given the continued involvement of j*r in the active demolition of trans rights across the board, i have ceased my involvement in the IP of her creations and encourage others to educate themselves on these issues before perpetuating the hp IP as i have shamefully done in the past. i remove myself from any conversation around this hateful agenda as of march 2026 and can only seek forgiveness from others for my actions before now. trans rights are human rights.
cw ⋮⋮ mdni ⋮⋮ nipple play ⋮⋮ oral fixation ⋮⋮ emotional vulnerability ⋮⋮ comfort sex ⋮⋮ 0.4k
“aemond…” you moan softly, back arching off the bed as his mouth closes over your breast.
he came back late, still carrying the day on him. he didn’t say a word when he walked in. just pulled your nightgown down and pressed his face straight into your chest like he couldn’t wait another second. now he’s nuzzling in deep, nose and lips dragging over the soft skin between your breasts before he takes one nipple into his mouth and starts to suck.
it’s slow at first. careful. like he’s trying to calm himself down. a low, shaky moan leaves him against your skin as he sucks, tongue moving in slow circles before he pulls your nipple deeper. you feel the wet heat of his mouth, the steady pull that sends sparks down your spine.
you slide your fingers into his long silver hair, holding the back of his head gently, keeping him there. your body arches up into his mouth without thinking, offering yourself, letting him take what he needs.
he groans again, the sound vibrating right through your chest as he switches to the other breast. he sucks slower now, flicking his tongue softly. one of his hands comes up to hold your breast, thumb brushing over the nipple he just left, wet and sensitive under his touch.
his hips shift against the bed, grinding down in slow, restless movements. you can feel how hard he is, how badly he needs the friction, but he doesn’t stop sucking. he stays right there, face buried in your chest, breathing you in between every pull of his mouth. you feel the tension in his shoulders start to loosen the longer he stays latched on.
you stay quiet except for the soft, breathy sounds that slip out when he sucks a little harder. your fingers move slowly through his hair, stroking, holding him close. letting him feel how warm and soft you are.
eventually his hand drifts lower, fingers sliding between your legs where you’re already wet. he touches you gently, rubbing slow circles while his mouth never leaves your breast. he keeps sucking like he can’t bring himself to stop even as his fingers move against you.
when it gets to be too much, he lifts his head just enough to look at you. you know what he wants before he can even get the words out. you give a small nod as you gently card your fingers through his hair.
he shifts up your body and pushes into you slow, the thick stretch making your breath catch. the second he’s inside, he drops his head right back down and takes your breast into his mouth again. he sucks as he starts to move — deep, steady thrusts that keep his face pressed tight to your chest.
you hold him there, fingers tangled gently in his hair. your soft moans mix with the wet sounds of his mouth on you and the slow drag of him inside you.
Series summary: After Queen Helaena is murdered during Blood and Cheese, the devastated Greens scramble to arrange an advantageous match for Aegon. They settle on you, the sister of Dalton Greyjoy, to forge an alliance with the Red Kraken and his fleet. But when you arrive in King’s Landing, the Usurper is not who you imagined him to be...and to fulfill your purpose, you must give him everything.
Series title is a lyric from: “Don’t You Know Who I Think I Am?” by Fall Out Boy.
Chapter 1: All The Lovers With No Time For Me
Chapter 2: We’re The New Face Of Failure
Chapter 3: I'm Alright In Bed But I'm Better With A Pen
Chapter 4: Get Me Out Of My Mind And Get You Out Of Those Clothes
Chapter 5: I Thought I Loved You
Chapter 6: It’s A Goddamn Arms Race
Chapter 7: Stomp Out This Disaster Town
Chapter 8: The Tombstones Were Waiting
Chapter 9: Baby, Seasons Change But People Don’t
Chapter 10: Do You Remember The Way I Held Your Hand
Chapter 11: I’m A Stitch Away From Making It
Chapter 12: The Cause, The Kid, The Course, The Charm, And The Curse
Chapter 13: The Only Thing I Haven’t Done Yet Is Die
Warnings: Cursing, making out, but it’s mostly fluff
Word count: 2.8k
Synopsis: You’re stuck in an inn with Aemond, and there’s only one bed. Close quarters force unexpected vulnerabilities and confessions from you both.
