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assortedseaglass · 4 months

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Talk Refined - Chapter One

Michael Gavey x Reader

[Masterlist]

Summary: When Michael Gavey unwittingly insults a fellow Oxford student, they enter into a game of intellectual cat and mouse.

Content Warnings (this chapter in bold): Language, Smut, Saltburn Spoilers

Pool was never your forte. Truth be told, you were more of a darts girl. There was something though, in the soft click of the balls knocking together and the damp thunk of them landing in the pocket that scratched an itch on your over-worked mind.

Hilary term was coming to an end, and with it brought the dread that your extended essay title had been submitted. ‘“For the sake of some colour;” women as decoration, in response to Turner’s High Street, Oxford (1810)””. No going back now.

You’d escaped the January madness that had descended on your best friend, Esme. Like most other courses, she had exams at the start of the new year and spent her days in the library and nights in the pub. Much like now, come to think of it.

“You’re up,” you called to your friend as you missed potting a red. “Esme!”

“Sorry! Sorry,” she shimmied between the pool table and a few pub patrons, taking her cue in hand and leaning over the felt green. Click, thunk. A yellow sank into the corner pocket.

“Who were you talking to?” You indicated a man in his early twenties, eyeing up Esme’s backside as she leant over the table to reach another yellow.

“Bartender,” she missed the ball and passed the cue back over the table. You took it and swiftly potted a red. “Nice one. Just borrowing this,” she lit her cigarette with a metal lighter. When she was done, she tossed it back to the bartender and he winked.

The two of you’d met at a humanities and arts, inter-college social less than two weeks into your first term. Dress as your subject and be ready for a night of frivolity even Elagabalus couldn’t imagine. You’d found some of silk scarves in a charity shop, bought cheap pearls from Primark and gone as the Girl with a Pearl Earring. Outside the Blenheim was where you first spotted her. Dressed in a bedsheet draped as a peplos, she had climbed a lamppost and was swigging wine straight from the bottle. That is a girl I want to be friends with, you’d thought, and promptly beelined for her and begged for the bottle.

“You doing philosophy?” You asked after chugging the cheap merlot.

“Classics. And you, I’m guessing history-”

“History of art, yeah.”

The next morning, you’d woken in her dorm room at Brasenose, the autumn sunlight blinding and your breath smelling as if something had crawled inside you and died there. Esme didn’t mind. Her mouth was stained red from the wine and a hickey the size of Brazil adorned her neck. You’d been inseparable ever since.

“Bollocks,” you missed potting a red and, as Esme swept to grab to pool cue, the pub erupted in song.

“RUBY RUBY RUBY RUBY!”

“Ahah ahah ahaaaaaaaah!” Esme sang the refrain in your ear as she twirled you round, the cue discarded on the table.

“DO YA DO YA DO YA DO YA!?”

“Fuck’s sake,” It was hard not to smile despite your best efforts. You felt like a twat but no-one was looking at you. All were too busy singing to notice the two tipsy girls dancing by the pool table. In any case, the only person whose opinion mattered to you was the one spinning you in her arms. One wayward spin and bumped you into the pool table. Giggling, you opened your arms to be embraced once more-

“Oh shit,” Esme whispered hastily, suddenly standing straight and flattening her hair. “Got any lip gloss?”

“Erm,” you patted your pockets. “No sorry.”

“Damn,”

“Who’ve you seen?” you smirked, standing by your best friend’s shoulder and following her line of sight. Well, it could have been any number of students in the packed pub. There were some rugby lads, double polos with both collars popped. Pretty boy Felix Catton and his posse of poshos. It could have even been that girl Eleanor, now greeting a friend at the bar. Esme and Eleanor hooked up at the Brasenose Christmas party. Esme said it was “unexpected” and “not her usual flavour”, but you’d met her once after tutorial, and the way she looked at her tutor’s bottom as it wiggled down the corridor in her Peacock’s pencil skirt was not one of envy. “Well?” You asked impatiently. “Who is it?”

“There, blue check shirt, dark hair.” Esme pointed at the bar where such a man was standing. Two pints of lager in hand, he turned and seemed to look around the pub. “Cute, isn’t he? He’s at Brasenose too, doing English I think.”

“Oh right.” As a Wadham girl, you had never seen this boy before. You supposed he was quite good-looking, in a boy-next-door sort of way. You thought perhaps he would be bonny, were it not for the solemn expression on his face. He meandered through the crowd to a small table at which sat another boy.

The two were starkly different. Where Esme’s boy was dark haired, the other was fair. Esme’s boy was stocky, but even sat down the other was gangly, and while Esme’s boy clearly wasn’t an avid reader of Esquire, the blond boy looked like he’d rolled around Oxfam’s bargain bin in total darkness and worn whatever stuck; a pair of baggy cargo shorts pulled up far too high and cinched tightly with a black belt, a pair of Merrell trainers and a novelty tshirt. THIS IS HOW I ROLL. Below the wording was an anagram and equation.

If it weren’t for the middle-aged glasses and frankly atrocious haircut, he’d be quite good looking too. Two Oxford virgins; Trinny and Susannah’s wet dream.

“What’s his name then?”

“Oliver, I think.” Esme was licking her lips and fussing with her bangles.

“You look great,” you swatted at her hand. “And the other one?”

“No idea. They’re always hanging around together. Oliver,” she said his name with some uncertainty. “Oliver never says anything, the other one’s always talking a mile a minute but I haven’t really seen him about. Doesn’t go to any parties.”

“Him and the girl with-”

“Agoraphobia.” You said in unison. The characters of Esme’s college were more vivid to you now than those in a Dickens novel.

“I bet he does maths,”

“I told you, he does English.”

“No,” you tut. “The other one.”

“I reckon it’s physics.”

“Put a pint on it?”

“You’re on,” Esme smacked your hip. “Come on, there’s a table by the bar.”

Following the plume of her cigarette smoke, Esme led you to the sticky wooden table and ordered you a pint of Thatchers. She, a pint of Stella. At the table beside you both, Maybe Oliver and The Other One were talking quickly. Well, the maths-slash-physics boy was. Maybe Oliver was staring distractedly towards the other end of the pub. You looked over your shoulder. Felix Catton was settling down with another round of beers, his stupid eyebrow piercing gleaming in the low pub lights.

“Swap with me,” Esme whispered.

“What?”

“Swap with me so I can look at Oliver.”

You sighed and stood up, shuffling round the table to sit parallel to Oliver. Esme smiled at him as she sat down and he smiled back. When she giggled, you kicked her under the table. Now across from maths-slash-physics, you could see him clearly.

This close, you stood by your assessment that he could have been handsome. His light eyes were framed by not just those hideous glasses but thick, dark lashes. He had a jawline and cheekbones that would make Agyness Deyn jealous. His lips, though strangely curved were plump, and he had a distracting habit of frequently wetting them. But there was something so distinctly and undefinably creepy about him. He talked like a snake, quickly with hissed “s”s and “t”s. You noticed with unease that he barely blinked as he watched for any minutia in his friend’s reaction, and he moved with an almost jerky stiffness. All elbows and angles. This strange combination of beautiful and revolting made him impossible to ignore. Like catching yourself in the mirror after dying your hair. A strange feeling of the uncanny.

He caught your eye, sensing you staring at him, and you quickly glanced at Esme. Shit. She’d been talking to you about something.

“-of course, it’s easy to compare the Iliad and the Aeneid, but really they’re very different.”

Aha. She was trying to impress, hoping Maybe Oliver would hear. “Oh yes?” You leant forward on your arm and wiggled your eyebrows at her. “Tell me more.”

Esme was clearly delighted that you’d cottoned on to her plan. Brushing her hair from her shoulders and leaning forward too, she continued. “Well, you have to start with the language. One is Greek and one is Latin. Now, we go through this in linguistics. Everyone has to get up to speed with their Greek and Latin so we’re all on the same level-”

You giggled and she kicked you under the table. Esme knew you already knew this and didn’t care. You knew that Esme was just showboating. When you kicked her back she got the giggles and glanced at Maybe Oliver. His eyes were still trained on the back of the pub, and she sighed, taking a gulp of beer. In perfect symmetry, you drank your cider and in the lull you admired the lengths your friend went to flirt with a seemingly average boy.

