the-bookdragons-hoard

[the-bookdragons-hoard]

He is a yearning idiot 🙄

SELF-INDULGENT

𓂃 ࣪₊ ⊹ SERIES MASTERLIST ━ CHAPTER II

-ˋˏ| summary: When forced to share more time with his wife, Aemond can only start to slowly lose his mind. He is only a man after all, and he feels like a chained beast in his own marriage.

✧ | Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x wife!Original Female Character

✧ | word count: 3.3k

✧ | Warnings: MDNI 18+, masturbation (m), aemond being a perv part two, idk if this counts as dubcon?*, aemond is bad about his complex feelings about his wife.

✧ | notes: tentative second part of unwanted desires. if this works out, it will be hopefully a series! aemond’s wife is refered to lady corbray, but again, no physical description !!

*= (spoiler: he jerks off while she is asleep)

“DO YOU WISH TO JOIN MY MORNING PRAYER?” His wife's tone is soft. He knows his sweet Lady Corbray prays before eating, and before bed.

He nods softly, as he sits on the small table in the balcony, where they often eat together, breaking their fast, supper or even having a treat. 

He holds his hands together and bows his head softly as he hears her soft prayer. 

She wears a white dress, with gold details. Her head is slightly covered by a white fabric and the small circlet she wears to keep it there. He thinks she looks beautiful, his lady wife. 

They often eat in silence, sometimes speaking softly. She ate with ease, a bit gracefully. She was careful not to stain her dress, it would cost a fortune to clean a dirty spot. 

“What are your plans for today?” He asks, leaning back as he drinks his watered wine. 

“Mhmmm…. I have to meet a new lady in waiting” Lady Corbray tells him, as she applies a bit of marmalade in her bread. “So it will keep me busy most of the day, your mother didn’t tell me who she was so…”

He hums, nodding in agreement. She always dresses nicely, and wearing all white only shows her station in the court. It prides him. 

“Good.” He says watching the courtyard and far from the Keep’s walls. “I suppose we won’t see each other all day. Until tomorrow” 

Aemond takes pride in knowing how to read his lady’s actions. Her expression is… slightly disappointed. Perhaps she hoped to see him tonight, to sleep together.

“Does that not sit right with you?”

“I was hoping to see you sooner than… tomorrow” she keeps on applying the marmalade as they speak. 

“Sooner? Perhaps we could see each other at noon” he says simply. “I will take Vhagar for a ride today”

“Will you let me meet her one day?”

“I am afraid that the height from the flight will… make you swoon” 

He would like that, her swooning from the heights. He thinks it’s likely she does not seem like the type to be fond of seeing a dragon so openly. 

Lady Corbray frowns, as if disgusted by the idea. “I do not swoon. Did you know that my room was in the highest tower? I can tolerate a bit of high heights”

He hums, his lips pressed together. Now it is her who can see his disappointed face.  

“I��ll see when it’s time”

That seems to be his answer for everything. When she wanted to commision a portrait for themselves, when she wanted to go on a horse ride to Kingswood, when she wanted to ride Vhagar, when she wanted to share a bath…. When she wanted him to take her maidenhead. 

He sighs as he drinks more of his tea. 

His day was mostly busy, his thoughts sometimes drifted to his lady wife. Even if he had never said it outloud, he was fond of her, and glad to have someone with reason, since he had expected someone more spoiled. But his lady Corbray was a good addition to his life, yet he still prefers to have her from afar. 

It was almost sunset when Aemond walks past the servants in the hallway, as he comes back after a ride with Vhagar. It gives him a small break from all his duties and worries, in the skies was only his dragoness and himself. 

He doesn’t understand all the fuss that there is around his chambers, seeing some maids moving some things, books, chests… until he hears his mother’s voice.

“Mother” Aemond greets her, watching how she was directing the servants with the heavy chest they carry. 

“Aemond” Alicent says simply, walking closer to greet him with two kisses on his cheeks, in a regal way. 

“What are you exactly doing in my chambers?” He asks, as he sees how the servants are leaving the chests on the floor. 

“Your wife will need a place to keep her things for a while”

He blinks for a few moments, looking around. 

“What for? her chambers are down the hall”

“The wood in her ceiling was rather rotten. It felt and it made her room all rusty and colder.” his mother says simply. “I told her we will move some of her furniture, and your chambers will be safer”

Aemond feels it’s a bit of a shitty excuse, but not out of the logical grounds. “Hm. And where will she sleep?”

“She hasn’t decided” his mother says simply. 

“Bring her here, then” he says, rolling her eyes as he walks to take off his signet ring, leaving it on his dresser. “If she cannot handle a bit of… missing wood in her chambers”

”She does not seem troubled by that fact” His mother says, her hands gripping each other as she looks around his chambers.  “Maybe by the fact that your marriage hasn't been consummated”

Aemond pressed his lips together, as he tried not to roll his eyes. Now it seems it was everyone’s business his marital bed. It was already suspicious to the court that he decided not to go forward with the bedding ceremony, and now rumours had reached his mother that he had not taken his wife out of her maiden state.

“Let her sleep here, then” Aemond says then, moving to take off his coat, a bit wet from the flight still. “Where is she? I believe she was with her new lady-in-waiting, has she been notified by the… disaster in her chambers?”

“She has” Queen Alicent nods. 

“And how come a princess gets a rotten chamber?”

”It is not rotten, Aemond. As the room was unused for many years, the maids do not seek the wood to clean it, unless there is a spider web” 

“Still. My wife deserves a proper chamber. She is a princess now, and she must have the very best luxuries that her station deserves”

“She deserves a babe in her womb” his mother answers him simply “That will ensure her station and the life you so say she deserves” she says simply “If you want court to treat her properly, so must you”

Aemond does not comment further on that. 

He lets maids change him into his night clothes, as he remains the eyepatch on his eye. Doesn’t want her to look at his missing eye. 

Some days, he is prideful of his missing eye; it’s what he has endured, what he had to overcome to be himself, a dragonlord, a prince. 

Other days aren’t so fulfilling. He uses an eyepatch not to scare ladies, not to make them stare at him trying to come to terms with his lost eye. He doesn’t want the pity that comes with it, and he doesn’t want Lady Corbray to look at him like that. To do the same. 

It is late when she arrives, quietly and trying not to bother him much. 

“Husband” she greets him softly. “I apologise. For coming late and… having… making… for this situation.” She stutters, searching for the right words. 

“Not your fault, wife” Aemond answers simply, laying in bed with a book in his hands.

“Yes, I do know, but still I wish not to make haste with it.” The maids undo her dress, take off the headwear and comb her hair as she speaks, remaining still. “To… bother you”

“You’re my wife. You cannot possibly do that” he says simply, turning over a page. 

Aemond does not notice how his wife raises her eyebrows, as if not believing him at all as she gets prepared for bed.  He can hear the way the maids undo her dress, probably carefully taking off her clothes and taking it away. He notices that his wife is used to it, being taken care of, like a little doll. 

“You have to know that I rise early. I do not leave the candles on at night, but I do leave the fireplace warm.”  he says simply. “You could stay in bed as long as you want by the morrow”

His wife looks at him with curious eyes, as the maids finish their job. She wears stockings covering the feet, and the length is slightly above the knee. 

He waits for her to finish praying, kneeling beside the bed as her hands are clasped together, murmuring lowly as her eyes are closed. She seems peaceful, and fully connected to her prayer. 

He observes her, as she takes a moment. And once she finishes, his gaze turns back to the book.

“Your chambers are a bit cold” she says, as she walks over the bed, as if it was her own space. “And your bedding is cold as well, I use more wool like blankets”

“Hm” he says, as his eye runs over the page of the book, yet he didn’t read a thing. He read the same word time and time again, not concentrating at all. He sees how she grabs one of his small pillows, more of decoration than of practicality. 

“And… you have pillow covers made from silk? I wear silk for my dresses” she says, checking the fabric “It is very expensive, and here it is... how funny” she says thoughtfully, trying to make lightheaded conversations. 

“Just because we share a chamber for now doesn’t mean we have to speak.” He says sharply, looking at her as she freezes with the pillow in her hands. Her cheeks are rosy now, from embarrassment. 

In truth, he does not know how to speak with his wife. She enjoys things he cannot understand the reason behind. Perhaps it was how she was raised, she has told him how little of Westeros she actually knew, barely the domain of her House, the Eyrie, and King’s Landing. Barely. 

He knows many places, for being a prince and visiting lordly houses. Vhagar can take him wherever he wants, whenever he wants. His wife is afraid of horses, and gets sick in carriages. She likes heights, embroidery and chatter. 

And Aemond cannot understand it. 

“Didn’t mean to be… hostile. Just don’t force it”

“Okay” she says softly, looking at the pillow in her hands. 

“I’ll make sure to buy more fabric for your dresses” he adds, turning over the page. “The seamstress will come next week to fix some of Jaehaera’s dresses” he adds. “I’ll make sure she has time for you”

“Thank you” she says simply.

She accommodates on the bed, her face turned to his side. Perhaps she deems it rude to give him her back, but he disagrees with it. He would rather that she does not face him, so he can take off his eyepatch. 

Aemond doesn’t like underestimating his wife. He knows well that Lady Corbray is surprising, far from what he knows of her. But he doesn’t like to frighten ladies with the sight of his scarred eye. 

Perhaps she won’t finch, she won’t care to see it. But sleeping with it was a different thing. His eye did not close fully with his other eyelid, but remained mainly open, as it was empty of an eye. And he thinks it would frighten her. So, he decides not to take off his eyepatch.

“Goodnight” he says simply, as he blows off the candles by his bedside. The fireplace cracks slightly, the warmth not leaving the room. She said it was cold, he does not think so. 

“Good night, husband” she says, closing her eyes. She does not question how he still uses an eyepatch, he doesn’t know if she notices. 

Lady Corbray has a facility to sleep rather quickly, he notices, while he struggles a bit more. Unless he was exhausted, after a day full of fulfilled duties, he had trouble sleeping as quickly as her.

He wasn't blind, or a fool. Even if he claimed he was much more above the base instincts of carnal desires, he knew that, deep in him, he was not. Not at all over the lust and greed. He truly wasn't immune to have a woman in his bed. 

Not only a woman, but his lady wife. His lady Corbray, so special to him. He tries to be good with her, but being married is a difficult thing he does not decipher. He is not used to the warmth that she could bring.

She is a bit curled up, as she remains asleep. He isn’t sure how much time passes, perhaps it was close to the hour of the owl. She has been asleep for quite a while now, and he notices by the way her breathing is steady and relaxed. 

As his one eye watches over her, he thinks of it again. He was not above the temptation of having a woman in his bed. 

He truly was not. 

So when he feels that growing tightness within his breeches, he tries to take those thoughts, those feelings, that lust away. Yet he can not. 

He wishes she could be closer to him. He wishes to hold her in his arms when they sleep in bed. He had embraced her, at the beginning, but she always got stiff and didn’t seem to be used to it. Aemond tried not to be cruel, and so he stopped. It was odd for him too, with hopes to warm up, and make her used to his touch. But he wasn’t cruel, and he wouldn’t do it if she doesn’t seem to like it

If she got stiff with a hug, he didn’t want to imagine when they consummated their marriage. 

He turns to watch her, sleeping and her heavy breath that didn’t quite fit like snores. He sighs as his gaze wanders to her collarbone, how her nightgown was so loose in certain parts. He really cannot help the tightening in his breeches. 

Aemond moves slightly, as if trying to move away his filthiness from her. His hand drifted down to his aching cock, sighing harshly almost in unison with his lady wife next to him. It was dangerous, he thinks, as he fixed his erection inside his cotton pants. 

It throbs, almost burning as if reminding him of his shameful desire. 

Yet it is not enough to keep him still, he stands up, his feet paddling in the cold floor, as he reaches the water ewen and the washbasin. He had asked the maids to leave it there, just in case Lady Corbray had night habits he was not aware of. But for now, he might give it another use. 

He undoes his breeches as quickly as he can, his rigid posture gone as he supports his body with his hand on the cabinet, as he leans forward slightly. As he fishes out his cock, sighing as he takes it on his left hand. 

“Gods forgive me…” he mutters, as he feels his cock stir in his hand, before he starts stroking himself slowly. Aemond bites his lower lip, trying not to make a single sound, as he was afraid his wife would wake up and notice his doings. 

He closes his eye for a moment as he starts stroking himself faster, his cock was rigid and leaking already. He knew he had to be careful… but he did not care. His desire for her, as dark as it is, was rooted deep inside him. It could not be stopped, Aemond knew. 

Caressing the tip of his cock always made his eye roll back, and he does it fervently trying to cum quickly. He didn’t want to take long like other times, where he would tease himself and keep himself on edge on purpose, just because it excited him. Now, with her here… 

She was here, his mind reminds him. Aemond moves his head a little, just to see her sleeping form on his bed, deep in sleep, not aware of his doings. It felt shameful, he knows he’ll feel horrible for it the next day. 

But with his mind filled with pleasure, he leaves the worry for tomorrow. He does not want to worry himself now, for he had the whole day ahead full of it.

His hand grips the edge of the table, trying not to throw the washbasin by mistake. His teeth grit together, as his hips move slightly, trying to catch that slow yet lazy rhythm that he has grown to like. He could feel the pressure on his balls, tightening up as his pleasure became clearer and intense. 

Aemond turns to watch her, just for a second, to indulge himself. It was wrong, to have his peak while she remains oblivious, but the perverse thrill makes him curse. 

“Fuck, fuck…” he groans, as it is almost embarassing to be that quick to cum at seven and twenty. He’s not a green boy anymore, yet he has been so deprived from his desires that almost everything and anything she does, drives him mad with lust. 

He imagines burying his face between her legs, of showing her the pleasure she does not know she was missing. He had witnessed some of the bedding ceremonies, and it was always painfully stiff. More so with a public, watching it closely, as they do with tourneys. Not wanting her to experience the same, he waited. And waited. And keeps on waiting. 

He wonders how she’ll taste. He wonders how her cunt would feel around his cock, and the sounds she’ll make as she orgasms. He has never been over the moon with maidens, taking them for inexperienced, immature and foolish girls, but with his wife… it was different. She was all that, but he could bear it. 

Aemond can see the wedding ring in his finger, he never takes it off. You use the same one, though sometimes he can see when you do not wear it. He can see it when he strokes his cock, pumping it as his teeth grip on his lower lip and his breath becomes heavier, trying to swallow any moan or groan that could escape his lip, only the occasional sigh of pleasure. 

As he cums, he grips on the edge of the washbasin, his knuckles white and hand hurting from the force of it. He rolls his eye trying not to let a groan out from the delicious feeling of cumming. His body is tense, his back stiff as his hips buckling into his fist, as he cums all over his stomach and even smears some of his shirt. 

The feeling of drunkenness makes him insane. He slumps back against the back of the chair, his chest heaving. He closes his eye, knowing well that in just a second he’ll have to clean himself, and go back to sleep as if nothing happened. Just always. 

Pretending he does not care. Pretending she does not affect him at all, that she does nothing to him, and that she’s no more than a nuisance. It’s not like he wants to treat her like that, but he knows his pervert desires will do her no good, that his wishes borderline the inappropriate, and it makes him feel rotten inside, not having any other way to cope with it. 

As he cleans the remnants of his seed with a damp towel, tucking himself in his breeches, he also indulges on it. He likes, deep down, the taboo, rejecting her advances while fantasizing about her. It made him feel conflicted about his own marriage. 

He takes a moment to compose himself, walking towards the bed quietly, sliding on his own side. Even if they share a bed, they are so far from each other. 

Aemond felt mixed feelings. Her husband, with such horrid desires about her. He craved for her, to hold her, and devour her. He feels flawed, and he only wishes to get away from himself. 

Yet he still indulges in his desires. Maybe one day, he´ll tell her. He turns around, giving her his back, as if that would make a bigger gap between them, as if that could help him, at least for now. 

[the-bookdragons-hoard]

I need a cold shower after this. This little nerd holds a special place in my heart.

Improper Fraction

Pairing: Michael Gavey x f!reader Warnings: Sexually explicit content. Word count: ~5.1k.

Summary: Michael gets great satisfaction from humiliating a fellow student during the fresher's week pub quiz, only to get a nasty shock when he realises he'll be seeing lots more of her. And she's keen to get her own back.

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

“Isn’t this something we should save for the first years?” she asked Libby, as they pushed through the door of The Bull.

It was early evening, and the place was already starting to fill up as students crowded in for The Bull’s annual end of Fresher’s Week pub quiz.

“We come every year,” Libby replied breezily, making a beeline for an empty table in the corner, and shrugging out of her denim jacket.

“But we’re not students anymore,” she protested, hovering behind the empty chair opposite her friend.

“I’m not, but you are, so why break tradition?” Libby grinned, a toothy, determined smile that made it clear she would not be budged on the matter or from her seat. “Since you’re stood up, you can get the first round. I’ll have my usual.”

She rolled her eyes, sighing as she turned to go and fetch their drinks.

She had studied Mathematics for four years at Oxford University, before being accepted for the integrated master’s level course in Mathematical and Theoretical Physics. She was hoping that the research level training would help her on her path to becoming an astrophysicist, until then she worked weekend shifts at a bookshop just off of the high street. Libby had completed the three year History of Art course more than a year ago, and had yet to move on from the city. Libby claimed it was because she enjoyed the culture and pace of life, but she knew her friend better than that – it had more to do with the bartender she’d been hooking up with on and off since she’d started a part time job at the wine café in Jericho. Whatever the reason, she was grateful for Libby sticking around – it meant not having to look for another flatmate, and Oxford would be a lonely place without her; a proclivity for numbers and equations left little opportunity for socialisation.

Pushing her way back through the crowd, trying and failing not to allow the two pints of Strongbow she carried to spill over the edge of the glasses, she frowned as she saw two men she didn’t recognise seated at the table either side of Libby. One was dark haired with a nose that looked as though it had been broken more than once, and the other was sandy haired and bespectacled – the sort of person she’d move away from on a bus, judging by the well worn Merrell walking shoes that peeked out from beneath the table.

Placing the glasses heavily down upon dog eared beer mats, sending more cider frothing over the sides and onto the sticky wood beneath, she shot Libby a questioning look, before taking her seat opposite her, the two strangers now on either side of her.

“This is Oliver,” Libby explained, dragging her pint towards her, “ and this is Michael. You need a minimum of four people for a quiz team, so I invited them to join us.”

“Hope you don’t mind,” Oliver said apologetically, shifting his gaze to her, “all the other teams were full.”

“Fine by me,” she replied with a shrug, hoping she appeared more casual than she felt. There was something about Oliver that made her feel uneasy, though she couldn’t fathom a tangible reason for why that was.

Libby took a swig of her drink, either not noticing the tension around the table or choosing to ignore it. “Oliver’s studying literature,” she said brightly, “so we’ll smash that round. What about you, Michael?”

“Maths,” he answered.

There was something smug and self assured in how he allowed the syllable to roll off his tongue, as though he were announcing to the table he was better than anyone else seated at it, without even needing to say the words.

“No way!” Libby swatted his arm, earning a scowl which she again chose not to notice, and nodded towards her friend seated opposite her. “Two maths boffins at the same table!”

Michael turned to her, his eyebrows raised in obvious disbelief. “You’re reading maths?”

“I was. I’ve just started my masters,” she offered a thin smile, taking a drink as a distraction from the scrutiny she felt beneath the intensity of his stare. The bittersweet liquid fizzed against her tongue, and she found it an effort to swallow as he continued to study her intently.

“Wow, someone actually worth talking to,” he scoffed finally, having decided he was satisfied with her answer. “I’m a genius. I can do any sum in my head. Go on, ask me.”

She hadn’t expected that. A normal person would have asked follow up questions, enquired about what a masters degree in mathematics entailed, instead he had managed to turn the conversation back to himself.

Laughing nervously, she shook her head. “What?” she stammered, “I–”

The tapping of a finger against a microphone echoed through speakers around the pub, and the loud chatter and laughter quieted down, as the quizmaster introduced himself and explained how each round would be conducted and scored. It was broken out by subject – a round each for English, maths, science, history, geography and art, with a bonus round for pop culture. Not an average pub quiz, but Oxford wasn’t an average university, and the student body revelled in flexing the superiority of their intelligence.

Oliver took care of the English round, marking his answers down against the shared sheet of paper with quiet confidence. When it came to the maths portion, Michael gleefully snatched up the answer page and pencil.

“I’ll take care of this round, don’t worry,” he announced, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose with his forefinger.

She scowled, irritated by his dismissal of her, but decided, for the sake of keeping the peace, to keep quiet. It wasn’t until the final question in the round – add 8.563 and 4.8292 – that she finally spoke up.

“I should get to do at least one,” she insisted, grabbing the pencil from Michael and slanting the paper towards her. 

She quickly scribbled her answer – 13.395 – and then righted the page back towards him.

Michael’s eyes moved from what she had written and then to her. “That’s wrong,” he said with a smirk, and crossed out her answer, replacing it with 13.3922.

He was right, of course – in her haste to contribute she had forgotten to add a zero to the end of the 8.563 portion of the sum, and instead carried the final 2 of 4.8292 into her addition of 9 and 3.

She dropped her gaze to the drink in front of her, watching the bubbles rise to the top of her half drunk pint, as it sweated with condensation. Her cheeks blazed with humiliation. If only this Strongbow were large enough for her to topple into and drown. “How could I have gotten that wrong?” she thought, “Such a stupid bloody mistake.” The quizmaster announced a short break, and Oliver offered to buy a round for the four of them. Michael joined him at the bar, leaving her and Libby alone.

"Don't spiral," Libby urged, leaning across the table and rubbing her arm in a comforting gesture, "literally no one but you cares that that wasn't the right answer."

She raised her head, glancing around, and her eyes immediately met the steely stare of tMichael as he looked over his shoulder at her from the bar. The smug, self satisfied smirk on his face was proof enough that Libby was wrong – he cared.

“That’s wrong,” echoed in her mind on repeat for the rest of the evening.

By the time the quiz drew to a close, their team had not even come close to winning. The fifty pound bar tab had gone to a team that Oliver told them was made up of a student named Felix, and his cousin, Farleigh, and a gaggle of their hangers on. He spoke of them with a longing that suggested he would much rather be at that table than theirs. The maths and science portions they had perfect scores for, thanks to Michael – she hadn’t participated after he had corrected her, what little enthusiasm she had started with had been crushed. They had done okay on English and art, thanks to Oliver and Libby’s efforts, but had only managed a few points for geography and history, and had gotten nothing at all for the pop culture round.

“Guess we’re all just a bunch of losers then,” Michael commented with a wry smile, before downing the dregs of his lager.

There was something about the enunciation he placed on the word “losers” that formed a pit in her stomach – even if it wasn’t a direct dig at her, it served only to exacerbate the embarrassment she already felt at her earlier blunder. She knew it was silly to have such a strong reaction to an honest mistake that had been made in a hurry and, deep down, she knew it wasn’t that that was getting at her – it was how he seemed to gloat and take satisfaction in her having been wrong in the first place.

“Right,” she said, rising from her seat and grabbing her bag as she looked to Libby, “shall we?”

Libby nodded. “Was great to meet you both,” she said brightly, pulling her hair free of the collar of her jacket as she put it back on. “Sorry we weren’t better quiz buddies.”

“Wait,” Michael called after her as she turned to leave.

She paused, eyes wide in anticipation as he rose from his seat and extended a beer mat towards her. There was a phone number scrawled hastily on the lager stained edge of it, alongside the name ‘Michael Gavey’. “Just in case you ever want any tutoring,” he grinned, “seems like you might need it.”

Before she could open her mouth to speak, Libby was dragging her outside, the beer mat still held limply between her thumb and forefinger. The moment the door swung closed behind them, she exhaled a growl of frustration up at the sky, which had turned to the inky black of night in the time they had spent in the pub.

“I’m sorry,” Libby said, the soft look in her eyes showing she really meant it, “if I’d have known he was such an arrogant twat, I’d never have–”

She sighed, waving a hand dismissively as she interrupted her. “It’s not your fault. I just want to forget I ever met him.”

“Don’t chuck it away!” Libby called out, halting her actions as she held the beer mat precariously over the top of a litter bin on the street corner.

“Why in god’s name would I ever want to keep it?” she asked incredulously, yet found herself slipping his number into her bag all the same.

Libby grinned, linking her arm through hers as they began to stroll back towards their flat. “You could have some fun with him, get your own back.”

She huffed a soft laugh, shaking her head. She’d settle for never seeing him again, that would suit her just fine.

Unfortunately, she had no such luck.

**DIVIDER**

It was an uncomfortably warm Thursday afternoon, almost a week had passed since the Fresher’s Week pub quiz, and she had mostly forgotten about the egomaniac she had been forced to share a table with. She had spent the week buried in dissertation research, wanting to make a start as soon as possible to ensure she chose the field best suited to her to write about. However, the unseasonably warm weather was making the library feel stifling – as much as she admired the university’s dedication to preserving the historical beauty and structure of its buildings, it was days like today that she resented the lack of modern conveniences, such as air conditioning. Original stonework was all well and good, but she failed to see how it could be appreciated if its occupants were all forced to sweat to death.

She rested her elbow on the table, her chin propped on her hand as her eyes scanned repeatedly over the same line in the plasma physics textbook she had pulled from the shelf. Her eyelids felt heavy, and she placed her hand over her mouth much too late as she let out a loud and exaggerated yawn.

“If this is the attitude you have towards your studies then no wonder you get such simple addition questions wrong.”

She tensed, her shoulders pulling up to her ears. “Oh christ, please no,” she thought. 

That familiar voice, smooth as silk, and yet maddeningly irritating sounded again, this time much closer. “Mind if I join you?”

Michael didn’t wait for a response, instead placed his books beside hers on the table and sat down.

“Is your friend…Oliver?” she began, searching her memory for his name, “Is he not around for you to study with?”