Author’s note: So I accidentally became the ring leader of the Aemond besties all writing Aemond fics with the ‘there’s only one bed’ trope and it’s been glorious reading everyone’s fics!!!! Here’s mine! I really hope y’all like it!
P.S. Here’s a link to my masterlist if you’d like to check out my other writing! My askbox and taglist are always open! Come interact with me! Reblogs and feedback are greatly appreciated!
Aemond Masterlist
“You have got to be kidding me,” you said to the innkeeper as you stared at him dumbfounded.
The gruff portly man glared at you.
“I am not kidding, my lady, we only have one room available tonight and there is only one bed,” he said.
Synopsis: You thought that a marriage between you and Aemond would quell the threats of war, but with each day of your marriage, you realized that even your love could never be the cure.
Warnings: Angst, Sad Reader, Soft Aemond, Comfort, Targcest, Mature, 18+
Word Count: 2,246
A/N: Quick fic for my girlies who are constantly plagued with a sadness they could never explain.
The laces of your wedding gown lay unraveled on the bedroom floor. The fresh morning sun filtered through the curtains, and your eyes followed the dust that gilded through the air, catching the sun rays. After a week of celebrations, three moons of preparations, five years of courtship, and seventeen years of hoping, you were finally wed to the only man that you’ve ever loved: Prince Aemond Targaryen.
“Return to rest, wife.” You hear your husband mutter, voice different and deeper, and you could not help but smile. After years of hoping and praying to each god, they finally answered your prayers and wishes– they finally gave you Aemond.
You hummed as you nestled yourself closer to him, your soft cheek resting against his toned chest, and you could not help but place a small, chaste kiss upon his skin. You hear your husband hum as he tangles his fingers in your dark brown locks.
For a moment, there was silence. A deep, serene silence that you had sought for your entire life. You could never explain why or how, but even as a child, you felt this sense of unrest and emptiness that always seemed to loom over your happiness.
For years, it frustrated you as you could not express why you felt such ugly emotions. It was not until the fateful and dreadful night in Driftmark that you realized why. Your family was being torn apart, and you and your brothers were the reason why. It was not until that night that you realized how truly different you and your brothers were from the rest of your family. In the dim light of your supposed grandsire’s keep, the difference between silver and bronze gleamed brightly.
It was the night that solidified your family’s animosity against one another. It was the night when you swore to yourself that you would lay your life to find the anecdote for your family’s hate. Now, here you were, lying beside the person you thought would be the cure.
When your husband’s eye was taken, it sealed your family’s fate. You spent restless nights in Dragonstone, wrapped in guilt and fear, even if your hands did not carve his scar. You spent your days writing to him. Sending scroll after scroll of apologies that meant nothing when it came from the wrong lips. You did not know why you did such things; all you knew was that you did not wish to leave things as they were.
And over time, your efforts bore fruit. When you and your kin returned to Kingslanding for the purpose of a trial over Driftmark, you met Aemond again. You were reunited with the boy who lost his eye at your brother’s hands. You were reunited with the prince who had left your apologies unanswered. You were reunited with the man you were to marry.
Your fears dissipated when a connection formed between you, from stolen glances across the halls to lingering touches under the table, and even secret kisses underneath the scarlet leaves. When your husband announced his intent to court you, the royal house was in an uproar. Neither side was thrilled about the match– if anything, they had done much to ensure that a marriage between you did not commence.
They tried to pawn both of you off on other houses. With Aemond being presented a Baratheon bride, and you were given a Northern Warden as your groom. Obviously, neither match worked out; however, it came from great personal expense. You exposed yourself to scandal and laid down your virtue just in hopes that you could be with Aemond.
“Are you certain?” Aemond murmured against your skin, his head resting against the crook of your neck, and you could feel each breath he took and each movement his lips made. You swallowed thickly, looking down on the earth below. The two of you high in the clouds and mounted on his dragon– his strong arms around your waist, and his hands itching to inch downwards to your heated core.
He sat behind you, your back resting against his solid chest, and you could feel his wanting and needing length. You nodded through fear and apprehension. You were not thinking clearly; all you wanted was him. “Make me yours.”