“-Jameson spends the whole time staring at her tits, completely ignoring the fact she can barely do her times tables.”

Esme choked a little on her drink and your eyebrows shot upwards with barely contained glee. This was far more interesting. You and Esme watched each other, communing telepathically about the intriguing conversation between the boys next to you.

“-times tables, Oliver!”

“Told you it was maths!” You whispered at Esme. Without a word, she got up with a smile to buy you another pint.

“-just fuck off and do history of art, love, save us all the trouble!”

You stilled in your seat, cider halfway to your lips. Did he just-? You ran the sentence over in your mind. “Fuck off and do history of art, love, save us all the trouble.” It wasn’t the first time you’d encountered snobbery about your selected study. Friends from school deemed it “hoity-toity,” and even your parents had worried about your career prospects.

“But what can you actually do with a history of art degree?”

You’d thought Oxford would be different. Surrounded by other young minds, eager for knowledge and an appreciation of the world around them, freshly opened up like your first bottle of champagne; long-awaited, exciting and with a little bit of bite. Just for the adults.

“Excuse me?” Your heart was pounding in your chest as you leant over a little and smiled at the pair of boys. You were proud of your subject but that eagerness to prove its, and your, worth was impossible to ignore. Oliver and Maths Boy looked at you. “Do you,” you cleared your throat. “What’s wrong with history of art?”

The gangly boy scoffed and turned rigidly in his chair to face you. Like most other nerds, you’d expected him to shy away from anyone outside of his carefully selected circle. This boy, however, seemed to take up an enormous space in your mind. He was confident. Already taken aback by his vicious comment, that threw you even more.

“What’s wrong with it? It’s an easy option that’s become an elitist haven for the middle class.” He pushed his glasses up his long nose with a bony finger. “You ever met any of those ‘students’?” He put air quotes around that last word and you flinched, neck bristling with anger. You doubt he’d have noticed if you put your top over your head and did the Cupid Shuffle; he continued as if nothing happened.

“Load of public-school wankers spouting their useless opinions on aristocrats lounging about in gilded frames, just so they can justify getting a job in daddy’s gallery. It’s an irrelevant, niche subject for people who think their view of the world is superior to us mere plebs’.”

“Michael,” Oliver murmured. He turned to you, not quite looking you in the eye. “Sorry-”

“Here’s your pint,” Esme placed another Thatchers before you. Both you and “Michael” ignored your friends.

“You think it’s irrelevant?” You took a swig of cider without taking your eyes off him. Angry little prick, this fella. You knew the like; maths, physics, economics, law. The students were all the same. Thinking they were better than everyone else because they could swan off into the sunset with £40k job straight out of uni and reap the benefits that the arts provided them without any need to know better. The designer clothes and fast cars, the beautiful buildings they worked in, the nails on the woman ripping open the condom wrapper…

“What’s irrelevant?” Esme said brightly. She held out her hand for Oliver. “Esme, hi.”

“Oliver-”

“History of art, apparently.” You said haughtily.

“Ouch. Who said that?” Esme sat down beside you, still smiling at Oliver.

“Michael.”

“Who’s Michael?”

“Michael Gavey.” The man in question announced himself by extending a long arm in Esme’s direction. She shook his with slight shock and raised her eyebrows at Oliver. He lowered his head in shame.

“Our girl here’s a history of art student.” Esme patted your hand. If you, Esme and Oliver expected this to soften Michael, it didn’t work.

“Ah,” he smiled, mirth lighting his eyes. “That’s why you’re so tetchy. Which school was it then? Cheltenham? Roedean?”

“She went to state comp actually,” Ever your champion, Esme came to your defence.

“Scholarship student?” Michael sneered.

“No,” you rebuffed quickly.

“What’s wrong with that? Me and Oliver here are.”

“Nothing You were the one trying to get me to say it was.”

Michael smiled with satisfaction and an awkward silence fell between the four of you. The clink of glasses and drunken chatter continued around you. This wasn’t the first charged student encounter that had happened in this pub, nor would it be the last.

“I suppose you think maths is superior?” You folded your arms and raised an eyebrow. A challenge. Prove it then.

“Of course it is,”

It was your turn to scoff. “Why can’t there be room for both?”

“There is room for both. Mathematics is just more important.”

“Jesus,” Oliver rubbed his hands over his face.

“Mathematics is the foundation for everything. The modern world as we know it wouldn’t exist without it. Technology, healthcare, finance, governance, everything. It prevents chaos. Without mathematics, society would collapse.” He fidgeted in his chair to turn more vividly towards you, his hands excitedly grasping for something in front of him that didn’t exist. Maths, probably. “We create predictions and complex design systems so that life as we know it can exist, and continue to exist.”

He looked at you as though you should have been impressed. You supposed his excitement was quite sweet. In truth, you knew maths was important. History of art student though you were, you weren’t an idiot. You were at one of the world’s top universities for God’s sake.

“But what’s the point of existing if there’s nothing to enjoy? To live for?”

“Pardon?” What had he expected? For you to roll over and kiss his feet? Take him round the back of the pub for a quick knee tremble? “Oh yes, Michael, tell me more about Fermat’s conjecture! More! More!”

“Art is what makes life worth living for. Its history helps us understand politics, religions, societies and peoples of the past.”

“All that from staring at a Bruegels?” Michael looked at Oliver with a laugh, hoping for back up. Oliver was tearing up a beer mat.

“Yes!”

“Well, it’s never done anything for me.”

His arrogance and ignorance was astounding. This final comment was the drop that sent you overflowing with exasperation. “Yes it has,” you snapped. Michael glared at you. “Aside from what I literally just said, art has done everything for you. Take today for example.”

At this, Michael sat forward. He couldn’t resist a reasoned argument with concrete evidence.

“You woke up this morning at Brasenose, is it?” He nodded. “At Brasenose, in a dorm with Carol Vorderman posters on the walls, posters designed by graphic designers who studied art. Those posters line the walls of a building almost five hundred years old. From barely known architects to Powell and Moya, each added to its history with their extensive understanding of art and beauty. For some reason you then got up and decided to put on that God awful tshirt which, although many would believe otherwise, was designed to be aesthetically pleasing or visually arresting. The latter it certainly is. There you go. Art.” You were on a role.

“I’m assuming you had lectures or tutorial today? The book you read? The covers were made by, you guessed it, artists. You came here with Oliver and decided to get a craft beer because you’re a pretentious prick, and got the darker of the two because, and I agree with you here, the label is prettier. You’re gonna go home in an hour or two when you’ve had one too many pints and ogled that pretty girl at the bar,” you pointed at Eleanor. “Whose thong caught your eye above her low rises. Fashion? That’s art by the way and extremely influential on society ‘as we know it’.” You quoted him back and loved the way his lips quirked into a tight line.

“And thinking of her and her pretty thong, you’ll whack out ZOO mag and whack out a swift one over some big-titted page three girl in a pair of lace knickers that were designed by someone with a fashion degree. Art.”

Esme and Oliver stared at you. A manic, self-satisfied smile was plastered on your face, and when you downed your pint to cool down from the warmth that outpouring had exerted, Oliver actually smiled. Michael said nothing. Did nothing. He was entirely, utterly unreadable. You wanted to smack him.

He glanced from you to Esme, to Oliver and at last to his pint. Like you had done, he picked it up, finish it in three gulps and placed it back on the table. “Oh, sweet baby Jesus.” What the fuck was he talking about? He spoke to his friend as if you and Esme had ceased to exist. “Going for a slash. Get me another pint please, Oliver? Thanks.” He stood from his chair, unfurling like a stick insect, and made purposefully for the gents’.

Your mouth fell open. Esme chuckled nervously. “He’s a charmer,” she said to Oliver.

“Yeah, ‘scuse,” he muttered, shuffling awkwardly to the bar.

