izfrogzy

[izfrogzy]

𝐎𝐟 𝐌𝐚𝐢𝐝𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐌𝐚𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐬

summary: after facing embarrassment from Aegon’s intrusive visit, Sylvi helps Aemond find attraction with someone closer to his own age. [aemond x fem!reader] [wc: 5.0k]

warnings: 18+ minors dni, smut, p in v, oral (m receiving), hand job, fingering, voyeurism/exhibitionism, aemond’s abuse by her is not tolerated here 🙂‍↔️, HotD themes.

quick links: masterlist | gif credit: @seaside-storm

The sounds of the Silk Streets in the early hours of morning were not for the faint of heart.

You had grown accustomed to them over the years of your residency—the noises, the people, the actions and wants of those who seek the services of an establishment like the one Sylvi ran.

It was not your proudest achievement; not one you’d shout from the rooftops but one that kept the food on the table.

It wasn’t hard. It was sex. And you learned to enjoy it with what little freedom was left when the coins were tossed and your body was aching.

Between your fingers one of those coins twirled absentmindedly as the curtains of your bedding swished at the retreat of your latest payer. There were seldom benefits from the occupation you took up yet the pay, after years of understanding and learning, had grown exponentially.

And the coin that tossed between your fingertips was enough to put food on the table for a few days; enough to buy a dress or to get passage to another town.

It was a reward for service you did not mind.

Sylvi had taught you what you needed to know. How to move, how to pleasure. She helped you determine what felt good and what would feel unpleasant to both you and a partner.

But she had her transgressions far beyond the positive.

One of them stalked the building in a fume.

The laughter that had propagated such anger left an hour ago but the remnants of the jesters stuck heavy in the air. They opened curtains and made spectacles of the givers and the receivers; they stared too long at you in the nude to make you feel at ease.

In the distance, you heard your name called yet you continued to flip the coin.

Aegon, the King as he was now, was no friend to the servants of pleasure. You consider yourself fortunate that he never sought you—as desirable, as insatiable, as you were.

It saved you from a world of hurt from a man as fickle as he was.

Although his reputation preceded him and the ire that still held itself like a cloud over the house was from his head, his brother, Aemond, was a welcome guest.

Though he too was someone you had not laid with either.

He had never lingered far from the woman of the house.

“Y/N.”

Said woman pulled back the curtain of your bed roughly. Against the pillows and covered in a robe the color of a midnight black, you lazily gazed at her.

“Did you not hear me call?” Sylvi asked impatiently. Her irritation was stinging.

“I was busy, Madame,” you responded loosely.

You arched your back and with it came cracks of relaxation. It felt good after being holed up in your bed for two hours.

“You know how Dornish men are,” you informed her. “That one was quite… spirited at this late hour.”

“What happy news for you,” she panned before nodding her head in the direction of her usual hideaway. “I seek a favor.”

“A favor?” You questioned with a mewl.

“It is for the one we do not speak of.”

Sylvi’s eyes gave you a warning. Aemond Targaryen… the one who fumed.

She had never asked for a favor regarding the Prince before and it intrigued you. It would fall a lie if you spoke of never having imagined what a man like him would be like in your bed.

He was a magnificent creature.

Tall and carved from the marble of a great sculptor, Prince Aemond was no stranger to the gazes of the pleasure folk. The way their eyes shined and pupils grew large, you were surely one of them.

It did not hurt that he was no more than the age you were now and had not yet taken a wife.

It was silly, however, to imagine a whore being the wife of a Prince. He had barely sparred you glances when he visited.

Dreams. That is all that it would remain.

“And you seek me?” You questioned, dropping the coin on your clothed stomach.

“I have a proposition for you,” she clarified. “One that will pay you well for your service.”

“The receiver is willing?”

“Yes.”

Her alcove was far nicer than yours.

Lavish with silken pillows and warm candlelight, it was near romantic if you forgot the circumstances of her actions. It smelt of lavender and oils; the kind she wanted throughout the establishment but could only create the corner she wanted here.

It was the first time you had been invited into the space.

Sylvi walked around you as you stood just inside of the curtains. She held the tassel of her robe between her fingertips, swinging it gently.

“We do not speak on what happens here, understood?” She asked you.

“I understand, Madame.” She nodded her head in approval.

“Good,” Sylvi affirmed.

On a ledge behind the bed, she grabbed a small sack of coins and tossed them to you. It landed with a jingle at the edge of the bed.

With delicate hands you grasped the strings and pulled open the bag to see coins worth the entire building. You dropped it, looking at Sylvi with wide eyes.

“T-This… this is far too much,” you scoffed.

“It is what the Prince offered,” she spoke as if the currency was nothing more than what the common folk paid.

There had to have been 10 gold dragons inside of the pouch.

The total jostled you.

You had long understood that the job you took on was ill-inspired. The money you had made was reasonable and never made you feel ashamed to take it.

But this… the currency enough to buy twenty horses; enough to buy a home or sail to Essos with no intention of returning… it did bring shame.

“And for such a currency what does the Prince expect of me? I will not be humiliated—“

“I have no intention of humiliating you.”

The voice cut through glass.

Behind you, with the curtains of Sylvi’s bedding swaying to a gentle close the man of her proposition appeared. You turned around with your mouth agape from the inability to finish your thoughts and as many mortals had before, your mind ceased its thoughts.

He was ethereal, otherworldly.

And he was fully nude.

You stuttered stupidly to greet him.

“P-Prince Aemond,” you managed. “I apologize. I did not intend to speak out of turn.”

He hummed, observing you as you did him. You straightened your back at the sensation. His eye piercing and cold—in a room basked in warmth he was not the bringer of it. Aemond let his mind roam the faults and perfections of your body and needn’t say what it was aloud.

He trusted Sylvi in a twisted way. If she said you were right for the job, surely she would not steer him wrong.

“So,” Aemond’s eye flicked to Sylvi. You took the opportunity to observe the blue gleam of the sapphire that filled the vacancy of his other.

“This is she?”

She introduced your name to him and his eye met yours.

“And the terms have been accepted?”

“They have, My Prince,” you spoke without hesitation.

“Aemond,” he clarified. “You are to call me Aemond.”

You tried his name on your lips and it was breathless. As his eye stalked your body, he took the initiative to take the step forward. The understanding of your willingness emboldened him to bury his brother’s words.

He was seldom humiliated but the reasons he flocked to Sylvi were different from the ones he sought from a willing companion: to release and forget.

Aemond approached you with soft steps and it was suddenly difficult to remember how to breathe. You held your breath, waiting, as his arm extended to you and his fingers brushed the fabric of your robe along your collarbones. He traced the skin with his fingers, along the edges of your robe as the delicate lacing became rough under his fingertips.

He was testing the waters.

You remained focused on his face as your heart rate began to increase. Every thump faster aligned with the draws of his fingers; long and nimble, softer than the men you were used to on days as long as these.

He was fluid and natural. There was no scared boy inside of him, but the hardened man he wanted the world to see.

Sylvi rounded her bed and you were reminded that she was still there as she looked at you.

“Touch her, Aemond. Touch her as you do in your dreams.”

At her command, his hand stilled. You half-thought her demands had sent him into a spiral of regret. Perhaps he would apologize for his lustful responses, scurrying away and back into the pit of dragon’s he came from.

Instead of listening to her in haste, he asked you a question.

“Where are you from?”

You were taken aback but remained stoic. Your job was to put on a performance no matter how surprising his words felt. No patron had ever asked you about, well, you.

You were nothing more than an orifice for their wanton needs.

“Honeyholt,” you responded quietly.

“Not far from Oldtown,” he commented, tracing the lace but never touching your skin. His hand grazed it until he reached the knot of your robe.

You shook your head, “no.”

“Did you enjoy it there?”

“It was far less exciting than King’s Landing.”

“May I?”

You had never had a patron ask permission before either.

You felt like a girl being dotted on. It was a strange feeling, one that had turned so drastically from a mere thirty minutes before—being treated like a doll to be thrown from one to be pampered… it was not what you were expecting.

“You may, Aemond.”

His finite hands worked the knot swiftly to let the robe fall open. When it did, he let it sit there for a moment as he took in the shape of your breasts underneath the fabric, he could see the mound of your pussy, and the way you stood completely still in wait.

He felt powerful when he normally felt meek.

Sylvi had been right. He did need this.

Aemond could feel the woman’s eyes behind him and whether they were on himself or you he would not know, but he felt them heavy.

He took his hands and pushed the fabric from your shoulders. It pooled around your feet in one push.

You breathed in deeply, nipples pebbling at the coolness now meeting you.

It was obvious, however, that your mere body was not enough to rouse him to hardness. If you spent anymore time watching him as he watched you, the sun would be up and his duties would call him away.

“Touch him,” Sylvi instructed you. “Do not be afraid.”

“I am not afraid,” you responded to her but did not look at her. She took a seat on her bed as you moved to stand toe to toe with Aemond.

“May I touch you?” You asked in the same voice of permission he had given you.

“You may,” and he said your name with a weight hearty on his tongue.

With his permission you reached for his right hand and placed it on your breast. His timidness was beginning to show through the hesitancy of his actions. The slow grip on your breast slowly became more comforting the more time he took.

“It’s alright,” you whispered as though Sylvi was not there and you were alone with the Prince. “You can touch me.”

You felt more pressure from his palm. Drawing your own hand to his chest, you began to feel the outlines of his muscles. Aemond was lean and fit, skinny but not sickly.

Each muscle was tense under your touch. He shuttered a breath through his nose and your hand recoiled in the slightest.

“I apologize,” he spoke as lowly as you had before. “I have not been with another in a long time.”

He had not been with another other than Sylvie in a long time, he meant.

“I can be slow, My Prince.”

“Aemond,” he corrected you.

“Aemond,” you said sheepishly in your forgetfulness.

“I do not need you to be slow.”

You nodded in reply and placed your hand back on his chest. You followed it down until you began to broach the zone in which your talents needed to please not only him, but Sylvi also.

If you were a disappointment, there would be no clothes nor food nor horses nor castles in your future.

“Then I will not go slow, Aemond.”

He hummed, intaking a breath as your fingers gently, kindly, fluttered over his cock. You looked up at him with your eyes hooded, eyelashes batting and he thought for an instance that no woman had ever looked at him that way.

Sylvi hadn’t and it awoke something with him.

You began to work him with your hand as he let his hand fall from your breast and brought it up to the back of your neck. He massaged the space briefly before holding onto you with a tighter grip.

In your hand he began to show himself to you. Growing in length, you licked your lips in anticipation and swallowed the bug that formed in your throat.

“Aemond,” you questioned as you stepped closer. You parted your legs to stand between one of his and he stopped you only by moving his other hand to grip your chin.

He could feel his heart beating out of his chest.

The feel of your hand on his cock was enthralling. So smooth and soft, gripping him in hardness at the right moments but never suffocating and never hurting.

“Yes?” He was near breathless.

You took his response with no words but a shifting of your hand. You left his shaft and snaked your hand to his balls, cupping them the best you could. His staggered breath brought a small, sly smile to your lips as he gripped your chin tighter and his eye narrowed.