“No,” he answered, his tone clipped and more curt than it had initially been, suggesting this wasn’t a topic he wanted to discuss further. He opened a notebook, drumming his fingertips listlessly against its lined pages before looking at her again. “What’s that you’re reading?”

She sighed, lifting the textbook to show him the cover before setting it back down again.

“You don’t like me very much, do you?” he asked conversationally.

The casualness of the question caught her off guard, and she frowned for a moment before leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms across her chest. “Would it upset you if I didn’t?”

“I suppose not. I’m quite used to people disliking me. But I’d be curious to know why you in particular feel that way.”

She hated the way she felt when he stared at her like that, his gaze penetrating and intense. It made her skin prickle, and her mouth run dry. She wet her lips, doing her best to keep her voice quiet and even in the hush of the library. “I find you rude and arrogant.”

“Well, you’re meek and insecure,” he stated matter of factly.

Bristling with annoyance, she rounded on him, leaning closer as the anger in her voice combined with the effort to keep quiet caused it to come out as a hiss. “See?! This is exactly what I mean, who the fuck says things like that?!”

“I’m confident in who I am, secure in my intelligence,” he explained calmly, “can you say the same about yourself?”

She scoffed, pushing her chair back so hard that the legs scraped loudly against the stone floor, the sound echoing off of the vaulted ceiling of the library. There was no way she was going to stay here with this prick and be insulted, it was too hot to put up with someone so irritating. She gathered her belongings into her arms, not bothering to put them back into her bag, and stormed away.

**DIVIDER**

“He called me meek and insecure, can you believe it?” she raged at Libby as she sat cross legged on the sofa of the living of their small flat. 

The communal space was open plan, a cosy living room that opened out onto a poky kitchen. Libby stood at the breakfast bar, her back to the cupboards as her fingers tapped against a Super Noodles flavour packet, while she waited for the kettle to boil.

“We-ell…” Libby began, offering her a tight smile.

“Are you kidding me?!” she seethed, wide eyed with disbelief.

Her friend turned, poured boiling water over the noodles in her bowl, before placing it into the microwave. It beeped as she pressed buttons, before whirring to life.

“You’re my best friend,” she said, crossing the space to sit next to her, “and I think you’re amazing, but I don’t think you think that. Do you understand where I’m coming from?”

She frowned, her mouth twisting in confusion. “Is it a bad thing that I’m not arrogant?”

Libby shook her head. “It’s a bad thing that you allow yourself to be torn down so easily. Look at how you acted at the pub quiz.”

“That jumped up little twat was rude to me!” she protested, throwing her hands up in exasperation.

“He was,” Libby agreed, “but what I think got to you is that you share the same field of study, and despite only being in his first year he’s more secure than you are.”

She fell silent, chewing her lip. She wanted to protest, to say she was wrong, but she couldn’t. It had gotten to her how confident he was in his own ability, and he was really only just starting out. She had just begun a master’s degree and was still doubting herself, feeling as though she didn’t belong.

“I think he quite likes you,” Libby added with a knowing smile, “and I think if you gave yourself the chance to think about it, you’d realise you fancy him a little bit too.”

“Absolutely not,” she denied flatly, “have you seen the way he dresses?!”

“Already thinking about taking his clothes off, see?!” Libby laughed as she swatted at her.

She tutted, pawing through the things that she had brought back with her from the library, noticing something that she hadn’t bundled in with the textbooks she’d borrowed. She rummaged in her bag, her heart dropping upon realising it wasn’t in there either. “He’s got my notebook…”

Libby grinned as the microwave beeped, jumping to her feet “Saved by the bell!”

Feeling around amongst the stray bobby pins and discarded chewing gum wrappers at the bottom of her bag, her fingers finally wrapped around the beer mat she’d chucked in there the previous week, and pulled it out. She tapped it against her knee as she looked at the phone number, trying to decide between spending ten pence on a text message to ask if he had her notebook, giving Michael her own number in the process and opening herself up to further interactions with him, or just cutting her losses and buying a new pad. The one she had left in the library had all of her dissertation notes though, and she’d have to start from scratch if she bought a new one.

Flipping open her Motorola, she typed out a text message – “Do you have my notebook?” – and hit send.

Almost twenty minutes later, and ten minutes into an episode of Come Dine With Me, her phone buzzed with his response – “who is this? ;-)”

“For fuck’s sake,” she groused to herself, letting her phone snap closed and drop back onto the sofa cushions, as she resigned herself to simply buying a new notebook. She didn’t want to play his stupid games, and certainly wouldn’t be texting him back.

A few moments later, her phone buzzed again – “Yes, I have it. You could come & collect it from me tomorrow?”

**DIVIDER**

This was not how she had envisioned spending her Friday night. When she had finished her third year, and moved into a flat with Libby, she thought she had seen the last of student halls. Yet, here she was, trudging up the steps of Balliol College as the faint sounds of laughter and music drifted faintly along the hallways. It was a reminder of her own university experience – or rather the one she’d missed out on. She had spent many Friday nights lost in her studies, while the rest of her peers socialised and partied without her. It was what had made her glad to be out of student accommodation – she was free of the reminder that the world was going on around her while her own was at a standstill.

She checked her phone again, ensuring she had the correct room and then knocked. Michael answered, wearing a blue checked shirt tucked into tan coloured cargo trousers, and she had to fight a smirk at the sight of how high up they were belted around his waist. 

“Come in,” he offered, stepping to one side.

She hesitated – she had been anticipating just grabbing her notebook from him and then leaving. An invitation into his room was unexpected. She relented when he gave an impatient raise of his eyebrows, and stepped inside.

It was cleaner, much cleaner, than a student’s room had any right to be. The window was cracked open, allowing a slight respite from the humidity of the old building, and the scent of bar soap and clean laundry hung lightly in the air. The sheets were pulled taut against the single bed that sat against the far wall of the room, with a poster above it that made her lips quirk into an involuntary smile – “sketching rational functions is a pain in the asymptote”. The desk in the far corner of the room was even tidy, with all of the books stacked neatly. It was there that she spotted her notebook, placed close to the edge.

“So, I’ll just grab this and go then…” she began, moving towards it.

“What’s the rush?” he asked, grabbing a plastic water tumbler full of white wine from the bedside table and holding it out to her, “I’ve got us drinks.”

“Wine?” she asked with a raise of her eyebrow, accepting the cup from him. “Very fancy for a student.”

He smirked. “Well, you’re an older woman, I thought alcopops might be beneath you.”

She sipped the wine. It was room temperature, and so tart upon her tongue that her face reflexively twisted in disgust as she swallowed it with a slight sputter. “Thank you,” she coughed, “that is truly, truly awful.”

Michael lifted his own drink in mock toast. “Costcutter, two bottles for a fiver. I am a student after all.”

The two of them sat side by side on the bed, their backs against the wall as they drank their sour wine, and chatted. He was all of the things she had thought he was – arrogant, obnoxious and callous – but he was also fiercely intelligent, confident, witty and handsome in his own curious sort of way, though she attributed that to the bottle of wine they had polished off between them. She discovered that he had earned his place at Oxford via a scholarship, and had an eidetic memory for numbers – he really could do any sum in his head, and was hoping to specialise in mathematical engineering.

“So, theoretical astrophysics is your thing then?” he asked, as he cracked open the screwtop on the second bottle of wine and refilled both their tumblers.

“You read my notebook?!” she asked, feeling her skin grow heated with embarrassment. The idea of him reading her notes made her feel vulnerable, as though he was looking at her naked.

“I had a quick flick through,” he admitted with a shrug, “it’s rare to find someone our…well, your age, with an interest in maths and physics, especially a woman.”

She hummed softly in acknowledgement, her gaze falling to the plastic rim of the cup she held in her hands.

“Why do you do that?” he asked, twisting his torso to face her properly. “Why do you diminish yourself like that?”

She shrugged, sipping her wine. It was less foul now that she had gotten used to the taste. “I dunno. I just–”

“I’ve read your notes,” he pressed, “your intelligence is far superior to anyone I’ve met here so far. Why aren’t you proud of that?”

She lifted her head, her eyes meeting his, her brow furrowed in confusion. “Hard to be confident in your abilities when you get a stupid pub quiz question wrong.”

Michael scoffed, rolling his eyes. “But you knew where you went wrong,” he insisted, “do you see what I mean? You aren’t walking around genuinely believing that 13.395 is the answer, you know it’s not.”

“Then why were you so cruel about it?” she asked softly, her tone laced with uncertainty.

“I was teasing you, I didn’t mean to be cruel,” Michael admitted, “I guess I was trying to flirt…”

Her lips parted slightly in surprise, the admission making her breath hitch, before she giggled. “So you are bad at something after all.”

He grinned. “I suppose so, but I’d still rather be a maths genius.”

She shifted around on the bed to face him. “Can you still do any sum in your head after a bottle of wine?”

Michael reached up, placing his half drunk cup on the window sill. “Try me.”

She lifted her gaze towards the ceiling momentarily as she thought of a sum, before looking at him again. “98 times 63?”

“6,174,” he answered with a confident smile.

“That’s incredible,” she laughed, leaning forward and placing her hand on his thigh. “149 divided by 4.8?”

She noticed him tense, his sharp intake of breath from the presence of her touch, and he blinked, hesitating before he answered. “Erm…31. Shall I do the decimal places?”

“No,” she replied, smirking as an idea occurred to her.

She moved to straddle his lap, her knees either side of his legs as she wound her arms around his neck, her breath ghosting against the shell of his ear. “865 times 17?”

“Jesus Christ," he breathed as his hands came to rest up on her hips.

She could feel him trembling beneath her, and she enjoyed it. She wasn’t sure if it was the cheap wine, or knowing she had a self proclaimed maths genius at her mercy, but she felt powerful. “That’s not the answer, is it?” she cooed, burying her fingers in the soft hair at the nape of his neck and tugging gently. Michael groaned and the sound made her clench around nothing as heat pooled in her belly. “865 times 17?”

“Uh…it’s…it’s…14,705,” he stammered, his breaths becoming laboured.

She wasn’t even sure if that was correct herself, she’d need a calculator to check, but right now she was too lost in the moment to care. For the first time in a long time, she felt confident. “Good boy,” she purred.

Trailing her hands down the cotton fabric of his shirt, she slowly began to unbutton it. His skin was pale as it was revealed to her, his chest had a light dusting of blonde hair that trailed down to his bellybutton. He was thin, but in a way that showed the definition of wiry muscle instead of the outline of bone. He looked mesmerised as he stared up at her, pupils wide and full lips parted, and he muttered a curse under his breath as she dragged the flat of her palms over his bare skin.

She was curious to see if he’d make a blunder and embarrass himself just as she had when they first met. She rolled her hips against his provocatively, feeling him growing hard beneath her, as she ran the tip of her finger down the centre of his chest. “58,793 plus 118,248?”

Michael whined, his eyes screwing shut as he bucked up against her, gripping her hips tighter as she rocked against him.

“Ah, ah, ah,” she chided, grasping his chin and forcing him to look at her. “Correct answer, or I’ll stop.”

“Fuck,” he groaned, contining to press his erection insistently against her through his trousers. “It’s er…it’s…shit…it’s 177,041.”

“Well done. I think that deserves a reward, don’t you?” She smiled wickedly down at him, pulling away as he leaned up in an attempt to kiss her. “No, not that.”

It wasn’t that she didn’t want to kiss him, it was just that that felt too intimate for what they were doing. She was enjoying being in charge, and didn’t want to break the spell of whatever had empowered her to take the lead.

His eyes dropped to her hands as they grasped at his belt buckle, tugging it open and freeing his cock. His chest rose and fell unsteadily as she wrapped her hand around it, stroking slowly. It wasn’t overly girthy, but what it lacked in thickness it made up for in length. A prominent vein ran along the underside, and the head was ruddy and swollen, weeping with arousal. Michael hissed through his teeth as she swiped her thumb against the tip of him, the pass of her palm against his shaft becoming more insistent.

“17,604 divided by 56?” she whispered.

He moaned, the back of his head hitting the wall with a soft thud as it tipped backwards in pleasure. She could feel herself growing wet at the sight of him, the telltale patch of dampness in her underwear growing sticky and clinging to her flesh.

“It’s…it’s…”

“Yes?” she urged, stilling her hand on his shaft, but not letting go.

“Please…please don’t stop,” he panted, his voice a pitiful whine.

“Then tell me the answer,” she demanded, giving him a gentle squeeze that made his hips jerk off of the mattress.

“314…point…point,” he gasped as she resumed the back and forth motion over his manhood, and she grinned wolfishly.

“Poor baby can’t remember the decimal point?” she teased, feeling him begin to throb against her palm.

“I can’t…I can’t,” he panted, “I’m gonna…”

With a final flick of her wrist, she watched in rapt fascination as spurts of pearly release coated her hand and splattered across his lower abdomen as he pulsed steadily in her hand, gasping for breath as his hips bucked involuntarily.

She smiled down at him when he finally stilled, taking in the sight of his flushed cheeks, fogged up glasses, and the mess he’d made of both of them. “Turns out there are some sums you can’t do, after all,” she teased, letting go of him.

“Fucking hell,” he breathed, lifting off his glasses and running a hand through his hair as he sagged back against the wall. “I don’t even care, that was incredible.”

She laughed softly, wiping her hand off on the bed spread as she climbed off of him and sat next to him. “What about me?” she asked coyly, “You got to come and I didn’t.”

He eyed her sheepishly as he put his glasses back on, his throat bobbing as he swallowed thickly. “I don’t really know how. I mean, I’ve never…”

Dread passed over her like a bucket of ice water as she realised he was a virgin. She hadn’t even stopped to think that this could be his first sexual encounter, she’d just assumed it wasn’t, and was now terrified she’d taken advantage of him.

Seeming to sense her inner turmoil, he reached out, his slender fingers gently encircling her wrist in an attempt at reassurance. “I guess I don’t know everything after all,” he offered with a slight smile, “but lucky for me, I have a brilliant teacher.”

She softened, her eyes lifting to meet his as she relaxed, knowing she hadn’t overstepped. “I suppose tutoring sessions may be required after all.”

Read on AO3

More Michael fics

[the-bookdragons-hoard]

A dream man coming to life in your words.

LOVESICK

summary : A bout of illness & a sickeningly protective aemond.

pairing : aemond targaryen x wife! reader.

wc: 2.4k

warnings: disgustingly sweet and self indulgent. mentions of sexual acts and suggestiveness, anxiety. aegon.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

This is the most pain you have ever felt in your life.

Okay- not as awful as the time you fell into the frozen sludgy pond out by the sept as a child, or the time when your eardrum burst due to a well-placed smack by your elder sister.

But it’s bad- worse now that you cannot hide in the sanctity of childhood, now a noblewoman, a wife of a prince, your fever, chills and aches are now the business of the entire keep. It was terrible enough that in the five moons of your marriage you were yet to bear a child, but now you were completely indisposed to try. The scrutiny of the court changed the way you lived, criticism of your appearance was coming into consideration as you failed to produce a child upon consummation- the whispers and filthy accusations directly contaminated the way you viewed yourself. Ridiculous and far fetched court gossip of course- but that’s just how it began.

It wasn’t his fault. Truly. You know he’d be furious at any question of your beauty, something so shallow that you know he would never have the time nor energy to even consider such a suggestion. However your bout of illness, upon your husbands return to the keep, you forbade him to see you in such a state. After all the marriage was still new and this was an entirely different kind of vulnerability, the depths of your insecurity by this point plagued you along with your fever & you could do naught but dream of him till you recovered. Or so you thought.

Two Days Earlier

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You press your cheek into your palm as you try to focus on Otto’s voice, his rumbling cadence putting you right to sleep here at the dinner table, not even politely pretending to listen as you push the lumpy stew around your plate. The meal seems endless, your family, your new husband’s family to be specific surrounds you in a blur of silvery tones but none are the long silky locks that you truly wish to feel right now. To sink your nose into and sigh, the smell of smoke and something musky and so distinctly him permeating into your lungs, to twirl it in your fingers and dance it across your nose with a giggle just to see his disapproving hesitant smirk, to tug on it and grasp it through your fingers, to pull him in for a sleepy, sticky wet kiss, to-

“Why are you sweating?” Aegon sneers over your shoulder.

His breath is warm against the scalding itching in your throat and you almost seep right into it, into him at the feeling. You’re so tired and with his warmth so close to you, the elder almost feels like his brother to your disoriented mind. A jarring cackle into your ear snaps you out of it immediately, blinking up at him in stunned surprise.

“You in there sweetheart?” he teases, his smug face so full of mocking delight at his good sister’s vacuous & out of character behaviour. He is emboldened perhaps by the absence of his younger brother, who’d likely have his head for speaking to you in such a familiar manner but it’s no odds to him now as he peers at you, gazing down at your downturned pouty mouth. “I don’t know,” you mumble as you focus on his lavender eyes- so beady and jarring in the way he watches you, so different from Aemond’s that you wonder how you thought them similar for even a moment, he makes your skin crawl.

You lift your hand to tentatively feel your forehead and to your surprise he’s right, not only are you half asleep but your forehead is damp, probably blistering hot too but it’s hard to gage in the heat of the already sweltering room.

“It appears my good sister is out of sorts!” he announces suddenly, slamming his cup onto the table, the wine sloshing carelessly onto the white cloth, cutting off Otto from his rambling and silencing the mindless chatter you scarcely listened to anyway.

“Allow me to escort you back to your chambers sister, may your good brother and King be of service to you” he slurs and winks lewdly at you as if sharing an inside joke. Before your sleepy mind can process his implication, Alicent is quick to interject.

“My dear you certainly don’t look well…you may retire to your chambers, rest yourself it could be a babe quickening in your womb?” She offers cheerful with a sweetened smile, looking over your pale sickly face and then nodding- first for the maids to clear your place setting and then to the guards to open the doors, she doesn’t seem entirely genuine in her motherly kindness, her eyes still narrowed curiously towards you but you are grateful all the same.

“Aegon.” she turns harshly, “You forget your responsibility here, you must be a strong presence for us, especially in Aemond’s stead.” Dismissing him as quickly as she acknowledges him, she turns her attention from the King back to his royal hand. Stead. Stead. The word echoes through the room as you stand up and shuffle out of the hall, glimpsing at Aegon’s vacant expression as you go. Stead, to his brother, Stead to the man who is King, it turns your stomach uncomfortably- whether it be your sickness or the poison of the room, you are certainly grateful to be leaving behind whatever reaction that word will pull from Aegon.

You scarcely remember getting back to your chambers, the next two days have become a blur from then, the fever muddying your mind and keeping you confined to your bed, lonesomely big but more so knowing that he waits for you, his impatience bleeds through the walls, sometimes you think you can hear his muttering like it is right beside you but whether it be true or just your feverish delirium you cannot tell.

In truth he arrived back to the keep just hours after you took unwell, his body, the well oiled machine that it is, stomped through the halls, boots squeaking, sword and armour clinking, drenched head to toe in rainwater and seven knows what else walking- no hammering straight to his chambers, needing his girl- needing you, needing your warm hands and the womanly softness he’s come to need, he’s an enigma of contradictions and mystery but for his sweet wife he’s just this, just this need. Not that you could tell from looking of course, the maids still cowered, the lords still whispered and the keep rumbled in fear upon the return of the one eyed prince.

He was away for a sennight—a slow torturous week of negotiations in the riverlands, you had begged to join him, to see your sisters, despite your rocky relationship with them you wanted the familiarity of your own family yet he refused to entertain it, mixing you up with his duty any more than he already has been was a non negotiable. A peculiarity in which he regrets exponentially by the third time he’s requested your presence back in your shared chambers. He had returned that evening expecting to see you sprawled in his sheets, wearing that little slip of a nightgown- his favourite, your soft perfumed chest and pert nipples bared through the fabric, awaiting his onslaught of wet kisses- how you’d giggle at him and shove him away in the soaked state he’s in- how he’d strip you bare and bury himself inside you like he’d hungered for all week. Yet instead he returned to King’s Landing to the news that you have been moved back to your old chambers- the premarital halls you had detested staying in moons ago , all to to spare him from your “sickness”, all requests to see you denied, your courteous and shy handmaidens diligently telling him that you cannot receive any company. By now, the second day of this he can bear it no more.

It is impossible to tell what the hour it is by the time you awaken again, the murmuring is gone, the curtains are still drawn closed and your eyes take a moment to focus in the darkness, to no real avail. Your throat is still dry- unbearably so, choking a little you fumble in the darkness for a drink, it reaches your hand with ease, given straight to you in the dark. You take a drink, fogging the glass with your rattled breaths. You screw your eyes shut trying to focus your foggy eyes to thank whichever handmaiden was caring for you today. That is until through the fog of your congestion you catch the scent of smoke. You pause, leaning forward in the darkness to catch another wave of it before you practically topple out of bed completely. Quick footsteps and strong hands steady you and the scent is stronger than ever.

“Lie back.” his voice demands in the darkness. Aemond. Your voice catches in a pathetic whine as you realise. “Why are you in here?” you moan, your voice croaked and weak, “I told them to keep you out.” You speak vaguely into in the murk of the black room, not knowing where to direct your voice but knowing he’s there. The sound of your own weak raspy voice makes you curse internally.

It’s a fruitless plea. You cannot control your husband, nobody in the realm can, his affection towards you does not change that, in fact it made him harder to rule.

“That sounds nasty, silly girl.” he tuts as he squeezes your hip, ignoring your whiney protest and holding his calloused rough hand to your forehead with the gentlest touch. “Poor thing,” he croons.

Alright, you don’t entirely hate that he’s here. You missed him terribly, even your anger doesn’t last long, preening into the touch of his hand like a little kitten.

“It’ll pass,” you reassure him- to which he just responds with an unconvinced hum as you place your water cup blindly on the side table. He hauls you closer by the hip till you are laid right on his chest and his heart thrums pit pat pit pat beneath your cheek, making you swoon a little at the contact. It isn’t so terrible- after all he can’t see you, his fiery blood will keep him from whatever illness that is rattling you, there’s no real harm in letting him force you into his care.

You sigh dreamily for a moment just listening to his strong heartbeat, reminders like this of his barest humanity affect you with such tenderness, it’s silly, after time apart and hearing only whispers of his ruthless brutality from court gossip it’s easy to forget that he is just a man. Your man, whose broad chest lifts your whole body from his breaths, your man whose heart thumps right into your ear and lulls you back into such a sleepy comfortable state, your man who chose a sickly needy wife over his own comfortable solitude.

You don’t realise you’d dozed off till you are wakening again. It’s bright, daylight bright, the sun pooling into the room, a breeze comes in through the opened panels and hits you in the face.

You still - your body going rigid as that realisation snaps across you like a whip. Light. Light. It’s light now, Aemond is here. You glance beside you quickly, seeing that he’s still with you and the movement makes your brain throb- your mind aching and the pain blossoms through the center of your brow and pounds as you look at him for a moment. His gaze is serious - intense - his lone bright lavender eye searching your face for understanding of what had happened to make you look so startled. “What is it? Bad dream?” he breathes, his lips twitch and there’s fear there - anxiousness.

You blink as you try to choke down another rising cough, bringing the sheets to cover your face in a desperate attempt to hide. You must look dreadful, hair matted and unkempt, your nose flushed red and snotty, you fear you must look closer to Aegon after a few days in Flea Bottom than you do his usually pristine wife.

“Why are you hiding from me gevie?” he mutters, you can hear the amusement and genuine confusion in his voice. He prods your ticklish side under the blankets and you squirm.

There it is - that earnestness - that sweet sweet side of him. It makes your heart ache as you lie under the thin blanket. Aemond, your Aemond, with his warm hands on you over the sheets and his genuine desire to make you better - to push aside his strict routines and shackles to the kingdom just to be with his sick wife. You fear his rejection so terribly but everything he does for you proves the absurdity of such fear, it’s him who fears you, the one eyed kinslayer, the monstrous Aemond who- currently sits heart thumping in worry for his sweet sick wife, hiding in bed like a child.

You lift the blanket sheepishly, peeking up at him to meet the shy smile on his mouth and your breath catches.

“There she is..” he hums, “What was all that then?” he looks down at you the same way he always does, starry eyed and gentle. You don’t know if your surge of confidence comes from his look alone or the delirious fever that still lingers but you lean up- kissing him hard and sure.

“M’just a bit lovesick, ignore me. I missed you.” you murmur shyly against the curve of his gentle mouth, taking the hesitant but loving kisses he gives you right back with another dreamy sigh.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

I hope this reads well! i’m getting used to the formatting on here but doing my damned hardest, let me know what you think! gevie means beautiful- but i think we know this by now - anais

[the-bookdragons-hoard]

He can use his brain and get over his principles for her!

I am excited about how the dynamic between these two is progressing.

The Way I Feel Under Your Command

Chapter IV: The Way I Feel When I’m in Your Hands I Prev I Masterlist

Aemond Targaryen x Reader (she/her pronouns)

Summary: Yesterday's tryst lingers in Aemond's mind, refusing to let him rest.

Warnings: 18+, she/her pronouns, AFAB reader, allusions to smut (oral f. receiving), perfectionism, self-doubt

Word count: 2700

A/N: This chapter is dedicated to my darling @randomdragonfires for being this fic's number one fan. ILY Sam 🩵

He still tastes it.

Her.

Tangy and wanting and addictive. 

The rush Aemond felt from being with her still bubbles inside his veins as he laces up his running shoes. Not even a night's sleep has helped his inner craving for more. 

More of her. 

After their tryst last night, when he couldn't contain his want for her, and when she came twice on his tongue, he’d been so dumbfounded as the reality of what they'd done settled in, he left wordlessly while she was still panting, slumped against the grimy wall of the boathouse with her shirt ripped open and skirt hiked up around her waist. 

She must despise him now, leaving her yet again. 

If she only knew of the panic swirling inside of him. The conflicting feelings of wanting to run away from her and needing to feel her close, just for a little longer. 