You both sat in your chairs, baffled silence befalling of you. “Well, no double dates for us then.” Esme said.

You laughed. “No date for you fullstop.”

“Yeah,” Esme glanced at the bar where Oliver was now waving at someone. You watched as he made his way over to Felix Catton and his friends. “Bit dull, wasn’t he?”

“Yeah,” Oliver sat down as the rest of the posho’s table cheered. “Though if he’s friends with Felix Catton…?”

“Didn’t realise you were so shallow?” Esme teased.

“I’m not! But the parties, Esme, the parties!”

“I know, I know, I’ll remember that Christmas one forever. Oh God, here he comes,” Esme shrank in her seat. Michael was weaving through the crowd back towards the table.

“Why isn’t he going to sit with Felix and Oliver?” You whispered. “He better not be coming back here.”

You and Esme watched as his approached slowed, faltering when he noticed Oliver and his pint were missing. He glanced around, looking at his feet as if to find Oliver on the floor. It was painful. Watching the realisation dawn on his face. You and Esme knew it before he did.

A hand raised in the air; he had spotted Oliver at Felix’s table. You watched, with pity and embarrassment, as Michael waved and Oliver turned away.

“Shit,” Esme said.

Hand moving to push up his glasses, Michael, with head hung low, left.

“Shit,” Esme said again. “Bet you feel like a bitch for shouting at him now.”

And despite his pomp and arrogance, his cynicism and creepiness, you really did feel awful.

Notes: The amount of research I did for this was wholly unnecessary. Added some links because 2006/2007 was quite a place. The script hit me like a fucking train. It says, “Back with Michael: CRUSHED.”

Many thanks to @thecruel for their help with the transcript of the Saltburn pub scene, and to @ewanmitchellcrumbs for the Michael Gavey inspo, your headcanons are always spot on.

Tags: @lexwolfhale* @theoneeyedprince @lovebittenbyevans @fan-goddess @ellrond @very-straight-blog @arcielee @tsujifreya @liv-cole @myfandomprompts @annoyingkittydetective* @elizarbell @solisarium @thekinslayersswordhand @nightdiamond8663* @slowlysparklyninja* @kate-to-the-ki @bellaisasleep @xxxkat3xxx @lacebvnny @moonriseoverkyoto @ewanmitchellcrumbs @moonlightfoxx @pendragora @aemonds-holy-milk @st-eve-barnes @sapphire-writes @babyblue711 @targaryenrealnessdarling @slytherincursebreaker @bottlesandbarricades @valeskafics @anjelicawrites @exitpursuedbyavulcan @barbieaemond @chattylurker @itbmojojoejo @humanpurposes @cyeco13 @heimtathurs @in-a-mountain-pool

*could not tag

#ewan mitchell #michael gavey #michael gavey x reader #saltburn #saltburn 2023 #ewan mitchell x reader #emerald fennell

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kolsmikaelson · 5 months

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hate fucking michael gavey

“I fucking hate you,” you groan out as Michaels thrusts quicken in pace. He's got you pushed face first into the shelving in the library with a hand wrapped around your front, his long slender fingers playing with your abused clit. “Y’self righteous prick, thinking you’re so much better than me.”

“Yeah, ‘s that right baby,” he questions, his chest heaving as his hot breath hits your ear. “‘Cause it’s quite obvious that your pussy doesn’t hate me.” His glasses dig into your skin as he litters kisses up and down your neck. The drag of Michaels cock almost has you to the point of no return, you’ve all but forgotten where you are and the fact that the two of you could get caught at any moment. With your pants shoved to your knees, Michaels sitting just below his balls, with Michael fucking Gaveys cock hitting the deepest parts of you.

“Fuck you Gavey,” you clench around his cock again, harder this time trying to get a reaction out of him.“Think you already are, love.” he smirks, flicking your clit yet again.

“Fuck, shut up and do something useful with that mouth of yours for once, yeah?” Your kiss swollen lips find his soft ones again. It’s a mess, teeth clashing and tongues fighting for dominance over one another, neither of you willing to give into the other. Michael can feel his orgasm coming causing his fingers to work your clit faster and thrust deeper, desperate to get you off before him.

You groan into each other's mouths as you both hit your peaks, forgetting for a moment the hatred you hold for one another. “Y’did so good for me baby.” He says unnervingly sweetly, pressing one last kiss to your lips.

#◜ caitee’𝗌 works ✎ ˚✧ ꜝ #not proofread #michael gavey #saltburn #michael gavey x reader #michael gavey imagine #michael gavey smut #michael gavey drabble #michael gavey x you #saltburn x reader #saltburn smut #saltburn imagine #ewan mitchell #ewan mitchell x reader #ewan mitchell smut

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comfortscripts · 5 months

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Santa's Statistics Helper ¬ Michael Gavey

Plot - In the midst of the worst Christmas of your life, you meet an arrogant genius who takes pity on your inability to do statistics. Pairing - Michael Gavey x PsychologyStudent!Reader Notes/Warnings - As a psychology student who hates statistics, this was just based off how my boyfriend explains it to me. Michael is a bit of a sweetheart in this with streaks of arrogance. Not proofread so I apologise in advance if it is terrible Word Count - 1,943

Sunday the 10th of December

“As it helps identify the patterns, the correlation matrix is useful in psychological testing, economics, risk management, and statistics. Calculated as (x(i)-mean(x))*(y(i)-mean(y)) / ((x(i)-mean(x))2 * (y(i)-mean(y))2. This mode- Oh for fuck’s sakes!”

Slamming the monotone textbook of your nightmares closed and shoving it to the opposite side of the oaken table, you breathe a sigh of frustration. Four hours you’ve been trying, 240 minutes of your life spent in a lonely library struggling to grasp the difference between a correlation matrix and covariance matrix. If someone told you when you picked psychology that you’d be sacrificing your Christmas to study for some pathetic quantitative methodologies’ module, you would have switched your career pathway to dogwalker.

Unfortunately, you aren’t a bloody psychic so here you sit with red rimmed eyes, frizzing hair from repeatedly tugging at it, and longing for being home watching The Polar Express. A string of swears partnered with the shuffling of papers acted as your soundtrack for the next few minutes as you attempted to build back up your confidence.

“You made it this far; you can do this! Once this module is done, you can get a pint and burn your calculator.”

Just as you leant to grab the textbook, a voice broke through your bubble of academic frustration.

“Don’t think you’d get very far burning a calculator after a few pints, I’ve seen how you handle your alcohol.”

Jumping backwards in your chair, eyes frantically assessing the source of the teasing words. There he stood, Michael Gavey. You had only met him in once during Freshers, but after minimal contact with him, you understood that he looked down on your choice of degree. Mutterings of how it is a pointless degree for vapid girls who would become housewives or receptionists within years of graduation. Mousy hair that had no clear style, smudged glasses, and an oversized maroon jumper that made him appear wider than usual.

Perhaps it was your lack of sleep, but Michael Gavey seemed to be far better looking than before.

“What the fuck Gavey?! Could have given me a heart attack, and I know you are smart but you aren’t a bloody doctor.” Clutching your chest to emphasise the theatrics of your startled self, a small huff left your person with the final word.

With a soft chuckle, the lanky boy slid into the chair opposite before resting his judgmental eyes on your figure. Assessing your appearance as if you were one of his equations. Those denim blues flickering between you and the scattered papers filled with incorrect or half-complete statistical equations.

Moments passed in silence, and with each second you grew more agitated with the piercing gaze from the bespectacled boy. “What are you even doing here Gavey? Is Christmas too simple and mainstream for you to celebrate?”

“I would ask you the same question, but from what I recall you seem to embrace the simple. Or does that only apply to your choice in degree?”

That fleeting thought of attraction was zapped from the air as his words bit at your confidence. Usually, a quick-witted response would fall from your lips, but after days of struggling, it was difficult to view yourself as anything but a student heading towards failure.

It was clear to tell the atmosphere had shifted, a tense weight fell between the pair of you. Watching as his calculated smirk fell, understanding that perhaps his words might not have been appreciated in this moment.