“Would—“ in his grip, you could barely get words out. He changed his positioning to hold both sides of your neck. “Would you like to see what I can do with my mouth?”

“It would be a waste to not,” he grunted when your hand put pressure on his balls.

He released your neck and watched as you sank to your knees obediently. In your position, he was reminded of the good and pious that prayed to the Seven. Your eyes were so innocent but your mind wicked; your hands were pleasurable and your words soothing.

It was a change and it was working for him.

You sat with your knees apart, feet against your backside and heels digging into the flesh. You ran your hands down your body as he watched you delicately before running your hands up his legs and resting on his upper thighs.

Placing a soft kiss on one of his thighs, you worked yourself toward his member as it beckoned you. You grasped the base of his cock with your hand, placing a sweet kiss on his ever-swollen head.

You let saliva gather at the front of your mouth and let it dribble out and onto his cock before taking him with your mouth.

Aemond was heavy on your tongue. His warmth was sending electricity from your mouth to your core; you felt the throb of want begin to pool at your center. He took both of his hands and placed them at the top of your head but did not push. He did not force and he allowed you to escape when you needed to breathe.

But he was in another world.

Never had he been taken in such a way but his mind liked playing tricks. It was not his first and when he thought back on the times he had been pleasured as such it was not as enjoyable.

Yet, he forgot her stares and focused on you. A woman closer to his own age and one that had a system of morality of questions and seeking answers in regards to pleasure.

You took his extended gratitude and kindness and returned it with your own.

With every pull of your mouth, you filled the space with what your mouth couldn’t take with your hand. You squeezed at his base and it made him see stars. In your vision you could see him watching if you looked up.

How his blue gem gleamed at you…

As you turned your head and used your salvia and some of his pre-cum that began to leak to wet his shaft, you moaned at the sensation. It sent you tingling, drawing a hand away from his thigh; you brought it between your legs and began to rub circles on your clit.

The wetness gathered quickly. You shut your eyes as the two parts of you, mouth and cunt, were being used to your own delight. As you opened them again, Sylvi caught the corner of your eye.

She rubbed herself over her clothes and you halted. Hand retreating from your body in an instant; the salvia that had gathered landed on your thigh with a splat and your hand loosened what held onto him. Aemond let one of his hands fall loosely beside him as he looked up and kept focus on the wall in front of him.

He needed to change. He had asked her for this change for his own sake and it was time for it to happen.

“Sylvi,” Aemond muttered absentmindedly.

“Yes?” She prompted as if he were to ask her to join the two of you. Her tone made you nervous but he never let his other hand fall from your head.

She went to remove her own robe but he stopped her with a turn of his head.

“Leave us,” he commanded.

Slyvi paused her hands against her body, dejected at Aemond while her eyes bounced between the two of you.

You, your hand still on his cock and your lips barely kissing it. Him, with his hand on your head and mind completely taken by you.

“Aem—“

“Do I have to repeat myself?” He asked her calmly. His heart beat so fast at his strength. Never did he believe he’d be able to breakaway.

“No,” she rose from the bed and made for the entrance.

Your breath was hot on his dick when she stopped again. For one moment Sylvi waited for Aemond to call her back but she was met with silence; a heavy weight of agony as she stood there and received no reply.

It was her retreating footsteps that brought relief to your bones.

Aemond’s other hand returned to your head.

“I did not wish for her to watch us,” he informed you.

You looked up at him from your spot on the floor. Along your chin were remnants of spit or spent, he wasn’t certain. All the same, he took a thumb and gathered it from you. He brought the thumb to his mouth and sucked the gathering from it.

“I did not either.”

“Good,” he hummed. “Now get on the bed.”

You needn’t be asked twice.

Aemond refrained from touching you as you rose from the floor and sat on the bed. Once you were seated, he leaned down to grab your ankle and pushed back on your shoulder to lay down. The message was received quickly and you laid back and brought your other leg bent beside you.

You were completely at his mercy. Your walls clenched around nothing when he ran his hands over the skin of your legs. You extended your arms above your head; feeling the soft silk pillows and coolness of the sheets below your body. The sensations were overwhelming.

“I’ve never been with a woman like you before,” Aemond’s hands roamed further, pulling you down on the bed to meet his body but not entering you.

“And what kind of woman am I?” You sighed contently.

“A kind woman.”

“How do you know me to be kind?” You asked him.

One of his hands feathered the skin between your leg and lips. They grazed it again and this time, running his fingers through where you wanted him most. A selfless breath left your lips.

“Your eyes are kind,” he bent down to lay a kiss on your knee. “There are not many kind eyes here.”

He stuck one finger in, followed by another. Your hand reached for the pillows quickly, back arching at the sensation. You once thought his fingers to be long and nimble but they were much more. You felt them so clearly and cleanly.

They reached within your walls; touching the plushy skin as it grew in wetness and emitted slick sounds of pleasure.

Once he felt you were ready, he wanted to test his third finger.

“Gods,” you stuttered out as his third finger slipped in and it became so quick. He was running away with himself as the sight of your pleasure overtakes him.

“F-fuck.”

The words continued to fall from your lips as he picked up his pace. His fingers moved in and out, in and out, and then a rapid succession of moving them up and down. Your body trembled at the noises. The wet, squelching sound of a mess too far gone.

He may not have been as experienced as other men, but he had ruined you for all in the future.

“That’s it,” he whispered against your thigh again. He bent down to watch you writhe at his actions. “What do you need from me? Hm?” He asked.

“Nothing,” you panted. “Just you Aemond.”

“Just me?” He murmured. “What of my cock? Do you want to feel me inside of you? Finish inside of you?”

The idea sent you spiraling. You imagined how his cock would feel longer and thicker than his fingers. How it would plead against the spot to make you come undone.

“Yes,” you nodded. “I want to know what it feels like.”

He removed his fingers to grasp his length in his hands. Aemond pumped himself briefly before lining his head up with your entrance, gripping your hip as you stayed splayed before him.

And then he slid in.

Seldom could explain the moment but you had seen stars. You saw the galaxies spoken of by the Maester’s and worlds beyond your own. There was no feeling but him filling you so fully and totally.

He shut his eye. The blue sapphire still glittering in the light; Aemond saw peace grow with a gasp. Everything in his mind went blank with white noise. All he could hear was himself as he sheathed himself inside of your warmth with a simple push. He filled you until he could no longer.

It was sinful to feel so good.

He held himself there for a minute. You wanted to sit up, hold his body close to yours and feel his muscles contract under your touch but stay as pliant as possible.

Against your convictions, Aemond leaned forward and cupped your cheek with his hands. It was entirely intimate for a man you had just met.

But his touch lingered lifetimes. It was as if you knew him forever, and this singular moment was one of plenty.

Stilled inside of you, his thumb caressed your bottom lip.

“May I kiss you?” He asked promptly.

You moved your hips in a roll to urge him to move, wrapping your legs around his torso and arms around his shoulders. His lips brushed against yours.

He pulled his hips back and slowly slid himself back in.

You nodded your head the best you could against the sheets and he ticked at you. His nose nudged yours, your lips begging to be touched but he neglected them.

“No,” he cooed. “I need you to say it. Say you want me to kiss you.” Again, he slid out, back in and your hips met him there.

“Kiss me, Aemond. Kiss me, please.”

Pushing his cock deeper into you, your mouth fell agape and he used the opportunity to capture his lips with your own, swallowing your moan and losing himself in your intimacy.

He never thought a woman like you could make him feel so selfless.

Aemond knew nothing of you but felt everything. He needn’t understand the pieces of you to feel the rewards of lust and anger spilling out of him.

His mouth is so warm and wet. Aemond’s tongue danced with yours as your whimpers became gasps with the jacking of his hips into you. Your hands are bruising on his shoulders; grip tight and breaking had you been a stronger woman.

Aemond broke his kisses and moved his hand to your neck. His thumb put pressure on the bottom of your chin, pushing your head backwards and sending your spine arching.

If he took you any further, you’d split yourself in too. You mewled in pleasure and he let out a low chuckle, eyes low and observing as he pounded his cock in your pussy faster.

“Oh,” one of your arms shot up above your head and he took his other hand, the one not on your neck, and intertwined your hands together.

“Do the others fuck you like this?” He hummed.

“No,” you called into the air. “Not everyone is as good as you, My Prince.”

As your eyes met his, you felt your heart exploding. No one would ever hold you like this again. No one would know you in the secrets you shared here—so open and viewable yet shroud in the comfort of veils.

You like this. He knows you do. And fuck, he does too.

“You like being held like a worthy lady,” Aemond purred. “Like you’re not a whore.”

“You like being strong when they underestimate you.”

His hand around your throat tightened but didn’t suffocate you. Aemond’s fingers that intertwined with your own stayed together as he changed his speed. Slowing down and drawing his dick out to the tip and stuffing you again, he snickered.

“You are not weak.”

“No,” he narrowed his eye. “I’m not.”

“In here,” you groaned. “In here you can be anyone, Aemond.”

He knew it to be true.

Instead of responding with a smart retort or a scathing comment that would rival one of his brothers, he nodded his head and let it fall in the crook of your neck.

Within you, his solemn romanticism built a fire. It was aching; clenching your walls around him as your breaths became more heated and laced with a finish. His skin on yours glistened with sweat the more strenuous your meetings became.

You were holding onto a thin string when he lifted his head again and planted a kiss on your lips.

So personal, so intimate from what you were used to.

“I-“ you barely got a syllable out before your body shook with your orgasm hitting you like a brick through a glass window. Aemond removed his hand on your neck to grip your back as your body lifted from the sheets.

Your cunt had his cock in a vice. So tight and smooth with your wetness, he felt the stuttering sensation of his own building in a quick anticipation and as the shaking in your legs began to lessen, he pulled out of your pussy without warning and pumped himself before spilling his spent on your stomach.

Your eyes saw stars on the ceiling of the brothel. Aemond kissed between your breath as his fingers swiped through his cum. He drew a line from your stomach, between your breasts, and to your lips. You took his fingers covered in him into your mouth and licked him clean.

Once there was nothing left, his wet fingers palmed your breast with a sigh. You untangled your combined fingers and gingerly outlined the bottom of his scar.

He leaned into your touch absentmindedly before eagerly kissing you again.

Aemond would never confess why he did it.

It was an urge he had never felt; built in the emotions of his mind as he was wrapped in your kind embrace and away from the world that had created the cruelness that lived with him. You were not cruel. You were good and a sanctimonious creature at his alter of wavering faith.

You revived him.

And he barely knew you.

When he pulled away, you brushed a hand over his disheveled hair and smiled.

The feeling within him was foreign but it was hungry. He hungered for the bubbled nature of want that brewed in his bones. Aemond sought the feel of your hands on him and the way you settled in his motions without complaint or verbally assuring him what he was doing was “good for him,” when in reality, he knew it was not.

So in turn, when you smiled, so did he.

A/N: thanks for reading! As always comments, reblog, and likes are always appreciated. I love hearing from all of you.

