allowed to guess again. If any of the cards guessed are ones you’re holding, you’ve got to show them privately to the guesser so they know what they guessed wrong. They’re also then allowed to look in the envelope to see the correct answer, but can’t tell anyone what it is.”

Pal and Abraham groaned in unison as Cora lifted the lid and spread the board out. “Christ, that sounds so shit,” Abraham complained, “can’t we just play cards or something instead?”

Ronnie elbowed him gently, leaning in conspiratorially to whisper to him, “just humour her this once. The novelty will wear off or she’ll lose one of the pieces eventually. No point in upsetting her.”

Abraham scowled, leaning back against his seat and folding his arms across his chest as he watched Cora set the game up.

It was slow going, given that none of them really knew what they were doing and Abraham was less than impressed with being given the character of Professor Plum. “Sounds like a twat,” he grumbled, holding the game piece between his forefingers as he examined it.

She had been given the character of Miss Scarlett, and as she moved her red game piece into the library portion of the board, she decided she’d take her chances and make a guess. “Was it…Colonel Mustard with a revolver in the library?”

Freda shook her head, leaning across to show her that she had the card for the revolver.

“Ah, bugger,” she sighed, placing her own cards face down on the table, “guess that’s me out then. I don’t wanna see the answer, I’d rather it stay a surprise.” She tapped Abraham lightly on his thigh, “shift over, love, I’m off to spend a penny.”

She squeezed out of the tight space with difficulty, as Abraham maneuvered his long legs to allow her to pass. The crisp coolness of the night air was a welcome sensation against her skin, as she pushed open the door, allowing it to swing closed behind her as she descended the rickety wooden steps. She felt warm from the combination of the wood burning stove in the caravan and how crowded it was in the small space, as well as the effects of the gin and homebrew she’d been swigging all evening. The fresh air made her light headed and unsteady on her feet as she made her way towards the outhouse.

Having done what she needed to do, she was about to head back when she felt large hands grab her waist, making her gasp as she was backed up against the hard, wooden exterior of the barn. She looked up into the smirking face of Abraham, the pale moonlight just barely illuminating his sharp features.

“What are you doing?” she demanded, grasping the front of his plaid shirt to steady herself.

“Told ‘em I was coming out for a piss,” he said, a predatory glint in his eye as he stared down at her, his grip on her waist unrelenting. “We could just go home though, now we’re both out here.”

“We can’t just leave and not say anything, it’s rude,” she chided, giving his chest a light tap.

“Oh, come on, it’s fucking boring and you know it is,” he argued, keeping her pressed against the wall.

“It is,” she agreed, winding her arms around his neck, “but it’s just this once. Cora was really excited when she told me about it earlier.”

Abraham raised an eyebrow. “You knew she was gonna make us play this?”

She bit her lip, a guilty look passing across her face. “Sort of, yeah…but I didn’t think she’d make us play it tonight.”

“Mmm,” he leaned in, the tip of his nose brushing against hers, “so, this is your fault then.”

She leaned up, pressing her lips to his, smiling into the kiss as she felt how eagerly he responded, his body pressed flush against hers as his hands slid to her lower back.

“We should get back,” she whispered breathlessly, when they finally parted for air, “or they’ll come out looking for us.”

“No rush,” he murmured, eyeing her hungrily, “I already know who the murderer is.”

“Oh, do you now?”

“Yeah, me, with my hand up your skirt against the barn,” he uttered, pushing her back against the wall, as the roughness of his calloused fingers slid up the soft flesh of her inner thigh, leaving a trail of gooseflesh in their wake.

She whimpered softly, trying to ignore the dull throbbing sensation of her core. “Not here!” she hissed, though she made no attempt to push his hand away.

“I think here will do just fine,” he grinned wolfishly, the pads of his fingers toying with the gusset of her underwear.

“Abe—”

“Shhh,” he soothed. His free hand rose to her throat, wrapping around it and applying just enough pressure to silence her protests, as he slipped two fingers past her knicker elastic and swiped them through her slick folds. “Oh, you like that, don’t you?”

She had felt light headed when she had stepped outside to pee, but it was nothing compared to this – Abraham’s thumb and forefinger pushed against the sides of her throat, the dizzying lack of oxygen serving to heighten the sensation of his digits working rhythmically against her sensitive flesh.

He squeezed experimentally at her neck, tightening his grip ever so slightly, as his index finger sought out her pearl and began rubbing tight circles upon it. She bucked her hips, her lips parted as her eyes fluttered closed and she lost herself in blissful surrender, completely at his mercy. Abraham was so dominant like this – restricting her airway with one hand, while the other was beneath her skirt – it was all too easy to forget that anyone could catch them, but it felt too good to care.

Little spots swam in her vision, obscuring her view of him as she opened her eyes. He was staring intently at her, loosening and tightening his grip on her delicate neck in tandem with the insistent rubbing at her swollen bundle of nerves. She could feel the coil tightening in her lower belly, as her thighs started to shake. Unable to breathe properly, her pleasured pants were shallow and laboured.

He chuckled darkly, clearly able to sense she was close, and sped up the movement of his fingers as he increased the pressure on her throat. “That’s it, good girl, just let go for me.”

His words were enough to send her tumbling over the edge and she let out a quiet, broken cry of pleasure as her body shuddered against his and white, hot pulsations of ecstasy rippled through her, causing her inner walls to spasm around nothing, as he continued to rub at her, until it became too much and she had to jerk her hips away.

Slowly, he released the hold he had on her throat, moving his arm around her waist to hold her limp form steady. He pulled his hand out from beneath his skirt and wiped it unceremoniously on his trousers, as she clung desperately to his shoulders to keep herself upright.

“You ready to go back in then?” he asked, once she’d had a moment to catch her breath.

“Not after that,” she grinned up at him, “take me home.”

“With pleasure,” he winked, ignoring her squeal as he lifted her effortlessly over his shoulder, and brought his palm heavily down upon her bottom, the sound ringing out loudly in the still night air, as he strode back through the farmyard. They never did find out who the murderer was, and neither one of them cared.