“What do you want Michael? I’m too busy to be belittled today.”

“Well, I was planning on asking you to be quiet. I’ve had to listen to your ridiculous murmurings for the past 2 hours. Not to mention the constant echoing of you abusing those poor books.” Straightening himself in the padded wooden seat, attempting to appear unphased by how defeated your voice sounded.

Even though Michael would never admit to it, he always harboured a modest crush on you. He remembers the way you walked around the different Fresher events with such confidence, despite not knowing anyone prior to starting University. Eyes following your figure as you made the rounds before making your way to his table of one. That was when he messed up. Something about your presence made any semblance of a filter disappear, and the insults flew from his lips before he could bite the words down. All he could do was stare as that kind spark in your eyes faltered and you muttered a discouraged goodbye before walking away from his lonely table.

Since that day, he kept an eye out for you. Never once daring to speak again, but always glancing at your corner table during dinnertime just to catch a glimpse of that jubilant smile. Yes, he thought any subject outside of mathematics-based degrees were pointless to society. Although for some reason, he never wanted you to feel anything less for your choice of pathway. Everyone else on your course might be a half-wit, but not you. Never you.

Suddenly feeling sheepish, you make a move to pack away. “Oh, I apologise. Truthfully, I thought I was the only one who stayed back for Christmas break.”

Hand reaching across to grab the textbook currently resting before the boy, you were met halfway by a larger colder hand. “Don’t leave on my account, especially before I can explain to you the different applications of correlation matrixes.”

Rearranging the position of his chair to minimise the space between the both of you, as he fumbled through your plethora of mock questions and attempted answers. All whilst your mouth parted with puzzlement, leaving you to watch his movement with questioning eyes.

“Why in the world would you help me?”

“Figures it could balance out my karma for slagging your subject. Plus, I can’t sit here knowing you are desecrating maths and not intervene.”

And with the rippling sounds of the pages followed by the subtle knock of the textbook cover, the pair of you began an unlikely partnership.

Monday the 18th of December

The next seven days were spent in that secluded corner of the century-old building with Michael explaining statistical concepts in his velvety tones. At the start, he found it difficult to not mark his superiority or mock your questions that seemed elementary to him. Eventually, he grew to understand that you really did care about understanding the methods entirely, and that your questions spawned from craving knowledge rather than sheer stupidity. Awkward explanations turned into two-way conversations during study breaks, and silly jokes. If anyone were to enter the library, they would hear the duo of laughs ricochet off the walls of books. Perhaps they would think that two friends were sharing inside jokes, but if anyone saw the pair of you, they would see two fools infatuated with one another.

It was true, within the past week Michael’s crush only grew and you started to realise that Michael might be the unexpected highlight of university. Since Freshers, you felt drawn to him, and maybe at the start it was purely a physical attraction that was shut down by his mean-spirited comments. But this version of Michael, where he feels comfortable and lets down his arrogant guard, this is the boy that you wish you’d known from the beginning. Heart fluttering when he praises you, chest aching from giggles at his nerdy jokes, and fingertips lingering slightly too long on his veiny hand.

As the snow falls outside, the pair of you sat with only the sound of your nervous drumming and the scratch of Michael’s pen across your mock examination. Studying his side profile, getting lost in the way his lips purse with satisfaction when he ticks off a correct answer, if you didn’t know better, you’d say he was proud of you. Several moments trickled by in silence, waiting in anticipation to see whether the hours spent together had actually taught you anything. There was the unspoken discomfort of what happens next. If you had passed with flying colours, does that mean you and him go back to strangers? Could you pretend to be less than friends again with all these newfound feelings? Truthfully, part of you wished you failed so he would have to keep tutoring you.

“And you did it. Congratulations, you have officially conquered statistics.” Sliding across the paper marked 86% with a little smile into your expectant hands. Those stormy blues meeting yours to watch the excitement unfold.

“I did it? Oh my god, I did it!”

Waving the paper in the air before bringing it to your chest, eyes sparkling with happiness as the weight of failure floats off your shoulders. Michael could only match your exuberant smile, leaning his chiselled chin on the palm of his hand to watch the subject of his dreams glitter in front of him. He knew the doubts that clouded your judgement were bullshit. In his eyes you were almost as smart as him, only in a different way. Watching your seated celebrations as he commits the image to memory, with fear of today being the last day of closeness between you two. Michael half expected you to drop him after realising you understood the concepts. That you would finally recognise you are worth more than someone like him. Someone of a higher class, someone more muscular, someone who isn’t a social pariah.

Those thoughts were halted by the feel of your jumper-clad arms being thrown around his neck, drawing him close. Snapping out of his daydream just as you bridged the gap between your lush lips and his own. Michael felt you melt into him, arms softening in their hold but your lips still continuing the connection with passion. This kiss was all consuming, built up with each second of vulnerability shown throughout the moments together. He noted that you tasted like spearmint gum, and it perfectly complimented the constant chocolate that lurked on his tastebuds.

Somehow it felt like the pair of you were joined for eternity, feeling as if the cool of his lens would be ingrained on your skin. Reluctantly the two young students separated, faces flushed and chests heaving in a desperate attempt to fill your lungs. The realisation of your bold move flashed in your brain, panic arising in your stomach at all the possible scenarios that could happen next, but those fears settled as you saw the soft look hidden behind those glasses.

“Thank you, Michael. I couldn’t have done any of this without you.”

“Well, it does help that I’m a mathematical genius. But truthfully, I’ve enjoyed teaching you and would happily continue our study sessions.” Despite his clear words, Michael was still recovering from the shockwaves in his body from the taste of you on his lips. Mentally he was cringing at his entirely unromantic words, but all you did was smile.

“As much as I would like that, I’d prefer if our relationship went beyond studying? Perhaps we could go for a celebratory pint or get dinner together.” Awkwardly twiddling the hem of his sweater between your fingertips as you avoided his eyeline. “You know, like a date? Only if you would be happy with that, of course.”

“I’ve come to realise that if I was a correlation matrix, and you’d be the variable that’s highly correlated with my happiness. So yes, I’d love to take YOU on a date”

Laughter erupted in your belly at his cheesy line, and he fought the urge to pull in for another kiss. Instead, he chose to intertwine your warm hands with his. “A genius, a gentleman, a teacher, and now a comedian? You, Michael Gavey, are an adventure I can’t wait to explore.”

#michael gavey #michael gavey x reader #michael gavey imagine #ewan mitchell x reader #saltburn #ewan mitchell #michael gavey x you

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dragons-and-handcuffs · 5 months

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Hello :)

I saw you're writing for actress reader.

Could you maybe write a story where reader as actress has to film a very intimate scene with Aemond, and the actor Ewan is very shy about it because he is trying to be respectful towards her and he also likes her. But she is the one who is calm and profesional and guides him through it. Something like 'just look at my eyes, all is good.' while she is riding him. So this is an idea. Thank you.

Ewan was nervous about the scene, there is no doubt about it. The help and guidance from the intimacy coordinator also didn't help him. He knew he has to talk to you about it or else he might ruin the scene.

Imagine Ewan comes knocking at your trailer door right before you were about to head back to your hotel. He was a little shy and nervous as he told you his problem.

You are a professional and this is not your first intimate scene of your career. Ewan knows it's actually you who would be able to help him and not look down on him.

You were more than willing to help him and admired his dedication. For more than two hours you two practiced the scenes, guiding Ewan and telling him what to do and how to do it. You don't understand why he needs help. He is a natural. Maybe it's the self doubt.

The next day you two got ready to shoot the scene. Ewan was in full Aemond costume and you in a simple yet beautiful night dress. "Just look at me and do whatever feels natural to you," You whispered to him so no one else can hear. Ewan gave a slight nod.

The scene starts with you gently kissing him, your husband, and taking off his eye patch. Aemond finding comfort in your touch and the stress of war washing away. The scene is all about you taking care of your husband, showing him respect and love. Aemond was welcoming his wife's affection but Ewan was only seeing the girl he very much likes undressing him and herself. He doesn't want to make a fool out of himself while doing the scene, luckily you are more than willing to guide him.