[izfrogzy]

THIS AEGOND

[izfrogzy]

Do y'all ever look at a man and think of the sloppy head you'll give him but also how you would pepper his beautiful face with kisses and wash his soft hair also bite his arm and neck yes that's important too ^^

[izfrogzy]

Can I ask what the actor Ewan Mitchell would be like as a boyfriend? And his ideal partner?

Disclaimer: This reading is only for entertainment. Take it with a grain of salt. These are my personal interpretations of the cards with a sprinkle of intuition. Tarot is not set in stone; it is not the end-all be-all of someone's life.

What would he be like as a boyfriend?

9 of pentacles rx, 5 of pentacles rx, temperance rx, 6 of cups:

As a boyfriend, he is emotionally generous, nostalgic, and quietly vulnerable. He may struggle with balance and self-worth, but he is deeply loyal, loving, and driven by a desire to feel safe and needed. He is the type to hold your hand through your worst days, as long as you are patient with him.

His idea of an ideal partner?

9 of wands, king of wands rx, knight of cups rx, 4 of swords rx, ace of cups:

His ideal partner is emotionally strong but not forceful, deeply sincere, resilient, and ready to love without artifice. He is drawn to someone who has survived heartbreak and still believes in emotional renewal someone who doesn't need to put on a show, but offers real, vulnerable connection.

[izfrogzy]

Jaehaerys and Alysanne's children

[izfrogzy]

He is perfection.

[izfrogzy]

[izfrogzy]

This maybe a long shot for guessing what Ewan is secretly casted in but um Enola Holms 3 has been in production now….I do wonder

[izfrogzy]

The sweetest sin (Part 1/?)

TW: Incest; non-con; aggresive behaviour,obsessive behaviour, blood, violence, explicit sexuality.

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It started with her defiance.

She had gone too far tonight — laughing too loudly, standing too close to Ser Luthor at court, turning her head when Aemond entered the hall.

It was deliberate. She knew it. He knew it.

But she wanted to feel his fire. Rhaella wanted to see what would happen if she ripped the leash from his throat, the leash she knew she held tightly in her hands. She had always knew, ever since she was a girl.

But now, she was paying for it.

He stalked towards her like a predator, one glove already discarded, silver hair falling loose around his shoulders. It had always been like that, ever since he was a boy he had felt a strange tremble on his bones, and ache in his chest whenever he looked at her, an itch underneath his skin, hot, strange and primal.

And she knew and rejoiced on it, craved it even, innocently, not knowing what she was playing with. For those who play with fire are frecuently the ones that most ignore the dangers lurking in the flames.

“I saw the way you looked at him,” he said quietly, eerily calm.

Her heart thudded in her chest, half fear and half thrill, but she didn’t flinch.

“And what if I did?” she whispered, a mischevious smile on her lips, a sweet little giggle, like an insult leaving her lips as she looked up at him, her older brother, her bethrothed.

His jaw clenched. He stopped a breath away. She was maddening, enfuriating and so sweet at the same time.

“You do not play games with me, Rhaella. You know what I am.”

She tilted her head. “Yes. And you forget what I am.” they had the same fire, the same soul. One a mirror of the other, and they both knew.

His eye flared. Then — silence.

But it wasn’t peace. It was the stillness of a storm moments before it tears the world apart.

And then—

He grabbed her. Not roughly. But with such total, overwhelming possession that she felt like she was drowning. Like the waves had clashed into her and dragged her to a pit of warmth, fear and lust.

She struggled. Half-laughing, half-wild. Like everytime she played with him like that, tempting, maddening, half wanting to scape and half wanting him to finally snap.

He threw her onto the bed with one arm, and followed over her with the fury of a man about to burn cities to the ground. Only then she saw his gaze: hungry, mad, insane almost. His mouth was on her neck in an instant, in her collarbone, in her breast — biting, claiming, punishing and worshipping at once. She whimpered, gasped, her eyes wide as colours emerged to her cheeks, his lips were like fire in her skin, a heat in her belly growing like a bubble, and that familiar shiver of lust between her legs.

“You want to leave me?” he rasped, lips dragging over your skin. “I will break your knees. I will lock you in this chamber. I will cut out the eyes of every man who’s ever looked at you.”

She gasped — not from fear. From the thrill of it.

“I will ruin everything,” he said, voice shaking with emotion. “I will rip apart the court, start a war, kill my own blood. I will destroy it all, if it keeps you mine.”

She didn’t answer. She couldn’t, she opened her mouth but no words came out, she didnt know what to do, what to say, suddenly she realized she had gone too far, and Aemond had had enough, his gaze was intense, burning her, his lips devouring her skin in a way so unholy she knew no prayer could wash her sin…and his hands…she found herself scared and yet melting under his touch, his hands fondling her breasts over the silks of her dress. Her nipples hardening in a sweet pain.

He tore her gown at the waist, rough, violent, pushed her legs apart, and looked at her like a starving god before a sacred offering. She let out a scared whimper, trying to close her legs, his fingers gripped her flesh tightly, keeping her thighs spread apart.

“You belong to me,” he growled. “In rage. In ruin. In madness.” he unfastened his breeches in a rush, his hands trembling in anticipation, his cock was already hard. His throbbing cock now in his hand, long, thick, pale as he was, she widened her eyes in shock, fear and lust, trying to utter his name in her lips, he postioned himself fast, the tip of his cock smearing his precum between her folds, he moaned. It was sinful, dirty, she wanted to cry, to make the aching between her legs go, to scream, but she stood there, frozen, her own desire and fear mixing in a terrible coctail that numbed her.

And then he took her — fast, fierce, punishing, the tip pf his cock aligning with her tight entrance and pushing inside violently. She screamed, the pain sharp as a blade between her legs.

It wasn’t tender. It was raw and sacred. He held her wrists above her head, kissed the tears he brought to her eyes, bit her throat like a beast marking his mate. Her brows frowned in pain as she shut down her eyes, it hurt, it burned, a sharp pain between her legs, the feling of a mans cock ravaging her, not sweetly, not slowly, but furious, desperate, she sobbed, she sobbed in pain, her body trembling, suddenly she wanted tha pain to go away, she wanted to stop, to beg him, she did, whimpers and whispers as she tried to ignore the raw pain in her inner walls.

He muttered things — beautiful, terrifying things — not listening to her anymore, his lips against her skin as he moved inside her. Burying himself completely, stretching her flesh apart with his lenght, rough, posessed, blood ran down her thighs, her virginity destroyed under his lust. He kept whispering, panting against her skin, promises of death, devotion, damnation. Begging her to never hurt him like this again.

But soon the pain in her loins gave space to a sweet, rough pleasure. Pleasure, fear and pain interwined in a haze in her mind. She wanted to cry and yet never stop feeling him inside. A bubble of pleasure growing inside her after each thrust, she felt full, every space inside of her streched by his cock.

And when she finally shattered beneath him — sobbing, gasping, utterly broken and blissful — he collapsed over her. His cock deep inside her as he released with a shaky grunt. His thick cum filling her to the brim, she felt him, pulstaing, twitching inside of her.

Silent.

Shaking.

She felt lost, he was her Aemond, Aemond the one she adored and tortured sweetly with her flirt. And yet he had taken her like a beast, not like the boy that adored her and smiled only for her, this was a mans lust, a mand raw sinful desire.

She felt like crying, she felt violated and yet so blissful, broken, confused. He was her protector, her best friend, her consolation and yet he had taken her so viciously, so desperate.

She whimpered, repressing a sob emerging from her throat, she wrapped her arms around him as he trembled in her arms, lips at her throat, whispering again and again:

“Don’t ever leave me. Don’t ever leave me. Don’t ever…”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The room was still. Warm with the scent of sweat, blood, and sex.

Aemond lay over her, silent — but his body trembled. Not with lust. Not anymore. With something far more fragile.

His face was buried against her neck. She felt the dampness there — quiet, restrained, like he would die before letting her hear him cry.

Her hands rose without thinking. She cradled the back of his head. Ran her fingers through his tangled, sweat-damp silver hair. Pressed kisses into his scalp like he was a frightened child. Like she had done innocently so many times before, when he entered her bedchambers at night, his lust allways contained, always at bay, even when she received him in her arms, heard his fears, his insecurities in the deep of the night, consoling him with sweet kisses and whispers like one does to a terrified child.

“I’m here,” she whispered.

He didn’t respond — but she felt him sink deeper into her, almost like he wished to disappear inside her body. Like Rhaella's skin was the only safe place left in the world. She gasped, the strech making the pain stronger.

“I didn’t mean to…” he rasped, breath hot and broken against your throat. “I saw you with him, and I—” he was so broken, he had been trough so much and she knew, she had been there, at his side, holding his hand, always sweet, always fervient and loyal, she had always been the only one who saw him, and he clinged into her desperate, desperate for her love, approval, tenderness. And she had always felt her heart tied to him, tied to his love, incapable of imagining a world were he wasnt there, always lurking, always demanding kisses from his sweet sister, always something more than brotherly love.

She hushed him gently. “I know. I know.”

She held his face in her hands and made him look at her eyes. That eye — the cold sapphire — now gleamed with something wretched and human: shame. Love. Fear. She felt her own pain, her own fear, he had claimed her roughly, the pain wasnt only physical, that aching and bleeding between her legs, it was also in her heart.

Even tough she always played with fire she always tought she would never get burned.

“I would have ripped his heart out,” he said. “I would have gutted him there in the hall, Rhaella. For touching what’s mine. For even looking.”

She smiled faintly, melancholic, brushing her thumb over the dark circles under his eye. “You’re such a fool.”

“I am,” he said. “For you.”

And then the words he had buried in madness tumbled out — softer than before.

“I thought you might leave. I thought… I’d pushed you too far.”

She leaned forward, pressing her lips to his like she had done for years. Slow. Reverent. Tasting every wound, every plea.

“I’m yours,” she whispered, the words engraved in her heart and mind for years. “You can’t push me away because I’ll never let you.”

His hand rose — trembling — to cup her jaw. His thumb brushed the corner of her mouth. As if he didn’t believe she were real.

“You are the only thing that keeps me from losing myself entirely.”

“And when you lose yourself?”

“I want to lose myself in you. He buried his face in her chest, and this time, she felt the tears. His arms wrapped tight around her waist, his breath unsteady.

So she held him. Rocked him gently, whispering lullabies half-forgotten from their childhood. She kissed the scar beneath the empty socket of his eye. She kissed his throat. She kissed the part of him no one else ever saw — the soft, frightened boy curled up beneath the fury. She knew she was hurt, and yet she pushed her own pain away, it was her fault, she tought, she had made him suffer.

And so, Rhaella Targaryen — his sister, his queen, his savior — lay with her dragon in the dark, soothing the rage back into slumber with nothing but her touch.

[izfrogzy]

just imagine you’re the wife of ewan mitchell, who’s soon heading off to war. this is what you keep, safely inside your bible, your wallet, even under your pillow.

credit if use!!

[izfrogzy]

I can’t help but look at Ewan Mitchel and imagine enjoying a picnic together. My love is beyond lust at this point, I need to read his mind.