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[the-bookdragons-hoard]

I laughed so hard at the tree cutting scene 🤣. Why are my legs suddenly tightly crossed? 🥵🫠

What a Lovely Mess

Pairing: Billy Washington x f!reader Warnings: Dirty talk, allusions to smut. Word count: ~1k

Summary: Billy's girlfriend encourages him to explore a more confident side of himself while decorating the Christmas tree.

Author's note: Day six of Smuffmas - tinsel and talking dirty. No tag list. Follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications.

“Let’s get a real tree this year!”

They were words she regretted ever uttering. Getting it strapped to the roof of Billy’s beaten up, old Vauxhall Cavalier and then driving it back had been the easy bit. But then they’d arrived home, and maneuvering the tree up the stairwell of the block of flats had proven rather more difficult.

Why don’t we live on the fucking ground floor, why doesn’t this poxy building have a lift – all were thoughts that passed angrily through her mind as her and Billy struggled to pivot the large Chrisrmas tree between the pair of them around the corners of each floor. The height difference between them made it no easier – he towered over her by at least a foot, meaning they weren’t able to carry the cumbersome load level. Billy had stumbled back at one point, sending pine needles scattering over the stairs as the branches had brushed against the wall.

“Jesus, Billy!” she snapped, struggling to right the giant fir as they’d continued upwards.

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” he huffed back, his brow furrowed and sweaty with exertion.

“Just be careful, okay?” she said moodily, as they’d begun their ascent of the final flight of stairs.

“Do you think I’m going out of my way not to be?” Billy snarked. “Tell you what, let’s just assume that going forward I’m always being careful, unless explicitly told otherwise.”

Moody prick.

She scowled, falling silent as they leaned the tree against the wall so that Billy could fish the keys from his pocket and open the door. The warmth of the central heating that enveloped her as soon as they were inside soured her mood further – she was already clammy from their ordeal on the stairs and was now being smothered by further heat that made her coat stick to her skin with perspiration. She was desperate to peel it off, but they still had to get the tree situated in the living room.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Billy groaned, seeing what it looked like, once they had it positioned in the corner.

It was too tall for the flat – the top of it bent against the ceiling at a right angle.

“Didn’t you measure it?” she asked exasperatedly, struggling out of her coat and letting it drop onto the sofa.

“Did you see me get out a tape measure at the tree yard?” he sniped, brushing the sweat dampened strands of sandy coloured hair from his forehead in an agitated gesture. “I thought all Christmas trees were just house sized.”

She sighed, biting back the urge to tell him what a stupid thing that was to say. “We’ll just have to chop a bit off.”

“Yeah, I think you’re probably right,” he admitted, staring up at it, “if we lop that bit at the top off, it should be fine.”

“You can’t do that!” she protested, “that will ruin the shape of the tree, and then where we will put the star? Take a bit off the trunk at the bottom.”

“I haven’t got anything that could cut through that,” he told her, turning his attention from the tree to her.

“Well, what were you gonna use to cut the top?”

“You know…scissors,” he said, making a snipping motion in the air with his forefingers.

The suggestion and the gesture had caused an involuntary burst of laughter to erupt from her, the sound immediately dissipating the tension that had built between them from the effort of getting the tree into the flat in the first place. He grinned, blue eyes sparkling as he looked at her.

“You know what, let’s leave it as it is,” she said with a smile, “it looks shit, but I don’t think it’d be our tree if it didn’t.

“Merry shitmas then, babe!” he said with a dopey smile. “Drink?”

A few moments later, the two of them sat on the floor of the living room – her with her legs crossed, Billy with his stretched out in front of him – as they pawed through a battered cardboard box of old Christmas decorations. Threadbare tinsel that had seen better days, chipped baubles and string lights that all seemed to have bulbs missing made up the selection of items that they would use to decorate the monstrosity that crowded their living room.

“I’m sorry for getting stroppy with you earlier,” she said softly, before taking a sip of red wine and savouring the subtle burn at the back of her throat.

“Yeah, me too,” he replied, as his thumbs rubbed idly at the condensation on his bottle of Stella. His eyes lifted to meet hers, taking on a playful look as he continued, “you’ll have to watch yourself though, or you’ll end up on the naughty list.”

“Oh yeah?” she giggled. “You gonna spank me?”

Billy’s cheeks flushed pink and he lowered his gaze, taking a sudden keen interest in the label on his beer bottle, but she wasn’t going to let him retreat so easily.

“Oi,” she chided, setting her wine glass and moving to straddle his lap. She draped a length of purple tinsel around the back of his neck, tugging him closer. “Don’t go shy on me.”

“I’m not,” he said, putting his beer bottle down on the carpet and bringing his hands to rest upon her hips, “I just feel stupid talking like that.”

“Why?”

“It’s embarrassing.”

“You don’t need to be embarrassed with me, Billy,” she urged, “talk dirty to me. I want you to, I like it.”

His face twisted with incredulity, his brow furrowing as he scoffed. “I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“Well,” she began, her voice turning sultry, “you could tell me what you want to do to me, or what you want me to do to you, how I make you feel. There aren’t rules, just say what comes naturally.”

“You go first then,” he insisted, giving her hips a gentle squeeze.

She nodded, biting her lip as she considered what to say. “You make me so wet,” she purred, grinding slightly in his lap to emphasise her point.

Billy’s lips parted, a heavy exhale escaping him. His eyes drifted downwards in momentary hesitation, before lifting back to her face. “I wanna taste it,” he whispered.

“Yeah? You wanna make me feel good with your mouth?” she asked, continuing the lazy roll of her hips against his, using her grip on the tinsel around his neck as leverage. Her core throbbed at the feeling of his growing hardness rubbing against her through the fabric of his jogging bottoms.

“Mmm, yeah,” he breathed, growing more confident, gripping her firmly as he guided her movements. “Wanna tear those knickers off you and have you sit on my face, make you come.”