You hear him make a sound that was close to a growl, but was soft like a whine when you said the words. His thin, punishing lips latched quickly to the side of your neck, sucking and soothing the sensitive spot. A wanton moan escaped your lips as his fingers found your womanhood and his hand reached for your neck.
“You’ve been mine for a long time.” You tightly shut your eyes as your stomach fluttered the moment his dragon dipped past a cloud, and as his finger found your dripping core. Your hand instinctively gripped Aemond’s thigh, your heart beating erratically in your chest as Vhagar flew closer to the sun and flew you closer to your peak.
He claimed your maidenhead in the heavens, and when you returned on land, Aemond proudly announced that you were to be his wife, leaving your kin mortified as they saw your blood-stained gown. It was only fortunate that they no longer plotted to separate the two of you.
You stared at your husband as you two lay in bed. His eye peacefully closed while the other stared back at you with a sapphire gleam. You sighed, unable to help yourself as you cupped his cheek and traced the raised bump of his scar, your delicate touch making him hum.
“Do you love me?” You could not help but whisper. It was a question meant to stay in the confines of your mind, yet it hung in the early morning air. You watched as Aemond slowly peeled his eye open. A soft, adoring look in his unique lilac eye that could have been an answer enough. “I married you, had I not? I went against all their orders and my duties… of course I do.”
You gave a small smile as he placed a gentle kiss upon the tip of your nose. His lips trailing down to your lips, and you let out a delighted moan as he rested his weight atop you. He was warm and solid, his skin rough yet tender, and you wrapped your bare legs around his frame in hopes that you could feel more of him.
You bit your lip as you felt the head of his length brushing against your sensitive heat. Aemond smirked and placed an open-mouthed kiss against your neck as you gasped when he burrowed himself deep inside your cunt. “Does this prove my love, little wife?” He hummed, and you arched your back as he brushed against the spot that had you a whimpering mess that almost fell atop a dragon before.
You felt the inclination to nod– to moan out a yes, but a wicked, loathesome thought crossed your mind. The pleasure your husband, your Aemond, presented you with was borne out of practice. You tensed in his arms at the thought of him bedding whores, you felt your throat tighten, and tears threatened to spill as you tallied up the others he had lain with. He was your first, yet you could not claim the same.
Aemond had his eye closed in pleasure, and you took that opportunity to flip yourself on your stomach, his thrust abruptly ceasing as he opened his eye and searched for your gaze. You burrowed your face on the plush mattress, hiding your tears as you raised your behind for his hips to meet.
“My perfect wife.” You hear him groan against your ear, his fingers brushing away your brown locks so he could place chaste kisses upon your back. You battled with your tears and pleasure as you loathed yourself for letting melancholy find you even when tucked in your marital bed.
You wished that it was the last instance; however, your head was filled with poison, and your heart was filled with doubt. No matter what you did, sadness crept its way into our being, and it only worsened with each day after you sealed your marriage.
You breathed in a deep breath as you sat with your husband in your solarium. The afterglow of the sun bathed the room in an amber glow, and your eyes stared off into the rising moon. Aemond’s fingers mindlessly drew circles upon your thigh, where his appendage found its rightful place.
Aemond relaxed in his chair, but he was quick to tense as he heard you hiss and he vividly saw blood dripping from your fingers. The embroidery hoop you held fell onto the ground the moment your blood landed against your light pink dress, the silk quickly soaking up the stain.
Before you could even move, you watched through sudden tears as your husband took hold of your hand and raised your pricked finger to his lips, sucking away your lifeblood and momentarily masking the pain you felt as his tongue soothed your wound.
“Ought to be careful, wife. You know how I do not like seeing you hurt.” Aemond hummed as he brushed away your tears with his thumb. You gave him a small smile as you nestled your cheek into his palm. His cold, calloused touch is more than welcome against your heated cheeks.
You took a deep breath and watched as your husband dipped down and picked up the embroidery hoop by your feet, his hand never leaving yours as he did so. You heard him hum as he raised it closer to his eye, a small smile on his lips. Your gaze traveled to the figures you embroidered, a smaller version of the two of you that you wished to place on one of the pillows in your bedchambers.
“My, the gods were kind as they bestowed me with such a gifted wife.” He said softly and placed a kiss on your once-wounded finger before returning his hand to rest on your thigh once more.