This also goes for the frontman of squid games hehe

[izfrogzy]

Dear Birdie

Summary: Tom Bennett visits his girl, Birdie, after returning home from his first leave. He stops by her house, despite never sending her any letters.

Couple: Tom Bennett/Original Female Character

Category: Fluff (with the slightest angst)

Content warnings: One slap, smut

Word count: 5.5k

Also on my Ao3

A/N: This is kinda where season 2 kicks off. Except Tom's dad is not dead and everything's fine there because goddammit we deserve some happiness.

Birdie always made sure she and her brothers took advantage of their father’s out-of-country meetings. Even a world war couldn’t stop a businessman. Still, for Birdie, it meant a break from entertaining his friends with whiskey refreshers while dodging questions about marriage. It meant no sons of those same friends lurking around her at dinner parties, critiquing the meal in between their stories at the country club, unaware it was she who had strained over her mother’s cookbook all morning.

For her brothers, it meant no golf on Saturday and no church on Sunday. They slept late, ate plenty, and played outside while Birdie enjoyed her noon cigarette. She kept their itchy jumpers in the back of their closets while their button-ups and socks stayed a pristine bleach white for another week. And all of it equaled far less laundry for her to deal with before Monday.

That didn’t mean there was absolutely no laundry on the weekends. She already had a load to hang outside and more than enough August sunshine to take advantage of. As she clipped up one damp garment after another on the clothesline, next week’s load tumbled next to her as the boys wrestled in the grass. Charles was all elbows and knees at twelve, but it didn’t stop him from lunging at Robert. His blonde hair flopped into his eyes, giving Robert the time to dodge his tackle. His laughter rang high and clear when Charles landed in the dirt.

They both scooped up more to shove down the other’s polo when a face was out of reach, grunts and giggles blending together even after Birdie tossed her slipper at them. “I’m not doing any more laundry today.”

“Alright,” Robert said, finally getting dirt down Charles’ collar.

Birdie picked up her slipper. “That includes ironing.”

“We know.” Charles pulled Robert down by the ankle as he said it, his face clean until Robert took his shot.

“That includes your school uniforms.”

Then they paused, looking at each other, then up at their sister.

“If you can make it to the door before me, I’ll reconsider that last part.”

Charles hopped up first, this time helping little Robert up before charging to the back door. Birdie followed behind, the distance growing as she walked with a laundry basket at her hip.

Tom was the one who taught her that. “When in doubt, make it a race. Boys will take any easy win.” Sometimes he’d even sweeten the deal by offering actual sweets. Anything chocolate or caramel was an simple win over. And Tom was good at that, winning people over. Because, unlike the boys who only pulled polite laughter from Birdie all night, Tom Bennett was actually charming. And unlike their father coming home from France or Poland, the boys loved seeing him.

Unfortunately, Tom Bennett was also a proper bastard.

She couldn’t say that in front of the boys. It would break their hearts. He was proper when he told them about joining the army (while in jail,) then signing up for the navy (before almost going back to jail.) Everything had been radio silence since he told them about being sent to Spain first. The radio itself was more respondent than Thomas Bloody Bennett, making him the bastard he was.

They constantly heard about the Kriegsmarine. The Admiral Graf Spee had a record of sinking one ship after another across the Atlantic and Indian. Charles counted nine over several months in a little notebook he kept under his pillow. Robert would always ask if Tom was still in Spain or what ship he told Birdie he’d be on. All perfectly reasonable questions she had no answer to.

Eventually came the worst question left to loom in the air: Was Tom dead? The question lingered, unvoiced, in their minds. She wished she knew, even if it meant he was.

But she also wished the boys could forget. Erasing Tom Bennett completely instead of letting the continuous unknown haunt them seemed like a logical, lesser pain. It wasn’t a problem when their mother died. They were one and two when Birdie was ten. Their love for her was not as great as their love for Tom. They never stepped into a room with her in mind and a blanket of memories to follow. No everyday objects held the weight of those memories, like hair brushes and gold jewelry. Their father taught the boys how to play solitaire, but they couldn’t look at a deck without seeing Tom, the one who taught them about poker and how to cheat in the same night.

Even the report of Graf Spee’s sinkage last December felt bittersweet. The boys were cross-legged at the coffee table with the fire warming their backs. Birdie knitted while their father read in his chair. The fuzzily read conclusion of HMS Exeter’s victory sent that heavy blanket over the three of them. It was suffocating until Robert perked his head up, thick brown curls just above his eyes as he said, “Maybe Tom is on the Exeter.”

Birdie glanced over at their father.

“Tom’s dead,” Charles snapped back, his voice cracking with the force of it as his fists clenched in his lap.

“You don’t know that.”

“Boys,” Birdie called. But their father already stood, taking the radio and hiding it again.

Charles pushed Robert. “Good job.”

 “Shut up.” Robert traced the table’s edge, sweeping his curls from his face. “And you still don’t know if Tom is dead.”

“Neither do you.”

“Birdie. Tell him he’s not.”

“Enough,” she ordered.

When their father came back, Charles hid his face as he wiped his cheeks. Birdie soon sent them both to bed.

He never wrote to her. She’d have to accept what that meant, whichever way fate fell. She knew Tom taking a liking to marriage was as hopeful as never seeing war again, but even leaving her like this would be the ultimate coward’s way out. Plenty would see it as a reason not to worry about him and take advantage of her youth while she had it. She never even met his family. They wouldn’t know to look for her if they knew his whereabouts. Time was her only solution. She could only hope that enough of it would pass, and she’d find the strength to laugh at a boy’s jokes from across the table. He’d feel so proud and funny throughout their courting; he’d even crack a joke before proposing to her. Then Birdie would surrender herself, hoping they’d all learn to love him. Just differently.

For now, Birdie opened the back door as the boys waited and soon clamored through the kitchen. “Shoes off!” She ordered as each thunk of non-bare feet trailed up the stairs, then back down, following the reminder. Birdie put the basket on the kitchen floor, debating briefly if she should smoke another cigarette.

 They both shouted from the foyer. “Birdie!”

She didn’t move. There wasn’t distress in their voices, and Robert quickly came back into the kitchen to find her where she was standing. Running and shoving dirt into each other’s faces didn’t make them nearly as breathless as they were now. Then she saw the reason, standing in the doorway.

“Tom is here!”

He was here, leaning on his shoulder in a navy uniform with his sandy hair grown out past his ears. Charles hung to one arm as he carried a birdcage with the other. He topped it off with his arrogant grin and wink combination.

“Told you he wasn’t dead,” Robert said. His curls bounced as he vibrated with joy.

“Course I’m not dead.”

Charles continued holding onto his arm, his freckled face split into a wide, toothy grin Birdie hadn’t seen in months. “What are you doing here, then?”

“Hitler sunk me ship. Decided to stop by here.” He placed the cage on the breakfast table. The little canary inside chirped as it swung back and forth on the bar. “Wanted to bring a birdie for my Birdie.” He leaned against the table.

She crossed her arms. Charles finally separated from Tom to look into the cage. He stuck a finger between the golden bars. “Where’d you get it?”

“She was on the ship with me and the lads.” He mimicked her pose, not straying from her eyes. The boys continued with questions.

“Did you kill any Nazis?”

“Loads.”

“Get your uniforms,” she said.

“Are you back for good?” Robert asked, his dark eyes wide with hope.

“Boys. Now.”

“She’s right,” Tom said. “Be good and listen to your sister.” He ruffled their hair before pushing them on the back of their heads. “We’ll talk later.”

Robert disappeared first. Charles second, but he poked his head through the doorway one more time. “We’re glad you’re back, Tom.” And he showed off his toothy smile again before leaving. Their footsteps thump, thump, thumped up the stairs.

“Shoes off! I’m not telling you again.”

“Yeah, shoes off, boys,” he repeated with the same grin and a laugh to boot. He pushed himself off the table with his hip. “Seems like you’ve loosened the reins since last ti—”

The crack across his face bounces off the tiled walls. She thought about doing it plenty of nights when in bed alone, thinking of every way he could’ve left her, but it happened before she realized what she had done. The mark burned pink on his skin. Tom rubbed the spot, but a grin still stained his face just as prominently. Birdie’s face only tightened. “You think this is amusing?”

“A little bit, yeah. Keep that up and we’ll have to take this to your room. As long as your old man’s not here.”

“You think you can just show up whenever it suits you? We thought you were dead.”

“Your faith in me was strong, I see.”

“Because you hadn’t sent a single letter. And you think bringing some bird gets you out of this?”

“Hey, first off, her name’s Vera.”

“Vera!” Robert held his uniform in his arms, gray and wrinkled to hell. Charles opened the laundry room door and placed his matching one on the counter. “She’s a girl?”

“Sure is. Seen her lay an egg and everything. She was on board with me and the lads before Graf Spee took shots at us.”

“Wow!” Robert looked at Vera, Charles at Tom.

Birdie raised a brow. “You were on the HMS Exeter?”

Tom nodded, looking over at the bird.

“I knew you were on the Exeter! I told them you were!” It was Robert’s turn to take Tom’s arm, looping it with his own. “You killed them all, right? They said someone shot the captain.”

“Sounds about right.” His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat before tightening his arm with Robert’s. He patted his little hand.

“If Hitler sunk that ship, then did the others make it home?”

“Yeah, yeah. One way or another.” He glanced back at Birdie, and his grin simmered down. There was something more she couldn’t piece together. She opened her mouth, but Tom spoke up first. “You two do us a favor, yeah?” He unlooped Robert’s arm as Charles came around the table. Both are standing tall with eager ears. “So, I haven’t had a milkshake in about a year.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, it’s awful, innit? With it being as sweltering as it is, I think we all could go for some.”

They nodded enthusiastically. Birdie bit her lips closed.

“Good. But I’m sure your sister would appreciate you two cleaning up before we head out. Bath and all, alright?”

“But you need a milkshake now.”

“We all need milkshakes now.”

“Which is why you should hurry,” Birdie interjected. “The sooner you’re clean, the sooner we’ll get them.”

“But don’t rush washing up. Don’t want people to think she doesn’t know how to take care of you.”

“Are you going to kiss while we’re gone?” Charles’ nose scrunched as he said it.

“Probably,” Tom said. “You wanna watch?”

And just like that, for the third time, they were off. (Their shoes weren’t, but she couldn’t care to remind them.)

Tom shifted slowly, turning back to face her. “That’ll keep them away for a while.”

“You think I want to kiss you?”

“Oh, absolutely. You’re just too angry to admit it.”

“You brought home a bird and no apologies.”

“Not just Vera.” He delved into one pocket. “I’ve got some seeds she likes. Here’s some rope she climbs on.” He placed them down on the table before fishing around the other pocket.

“Are you so up your own arse that you think I’m going to look past this? You think you’re so bloody perfect because—”

“Because I have these.” In front of them both were papers. Envelopes upon envelopes, stamped and ready to send with torn journal pages sandwiched in between. All of them covered in his fine cursive. Tom held them up and placed them with Vera’s things. “Well, at least you’re finally speechless.”

Birdie touched the top envelope with her full name written out, feeling the indentions of his handwriting.