Maybe it’s for the best. 

Nothing can come of this anyway; it’s a relationship doomed from the start. 

Like everything belonging to summer, it flourishes now, only to slowly decay and rot away as the dreamy shimmer over Red Lake dulls out.

Autumn, and the promise of an ending, lurks around the corner.  

This morning, Aemond doesn’t bother with stretching, eager to just run, until his legs give in and his lungs hurt. He needs that soothing numbness that comes after a good workout; the kind that kills the rowdy demons in his head and allows him to just exist; just be, even if only for a few hours. 

Mindlessly, he sets sight on the path that twists around the small hills and trees outlining the resort. There’s no thought behind his direction, he doesn't need one. He knows the ruins of House Crane as well as he knows the spiralling cobblestone streets of Oldtown, and the skyscrapers towering over King’s Landing. 

Every well-trimmed tree and carefully groomed bush he passes is familiar. He’s watched them stay the same his entire life. Just like Red Lake, they never seem to age, never grow outdated. 

There’s an eternal charm to the resort, in the way it stays the same. 

It must’ve looked like this when mum was a kid as well. 

Like most mornings, Daeron had asked him if he wanted to join his daily outing. 

Today was something about mountain biking close to Goldengrove, a two-hours drive away. For a moment, Aemond had considered taking his younger brother up on his offer. Seemingly the perfect escape; a nice, physical activity with just the right amount of recklessness to keep him alert, without any real risk of permanent brain damage. But there was this voice in the back of his head that told him to stay. 

A barely-there, low hum that kept him tethered to the resort. 

That voice whispered about her, urging Aemond to seek her out. For what reason, he’s not sure. He can’t imagine that she wants to talk to him. She might even be looking for a new dance partner right at this moment, given how yesterday’s session ended. 

By the time his legs ache and lungs fight for oxygen, he finds himself back by the Targaryen villa. And just like the other day, accompanying the familiar scent of roses, is the sight of her. 

The fierce pounding of his heart has nothing to do with the run anymore.

There is something that stings in his chest when he sees her, a stab that isn’t entirely uncomfortable, more like the chilling rush he felt when he was with her last time. Addictive and terrifying.

She wears the same radiant smile as always, teaching a small group consisting of mostly men, eager to pull her into their arms as she teaches them a slow-paced couples dance. 

But something about her seems different. It’s all a bit too perfect, too polished, like a performance she’s trying too hard to pull off. 

And now he sees it. Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes.

Unsure of whether he should approach her or just leave, Aemond hovers at a distance, temporarily mesmerised by the gentle way she moves, a gracious contrast to the fumbling geezers trying to keep up with her. 

Her voice is soft but commanding as she corrects their postures. Despite her overly cheery smile, there’s something magnetic about it. It’s a mask, he knows that much. And yet, he feels her draw him in. 

Her hair catches in the sunlight, glinting with each turn, and his gaze follows her almost without realising it.

Aemond leans against a nearby fence, the morning breeze cooling the sweat that clings to his skin. 

There’s a tightness in his chest. Not the physical ache from his run, but something else, something deeper. 

As she demonstrates proper hand-placement, he can’t help but admire the ease with which she moves, the fluidity in her steps. It’s as if she was made to do this; to dance. To exist in a world of grace and movement.

Still, the memory of yesterday plagues him. The way he left, abrupt and thoughtless, gnaws at him. She doesn’t know how often his mind has returned to her in the hours since, or how he can’t seem to sort his otherwise cooperative mind out. 

He told himself he wouldn’t seek her out again. What happened between them was a mistake better left forgotten. 

But now, watching her, he feels that same familiar pull. It’s not just the desire simmering beneath his skin. No, something else hides there, a strange sense of regret and the faintest whisper of something more severe. 

Something he’s not ready to acknowledge.

She catches him off guard when her eyes flicker toward him, her smile faltering for just a fraction of a second before she recovers. Her mask slips back into place, but in that brief moment, he sees it; the hurt she’s hiding behind the façade.

Aemond pushes off the fence, guilt, embarrassment and longing fighting within him. He takes a deep breath and forces himself to move toward her, determined to say something, anything, to fix what he’d broken.

But even as he walks toward her, the unease in his gut tells him that it’s already too late. 

“Can we talk?” 

Aemond’s voice is low, almost drowned out by the chatter of her elderly students. 

She turns to him, still smiling, but there’s a coolness there now. A distance. 

“Talk about what?” she asks, tone light but guarded.

“About… yesterday”

For a brief second, something shifts in her eyes. But she blinks it away, that fake smile widening.

“It is what it is, Aemond. Don’t worry about it. It won’t happen again”

Her nonchalance stings. He thought he’d feel relief hearing her dismiss his worries, but there’s a tightness in his chest, a sharp stabbing he can’t quite identify. It feels too much like the rush he’d felt when they were together; frightening in the most compelling way. 

He forces himself to nod,

“Right. It won’t happen again”

Without another word, she turns and leaves him standing there, a hollow sense of regret the only remainder of their interaction. 

An entire day goes by, yet Aemond can’t shake the lingering feeling she has instilled in him. 

He barely talks during dinner, even quieter than usual. By the time dessert is served, some white chocolate treat he won’t bother reaching for, Helaena lays a comforting hand on his restlessly tapping fingers and asks in a whisper,

“You okay, Aemond?”

“Mm”

Not long after, he excuses himself, and heads up to his room. 

The restless energy that had driven him to run this morning has returned, creeping beneath his skin like an impending catastrophe he can’t outrun. 

He knows he won’t be able to sleep, or even rest, in this state, and mindlessly grabs his pack of cigs before heading out the door again, moving carefully and with light steps so his family doesn’t notice his departure. 

He needs time to think and sort out his feelings, and listening to his brother's endless yapping, or his sister’s concern, won’t help. 

He rounds the back of the villa, and walks aimlessly around the abundantly green landscape of Red Lake resort, hoping that the cool night air will settle his nerves.

His mood causes agitation to fume inside him, clouding his own self-hatred and uneasy state. 

Why did this bother him so much? Why does he give a single fuck about what a dance instructor at a dusty old resort thinks about him? She can stay disappointed with him until he dies, and it won’t affect his life in the slightest. 

As his mind spirals, for the second time today, he is forcefully confronted with the woman that won’t leave his mind. 

She’s alone, moving in the dim light of the evening, her figure illuminated by the soft glow of the nearby lanterns. 

Aemond watches her body twists and turns in graceful arcs, fluid yet tense, like she’s lost in her own world. The movements don’t have the same seamless elegance he’s used to seeing from her. 

There's an edge to them, a sharpness that betrays frustration.

Her arms cut through the air, precise but forceful, as if she’s trying to carve space around her, or push something away. 

Her feet slide across the grass, fast, then hesitant, as though she’s caught in an unspoken argument with herself, torn between surrender and resistance. 

Every step is deliberate, but there’s a tension in the way she moves, a stiffness that shouldn't be there. She’s fighting the rhythm instead of flowing with it.

Aemond stops in his tracks, hiding in the shadow of a tree, not wanting to disturb her. 

Something in the way she dances, so fervent and desperate, tells him to not interrupt. 

It’s not the same careful grace she shows when she teaches or performs in front of others. This is personal. She moves as if the dance is both liberating  and restricting; a place where she can express what words can’t, but also where she’s trapped, unable to find peace.

Every sharp turn of her body is a silent shout of frustration. Each spin is a desperate attempt to reclaim control. 

There’s an anger in her movements, the kind that comes when someone has been pushed too far, and Aemond recognizes it. He’s felt it before; the need to throw yourself into something, anything, to drown out the chaos in your mind.

To Aemond, there’s a beauty hidden in the way she’s unravelling. 

It’s the rawness of someone who’s vulnerable, unguarded, and for a moment, he feels an unexpected pull in his chest. A need to reach out and stop her from pushing herself too hard. 

But something keeps him rooted in place. 

Maybe it’s the knowledge that she wouldn’t want his help anyway. 

Still, he can't tear his gaze away. She’s captivating, even in her frustration, maybe especially so. 

The fierce determination in her eyes, the way her body refuses to give in, even as her movements falter, reminds him of himself. It’s both mesmerising and heartbreaking to watch.

He’s so used to her being in control. 

Always composed. 

Always effortlessly graceful. 

He watches the tension settle in the arch of her back, the clench of her jaw, the way she bites her lip when she stumbles again, refusing to acknowledge her misstep.

Cautiously, he moves out of his hiding spot, 

“Why didn’t you tell me we were practising?”

Her head aggressively snaps to the side at his voice, 

“I’m not practising. I need to figure this out on my own”

She sounds as irritated as the tension in her body displays. Aemond watches her for a moment, recognizing the passion and determination etched in her features. It reminds him of his own relentless drive when it comes to perfecting his skills. 

Never good enough. 

Never satisfied.

“You’re overworking yourself,” he says, tone softer this time, “Take a break” 

She sighs heavily, exasperated, but after a beat of contemplation, she nods, 

“Maybe you’re right”

She moves away from the grass, and from him, slowly walking towards the nearby dock, feet dragging behind her in a silent invitation for him to follow.

She sits down on the edge of the dock, her legs dangling over the water. Aemond, who’d heeded her wordless instructions and followed her, remains upright, shifting his weight from one foot to another, unsure of whether he should stay or leave her alone. 

A suffocating silence hangs in the air. He observes her, but she doesn’t look up to meet his gaze. 

Her eyes are trained on her legs, a frown forming between her brows as she digs her thumbs into the muscles of her thighs. She winches and bites her lip to prevent a whimper from escaping, but still continues to amateurishly press into her flesh. 

By the sound of a third thinly concealed groan leaving her, Aemond kneels next to where she sits and grabs her leg in a firm hold, steering it so that it rests on his lap. 

His touch is firm but gentle as he works his fingers into the tight muscles of her legs, easing the tension that’s built up from her relentless practice. He focuses on her calves first, then moves up to her thighs, covertly enjoying the soft heat of her skin a bit more than he’d admit. 

She closes her eyes, leans back slightly, and hums in satisfaction as his hands continue their careful work.

“That feels really good”, she murmurs after a while. 

Aemond’s heart beats a little faster at the sound of her voice, so content and inviting. The irritation from before has been swept away by the light breeze of the lake, and he can feel her slowly relaxing under his touch, her body accepting the comfort he’s offering.

“It’s something I picked up back when I did weekly competitions. Your legs need rest” 

When he finally pulls his hands away, she glances at him, intrigued in a way Aemond can’t really decipher.

There’s a vulnerability in her eyes now; a crevice in the walls she’s built around herself. 

It mirrors the way he feels; scared shitless that the warmth spreading in his chest is anything more than shallow desire. 

He moves to sit next to her, careful so his long legs don’t touch the water beneath them. They both observe the lake shimmering in the moonlight, so tranquil and peaceful. 

The silence persists between them. 

It doesn’t feel natural, not when his mind is swirling with things he’d like to ask her.  

Have you thought about me all day too?

Do you ever think about me? 

Do you regret what happened yesterday? 

Aemond Targaryen wouldn’t call himself a coward. He’s always been fearless, always been eager to prove himself. Never backing down from a challenge, no matter how strenuous. And yet, here he sits, glued to his spot, unable to break the silence suffocating them. 

A few more moments go by with his eyes locked on the dark glitter dancing on the surface of the water. Then, the familiar warmth of her fingertips tickles the back of his hand, and he realises that she’s far braver than he’ll ever be. 

She moves closer and rests her head on his shoulder, eyes still admiring the beautiful allure of Red Lake. 

Aemond flips his hand, and lets her fingers run over his palm. 

He gently grabs her hand and lets his thumb run over the thin skin over her knuckles, 

“I don’t regret what happened yesterday” 

“Me neither”, she replies. 

“Good”

The suffocating air between them clouds his senses, and without thinking too much about it, Aemond shifts to the side. He carefully cups her cheek and steers her away from his shoulder and towards his lips.  

There is a vibration within him that only starts to buzz when he touches her. Perhaps it’s his greediness; his wish to take all she has, indulge in her touch until he grows tired of it. 

He doesn’t think he ever will. 

A/N: Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed this, please consider leaving a comment or reblog, it would mean a lot. Kisses!

[the-bookdragons-hoard]

Is it hot in her?! Am I sweating?!

The Way I Feel Under Your Command

Chapter III: Too Young To Reason, Too Grown Up To Dream I Prev I Next I Masterlist

Aemond Targaryen x Reader (she/her pronouns)

Summary: Is Aemond as insufferably pompous as he seems?

Warnings: 18+, she/her pronouns, AFAB reader, Aemond the snob, Aegon the bully, mentions of an animal being put down, dysfunctional family, smut, quickly escalating P in V, unprotected sex, pussydrunk Aemond being (somewhat) inexperienced, Aemond ‘One Eye’ Targaryen has a praise kink!

Word count: 3300

Her feet fall clumsily to the ground with each step she takes. She moves faster than her body is capable of, eager to get back to her dorm and hog the shower; the only place secluded enough for her to ease the extreme ache between her thighs.

Fuck him!

What an asshole. 

Infuriation bubbles within her, not only directed towards the stuck-up Targaryen, but at herself as well. She should’ve known. 

He hadn’t really fooled her into believing he was a nice, helpful guy by any means, but still, something about the way he diligently showed up and listened to her instructions had temporarily fooled her into assuming he wasn’t a straight up prick. 

Wrong.

Was it her sudden and unexplainable enchantment with him that had caused her to act so embarrassingly foolish? He had not done anything to award him her favour, and still she had felt hot all over when he followed her command in the dance. And when he took over, rolling his hips with a dominant grip on her, she’d lost all her resolve and succumbed to his will in a heartbeat. 

Reaching the communal shower shared amongst the workers at Red Lake, she throws off her clothes in a haste and impatiently turns on the shower. The water is cool and it feels nice; refreshing her scorching insides. Still, when she lowers the shower head and sighs in pleasure, she turns the water temperature up; imagining a certain insufferable dance partner’s tongue between her legs. 

It is easy to assume you know someone.  

It is only human, the way we apply a lifetime of learnings, impressions and assumptions onto those we can’t fully comprehend. Every day of our lives we accumulate stereotypes, and subconsciously project those onto the people around us. 

That is exactly what she had done with Aemond, the rude, pompous snob that seemingly got off on humiliating her. His bad attitude, paired with her unfavourable impressions of the rich patrons of Red Lake Resort, made her feel like she already knew him inside out. 

A self-serving, uncaring twat. 

A day has passed since she last saw him, and as she reaches her usual practice spot a few minutes before seven in the morning, she comes to the conclusion that she’s figured him out. 

She now understands how he operates; that he only entertained the idea of being her dance partner to humiliate her. To be honest, it would be a lie to say she didn’t enjoy his attention, but the humiliation that followed their escalated dance session far outweighed any pleasure he made her feel. 

Even if he managed to make her inside desperately ache for his touch. 

Throwing her sports bag on the ground, she sits down to stretch her stiff legs out, fingers rubbing firm circles on her ankles to boost the blood flow and warm herself up. 

She had never really struck up a friendship with any resident before, despite this being her fifth summer at Red Lake. The resort may have curated a relaxed image, but staff are made very aware of the fact that spending time with guests when off duty is not encouraged. To be honest, she wasn’t even sure if it was technically allowed; spending time with Aemond like she had. But none of that matters now. 

If anything, being ridiculed by him makes it easier to take a deep breath, curse him, and move on.

But then she sees his tall, rigid frame appear on the other side of the grass overlooking the lake, and the carefully crafted image she has of him shatters, leaving her momentarily dumbfounded. 

For the life of her she can’t figure out Aemond Targaryen. He barely says hi, only nods in her direction, and puts down his bag on the ground. He straightens back up and walks the few paces separating them before halting right in front of her, expectantly awaiting her instructions for the day.

She's not sure what he expects her to say. Does he want her to acknowledge the strange, sexual dancing they engaged in the day before, or would he prefer to pretend like nothing happened? 

She prefers the latter. 

“Good morning! I just finished stretching, should we get started?”

“Mm”

“Okay!”

The overly cheerful tone of her voice sounds so forced it makes her cheeks heat up in embarrassment. Aemond’s unexpected loyalty towards her has thrown her off in a way few things could, and despite her clinging to a casual and relaxed disposition, she hates how she’s not pulling it off. 

There is no point in asking why he did what he did yesterday. 

By now, she’s contemplated the unexpected turn their dancing took so furiously she’s almost forgotten what actually prompted it. Her recollection of yesterday has turned into a kind of fuzzy, dream-like memory, even if not even 24 hours have passed. 

Maybe she was the one who started grinding against him, and he just went with her initiative? It nearly feels like she imagined the whole thing; as if she was under a spell cast by his enchanting aura. 

Better to pretend that’s the case. 

Aemond stays unmoving, diligently awaiting her command. She moves closer to him, placing her hands on his shoulders, and something warm spills in her chest when he wordlessly copies the position she had instructed him to take the day before. 

He does pay attention. 

He’s doing that thing again. Observing her closely, as if he’s trying to see into her soul. His focus is solely on her eyes, and her gaze can’t stray away from his. 

Inwardly, she pathetically recognises how thoroughly enchanting he is. He really embodies it; that tell-tale, rare Valyrian beauty. 

Not only does his hair reflect so brightly in the sunlight it appears to shimmer. One of his eyes is lilac, a rare genetic mutation only descendants from Old Valyria possess. The other one is dark blue, and perhaps it’s the colour, or just her own fascination with his purple pupil, but it seems much more expressive, much more alive than the other. 

The spell of captivation he’s cast on her breaks as he speaks, voice low due to their close proximity,

“What do we do next?”

She realises that she’s allowed quite a lot of time to pass in silence as her mind swirled with conflicting thoughts of adoration, trepidation, and intrigue. Her cheeks grow even hotter, practically scorching, and she tells herself it’s only from embarrassment, and not from the closeness between her and her dance partner. 

She regains her senses and guides him, focusing on complementing his posture and encouraging him to let go of some of the tension in his back and shoulders. He follows her orders without protest, though he has a hard time fully relaxing his shoulder in the way she’d like. 

She doesn’t chastise him for it. Instead, she feels grateful for the diligent student he proves to be. 

It is easy to assume you know someone.  

They dance for an hour, before Aemond leaves for breakfast with his family and she needs to get ready for work. They don’t really talk about anything besides the routine, so when she’s about to leave and Aemond gently grabs her elbow and asks when she’s practising next, it takes her by surprise,

“I’ll be back here after I finish up work, probably not until after sunset”

“Okay. See you then”

It’s always too noisy for his liking, family dinner. 

It’s not like his family consists of overly talkative people. Well, the exception is Aegon, but even his chattiness depends on the level of alcohol in his blood. 

Whenever the Targaryen-Hightowers gather after spending their days apart at Red Lake Resort, his mother and siblings start the regular evening routine by sharing where they had spent their time. Alicent, often appearing to be on the verge of a breakdown back home in the city, enjoys the calm qualities of the resort, and prefers to relax by reading romance novels and frequenting the extensive spa. 

Aegon, eager for attention, dives into exaggerated and fabricated tales of his ‘marvellous’ adventures.

Aemond knows his older brother likely spent the day glued to the TV, smoking weed, and flirting with girls by the pool. Yet, somehow, Aegon manages to spin his mundane activities into something resembling an over-the-top, Bond-esque adventure.

Next is Daeron. Young, likeable, and always up for a daring challenge, he has no trouble finding people to join him in whatever extreme sport is currently trending. Even at Red Lake, he seems to draw the attention of like-minded individuals. 

This evening, he recounts a day spent surfing with one of the watersport instructors, even spotting a stingray along the way. Aemond can't help but think Daeron and Aegon are more alike than they care to admit.

The two outgoing Targaryen-Hightower siblings, always at the centre of attention.

Like they’re desperate for it. 

Aemond, on the other hand, finds himself most like his sister, Helaena, who sits quietly next to him. Like her younger brother, she prefers not to speak unless spoken to, mind floating away somewhere only she knows. Still, she doesn’t seem to mind the idle chatter, smiling contently even when Aegon’s voice grows louder. 

As he silently listens, Aemond's mind drifts as well. He’s restless, tapping his fingers against his thigh, hidden under the table of the award-winning restaurant. The sun is setting behind him, casting a pink glow over the patio table before him, adorned with decorations carefully selected to reflect the current trends in Westeros. Soon, he’ll have to excuse himself, 

Perhaps it’s his restlessness that makes Aemond feel especially agitated tonight. His evenings are filled with family obligations, and his mornings consumed by dancing. The time he had hoped to spend focusing on reading about important cases or working toward his future is instead overshadowed by thoughts of her. 

Despite only knowing her for a few days, she already haunts his mind. 

She seems forward and friendly; a combination he usually finds easy to deal with. Most people like that aren’t complex; some might even call them simple. 

Yet, when they dance together and she takes the lead, something else sparks from her. 

A mystery he has yet to solve; an unexpected riddle he can’t stop contemplating. 

She intrigues him. 

As if he could read his mind, Daeron addresses his older brother,

“When I was leaving this morning I saw you come back from the lake. What were you doing there?”

Suddenly, his family’s quiet. 

Aemond knows they’re waiting for him to answer, but he doesn’t want to.

“Oh?” Aegon’s voice cuts through, too casual to be anything but a thinly veiled prod.

Aemond doesn’t reward his brother much attention, stubbornly staring at his plate of pasta as he replies, 

“I was just out for a morning jog”

He doesn’t feel guilty for lying. 

He’s been burned by his family before. Or perhaps burned by his own inability to stay strong in times of adversity. Either way, he’d learnt his lesson; to never show vulnerability again. 

It’s only another excuse for them to ridicule you.

When it happened, Aemond hadn’t expected to cry. 

He is a grown man, after all, and Vhagar was old; too old to carry on without pain. Still, when he stood there, watching the veterinarian prepare the injection, he felt that painful tightness in his chest, the kind he hadn’t felt in years. 

Vhagar had been with him for over a decade, a steady and loyal companion. He’d grown up next to the old shire horse, spending each weekend competing around the Seven Kingdoms, bringing home medals wherever they went. Despite being a notoriously picky mount, she had accepted him almost instantly when he approached her as a small boy with a chronic lack of confidence. 

He liked to believe she saw something in him. Just like he saw something in her. 

When the moment came, and he stroked her mane for the last time, the tears came unbidden. 

He hated himself for it, trying to swallow the lump of grief in his throat, but it felt impossible. He was too weak. 

When he exited the stable, wiping away a stray tear from his cheek, Aegon had been there, leaning against the fence with a joint between his lips, 

“Are you seriously crying over a horse?” he’d jeered, shaking his head in amused disbelief, 

“She was practically ancient. You should be thanking them for putting her down” 

Aemond didn’t dignify the remark with a response. Aegon’s words stung, but they couldn’t lessen the hollow ache of loss thumping inside him. 

“This is only another lesson”, he’d told himself. 

Play your cards close to your chest. 

Lie if you have to. 

No one will look out for you.

Don’t let them in. 

After giving his family a half-hearted excuse about needing some time to clear his mind, he finds himself overlooking the lake again, his dance partner securely in his arms. 

At first, he’d felt awkward, every step a battle against his own hesitations. 

Even as he gets used to the sensation of her body pressed closely to his, the tension between them stays palpable; igniting something within him he can’t shake off. 

Her presence is magnetic. It draws him in with every subtle sway of her body. 

“You’re not as stiff as before” she remarks, voice low and with a hint of playful teasing.

Aemond feels heat rise in his cheeks, a mix of embarrassment and something deeper stirring in his gut.

He does not feel as suspiciously distrustful as yesterday, fuelled by some spiteful misconception that her praise was simply disguised taunt, belittling him by treating him like a child. 

Indicating that he does not know how to move his hips, like he’s never had to use them before. 

Now he knows she did not mean to mock him.

Her praise had been genuine. 

The thought makes his cheeks even hotter. 

He searches for a reply, but before he has a chance to speak, drops of rain join their evening dance. His partner quickly grabs her bag and speaker before wordlessly lacing her fingers with his, and drags him into the empty boathouse.

They set up there, finding a corner of the dust-covered wooden building hosting the boats Red Lake Resort owns. She turns on the speaker again, but the sound is drowned out by the heavy rain pattering on the worn tin roof. 

They find their positions again, standing so close he almost thinks he can hear her heart. The dimly lit space feels intimate, and so does her praise,

“Yes, just like that”

“Good”

“Great posture”

“Exactly! You're such a quick learner!”

With every compliment, something stirs in Aemond. Her approval ignites a fire within him, pushing against the boundaries he had set for himself.

His mind tries to ignore it, yet his hands seem to hold on to her with an even tighter grip. They’ve become greedy; reluctant to part from her warmth. She allows it. 

Something shifts in the air between them; thick and electric. 

He looks into her eyes, desperately trying to gauge if she can feel the sparks flickering between them. 

Does she feel it too? 

Steered by moronic desire, he ducks his head down to close the distance between them, capturing her lips in a kiss that is both fervent and tentative; a burst of heat travelling directly from the desire inside of him. 

To his delight, she does feel it too, and the kiss he thought would be fleeting only grows more heated with each second that passes. 

His hands, which had been dutifully placed where she’d instructed, begin to ardently wander, smoothing over each inch of her clothed body. 

When she moans into his mouth, he feels a shiver travel down his spine, and reaches for the button-up shirt she’s wearing. 

His hands try to skillfully unbutton her shirt but they tremble too much. There’s too much desire inside of him, eager to leave from his fingertips and escape into her as he touches her skin. He just wants to feel her; feel everything that lies hidden underneath her clothes. His desire is impatient, and so he rips the final two buttons obscuring her flesh from him. 

The warm softness of her skin is his reward, and he fervently touches anything that he can get hold of; any part of her she allows his hands on. 

She pulls at the hem of his t-shirt impatiently, and he helps her by pulling it up and throwing it off. 