“Fucking hell, Billy,” she almost moaned, the filthiness of his words taking her by surprise, causing the aching desire within her to grow stronger. “Love how your tongue feels on my clit, you always make me come so hard.”

He groaned, his face pressing into the crook of her neck as he raised a hand to palm roughly at her breast through her t-shirt, making her gasp.

“Tell me what you want me to do to you,” she urged, pulling back slightly, forcing him to look at her once more.

“I…I want you to ride me,” he stuttered breathlessly as his hand snaked from her breast back to her hip, urging her movements against his clothed erection.

“You want to be inside of me?” she smiled coyly, stroking her fingers through his hair.

“Yeah, yeah, I do,” he said, halting his movements.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, cocking her head.

“I’m done dirty talking,” he told her, sliding the tinsel from around his neck and dropping it onto the carpet.

“You are?”

“Yeah,” he replied, sliding his hands to her rear and giving it a firm squeeze. “Bed. Now.”

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[the-bookdragons-hoard]

🫠🥵🫠

Choiceless Hope in Grief

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x f!reader Warnings: Angst, smut. Word count: ~2k

Summary: Following the events of Rook's Rest, Aemond seeks refuge in the only person he has left.

Author's note: Day five of Smuffmas - fireplace and face fucking. No tag list. Follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications.

“He is waiting for you,” Lysa informed her, poking her head through the gap in the soft linen of the curtains that afforded her privacy while she bathed.

She sighed at the interruption, loathe to be pulled from the relaxation that the warmth of the jasmine infused water afforded her. Taking her time was a luxury she often indulged in, her rank and demand within Mother’s allowing her to keep her clientele waiting. However, this particular patron was one that insisted upon punctuality, and his status ensured no leniency for this particular rule.

The steam that wafted up from the tub obscured her view slightly as she peered over her shoulder at the serving girl. “Has he been prepared?” she asked, not wanting to rise from the water until absolutely necessary.

“Yes,” Lysa nodded, “exactly as you instructed. And he has had his draught,” she added, lifting up the empty tray that perched precariously upon her upturned palm, as if to emphasise her point.

“And the payment?” she enquired, turning away and leisurely lifting a leg from the bath, pointing her toes up towards the ceiling and watching as the wetness of her skin glistened in the candlelight.

“Paid up front,” Lysa informed her, “two golden dragons and a silver stag.”

She raised an eyebrow, her leg dropping back into the bath with a splash as her lips parted in surprise. That was more than double what he usually paid her. “Any particular requests?” she asked, attempting to mask the apprehension in her voice, as nerves fluttered in her belly. When patrons paid so handsomely, it was usually in anticipation of services that were considered illicit, even for the Street of Silk.

“Just the usual,” the serving girl replied, shifting from foot to foot with impatience, “shall I tell him you need a minute?”

“No need,” she insisted, with a dismissive wave of her hand, “I shall be there momentarily.”

Lysa disappeared from the gap in the curtains, and she rose slowly from the tub as water dripped down the curves and planes of her naked body in rivulets. She didn’t bother to dry herself – high status clientele often preferred tangible proof that the women they had purchased for the evening were clean. She draped a silk robe of emerald green around her body, tying it closed at the waist; the fabric clung to her dampened curves, accentuating the shape of her breasts and hips. She pulled her hair free of the clasp that held it fastened to the back of her head, allowing it to fall in soft, loose waves around her shoulders. She would ordinarily go to the effort of braiding it, however, with the considerable amount that had been paid for her time this evening she decided that it would not be wise to keep him waiting any longer.

Sliding her feet into slippers, she walked quickly through the pleasure house. The heady scent of fragrant oils and incense hung in the air, doing little to mask the pungent aroma of sex and sweat, instead they clung together, creating an oppressive feeling of humidity.

Moans of pleasure, giggles and the slap of flesh against flesh floated out from each curtained partition as she passed, the thin drape of fabric doing little to protect anyone’s modesty, though all occupied within were too far gone in their carnal acts to mind.

Since having been burst in on by his brother and his retinue a month ago, the man she would be entertaining this evening had insisted upon more private quarters for his subsequent visits. He had been granted use of Madame Sylvi’s personal bedchamber for the services he paid for – an unusual privilege for paying customers, but one that Sylvi had been more than willing to offer to ensure his continued custom.

She pushed into the room, the warmth of the lit hearth heating her still wet skin as she stepped inside, allowing the wooden door to close heavily behind her. Though Sylvi had gone to great lengths to decorate the room with vibrant coloured silks, plenty of candles and plush sheepskin rugs, it did little to distract from its modest size. The space was just large enough for a double canopy bed, a modest table and chair, and the small fireplace that was kept lit day and night to keep out the chill and scare away the rats.

There he was, just as Lysa had said he would be. His pewter cup had been drained of the milk of the poppy it had once contained and now sat upon the table. He knelt, stripped bare, in front of the cracking fire – Prince Aemond Targaryen – the most fearsome dragon rider in all of Westeros, kneeling before a common whore as though their roles had been reversed. In this room they were, at least that was what he paid her for.

She allowed her eyes to linger upon his lithe, yet chiseled physique. Though his hair was loose, hanging in long, silver strands around his sharp features, it did little to obscure the sapphire which sat snugly within his left eye socket - the gemstone glimmered in the firelight, reflecting the dancing of the flames.

She stepped in front of him, gazing down upon him as she crooked a finger beneath his chin, encouraging him to look at her. She could tell from the lack of focus within his seeing eye that the opiates had begun to take their effect, and this pleased her; he was always so stiff, much too closed off before it did, which made her job harder. He was more pliant like this.

His hands reached up to rest upon her hips and he pressed his face into her lower belly, cuddling tightly into her, the tip of his nose flush against her soft flesh. She moved her hand away from his chin, bringing it to rest upon the crown of his head and gently stroked his hair. They remained like that for several moments, the only sound in the room was the occasional crack of a log on the fire.

“They have made me prince regent,” he finally said, his voice muffled against her robe. He pulled back to gaze up at her, his expression was soft, almost tired looking, “are you proud of me?”