“Sending letters at sea is harder than you think when Germans are around.”

“You wrote to me.”

“As often as I could. More than me dad or Lois. So if that doesn’t get me out of trouble.”

She couldn’t help the way her vision blurred with tears. Many months of anger and resentment dissolved inside her, melting into salty pools. Then she looked up, remembering the mark on his face. Birdie reached out and brushed his cheek. “I’m so sorry.”

Tom blew air through his nose. “It doesn’t hurt. Shows you still love me.”

“That’s not–”

“You wouldn’t have touched me at all if you’d given up.” Tom leaned into her hand, then took her fingers in his to observe. “No ring. So I’m not too late then? You didn’t move on from this poor bloke?”

“Not through lack of trying. They sent all the good ones away, too.”

They both laughed. It fizzled out slowly, leaving Vera to fill the silence with her chirps. Tom’s eyes were a crisp blue, making him extra dashing in his uniform. His damn smirk didn’t help with her decency, but Tom did the honors by pulling her in, guiding one hand to his back like she was the one who was used to being led. He kissed her gently, and his hands drew up into her hair, making her earrings dangle as a tingle bloomed from her scalp to her spine. She slipped her tongue in before bringing Tom closer in response–waist against waist. She felt what she wanted.

Tom hummed at the friction, pulling back first. “Eager to give me a hero’s welcome, I see.”

She nodded, already out of breath.

“Doesn’t help that you taste like cigarettes. Reminding me of old habits.”

“We can go to the laundry room.” She bent her back to press further into his bulge and kissed him again. The deep exhale through his nose was cool, brushing her cheek.

“Let’s go upstairs first.”

“But I want you now.”

“You’ll have me. Come on.” The warmth of his hands left her face as he reached out for Vera’s things. He hooked two fingers to pick up her cage.

Birdie watched him leave. A quick fuck was never something he declined before. It was what he preferred over anything that took a long time. Birdie preferred getting to the point, and Tom barely had the experience to take things slow like her. She sighed and grabbed her letters before following him upstairs.

The peachy walls and green curtains matching her floral bedding were reminders of how little things had changed. Even Tom pointed it out as he looked around. “That’s good.” He walked over to her desk, next to the big window. “Vera would like it here. She’ll get good light, and you can open up the window for some fresh air.”

“Sure.” She put her letters on her nightstand before shutting the door.

“I’ll put a hook in the ceiling and find a chain to hang the cage from. Make it all pretty for ya.” He scaled the height of the wall from top to bottom, hands on his hips and nodding to himself. “Yeah, I can get the boys to help me.”

“Tom.” Birdie stepped closer.

“Well, maybe not with this. Rather make sure she’s secure.”

“Tom.”

He turned with raised brows. Birdie rubbed his arms first, then cupped the part of his face she slapped. “Are you alright?”

His brow creased. “Yeah, course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You’re acting differently.”

“You haven’t seen me in a year. A lot happens in a year, Birdie. That’s no one’s fault.” He kissed her knuckles, all gentlemanly. His arms wrapped around her waist as he returned to his signature smirk.

“You can keep Vera at yours. The boys will understand.”

“Nah. We don’t have the room. She’s better off here on your side of the country.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, and I’ll visit her when I want. No matter what your old man says. I’ll just sneak through the window. Like old times.” He smiled at that. “Now, where were we?” He kissed her.

She wanted to say more, but Tom was good at distracting. The tingling sped down to her legs and morphed into numbness as Tom nibbled at her neck. They tangled with his own as he tried taking the lead again. Luckily, they fell onto the bed with little injury, only a bump to the teeth as Tom kissed her deeply into the mattress. His tongue slid through to find hers, and she worked her hands through his hair. Tom pulled down one shoulder of her dress, kissing and nipping his way down like he was reacquainting himself with every inch of her. Her bra went with it. Tom stopped at her waist to give her chest the attention it craved. He massaged one tit while taking the other in his mouth. He suckled gently on her nipple, occasionally taking it between his teeth to make Birdie gasp.

Birdie’s knees hiked up against Tom’s hips. She kept him in place while pulling his hair. Her calves felt the leather of his belt, telling her hands where to go. With their bodies so close, she struggled to find his buckle. Still, she navigated with her goal in mind.

Until Tom took both her wrists and held them over her head. He looked up with a pinkish face. ”Someone’s eager.” His voice was low as he said it, breath cool over her nipple.

“I need to be fucked.”

“I can see that.”

She bucked her hips against his. “Quick.”

“It’s been a year, love. I have to be quick.” And soon, he stepped up, then back. He took fistfuls of her dress and her underwear. Birdie lifted her lower back, and she was naked with one yank. She knew she was glorious. Her appearance clearly pleased Tom. So she reached out for his belt again, but Tom slapped it away. “Not yet.”

She groaned and rolled her eyes. When she looked back up, though, he was already removing his shirt. The sight helped the sting. Before, he had a lightly sculpted physique, with some prominent muscles. But now, his skin was tighter against them, with veins that wrapped around his bare arms. Just like the men on all the sign up posters. A war hero.

Tom nestled back on top of her, keeping her warm as he pushed her hair back. “Is it so bad that I want to enjoy you?”

She shook her head. “You just don’t waste time when it comes to treats.”

“Who said I’m wasting my time?”

Birdie said nothing. For many reasons.

Tom liked his secrets, and he liked to think he was good at hiding them. But he was also right when he mentioned it being a year. Any logical discussion regarding his changed behavior had to be put aside. So for now, she stroked his chest, fingers gliding over his pronounced muscles. His abs jumped at the touch. Tom’s hand then followed down. Further down, actually. And before she could ask what he was doing, electricity sparked up her insides and throughout as Tom explored her wetness.

“Is this wasting time?”

No would be the obvious answer if she hadn’t lost all the air in her lungs. Each harsh intake forced a moan back out. Her chest felt caved in as she jolted under his heavy touch.

“Didn’t think so.”

She would also tell him to shut up if she had the wits, but he never did this. He was never bad at it (decent at most.) He never liked trying new things, fearing he’d embarrass himself. Learning and improvement were beyond his confidence. Being on the sea must have unlocked a more adventurous spirit with no room for improvement because she was so sensitive from enduring no touch at all. (A bloody year!) The only thing he could do was go faster, but his pace was agonizingly slow. With time, her back still arched as she gripped the arm that kept him hovering deliciously above her. “Tom.” She looked him in the eyes as she said it.

He caught his lower lip between his teeth as he picked up the pace, while she grew louder. Eventually, he brought himself down to kiss her, drinking in her moans as she continued to shake. He hummed as her nails dug into his arm and the other hand strangled her bedding. It kept her grounded as she cried out, spasming amidst her little death by Tom Bennett’s hand. He still explored, moving his fingers around and never venturing inside. He kissed her one more time before whispering, “There she is,” as she came back down.

Her legs quivered around Tom, lingered remains of her peak briefly pressing into his hips. And because Tom was feeling proper, he took it as an opportune moment to finally (finally!) remove his pants. Birdie tried watching what she could, but their bodies were too close together to see anything before he completely slipped inside. She stretched against him, but her reaction was to put a palm on his shoulder. She needed a minute, and Tom didn’t move. Birdie released the sharp grip on his arm to cup his face. His eyes were droopy, dazed with the same want she already received. He still kissed her slowly, tenderness still in his heart after everything he might’ve seen, and waited for her say-so.

Soon, Birdie nodded, nearly being lost in the moment again as she enjoyed her own show. Tom was deliberate with every inch, watching her face for any change. Her smile only grew, tightening her arms around his shoulders once he was completely inside her. Her breath hitched as she fully felt it, watching Tom’s eyes flutter shut from the same feeling. Normally, he would anchor her down with hands around her hips, but he stayed close as he thrusted slowly. Knowing he would be quick, he wasn’t animalistic about it. He didn’t pull all the way out to shove himself back in. He just kissed her neck as he kept his pace.

Her nails found his back, scratching down his skin and the small moles on his spine. “Tom,” she said as her mouth started falling open.

“Oh, Birdie.” He kissed her again, like it was a command. Their noses bumped as their hot breaths mingled in the limited space between them. “Oh, my God.”

She could feel the tension building inside. His thrusts became more pointed and faster, making it difficult to keep quiet again. She felt the raised lines she left in his skin as she moaned, “Don’t stop.”

He buried his face in her neck again as he only grew more erratic. And her second release, like Tom’s, was quick (as predicted.) It rushed up and down her legs and no further, topping off her first orgasm as Tom finished hot on her belly. Her toes curled at the lingering feeling as Tom breathed heavily, pulling the bath towel off her floor to clean up his mess. Then he took her hand in his as he fell into her pillows, stark naked and a beautiful sight amongst frilly pink lining. Birdie crawled while still trembling to lie on his chest. His heartbeat was rapid against his ears, and it eventually settled into a healthy rhythm.

Tom’s arms kept her close, keeping their hands together. She looked up at his face, already close to nodding off. One blue eye peeked open, and his lips curled into his signature smirk once more.

“Welcome home.”

“A fantastic welcome, love. Wake me up when you want to welcome me again.”

“You know you can’t fall asleep yet.”

He nodded. “It is tempting, though.”

“The boys should be ready soon.”

Air puffed through Tom’s nose. “A milkshake will have to do, then.”

She knew she should get up, but Tom’s hold around her waist was tighter, as if he had read her mind. It was tempting to sleep. It was more tempting than ever for another cigarette. But Tom’s breath had finally slowed, nearly to a rate that felt like he passed out, anyway. The only thing that assured her he was still awake was his thumb brushing over her knuckles. The simple back-and-forth motion that eventually numbed the skin soothed her mind, despite her questions still being there.

They piled in her head, one after the other, like the letters on her nightstand, addressed to her, for her to read. Even Tom knew he couldn’t avoid it forever.

But footsteps scampered down the hall.

Milkshakes would have to do.

They went to one of the inner city diners. The boys kept to one side of the booth (much to their shared dismay) as Tom stayed next to Birdie. They wanted to be glued to him, to prove to themselves that he was alive and in front of them. Charles even kicked him under the table with a grin plastered on his face. Only once, though, giving Tom rights to kick him back.

Birdie didn’t need the proof. Because something that hadn’t changed about Tom was showing her off in public. He held her hand during the entire walk and kept an arm cascaded over her shoulder in the booth at all times. Word would get back to her father when he returned home. (Someone was always ready to gossip.) And it would make no difference now that Tom was a war hero. No one acknowledged him as such even in the restaurant, despite his uniform.

Even Tom didn’t acknowledge it. He was more concerned with touching the skin on her arm. When their milkshakes arrived, he could barely pull himself away to drink any of it. Birdie crossed her legs , feeling the heat prickle through her as Tom eventually found her knee under the table while giving the boys his full attention the entire time. The way she allowed such public displays of affection would be embarrassing if she didn’t need him so badly again already.

It didn’t help that Tom ended up showing the boys how to hang Vera’s cage, exchanging his uniform for an undershirt and jeans. He installed the hook and showed them how to test its sturdiness, same with the chain holding her up, triple-checking the stability, making sure she’s safe.