"Just be my Aemond," You whispered into his ears as you mount him, and he knew exactly what to do. His hands touching you just like Aemond would have. You riding him and kissing him. You can feel Ewan actually getting hard.

Imagine Ewan pinning you against the bed, carrying on the scene. "My lovely wife, always there for him," He gives you a passionate kiss. His body completely covering yours. You thought it was all part of the scene but actually Ewan didn't want anyone to see you topless anymore, not after he decided that he will make a move on you.

The scene turned out great. And an appreciation for helping Ewan offered to take you out to dinner. How can you say no to him?

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simpingland · 21 days

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Hi hello how are ya I'd like to request something

Can you write something with Ewan Mitchell and his co star (fem pronounce) where they're at an interview and goofing off, reader joking about getting sleep while they're putting on wigs for hours and stuff like that, maybe a little more serious talk about their characters

(Readers character is jaces twin and aemonds love interest)

Thank you!

Flirting and sleeping// Ewan Michael x fem!actress.

Summary: playing Aemond's love interest have the perks of giving you a flirty partner during promotion and a comfortable shoulder to sleep on set.

Gif not mine

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The last interview of the day, after a whole week of promotion. Always the same questions, always the same answers. Keeping your outfit spotless for a whole day, with your make-up intact and hours of sleep accumulated.

"How is it possible that you are always sleepy?" Your colleague Ewan asked you when he saw you yawning.

"I'm a very reflective person, the night inspires me" you joked, and watched as he shook his head, smiling.

"These things feel like an eternity," he complained.

You were about to agree with him when the new interviewer sat down opposite. She greeted you, and Ewan, as always, was a gentleman, serious and attentive.

You, however, found it hard to pay as much attention. You glanced sideways at Ewan's every gesture, and he seemed to make a great effort to listen. After all this time you had learned to read his expression of feigned listening as well as his real one.

"After so many serious scenes, I suppose you keep your spirits up between scenes...are you bored on set or are you too busy?" The girl looked at the two of you.

"I tend to stay focused. Getting into Aemond's mind is quite complicated..." Ewan's tone amused you. He turned to look at you. "What?"

You let out a laugh, the interviewer looking confused at the scene.

"Sorry honey," you turned to the girl, "but Ewan is lying to you. He was concentrating at the beginning, when he took his job very seriously."

You watched as Ewan leaned back in his chair, hiding a smile and waiting for you to tease him, which he quite enjoyed.

"This guy was scary on the first day."

"It's thanks to the costume and make-up team," he interrupted.

"Oh, no, Ewan, I mean the day of the script reading. That sweatshirt was terrifying." What you said made the interviewer laugh, and Ewan joined in the fake discussion you had formed.

"You speak out of envy," he replied, crossing his legs.

"For this kind of thing, he's very formal. They always put together nice outfits for him, but in real life, it's nothing like that. "

"And what's Ewan like in real life?" Ewan himself asked.

"He's weird... weird and kind of flirty."

He turned red, shaking his head as the interviewer let you speak. You were basically getting more information out for her than she intended to get.

"Yeah, yeah...there's nothing shy about this guy here. He makes all the girls on the set smile with his 'good morning, love'. And they all love to put him his wig in the morning, his patch..."

"Why don't you let the girl do the interview?" Your partner interrupted you with mock seriousness.

"Excuse me, but I'm answering the question. Ewan was very focused at first. No one dared speak to him once he put on that wonderful costume. But as soon as Susan in make-up told him he looked 'sexy'..." you snapped your fingers. "He became a sex symbol on set and enjoys it like nobody's business. He doesn't get bored on set because he spends the hours between scenes practising with his sword, chatting with the crew when he goes to get his coffee..."

"You should tell her how you spend your breaks..." he grinned mischievously. You looked at him, hiding a smile. You mostly spent them with him, but people didn't need to know that.

"You tell her."

"She spends her dead hours asleep or breaking things." The interviewer let out another laugh. "Oh, yes, she's snored through her make-up. I've had to put up with her nodding her head every morning. And the few times she was awake, she would steal my wig to take pictures. Remember what Susan said to you when she caught you?" she looked at you as if to scold you, and you looked ashamed.

"That I was going to mess it up..."

"Exactly! This girl is a mess on legs. The first day of shooting, she tore the fabric of her cape. The first day we shot together, she almost broke the carriage window... and the wine glass. Let's not forget the wine glass on the last day."

"I dented it," you confessed to the girl.

"The whole team was praying you'd fall asleep before you touched any more stuff." Continued your partner looking back at you.

"I've had the broken stuff deducted from my pay, you know."

"Yeah? And how much money have you earned then?"

"Let's just say...I've gone into debt to HBO..."

You laughed at your own joke as Ewan tried to refocus on the poor interviewer. You really had been the clumsiest person on set, and that was in stark contrast to the careful attitude Ewan had had in that same period. Many times, you had led him astray, getting him involved in a game where you both could let off steam while the sets were being set up. He loved to show you his swordsmanship, and of course, he was good at it. He had experience.

But on some other days, when it was anynof your turns to act, Ewan was much more focused, and although you were embarrassed to entertain him at first, he always made a point of sitting next to you. He helped you revise as much as you helped him. And while your gallery was filled with pictures of you making an idiot of yourself with his wig, and Ewan making an idiot of himself with his wig too, Ewan had his gallery filled with pictures of you asleep in the most unlikely places on the set, and pictures of you posing with whatever mess you had made. And Tom had been in charge of recording those occasions when you slept leaning on Ewan's shoulder while he reread his script. That would stay between you two, and you'd been going through the photos before bed for months, unaware that Ewan was doing exactly the same thing, grateful to have an excuse like promotion to be near you all the time.

"The relationship between your characters has been a much-discussed topic on the network and among fans. The girl changed the subject to a more serious one, to the one that really mattered, the series.

"You mean incest?" you asked.

"More like the feud between Blacks and Greens."

"Oh, right..."

"That's the thing with this series," Ewan interrupted. "The incest is the least of your worries."

"Right, silly me," you said wryly.

"It's common sense, of course."

You smiled at each other, admiring each other fondly, perhaps too fondly, as you always did, leaving the girl a bit of an outsider, and were surprised when she asked again.

"The good thing is that you don't look like each other. The relationship you have in the plot is a parallel to Romeo and Juliet. How do you approach this dynamic? Do you want it to be really romantic or something toxic like Rhaenyra and Daemon?"

"That I suppose can always be left to the audience's opinion," reasoned your partner. "For me there's certainly something romantic about it. Aemond is a character that transforms into something perverse but at the beginning he didn't seem to have such a strong quality. The writers wanted to make him that way, evolved. And I think her character is designed not to contrast but to show that there is something good in Aemond." You smiled downward as you listened to him, you had already talked about it during rehearsals. "When we did the casting, the director told me that they were looking for an actress with a sweet aura, well, so that ond couldn't naturally react violently towards her. They introduced me to this arse next to me and... you get a bit attached to her.

"I love working with Ewan, he's always so flattering..."

The girl smiled at you before asking.

"You're okay with the romance?"

"Well..." you thought for a second. Of course, the kiss you two had just rolled around was too passionate for it to be a toxic relationship. You shot the kiss as a very intimate scene, where Aemond approached your character with some fear, and it took you a moment to return the kiss. It was a slow kiss, tense and sweet. But when you return it, it was hard to separate again. Of course, what was left to shoot that day was done with flushed cheeks and dodging glances. Sparks had been flying between you and Ewan since the day you were brought together in that room for the test.

"Yes, I think it's different from Rhaenyra and Daemon. There's a lot more respect and a lot more equality between them. From the very beginning, we were going to treat our plot from the 'first love' trope, and we saw no better way to recite our lines than the longing and desire they have for each other. And how much Ewan and I love each other transcends the screen too much."