Her eyes studied him carefully, taking in the darkness beneath his eye sockets. She knew that for Aemond to be made regent, the king would need to be indisposed, but Aegon had been in excellent health on the many occasions he happened upon this particular establishment in recent weeks. “How did you come to be made prince regent?” she asked softly, trailing her fingertips along his prominent jawline.

Aemond’s eye fluttered closed as he leaned into her touch. She watched the bob of his throat as he swallowed, before looking up at her once more. He answered as a child would when being asked who spilled their milk. “He fell from his dragon,” he said simply.

“How?” she pressed more insistently, tilting her head slightly as she stared intently down at him.

“He was in the way,” Aemond whispered, snuggling his face back into her belly, his grip on her hips tightening ever so slightly.

“In the way of what?” 

She combed her fingers through his hair, watching how the paleness of it shone in the firelight. It was easy to envision how Targaryens considered themselves to be closer to gods than men, when their hair resembled spun silver.

“He was not supposed to be there,” he murmured against her robe, “he would have ruined everything, Rhaenys would have killed him.”

A pit of dread formed in the pit of her stomach at the mention of Rhaenys. She had seen the dragon’s head that had been paraded through King’s Landing, an ill omen if ever there was one. Of course Aemond would have been the one responsible, not Aegon. She felt foolish for not having realised sooner.

“So, what did you do?”

“I burned him,” he replied simply, pulling back to gaze up at her once more, “and I will burn you too if you tell anyone.”

It made her blood run cold how effortlessly the threat tumbled from his lips, how little awareness he had of the consequences of his actions or the true weight of the power he wielded. It was almost childlike to witness, which made it all the more terrifying.

“I will not tell a soul,” she reassured him, cupping his cheek, “but you must realise that what you did was wrong. Did you want to kill your brother, so that you could take his place?”

He lowered his gaze, his brow furrowing as he looked pensive for a moment. “I…no…no, I do not think so. I just wanted him out of the way. But I am better suited to rule than he is, and I will never even get to wear a crown.”

“Be that as it may, even princes cannot simply take whatever they please whenever they please.”

“My own mother thinks I tried to kill him,” he said, looking back up at her, “I see how she looks at me, she is afraid of me. She said I am too impulsive to rule.”

“And what do you think?”

One of his hands moved from her hip, slipping inside the opening at the bottom of her robe and gently stroked her thigh, causing a shiver to run through her. Her core throbbed in anticipation for what she knew he was silently asking for. “I want only what’s best for her. To protect my family. To win this war.”

“That is good,” she whispered, and gave his hair a tug at the roots, making him hiss through his teeth. “Now show me just how good you can be.”

She widened her stance slightly, allowing her thighs to part, as she urged him forward by his hair. He went eagerly, pulling open her robe and using his thumbs to spread open the damp folds of her sex. A groan reverberated through his chest as he swiped a broad stroke with the flat of his tongue against her sensitive flesh, causing her to sigh softly, her head tilted back slightly.

“That’s it. Good boy,” she urged, holding him in place by the back of his head as she ground her hips against his face, working herself upon his tongue as he flicked the tip of it feverishly against her swollen pearl.

The sensation made her thighs tremble, the steadily building ache made it an effort to stand, and she wondered fleetingly how he was not uncomfortable having knelt for so long. The thought was immediately pushed from her mind as he latched his lips upon the delicate bundle of nerves and suckled hard. She mewled, bucking her hips, anchoring him to her with the vice like grip she held upon his roots.

His hands moved to her hips once more, holding her steady as he plunged his tongue inside of her, the tip of his nose adding additional stimulation to the outer parts of her, as he thrust the muscle into her repeatedly. Her skin grew hot and clammy with exertion, exacerbated by the crackle of the flames within the hearth.

The coil within her grew taut, and as though sensing it, he pulled out of her with a lewd squelch of saliva and arousal, redoubling his attention upon her bud, alternating between precise kitten licks and forceful sucks.

Finally, she cried out, holding him tight against her as she shuddered in ecstasy. White hot waves of pleasure rippled throughout her body as her inner walls spasmed with the force of her peak. Only when the final tremor had coursed its way through her body, did she release Aemond’s hair and allow him to draw back.

She gazed down at him, her mind now felt as foggy as his must. He was a vision of beauty, staring up at her, lips and chin shiny with her slick, his pupil dilated with arousal, as his cock stood rigid between his thighs.

“Are you proud of me?” he asked, repeating his question from earlier. “Yes,” she breathed, “my good boy. I am so proud of you.”

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[the-bookdragons-hoard]

Love Thy Neighbour

Pairing: Tom Bennett (World on Fire) x f!reader Warnings: Masturbation (male and female) Word count: ~3k

Summary: An invite from Tom's neighbour to come round for mulled wine has some unexpected but not unwelcome consequences.

Author's note: Day four of Smuffmas - mulled wine and mutual masturbation. No tag list. Follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications.

Tom reclined in the old, worn armchair in the sitting area, the only sounds in the Bennett household were the loud ticking of the kitchen clock and the faint burning hiss of the lit end of his cigarette each time he took a drag.

It was two days before Christmas, but he felt the furthest thing from festive. Truthfully, he hadn’t enjoyed this time of year since his mum had passed away. Lois did her best to fill the void, cooking Christmas dinner and ensuring they each had a present to open, but it was never really the same, especially with how sullen their dad had become.

For now, he was enjoying the peace and quiet that came with an empty house – something he rarely got to experience. His dad was still at work and Lois had gone out with Harry. It was nice not to have to deal with his sister’s endless fussing, or his dad pressuring him to look for work. Recently, the conversation had switched gears from him finding a job to him registering for the draft.

Truthfully, Tom felt a bit lost without any purpose or direction, he didn’t know what he wanted to do with his life, but he knew for certain he wasn’t interested in fighting a war he hadn’t asked for. The threat of the police one day arresting him loomed over him; whether it be for the petty crimes he committed out of boredom or for dodging the draft, he wasn’t sure, but the thought lingered at the back of his mind like an itch that he couldn’t quite reach to scratch. It was maddening.