They both tested the stability of her bed later in the night. With her hands on the bars of her headboard, Birdie found her familiar motion as she rode Tom into the mattress. His hands gripped into her hips as he moved with her, pushing all he could inside her while staying synchronized. They panted in the dark together. Tom occasionally reached up for her tits, but they made no attempt at meeting in the middle. There was a mutual end they were both desperate to meet.

And eventually, they did. Birdie curled in on herself as she caught her breath, and bent in to Tom’s touch. He guided her to the space between him and the wall. He cleaned them up once more with the same towel and wrapped her in his arms. As her arm snaked around his neck and her thigh drew near, he showered her with tenderness, nuzzling below his chin and rubbing her smooth skin. Vera chirped softly, the golden bars of her cage gleaming in the pale moonlight just above her desk.

Tom’s nails tickled her skin as they traveled up her hip and side before finding her chin, lifting it up to his. She couldn’t see him in the dark, but felt the air leaving his nose with every exhale. She drew circles on his bare chest, high up where his muscles didn’t get in the way. Her eyes were wide open, not even a little tired since this morning. She then wondered if Tom had slept at all since coming home, or if this was his first stop. Would he rest easy, like normal?

“What’re you thinking?”

“What?”

“You’re always quick to sleep. Unless you’re worried about something. So what is it?”

Birdie situated herself to rest on her stomach. She combed her fingers through his hair, reaching his scalp before pulling herself forward to kiss his cheek (she missed) then his lips. “Were you really in the South Atlantic? On The Exeter?”

“I was.” He said it without hesitation. It surprised even her.

“A lot happened.”

“Yeah.”

“What?”

“We were hit. I was cutting up with some lads, pissing off some others.” He cleared his throat. “And they were gone.”

“Gone?”

“The lads. Norman, Vic, others. Only me and Henry survived that one explosion.”

“Oh, Tom.” She reached for his face.

“I wrote about Vic in some of the letters. Hopefully, I did him some justice.”

The silence was thick. No witty jokes to pad the seriousness. He only petted her hair over and over. His touch was rigid and his pulse picked up in his chest. She looked over at the letters on her nightstand, the abstract pile that they were. She reached out, and Tom caught her hand as her finger poked an envelope’s corner.

“Don’t,” he told her. He cradled her hand, bringing it up to his face again, but not letting go.

“What else is there?”

It took so long for him to answer she worried he was pretending to be asleep, making that the end of it until she inevitably brought it up again. His inhale was deep. “I don’t know if I have it yet.” He used her hand to point to his temple. “The Shellshock. You think I’d know with my dad and all. I don’t feel much different. But if… if I get sent out again… I’m…”

“Scared?”

“I might keep changing, Birdie. And I might finally snap like my dad and end up in one of those insane hospitals. With no one.”

“I’d be there.”

“You don’t know that.” He sounded like Robert.

“And neither do you.” She inched closer to kiss his lips again, longer this time, like it was a seal of guarantee. Even with the tensity, Tom softened to it. “What if you don’t go back?”

He huffed. “And be branded a deserter?” She could hear the smile in his voice. “Your dad already hates me enough, don’t you think?”

“Well, it doesn’t sound like you want to go back.”

Tom sighed.

“Tell me what you’re thinking, then.”

“It just seems like the easy solution, right? Just don’t go back. I’d be a traitor, but I’d be alive with my dad, Lois, the boys, and you. But like I said, good lads died on that ship. Plenty more are dying elsewhere for the same bloody war. It’s not fair to sit out here when more good lads are getting sent out every day.”

Birdie picked herself up, unwinding herself from his body to look down at the vague silhouette halfway under blankets. “You’re a good lad, too. You know?”

His tongue clicked, brushing it off.

“Bad men don’t think the way you do. That’s why I waited for you. I’ll do it again. I’ll be in the waiting room of any hospital in England if you end up needing to get your head checked.”

“Not beside me?”

“They wouldn’t consider me family.”

“But I would.”

“Well, you’d have to marry me to prove it to them.”

It was a one-off joke. She even topped it off with a chuckle. Still, silence persisted; even Vera couldn’t be heard. Despite his fears, he was still the same Tom Bennett who couldn’t handle the idea of being tied down.

But just when she was about to give up and settle in with nothing spoken further, she felt Tom’s hand move across the side of her face, finding the comfortable, familiar spot just under her ear before pulling her back down. He didn’t make her settle in. He found her lips, kissing her slowly with an open mouth, taking a breath when he could in between.

“I love you,” he said.

“I love you.”

  It wasn’t until he stopped that she rested her head on his chest again and his arms found where they wished to settle on her body for the night. He picked up her ring finger and it alone.

“I’ll think about it, alright?”

Birdie buried herself into his chest.

Birdie always made  sure she and her brothers took advantage of their father’s out-of-country meetings. Even a world war couldn’t stop a businessman. Still, for Birdie, it meant a break from entertaining his friends with whiskey refreshers while dodging questions about marriage. It meant no sons of those same friends lurking around her at dinner parties, critiquing the meal in between their stories at the country club, unaware it was she who had strained over her mother’s cookbook all morning.

For her brothers, it meant no golf on Saturday and no church on Sunday. They slept late, ate plenty, and played outside while Birdie enjoyed her noon cigarette. She kept their itchy jumpers in the back of their closets while their button-ups and socks stayed a pristine bleach white for another week. And all of it equaled far less laundry for her to deal with before Monday.

That didn’t mean there was absolutely no laundry on the weekends. She already had a load to hang outside and more than enough August sunshine to take advantage of. As she clipped up one damp garment after another on the clothesline, next week’s load tumbled next to her as the boys wrestled in the grass. Charles was all elbows and knees at twelve, but it didn’t stop him from lunging at Robert. His blonde hair flopped into his eyes, giving Robert the time to dodge his tackle. His laughter rang high and clear when Charles landed in the dirt.

They both scooped up more to shove down the other’s polo when a face was out of reach, grunts and giggles blending together even after Birdie tossed her slipper at them. “I’m not doing any more laundry today.”

“Alright,” Robert said, finally getting dirt down Charles’ collar.

Birdie picked up her slipper. “That includes ironing.”

“We know.” Charles pulled Robert down by the ankle as he said it, his face clean until Robert took his shot.

“That includes your school uniforms.”

Then they paused, looking at each other, then up at their sister.

“If you can make it to the door before me, I’ll reconsider that last part.”

Charles hopped up first, this time helping little Robert up before charging to the back door. Birdie followed behind, the distance growing as she walked with a laundry basket at her hip.

Tom was the one who taught her that. “When in doubt, make it a race. Boys will take any easy win.” Sometimes he’d even sweeten the deal by offering actual sweets. Anything chocolate or caramel was an simple win over. And Tom was good at that, winning people over. Because, unlike the boys who only pulled polite laughter from Birdie all night, Tom Bennett was actually charming. And unlike their father coming home from France or Poland, the boys loved seeing him.

Unfortunately, Tom Bennett was also a proper bastard.

She couldn’t say that in front of the boys. It would break their hearts. He was proper when he told them about joining the army (while in jail,) then signing up for the navy (before almost going back to jail.) Everything had been radio silence since he told them about being sent to Spain first. The radio itself was more respondent than Thomas Bloody Bennett, making him the bastard he was.

They heard constantly about the Kriegsmarine. The Admiral Graf Spee had a record of sinking one ship after another across the Atlantic and Indian. Charles counted nine over several months in a little notebook he kept under his pillow. Robert would always ask if Tom was still in Spain, or what ship he told Birdie he’d be on. All perfectly reasonable questions she had no answer to.

Eventually came the worst question left to loom in the air: Was Tom dead? The question lingered, unvoiced, in their minds. She wished she knew, even if it meant he was.

But she also wished the boys could forget. Erasing Tom Bennett completely instead of letting the continuous unknown haunt them seemed like a logical, lesser pain. It wasn’t a problem when their mother died. They were one and two when Birdie was ten. Their love for her was not as great as their love for Tom. They never stepped into a room with her in mind and a blanket of memories to follow. No everyday objects held the weight of those memories, like hair brushes and gold jewelry. Their father taught the boys how to play solitaire, but they couldn’t look at a deck without seeing Tom; the one who taught them about poker and how to cheat in the same night.

Even the report of Graf Spee’s sinkage last December felt bittersweet. The boys were cross-legged at the coffee table with the fire warming their backs. Birdie knitted while their father read in his chair. The fuzzily read conclusion of HMS Exeter’s victory sent that heavy blanket over the three of them. It was suffocating until Robert perked his head up, thick brown curls just above his eyes as he said, “Maybe Tom is on the Exeter.”

Birdie glanced over at their father.

“Tom’s dead,” Charles snapped back, his voice cracking with the force of it as his fists clenched in his lap.

“You don’t know that.”

“Boys,” Birdie called. But their father already stood, taking the radio and hiding it again.

Charles pushed Robert. “Good job.”

 “Shut up.” Robert traced the table’s edge, sweeping his curls from his face. “And you still don’t know if Tom is dead.”

“Neither do you.”

“Birdie. Tell him he’s not.”

“Enough,” she ordered.

When their father came back, Charles hid his face as he wiped his cheeks. Birdie soon sent them both to bed.

He never wrote to her. She’d have to accept what that meant, whichever way fate fell. She knew Tom taking a liking to marriage was as hopeful as never seeing war again, but even leaving her like this would be the ultimate coward’s way out. Plenty would see it as a reason not to worry about him and take advantage of her youth while she had it. She never even met his family. They wouldn’t know to look for her if they knew of his whereabouts. Time was her only solution. She could only hope that enough of it would pass, and she’d find the strength to laugh at a boy’s jokes from across the table. He’d feel so proud and funny throughout their courting, he’d even crack a joke before proposing to her. Then Birdie would surrender herself, hoping they’d all learn to love him differently.

For now, Birdie opened the back door as the boys waited and soon clamored through the kitchen. “Shoes off!” She ordered as each thunk of non-bare feet trailed up the stairs, then back down, following the reminder. Birdie put the basket on the kitchen floor, debating briefly if she should smoke another cigarette.

 They both shouted from the foyer. “Birdie!”

She didn’t move. There wasn’t distress in their voices, and Robert quickly came back into the kitchen to find her where she was standing. Running and shoving dirt into each other’s faces didn’t make them nearly as breathless as they were now. Then she saw the reason, standing in the doorway.

“Tom is here!”

He was here, leaning on his shoulder in a navy uniform with his sandy hair grown out past his ears. Charles hung to one arm as he carried a birdcage with the other. He topped it off with his arrogant grin and wink combination.

“Told you he wasn’t dead,” Robert said. His curls bounced as he vibrated with joy.

“Course I’m not dead.”

Charles continued holding onto his arm, his freckled face split into a wide, toothy grin Birdie hadn’t seen in months. “What are you doing here, then?”

“Hitler sunk me ship. Decided to stop by here.” He placed the cage on the breakfast table. The little canary inside chirped as it swung back and forth on the bar. “Wanted to bring a birdie for my Birdie.” He leaned against the table.