You saw how intensely he looked at you, maybe you had said too much. You were silent for too many seconds. You put on that mischievous grin again. "As much as Ewan is a great actor, I don't think anyone can pretend to hate me."

"Wow, that means the next season is going to be very promising for your fans. Thank you so much for this time, and for the tidbits from the set."

"It's been a pleasure, honey," you dismissed her.

"Our pleasure, I love your t-shirt, by the way," said Ewan, the girl was wearing a t-shirt with a poster of Daemon and Aemond on it.

You didn't know how to look at him after that. Had your answer been something of a confession? Maybe the kiss hadn't been that intense for him and you had just made a fool of yourself. Of course it was a bit weird the last ten minutes of your promo day.

You shared a taxi to the hotel, with silly small talk. When you arrived, you were walking up a flight of stairs when your heel broke.

"Oh my God, I can't believe it! My stylist is going to kill me!" You picked up your precious heels, Ewan didn't laugh at you, but he did smile at your desperation.

"Don't worry, we'll ask someone to get us some glue."

"A branded heel fixed with glue?"

"Well, it certainly wasn't made of steel, if it breaks easy it's easy to fix."

You walked all the way up the stairs barefoot. Ewan stopped.

"What are you doing?" You asked as you saw him stand back and pull out his mobile phone.

"Smile and show that heel," he asked. When you did he took the picture and smiled to himself. "For the collection. "

"Thanks to your tip-off they won't get me for period films, you know."

"You started it, I remind you. You've taken away my reputation as a serious, up-and-coming actor."

Ewan grabbed your heels from your hand as he saw you with your hands full with your mobile and wallet.

"The truth is, that poor girl was trying to be professional and we got into a play fight in front of her."

"I think she had fun. Of course, after always answering the same thing, this time I remembered why I like this job so much."

"I hope I didn't offend you, Ewan. You know it was all a joke."

You stopped at his door, yours was just opposite.

"All of it, all of it?"

"What do you mean?"

He licked his lips, thinking about how to phrase the question. You knew what he meant, now came the awkward part. Why the hell did you start talking about love?

"All the weeks since I've known you have been filled with something...special. And you were right when you said that I can't pretend to be repulsed by you, because... I definitely feel the opposite. I like every minute that you are beside me, not only for how talented you are but...how sweet and funny everything is with you. You're also quite gorgeous if I am allawed to say. And no, it's nothing of a method actor if I tell you that I have a crush on your bones just because Aemond would be... I want to make sure this feeling isn't just mine."

"You're telling me you like me?"

"Yeah, basically yes."

"And you're asking me if I like you?" You were clearly in shock.

"It's good to know you understand me...now I need an answer."

Yes, OF COURSE YOU DO. For some reason nothing came out of your mouth, and you could only look at him. Ewan read that silence as a definitive no and, after swallowing his breath, he nodded and gave up without losing his gallantry.

"I'm going to call room service and have them bring some glue."

He turned to open his door as you suddenly became aware of everything. You didn't know what he was babbling about when he opened it, but when he turned again to offer you passage, you jumped on him. You grabbed his face with impetus, and kissed his thin lips again as you had that day on the set. This time there was something even more authentic. Ewan held your waist as he regained his balance. This kiss surpassed the one in the scene, this one felt completely free, completely real and without consequence. Needless to say, you didn't go back to sleep in your room for the rest of the promo tour.

#house of the dragon fanfiction #ewan mitchell #ewan mitchell fanfic #ewan mitchell x reader #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen #prince aemond #house of the dragon #aemond one eye #aemond targaryen imagine #hotd imagine #hotd x reader #hotd fanfic #hotd

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fragileheartbeats · 13 days

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TG have the prettiest men!

Look I love Matt, he's an amazing actor and a lovely man.

But TG are just something else...

1. We have Fabien looking like a prince out of a fairytale. My man plays Criston, a loyal knight, man is literally the dream guy who will save you from dragon and then you guys will have a happily ever after. What? Did you expect me to not fall for him?

2. Then we got Tom. My man is the whole package. Dude look good in everything & with every style. He have feminine beauty but he's masculine. Man have big doe eyes with long eyelashes, pouty lips and he plays Aegon, the broken prince with teary eyes. And his voice... Did you guys listened to his songs? Man is angelic.

3. And finally here's Ewan. He's tall with a sluty waist. And the way that he smirk? Dude look good. And the wig look so so so good on him. Him having wet long silver hair and laughing like a mad man on Vhagar is everything to me. Now he's not really my type but I can see why people think he's hot.

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awearywritersworld · 2 years

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Look After You

Aemond Targaryen x Reader

Summary: You were betrothed to Aemond Targaryen, and while the two of you got along well enough, you hardly behaved as man and wife. After you suffer a great loss, Aemond decides to change that. Hurt/Comfort

Word Count: 1.5k

Warnings: mentions of parental death

______________________________________________________________

Your relationship with your lord husband, Aemond Targaryen, was something of a complicated matter.

During the first few moons of your marriage, you were admittedly frightened by him. His apparent disinterest in you did little to qualm your nerves. He was brooding and intimidating, and while you were never on the receiving end of it, you'd been witness to the sharpness of his tongue.

Then, as time carried on, there was some improvement. It was true that he still maintained a cool, unspoken distance with you. Touches were rare and fleeting, conversations never progressed too far into the night. Nevertheless, he had become someone you could talk to.

The daughter of a northern lord, you had few friends in King’s Landing. That made you thankful for the relationship you’d come to have with your husband, even if it left you wanting at times. Thus, when a raven came late one night bearing news that would shatter your world, you could think of no one else to go to.

Opening the door to his chambers, you found Aemond leaning through his window, looking across the expanse of King's Landing. At this hour, it was illuminated only by scattered torches. His hands rested on the stone as he leaned forward, accentuating the toned muscles of his back.

"Lady (Y/N)," he greeted without turning to face you, as he often did.

You remembered the afternoon you finally questioned how he always knew it was you. His reply was simple, but caused your cheeks to darken a few shades.

"I would expect no other woman in my chambers.”

On this particular night though, you failed to return his greeting and stayed quiet instead. It was taking everything in you just to keep from falling apart. Confused, he turned to look at you.

With widened eyes and raised eyebrows, he took in your tear stained cheeks along with the way you were furiously wiping at them. You thought it might have been the first time you'd ever caught the man off guard.

"What troubles you?"

He'd never seen you in a state like that, perturbation blossoming in his chest at the sight.

"Forgive me, my prince, for bothering you at such an untimely hour.”

Your voice was weak but sincere, as you had never come to him with such a personal or serious matter.

He took a step forward, but it did little to close the space that separated you both. "Never mind that. What has caused you such sorrow?"

A choked sob threatened to pass your lips and your hand flew to your mouth to stifle it. You looked away from him, vulnerability and grief clawing at you all at once.

"My father.. There was a hunting accident. H-He is..."

He could barely make out your words, but gathered enough to piece together what had happened. The way you stood there alone, one arm wrapped around your torso, the other attempting to quiet your cries-- it made his heart ache.

He was not meant to be a husband, for how could he ever be a good one? His father never showed him any semblance of devotion, while his mother was more often than not impatient and choleric. The only love he'd ever been shown was destructive and conditional.

He knew your relationship with your father was near opposite his own and he had no idea how to console you. You lost your mother when you were young, so it had always just been the two of you. He felt helplessly stuck, mind reeling with possibilities of what to say or do next. Interpreted as rejection, his silence threatened to break the few remaining pieces of your heart.

You turned to leave the room. "I apologize, my Prince, for the disturbance. It was inappropriate of me-"

"No," he quickly interjected, his body moving to grab your wrist and stop you from leaving.

The contact startled you, but still, you did not pull away from him. Hesitantly, his hands took hold of yours and though the skin of his palms was rough from years of training, his touch was gentle.

Your hands were so very small in his own and he realized it was the first time he'd held them since the day he took you as his wife. For that, he cursed himself. He believed he was protecting you by remaining distant, but the fact you felt it necessary to apologize for coming to him inspired doubt in his mind.