He took another long drag of his cigarette, savouring the acrid taste of the tobacco and the slight burn at the back of his throat as he inhaled, before blowing a tight line of smoke through pursed lips. He watched as it hung in the air, spreading and swirling like storm clouds on a rainy day.

A soft knock at the door interrupted him from his thoughts, and for a moment he considered just ignoring it. Douglas and Lois both had keys, and he’d gotten into a scuffle at the pub the night before, so whoever it was wouldn’t be someone he wanted to speak to. Though when the knock came again, still gentle against the wood, he supposed that if it were the police or anyone involved in the scrap, they wouldn’t be quite so polite.

Tom crushed his cigarette out into the silver ashtray that sat upon the end table next to the armchair and slowly rose to his feet, walking the short distance to the door. He was surprised when he pulled it open to see the girl that lived two doors down stood on the pavement before him.

“Alright?” he’d greeted her, folding his arms across the chest of his white, short sleeved undershirt as he leaned against the doorframe. “What can I do for ya?”

She’d smiled, a pretty, genuine smile that had involuntarily caused a tug at the corners of his own mouth as she’d looked up at him with bright, hopeful eyes. “Don’t s’pose you’re busy?”

“Depends on why you’re asking,” he’d replied with a raise of an eyebrow.

“I wondered if you’d like to come round for some mulled wine?” she clasped her hands in front of her, looking up the street towards her house and then back at him.

Reflexively, Tom leaned forward, his curiosity piqued. “They don’t ration mulled wine. Where’d you get it?”

“I made it,” she replied brightly, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world, “you want some?”

Tom looked her up and down as he thought about it. He had been enjoying having the house to himself, however, who was he to turn down free booze from a pretty girl? “Go on then.”

He couldn’t help but smirk at how excited she looked as he slipped his shoes on, and shoved his door key into his trouser pocket. He didn’t bother with a jumper or a jacket, knowing he didn’t have far to go, and followed her the short distance down the street and into her house, doing his best to ignore the nip of the damp, frigid December air against his bare arms.

Unsurprisingly, the layout of her place was much the same as his – all the terraces were; an open plan downstairs area that had space for a dining area, a sitting area and the kitchen, with a staircase leading to the upstairs towards the back of the house.

“Your mum and dad not in then?” He asked, trailing behind her to the kitchen. There was a large steaming saucepan on the stove, and he watched as she picked up a wooden spoon and gave the dark liquid inside a stir.

“Mum’s at work,” she told him, “and dad’s been drafted. He’s down in Southampton, last I heard.”

The realisation of how careless his question had been hit him like a punch to the gut. Of course her dad had joined up, not everyone was a draft dodger like he was.

Clearly oblivious to his discomfort, as her attention was focused on the simmering saucepan of wine, she continued; “it’s why I’ve managed to get away with making this. We had the bottle left over from a couple of Christmases ago. I figured I’d make use of it while no one’s around, and we could share it, something for you to enjoy before you’re drafted too.”

He lowered his gaze, fingers twitching as he silently cursed himself for forgetting his cigarettes. Eager to change the subject to anything but the war, he stepped closed to her, peering into the saucepan. “What did you use to mull this then? I can’t see any oranges or cinnamon in there.”

“Can’t get either of those things anymore,” she said, moving towards the cupboards and pulling out a pair of mismatched mugs – one was navy blue with a chip in the rim, the other was white with a missing handle. “I just put a couple of spoonfuls of sugar from this week’s rations in it. Hopefully it’ll still be nice.”

Tom was glad of the fact that she was busy ladelling wine into the mugs, as it meant she didn’t see the way he grimaced. Hot red wine with sugar in it? It sounded fucking awful. He schooled his features as she turned to him with a soft smile, handing him the navy blue mug.

“You can have the one with the handle, so you don’t burn your hands,” she told him.

“Thanks,” he said as he took it from her. He knew he would have to take a sip, she was gazing up at him, her eyes filled with hopeful expectation. “Cheers then,” he uttered, raising the cup to her, before lifting it to his lips.

The wine tasted sour, the cheapness of it amplified by the fact that it had been warmed up. So little sugar had been used that he couldn’t even taste it, it was just boiled red wine. He swallowed thickly, coughing slightly as warmth spread through his chest and flushed his cheeks.

“How is it?” she asked hopefully.

“It’s er…it’s…yeah,” he choked out, nodding slightly.

She cocked her head, looking at him quizzically, her eyes narrowed, before trying it for herself.

Oh christ, Tom thought, she’s gonna know it tastes horrible and feel really bad.

He watched as her nose wrinkled as she took a mouthful, her hand raised to her lips as she struggled to swallow it. He was surprised when she started to laugh.

“That’s awful,” she finally said with a grin, “still, you should’ve seen the biscuits I tried to make you first, they looked like charcoal.”

She gestured for him to follow her through to the sitting room, and he trailed behind her, carrying his mug. He settled next to her on the sofa, it was brown in colour and looked older than he was, yet it had the sort of cushions that once you sank into them it was hard to get out again. He relaxed back into the soft comfort, cradling the still steaming wine with both hands.

“So why were you making stuff for me?” he finally asked, turning his head towards her.

She took a deep drink from her mug and set it down upon the glass top coffee table, then turned her body fully to face him. “I like you, Tom”, she blurted, “I mean, really like you. And I wanted to let you know that, because I know you’ll be drafted soon and I might never see you again.”

Her admission made his heart race, but he knew her kindness and her affection were undeserved. He sighed heavily, placing his own mug down next to hers before leaning his head back against the sofa, staring sullenly up at the ceiling. “I’m not getting drafted.”

“What do you mean?”

“I didn’t register,” he confessed, turning to look at her once more, “I don’t want to fight in a war I don’t believe in. It’s not my fight. I don’t want to be sent off to die when it’s not my choice. So, I don’t deserve your horrible wine, or your burned biscuits. I’m a coward.”