She crossed her arms. Charles finally separated from Tom to look into the cage. He stuck a finger between the golden bars. “Where’d you get it?”

“She was on the ship with me and the lads.” He mimicked her pose, not straying from her eyes. The boys continued with questions.

“Did you kill any Nazis?”

“Loads.”

“Get your uniforms,” she said.

“Are you back for good?” Robert asked, his dark eyes wide with hope.

“Boys. Now.”

“She’s right,” Tom said. “Be good and listen to your sister.” He ruffled their hair before pushing them on the back of their heads. “We’ll talk later.”

Robert disappeared first. Charles second, but he poked his head through the doorway one more time. “We’re glad you’re back, Tom.” And he showed off his toothy smile again before leaving. Their footsteps thump, thump, thumped up the stairs.

“Shoes off! I’m not telling you again.”

“Yeah, shoes off, boys,” he repeated with the same grin and a laugh to boot. He pushed himself off the table with his hip. “Seems like you’ve loosened the reins since last ti—”

The crack across his face bounces off the tiled walls. She thought about doing it plenty of nights when in bed alone, thinking of every way he could’ve left her, but it happened before she realized what she had done. The mark burned pink on his skin. Tom rubbed the spot, but a grin still stained his face just as prominently. Birdie’s face only tightened. “You think this is amusing?”

“A little bit, yeah. Keep that up and we’ll have to take this to your room. As long as your old man’s not here.”

“You think you can just show up whenever it suits you? We thought you were dead.”

“Your faith in me was strong, I see.”

“Because you hadn’t sent a single letter. And you think bringing some bird gets you out of this?”

“Hey, first off, her name’s Vera.”

“Vera!” Robert held his uniform in his arms, gray and wrinkled to hell. Charles opened the laundry room door and placed his matching one on the counter. “She’s a girl?”

“Sure is. Seen her lay an egg and everything. She was on board with me and the lads before Graf Spee took shots at us.”

“Wow!” Robert looked at Vera, Charles at Tom.

Birdie raised a brow. “You were on the HMS Exeter?”

Tom nodded, looking over at the bird.

“I knew you were on the Exeter! I told them you were!” It was Robert’s turn to take Tom’s arm, looping it with his own. “You killed them all, right? They said someone shot the captain.”

“Sounds about right.” His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat before tightening his arm with Robert’s. He patted his little hand.

“If Hitler sunk that ship, then did the others make it home?”

“Yeah, yeah. One way or another.” He glanced back at Birdie, and his grin simmered down. There was something more she couldn’t piece together. She opened her mouth, but Tom spoke up first. “You two do us a favor, yeah?” He unlooped Robert’s arm as Charles came around the table. Both are standing tall with eager ears. “So, I haven’t had a milkshake in about a year.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, it’s awful, innit? With it being as sweltering as it is, I think we all could go for some.”

They nodded enthusiastically. Birdie bit her lips closed.

“Good. But I’m sure your sister would appreciate you two cleaning up before we head out. Bath and all, alright?”

“But you need a milkshake now.”

“We all need milkshakes now.”

“Which is why you should hurry,” Birdie interjected. “The sooner you’re clean, the sooner we’ll get them.”

“But don’t rush washing up. Don’t want people to think she doesn’t know how to take care of you.”

“Are you going to kiss while we’re gone?” Charles’ nose scrunched as he said it.

“Probably,” Tom said. “You wanna watch?”

And just like that, for the third time, they were off. (Their shoes weren’t, but she couldn’t care to remind them.)

Tom shifted slowly, turning back to face her. “That’ll keep them away for a while.”

“You think I want to kiss you?”

“Oh, absolutely. You’re just too angry to admit it.”

“You brought home a bird and no apologies.”

“Not just Vera.” He delved into one pocket. “I’ve got some seeds she likes. Here’s some rope she climbs on.” He placed them down on the table before fishing around the other pocket.

“Are you so up your own arse that you think I’m going to look past this? You think you’re so bloody perfect because—”

“Because I have these.” In front of them both were papers. Envelopes upon envelopes, stamped and ready to send with torn journal pages sandwiched in between. All of them covered in his fine cursive. Tom held them up and placed them with Vera’s things. “Well, at least you’re finally speechless.”

Birdie touched the top envelope with her full name written out, feeling the indentions of his handwriting.

“Sending letters at sea is harder than you think when Germans are around.”

“You wrote to me.”

“As often as I could. More than me dad or Lois. So if that doesn’t get me out of trouble.”

She couldn’t help the way her vision blurred with tears. Many months of anger and resentment dissolved inside her, melting into salty pools. Then she looked up, remembering the mark on his face. Birdie reached out and brushed his cheek. “I’m so sorry.”

Tom blew air through his nose. “It doesn’t hurt. Shows you still love me.”

“That’s not–”

“You wouldn’t have touched me at all if you’d given up.” Tom leaned into her hand, then took her fingers in his to observe. “No ring. So I’m not too late then? You didn’t move on from this poor bloke?”

“Not through lack of trying. They sent all the good ones away, too.”

They both laughed. It fizzled out slowly, leaving Vera to fill the silence with her chirps. Tom’s eyes were a crisp blue, making him extra dashing in his uniform. His damn smirk didn’t help with her decency, but Tom did the honors by pulling her in, guiding one hand to his back like she was the one who was used to being led. He kissed her gently, and his hands drew up into her hair, making her earrings dangle as a tingle bloomed from her scalp to her spine. She slipped her tongue in before bringing Tom closer in response–waist against waist. She felt what she wanted.

Tom hummed at the friction, pulling back first. “Eager to give me a hero’s welcome, I see.”

She nodded, already out of breath.

“Doesn’t help that you taste like cigarettes. Reminding me of old habits.”

“We can go to the laundry room.” She bent her back to press further into his bulge and kissed him again. The deep exhale through his nose was cool, brushing her cheek.

“Let’s go upstairs first.”

“But I want you now.”

“You’ll have me. Come on.” The warmth of his hands left her face as he reached out for Vera’s things. He hooked two fingers to pick up her cage.

Birdie watched him leave. A quick fuck was never something he declined before. It was what he preferred over anything that took a long time. Birdie preferred getting to the point, and Tom barely had the experience to take things slow like her. She sighed and grabbed her letters before following him upstairs.

The peachy walls and green curtains matching her floral bedding were reminders of how little things had changed. Even Tom pointed it out as he looked around. “That’s good.” He walked over to her desk, next to the big window. “Vera would like it here. She’ll get good light, and you can open up the window for some fresh air.”

“Sure.” She put her letters on her nightstand before shutting the door.

“I’ll put a hook in the ceiling and find a chain to hang the cage from. Make it all pretty for ya.” He scaled the height of the wall from top to bottom, hands on his hips and nodding to himself. “Yeah, I can get the boys to help me.”

“Tom.” Birdie stepped closer.

“Well, maybe not with this. Rather make sure she’s secure.”

“Tom.”

He turned with raised brows. Birdie rubbed his arms first, then cupped the part of his face she slapped. “Are you alright?”

His brow creased. “Yeah, course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You’re acting differently.”

“You haven’t seen me in a year. A lot happens in a year, Birdie. That’s no one’s fault.” He kissed her knuckles, all gentlemanly. His arms wrapped around her waist as he returned to his signature smirk.

“You can keep Vera at yours. The boys will understand.”

“Nah. We don’t have the room. She’s better off here on your side of the country.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, and I’ll visit her when I want. No matter what your old man says. I’ll just sneak through the window. Like old times.” He smiled at that. “Now, where were we?” He kissed her.

She wanted to say more, but Tom was good at distracting. The tingling sped down to her legs and morphed into numbness as Tom nibbled at her neck. They tangled with his own as he tried taking the lead again. Luckily, they fell onto the bed with little injury, only a bump to the teeth as Tom kissed her deeply into the mattress. His tongue slid through to find hers, and she worked her hands through his hair. Tom pulled down one shoulder of her dress, kissing and nipping his way down like he was reacquainting himself with every inch of her. Her bra went with it. Tom stopped at her waist to give her chest the attention it craved. He massaged one tit while taking the other in his mouth. He suckled gently on her nipple, occasionally taking it between his teeth to make Birdie gasp.

Birdie’s knees hiked up against Tom’s hips. She kept him in place while pulling his hair. Her calves felt the leather of his belt, telling her hands where to go. With their bodies so close, she struggled to find his buckle. Still, she navigated with her goal in mind.

Until Tom took both her wrists and held them over her head. He looked up with a pinkish face. ”Someone’s eager.” His voice was low as he said it, breath cool over her nipple.

“I need to be fucked.”

“I can see that.”

She bucked her hips against his. “Quick.”

“It’s been a year, love. I have to be quick.” And soon, he stepped up, then back. He took fistfuls of her dress and her underwear. Birdie lifted her lower back, and she was naked with one yank. She knew she was glorious. Her appearance clearly pleased Tom. So she reached out for his belt again, but Tom slapped it away. “Not yet.”

She groaned and rolled her eyes. When she looked back up, though, he was already removing his shirt. The sight helped the sting. Before, he had a lightly sculpted physique, with some prominent muscles. But now, his skin was tighter against them, with veins that wrapped around his bare arms. Just like the men on all the sign up posters. A war hero.

Tom nestled back on top of her, keeping her warm as he pushed her hair back. “Is it so bad that I want to enjoy you?”

She shook her head. “You just don’t waste time when it comes to treats.”

“Who said I’m wasting my time?”

Birdie said nothing. For many reasons.

Tom liked his secrets, and he liked to think he was good at hiding them. But he was also right when he mentioned it being a year. Any logical discussion regarding his changed behavior had to be put aside. So for now, she stroked his chest, fingers gliding over his pronounced muscles. His abs jumped at the touch. Tom’s hand then followed down. Further down, actually. And before she could ask what he was doing, electricity sparked up her insides and throughout as Tom explored her wetness.

“Is this wasting time?”

No would be the obvious answer if she hadn’t lost all the air in her lungs. Each harsh intake forced a moan back out. Her chest felt caved in as she jolted under his heavy touch.

“Didn’t think so.”

She would also tell him to shut up if she had the wits, but he never did this. He was never bad at it (decent at most.) He never liked trying new things, fearing he’d embarrass himself. Learning and improvement were beyond his confidence. Being on the sea must have unlocked a more adventurous spirit with no room for improvement because she was so sensitive from enduring no touch at all. (A bloody year!) The only thing he could do was go faster, but his pace was agonizingly slow. With time, her back still arched as she gripped the arm that kept him hovering deliciously above her. “Tom.” She looked him in the eyes as she said it.

He caught his lower lip between his teeth as he picked up the pace, while she grew louder. Eventually, he brought himself down to kiss her, drinking in her moans as she continued to shake. He hummed as her nails dug into his arm and the other hand strangled her bedding. It kept her grounded as she cried out, spasming amidst her little death by Tom Bennett’s hand. He still explored, moving his fingers around and never venturing inside. He kissed her one more time before whispering, “There she is,” as she came back down.