A deep breath left your lips as you stared at the small image you stitched, wondering hard why you could not simply stitch shut the constant sadness and fear that seeped through your bloodstream.
Some days, your sadness was far too much for you to contain, and even your husband took notice. He tried his best to learn the cause of your sadness, but how could he know when you yourself did not know why?
“Have any of the courtiers upset you?” He asked softly, his hand rubbing soothing circles on your back. You buried your face into your pillow and endured the twisting you felt in your stomach that never disappeared. You felt entirely retched to subject Aemond to your sudden fits of sadness.
“Was it my mother? Had she said something out of turn?” Your husband asked further, and you harshly bit your lip to prevent a sob. You wanted to push him away. To shut yourself in your chambers and let the inevitable sadness that plagues you pass.
When you gave no answer, you hear Aemond sigh. You thought he’d leave, that he’d leave you alone, but he only settled himself by your side and lay with you until the tears ceased and night came. You hear his light snores and move to observe him peacefully resting after enduring your wretchedness. You nestled yourself into his chest again, letting him wrap his arms around your frame and letting the even beat of his heart lull you to sleep. Silently praying that the constant anguish you felt would fade.
The gods ignored your prayers. If anything, it only worsened from that night on. The threat of impending war loomed over the land and your marriage. Tensions were running high. Sides that were formed long ago began to solidify the moment they announced your grandsire’s death.
You saw it yourself how the seeds of hate had bloomed and flourished, and now both sides reaped the consequences. You felt foolish as you had thought that a marriage between your feuding families would at least beseech them to act rationally. You had foolishly thought that a marriage with Aemond– a Targaryen prince– a pawn for his grandsire’s ambition, would somehow heal the divide that carved through your family like a blade. Instead, it only deepened the wound.
“This is only momentary– their heads will cool, and we shall live in peace. Fret not, my wife.” You hear Aemond murmur against your skin as he holds you in his arms. How you wished for his words to be true, but the doubt that consumed you now manifested before your eyes.
Tears spilled from your eyes. You knew Aemond loved you. He showed you that he loved you every day, even as war threatened your union. But you reeled in pain as you realized that even his love for you would never be enough.
Your head kept spinning at the possibility that one day he’ll turn on you– that he’ll leave you because even if you were his wife, you're still a bastard. Even his devotion could not mend– could not stitch up the frayed truth of your birth. It no longer mattered how his love felt anymore. Your family’s hate and mistakes had festered so deeply that even your marriage– your love would never be the cure.
i remember being at school the morning after and thinking how close it was to us. one of my friends at the time attended the concert, it was her birthday. i think about the 22 angels all the time, even if i don't listen to AG, and will forever remember them. 🏹🏹
Summary: The war is over and Tom Bennett returns home, seeking comfort in a friend from his past.
Content Warnings: Drabble, Language, Smut (p in v, oral!f receiving).
Yuletide Masterlist
Wintering, verb. To hide, hibernate, seek comfort or rest, especially after turbulent times (in humans).
“Fuck,”
Your back was beginning to ache. You hadn’t given a moment’s thought as to where you were when you’d burst through the door. Just being at home, away from prying eyes, was enough. Now, the dado rail was bruising the base of your spine with every harsh thrust.
“Fuck,” he hissed again in your ear, immediately silencing himself by covering your mouth with his own. The warmth, the wetness, was delicious.
“Tom, please,” you whined into his mouth. Even through the dull pain in your back, your legs hooked around his waist ever tighter. At your plea he looked down at you, his hips still rolling lazily. When he saw the scrunch of your eyebrows, the sheen of sweat above them, and the way your lower lip pillowed as you bit down on it, Tom Bennett grinned.
He continued grinning as his hips began pistoning at an unholy pace into your wet heat. That wolfish smile was the last thing you saw as your eyes finally closed, too overwhelmed by pleasure to stay open, as you threw your head back against the wall. Bastard. He knew he was good.
You’d heard at the dancehall last night that the final battleship into port, the HMS Valiant, was due to arrive the following day at around 3 o’clock. You also knew, from working with Lois on the ambulances, that this was Tom’s ship. When Mrs Beatty and a few other ladies from your mother’s Women's Institute suggested meeting the last of the lads to come home at the dock, the idea spread through your Manchester suburb like wildfire.