His eyes widened as she reached out, her fingers curling around his and squeezing gently. “I don’t think you’re a coward.”

He scowled, lifting his head from the back of the sofa, though he didn’t pull his hand away. “How can you say that?”

“It’s a brave thing to admit that,” she explained quietly, her eyes filled with gentle reassurance as they looked into his, “and I think you’re just saying what everyone thinks, really, they’re just too scared to say it out loud.”

He exhaled slowly, squeezing her hand back in a silent gesture of gratitude, as he allowed his head to fall back against the sofa once more.

“But you know you have to register, right? You’ll go to prison if you don’t.”

“Yeah, I know,” he said quietly, pulling his hand away to scrub it over his face.

“So what are you gonna do?”

“Dunno. Could register as a conchie,  my old man did.”

“But are you?”

“Am I what?”

“A conscientious objector.”

“I dunno…fuck…I haven’t worked it out yet,” he said angrily, raking a hand through his hair.

“It’s okay, you don’t need all the answers right now.”

Tom huffed, eager to lighten the mood. He plastered a smirk across his face as he looked at her again, his tone playful. “So, that’s why you brought me round here, to get me drunk and take advantage while you’ve still got the chance?”

She laughed, though it was a small and nervous sound. “I…er…actually wouldn’t know how to…as much as I want to.”

Tom grinned, leaning in, he tucked her hair gently behind her ear before brushing his lips lightly against hers. He pulled back slightly when he felt hers begin to respond. “Seems like you know enough to me.”

“I mean it, Tom,” she whispered, her eyes gazing into his, “I know nothing about pleasing a man. I was hoping you could show me?”

“Show you how?” he asked, pulling back slightly and eyeing her curiously.

“Show me what feels good for you, let me watch you please yourself so I can learn.”

“Fucking hell,” he drew back, his spine colliding with the sofa cushions, “you can’t be serious?”

Despite the shock of her request, he couldn’t deny that he was intrigued, already feeling himself stir to life at the suggestion.

“Only if you want to,” she uttered shyly, “maybe it’s a silly idea.”

“No…no, it’s not silly,” he insisted, grabbing for his now tepid mug of wine and draining its remnants in a single gulp. He returned the mug to the table, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “But you have to do it too.”

“Oh, Tom, I dunno…”

“Fair’s fair,” he reasoned, “you get to watch me, I get to watch you. And I can learn what feels good for you too.”

She finished off her own mug and nodded. “Fine, you first.”

Fuelled by the faux confidence the wine has granted him, Tom leaned back against the arm of the sofa. His eyes didn’t leave hers as he unbuckled his belt, and unfastened his trousers, lowering the waistband of his briefs just enough to free himself.

He exhaled shakily as he wrapped his hand around himself, stroking himself to hardness. The intensity of her gaze as she watched, her lips slightly parted, made him throb with desire, the tip of his cock already glistening with arousal because of it.

“Your turn,” he strained out, still slowly moving his fist from base to tip, “don’t keep me waiting.”

She hiked her skirt up around her hips, resting back against the opposite arm of the sofa. She bent the leg closest to the cushions at the knee and stretched out the other until her stockinged foot touched the coffee table.

Tom watched, transfixed, as she hooked her index finger into the gusset of her knickers and tugged them to one side. He had never studied a woman’s intimate area this closely before – all of his encounters were usually drunken fumbles in the dark, where neither person took much care to examine the other. A thatch of hair sat above the spread open, glistening folds of her sex, and he groaned as he looked at it, his hand moving faster of its own accord, to relieve the pressurised ache that was rapidly building within him.

“Tell me what you’re doing,” she pleaded softly, dipping a finger into her slickness and circling slowly.

“It…it feels better when I move my hand a bit faster,” he gasped out, “you need to grip it tightly, but not too tightly. Tell me…tell me what you’re doing.”

Her breaths became heavier as she continued to draw tight circles upon herself. “There’s a little bud here at the top, it feels good when I touch it like this.”

Tom nodded, biting his lip as he watched, the obscene wet sounds of their arousal and their heavy breathing the only sounds that filled the room. “It feels good when I touch the top of myself too,” he said, swiping his thumb across the head of his cock to illustrate his point, eliciting a pleasured hiss from himself. “Do you…do you ever put your fingers inside?”

She shook her head. “No, I never have…”

He grunted at the admission, the thought of himself being the first to ever be inside of her caused his balls to draw up towards his body, signaling he was getting close. His eyes fluttered closed momentarily as warmth licked along his lower spine. “How often do you touch yourself?” he asked, opening his eyes to look at where her fingers still worked against her wetness.

“At least once a week,” she admitted breathlessly, “though there are certain times of the month where I need to more often. What about you?”

“Every day”, he said shamelessly, “f–fuck, I’m gonna come…”

“I’m close too,” she panted softly, “wait for me.”

Tom was helpless, unable to comply with her request, as his mind went blank, his hips stuttered and jerked as pure, aching bliss coursed through his body, pumping out ropes of pearly white release over his knuckles as he worked himself through his release.

As his vision swam back into focus and his thoughts turned lucid once more, he was glad of the fact he hadn’t been able to wait for her, or he’d have missed the moment she reached her own peak. He watched in rapture as she tossed her head back with a broken cry, her thighs shaking as her hips jolted much the same as his had, causing her entire body to shudder. He had never seen anything more beautiful.

When the final aftershocks had left her, and she brought her head forward once more, they both burst into peals of laughter as they made eye contact, taking in the messes they’d made of themselves. For the first time in a long time, Tom felt light, void of worry, and he had her to thank for it.

He smiled to himself as he wiped his hands with a tea towel that she had chucked towards him. “Well, at least it seems like you’ll be a better shag than you are a cook,” and the sounds of their shared mirth filled the small terraced house once more.

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[the-bookdragons-hoard]

Not me reading this and saving your fic to my tbr list, knowing I made my tbr list longer than my life expectancy...

So good, I love it when Daemon growls in front of his wife.