His hands, still trembling clumsily with need, reach down to undo his trousers, uncomfortably snug against his rock-hard cock. He can’t even recall the last time he’s felt this intoxicated by sensual desire.

She pulls the short skirt she’s wearing up to reveal her underwear, sticking to her damp skin. 

She wants this too.  

A ravenous wave of want rips through him, and he surges forward, capturing her lips once more. His finger begin to stroke her, but she matches his impulses more than he knew, and pushes his fingers away,

“Aemond”, she moans, pulling her underwear down, “Just fuck me”

Another wave ripples through him, so fierce he has to stop and inhale before he grabs her hips and pushes her up against the grimy wall, creating space for himself between her thighs, 

He doesn’t know what to do as he pushes inside, high on the sight of her, so willingly accepting anything he gives. 

His sweaty palms grip her hips harshly as he feels her hot, wet cunt greet him, and he has to close his eyes when she throws her head back and moans. The sight, paired with how tightly her walls squeeze him, causes the desire within him to rush towards freedom. 

Fuck. 

I won’t last long. 

The pleasure only doubles as he begins to move. 

It’s not just from how tight she’s squeezing his cock. It’s her sighs of pleasure in his ear, drowning out the rain that harshly hits the roof above them. 

It’s how wet she is; seeping down and making a mess on the trousers he’s still wearing. It all goes to his head, and he feels warm and fuzzy from the realisation that she wants him so much. Her body aches for him. Just like he does for her. 

I’m making her feel this way. My touch is her command. 

His grip on her hips matches the tightness enveloping him, so intense he can’t stop, even when he knows the end is near. A conflict erupts within him, between wanting to savour this moment with her, and wanting to succumb to the pleasure tickling the base of his spine, waiting to be released. 

His hips move on their own, determined to chase pleasure. He wants to stop, but can’t, it feels too fucking good. 

He’s sure he can withhold for just a little longer; savour this for another fleeting moment. Until,

“Ah-, you feel so good, Aemond”

With her words, his desire wins. The force of it nearly prevents him from pulling out, but he manages, just in time. He spills on her thigh with a loud grunt; a strange, throaty noise he’s never heard himself make before. 

She looks at him with wide eyes, pupils still blown out in desire, stunned by the abrupt ending to their tryst. Aemond, still vibrating with lust, wastes no time as he gets down on his knees and buries his head between her thighs, eager to taste her. 

He still craves more. 

A/N: I am a confirmed “Aemond ‘One Eye’ Targaryen has a praise kink”- truther 😤 thank you for reading! 🩷

[the-bookdragons-hoard]

I did not expect the ending there.

The Way I Feel Under Your Command

Chapter II: Magic Between You and I Prev I Next I Masterlist

Aemond Targaryen x Reader (she/her pronouns)

Summary: Aemond stays true to his promise, and hates himself for it. Our dance instructor does the best with what she's given, even if that is Westeros' most off-putting and pretentious Valyrian.

Warnings: 18+, she/her pronouns, Aemond is a condescending a-hole (but you already knew that), Aegon slander, sexual tension, dry humping, thigh riding, blue balls but make it AFAB

A/N: Chapter one and two are basically a deep-dive into the psyche of Aemond in this modern setting, but I promise some dirty dancing at the end of this chapter 🕺🏼 and just imagine how much better the smutty, sexy stuff will hit when we’ve built their dynamic 😙 bear with me! Enjoy!

Aemond would never admit to his brother that his goading got to him. 

He wouldn’t even fully admit it to himself. How different would his life be if he hadn’t allowed his temper to be dependent on Aegon? If he didn’t feel like being berated by his older brother sent him back to when they were kids and he’d do anything to impress him? To make him see him as a brother, an equal, and not a plaything? 

He shakes his head to kick the thought away. 

His head’s still pounding, just as it had an hour ago when he woke. Noticing how strange his tongue feels in his mouth, he realises that he’s thirstier than he’d been in a long time. 

Fucking Aegon. 

He’d never be here, walking towards the boathouse, if not for his brother dragging him to that party yesterday and force-feeding him alcohol. 

Pushing him out of his comfort zone. 

Making him feel less than.

As always.

There were several reasons Aemond didn’t like to get drunk. 

One was the gradual loss of control he felt as the alcohol made his usually sharp mind slow down.

Another was his temper; something he’d disciplined himself to control after years of practice. 

As a child, he’d been the kind to cry when his brother and nephews ‘jokes’ got to him, or when he scored low on a dressage test. 

Wearing his frustrations on the outside only taught him how awful being looked at with pity can be. That specific type of vulnerability and shame you feel when someone looks at you and thinks: “poor thing”. 

Therefore, he’s grown used to being in control of himself; of his moods and urges. 

Until he’s drunk. 

He spots her where she said she’d be, right next to the boathouse, stretching her legs. She’s definitely in better shape than him; hardly appearing different from yesterday evening. 

Locking eyes with her, she seems surprised to see him. 

Did she expect me not to come?

To Aemond’s recollection, she’d practically begged for a dance partner. He had said yes, mostly due to his intoxicated state, but also because of Aegon’s insults. 

She smiles as he comes closer, “How we feeling today?”

“Fine”

“Okay”, her smile falters at his short, unfriendly answer, 

“Let’s get started then”

Her routine is simple; an original piece she’d put together to showcase her greatest strengths as a dancer, 

“Despite only making the reserve list”, she jokes, but the forced smile doesn’t reach her eyes. 

She gives him a quick run-through of it; going into detail about the meaning behind her dance, how she got started, why she chose the movements she did. 

Aemond barely listens. 

His head is throbbing, pain elevated by the sharp sting erratically stabbing the nerves behind his left eye. His features don’t change as he half-heartedly listens to what she says, occasionally nodding. 

Whatever, can’t be that hard. 

“You’re posture is great”, she compliments him, eyes scanning him critically, “try to relax your shoulders a bit more” 

He does as he’s told, yet the tension in his back doesn’t fully ease. He can’t truly shake his internal stiffness; he’s always on alert. 

She continues to guide him, freely grabbing his hands to place them on her body, causing him to briefly recoil at the sudden heat of her skin. 

How long has it been since someone touched me like this? 

“I think we can finish here for today. Great work!”

Her hand is still holding onto his as she gives him an approving smile. There’s something different about how she looks at him now; she seems more relaxed, like they’re familiar with each other. 

“I really appreciate you doing this for me”

Aemond feels his cheeks heat up. His mouth is drier and palm, still in her grip, damper. 

He jerks away from her, causing her hand to slip out of his. His head is still pounding furiously, and without a word, he turns around to go back to the Targaryen villa. 

Every corner of Red Lake Resort is carefully curated. 

It may not seem like it; in the way the vibrant flowers appear to grow widely on the sides of the houses, stretching all the way up to the pillar-enclosed balconies reminiscent of a time when the castle ruins, now hosting the elite of Westeros each summer, used to host House Crane of the Reach. Still, every flower, every branch, every leaf, was there for a reason; for the ‘Monet-esque’ beauty created by the slight chaos of stoney ruins, colourful greenery, and sporadic ponds scattered between the large buildings. 

There is an understanding that, at Red Lake, residents can forget the stressors of their everyday lives. For the esteemed guests 'comfortable’ enough to afford a stay there, such stressors might include running an enterprise, hosting a charity gala, or berating an underpaid maid for not polishing the silver thoroughly enough. 

It was a place where ‘the customer is always right’ got hammered into the staff with such ferocity that they could almost feel the nails of submission penetrate their skulls. 

The perfect place for those who did not wish for the hierarchy they sat at the top of in their everyday lives to sway even in the slightest. 

A comfortable place for the current head of Targaryen Holdings to spend sparse time with his family. 

Ever a man of comfort, Viserys Targaryen’s distaste for change means that the Targaryen-Hightowers always stay in the same villa, big enough to host not only the family but any guests they may invite. 

Aemond always stays in the same room, located at the end of the hallway of the second floor, tucked in a corner. He had chosen that exact one since it was the only room dark enough for him to comfortably hide in when his head hurt from an old eye injury he had since childhood, and one of the privileges of being the ‘broken’ child was that he got first pick of trivial things such as room assignment. 

Aegon and Daeron share the room next to his, and Helaena’s is next to theirs.

As an anxious child, the only downside of his secluded corner had been the nights he woke up in cold sweat, mind plagued with night terrors and head pounding. Then, the short distance walking past his siblings' rooms to his mother’s felt colossal. 

Now he revelled in the privacy, preferring to stay in and get lost in his thoughts as often as possible. Spending time with his family was just too draining. 

Yet for some reason, today he craves distraction from his pounding head and strange inner sensation. And if there’s something that can pull him out of his thoughts, often by force, it’s his family. 

Most times when he sought a distraction, he’d bury his head in work, preferring to stay ever productive. 

He knows that there’s always something that needs to be done; some nearly disastrous hypothetical fire threatening to burn the Targaryen empire down to ashes. 

That’s one of the reasons why Viserys insists on staying in the same villa each year; the large office on the first floor is the perfect place for him and Otto Hightower, Aemond’s grandfather, to spend the entire holiday working. 

It has always been Otto that’s been keen on having Aemond join the company, proudly laying a hand on his shoulder as he showcases the skills he’s acquired to please his father. Viserys, on the other hand, is not as easily impressed, nor does he seem to think much of Aemond’s diligent work. 

In his current state, however, Aemond knows that he won’t produce the results he’d want, and that kind of embarrassment and potential spiralling into an afternoon filled with dwelling in self-hatred was better avoided. 

Entering the large open-plan kitchen and living room of the villa, he spots the family menace snoring with an open mouth on the sofa, TV turned on to some brain-dead reality show and an open bag of crisps resting on his stomach. 

His older brother is somewhat of an enigma to Aemond. How could someone with so many opportunities, so much handed to him on a silver platter, fumble everything given to him so badly? 

Aegon’s always been volatile, and prone to getting into trouble, but his destructive tendencies have mellowed out somewhat since he promised to not do drugs anymore, a lifestyle change prompted by his mother telling him she’d revoke his access to his trust fund. Aemond knew better than to smile at his brother's misery in front of his mum, but seeing her scold him for his pathetic life choices felt so gratifying he’d had to hide the grin breaking out across his face behind his hand. 

Something about seeing Aegon miserable made Aemond feel a sick sense of satisfaction, like the one you have after indulging in too many sweets and consequently left feeling like you’ll be sick. 

Overindulging in self-righteousness.  

He spots Helaena in the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of sparkling water and placing it in the crocheted bag hanging off her shoulder.

“You alright, Aemond?”, her gentle voice asks, smiling faintly as she observes him.

“Yeah”, he says, too exhausted to even begin to explain the whirlwind of occurrences happening in the last 12 hours, “Where are you off to?”

Her eyes light up in an instant, “Oh, I heard from Grandfather that the large oak tree we saw by the restaurant yesterday is positively teeming with bugs”

Aemond spots the art supplies in her bag; acrylic pastel colours, brushes of varying sizes and a block of thick, white paper. 

“Mind if I join you?”

“Actually, I need some time alone. You understand”, she replies in her usual sweet tone, leaving her younger brother alone once again. Helaena had always been blunt, maybe even a bit too much so for most people’s liking. Aemond knows that she means no harm by it, she just prefers to communicate her needs frankly with him. 

Still, he wishes she’d had entertained him by allowing him to join her, if even just for an hour. 

His search for distraction continues, leading him to wander around the large villa in hopes of running into his younger brother. 

When Aemond left his room at 6.45, looking more similar to a ghost than his usual carefully curated image, the only other family member awake had been Daeron, always cheery and on his way to meet up with some guys he’d acquainted days prior for an early morning rock climbing session. 

He’s probably not even back yet. 

Aemond curses himself for the second time today. His usual instinct would be to go with his younger brother; to do sometimes productive and fulfilling rather than attending a party filled with senseless idiots looking for no more stimulation than that of an easy fuck. 

Fucking Aegon! 

His footsteps grow harsher as he heads up to his secluded room to grab his pack of Marlboros, half-running down the stairs again to quickly get out of the villa and onto the gratuitous patio. 

His mother hates when he smokes too close to the inside living space, but seeing as she’s not here, he doesn’t bother to walk the extra metres he usually grants her. 

Instead, he slouches against the facade of the extravagant holiday home, gazes out over the resort and inhales the strange mixture of cigarette smoke and roses. The entire front of the building is covered in heirloom rose bushes, causing not only the patio, but the kitchen and living room as well, to bathe in the familiar scent. 

To Aemond, roses mean summer homework, family dinners, swimming in Red Lake, looking for bugs with Helaena, playing tennis with Daeron, listening to Aegon chat his ear off, 

And her. 

There she is again. Surrounded by a group of elderly guests dressed in flower-printed dresses, linen suits, and trilby hats. 

She’s in the arms of some melting, old skinbag, with a belly so round it prevents the geezer from truly pressing her body against his. 

The smile on his face causes Aemond’s hungover stomach to flip, and the hand he’s placed on her waist seems to want to squeeze her flesh a bit more than necessary. 

She laughs at something he says, giving the old man a friendly pat on the shoulder. 

To Aemond, it looks like she enjoys the attention. 

Revels in it. 

He crushes the bud of the cigarette against the white, stone wall, exhaling a low scoff before turning around. 

Figures. 

“So, yesterday I noticed you were a bit stiff” 

She has to stretch her neck to meet his eyes; one lilac and one deep blue. 

Does he have heterochromia? 

They’re in the same place, at the same time. This morning, however, Aemond has pulled his long, Valyrian hair back into a low bun, causing her gaze to shamefully flicker down to his sharp jaw and strong, masculine neck. There’s one delicate, blue-green vein running down the side of it; from his ear to his shoulder, and for some reason the sight of it makes her flustered. 

His eyes stay trained on hers, waiting for her to continue. 

She already feels like she has a good grasp of who he is. 

He is a man of few words, preferring to answer in grunts and hums. 

He is intense, evident from his stare never leaving her; evident in how it emits from him like smoke; latent vehemence. 

It excites and frightens her in equal measure, a strange cocktail of sensations and impressions swirling in her stomach after only knowing him for less than 72 hours. 

She’d initially gone with her regular approach to new dance partners; flattery in the form of exaggerated praise, so that the inevitable criticism doesn’t sting as badly. 

It had not worked on Aemond Targaryen, however, who’s stoic face and nonchalant attitude did not waver or crack down even after the 20th “Great work!”

Might as well enjoy the straightforwardness of going right into the critique. 

“When you dance you need to be precise”, she explains, 

“You need to have good posture, and be aware of your entire body, but it still needs to seem like you are just naturally moving this way out of coincidence”, her voice falters somewhat as she sees his eyebrows raise ever so slightly in question, 

“It's not supposed to look as calculated as it is”, she clarifies. 

Aemond hums. The non-verbal standard reply almost irks her, but she bites her lip and forces it into a smile. 

If she had any other option; any other person who could help her with the audition, she’d probably thank Mr Targaryen for his time and ask him to go back to being sulky and rude at parties. Regrettably, he happens to be one of the few men at Red Lake who’s under 60 and has the physique and the durability to actually do her routine. He doesn’t need to be perfect, he just needs to be her sturdy backdrop. 

Besides, she’s more than used to demanding dance partners. 

He’ll budge too. 

He has to. 

“You know at the party… Did you see how we were dancing?”

“Hm”

“It’s a great way to get you to loosen up and really use those hips, you’ll need to learn how to move like that for the routine to work”

His gaze almost makes her cower; incredibly stern and thoroughly unimpressed. 

Still, she stands her ground, moving closer to him to place her legs on either side of one of his. 

“Like this”, she says, voice coming out far lower than she’d planned for. 

Don’t let him intimidate you! 

“A-, and then you place your hands on my hips”, she continues, grabbing his hands and placing them on herself. 

His hands are soft and hard at the same time; roughened with strength yet his skin is soft. And warm. Her fingers linger on his for a second too long before she places her own hands on his shoulders.

His eyes never leave her face.

Is he studying me? 

Waiting for a mistake?

“Since you’ve done horseback riding, I’m sure you’ll catch on quickly”, she says with a anxious smile.

Fuck, why does he make me so nervous!?

“When you gallop, you move together with the horse in a steady movement, right?”

One of her hands slip down the side of his arm, travelling from his shoulder to his hip. 

Roughened with strength yet his skin is soft.

She moves her body slightly in a slow rhythm, pushing on his hip to guide him with her, “Like this”

His persistent eye contact burns; surely leaving a hole in her head. His features don’t change, but she knows he’s paying attention to her instructions from the way his hips start to move in tandem with hers. 

She has danced with so many people, in so many settings, yet this makes her cheeks heat up.

Her tongue comes out to wet her drying lips, eyes still locked with his. 

“Good, you’re getting the hang of it”, she praises, hoping he’ll relax a bit at the compliment. 

In truth he’s still quite stiff, but not in the uncomfortable way she cannot help but be. He’s still on alert, refusing to let his guard down, even as he stands with her between his legs and grinds. 

One of his eyes, the lilac one, appears to darken, narrowing in challenge at her. 

She feels his hands on her hips tighten as he picks up the pace, dancing with more vigour than before; than her. Suddenly he’s leading them as he rolls his hips at her and moves her body to match his pace with his firm grip. 

His demanding hold on her forces her closer to him, and with each movement a spark of pleasure runs up her core. 

Panic washes over her like a cold shower at the realisation, still she can’t abruptly stop. 

Do I want to stop? 

With every push of his leg against her hidden, swollen clit, she feels hot; on edge.

She’s no longer on the grass field by the boathouse. She’s somewhere else, somewhere he’s taken her. 

All she senses is him. 

His lean arms on each side of her, flexing as he moves her body. His eyes, looking down at her with that same intensity that has her head spinning. 

They’re locked together. It’s all too fast, too slow, too long, too short. 

Aemond, after what feels like an eternity, breaks eye contact to duck his head down, body still dancing with hers. 

His lips ghost over the shell of her ear. She feels his breath fan over the delicate skin there. Another bolt of want shoots through her.  

Fuck!

In a low, borderline mocking voice, he softly asks, “You think I don’t know how to do this?”

He delivers one final, harsh and precise thrust between her legs before withdrawing completely, turning around to grab his bag and hastily walk away from her panting silhouette. 

Left is the smell of cigarettes, sandalwood and.. roses?

A/N: This is your sign to put on Hungry Eyes and lose your shit at the fantastic saxophone solo! Thank you for reading, kisses!

[the-bookdragons-hoard]

The Way I Feel Under Your Command

Chapter I: Red Lake I Next I Masterlist

Aemond Targaryen x Reader (she/her pronouns)

Summary: After being forced to spend his summer at Red Lake Resort, a drunk Aemond meets a pitiful dance instructor at a party he did not want to attend.

Warnings: 18+, she/her pronouns, alcohol consumption, intoxication, classism, Aemond thinks he’s better than everyone, Aegon is an awful older brother

A/N: Enjoy 🫶

The lush greenery of the Reach would still be beautiful even if the mid-summer sun didn’t illuminate it. 

Despite the modernisations of Old Town, Ashford and Tumbleton, the southwest region of the Seven Kingdoms still feels reminiscent of a time when Westeros was ruled by noble families. Fields of wildflowers and ruins of ancient castles lay scattered across the vast landscape, instilling a false sense of serenity inside Aemond Targaryen as he steers his fathers car towards Red Lake. 

He had mistakenly assumed he’d successfully dodged his mother’s pleading; begging him to join the family’s yearly resort get-away. Besides his siblings, the only other guests seem to be his father and grandfather's old business associates, making the holiday he’d grown tired of appear even more unappealing. 

Embarking on his final year of university, Aemond had gotten used to the solitude of one-man study sessions and spending his weekends working with his grandfather. It was all worth it in his eyes; the tireless preparation for the position he’s been working towards since he was old enough to walk. 

He’d planned on using the summer holidays to fully submerge himself into the mechanics behind the almighty machinery that was Targaryen Holdings. Unsurprisingly, his father had barely responded when he told him about his desire to spend the summer working, but his grandfather had offered him a nod of approval and a comforting pat on the back. 

The fleeting moment of validation had provided Aemond with enough fuel to cancel all other summer plans in favour of spending his last weeks of freedom soaking up as much knowledge as possible inside the glass-covered skyscraper Targaryen Holdings called their HQ. 

Yet he found himself driving his parents to their usual summer retreat, only two weeks after finishing his last seminar for the semester. 

When Aemond had ignored his mother’s countless requests begging him to join the family one last summer before being completely engulfed by the corporate world, she’d changed tactics and instead reasoned with her father, convincing him that for Aemond to successfully integrate with the top of the company, he needs to familiarise himself not only with the business side of being a Targaryen, but the private expectations as well. 

That entails rubbing elbows and making contacts at exclusive holiday resorts. 

His grandfather and siblings had arrived a week prior, but because of his father’s deteriorating health, hospital appointments and check-ups had held him and his wife back, giving Alicent the perfect opportunity to push her third child into complicity and ask him to join them by acting as a chauffeur. 

After enough nagging, Aemond often gave in to his mother’s wishes simply because he couldn’t stand to disagree with her for long. 

Pulling up to the luxuriously restored ruins of House Crane’s seat, he recognises every detail from his previous summers there; the multicoloured flowers abundantly hanging over the sand-coloured balconies, the brightly yellow lemons ripening in the citrus trees decorating the sides of the villas, the variegating shimmer dancing in the water of Red Lake. 

He hands the keys to the valet diligently standing by the driver’s side of his father’s favourite vehicle as his mother helps the withering elderly man out of the sleek, black car. She offers him a hand to hold and another to steady his trembling body. 

“Mr. Targaryen, what a pleasure to see you again”, a middle-aged man clad in an impeccably tailored suit exclaims enthusiastically to Viserys, white teeth on full display as he quickly signals for two bellboys to grab the esteemed guests' baggage. 

Feeling like he’s gotten his fill of mandated family time for one day, Aemond quietly retreats to the usual villa where the Targaryen’s stay. He slips inside undetected, heads to his usual room, and promptly locks the door behind him. 

It is easy for Aemond to get lost in his thoughts whenever he’s around his family. 

Either it’s his older brother retelling a ‘funny’ anecdote that he doesn’t feel sad to miss out on. Or it’s his younger brother and mother discussing plans for the summer, a topic he knows he doesn’t have much say in anyway, consequently choosing to remain silent. 

As long as he remembers to hum in reply whenever addressed, he can comfortably sink into the depths of work or school related pondering; laying out a plan for when he’s allowed to get back to being productive and useful instead of wasting his time drinking overpriced wine. 

The unbearable sensation of his older brother's wine-soaked breath next to his ear pulls Aemond out of his thoughts, “I’ve been told there’s a staff party happening tonight”

“Have fun” 

Aegon snorts and then smiles at his brother’s instant dismissal and the predictability of it, 

“Oh, come on! I can’t go alone” 

“Ask Daeron” 

Aegon leans in even closer, causing Aemond to recoil further away from his brother as he clicks his tongue in annoyance, “Daeron and I had a little disagreement this morning, he won’t talk to me” 

He hadn’t even noticed the strained tension between his brothers during dinner, the uncomfortable aura seemed to be a permanent companion to the Targaryen-Hightower family. And Aegon angering one of his siblings didn’t come as a surprise to him. 

Aemond’s momentary silence is wishfully mistaken as compliance by his brother, who finishes his glass of wine instantly before standing and thanking his family for the “lovely dinner”. He gestures for his brother to stand as well, flashing a victorious smile at his table-companions before he informs them, 

“Mondo and I have a party to attend” 

Aegon's rough hands shove Aemond into the packed room, following so closely behind that the younger brother has no choice but to walk further into the room.

Rarely in his life had he witnessed such an over-crowded space, sweat flying from intertwined bodies, the heat of the room causing the air to almost taste salty. 

He wrinkles his nose at the scenery in front of him, shoulders stiffening as he feels embarrassed by how utterly out-of-place he is. Afraid that his uncomfortable state will soon become prevalent on his features, Aemond shifts to the side, moving away from his older brother in an attempt to slink off as quickly as he’d been forced inside. 

Before he has a chance to retreat, he feels Aegon’s arm tighten around his shoulder in an aggressive, false sign of brotherly affection. 

“Don’t you fucking dare”, he leans in to scold his younger brother, steering them both towards the wonky fold-up table filled with colourful bottles of alcohol. 

The music’s loud enough to drown out all other noise, and Aemond has to duck his head to speak directly into his brother’s ear, “You really should have brought Daeron”

“He’s not the one who needs to relax”, Aegon replies matter-of-factly. He grabs two clear plastic cups from the table and fills them with what looks like vodka and some type of red soda. Shoving one cup into Aemond’s chest, he swallows half of his own’s content in one gulp. 

Aegon watches how his brother eyes the cup suspiciously, gaze trained on the fingerprints sporadically decorating the clear plastic, evidently reluctant to bring the stained cup to his lips. 

“Oh come on, princess!”, Aegon shouts, catching Aemond off-guard as he grabs his hand to forcefully move the cup towards his lips, “It won’t kill you!”

Aemond slaps his brother’s hand away before reluctantly taking a sip. The drink is sickly sweet, nothing but sugar and food colouring, but with a sharp, bitter aftertaste of cheap alcohol. Quite the contrast to the aged Dornish Red they’d had with dinner. 

The neutral expression he’d schooled his face into falters as the revolting taste of the concoction prompts him to involuntarily grimace. Aegon’s obnoxious cackle follows, face beaming at his younger brother's misery, “So I take it you don’t party at uni then?”

“Not like this”, Aemond admits, once again letting his eyes wander across the room. The space reminds him of the utility room at the Sept he visited as a child, old and worn down without anyone ever bothering to fix the dilapidated space. 

Some effort had been done to zhuzh up the place; hanging thin, blinking strings against the walls in lieu of using the cool-toned fluorescent lamps, and placing a mirror ball by the oversized speakers shoved into the corner. Still, the obscuring lightning couldn’t hide how foul Aemond found his surroundings. 