No sooner had your mother come home with the news were you being bustled onto the number 54 bus with a hamper laden with fresh clothes, bottles of beer, spam sandwiches and the little change that each family could spare. Old men, and women of all ages, piled into the buses and made their way to the docks. A few families still had bunting from the King’s jubilee and strung it from dockyard cranes.
The furore was extraordinary. The battleship was already looming large on the horizon when you all emptied from the bus, and young and old cheered themselves hoarse until the ship made its way into port. Sailors, forgetting regulations, leant over the ships’ railings and waved to family and friends. When the battleship finally docked, it let out a long blast of its horn and the crowed roared with glee. Mothers and sweethearts were already crying when the gangway was let down, and you saw that even some fathers were wiping their eyes.
You watched with relief as faces you recognised filed off the boat. Mr Martin’s only surviving son, thirty-eight and with three children who each ran into his arms. Frank Smith, the school bully’s rat-faced sidekick. The lad that worked at the corner shop, nineteen now, having received his papers the day he turned eighteen. Each was greeted by their family members and someone with a ‘welcome home’ hamper.
All, except one. Tom Bennett, one of the tallest lads on the boat, walked down the gangway in a few elegant strides and stopped on the dock with a sigh as he hitched his kitbag over his shoulder. He lifted his eyes to the sky, the October afternoon already darkening to a mournful blue.
As with the rest of the young men, the war had not been kind to him. Shadows haunted his slim face, prematurely aged from the horrors of a war none of them should have fought. At home, he was the stuff of legend. Survived the battle of River Plate, Dunkirk and went on the run in Europe, only to be sent back to war the moment he returned. More lives than the luckiest of cats, your mother said. The worst, of course, was the loss of his father and his home. The grief hit the Bennett children hard. Tom Bennett jumped onto the first battleship in dock, and Lois left baby Vera in England to go nursing in Africa. Now, Tom Bennett stood on the dock with no-one to welcome him home after six long years.
You hurried forward.
“Tom-” As though he knew you were there before you even spoke, he looked down from the sky to your flushed face.
Though he said your name quietly, a smile flashed across his boyish face. Your stomach somersaulted. He’d always been the handsomest rogue in Longsight, and still was with his blue eyes and sandy hair. At least there was one thing the war hadn’t taken away from him.
You held out the hamper. “Welcome home, Tom,” and with a sincere smile you stood on tiptoe to kiss his sallow cheek. A faint lipstick smudge lingered there and you smiled all the more.
“I’d be flattered,” Tom teased, gesturing to the hamper. “If every other Tom, Dick and Harry didn’t have one too.” He laughed as he took the hamper from you. His large palm covered your own and you shivered.
There was history there. Only a few pages, but history nonetheless. At once, you were transported back to the parish dance of 1935. Both seventeen, you as green as the grass, he already-world weary and wandering. He danced with no-one the entire night, though many a girl looked hopeful, yet took your hand for the last dance. When you thought about those innocent years before the war, in the darkest hours of the night or after a few too many sherries, you swore you could feel Tom’s hands burning against your waist, and at your neck as he kissed you. Your first.
Tom too, was remembering the first moment you touched him. A maths lesson with Miss Greene. He’d been caught flicking pencil sharpenings into girls’ hair and was sent to sit in the corner at the back of the class. You, as much a sweetheart then as you were now, were tasked with handing out textbooks. Unfortunately for you and luckily for Tom, they were on the shelf above where he sat. A cocky grin on his face, Tom didn’t move. He loved winding the girls up, and you were something different. At sixteen, you were curvier than the rest, and watching you flush pink was his favourite hobby. And so, he didn’t move. With pride, he chortled as you blushed and reached for the textbooks above him. His smug smile faltered however when, in order to reach the books, your legs came to rest on each side of his spread ones. With one of your thighs either side of his, he swallowed. He could feel the heat coming from the apex between them, smell your perfume and feel the way the soft flesh pressed against his. When you finally retrieved the books, it was your turn to smirk at the red flush peppering his cheekbones.