Her legs quivered around Tom, lingered remains of her peak briefly pressing into his hips. And because Tom was feeling proper, he took it as an opportune moment to finally (finally!) remove his pants. Birdie tried watching what she could, but their bodies were too close together to see anything before he completely slipped inside. She stretched against him, but her reaction was to put a palm on his shoulder. She needed a minute, and Tom didn’t move. Birdie released the sharp grip on his arm to cup his face. His eyes were droopy, dazed with the same want she already received. He still kissed her slowly, tenderness still in his heart after everything he might’ve seen, and waited for her say-so.

Soon, Birdie nodded, nearly being lost in the moment again as she enjoyed her own show. Tom was deliberate with every inch, watching her face for any change. Her smile only grew, tightening her arms around his shoulders once he was completely inside her. Her breath hitched as she fully felt it, watching Tom’s eyes flutter shut from the same feeling. Normally, he would anchor her down with hands around her hips, but he stayed close as he thrusted slowly. Knowing he would be quick, he wasn’t animalistic about it. He didn’t pull all the way out to shove himself back in. He just kissed her neck as he kept his pace.

Her nails found his back, scratching down his skin and the small moles on his spine. “Tom,” she said as her mouth started falling open.

“Oh, Birdie.” He kissed her again, like it was a command. Their noses bumped as their hot breaths mingled in the limited space between them. “Oh, my God.”

She could feel the tension building inside. His thrusts became more pointed and faster, making it difficult to keep quiet again. She felt the raised lines she left in his skin as she moaned, “Don’t stop.”

He buried his face in her neck again as he only grew more erratic. And her second release, like Tom’s, was quick (as predicted.) It rushed up and down her legs and no further, topping off her first orgasm as Tom finished hot on her belly. Her toes curled at the lingering feeling as Tom breathed heavily, pulling the bath towel off her floor to clean up his mess. Then he took her hand in his as he fell into her pillows, stark naked and a beautiful sight amongst frilly pink lining. Birdie crawled while still trembling to lie on his chest. His heartbeat was rapid against his ears, and it eventually settled into a healthy rhythm.

Tom’s arms kept her close, keeping their hands together. She looked up at his face, already close to nodding off. One blue eye peeked open, and his lips curled into his signature smirk once more.

“Welcome home.”

“A fantastic welcome, love. Wake me up when you want to welcome me again.”

“You know you can’t fall asleep yet.”

He nodded. “It is tempting, though.”

“The boys should be ready soon.”

Air puffed through Tom’s nose. “A milkshake will have to do, then.”

She knew she should get up, but Tom’s hold around her waist was tighter, as if he had read her mind. It was tempting to sleep. It was more tempting than ever for another cigarette. But Tom’s breath had finally slowed, nearly to a rate that felt like he passed out, anyway. The only thing that assured her he was still awake was his thumb brushing over her knuckles. The simple back-and-forth motion that eventually numbed the skin soothed her mind, despite her questions still being there.

They piled in her head, one after the other, like the letters on her nightstand, addressed to her, for her to read. Even Tom knew he couldn’t avoid it forever.

But footsteps scampered down the hall.

And for now, milkshakes would have to do.

They went to one of the inner city diners. The boys kept to one side of the booth (much to their shared dismay) as Tom stayed next to Birdie. They wanted to be glued to him, to prove to themselves that he was alive and in front of them. Charles even kicked him under the table with a grin plastered on his face. Only once, though, giving Tom rights to kick him back.

Birdie didn’t need the proof. Because something that hadn’t changed about Tom was showing her off in public. He held her hand during the entire walk and kept an arm cascaded over her shoulder in the booth at all times. Word would get back to her father when he returned home. (Someone was always ready to gossip.) And it would make no difference now that Tom was a war hero. No one acknowledged him as such even in the restaurant, despite his uniform.

Even Tom didn’t acknowledge it. He was more concerned with touching the skin on her arm. When their milkshakes arrived, he could barely pull himself away to drink any of it. Birdie crossed her legs , feeling the heat prickle through her as Tom eventually found her knee under the table while giving the boys his full attention the entire time. The way she allowed such public displays of affection would be embarrassing if she didn’t need him so badly again already.

It didn’t help that Tom ended up showing the boys how to hang Vera’s cage, exchanging his uniform for an undershirt and jeans. He installed the hook and showed them how to test its sturdiness, same with the chain holding her up, triple-checking the stability, making sure she’s safe.

They both tested the stability of her bed later in the night. With her hands on the bars of her headboard, Birdie found her familiar motion as she rode Tom into the mattress. His hands gripped into her hips as he moved with her, pushing all he could inside her while staying synchronized. They panted in the dark together. Tom occasionally reached up for her tits, but they made no attempt at meeting in the middle. There was a mutual end they were both desperate to meet.

And eventually, they did. Birdie curled in on herself as she caught her breath, and bent in to Tom’s touch. He guided her to the space between him and the wall. He cleaned them up once more with the same towel and wrapped her in his arms. As her arm snaked around his neck and her thigh drew near, he showered her with tenderness, nuzzling below his chin and rubbing her smooth skin. Vera chirped softly, the golden bars of her cage gleaming in the pale moonlight just above her desk.

Tom’s nails tickled her skin as they traveled up her hip and side before finding her chin, lifting it up to his. She couldn’t see him in the dark, but felt the air leaving his nose with every exhale. She drew circles on his bare chest, high up where his muscles didn’t get in the way. Her eyes were wide open, not even a little tired since this morning. She then wondered if Tom had slept at all since coming home, or if this was his first stop. Would he rest easy, like normal?

“What’re you thinking?”

“What?”

“You’re always quick to sleep. Unless you’re worried about something. So what is it?”

Birdie situated herself to rest on her stomach. She combed her fingers through his hair, reaching his scalp before pulling herself forward to kiss his cheek (she missed) then his lips. “Were you really in the South Atlantic? On The Exeter?”

“I was.” He said it without hesitation. It surprised even her.

“A lot happened.”

“Yeah.”

“What?”

“We were hit. I was cutting up with some lads, pissing off some others.” He cleared his throat. “And they were gone.”

“Gone?”

“The lads. Norman, Vic, others. Only me and Henry survived that one explosion.”

“Oh, Tom.” She reached for his face.

“I wrote about Vic in some of the letters. Hopefully, I did him some justice.”

The silence was thick. No witty jokes to pad the seriousness. He only petted her hair over and over. His touch was rigid and his pulse picked up in his chest. She looked over at the letters on her nightstand, the abstract pile that they were. She reached out, and Tom caught her hand as her finger poked an envelope’s corner.

“Don’t,” he told her. He cradled her hand, bringing it up to his face again, but not letting go.

“What else is there?”

It took so long for him to answer she worried he was pretending to be asleep, making that the end of it until she inevitably brought it up again. His inhale was deep. “I don’t know if I have it yet.” He used her hand to point to his temple. “The Shellshock. You think I’d know with my dad and all. I don’t feel much different. But if… if I get sent out again… I’m…”

“Scared?”

“I might keep changing, Birdie. And I might finally snap like my dad and end up in one of those insane hospitals. With no one.”

“I’d be there.”

“You don’t know that.” He sounded like Robert.

“And neither do you.” She inched closer to kiss his lips again, longer this time, like it was a seal of guarantee. Even with the tensity, Tom softened to it. “What if you don’t go back?”

He huffed. “And be branded a deserter?” She could hear the smile in his voice. “Your dad already hates me enough, don’t you think?”

“Well, it doesn’t sound like you want to go back.”

Tom sighed.

“Tell me what you’re thinking, then.”

“It just seems like the easy solution, right? Just don’t go back. I’d be a traitor, but I’d be alive with my dad, Lois, the boys, and you. But like I said, good lads died on that ship. Plenty more are dying elsewhere for the same bloody war. It’s not fair to sit out here when more good lads are getting sent out every day.”

Birdie picked herself up, unwinding herself from his body to look down at the vague silhouette halfway under blankets. “You’re a good lad, too. You know?”

His tongue clicked, brushing it off.

“Bad men don’t think the way you do. That’s why I waited for you. I’ll do it again. I’ll be in the waiting room of any hospital in England if you end up needing to get your head checked.”

“Not beside me?”

“They wouldn’t consider me family.”

“But I would.”

“Well, you’d have to marry me to prove it to them.”

It was a one-off joke. She even topped it off with a chuckle. Still, silence persisted; even Vera couldn’t be heard. Despite his fears, he was still the same Tom Bennett who couldn’t handle the idea of being tied down.

But just when she was about to give up and settle in with nothing spoken further, she felt Tom’s hand move across the side of her face, finding the comfortable, familiar spot just under her ear before pulling her back down. He didn’t make her settle in. He found her lips, kissing her slowly with an open mouth, taking a breath when he could in between.

“I love you,” he said.

“I love you.”

  It wasn’t until he stopped that she rested her head on his chest again and his arms found where they wished to settle on her body for the night. He picked up her ring finger and it alone.

“I’ll think about it, alright?”

Birdie buried herself into his chest.

[izfrogzy]

It’s weird to think I’m living and breathing in the moment and I think of someone who has no idea who I am doing the same thing across the world at the same time, I’m living the same time period the same day as this person and he has no idea who I am it’s so weird to think about 🤔 May or may not be about someone specific

[izfrogzy]

Ewan Mitchell is so real 💎🕷️

[izfrogzy]

I like this look too much, especially with the glasses. 🤤🖤

[izfrogzy]

I dun like any of the recent looks DS did on Ewan... 😕 yeah obviously Hollywood actors need to dress fashionably and I am all for the fashion but some of his looks are so fugly. NOT EWAN just the fashion. Idk in some of the pics he looked kinda uncomfortable... and yeah this isn't about blaming Ewan this is about Mr. Sutton and his weird sense of dressing Ewan in a way that makes him look awkward. And his hair... I am not a fan of DS his stylist as I'm sure many of us aren't.

[izfrogzy]

Girl help can we stop criticizing Ewan’s style, this is so tired. The looks he’s worn have all referenced alternative and goth culture in one way or another. No, he is not being held hostage by his stylist, he is experimenting with style and it’s clear that he chooses what he wants to wear. His latest look with the way they styled his hair screams the Misfits, but make it Fashion Week™️

Just like a lot of his looks from last year’s hotd promo tour screamed grunge/goth vampire. What he wore to CCXP was giving Nu Metal Lestat from Queen of the Damned.

Even what he wore for that first photoshoot he did with the wigs and everything? Those were all props he already had. We know he is an alternative guy from all the bits he’s shared about the music he listens to and how he was inspired by horror films to portray Aemond. When he came to Mexico he brought like two Slipknot t-shirts, for the same trip!? He is clearly very involved in his styling, he’s not being held hostage by Davey ffs. These are his first public appearances so yeah, he’s still experimenting. But it’s not like Davey is using him like his personal barbie doll to dress him in whatever he wants. Ewan’s style reminds me a lot of Jamie Campbell Bower’s style.

These looks might be jarring to some, but the fact is Ewan is just not the soft cardigan wearing boyfriend normies want him to be. He’s showing us he is an alt guy, from what he listens to to what he wears.