For their entire lives, his older brother must’ve downplayed his ability to read his younger sibling’s mood, because as soon as Aemond attempts to place the nauseating drink back on the table and leave, he feels Aegon’s alcohol-infused breath warm his ear, 

“It’s your last summer before graduating uni and officially taking up residence in Grandfather’s arse”

Despite his clear intoxication and the playful jab, Aegon sounds uncharacteristically serious as he adds, “Have some fucking fun”

The filthy floor sticks to the soles of Aemond’s shoes, forcing him to aggressively pull up his feet with each step. He doesn’t recognise any of the music playing, and the people surrounding the Targaryen brothers grind on each other in the most depraved excuse for a dance he’s ever witnessed. 

Still, he stays, bracing himself as he downs the rest of his cup, reluctantly readying himself to learn what Aegon’s idea of ‘fun’ entails. 

Despite continuously finishing cup after cup of the sickly sweet concoction Aegon’s forcing down his throat, Aemond fails to see what it is about parties like this that his brother finds so much enjoyment in. 

The crowded room still feels suffocating, the smell of sweat is pungent, and the young staff members Aegon’s been chatting up provide little in terms of being interesting conversation partners. 

“You’ve never had a girlfriend, right?”, Aegon half-shouts into his ear as yet another girl escapes Aemond’s one-word replies to her intrusive question, “You still a virgin?” 

He stares blankly in reply to his older brother’s question. Like he’d tell him of all people about that. 

Before being forced to answer, he’s saved by an excited shriek, 

“Oh Aegon, you made it!”

A clearly drunk young woman appears behind the duo, wobbling a bit to the side as she tries to find a comfortable stance. Aegon flashes her one of his insufferable smirks, surely thinking it’ll impress her. 

He introduces her to his brother, explaining that she’s the sad thing working as the resort’s dance instructor, and thereby spends most days in the arms of soggy, old pensioners. 

She rolls her eyes at his comment, gaze melancholically drifting away as she states, “Hopefully this’ll be my last summer here. If all goes well, I’m enrolling in dance school” 

Aegon’s barely listening to what she’s saying, instead he giggles over how she slurs when she says ‘enrolling’. 

Guess she’s not the only drunk one here. 

“So we’re celebrating tonight!”, his brother happily says before filling another cup to the brim and offering it to the dance instructor. 

“More like grieving”, she mumbles, bringing the cup to her lips to take a large sip, “Just found out I’ll need to bring a dance partner to the entrance exam in three weeks” 

Her unfocused gaze again drifts across the room, to a lean, mousy-haired guy grinding on one of the restaurant’s busboys, “I’ve asked Greyjoy to help me out but he’s not strong enough” 

The older Targaryen’s eyes light up at her comment, leaning in closer to her ear, “You know, I’ve got some experience” 

Her eyes widen in hopeful excitement, “You do? What kind of dance?” 

“Well-“, he licks his lips as he locks eyes with her, “Most of my practising has been horizontally. I’m very skilled with my hips” 

She instantly pulls back, expression thoroughly unimpressed, “I’m fine, thanks” 

Turning around to leave, she’s stopped in her tracks as Aegon grabs her elbow, 

“Oi, what about Aemond here? He works out like a maniac, I’m sure he’s got the stamina”

Aemond hadn’t really been paying attention to the conversation, finally feeling the effect of the alcohol heating up his face and causing his hands to tingle. 

She turns around, eyeing him up and down, “Have you ever danced?”

“No”, he answers truthfully. 

“He used to do horseback riding”, Aegon chimes in, “That’s kinda the same thing, right? Like, girly sports” 

Her eyes stay trained on the statuesque man before her, “I need someone who’s strong enough to lift me over their head”

“I’m not interested”, he curtly replies. 

Her gaze travels between the two brothers, once again rolling her eyes and shaking her head before mumbling something and walking off on unstable legs. 

Unpredictable as always, Aegon releases a roaring fit of laughter, “You’re so fucking dumb, Mondo” 

“Shut up”

“She’s out of your league anyway”, he breathes out between cackles, “You’d probably cum just from touching her” 

Aemond clumsily places his cup on the table, drunken haze elevating the irritation his brother instils in him, “I’m leaving” 

Shoving Aegon out of his way, he hears his brother’s laughter grow louder as he shouts, “You’re so fucking boring Aemond! Live a little!” 

When he’s finally free from the musky prison of the party, he takes a deep breath of fresh summer air and sets sight for the family villa. 

Aegon’s mocking echo in his head, much harder to shake off when he’s not in his usual, sober state. 

Just as he hears Aegon calling him boring for what feels like the 100th time in his mind, he spots her outside one of the more modest-looking cabins on the outskirts of the resort. 

Fuck it. 

Stomping towards her, he blurts out, “I’ll do it!”, a bit too loudly, causing her to jump from the sudden noise, eyes darkening as she recognises who’s approaching her. 

“It’s fine, I’ll find someone else”

Aemond huffs impatiently at her unwillingness to cooperate, “I said I’ll do it”

Her eyes narrow, taking in the stern look on the strange man suddenly insisting he wants to help her out, 

“Fine. Tomorrow morning at 07.00. Meet me by the boathouse” 

She’s by the boathouse almost every morning, thoroughly enjoying the fleeting moments of solitude she’s allowed at the resort. 

None of the residents were ever out and about at this hour, which means no distractions or expectations of politeness on her part. 

Taking a large gulp of water, she’s still feeling the taste of yesterday's cheap cocktail on her tongue. 

Drinking your problems away never works, stupid. 

Like most days here, there’s not a cloud in the sky. 

Early mornings were really the ideal time to practise; the sun’s still hanging low and the air is still chill enough to remind its surroundings of the night that had just passed. 

Starting with stretches, she stands wide while altering between preparing the muscles in her legs. 

Being granted a reserve spot at the school meant she had to perform an original routine, which was clearly instructed to showcase her creativity, as well as taking a written examination, testing her knowledge of dance theory. So, she’d made it a habit to spend the limited leisure time she had before work practising physically, and the evenings in her dorm reciting theory.  

The grass under her feet might not be the optimal choice for stability, but it allows her to take risks, the green softness cushioning her failed attempts. 

Just as she’s about to put on her headphones and begin, she spots a figure emerging from the other side of the large field overlooking Red Lake. 

He walks with pride, broad shoulders pushed back and head held high; a clear contrast to his slightly unstable steps outside of her cabin last night. 

Despite the time it takes his non-rushed movements to reach her, his eyes stay on her, locking her in place with his gaze. She’s almost overwhelmed by his presence; shock, intrigue and fatigue from yesterday's partying swirling in her gut. 

He came. 

[the-bookdragons-hoard]

It was so sweet and fluffy but also so painful. Argh, the next chapter is the last and I am not ready for this!

Sadness Comes Home

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x f!niece!reader Warnings: Angst, miscarriage, talk of abortion, sexually explicit content. Word count: ~4.3k

Summary: Aemond and his niece have a much needed heart to heart as they deal with the fallout of what occurred in the throne room.

Author's note: Chapter five of Tear Down My Reason. No tag list. Please follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications.

She groaned softly, stretching and attempting to turn onto her side. Discomfort between her thighs made the switch in position feel cumbersome, and she stilled momentarily. Her head felt thick, her thoughts foggy and jumbled. Lifting the bedclothes, she peered beneath, lifting her nightgown just enough to see the bloodstained swaddle of cotton stuffed against her most intimate area. It was then that the memories slowly started to drift back.

Aemond’s sword slicing through the farmer’s neck, the head rolling against the flagstones as ichor trickled its way towards her. Guards hoisting her up and out of the throne room. The sudden cramping in her lower belly, and the blood that had flowed. The men posted outside the door rushing to fetch the maester. Being placed upon the bed as she was handled carefully, gently. Being told in the softest of voices that the child that had grown within her was gone. She had howled like an animal, her throat sore from shouting for her mother, until eventually a draught had been forced against her lips and tipped past her tongue, and everything had faded to blackness.

Milk of the poppy; so that was why she felt so sluggish. Slowly, her eyes moved around the room. It was still daylight outside, but whether it was a new day or not she could not be sure. She did not know how long she had slept for, but she felt as though it was not enough. Her body felt heavy and her eyes struggled to focus. The place in the bed beside her had not been slept upon, the covers were still pulled taut to the edge of the mattress. She wondered where Aemond was, if he knew, if he would be angry with her. She had had one job – to carry their child, his heir – and she had failed. She closed her eyes against the tears that began to track silently down her cheeks, she did not have the energy to wipe them away, and was too physically exhausted to endure breaking into sobs.

This was her punishment, she thought. She had not treated her pregnancy as happy news, and so the gods had seen fit to take it away from her. Placing a hand over her lower abdomen, she pressed down gently – she did not feel any different, though there was a dull ache within the depths of her, a similar sensation to when she had her moon’s blood. If this was divine torture, then she wondered what fate her uncle intended for her. She was thankful for the numbness that the poppy milk afforded her, it dulled the icy fear that sought to clutch at her chest.

She had slipped back into a doze when the door to the bedchamber creaked softly open.

“How are you feeling?” The voice was soft, yet authoritative, feminine, not that of her husband.

Blinking awake, she was taken aback by the sight of long auburn curls and soft brown eyes. She moved to sit up, suddenly ashamed to be caught in such a vulnerable state by the dowager queen.

Alicent held up a hand, the bell sleeve of her turquoise satin gown rustling gently against her side with the movement of her arm. “Rest,” she said firmly, “there is no need to exert yourself.”

She leaned back against the pillows, eyeing the older woman carefully. She saw only sympathy in her expression, though it did little to comfort her. “Where is Aemond?” she asked, her voice hoarse with sleep.

Sighing, Alicent moved around the foot of the bed, and settled upon the edge of the mattress, it dipped gently with her weight. She reached out a hand and, thinking better of it, allowed it to drop to the bed covers before she made physical contact. “I have asked that he give you space,” she explained gently, “understandably he is upset.”

She was not sure what that meant, especially not when it came to her uncle. Upset for most people would mean sadness and tears. She was unsure if such things were within Aemond’s capability. Had he raged, shouted, turned to violence? Her thoughts drifted to the man he had beheaded.

“What of the farmer?”

Alicent smiled sadly. “You are gracious to think of others in your own time of need. It has been dealt with. It was unwise of Aemond to allow his temper to dictate his actions, and it will not be a mistake that is repeated. In his own way, he felt he was defending you.”

She could not help the way that her features twisted in derision. Everything the farmer had said was true; she was a bastard, Aemond had spent their entire childhood and much of the war reminding her and her siblings of that very fact. What was there to defend?

Drawing her hand back and placing it into her lap, Alicent twisted the rings upon her fingers. Her gaze was steady as she looked upon the supine form of her good daughter, sensing her disbelief, and she was eager to convince her. “You are his queen,” she insisted, “he cares for you.”

She scoffed, rolling her eyes up toward the canopy above the bed. “I have failed him. We shall see how eager he is to defend my honour now.”

“I am sorry for your loss, for both of you, but that is the way of women. It is not always easy.”

“You birthed four healthy children,” she whispered bitterly, “how could you possibly understand?”

A heavy silence fell between them both, until she heard Alicent exhale shakily. When she turned her head to look, the dowager queen’s eyes were watery and downcast, her nails scraping absentmindedly against the cuticles of her other hand.

“I fell pregnant again after Viserys,” she whispered, sniffing softly, “a punishment for my sins, I suppose. I could not have kept it, even if I had wanted to. But it was my choice. This was not yours, and you must not blame yourself.”

She stared at her for a moment, wide eyed in disbelief. “I am so–”

“No, no,” Alicent interjected, rising to stand and composing herself with a swiftness that seemed unnatural. She did not look directly at her when she next spoke, already turned towards the door. “Is there anything you need that might aid in your recovery?”

“Could I see my brothers?” she asked quietly.

Alicent gave a simple nod of acknowledgement and swept out of the room, closing the door gently behind her.

The shift in energy in the room felt like a cleanse – the joyous laughter and childish exuberance that radiated from both Aegon and Viserys chased away the misery and darkness. Propped against the pillows, she smiled as she watched them alternate between jumping barefoot upon the mattress and chasing each other around the bed. Their movements jostled her and, though she still felt sore and fatigued, she did not mind. Their excitable nature and sticky hands were a welcome distraction from the misery she had wallowed in for however long she had been lying alone in this bed.

Breathless, the boys fell back against the covers. Viserys sprawled across the foot of the bed, one chubby hand gripping her ankle for comfort, while Aegon came to cuddle close to her, his head upon her chest. He smelled faintly of lemon cakes as she nuzzled into his downy head of silver hair, and he giggled, shifting to lift his head to look up at her.

“Grandmother says you have been ill,” he told her, his lilac eyes wide and imploring as he stared up at her, “are you better now?”

She stiffened, unease swirling in her gut. It still did not sit right with her that her brothers would call Alicent such a term of endearment. She pursed her lips, before ruffling the top of his head. “Not quite, but I will be.”

“I do not want anyone else to die,” came Viserys’ soft whisper from his place by her feet.

Her heart ached at his admission. She prodded playfully at his side with her toe, wanting nothing more than to chase those fears away for him. He was so innocent, he should never have to worry about such things. “You will not be rid of me so easily, you little pest,” she joked, “someone has to make sure you take a bath.”

He laughed and the sound eased the weight upon her heart. As the sky outside darkened from the hazy lilac and orange hues of twilight, to the inky black of night, the three of them fell soundly asleep, huddled together. For the first time since arriving back in King’s Landing, she felt at peace.

In the haze of sleep, she was vaguely aware of both boys being lifted from the bed, and a few moments later the mattress beside her dipped as a larger body laid upon it. Not entirely lucid, she was certain she was dreaming, and did not open her eyes, allowing unconsciousness to claim her once more. She slept on, unaware of the arms that wrapped around her or the face that pressed into her neck, muffling quiet sobs.

Her eyes cracked open as the first rays of dawn seeped through the gap in the curtains, and she turned to see Aemond lying on his side next to her. His eye was open, watching her, and he blinked slowly, lips parting slightly, upon realising she was awake. Dressed in a white cotton undershirt and breeches, his hair was loose and tousled, and he was missing his eyepatch. The sapphire in the socket of his missing eye shone dully in the early morning light. He looked exhausted; there were dark circles beneath his eyes and damp tracks upon his cheeks that made it look as though he had been crying. She longed to reach out, to trail her fingers down the path that the wetness had travelled, but did not dare. Noticing that his eye searched her features in silent question, she finally found her voice.

“How long has it been?” she whispered, “How long since..?”

She could not bring herself to say it; how long since you beheaded a man in front of half the city, and our child died inside of me?

“Two days,” he replied softly, his voice hoarse. “Mother wanted me to keep away, she said you would need at least a week, but that seemed too long. I could not.”

Her eyes widened, and she recoiled, her heart racing in fright. “Aemond, no! It is too soon. I am not recovered, I–”

“Not for that,” he moved swiftly to reassure her, reaching out to coax her back to where she had been laying previously. “I just wanted to see you, to make sure you are alright.”

She breathed a sigh of relief, and settled back against the pillows once more. At least he was not here with the intent to mount her, to attempt to replace the heir she had lost him.

“You must be very angry with me,” she uttered, clutching the edge of the quilt.

“No,” he responded, his voice thick with emotion – when she turned her face to look at him again, he looked as though he was on the verge of tears. “This is my fault, not yours. For my crimes I have lost my dragon, my son, and now the child I was to share with you.”

“Your son?” she asked, lifting herself up onto her elbow to stare down at him. She did not know that Aemond had fathered any other children, and felt an uncomfortable stirring of jealousy creep bitterly up her throat.

“With Alys,” he confessed, reaching up to gently twist one of his niece’s long, dark curls around his forefinger. “She told me she was with child, a boy, our son. But it was all a trick, an illusion to save herself. There was never any child at all.”

They had not spoken of Alys since their wedding night, when she had mentioned her, and Aemond had flown into a rage. She now finally understood why it was such a sore subject for him. She softened as she watched a solitary tear escape from the corner of his eye, and reached down to gently wipe it away with her thumb.

“I am sorry,” she murmured.

“No, I am,” he replied, pulling her down to him and clutching her tightly against his chest.

She was unused to such displays of affection from her husband, but responded by clinging to the front of his shirt and pressing her face against the hollow of his throat, as his fingertips pressed firmly into her back. The scent of leather was faint against his skin, earthy and rich.

“Were it not for me,” he continued, “you would have children with Lord Stark by now.”

“I would not,” she said softly – if he could be honest with her, then the whole of her truth was the least she owed him. “I did not want that. I drank moon tea each time.”

“Why?” Aemond asked, pulling back to look at her, his brow furrowed in confusion.

She sighed, turning onto her back and gazing up at the canopy as she folded her arm behind her head. “I did not want that to be all I was worth,” she admitted, “I did not want to be made to squeeze out heirs for a man I did not know, to be erased from my family’s legacy by adding to that of another house. It seemed unfair to me that Jace and Baela had dragons and were made to feel useful, important. I was merely a piece to be moved and traded across the board. But even now when I think about it, if I had indeed had a dragon of my own, I do not think I could have burned anyone. I am useless.”

“You are gentle,” Aemond corrected, grasping her chin gently and turning her face back towards his. “Helaena was gentle, and she was the best of any of us. There is no shame in that. You remind me of her.”

“Was it kindness that drove you to put the entirety of Harrenhal to the sword? To burn the Riverlands to ash?” she asked bitterly, resentful at him for his brazen acts of cruelty, and at herself for not being fierce enough to do such things herself.

Aemond huffed softly, his hand dropping away from her face. “Perhaps if I had been more like Helaena, I would have wed you the night I first promised to, and all of this could have been avoided.”

She stared at him thoughtfully for a moment, taking in the lines of his face – still the same man that had robbed her of her maidenhead, and yet changed by war into someone else entirely. “I think I prefer you now,” she said, “you were cruel and prideful back then, and you would not have been kind to me. You are gentle now too, in your own way.”

He lowered his gaze, his hand finding hers in the bed and loosely entwining their fingers. “I did it to defend you, you know,” he said, hinting at the act of violence he had committed two days previous, lifting his eye to hers, “I wanted you to know that I cared for you. If I had known that our child–”

“I know,” she replied, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. “Perhaps it would have happened either way. It is not for us to know.”

“We do not have to try again,” he told her, “not if you do not want to.”

A wave of relief and gratitude rushed through her at his admission. She longed to lean in, close the gap between them and press her lips to his. Since their wedding she had never had the desire to initiate such affection with her uncle, and the sudden urge frightened her so much that she resisted, simply staring at him as he stared back, until they were interrupted, and the tension was broken by a knock at the door – Maester Orwyle had come to check on her, and was quick to shoo Aemond from the room. She felt a pang of loss at his absence, her hand coming to rest upon the warm spot that he had previously occupied in the bed.

Her loss lingered like the shadow of an unwanted guest at the back of her mind, though over the coming days and weeks that followed she was grateful to regain some of her independence, finally feeling strong enough to leave the bed, to bathe herself, and change into clothes that were not intended for sleep. She thought that Aemond would serve as a reminder of her miscarriage, but found that as he was allowed to share their marital bed once more that his presence made it easier to bear. He kept his promise, and did not try to be intimate with her, but held fast to her as they slept each night, as though he were afraid she might simply float away if he loosened his grasp even for a moment. He watched her movements each day, like a clingy child might observe their mother, enquiring after her intended whereabouts and making excuses to occupy the same space that she did. She would have found it overbearing ordinarily, but it was comforting to not be alone with her thoughts and grief, and she suspected he felt the same way, which was why he sought her out.

“What is that you are reading?” Aemond asked, as he entered the solar.

She reclined on a couch, in the full view of the window, luxuriating in the gentle, warming rays of the early afternoon sun. A small hardback book was splayed open in one hand as her eyes moved slowly over the words – not really reading it – it was a story she could recite by heart.

At the sound of Aemond’s voice, she glanced up, a soft smile tugging involuntarily at her lips. It still bewildered her how easily she had come to welcome his company, even crave it. “The Princess and the Lion,” she told him, closing the book and running her fingertips gently over its cover. “It is one of my favourites. Helaena and I used to read it aloud together when we were children. We would take it in turns for who would read the parts of the lion and the princess.”

“What is it about?” he enquired, coming to perch upon the edge of the couch where she sat.

“There is a fearsome lion that roams the kingswood, and all in the kingdom are afraid of it,” she told him proudly, feeling herself become more animated, “one day, while on a hunt, the princess becomes separated from the rest of her party and encounters the lion. She is afraid at first, until she realises that its anger is due to a thorn it has stuck in its paw. She pulls it free and the lion transforms into a handsome prince. He had had a curse placed on him, and a simple act of kindness was all that was needed to break it. They fall madly in love and live happily ever after.”

Aemond scoffed derisively, rolling his eye. “That sounds ridiculous."

She scowled, clutching the book to her chest defensively. “You have not read it.”

“Hmm, read it to me then.”

Her eyes narrowed as she studied him carefully, wanting to see if he was making a joke at her expense, but his stare was steady and unwavering. “Now?” she asked, “Aloud?”

He shrugged. “Unless you have somewhere else to be.”

She hesitated a moment longer, then flipped the book back to its beginning and began to read aloud.

Aemond shifted as she read, crawling up the couch and sprawling out until he lay flat upon his back with his head in her lap. She glanced down at him occasionally, seeing he was listening intently as she continued to read aloud to him. The hand that was not holding the book came to rest upon his head, gently stroking her fingers through the silken strands of his hair.

After a while, she heard the subtle change in his breathing and looked down to see that his eye had drifted closed and he had fallen asleep. She closed the book and placed it beside them on the couch, allowing herself to study his features. She traced the lines of his sharp nose, prominent cheekbones and chiseled jaw with her fingertips. She wondered if perhaps he had had a curse placed upon him to make him so cruel – he was handsome enough to be a prince from a storybook, but behaved nothing like one. At the gentle brush of her fingers upon his lips, Aemond’s eye fluttered back open.

“Did you finish the story?” he asked sleepily.

“No, you drifted off,” she told him, cradling his face in her hands.

She was not sure what possessed her, but she leaned down, her lips brushing featherlight against the plushness of his. To her surprise, he kissed her back, lifting a hand to the back of her head, anchoring her to him, deepening the embrace as he parted his lips and flicked his tongue delicately against hers.

When they parted, her heart raced in her chest and her cheeks were flushed as she gazed at him in wide eyed wonder. She could see desire dilating his pupil, his own lips parted in heavy breath, and it caused a warmth that spread from between her thighs all the way into her belly.

“We do not have to,” he whispered, releasing her hair.

“But I want to,” she uttered back.

It felt like an understatement. She had never needed anything so desperately, certain that if they were to stop things here she could wail and claw down the curtains in frustration.

“Come here,” Aemond commanded gently but firmly, coaxing her to straddle him.

Her breath hitched at the position as she sat astride him, her hands braced against his chest. He had never allowed her to take control like this before – all of their previous couplings had been frenzied, driven by instinct as he had settled between her thighs and rutted into her. What was transpiring between them now was a choice, they both wanted this. It was both terrifying and exhilarating.

When Aemond tugged her down to him for another kiss, there was no tentativeness, it was an urgent and messy collision of lips, teeth and tongue and she could feel him hardening rapidly beneath her as she shamelessly rolled her hips. When they broke apart, the movements of their fingers were frenzied in their haste to rid her of her small clothes and pry open his breeches. Once his erection was freed, she had expected for him to take control, to thrust into her without preamble. Instead, he took her hand, guiding it to wrap around his manhood and then he let go. Her eyes settled upon the swollen, leaking head of him then lifted to his face. He watched her expectantly, throbbing in her hand, and there was a strange sense of power that surged through her, knowing that she was in charge of what happened next.

Gingerly, she rose up on her knees, lifting her skirts with her free hand as she positioned him at her entrance. She teased him, sinking down a little, before rising up again. Each time she sank down, her muscles relaxed enough to allow more of him inside. She bit her lip to hide the grin of the way her uncle’s features contorted at each of her movements – in its own way this was torture for him, yet she knew he did not want her to stop. She stilled once he was fully sheathed inside of her, and though his hands came to rest upon her hips, he made no moves to thrust up into her. She could practically feel his body vibrating with the urge to take control, and admired his restraint.

Slowly, she began to rock her hips, gasping as the angle caused the tip of him to brush against a spot inside of her on every pass that made her ache and clench around him. She fisted her hands in his shirt, breathing raggedly through parted lips.

“Gods,” she panted, as her thighs began to ache, “I cannot…please…”

“I know, shhh,” Aemond soothed quietly.

He began to move slowly upwards, not fucking himself into her, just enough to ease each undulation of her hips as he held them steady. Continuing to aid her with one hand, he reached up to pry open her bodice with the other. His hand cupped and squeezed her breast, his thumb circling and working the rosy bud into a stiffened peak, before turning his attention to its twin.

Her head fell back at the dual stimulation, her sensitive walls fluttering as her body went rigid in anticipation of what was to come. As the pad of this thumb dragged across her pebbled flesh, and he rolled his hips, knocking against the aching depths inside of her, her entire body shuddered and she let out a keening cry of pleasure. Her nails dug into his chest as she spasmed around him, warmth blooming in every part of her body, making her feel boneless. She was faintly aware of Aemond’s own groan of satisfaction as he pulsated inside of her, pushing upwards into her with the force of it.

She collapsed against his chest, breathless and sweaty from exertion, and Aemond wrapped his arms around her, holding her close as he fought to steady his own breathing.

He smoothed a hand over the curls at the back of her head, his voice almost a whisper as his nose brushed the shell of her ear. “I will have the maester make you tea.”

Her fingertips stroked idly over the soft cotton of his undershirt, before she lifted her head, locking her eyes upon his. “No,” she said with a slight shake of her head, “not this time.”