“Where are you staying, Tom, now you're back?” You asked, voice low. Your mother was not far away.
“Bench in the pub, presumably. Most of the lads are heading that way for a party. Then I’ll find meself lodgings above some dodgy back-alley business.” He huffed a humourless laugh. You looked him directly in the eye.
“Stay out ours tonight.”
Tom leant close to you, wetting his lips. “What would mother say?”
“Don’t know, she’ll be down pub with the rest of them. Loves a sherry and a sailor.”
Half an hour later, you were pressed against the wall of your mother’s hallway, Tom Bennett lapping hungrily at your slick centre. Beneath your skirt and petticoat, the lewd sounds of his tongue against your wet sex filled the quiet evening.
Now, buried to the hilt within you, his swollen head bullying your core, Tom forgot the last seven months he’d spent living on the Valiant. Forgot the suffering of the last six years entirely. For between the softness of your thighs, the scent of your neck as he tucked his face against it tenderly, he’d found, if for a moment, the thing he’d been fighting for. Warmth, kindness, rest. A place to winter.
19/12: Holly and Hair Pulling - Tom Bennett
Word Count: 2k~ | Warnings: hair pulling, fingering, allusions to p in v, ww2 talk and mentions of hitler
12 Days of Smuff Masterlist
It was as clear as fog, what her role was here.
Since war had broken out in Europe, listening to whatever dire news filled those who listened with fear and anticipation, all the keywords present to stir up panic in every household, she knew she could not merely stand idly by on the shores of England, and do nothing.
It was either overalls and dirty, grotty factories, or the Women’s Royal Naval Service.
She couldn’t deny herself, one sounded better than the other.
Of course her family had attempted to deter her from leaving England altogether, waving her off from the front step as if she were slinging a gun over her shoulder herself and facing Hitler head on. Her mother sobbed, but she did not miss the gleaming pride in her father’s eyes. Her own brother had already gone off to fight, so he’d be left with no children at home, and yet he did not complain, did not forbid her from going. He knew the honest truth, that she would have found a way anyway, stubborn as she was.
Usually, people like her, or women, more so, were not allowed aboard naval ships. Especially hunt-class destroyers. It was far too dangerous, or rather in their words, unsuitable for female company. God, if her parents knew where she stood right at this moment her mother would surely throw a fit until she was red in the face.
Better for them to not know at all, she reasons, sat at her desk, tapping the end of her pencil against her notepad. It was only temporary, they’d told her, a quick posting to fill an urgent need. But that hardly felt reassuring now, deep in the belly of HMS Keith with the sound of waves pounding against the hull and the faint but ever-present vibration of the engines beneath her feet.
The ship shuddered as it cut through another swell, and she reached out instinctively to steady the pencil rolling across her desk. She could hear the men outside, shouting and belly-laughing, no doubt taking some much needed time off their duties to celebrate what they thought was as close to Christmas cheer as they were likely to get. Who knew if it was even Christmas Day?
Her pencil hovered above paper, listening to the constant hum of static that she had come to know so well. These last few hours were quiet, luckily. She supposed the people of Europe celebrated Christmas too. In fact, she’d wager that most of the enemy were doing the very same thing this crew were doing right now, drinking, laughing and card games. Perhaps they were not so dissimilar after all.
A small knock came at her door, and she considered ignoring it, wondering if she had somehow misheard through her headset. But then it came again, more firm, and she rolled her eyes and stood, straightening her uniform to see who was so insistent on seeing her this late hour.
She raised an eyebrow as a man stood there, tall, leaning confidently against the doorframe as the ship swayed slightly. He was young, perhaps somewhere near her age, if she had to guess. His sandy, blonde hair was pulled from his face, sides shaven and short, as was the style of young men.
“Evening,” he said, his tone so breezy it might have been mistaken for confidence. Overconfidence perhaps. “Thought I’d pop by and spread a bit of cheer.”
She crossed her arms. “Cheer?”
He held up the sprig of green, holly, she realised, though the leaves looked rather battered. He propped it in the middle of the doorway. “You know what they say.”
Her lips twitched, but she refused to give him the satisfaction. “That’s not mistletoe.”
“You’re smarter than I hoped.”
“Smarter than you, evidently.” She raised an eyebrow. “What are you doing here?”