"Oh, my dear wife," he murmured, his thumb moving to brush away one of your tears, "I wish my sympathies could better serve you. I cannot imagine your anguish."

Meeting his eye for the first time since you entered his chambers, you found a look there that was foreign to you.

"I would not desire it even for my worst enemy," you whispered honestly.

Your misery was written all over your face and it compelled him to offer you what little comfort he could.

Pulling you into his chest, Aemond did not miss your sharp, but shaky intake of breath. For a moment, your body was completely rigid against his own and he worried he had made a mistake.

His uncertainty was soon put to an end when you all but collapsed in his arms, body wracked with violent sobs. Supporting most of your weight, he tightened his grip around your frame and held you close.

When you started to gasp in between breaths, he worried that you were going to make yourself sick, so he took to rocking you back and forth steadily. His chin rested on your head and eventually you began to calm down, focusing on the rhythmic rise and fall of his breathing.

“It hurts,” you told him, feeling as if you’d been hit in the stomach by the hilt of a sword.

“I know, love.”

In nearly any other circumstance, you’d have been over the moon, for it was the first time he’d ever used a term of endearment with you. Now though, it did little to lift your spirits.

“He was all I had,” you croaked against his chest, queasy with guilt. You thought back to the letter you’d received from your father just yesterday, a half written reply laying on your bedside table. “He was all I had, yet I was hundreds of leagues away when he...”

Unable to finish your sentence, you hid your face against his body.

“You were in the place he wished for you to be, (Y/N), you mustn’t punish yourself for that.”

He stroked your hair as he spoke, hoping his words could bring you some bit of peace. You were exhausted, both emotionally and physically, and as if sensing your tiredness, Aemond made an offer he never had before.

“Would you like to stay here tonight, with me?”

Not that he had ever mistreated you, but such warmth was rare from the young prince. It made your eyes well up once more and you voiced a quiet agreement, hating the idea of returning to your lonely chambers.

He took it upon himself to hook one arm behind your knees and the other around your back as he lifted you off the ground. You made a noise of surprise, which Aemond silently regarded as endearing.

He placed you gently on his bed then sat down beside you. For a while, the only sound in the room was your quiet sniffling.

“There is no apology in the seven kingdoms that could make up for how I have neglected you, the one whom I should hold above everything else."

“My forgiveness is yours."

He noticed the way your hair was splayed out on his pillow and he took to twirling one of the strands around his finger. Your regretful, undue apologies still rang loudly in his thoughts and he was unsure if he would ever be free of the bitter self-reproach it aroused in his mind.

Your weariness was plain to him, so his next words were spoken softly. “I will look after you, tonight and always. I swear it."

He listened closely as your breathing evened out, relieved that you were free from your grief for the time being. Standing slowly, he rounded the bed and climbed in beside you, careful not to disturb your slumber.

He propped himself up on his elbow, allowing for a moment to admire your features. Leaning over, he placed a chaste kiss to your forehead.

“Sleep well, my precious wife.”

It did not take Aemond long to join you in dreaming. When his eyes greeted the light of morning, he soon discovered that you had not yet awoken. However, he was content to find that you were now pressed against his chest in the safety of his arms.

#m!writes #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen imagines #aemond targaryen imagine #house of the dragon x reader #house of the dragon fanfiction #house of the dragon fanfic #house of the dragon imagines #house of the dragon imagine #house of the dragon #hotd imagines #game of thrones x reader #game of thrones imagines #ewan mitchell #ewan mitchell x reader

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spoolsofgreenspoolsofblack · 16 days

Text

command me. - aemond targaryen.

MINORS DNI- smut ahead you will be blocked <3

prompt- aemond has always been able to you get you to do his bidding, his voice brings you to your knees.

wanted to put something out as im so bored lol might start writing feyd rautha smut too (did NOT know i could be attracted to a bald person)

warning; nsfw, dual masturbation, no penetration, smut, cum eating, aemond being vocal.

You awaken as Aemond enters your chambers, his steps thunderous as he makes his way to you; standing at the edge of your bed. His flushed appearance and clothing let you know where he'd come from, training with Ser Criston usually got him heated. Aemond and you where by no means married, or even heading that way; but alas sometimes you two yearned for each other in a way only you two could sate.

Your nightgown hid nearly nothing as you stretched your arms around, a meek yawn as you rubbed your eyes. "Aemond... lekia(brother), what time do you call this?" You smile up at him as you crawl to him, your nightgown slipping down as you moved. Aemond smirked, letting out a hum of approval. you pushed your hair to one side, before wrapping your arms around his waist; inhaling his scent. Aemonds hand slipped through your hair, enrapturing themselves in your silver locs. His built frame leant over you as he pulled your head back, you let out a whimper at the pain; but your thighs clenched as you leaned back.

"Have you been well-behaved, mandia?(sister)" Aemond purred, smirking as he let go of your hair; moving his hand down to cup your cheek. Violet clashed with violet as his thumb traced across your lip, your lips parted as you smirked at him. Gods, had you tried to kill him? Aemond moaned at how sinful you were as you took his thumb graciously. Your lips trapped his thumb, taking it deeper as you wrapped your tongue around it.

"Lean back, sȳz riña (good girl)." Aemond groaned hesitantly, not even the gods could tear his eyes away from you. You let go of his thumb and leaned back, laying on your elbows as you watched him.

He went over to your fireplace and picked up one of the chairs at your desk, the leather of his shirt pulsed as his muscles involuntarily flexed. You felt your body get weak as he placed it across from the bed.

Aemond bit the hair tie around his wrist as he placed his hair in a bun. You sighed at the sight, he was simply so beautiful.

Aemonds eyebrow pinched, "Getting impatient, dear sister?" You watched as he fiddled with the latch of his eye patch, his fingers adept in many things. "No, just admiring; although confused."

His eyebrow quirked, as he placed his eye patch in his pocket. "Calm, ñuha jorrāelagon(my love). Undress for me." He smirked, watching as you immediately moved into action; fingers fumbling at your laces.

Aemonds snarky smirk fell when you eagerly pushed your night gown down, your nipples hardened at the cold air; Aemonds lack of smirk didn't go unnoticed by you as your fingers trailed down to your lacy garments. "What now, brother?" Your breathy voice cut off his thoughts as he watched you tease yourself. He grunted as he unlaced his pants slowly.

"Get yourself off, rene.(slut)" Aemond watched you as you pushed your garments aside, revealing your wet cunt. He groaned as he pulled his cock free from its confinements, a whimper left your lips as your fingers gradually crawled down to your sopping hole. Your slender fingers dug into your cunt, satisfying your carnal desires enough for you to let out a wanton moan.

Aemond seemed breathless as he fisted his cock at the sight of it all, your legs shaking as your fingers built up a rhythm, your silver tresses seemed to stick to you as your face pinched, and your other hand trailed up your stomach and to your breasts; leaving behind goosebumps as your pinch your nipples.

Aemond hisses out as he watches you come undone, your fingers shaking as you rub your pearl. A sight that makes Aemond move his hand faster along his cock; the sight before him making him cum. Your loud moans filled his ears as you squirted, panting and whimpering. He groaned as his fisting came to a halt as his pearly white semen landed onto his hand. His eyes turned to you, "Come here, beloved." His now quiet but demanding voice made you do as he said, your shaking thighs didn't help as you pulled yourself off the bed and into his awaiting presence.

"Kneel," He smirked as you sunk to your knees before him. You knew what he desired for you to do, so you took his messy fingers into your mouth - eyes closed as you swallowed his cum eagerly; a moan leaving your flushed lips as you taste his salty liquids.

"What do you say, girl?" Aemonds clean hand falls to your throat as he pulls his fingers from your eager mouth, you whimper meekly. "Thank you, brother." the words fall from your lips before you can catch them, his grip tightens, gently of course.

"Not quite." Aemonds stern voice and faux frown made you clench your thighs, "Thank you.. husband." You smiled up at him, as he released his grip on your throat. "Good girl," His praise sends you into a spiral as you lay your head in his lap, blissed out.