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[the-bookdragons-hoard]

Holy heat 🥵

I don't know if it's the temperatures or this fic but I am sweating hard.

Wine & Dine (carmen "carmy" berzatto x fem!reader)

18+ account - minors do not interact

carmen "carmy" berzatto x fem!reader

Word Count: 6430ish+

Rating: E

Summary: You own a wine shop across the street from The Bear, and you have struck a deal with Carmen Berzatto that allows people to purchase wine from your shop and enjoy it at The Bear. Over time, your unexpected partnership with the quiet restaurant owner & head chef grows beyond just sharing wine and food.

Warning: slow burn (this happens over months in my mind), language, mutual pining (idiots in love crushing on one another), alcohol, mentions of Mikey’s death, allusions to slight family drama on the readers end, brief jealousy (Carmy is a jealous boi), fluff, flirting & sexual tension, competence kink? (Carmy builds something and reader feels things), kissing, sexual touching 18+, praise, dirty talk, implied p in v sex

A/N: This is my first-time writing a Carmen “Carmy” Berzatto fic and writing for the Bear Universe. I can’t tell if this will just be a one-time thing, but with Season 3 coming out so soon, the brain-rot is real. This show is immaculate, and Carmen is such a complex character. I originally was going to use this idea and make it a Joel Miller AU fic (my obsession for that fictional man is concerning), but I decided to take a chance at writing for another fandom. I know nothing about the fine dining world / what food pairs well with wine so let’s pretend in this story that what I’m saying makes sense. I want to thank especially @nicksolemnlyswears / @mysingularitybts who convinced me to post this story.

A Collection of Moments Masterlist

xx

Chicago, Illinois The BEEF is CLOSED. Thank you for your patronage. THE BEAR is COMING.

The first time you met Carmen Berzatto, he was about to have his soft opening of the Bear for Friends and Family night. However, you had watched him and his crew from across the street for months getting the restaurant ready. You recall when a sign for The Beef, the beloved Italian beef sandwich shop had announced its closing, it had genuinely shocked you and a lot of people in the neighborhood.

He walked into your shop nervously and was scanning a bunch of different bottles, focused on the whites.

“How can I assist you sir?” you asked, and up close, you saw that he had piercing blue eyes. Eyes that you could lose yourself in.

“Um, I’m openin’ up the restaurant cross’ the street in a couple of days and uh, I-I’m tryin’ to find a wine that compliments one of our dishes. Right now… somethin’ is just not right,” he quickly rushed out.

“What’s the dish?”

“Seared scallops with an herby fish sauce vinaigrette, the Chardonnay I’m usin’ is just… it’s not hittin’ at all,” he let out a frustrated sigh and gripped his hair tightly in frustration.

“A Chardonnay won’t work, especially if your scallops are seared,” you suggested, starting to walk to locate the bottle that you thought would work better. “Chardonnay is often a go-to for scallops, but it can overpower the delicate flavors. What type of Chardonnay are you using?”

“A 2020 Racines Bentrock Vineyard Chardonnay,” he replied, looking at you with those beautiful eyes.  

“That’s an amazing bottle. But it’s a Chardonnay that is intensely buttery, which is probably what is causing the clash,” You picked up a mineral-driven Sancerre from the Loire Valley of France and handed the bottle to him. “Try this, it’s dry, bright, and acidic. Its minerality and citrus notes will complement the brininess of the scallops without overwhelming them,”

“I didn’t even think about usin’ somethin’ made from Sauvignon Blanc grapes. You don’t think the acidity would cut through the richness of the dish?”

“No, I think it will enhance the flavor, and it will complement the freshness of the scallops and the vinaigrette perfectly. I mean in fairness, I haven’t tried your dish,” you said with a shrug. “So, I guess I’m sort of giving you advice blindly, but I have a good hunch,” you continued with a smile. “So, take the bottle and try it out, and then let me know if it pairs well or if I was a complete idiot with my suggestion,”

You could see him pause for a moment looking down at the bottle; his brow furrowed in contemplation as he considered your recommendation. When he looked back up at you, you realized how distracting his face was and that he was devastatingly handsome. Your eyes were flickering between his eyes and his mouth as you two fell silent. You suddenly felt a huge desire to run your fingers through his luscious locks.

“I trust you…somethin’ tells me y’a know what you’re saying,” he said, sounding hopeful, but a little unsure. “How much do I owe you?”

“It’s on the house,” you informed him.

“Wait what?” he asked with an adorable frown of confusion.

“Consider it a friendly neighborhood present… opening a restaurant isn’t easy,” you assured him.

“Thank you,” he breathed your name looking at your chest, and confusion crossed your face wondering how this handsome stranger knew your name since you had never given it to him during this entire exchange. Then, his finger pointed down at your chest, where your name tag was pinned neatly in place. Realization dawned on you as you felt your cheeks heat, realizing he had been reading your name tag.

He cleared his throat and looked over at you a little sheepishly. “Nice to meet you, um, I’m – uh, my name’s Carmen,”

“Carmen”, you repeated, enjoying the way his name rolled off your tongue.

“Well, um, I have to go… uh, but see you around,” he stammered out and then started walking toward the front door and stepped out. As he crossed the street, he turned around to look at you before entering his restaurant and lifted his hand in a wave that you returned shyly.

“See you around,” you whispered to yourself.

The next day when you opened up the wine shop, you found a note that had been slipped under the door and bent down to pick it up.

You’re a genius.

– Carmen

xx

Through your conversations, you began to develop a mutual respect and admiration for each other's expertise. The Bear had a successful opening and Carmen and his team started bringing you dishes to taste. In the beginning, he would mostly come in with Sydney and then they started bringing Tina and Ebra as well to get their opinions on the wine pairings as well. You also worked with Marcus sometimes to provide wine recommendations for his mouth-watering desserts. Sometimes, even Ritchie would stop by to shoot the shit and pretend he understood what you were saying.

You found yourself eager to recommend wines that you thought would complement The Bear’s dishes, and Carmen and the team started incorporating your suggestions into the menu. Then one day you suggested the idea of allowing customers to purchase wine from your shop and enjoy it at The Bear, letting Carmen know that it would draw more people to both businesses. Customers who may not have visited your shop otherwise now would have a reason to come in, and vice versa for The Bear.

Over the next few weeks, as word spread about the successful wine partnership between your wine shop and The Bear, more and more customers began to visit both establishments. The collaboration proved to be a win-win for both businesses, as customers enjoyed the unique experience of sampling exceptional wines while dining on The Bear’s exquisite dishes.

You noticed a change in Carmen as you spent more alone time with him. He started coming to your shop without the rest of the team bringing you dishes to try, and you felt that he began to open up and show more of his personality. He was quiet, observant, and very focused. There were moments when he struggled to communicate his feelings and emotions, often choosing to stay silent. But as you got to know him better, you realized that he was actually quite thoughtful and deep. He had a unique perspective on things and was eager to learn and grow. Although he may not have been the most outgoing person, his quiet demeanor hid a kind heart and a passionate mind.

You found yourself enjoying conversations with him, as he had a way of making you think and see things in a different light. He had a knack for analyzing situations and offering insightful solutions, showing a level of maturity beyond his years.

“So, I googled you,” you said one day when he brought you over a Spicy Rigatoni Vodka pasta dish he was considering implementing for the menu. Carmen didn’t believe in static menus, he preferred a series of menus that rotated after a specific period with rotating entrees, seasonal dishes, and regional specialties.

"I had no idea you were such a big deal," you said, your eyes wide with admiration. He was so fucking amazing.

"Oh, um, it's nothin’, really," he mumbled, unable to meet your gaze. He blushed as you marveled at his impressive CV, detailing his rise to fame as a culinary prodigy. You could tell he was modest about his achievements, not one to boast about his success.

“So, I guess I have to ask. Why did you come back to Chicago?”

He shuffled his feet, and you could tell he felt slightly uncomfortable with the question. "My brother…” he paused, “Mikey… That was his name. He died and left me the restaurant in his will," he confessed, his voice slightly shaky.

You looked at him with concern, reaching out to touch his hand. "I'm so sorry, Carmy. That must have been really hard for you." You heard his friends and family calling him that, so you decided to try to nickname out since he was sharing something so personal, and you wanted to soothe him somehow. He looked into your eyes with gratitude and vulnerability. Without saying a word, he laced his fingers with yours, intertwining them in a gentle, reassuring grip.

Carmen shrugged, looking down at the table. "Yeah, it’s been tough. I dunno. Sometimes, I just feel so lost, y’a know?" His grip tightened slightly, as if seeking solace in the connection between you both, a silent reassurance that you were there for him in that moment of vulnerability.

You nodded sympathetically, and fell silent, unsure of what to say. You realized that Carmen probably preferred it that way. He probably just wanted to be heard, understood, and supported without the need for empty expressions of sympathy.

As you had expected, he quickly shifted the conversation back to you tasting the food and dropped your hand, and you felt yourself missing his touch immediately. He watched you take a couple of bites of the pasta that he had brought over for you. “So, what do y’a think?” he asked shyly.

You decided to take a few more final bites before replying. It tasted like a symphony of flavors – the heat from the red pepper flakes woke up your senses, while the spicy tomato and creamy vodka sauce soothed and balanced out the spice and added richness to the pasta.

Each bite was a delightful experience that left you wanting more. “Carmy… it’s a gift. What you do… what you have is a gift,” you whispered.

“You really think so?” he asked timidly, staring at you with those crazy blue eyes.

“No,” you said firmly, and you saw his anxiety spike. “I know so,”

His face softened, and you gave him a small smile.

“You’ll need a full-bodied Italian red for this dish, probably a Chianti. A Barolo could work, but I think the Chianti I’m thinking of will be an excellent choice. Let me grab it,” you quickly left the counter to find the Machiavelli Vigna di Fontalle and poured two glasses of wine for you and Carmen.

You both took more bites of the Spicy Rigatoni and brought the glass of wine to your lips, taking a small sip and letting the rich flavors wash over the palate. You closed your eyes and took another sip, savoring the complexity of the wine, letting it linger on your taste buds before swallowing. The wine had a bold and complex flavor profile with hints of dark fruits, spices, and earthy notes, making it a great complement to the richness of the pasta. The wine's smooth tannins and balanced acidity helped cut through the sauce's creaminess.

When you opened your eyes, you found that Carmen was gazing into your eyes with a look of pure intensity. It was a look you had never seen him give you before. His gaze seemed to linger, as if he was trying to convey something to you without saying a word.

You liked Carmen. You felt like it was obvious. Could it be possible that he had feelings for you too? Was it all in your head, or was there something more between you that had been simmering beneath the surface all along? He was so hard to read.

“You know… you have a gift too,” he said, pushing his empty plate away. “Your ability to choose the perfect wine to complement any dish is truly… fuckin’ remarkable,”

You rolled your eyes. “Carmy, that’s silly. I’m not making the wine; I’m just simply drinking it, and then making some suggestions,”

His eyes squinted in disapproval. “You know opening night… do y’a know what dish received the most compliments?

You shook your head.

“It was the scallops, everyone who did the suggested wine pairing with that dish said that the wine enhanced the overall dining experience,” he said softly, his lips slowly curving into a small smile.

You felt a warm glow of pride and satisfaction knowing that your passion and knowledge was being appreciated by him, but it was hard for you to accept it. Your father had been so disappointed when you dropped out of Columbia Law School to run away to Europe and drink wine for a living. You were the youngest of 4 children, and all of your siblings were lawyers, including your hard-to-please father. In a way, you were sort of the odd one out in your family.  “Carmy… It’s really not all that impressive,”

“You have a gift too,” he repeated, his eyes staring into yours, as his comment lingered in the air between you two.

xx

One night, you decided that it was time for you to enjoy The Bear's fine dining experience yourself. Ironically, you had never eaten there. Carmy had never asked you or formally invited you to the restaurant since he would bring his menu items over to the shop for you to taste so that you could provide recommended wine pairings. It was restaurant week in Chicago and The Bear was participating in the special 5-course prix fixe celebration. Therefore, you decided to bring your cousin who was visiting his family from New York who was a total foodie and enjoy your Friday night with him.

As you walked into the restaurant, you were immediately greeted by Sugar at the hostess stand who you had met a few times. She complimented you on your dress and you introduced her to your cousin, and it turned out that they knew each other since they attended rival high schools, and they reminisced on some senior week prank gone wrong. They enjoyed a few playful jabs with one another before she escorted you to the table, where you were impressed by the cozy and elegant atmosphere of the restaurant.

You took in the beautifully set tables, the dim lighting, and the soft music playing in the background. Carmen and the team had done such a terrific job with the place, the rave reviews made so much sense. Ritchie noticed you and walked over to say hello, pulled out your chair, and handed you and your cousin the prix-fixe menu. You narrowed your eyes as you observed Ritchie’s unfriendly gaze toward your cousin since it was certainly out of character for him.

Once Ritchie finished his spiel about restaurant week, you both placed drink orders and then he walked away. You could have sworn you heard him mutter ‘fuckin’ jagoff’ under his breath, but maybe you had just been imagining it.

“I talked to your Dad, and he said your parents are going to the south of France this summer,” your cousin said as he placed the white napkin cloth in his lap.

“How interesting, I lived in Bordeaux for 3 years, and he never visited me once,” you muttered bitterly. Your mother and all your siblings had visited you while you lived out there, even some of your extended family, but your father always had an excuse as to why he couldn’t. ‘Work is so crazy baby girl,’ But deep down, you knew it was because he was disappointed.

“How are things with you two?”

“Well, I’m not married to a Harvard Business School graduate who works at a hedge fund, and I don’t have any babies so it could be better,” you responded sarcastically. “But if I’m honest, since I moved back home to Chicago and opened up the shop, much better. We had a big Kumbaya moment, he apologized, admitted he went to therapy, and –

“He went to therapy?” Your cousin interrupted.

“Let’s get real, my mother forced him to go, and he probably hated every second of it,” you chuckled, “But yes, he did… apparently,”

“Well let’s fucking cheers to that,” he said and you two grabbed your cocktails that had just been dropped off by Fak.

The clink of your cocktail glasses echoed softly across the room as you smiled at each other.

“I can’t believe you know Carmen Berzatto. Did you know that the last place he worked at in New York credited him for retaining the restaurant's three stars?” your cousin exclaimed.

You didn’t know that. But it didn’t surprise you. Everything Carmen did was nothing short of spectacular.

“What’s he like?” your cousin asked, clearly intrigued.

“He’s kind of an anxious person, so he can come across as awkward, but he’s really incredible,” you answered honestly. “He’s obviously so passionate about food, and he’s so supportive and encouraging of his crew. It’s really sweet,” You ended up confessing to your cousin about your crush on Carmen over the third course, and he grinned at you while you shared your secret like a little schoolgirl during dinner.

“You don’t think he likes you too?” He asked you when you guys got to the final course, before the dessert. It was foie gras stuffed free-range quail.

You sighed deeply. “I feel like this restaurant and his family, which I’m sensing is totally chaotic are just about the only things he has time for in his life, so no, I think he just sees me as a friend,”

You took a small bite of the dish, savoring the explosion of flavors in your mouth. The rich, buttery foie gras complemented the juicy, tender quail perfectly, creating a melt-in-your-mouth sensation. You closed your eyes in pure bliss, and as you continued to eat, you couldn’t help but marvel at the complexity of flavors and textures in each bite. The dish was so delicious, so perfectly balanced, it had to be one of the best things you had ever eaten.

“What the fuck man, this is so fucking good,” a low groan escaped your cousin's lips.

You couldn’t help but let out a soft moan of pleasure. “Oh my god, I know,”

“The best thing I can make is… nothing,” he said with a chuckle. You immediately thought back to a time when he had almost burnt down his house making toaster strudel when you two were younger. You laughed so hard that you didn’t hear that someone had approached the table.

You heard a familiar voice say your name and you looked up and saw that it was Carmen.

The blue in his eyes was as gorgeous as ever, so raw, and intense, and you felt your heart race when you watched his mouth part, tongue peeking out to trace his bottom lip.

“I thought that was you,” Carmen cracked a tiny smile, his gaze slid from your face down to your legs, and you felt every inch of it. You were wearing a little black dress, nothing special, but it was figure-hugging, with a plunging neckline and short hemline that showcased your legs.

You offered a tiny wave when his pretty blue eyes met yours. "Chef, this is absolutely incredible," you gushed pointing at your plate, but couldn’t help but notice that Carmen’s lips were narrowed, and his jaw was tense.

“Thank you,” he replied, his lips formed around the words, but his teeth stayed locked.

“Dude, the food has been amazing tonight. We’re huge fans,” your cousin said.

“Oh really?” Carmen responded, his eyes focused only on you and not acknowledging your cousin who was sitting across from you. He then finally turned to him. “Nice to hear that dude,” His voice had an edge to it, and you hadn’t heard him use it before.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you Chef, she’s been telling me about this place for months so I’m glad we’re finally checking it out,” your cousin continued, and then winked at you and squeezed your hand across the table.

Carmen blinked, as blankness rolled over his features, and he looked at your cousin with a forced smile.  

You laughed nervously. “Carmy, this is my older cousin, we grew up together. He’s in town for his mom’s birthday. My aunt’s birthday, my mom’s sister, it’s her 60th on Sunday,” you felt silly emphasizing that you two were related but in Carmen’s life, the term ‘Cousin’ was sometimes used for friends.

It was like a flip had switched, and suddenly Carmen reached for your cousin's hand thanking him for coming in tonight, asking him if he was enjoying the experience, and telling him how lucky he was to have you across the street helping The Bear with the wine pairings over the last few months. You were extremely confused but gave Carmen a reassuring smile since you finally felt him begin to relax again. The kitchen was probably crazy tonight, so you could only imagine how he was feeling.

Carmen bit his lip and ran his fingers through his hair. He looked nervous and vulnerable all of a sudden as well. “By the way, don’t worry about the bill tonight. When y’a guys are done for the night, just let Cousin know,”

“Carmy that’s not necess-,” you started to say.

“I said, the bill will be covered. Compliments from the chef,” his tone was final, and you felt insane for feeling turned on by it. His eyebrows lifted and he gave you this look that clearly meant he wasn’t kidding. So, you decided not to push it.

“I’m sorry, I have to go. But, um, if y’a two want to stay past closin’, the team and I are doin’ surprise birthday shots for Sydney,” Carmen informed you both.

You giggled knowing that Sydney was going to hate all the attention on her. “She’s going to kill you, but yeah, that sounds fun,”

“Trust me it wasn’t my idea,” he muttered, as he bent down to kiss your cheek and quickly whispered in your ear, “Thanks for comin’, you look um, really… really nice,”

You were shocked at the act and struggled to respond, feeling tongue-tied and flustered by his words. But once you saw him walk back into the kitchen, you couldn't help but smile at his words, the corners of your lips turning up involuntarily as you tried to hide your face from your cousin,

“Well, I can tell you that he likes you,” he smirked.

“What? How can you tell?”

“Because until you told him who I was, it looked like he was going to punch me in the face and kick me out of this restaurant,” he said while grinning wildly.

xx

After you had visited the restaurant, you started going there a lot more to taste the menu items in the kitchen. You also noticed a shift in your dynamic with Carmen. You felt as though his touch became more frequent… maybe even intimate. You would feel a gentle hand on your lower back as he guided you through the chaotic kitchen. His hand would brush against your arms as he reached for ingredients or utensils. Sometimes, when you talked, he would reach out to brush a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his touch lingering for a moment before he would pull away. Most recently, you had almost tripped in the kitchen, and he had moved his hands to rest on your shoulders to make sure you were okay, and his fingers caressed your collarbone. You had shivered at his touch, feeling a surge of warmth and longing spread through your body.

The Bear staff was sort of this crazy family, but they made it work somehow. You mostly worked alone in the wine shop and had to depend on yourself for a lot of things. You ran a lean business with only two other employees who were part-time staff. You had an attorney and accountant to help you with beverage alcohol law and accounting, but it wasn’t as though you saw them all the time. In a way, your professional life had always felt a little lonely and The Bear had somehow become a part of your day-to-day, and your feelings for Carmen only grew more and more.

You had started to host weekly wine tastings on Thursdays and had just wrapped up cleaning up the mess from a 10-person party where one of the guys was extremely drunk and kept spilling his wine everywhere when Carmen and Ritchie walked in unexpectedly with a giant delivery box.

“Hey, noticed your name on this box, it was sittin’ in front of the shop next door,” Carmen stated as he dumped it on the counter.

You looked at the box and scowled. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

You had been eagerly awaiting the delivery of a new shipment of wine and had been left without any inventory of this particular Portuguese wine to sell to patrons the day before or the day before that. You were beyond frustrated. This was the third time the shop next door didn’t let you know that a delivery had been mistakenly delivered to them. Now you felt like an asshole, because you had totally bitched out the wine distributor yesterday demanding to know where your delivery was and why you had been left high and dry without any Pico Wine to sell. It was a super unique wine, probably one of the most unique in the world and your rich clientele loved having bottles in their homes. You probably looked batshit crazy explaining this to Carmen and Ritchie.

“Do y’a want me to beat the shit out of em’?” Your eyes grew wide, and your mouth dropped in shock as Ritchie started laughing. “I’m kidding, but do y’a want me to talk to em’ so that they fuckin’ understand?” Ritchie asked as his phone rang. He pulled his phone out of his back pocket, looked down, and told you he had to step out since Tiffany was calling him.

You let out a long sigh, and Carmen instantly pulled you in his arms, your face planted firmly against his chest. “You should come to Family tonight, take your mind off this,” he murmured against your skin, rubbing soothing circles on your back.

You had never been invited to Family dinner before, it was staff only. “Oh, I know how stressed you guys can get before the dinner rush, I really don’t want to be a bother,”

He scoffed and brushed your hair back once you looked up at him. “You wouldn’t be a bother, please don’t say that,” The look in his eyes was so genuine. “I’m so sorry about your shipment, I know how shitty that can feel,” he said releasing his hold on you and stepping back slightly.

You didn’t want to impose, and you didn’t want Carmen to feel like he had to invite you because you were having a bad day.

“It’s fine, I just need to drink some wine or something to calm down. I guess that’s the perk of this job,” you shrugged.

He peeked at you from beneath his lashes, “Tina cooked Poulet Mafé,”

“Carmy,” you moaned, while you saw him smile at your reaction. You had tasted Tina’s Poulet Mafé in the past. It was 100% the ultimate comfort food with thick peanut sauce with chicken, root vegetables, and cabbage served over rice. It was so fucking good.

“Okay, fine, I’ll come,” you conceded, rolling your eyes, looking away, and pretending you were bothered by it.

You felt a finger brush beneath your chin, as he raised your face to look at him, “Good girl,”

You swallowed a heavy breath and felt your panties get impossibly wet.

xx

“How did I not know that you live above the wine shop?” Carmen asked you one day when he was helping you build your new bar cart. At your last party, one of your friends accidentally crashed into it and broke it, so you ordered a new one on Amazon.

“I guess it never came up,” you replied. It was his first time at your apartment and for some reason, you felt a little nervous. It was probably because as he built the new bar cart, his muscles flexed with each movement as he expertly handled the tools. The veins in his arms bulged as he reached for different tools, his hands skillfully maneuvering as he put the cart together piece by piece. You couldn't help but be mesmerized by the intricate designs of his tattoos. He was so… sexy.

As he worked diligently, you found yourself drawn to his competence, "Do you need any help with that?" you asked softly, biting your lip.

He smiled at you. "Nah, I've got it covered, but could y’a hand me that wrench over there?" he called out, gesturing towards the toolbox, and breaking you out of your trance.

You grabbed the wrench and handed it to him, admiring the way his biceps tensed as he tightened the bolt.

As he put the finishing touches on the bar cart, you couldn't help but feel grateful for having Carmen in your life. As he stood back to admire his handiwork, you couldn't resist planting a kiss on his cheek.

You watched him blush as you thanked him and felt your heart flutter at the sight.

“I owe you a fucking cocktail, take a seat on the couch, and make yourself comfortable,” you told him, as you walked into the kitchen. You decided to make some Aviations. They were simple enough to make with gin, maraschino liqueur, crème de violette, and lemon juice. You effortlessly measured out the ingredients and shook the cocktail shaker and then poured the mixed and chilled cocktails into crystal glasses.

You walked back into the living room, handed Carmen his drink, grabbed a seat next to him, and pulled out some coasters.

You watched intently as he took a sip, and you enjoyed the way his eyes lit up with each sip.

“This is so good, so what now….You’re a fuckin’ mixologist?”he teased.

"What can I say, I have my secret talents,”

“You do,” he paused. “Y’a know I googled you too,” he said slowly. “I saw a picture of you with your Sommelier lapel pin,”

“And?” you replied.

“Why have you never brought up the fact that you are a trained and certified Advanced Sommelier?”

“It’s not a big deal,” you shrugged.

He rolled his eyes and breathed your name. “That’s literally one of the hardest exams in the hospitality industry,”

“No, the Master Sommelier Exam is the hardest exam,” you quipped.

“So, is that what you wanna do one day?”

“Maybe,” you swallowed thickly, realizing it was something you hadn’t thought about in a long time since moving back to Chicago.

“You should do it,” he softly urged.

You let out a strangled laugh. “I wouldn’t pass,”

“You would, it’s you,” he said, and when you gazed up at him, the intensity of the look in his eyes left no room to doubt that he really believed what he was telling you.

“So, when did you google me?” you deflected, deciding to change the subject, since you never loved to be the center of attention.

“First day I met you,” he replied very quickly.

“What?” you asked, genuinely surprised.

"You were so quick with your response about the scallops," he fumbled with his words. "And when I recrafted the dish and it came out the way it did, I knew that you were special, so I had to look you up,"

You were taken aback by his comment, and he noticed and tried to recover. "I mean, not like special-special, but, you know, talented and stuff," he stumbled over his words.

You raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by his flustered state. "So, I'm not special, just talented?" you teased, a playful grin spreading across your face.

"No, no, that's not what I meant," he backtracked. "I do think you're special, you're so special. I mean...uh...you're really amazin’ too,"

You chuckled softly, enjoying his discomfort. "It's okay, I know what you're trying to say," you reassured him. "And I think you're pretty amazing too."

As your eyes locked, he grabbed both of your drinks and set them down on your coffee table and then gently reached out to touch your cheek, making your breath catch in your throat. You felt him lower his face and closed your eyes preparing to feel his lips on yours but then he surprised you by pressing a trail of kisses down your neck and over the curve of your shoulder.

You sighed in contentment, feeling the warmth of his breath on your skin. Each kiss sent shivers down your spine, igniting a fire within you. His touch was gentle yet possessive, as if he wanted to memorize every inch of you.

He slowly brought his lips up to meet yours, “This okay?” he murmured against your lips, his breath strained. You nodded softly. His hand quickly tangled in your hair, and he let out a low groan as he hungrily kissed you, his tongue brushed against your bottom lip before slipping inside your mouth and pushing his tongue against yours. You moaned softly in response, tangling your fingers in his hair as you kissed him back.

"God, I’ve been thinkin’ about this for so long," Carmen whispered breathlessly against your lips, his hands exploring your body eagerly.

“Me too,” You responded by pushing him down further into the cushions of your couch, straddling his lap as you began to grind against him, and felt his cock straining against you underneath his pants.

"Oh, fuck Carmen," you gasped, locking eyes with him as you continued to move against him.

Carmen groaned in response, his hands gripping your hips tightly. "You’re so fuckin’ sexy, I fuckin’ love it when you say my name like that," he confessed, as his tongue traced along your collarbone. You liked knowing that he could be your Carmy in public, and your Carmen in private.

You started to pull the straps down on your sundress, but then he placed a hand on your shoulder to stop you from going any further. You gave him a questioning glance, his chest heaving as he looked into your eyes with a mixture of longing and fear. “Wait,” he muttered. "I... I…can't...we can't do this," he stammered, his voice filled with regret.

"Why not?" you asked, unable to keep the hurt entirely out of your voice.

"Because I'm afraid it will ruin what we have. You’re the only thing that makes sense in my life. I don't wanna lose that, I can’t lose that," he explained, his words heavy with emotion.

"You won’t,” you stated softly, realizing that you couldn't actually make that promise, and so your fingers hesitantly reached for his face. He closed his eyes, his jaw clenched as he struggled to find the right words.

“How can you know that?” he sighed.

“I don’t, but I have a good hunch,” you smiled, repeating the words you had told him the first time you two met.

You felt him connect the dots and he opened his eyes and smiled back at you and moved his hands until his fingers traced the tops of your thighs.

“I just want you… me… us to be sure. This will change everythin’ baby,” he whispered, his blue eyes looked darker somehow.

Baby.

You reached out to gently cup his face, bringing his gaze to meet yours. "Carmy, I want everything to change," you confessed.

The assurance you offered seemed to set Carmen off, he leaned forward and kissed you roughly, pulled you closer, and his hands roamed over your body until you were a tangled mess of limbs, and he was now lying on top of you on your couch.

He slipped his hand under your dress, over your panties and you gasped out in pleasure as his fingers rubbed lazy circles against your clothed cunt.

“Carmen,” you whimpered, looking up at him with glossy eyes.

“Gotta do this right baby, wanna take my time… get you all nice n’ ready before you take my cock,”

His words made your mouth pop open. You felt the ache between your legs become stronger because you realized that he was talker and that was your favorite.

“I wanna make you feel good with my fingers and my mouth first,” He murmured.

He lifted your dress to your waist, pushed your panties to the side, and looked down and groaned as he rested his hand directly above your heat. “I want to put my mouth right here,” he praised.

You moaned, trying to focus on what you could say, but you could barely remember how to breathe.

“Words,” he growled, as he looked at you hungrily, eyes dark and hooded.

“I want this. I want you Carmen, god, I want you so bad,”

“Fuck,” he made a throaty noise. “Good girl,” he hissed as his fingers slowly started to circle around your entrance. “You’re so fuckin’ wet, this for me?”

“It’s all for you, I’m yours,” you whispered, feeling vulnerable suddenly.

His eyes softened. “Oh, fuck baby, I’m yours too,” he said placing a gentle kiss on your lips and slipping his fingers inside of you as he swallowed your moans.

That night you learned that Carmen wasn’t as shy as you thought. In fact, Carmen surprised you by taking charge and confidently leading the way.

xx

“Things are a clusterfuck at the restaurant, it’s gonna be a long night, I don’t think I can come over tonight, or else I’m gonna wake you up at like 2 in the mornin’ baby,” Carmen said when he stopped by during his lunch break with an adorable pout on his face.

“That’s okay, I’ll just hang out with my other boyfriend,” you teased across your shoulder as you stocked up on some new wine inventory.

He walked up behind you. “Not funny,” he growled in your ear, as he playfully spanked your ass. You two hadn’t formally had that conversation, but you assumed you were his girlfriend considering how many times he would call you ‘Mine’ during intimate moments, claiming you as his. And you could tell he liked that you had just referred to him as his boyfriend.

“Carmy, it’s fine, I’ll see you tomorrow,” you sighed comfortably as you felt his lips edge down the side of your neck and then stop to plant a soft kiss on your shoulder.

“You’re not mad?” he whispered.

“I promise I’m not mad,” you reassured him, knowing his anxiety sometimes got the best of him and turned around to give him a soft kiss on his lips and were about to pull away but then he gripped your face firmly with his hands and pressed your forehead to his.

You two were still so new, it had only been a couple of weeks since you had slept together the first time, and you hadn’t told The Bear staff yet since you two were trying to live in this bubble for a little longer. Even though, if you were honest, you had a feeling they knew. A recent experience in Carmen’s office may have ended with you being just a little too loud.

But, you were pretty sure about one thing.

You were in love with Carmen Berzatto, and even though he hadn’t said it to you yet. You had a good hunch that he was in love with you too.

xx

I wanted to write Carmy in a way that showed that he is the shy and reserved person we all know, but that once he feels comfortable with someone (that he wants to pursue romantically), he subconsciously becomes affectionate and flirtatious. He may not be the most outwardly expressive person, but with the right person, his once hesitant and cautious demeanor softens, revealing a more confident and outgoing side of him. I hope this version of Carmy resonates with people because to me this is how I would envision him during a crush and entering a healthy relationship <3

Also, I was shell shocked to learn from the world of Google how complicated it is to receive the designation of Master Sommelier. There are only 279 in the entire world, and it really is one of the hardest exams in the world with a pass rate of 3-8%. But, I have faith in our reader achieving this feat one day. She’s a queen!

Thank you so much for reading! If you like this, please consider leaving a comment or reblogging.

[the-bookdragons-hoard]

I thought the second ending was a gut punch, but this clearly takes the cake. Beautifully written

bewitched - ending 4.

check out bewitched pt. 1 here!

ending 1. — ending 2. — ending 3.

summary: after you present Aemond with the ultimatum of your marriage, he must choose between you and Alys.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

You left him…

The days passed by silently… slowly… There was an eagerness in your bones that craved the touch of your husband. Part of you despised loving him while the other part longed for him once more. No matter how great the grief clung to you, you refused to allow yourself to simply let him in. Aemond had the ultimatum… You allowed him the privilege to choose and so you waited.

Hours, days, even a full week passed without so much of a word between you or Aemond. Not only had your marriage become strained, but any relationship you had with any person in the Red Keep had become absent. You were alienated in the place you once felt the greatest peace and love in your life.

As life went on, you started sending ravens back home to your parents. You detailed your situation and the internal battle you faced. A great part of you wanted to run away and leave the capital forever, yet you could not just abandon your children, you wrote. Even if your children were clearly Targaryen, they were also a part of you, and you would not become known as the princess who abandoned her children. It was Aemond’s fault for causing so much pain to enter your life, and he did nothing to stop such pursuits. Marriage is a burden, you remember one elder noble lady saying long ago before your betrothal to the prince. If only you knew then what you know now…

Eventually, you had planned yourself a trip to return back to your childhood home. Using the guise of your father’s sudden illness, preparations were made. Aemond had left on Vhagar a day earlier, so he had no knowledge of your plan — to leave and never return to the Red Keep.

Much of the time before your leave was spent caring for your children, ensuring that they were prepared for the journey. But you were unsure of how to explain the circumstances of the extended leave from the capital to them. How could you simply tell of their father’s infidelity?

Upon the next full moon, your leave from the Keep had been made, and you and the children were in pursuit to your home. The place where you would all hopefully remain safe as the war began to stir in the realm. Maybe this would all be a blessing in disguise.

But as you watched King’s Landing disappear from view, you could only think about the letter you had left on your sheets and Aemond’s reaction to your absence.

In your silence, you have sealed our fate. May the Seven cleanse your soul, my love.

[the-bookdragons-hoard]

Me, sitting around while digesting this outcome:

bewitched - ending 3.

check out bewitched pt. 1 here!

ending 1. — ending 2. — ending 4.

summary: after you present Aemond with the ultimatum of your marriage, he must choose between you and Alys.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

He takes both…

The days passed by silently… slowly… There was an eagerness in your bones that craved the touch of your husband. Part of you despised loving him while the other part longed for him once more. No matter how greatly the grief clinged to you, you refused to allow yourself to simply let him in. Aemond had the ultimatum… You allowed him the privilege to choose and so you waited.

Aemond remained silent on the matter while seeming to continue going on with his wife around you. Something about his lack of concern deeply disturbed you, as he simply acted as if nothing had changed. Little were you aware of Aemond’s struggle to reconcile his love for both of the women he loved and his duty to the realm.

Alys had known of the prince’s love for his first wife, which left her torn in her twisted desires. Yet soon through some very convincing tactics on her end, Aemond had brought Alys to live in the Red Keep. When you first caught glimpse of the Witch Queen, you noticed her swollen belly - the bastard of your husband, now haunting the halls of the keep.

As time passed, Alys attempted to speak with the prince on the matter of her existence within the Keep. She had noticed how deeply uncomfortable her presence made you and the other members of the family. Once in private, Aemond had mentioned the Conqueror taking two wives. She knew that the customs of the realm looked down on polygamy, and she feared the scandal that would arise if Aemond took two wives. Despite these fears, Alys could not bear to lose Aemond, and she pleaded with him to choose her over his ladywife.

Aemond was torn between his love for Alys and his desire for the other lady, and he knew that his decision would have far-reaching consequences. He thought long and hard, weighing his duty to the realm against his love for the two women.

In the end, Aemond made a bold decision. He decided to take both Alys and the other lady as his wives, defying the customs of the realm and risking the wrath of the gods. When Aemond had announced this to you in your private chambers, your heart twisted cruelly. You wanted to be with your husband, but you could not imagine continuing your life with the woman he was unfaithful with present every day.

“I do not accept,” You spoke firmly, “I shall not be subjected to such a—”

Aemond grabbed your wrist tightly, staring down at you, “I do not care about what you want, my little wife. I shall take two lovers and have legitimate heirs from both of them. This is our duty to the realm now. My will be done…”

[the-bookdragons-hoard]

bewitched - ending 2.

check out bewitched pt. 1 here!

ending 1. — ending 3. — ending 4.

summary: after you present Aemond with the ultimatum of your marriage, he must choose between you and Alys.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

He chose Alys…

The days passed by silently… slowly… There was an eagerness in your bones that craved the touch of your husband. Part of you despised loving him while the other part longed for him once more. No matter how greatly the grief clinged to you, you refused to allow yourself to simply let him in. Aemond had the ultimatum… You allowed him the privilege to choose and so you waited.

As the sun set over King’s Landing, whispers spread like wildfire through the Red Keep. Aemond Targaryen, known for his dragon-riding prowess and loyal marriage to his wife, had been spotted sneaking out of his chambers with a mysterious woman. You knew it had to be her, since he had one come and gone from the Riverlands once since the confrontation. It made your heart ache, but you prayed for this not to be true.

Yet the truth soon emerged, leaving the court in shock. Aemond had brought his mistress back to the chambers. Alys Rivers now resided in the same halls as you; stealing away your husband, your despair, and your dignity.

“I cannot deny my heart any longer,” Aemond confessed to you in a hushed tone, his silver hair framing his handsome face. “You have been a good wife, but Alys is my soulmate.”

You stood there, angrily shaking your head in disbelief. After years together, Aemond Targaryen was no better than any other man of the realm. Not even his wedding vows and sacred devotion to the Seven would save you from this cruel fate. It stung in many different ways; your heart… your pride…

“So you choose to raise a bastard with a Witch Queen,” You spat at him, “You choose to betray your wife, your children, and your duty!”

“My duty is to the realm, and I have served that duty” he declared, his voice filled with conviction. “I will face the consequences, but I cannot imagine my life without her by my side.”

You shook your head, the urge to scream, to cry, to wish this all away consumed you. A restlessness has settled in your bones as you looked upon your unfaithful husband, “I will not live in the same castle as my husband’s mistress…”

“Then you are free to return home…” Aemond glared at you coldly, “But myself, Alys, and the children will remain with me.”

[the-bookdragons-hoard]

bewitched - ending 1.

check out bewitched pt. 1 here!

ending 2. — ending 3. — ending 4.

summary: after you present Aemond with the ultimatum of your marriage, he must choose between you and Alys.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

He chose you…

The days passed by silently… slowly… There was an eagerness in your bones that craved the touch of your husband. Part of you despised loving him while the other part longed for him once more. No matter how greatly the grief clinged to you, you refused to allow yourself to simply let him in. Aemond had the ultimatum… You allowed him the privilege to choose and so you waited.

Life passed by with the Red Keep continuing business as usual. Though everything seemed plain, a tension hung in the air that caused waves of anxiety to rush through the halls. The staff of the Keep were far more hushed than usual, gossiping with baited breaths when they could.

They took notice of the strange silence between you and the Prince. You only allowed yourself to be seen with Aemond at suppers or when it was greatly expected of you, so not to slack on your duty to the realm. The only other time you allowed yourself to see him was in the quick glances at him when he came to bed. Encounters at night were always silent, moving separately from each other so not to disturb what remained unspoken.

Most of your time was spent either in the gardens or the library, using your solitude as time for further entertainment. Currently, you were perched on a seat of one of the garden patios among bushes and a vineyard with your children accompanying you. You would not allow for the coldness you currently felt toward Aemond to manifest toward them as well, they were innocents. When they asked why their father was no longer frequently joining their mother in her activities, you swayed them away from the questions, wishing not to go into detail with them yet about Aemond’s infidelity.

Your son, Aemon, was pretending to joust with his wooden sword and shield on the greenery. He looked just like Aemond, even going as far as to antagonize his imaginary opponent before striking them. Maerys, your sweet daughter, sat at the steps to the patio reading a book. She was just as studious as her father. And though both children had traits of their father and the fine silver hair of a Targaryen, they had your eyes and your spirit.

It was the shift in the attendants that alerted you to another presence. You lifted your gaze to see Aemond, face stoic and arms held behind his back. With a sigh, you rose from your seat and soothed out the skirt of your dress. You waved at the attendants as to instruct them.

“Please see the children back to their rooms. Their lessons with the septas will resume shortly,” You nodded to the nurse who escorted Aemon and Maerys back into the Keep.

Both Aemond and yourself watched as the silver-haired twins disappeared indoors, leaving you both alone together. Instead of looking to your husband, you gaze rested on one of the shrubs with freshly sprouted rose buds. Words had escaped you and your mind was too foggy to think properly.

Suddenly, calloused fingers began to settle in your hand, attempting to intertwine themselves with your own soft digits. The feeling caused a wave of worry to crash through you as you quickly pulled your hand away. Aemond sighed, but his hand remained where yours was a moment before.

“It rids me with guilt that the smile that once graced your face has been replaced with tears and anger at my doing,” your husband finally broke the silence between you.

“Do you love her?” You responded, paying no mind to his previous statement.

His reply was quick to follow, a slight surprise to you, “No.”

Words were lost on you, so instead you simply nodded your head. Your gaze was still elsewhere, concerned that if you looked him in the eye your walls would crumble.

“I know that I have caused you unspeakable pain, but you will not have to worry about temptations anymore…” Aemond tried to keep a stoic tone, but the wavering of his voice revealed how much he regretted his previous actions.

Though you accepted his kind words, he needed to be explicit about what they meant, “And what of Alys… and the bastard?”

“I expect that they have sailed off the coast of Dorne by now. The witch is seeking asylum abroad in Essos where she shall be no concern of ours,” Aemond explained, “But the fault has been mine, my love. You have been a loyal wife and companion, blessing us with two beautiful children. I allowed the spoils of war to corrupt me and tempt me and I… I apologize, deeply, and this will be something I regret for the rest of my days…”

“But I love you, my sweet wife, I truly do. And if you would allow me, I would do… I would do anything to amend the bonds I’ve broken,” He looked at you, grief shining through his one good eye.

There was a quiet moment between both of you. Then, you silently outstretched your hand, taking his pale hand into your own.

[the-bookdragons-hoard]

bewitched.

AEMOND TARGARYEN X FEM!READER

summary: more word has arrived to you regarding your husbands infidelity. as he returns to you, you present him with a choice.  word count: 2k warnings: drinking. strong language. angst. adultery. pain. a/n: see end of the piece for author’s note

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

choose your own ending…

— ending 1.

— ending 2.

— ending 3.

— ending 4.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

“My lady,” Your chambermaid spoke from the doorway, returning with a fresh pitcher of wine as you had requested, “Should I see the children to bed?”

“Please do,” Your voice was soft, the words fragile in your solemn state.

“It might be best for you to rest, rather than await the return of Prince Aemond.”

Her words were gentle, simply advising you to take care of yourself. But the fires of hurt and betrayal were already lit. 

“What makes you believe that I am awaiting my husband?” With words more venomous than you intended, you bid her leave.

At the sound of the door shutting, you stood and moved toward the pitcher and chalice left idly by the fireplace. You poured the deep red liquid and lifted the cup to your lips, taking a generous gulp.  The dull burn allowed some relief to your heightened senses. But you also knew that the alcohol only added fuel to your fire. 

Weiterlesen

[the-bookdragons-hoard]

Hot dang!

An Appetite for More

13/12: Presents and Praise Kink - Billy Washington Word Count: 1.6k~ | Warnings: oral (f receiving), heavy petting, praise kink

12 Days of Smuff Masterlist

A/N: it's all about the sopping wet subby men in mid December apparently

She glances over at Billy in the passenger seat of her battered VW Polo. He looks fucking miserable, eyes heavy with fatigue, his head rested in the palm of his hand with his elbow propped against the window. 

The family gathering/present swap/intervention or whatever the fuck it was, didn't end the best.

It was the first Christmas since Billy's incident in the Summer, the one that nearly cost him his life. She still remembers the way her heart leapt into her throat when she found out what may or may not happen to him. 

When she thought she might lose him.

It was a feeling she wouldn't wish on anybody.

She even remembers the way she squeezed the life out of him in the police station. He smelled of sweat and fear, and she felt his desperation in the way he clung to her, as if he couldn't imagine ever entertaining the thought of letting her go.

And of course, the family gathering started fine, but ended with some choice words about what had happened. It got so heated that Lana nearly leapt over the table at a distant uncle, her accent so thick with anger that even she could barely understand her. In other circumstances she might have laughed. But one glance at Billy beside her, his knee bouncing erratically, jaw tense, half a sunday dinner still sat lukewarm in front of him, all she could do was hold his hand under the table.

When it had gone on too long though, even she couldn't hold back. If she had seen Billy's face, there was the slight glimmer of love and pride, that someone he loved would stand up for him.

He was doing so well, she thought, he didn't need this. Especially so close to Christmas. She almost thought about ditching her plan altogether, but thought that there was a slither of a chance he might enjoy it still.

She pats his knee lovingly as she drives, her eyes still on the road, but her gesture is enough to show that she was thinking of him.

Billy sighs, and slides his hand over hers, “sorry.”

“Don't be sorry,” she says easily, “it was shitty of them to bring it up.”

He glances over, the street lights passing by illuminating his blue, sad eyes. “Thank you for sticking up for me.”

“Always,” she smiles, squeezing his hand. "I should give your sister a medal as well, didn't know she could move so fast."

It was sad, exhausted even, the smile he gave back. But it was something. And it made her heart flutter all the same.

She sighed in relief as the central heating of Billy's flat hit her skin, pulling her coat off her shoulders and toeing her shoes off at the front door as Billy made his way to the kitchen. The flat smelled faintly of those knockoff Yankee Candles that Billy always bought from B&M. 'Fresh Cotton', my arse, she thinks as the acrid scent hits her nose.

“Brew?” He asks, filling up the kettle with anticipation that she'd say yes anyway.

A grin rose to her lips, leaning against the doorway, “um, you still have one present left?”

He half turns, his face set in confusion, “do I?”

She nodded, her grin widening as she folded her arms across her chest, “Course you do.”

Billy places the kettle on its base, his curiosity piqued as he turns to lean casually against the counter. “Alright then, where is it?” He asks.

She presses her lips together to suppress the desire to outright smile, her hands coming to the buttons at the front of her dress, unfurling the fabric, revealing inch after inch of tantalising skin. Billy's eyes follow, his jaw on the floor at the layer of red lace that adorned her curves. He swallowed hard, momentarily speechless as her dress rippled to the floor, leaving her stood in a crimson ensemble that rendered him stupid.

He said nothing, but simply made his way to her, making no attempt to touch her yet. And sank slowly to his knees, large hands bracing the spot above her waist beside her breasts, pressing his face to her bare stomach and exhaling.

“Good boy,” she praises softly, running her fingers through his hair as he raises his eyes to her, a flicker of hunger in them. She didn’t need him to speak. His body said it all, how much he craved her, how willing he was to please.

She let her fingertips trail down his face, her smile softening. “You’ve been waiting for this, haven’t you?”

He gives the slightest nod, his hands itching to touch her more. “Please, baby, don't…” he breathes, as if it physically pains him to be teased.

Her smile deepened, equal parts tender and wicked. “But you look so good like this,” she murmured, her fingers tracing the sharp lines of his jaw. “On your knees, desperate for me. You’re perfect.”

Billy’s breath hitched at her words, the praise sinking into him like fire. She took his hand, guiding it to her thigh, letting him feel the heat of her skin through the delicate lace. His lips parted, and without waiting for more, he leaned in, pressing reverent kisses against her stomach, each one slow and deliberate.

“Good boy,” she whispered, threading her fingers through his hair as he worked his way down, his lips trailing lower, his breath hot against her skin.

When he reached her waistband, he glanced up, waiting for her nod before carefully pushing the lace aside. She gasped softly as his tongue flicked out, the warmth of his mouth teasing her entrance, trailing up to her clit. Billy gripped her thighs, pressing her back against the cool counter as he buried himself between her legs.

“That’s it,” she praised, her voice breathy and warm. “Just like that, baby. You’re so good to me.”

His eyes met hers briefly before he doubled down, his tongue moving with purpose down to her entrance again, fucking her with his tongue as if he himself drew pleasure from it. Her fingers tightened in his hair, pulling him closer as her breathing grew more erratic, thighs shaking as his fingers made bruises in flesh.

“God, Billy,” she moaned, her head tilting back as the tension coiled tighter in her core. “You’re perfect. My perfect– ah.”

The praise strained his jeans, combined with the taste of her, having her all to himself, his knees burning against the floor. He thought, this was the best fucking meal he'd ever had in this kitchen. She was sweet, warm and needy, all he ever wanted.

He groaned against her, the vibration sending a white hot wave up her spine, the pleasure tightening in her gut. Her head threw back against the cupboards, her grip on his hair so hard she was sure she might have been pulling too much.

His hands slid up to her waist, pulling her down to his mouth in rhythmic movements. His nose brushed against her clit, and that was what sent her finally spiralling.

Her thighs trembled around him, her nails digging into the countertop for support as her climax crashed over her. Each wave of pleasure wracked her body, pulling a guttural moan from her lips. Fuck the neighbours, she thought, completely lost in the moment. Nothing else mattered but him and the way he worshipped her with his mouth.

Billy didn’t relent, his tongue working her through every last tremor. Even when she was fully spent, humming in the afterglow, he kept this slow, lazy pace of forcing her hips to roll over his face.

“Billy,” she whimpered, her voice barely above a whisper. “Too much…”

Only then did he ease off, placing one last reverent kiss against her sensitive flesh before looking up, his lips glistening, his eyes heavy with satisfaction. He pressed his forehead against her stomach, his breath hot against her skin as he waited for her to come back down.

“You’re amazing,” she murmured, her voice shaky but full of warmth. She cupped his face, gently lifting it so their eyes met. “So good for me.”

A faint smile tugged at his lips. She pulled him to his feet, her lips finding his in a slow, intense kiss, tasting herself on him, stoking a flame inside her. Their lips moved in sync as she guided him toward the bedroom. Her legs were still shaky, but she didn’t care. She wanted him, all of him, and nothing was going to stop her.

When they reached the bed, she pushed him back onto the mattress, climbing over him with predatory intent. His hands immediately found her hips, but she pinned them down against the sheets, her eyes gleaming with playful dominance.

“Not yet,” she whispered, leaning down to nip at his jawline. “You’ve been so good for me tonight. Let me take care of you now.”

Billy groaned, his hands flexing under her grip, but he didn’t resist. He trusted her completely, and that trust only fueled her desire. She kissed her way down his chest, her hands following the trail of her lips, savoring every inch of him.

When she finally reached his waistband, she looked up, her gaze locked onto his. “Tell me what you want, baby,” she murmured, her fingers teasing at the fabric, stroking his erection through his jeans.

“You,” he managed, his voice a low growl. “Just you.”