Fool's Gold

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x OFC (Melessa Tyrell) Warnings: Smut, mild angst, mentions of pregnancy. Word count: ~2.5k

Summary: Daemon returns from the Stepstones to a welcome he was not expecting. Part of the Perzys se Rūkla universe, but can be read as a standalone.

Author's note: Day two of Smuffmas - presents and praise kink. No tag list. Follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications.

It had been three months since Daemon last set foot in King’s Landing. The Triarchy had been causing trouble in the Stepstones once again, and Corlys Velaryon’s fleet had begun to struggle to defend the ships requiring passage across the Narrow Sea. With trade between Westeros and the Free Cities slowing as a result, the Crown had been forced to intervene. Rhaenyra had dispatched her husband, Laenor, and his dragon, Seasmoke, to help his father’s cause, and Daemon had insisted upon accompanying him on the back of Caraxes, not trusting the King Consort to get the job done without the aid of him and his blood wyrm. 

Having burned the pirates’ forces to cinders and with the shipping lanes clear once more, Daemon had returned with haste to the capital, eager to be reunited with his wife after so many nights spent apart from her.

As Hand of the Queen, it would be proper for Daemon to report directly to his niece, to deliver the news of their victory, however, he has never been one for propriety. Melessa is his first priority, and if Laenor can tarry with his squires in the wake of the battle, with no sense of urgency, then he does not see why he should be held to a higher standard. 

The metallic clanking of his armour echoes off of the stone walls of Maegor’s Holdfast, as he advances towards the apartments he shares with Melessa and their son, Viserys. He holds his dragon shaped helm tucked beneath one arm, and carries a heavy linen sack in the other. A slight smirk tugs at the corners of his lips as he imagines the way Melessa’s delicate features will light up once she sees its contents.

Throwing open the heavy wooden doors, Daemon strides purposefully through the space, making his way towards the solar. Melessa is exactly where he expects her to be. He does not announce his presence straight away, taking a moment to appreciate her in silent contemplation.

She has had the chaise moved to sit by the balcony doors, which are both open, allowing a light breeze to rustle the gossamer fabric of the ivory coloured curtains and cool the room. She reclines upon the crimson velvet with her eyes closed, though he knows she is not asleep. The afternoon sunlight that filters through the windows shines upon her flaxen hair, making it look like spun gold. She has left it loose today, the soft waves falling almost to her waist, against the loose fitting green robe she wears, pinned closed with a golden rose brooch.

Daemon has always adored that, despite being married to a Targaryen prince, she has never forfeited the colours of House Tyrell. In his mind, it is her way of clinging to some of her youthful innocence, a reminder of why she had initially captured his attention.

His eyes fall upon the swell of her stomach, where her hands rest. She is bigger than when he left, of course she is. She had been three turns of the moon into her pregnancy when he had departed, barely noticeable. Another three had passed, and the evidence of their second child growing within her was now irrefutable. It makes his heart swell with pride and his pulse race with possessiveness.

Finally, Daemon clears his throat, and her eyes flutter open, her blue eyes widening in surprise as she sees him, struggling to rise into a sitting position as her hand cradles her distended belly.

“Don’t strain yourself, petal,” he tells her, placing his helmet down upon a side table and striding towards her. He sets the canvas bag down by the foot of the chaise, glad to be rid of its weight as its contents tinkle loudly against each other. 

She settles back against the plushness of the pillows. “You did not send word that you would be returning,” she says softly, as he leans down to press his lips tenderly to her forehead, before pulling back to stare affectionately at her, his calloused thumb stroking a lingering path along the peachy softness of her jawline.

Her eyes do not hold the joyful sparkle he so adores, instead she looks upon him with concern and apprehension, she visibly stiffens at his touch and he cannot understand why. Perhaps it is an unfortunate consequence of her being pregnant – he knows that being in such a condition takes a toll on women and their bodies.

“I wanted to surprise you,” he murmurs, kneeling down with difficulty under the cumbersome weight of his armour, resting his forehead gently against her abdomen. She moves her hands, placing them either side of her to give him space as he cradles her belly. “Rytsas, zaldrītsos,” he whispers to the babe that grows within, “rōvyktys issa.” Hello, little dragon. You are bigger.

“Have you been to see Rhaenyra?” She asks, her tone lacking the warmth and excitement that Daemon had been longing to hear.

“She can wait,” Daemon says, lifting his head to look at her.

“She will be cross with you,” Melessa tells him matter of factly.

He sighs, her coolness disquieting him. He stands, walking over to the settee in the corner of the room, and begins to unstrap his armour, placing each heavy piece upon the wooden surface, until he is left in only his breeches and undershirt. The relief of the burden upon his body is welcome, though the tension in the room serves as a further uninvited weight that he is keen to be rid of.

“I sense that you are also cross with me,” he says, finally turning to face her, eyeing her curiously as she stares off out of the open balcony doors, her hands idly stroking her belly.

She turns slowly back to look at him, her shoulders sagging as she sighs, and he sees a defeated tiredness within her features that he had not noticed before. Her mouth is downturned, there is a darkness beneath her eyes.

“Have you been to see Viserys?” She asks, looking listlessly at him.

“There will be time enough for his sticky hands and shrill voice later. I want to spend time with my wife,” he says exasperatedly, walking towards the small, round table that is positioned next to the chaise that Melessa rests upon. He lifts the pewter wine jug, giving the golden liquid inside a sniff – cloves, cinnamon and ginger invade his nostrils, making him grimace - spiced honey wine from Lannisport. Horrible swill that is far too weak for Daemon’s liking, but he supposes Melessa cannot stomach anything stronger due to her pregnancy. He pours himself a cup and takes a generous gulp, his nose wrinkling in disgust as he swallows thickly and sets the cup back down, before continuing; “the boy likely won’t even have realised I was gone.”

Melessa scowls, positioning herself to sit up straighter. “He is three, Daemon, of course he notices when you aren’t here!”