#smut #hotd smut #aemond targaryen smut #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen fanfic #ewan mitchell smut #ewan mitchell x reader #ewan mitchell fanfic #aemond targ #house of the dragon #house of the dragon smut #game of thrones smut #fanfic #fanfiction #aemond x you #you pov

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stillinracooncity · 1 year

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I'm still waiting for new updates because my body doesn't accept only one shots, it needs a complete story full of drama from beginning to end…

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flowerandblood · 3 months

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Whimpering men are one thing, but thanks to my husband I discovered something else. Masculine gasps, puffs, sighs, panting, shuddering breaths on the verge of a helpless groan.

Imagine your beloved husband taking you from behind while lying on his side with you, trying to take it slow and not rushing, his raspy, hot breath full of impatience and pleasure envelops your cheek, one of his hands squeezing your plump breast, the other parting your thighs wide, both of you sighing with delight as he spreads you open on the fat, swollen head of his cock.

A surprised gasp escapes his lips as if he can't believe you're always so tight in the beginning that he can barely fit in, his fingertips dig into the warm skin of your wide-spread thigh, forcing you to let him inside you with your soft mewl of effort, he doesn't say anything, you know his eyes are closed, his focus is only on the fact that he is now deep inside you, wonderfully squeezed from all sides.

Even though you know he tried so hard, his hips involuntarily start to root more aggressively into your thirsty, fleshy core with a loud click of your moisture, since he knows in what position you like it and where you need him to rub you, you are always so eager for him, always so wet for him.

He starts panting loudly with pleasure when he hears your first sweet moans, when he feels your warm walls clench against him, sucking him inside, his teeth greedily biting your neck, shoulders and back as if he is trying to stifle what's coming out of his throat, rooting into you with a loud slaps of his thighs against your buttocks, squeezing your breast in his free hand like a dough.

Suddenly he slows down with your mumble of displeasure, pretending to tease you, betrayed, however, by the trembling puff that left his chest, by how intensely he's throbbing inside you, clenching his fingers on your thighs as you try to rub against him, preventing you from making any movements, so that he doesn't come just yet.

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rhaenyslay · 23 days

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Blushes and Daisies

Prologue: 'A Rose Between Thorns'

Aemond Targaryen x OC!Niece!Reader

Summary: Aemond and Aelora chatter idly in the comfort of their hideaway - the hidden beauty of the gardens of the Red Keep among the wildflowers and cherry trees.

Warnings: Sickly sweet childhood sweetheart fluff, I’m talking blushes and giggles - twirling my hair and kicking my feet.

Word Count: 945 (normal chapters will be much longer don’t worry)

A/N: Hi lovelies! If you have any ideas/notes feel free to comment! There are a few changes to canon: The ages are adjusted slightly for the children (Aelora = 110 AC, Aemond = 110 AC, Jacaerys = 113 AC, Lucerys = 115 AC, Aegon = 106 AC, Helaena = 109 AC), and the timelines of Rhaenyra’s relationships are slightly altered too.

༻❁༺ 117 AC, THE GARDENS OF THE RED KEEP

“Aemond?”

“Yes?”

“Do you ever wonder what it would be like to be… normal? You know - not a prince or princess, not a Targaryen, not… anything.”

“Not really.” The young prince muses. He turns his head to the side from where he lay on the grass to look at his young niece, “Do you?”

The early morning breeze gently brushes over their cheeks as the two lay among the wildflowers deep within the gardens of the Red Keep, hidden away. The young Velaryon princess sighs softly, her face remains pointing to the sky - blue and clear, yet there’s a hint of grey that threatens to taint its hues.

“Sometimes.” Aelora admits almost silently, the only thing carrying the sound to Aemond’s ears being the warm breeze. “I think about going to Flea Bottom - maybe even Lys or Myr - about living among the people. No silly titles, no duties, no stupid corsets.”

Aemond laughs softly, to which she smiles.

“I think normal women still wear corsets.” He comments, “Just maybe not as tight.”

“Maybe.”

There’s a peaceful quiet that falls between them, a blanket of calm and serene isolation. Here, in their little hideaway, they have their own reprives: the young prince is free from teasing, from expectations, and from disappointment; and the young princess is free from whispers, from duties, from the conflicts of family and court. They share a silent understanding, a silent agreement, to speak only of pleasant things, to ponder only the oddest of dreams and queries, and to never share a word of it. The carvings in the trees, orange peels discarded, plucked flowers - the only testaments to human life this deep in the gardens.

“Mother and Father are already thinking about suitors.” She says after a minute or two of silence.

“How lovely.” Aemond replies, though his teasing tone conveys their shared distaste.

She lets out a breath of a laugh, though the matter is not amusing to either of them, “I just hope he won't be cruel.”

Once more, Aemond turns his head to look at her, the blades of grass tickling his freckled cheek, “If he is, I’ll see to him myself.”

“Oh, truly? I’m sure any grown lord will be scared of the a little prince like you.” She giggles, her warm brown eyes glistening in the beam of sunlight that floods through the trees above.

Aemond, who was being deadly serious, blushes a little, facing the sky once again, “They will be once I’ve trained more, once I’ve grown.”

Upon realising his seriousness, the princess maintains her smile, but it grows more appreciative than amused, “Well, I’m sure you will be the bestest swordsman in the world, and the bestest prince.” She smiles, brushing some of her hair from her face.

His blush deepens and he smiles, “Thank you.”

The silence returns.

“How is your training going?” Asks Aelora, “Ser Criston is always nice about you.”

“Well - I think so, at least.” Aemond replies, pulling at the grass absentmindedly, “Aegon is still mean though, and your brothers.”

She sighs softly, understandingly, “I can speak with them if you like - my brothers? But not Aegon…” she giggles airily.

Aemond smiles, though it’s sad, “Yeah, I’m not sure he’d be too easy to talk to about it.”

Noting his sad tone, Aelora shuffles a little closer in an attempt at comfort, the two of them laid side by side, eyes looking to the sky.

“I don’t know why my brothers are so mean.” She muses, “I promise they aren’t like that, they’re just… stupid sometimes.”

Aemond sighs, “I know… It’s Aegon mostly. But it’s fine, I’m manag-”

“No,” She cuts him off softly but firmly, turning to look at him, “it’s not fine; it’s not fair, Aem.”

“It’s okay,” He takes a breath, “we all have to go through something I suppose.”

Aelora thinks. She sighs and nods faintly, “I suppose.” She muses in agreement, “Doesn’t make it fair.”

Another silence. A bird sings from a tree above before taking flight, joining another mid ascension, flying off towards one of the many turrets together.

“Is your mother still being odd?” He asks, looking up and between the leaves of the trees and cherry blossoms above them - that hide them away.

“Yes… though I’m still not sure why.” Aelora frowns softly as she speaks, “One minute she’ll be fine, and then the next... she acts like I'm not even there.” She tries to explain for the umpteenth time, the dull ache in her chest forming as she ponders over her mother’s continued behaviour towards her. “It hurts.” She admits, a tinge of pain in her tone.

Noticing this, Aemond offers her a small, sympathetic smile, “I’m sure it’s nothing. She has no reason to have anything against you. You’re wonderful.”

Aelora blushes, “Thank you, Aem.”

Aemond pulls at the grass slightly, accidentally plucking a daisy. He looks at it for a moment. He turns and, in a moment of courage, gently tucks it behind her ear, within her soft brown curls. She finally turns to look at him, smiling.

“Here,” she, too, plucks a daisy, mimicking his actions and tucking one behind his own ear and within his own white curls, “now we match.”

With both having daisies in their hair, deep pink blushes, and twinkling eyes, they did indeed match - their souls mirrors of one and other as they always had been, and always would be, as they inwardly hoped, unaware of the turmoil to unfold, the blood to be wasted, lives to be changed. For now, all they had were their daisies, blushes, and whispered words. ༻❁༺

#hotd #house of the dragon #hotd fanfic #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond x you #ewan mitchell x reader #ewan mitchell #asoiaf #asoiaf fanfic

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