General Taglist:

@1lluminaticonfirmed @aemondsfavouritebastard @all-for-aemond @bellstwd @blackswxnn

@blairfox04 @buckybarnesb-tch @castellomargot @cl-0-vr @eddieslut69

@emmaisafictionwhore @eponaartemisa @hb8301 @jamespotterismydaddy @justbelljust

@minholy223 @mochi-rose @natty2017 @nenelysian @nixiefics

@primonizzutto @qyburnsghost @randomdragonfires @risefallrise @sheshellsseashells

[the-bookdragons-hoard]

Girl!Dad Billy taking his chubby little baby to the pool, she's strapped to his chest.

The sun in Hawkin's Indiana scorched the pavement, the air thick with chlorine and the sound of splashing kids. But Billy Hargrove wasn’t focused on any of that, not when his little girl was about to be strapped to his chest, adorable in every way. Billy was shirtless in a pair of low-slung black swim trunks, his skin gleaming from sunscreen and sweat, as his messy curls were pulled back loosely at the nape of his neck. A thin gold chain rested on his chest, glinting as he leaned over the shaded stroller to lift his daughter out—his baby girl.

“C’mon, princess,” he murmured low, his voice gravelly with sleep and irritation, “Daddy’s gotcha.”

She was chubby, drowsy, and dressed in a pink ruffled bathing suit with a tiny sun hat that barely stayed on her curly head. Billy gently bounced her against his bare chest, one strong hand supporting her bottom, the other shielding her eyes from the sun as they made their way toward the pool. Her pudgy fist clung to his necklace, tugging with baby strength that made him huff. Droll already coating his neck as she tugged the necklace into her mouth.

A few pool-goers spared curious glances—some at the heavily muscled man with the dangerous edge in his expression, others at the absolute softness with which he cradled the baby girl in his arms.

“Back the fuck up,” he muttered under his breath when a group of older kids splashed too close as he turned his body away to shield her.

He took a seat on the shallow end stairs, dipping just his legs in while keeping her propped up carefully on his lap. She gurgled happily, her toes curling as the cool water touched them. He smiled—just a little. Just enough.

Behind him, stretched out on a lounge chair under a striped umbrella, you slept soundly, arms loosely draped across your stomach, your bikini top tied askew from sunbathing earlier. Billy glanced back at you, the corner of his mouth twitching up. He loved you like this—peaceful, relaxed, trusting him enough to watch her while you dozed.

Some teenager whistled nearby.

Billy’s eyes snapped to them with laser precision.

“You look again, and I’m drowning your scrawny ass in the deep end.”

The kid disappeared real fast.

He kissed the crown of his daughter’s head and sighed.

“Mommy’s got the right idea,” he whispered to her. “She gets to nap while I deal with all the little pricks.”

His daughter squealed, kicking happily in the water, her soft tummy wriggling in excitement. Billy grinned, catching her wet feet in his big hands, pretending to nibble on her toes while she shrieked with laughter.

Yeah. He used to rule the pool with cigarettes and swagger.

Now he guarded it like a territorial golden retriever with a baby in one arm and a scowl for anyone who looked twice.

And honestly?

He liked this version of himself a hell of a lot more

[the-bookdragons-hoard]

This was so fluffy and sweet. And equally hot. I love how in the beginning he was cocky and smug but once he gets what he wants he is all shy and submissive. It's addictive.

Sunk Cost

Pairing: Tom Bennett x f!reader Warnings: Mentions of blood, death and injury. Mild angst and mentions of PTSD. Smut. Word count: ~4.8k

Summary: Following the Battle of the River Plate, she is deployed to the Falkland Islands to tend to the survivors of the HMS Exeter. Some of the naval officers are in better shape than others, and when one in particular makes it his mission to bed her before shipping back home, she decides to give him a taste of his own medicine.

Author's note: Based on this request. No tag list - please follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications. "Conchies" is slang for conscientious objector.

She had travelled aboard the SS Lafonia to the Falklands, accompanied by two doctors and eleven other nurses to treat the injured of the HMS Exeter following the battle of the River Plate.

Having qualified as a nurse almost five years ago, she was experienced in dealing with blood and injury and, in the days spent sailing across the South Atlantic Ocean, she had been steeling herself for the inevitable carnage she would be witness to.

Nothing, however, could have prepared her for the utter devastation she was met with upon arrival. Pulling back the canvas flap of the medical tent, the smell was the first thing to hit her, pushing her backwards like an invisible, oppressive force; burned flesh and the rancid, yet somehow sickly sweet scent of decay.

Everything from minor burns to missing limbs needed to be treated, but those sailors were the fortunate ones, they still drew breath. Seventy two British sailors had lost their lives defending against German forces.

It would be two weeks until a boat arrived to collect those fit enough to travel back to England, so those able bodied enough to do so assisted with dressing wounds and changing bed pans. She was grateful for the help as, despite there being fourteen medical staff to attend to their patients, it was overwhelming and she was tired, so tired.

She had smiled, though it had not quite reached her eyes, as she’d been introduced to the private that would be assisting her on her rounds.

“Name’s Tom, Tom Bennett,” he’d greeted her with an incline of his head and a lopsided smirk. 

“Nice to meet you, Private Bennett,” she’d replied as politely as she could, discreetly taking him in.

He stood around six feet tall, a mop of sandy coloured hair atop his head. He was classically handsome with high cheekbones and an aquiline nose, and carried himself with a self assured swagger that emphasised the fact that he knew he was good looking. She could have overlooked his vanity, were it not for the fact he was apparently cocky in every other respect too.

Her exhaustion had worn her patience thin, however, she was certain that the sailor assigned to helping her with her rounds would have grated upon her nerves even with a full night’s rest. She found his unwavering smirk and continual stream of flirtatious remarks wholly inappropriate, considering the situation they found themselves in. There was no doubt in her mind that he had fought bravely and his service upon the Admiral Graf Spee was to be highly commended, but it didn’t mean she had to enjoy his company, she merely endured it.

“Private Bennett, I need to give this patient a sponge bath, can you please dispose of these dressings?” She asked, keeping her tone curt as she seated herself beside a cot.

“My turn next, yeah?” He quipped cheekily, causing her to press her lips into a tight line to suppress the urge to sigh.

She lifted her eyes to meet his, her stern gaze wholly unaffected by the way the blue of his sparkled with mischief. “The dressings, Private Bennett.”

“You can call me Tom, y’know,” he said airily, the smirk on his face never faltering as he snatched up the dirty bandages and turned to walk away.

“I’d rather not,” she muttered wearily to his retreating form, turning her attention back to the sailor laid dozing in the cot beside her.

All of her rounds were much the same; Tom trailed behind her, flirting shamelessly, and every remark made her blood boil. For the patients yet to regain consciousness, she could mercifully ignore him. However, for the sake of maintaining a pleasant bedside manner for those who were lucid, she had to smile, laugh and remain polite.

As the days dragged on, she found herself wishing the boat coming to ferry Tom Bennett back to England would arrive sooner. Attempting to keep her temper in check and not give him a well deserved telling off in front of everyone was becoming as exhausting an effort as it was caring for the wounded. He was a pain in the arse.

It had been a particularly demanding day - several of the patients being treated for severe burns had developed infections - by the time the next nurse arrived to relieve her of her duties, she was desperate to be off of her aching feet. Sitting down heavily upon a bench in the rest area, she fished her cigarette case from her apron pocket, flipping it open and placing one delicately between her lips. Before her hand could reach for her matchbook, a flash of flint followed by flame ignited in front of her, illuminating the end of her cigarette into a bright, cherry red glow.

She blew out a tight line of smoke, her eyes narrowed in displeasure as she looked up at the smug face of Tom Bennett. The sight of him was enough to spoil the pleasant taste of tobacco that she usually revelled in upon her first drag. The corners of his mouth were upturned into a self satisfied smile, his eyes crinkled in quiet amusement as he looked down at her. He always looked like he was entertained by a joke that only he was privy to, it drove her crazy.

“Thanks,” she said curtly, taking another drag.

“Anything for you, gorgeous,” he winked, seating himself beside her and lighting up a smoke of his own.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” she muttered darkly, gazing off into the distance, her lips pursed.

“Do what?” He mumbled around his cigarette, keeping it perched at the corner of his mouth.

She sighed, pressing at the point between her eyebrows with the thumb of her free hand, an absentminded gesture of exasperation. “Everything’s a joke to you, isn’t it?”

Tom snatched his cigarette from between his lips, holding it between the forefingers of his right hand as he raised his palms in a defensive gesture. “Enough misery ‘round ‘ere, ‘int there? Jus’ tryna make you smile.”

“Well, you’re not,” she spat, taking a quick puff, savouring the short burst of lightheadedness that the nicotine rush afforded her.

He gave an easy shrug, fixing her with a dopey grin. “Well, I don’t see anywhere ‘round ‘ere where I can buy you flowers, so my witty charm will have to do.”

She scoffed, flicking away her butt, and rose to her feet, storming off.

“See you tomorra, yeah?” he called after her, “unless you want someone to help warm your cot tonight?”

Fucking prick.

Sleep evaded her that night. Tom had gotten under her skin. It made her furious that with so many men injured and dying around them, he failed to see the gravity of their situation. How could he be cracking jokes and making clumsy attempts to seduce her in the midst of a war? He needed to be taught a lesson, to be taken down a peg or two, and she decided she was the person to do it. Perhaps if the tables were turned on him, then he’d realise just how inappropriate his behaviour was and feel rightfully ashamed of himself.

The following day, as Tom accompanied her on her rounds, she laughed heartily at his flippant remarks, allowed her fingers to linger against his as he passed her bandages, and stared deep into his eyes every time she addressed him.

“Lucky sod,” he’d jested as she’d dabbed gently at the burns on a patient’s chest.

“You’ll get your turn later,” she’d quipped back with a wink, causing his jaw to fall agape. He’d been quick to close his mouth again, averting his attention to the floor as his cheeks had turned crimson.

It was obvious her being receptive to his advances was having an effect on him. All day she saw the way his eyes widened in disbelief, the slight blush that crept into his cheeks when she returned his flirty banter. He was uncomfortable with not being given the brush off, and she was enjoying every second of it.

“What are you playing at?” His voice came from behind her, as she was rifling through the medicine cabinet, searching for a bottle of iodine. It was a quiet corner of the medical tent, partitioned off from the sick beds for medical personnel to replenish supplies and dose out medicine.

“What do you mean?” She asked casually, not turning around as her hands continued to move aside brown bottles. She hoped the clink of the glass was enough to disguise the hint of amusement in her voice, and if not, at least he couldn’t see her smiling.

“You’re flirting with me,” he stated simply, though his voice didn’t carry its usual confidence.

“Am I?” She replied with faux innocence, casting him a glance over her shoulder.

He wasn’t standing as straight as he usually did, his brow was furrowed and he had his hands clasped in front of him. He was nervous.

Good, she thought.

“I–I think so, yeah…”

She rounded on him, closing the distance between them, delighting in the way his posture visibly stiffened as she pressed close, placing her palms against the broadness of his shoulders.

“I guess I finally figured there’s no use in denying what’s between us,” she cooed, “can’t fight it any longer.”

“Yeah..?” He asked, blinking rapidly, lips parted as he stared down at her with wide eyes.

“Absolutely. You deserve a reward, Private Bennett,” she said, reaching up to card her fingers through the softness of his hair. “You fought so bravely, it would be an honour for me to give myself to you. You’re a war hero.”

His face blanched, and for the first time since she’d met him, she saw the corners of his mouth turn downwards, a flicker between anger and sadness causing his brow to furrow and his gaze to dull. He grasped her wrists gently, moving her hands back to her sides, before quickly walking away.

She had expected to feel triumphant in managing to fluster him enough to get him to back down, but she didn’t. It was wholly unsatisfying, a heavy feeling of guilt sat like a stone upon her chest. There was something in her words that had utterly knocked the wind out of Tom’s sails, she had pushed too far. She hadn’t embarrassed him, she’d crushed him, and the worst part was she wasn’t entirely sure what she had said that had caused such an unexpected reaction.

He was quiet for the rest of her rounds, silently following orders, not meeting her eye when he spoke or was spoken to. It was as though all the light had gone out of him. He didn’t hang around for a smoke once she was relieved of her duties, so she was forced to follow after him as he strode back to the sleeping quarters reserved for uninjured naval officers.

“Hey, wait!” She called out, her feet hurrying to keep up with his longer gait, finally falling in step beside him. “I’m sorry if I upset you.”

He stopped, huffing out a sigh as he turned his face upwards, briefly closing his eyes, before looking back down at her. “Forget about it,” he muttered, “message received loud and clear. I won’t hassle you no more.”

She was left standing there as he walked off, leaving her alone. Despite what he said, she knew forgetting about it was the very last thing that she would be able to do.

Her rounds were miserable over the days that followed. Tom didn’t laugh, he didn’t smile, he didn’t even speak unless spoken to. As reluctant as she was to admit it, she missed his jokey flirting. Whatever this was, the silence and sadness that hung between them, she hated it. She couldn’t question it in front of patients, and as soon as his obligation to her was fulfilled for the day, he hurried back to the naval quarters, making it clear he had no desire to speak to her.

Even the patients had started to notice it - of course they had - the stony silence that the pair worked in was a stark contrast to Tom’s usual annoyingly proud and jovial demeanour.

“Lover’s quarrel?” A private with a head injury asked playfully, as she pulled away his dressings to check on the wound.

Tom spoke before she had the opportunity to respond, his tone arrogant and steeped in annoyance. “Nope, just focusing on the job, mate. Got a ship coming to take me away from here tomorra, and the quicker I’m on it the better.”

She felt her heart lurch at his words. So preoccupied with the fact that Tom was refusing to speak to her, she had completely forgotten that he’d be leaving soon. Now his departure loomed imminently and the thought of it made her chest tighten uncomfortably. He couldn’t just leave and never speak to her again without giving her the chance to make amends, or to help her understand what she’d done wrong in the first place; that wasn’t fair.

He didn’t even look at her as she turned to him, instead he handed her the clean set of bandages he’d been holding and walked away, leaving her to finish up with her patient alone.

“Must be nice,” the injured private remarked, as she pressed the clean dressing to his wound and bandaged it up. “Wish I was leaving.”

“Me too,” she uttered softly, a sombre feeling settling over her as she realised she was talking as much about herself as she was the patient she was treating.

Tom was nowhere to be seen for the rest of the day, and she was left to complete her rounds by herself. She supposed she would grow used to it once he left. The strain they were under would be lessened by those fit enough to travel on the boat tomorrow being removed from their care. However, she felt like she was missing a part of herself without him at her side; like looking at the wall and not being able to see her shadow cast upon it. The weight of his absence would fade, but the hurt and uncertainty wrought from his disdain would not. She needed to put things right before he sailed away from her tomorrow, or she would forever live with the guilt of it.

She waited impatiently for the rest of the day for nightfall, deciding that if this was a conversation she was going to pursue then it was better to do so without witnesses - or at least when those witnesses were asleep - the canvas confines of both the medical bay and sleeping quarters provided very little privacy.

Once it was suitably dark, she made her way to the large tent that housed the cots of the naval officers. The humidity made the night air sticky and it clung to her skin, feeling as thick as the inky blackness of the sky above her.  A wave of nervous apprehension washed over her as she reached for the canvas flap - what if Tom was already asleep, or refused to speak to her? What if other sailors were awake and questioned her reason for being there?

A simple white lie of delivering pain relief could deal with the latter of those problems, but she had no idea how to deal with the former. Before her pounding heart and trembling hands could convince her otherwise, she pulled back the partition, greeted by darkness and the gentle snores of those who were asleep. A few kerosene lamps were lit by the beds of those who were still awake, their dull glow illuminated the men that were sitting up reading, smoking or playing solitaire with playing cards spread out across their blankets.

Her eyes searched the gloom for Tom, half expecting him to be fast asleep. Finally, she spotted him, and her stomach erupted into nervous flutters as she saw that he was still awake. She felt as if she was intruding upon something far too intimate, seeing him in the tight white t-shirt and briefs of his underclothes. He laid upon his front, the legs of his tall frame almost hanging off the edge of the cot as they crossed over at the ankle. The low lighting that glowed across the sharpness of his features cast long shadows across his corner of the tent, however, it was not dark enough to hide the yellow canary that fluttered around the small cage that he had balanced upon his pillow. His attention was so focused upon the bird and its shrill twittering that he didn’t even notice her as she stepped carefully towards him.

“Who’s this then?” She asked quietly, once she was a few paces away from Tom’s cot.

His head snapped up quickly, brows raising in surprise as he took in the sight of her, almost as if he couldn’t believe she was standing in front of him. He cleared his throat, shifting onto his side and propping himself up on his elbow before responding. “Her name’s Vera.”

“Vera…that’s a pretty name,” she said, offering him a soft smile as she fidgeted awkwardly with her fingers, forgetting everything she had wanted to say to him.

He lifted the cage, placing it gently on the floor between his cot and the tent wall, then looked back at her. “So what brings you ‘ere then?”

“You won’t speak to me,” she replied. Her voice sounded small, sad and vulnerable to her ears, and she loathed it. She had come here to apologise and then leave, not get upset.

“Usually, people take a hint when that happens, they don’t barge in on them when they’re going to bed.”

His reply hit her like a physical blow, and he must have seen the way her face fell, as he was quick to follow it up with; “But I guess I can’t blame ya for wantin’ a peek at me in me undercrackers.”

She felt instantly lighter as she saw the playful grin spread across his face, turning hers away as she felt her skin grow hot.

Silence fell between them once more and she drew in a steadying breath before lifting her gaze to his again. “I couldn’t let you leave without knowing how sorry I am,” she stepped closer, “I don’t know what I said that ticked you off exactly, but what I did I did with the intent to teach you a lesson, to humiliate you, and that was wrong. I was sick of your flirting, but I realise now that after all you’ve been through that you were just trying to make a horrible situation a lighter one. You’re so brave, and–”

“I’m not fucking brave,” he snapped, making her jump.

“What?” She moved to stand directly beside his cot, her head tilted slightly in confusion.

“I’m not brave,” he repeats, his voice turning to the hushed tone he’d used previously. He scrubbed a hand across his face and fixed her with a tired stare. “I’m not a war hero.”

She blinked rapidly, furrowing her brow as she perched upon the edge of his makeshift bed. “Is that what got you upset? Because I called you a war hero?”

“Do you know why I joined the Navy?” He asked, shuffling back to make more room for her to sit within the narrow space.

She shook her head, allowing him to continue speaking.

“Was avoiding the nick,” he uttered, sniffing. “I’m not a hero, I’m a coward dodging a stretch in prison.”

She was surprised by this, but not repelled. He was hardly the first man to join up to the draft to avoid the authorities, and he would be the last. She sighed softly, looking him in the eye. “That doesn’t change any of what you’ve been through, or how bravely you fought aboard that warship. You should be proud of yourself.”

“Well, I’m not,” he said sullenly, “I’m not going back. The minute I get back home that’s it, I’m done with this bloody war.”

“You can’t do that,” she told him softly, suddenly feeling afraid for him.

“Why not? It’s not my fight. I saw people fucking die. I don’t wanna give my life for something I don’t believe in.”

“You could be hanged for desertion,” she argued, a hint of desperation in her voice. Before she had time to think about it, her hand reached for his, grasping his fingers with her own.

“Dad’s a conchie,” he said, intertwining his fingers with hers, “I could be too.”

She glanced down to where their hands were joined, almost wanting to scream in frustration. “It doesn’t work like that.”

“Well, what am I s’posed to do?” he seethed, snatching his hand back, leaving her to silently mourn the loss of the contact.

“I can’t convince you to do anything, Tom, but please talk to your dad before you make a decision you can’t take back.”

“Y’know, that’s the first time you’ve called me that,” he said, his expression softening.

“What?”

“My name. It’s usually always Private Bennett. I like it when you call me Tom.”

She averted her gaze, feeling her skin blaze with embarrassment once more. “I guess I should get going. Us talking’s probably keeping people awake.”

His hand shot out, grasping hers once more as she rose to leave, making her freeze in place.

“Stay,” came his softly uttered plea.

“There’s all these other people,” she protested in a quiet voice, though she sat back down.

“I just want you to lay next to me. We probably won’t see each other again after tomorrow, and I don’t wanna be alone tonight.”

“I dunno…”

“No funny business, I promise,” he said with a smirk that immediately crumbled her resolve. “I’ll be on my best behaviour.”

“Alright…”

Tom laid out straight and pulled the blankets up around himself, holding one side up in silent invitation for her to join him. She slid underneath, not realising quite how tight the confines of the single cot were until her body was pressed right up against his.

Wordlessly, he leaned over to turn out the lamp, then turned to face her, slinging an arm over her waist and closing his eyes.

She laid there with her eyes open, just about able to make out his features in the darkness. The humidity combined with the heat of Tom’s body and the blankets thrown over them made it uncomfortably warm, and it was an effort not to squirm. But that wasn’t her only means of discomfort. It was difficult to keep her breathing steady and her body from trembling in spite of the heat; she hadn’t anticipated being in such close proximity to Tom to have such an effect on her. The feeling of the long, lithe muscle of his body pressed against hers made her pulse race and her core throb with desire, though the sensation was intermingled with pangs of guilt. He was seeking comfort in her, and here she was lusting after him when she’d spent the last two weeks berating him for doing the same to her.

His breaths fanned softly across her face, and she was convinced that he had fallen asleep, until his grasp on her waist tightened slightly, his fingers digging into her flesh. She froze at the intimacy of it, ashamed of the way desire pooled between her thighs at the gesture, until he ducked his head to bury it into the crook of her neck.

“Help me,” he whispered against her skin, a desperate plea for something, anything to make him feel better.

She reached up tentatively in the darkness, her fingers stroking through the silkiness of his hair. He sighed contentedly in response, and the sensation made her shiver, causing an involuntary tug at his tresses, making him groan and grip her tighter.

“Please,” he murmured into her neck. His hips began to grind against hers, the evidence that he was just was affected by her as she was him more than apparent as it pressed repeatedly against her.

Before she had time to consider the absurdity of it all, she hooked her thigh over him, prompting him to roll onto his back as she straddled him. Her chest rose and fell erratically as she stared down at him. He looked back with wide, imploring eyes, his fingers flexing firmly against the swell of her hips, urging her into action.

The touch was enough to ground her, to give her pause to realise they were in a tent full of sleeping sailors, that she’d rebuffed all of Tom’s previous advances, that come tomorrow she’d never see him again.

She swallowed thickly, trying to move off of him. “We shouldn’t.”

“Please,” he repeated with more urgency, his grip upon her tightening, stilling her and preventing her from moving away.

It was the begging of a desperate man, a man who had seen awful things, who was afraid to die, who was sailing away tomorrow into uncertainty. How could she say no? And how could she deny herself? Over the last two weeks she had seen unimaginable horrors, worked tirelessly, didn't she deserve a little fun?

She allowed the throbbing between her thighs to guide her actions as she reached beneath her skirt of her uniform, tugging her knickers to one side. Tom’s breaths grew unsteady as his eyes watched her in the darkness, his own hands moving to push down his briefs.

As the swollen head of him pressed against her entrance she felt that she was aroused, though not wet enough to make his passage an easy one. She had to rise and sink down repeatedly against the upward thrusts of his pelvis before the tight muscles of her heat finally yielded to him.

Sinking all the way in to the hilt, Tom hissed loudly, earning himself a quiet scolding from her. “Quiet, or you’ll wake people up.”

He bit his lip as she rocked her hips gently, allowing herself to adjust to the intrusion. It had been a while since she’d been with anyone this intimately, and it stung slightly, though the pain was not unpleasant.

She gazed down at him, seeing the crease between his eyebrows as they furrowed against the intensity of his pleasure and the effort to stay quiet. Seeing his face contorted into such a state, even though the darkness prevented her from seeing him clearly, was enough to have her sensitive walls clenching with desire, and she took that as her prompt to begin moving in a steady rhythm, lifting up as she rocked forward, then down as she pulled back.

“Fuck…” Tom murmured under his breath, his fingers leaving indentations in the flesh of her hips.

“Does that feel good?” She asked, her voice breathless with exertion.

“Y–yeah…don’t stop.”

In that moment, none of it mattered; the sheen of sweat upon her skin, the other people asleep around them, it all faded to nothing. Her only focus became the man beneath her begging for more and the exhilarating ache each time the head of him brushed against a sensitive spot deep inside of her.

“You’re so brave, Tom, and you’re doing so well, making me feel wonderful,” she breathed, as she moved atop him.

His expression was one of utter submission and pure adoration, his eyes were glossy with pleasure, his full lips were parted. He clung to her as though he was a drowning man and she was his lifeline, and she supposed she was in a way. She served as a much needed moment of respite when all around him was fear and uncertainty.

She could feel her peak beginning to crest alongside his, his cock pulsed inside of her with each spasm of her core. She pulled off of him as white hot waves of pleasure crashed over her, stifling his groan of satisfaction with a hot, messy kiss - the first they’d shared - as she tightened repeatedly around nothing and he spilled himself across his lower abdomen.

He laid against her chest afterwards, once he’d cleaned himself up, and she cradled him to her breasts, gently ruffling his hair. A satisfied ache had settled between her thighs, and her eyelids felt heavy with tiredness.

“Will you write to me?” He asked quietly.

“If you keep your promise, Tom, then I might not know where to write to.”

He hummed quietly before falling silent.

“You will keep your promise, won’t you? You’ll speak to your dad?”

“Yeah,” he whispered back, almost thoughtfully, “I promise.”

Tom left the next day, and she didn’t see him again, though he often crossed her mind. Six months later, when she was stationed in a hospital in Paris, her heart stuttered in her chest as she looked upon the familiar, yet bruised face of a man laying unconscious in the ward she was working in. She smiled as she approached the bed and looked upon the sleeping form of Tom Bennett. He’d kept his promise. He was a hero after all.

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