Daemon scoffs, growing irritated. He had climbed onto Caraxes’ back and flown straight here once the battle was won, it now seems it was hardly worth bothering, considering the frosty reception he’s received.

“I brought you gifts, both of you,” he argues, moving to the foot of the chaise and lifting the heavy canvas bag, “one for every day that I was gone, look–”

He begins to pull treasures from the bag; bracelets of solid gold, sapphire encrusted necklaces, silver chalices, each item crashes loudly against the flagstone floor as he drops it. Corlys had allowed his men to loot what was left of the Triarchy’s ships, and Daemon had ensured he took what he considered to be his fair share.

Melessa’s brow furrows further as she watches him, before she holds up a hand, halting his actions. “A few pretty baubles do not make up for your absence.”

“Then what would you have me do?!” He snarls, dropping the sack. It hits the floor with a mighty crash, as he stares at her wide eyed, his fragile patience worn down to the quick as his chest heaves with anger.

She doesn't even flinch at his outburst, and for the briefest of moments he wonders what happened to the timid little thing he had approached by the tapestries all those years ago. He supposes it would be foolish of him to marry a woman and not expect her to be influenced by his fire. His delicate Highgarden rose has grown a spine.

“You should not have gone!” she shouts back, leaning forward slightly, her face twisted in an anger that he has never seen in her before. Her eyes are so wide they border on wildness.

Her response shocks him into silence and he exhales heavily, bowing his head as he pinches the bridge of his nose. The anger has fizzled from the both of them as he comes to sit by her feet upon the chase, wrapping a hand around the shin of one of her outstretched legs through the silk fabric of her robe and stroking softly – a gesture intended to ground himself as much as it is to soothe her.

“I had to go,” he insists, “Rhaenyra commanded it.”

“She did not. She sent Laenor. You invited yourself along and she knew she could not refuse you. You left her without a Hand for three months, Daemon.”

Deep down, Daemon knows that Melessa is right, but he cannot bear to allow himself to admit that. He knows that the battle was won more swiftly because of his efforts, so he had done the right thing in going, whether he had been asked to or not. He watches as her hands rub slow circles over her stomach. Though her previous anger has left her, her expression is still sullen, a slight pout to her rosy lips.

“The battle would still be ongoing and the shipping lanes still blocked were it not for my presence,” he explains, “I did my duty as Hand by speeding things along.”

“You could have done your duty as Hand by staying here. Aemond rides the largest dragon in Westeros, Rhaenyra could have sent him if she felt that the Velaryons required further aid.”

Daemon feels his fingers squeeze reflexively upon Melessa’s leg and quickly draws his hand away, lest he unintentionally hurt her due to such a ridiculous suggestion. He laughs, though it is a bitter sound with no genuine humour, and he looks away, averting his gaze to the ceiling at the far corner of the room.

Melessa tuts, pushing at his thigh with the heel of her bare foot, to draw his attention back to her. “I know you feel that Alicent’s children are not trustworthy, but if Aemond harboured ill intent that he intended to act upon, he would have done so by now. He could burn us all in our beds, if he wanted to. If he was intent upon treachery then he would not wait for a war in the Stepstones to act upon it.”

“Why should I remain idle while that impulsive wretch plays the hero atop his dragon?” He mutters, grasping the foot she had nudged him with and placing it in his lap.

“Ah, and there it is,” she smiles triumphantly, a hint of playfulness in her voice, “you didn’t want to help, you wanted to fly to battle and glory.”

He purses his lips, rubbing his thumb up and down the delicate arch of her foot. “And what is the alternative? I remain here and grow soft as I sit on my arse around the small council table?”

“You could never grow soft,” she reassures him, her head tilting slightly in sympathetic understanding, “and you are needed here, I need you, your children need you.”

“It was not because I wished to be parted from you,” he tells her gently, his face softening as he moves closer to her on the chaise, reaching out to sink his fingers into the softness of her pale hair. The familiar scent of rosewater and almond oil envelopes him as he pulls her close, comforting him with the feeling of home, while also making his cock stir within his breeches.

“I have missed you,” she whispers, clutching at the fabric of his undershirt as she nuzzles her face into the scarred flesh of his neck.

“Even though you are cross with me?” He asks quietly, smirking as he feels her smile against his skin.

“I am cross because I want you here with me,” she responds, pulling away to look up at him through her lashes as her hands move downwards from his chest to his abdomen. “You do not need to fight wars and bring home treasures for me to think you are worthy, you already are.”

He watches intently, feeling himself rouse to life as she plucks open the lacings of his breaches.

“You are Daemon Targaryen,” she coos, leaning in once more to press a kiss to his neck, as she slips her hand inside the opening and wraps her fingers around his shaft, “blood of Old Valyria, closer to gods than men, you need not prove yourself to anyone.”

He groans, his head falling back as she begins to pump her hand, and he feels himself grow fully erect, fighting against the aching sensation that tempts him to buck his hips like an untamed beast.

She continues to stroke him from base to tip, before swiping her thumb across the head of him, using his arousal to help ease the glide of her hand upon him. “There is no one that I am prouder to call my husband, no one whose children I would rather carry. Just you. Only you.”

“Fuck!” he hisses, his fingers tightening in her hair, as he leans forward, pressing his forehead against hers as he begins to pant. He can feel the telltale pressure building at the base of his spine, knowing he will reach his end with embarrassing swiftness if she does not stop, yet he cannot bring himself to make her.

“I am so proud of you, and all you do for our family. It is why I cannot bear to be parted from you,” she whispers hotly against the juncture between his neck and shoulder.

His balls tighten, her words are his unravelling as warmth spreads throughout his body, causing his hips to jerk and his mind to go blank as he pulsates against the strokes of her palm, coating her fingers with his pearly spend, as his focus narrows upon the exquisite torture of the throbbing that overtakes him.

“Gods…” he utters breathlessly, once he is lucid again to speak. His lips part in disbelief as he watches her clean his release from her fingers with delicate kitten licks. “...I did not bring you back enough gifts.”

Chapter six || Series masterlist