“Oh, just checking on our mysterious new arrival,” he said, leaning a little closer as if they were acquainted. “Word travels fast, you know. ‘Unmarked door near the comms room.’ Had to see it for myself.”
She smiled, though she willed herself not to. “And?”
“And here you are. Bit of a shock, I’ll admit. Women on a ship, it’s bad luck, you know.”
She snorted slightly, her cheeks warming in embarrassment at her behaviour. “Didn’t take you to be superstitious. Anyway, shouldn’t you be at your post?”
Tom chuckled, the sound warm and unbothered. “Probably. But this seemed more interesting.”
“Well, I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed. I’m just here to work, same as you.”
“Right. Decoding top-secret messages, I suppose. Life or death stuff, like when Hitler breaks wind or when Goebbels has food poisoning.”
Surprised you know who they even are, she thinks to herself.
She snorted despite herself, quickly masking it with a cough. “Something like that,” she said, turning back toward her desk.
It was her way of dismissing him, but he didn’t take the hint, as men with his confidence rarely did. She busied herself with the papers scattered across her workspace, shuffling them into neat piles that didn’t actually need straightening. She didn’t want to encourage him, but at the same time, she didn’t really want him to go, either.
Behind her, she heard the faint scuff of his boots on the floor. She paused for a moment, a smile rising to her lips when she felt his presence so close behind her. “I do hope you can tell the difference between holly and mistletoe, Mr…?”
“Tom, just Tom,” he answered quietly. “Can’t blame a bloke for wanting a kiss from a pretty girl, can you?”
She turned slightly to look at him over her shoulder, blue eyes almost clear in this low, amber light that felt tighter as time passed. “I suppose it is Christmas, after all, isn’t it?” she smiled.
Tom didn’t wait for a clearer invitation. He stepped closer, his hands brushing her waist as if testing her reaction. When she didn’t pull away, he tilted his head, meeting her halfway. The kiss started soft, tentative, but the heat rose quickly, fuelled by the unspoken urgency of two people who had been too long without touch. Tom cupped her cheek with one hand, the other slipping to her hip.
She turned fully now, her back pressing against the edge of the desk as her hands found their way to his chest. His uniform was coarse beneath her fingers, and she could feel the hard muscle beneath it, the warmth of him seeping through the layers.
She felt the low hum through his chest as he pressed his hips closer, easing her back against the desk, his hand slipping into her hair up the nape of her neck, tightening a fist around her glossy strands as if for leverage to pry her lips open for his access.
She hummed in amusement, prompting him to part with ragged breath, “been around men for too long?”
“Too bloody long,” he confessed, his voice rough as he let out a shaky laugh.
She smiled, but her eyes looked over as if she were analysing him, her hand sliding from his chest over his belt, her small, soft hand drifting over the evident hardness straining in his uniform trousers.
“I can tell,” she muses quietly.
He let out a shaky exhale, flustered either by her behaviour or slight embarrassment at being so called out for it. But it was clear he wasn't the type of man to like small jokes at his expense, and she let out a breathy whine as his fingers tightened in her hair. Keeping her where she stood, and tilting her face up towards him.
“Are you always like this?” He asked.
“Only to the ones that deserve it.”
He huffed, pulling her up by her hips to set her down on the desk, papers and pencils scattered to the floor under his hasty palm. Her legs parted around his instinctively, letting him step between them, his hands dropping then to her thighs.
His breath was hot on her neck as he placed open-mouthed, nearly desperate kisses there. His hand brushed beneath the hem of her skirt, as if testing the waters, pausing only to pull back to speak.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmured, though his hand didn't move.
“I wouldn't dare.”
Her breath hitched as her hand drifted higher, teasing the gusset of her knickers, sending a sharp, white spark of pleasure up her spine. Her hands gripped his shoulders, shuddering despite herself, he was certainly in no rush.
“You’re soaked,” he said, his voice laced with both surprise and satisfaction. “God, I’ve barely touched you.”
Her face burned with embarrassment, but instead of chastising him, she tugged him back to her lips. He groaned, his fingers exploring the growing wetness and heat forming between her legs. For a moment there was no more, not even a ship. Just his long, thick fingers against her heat, wanting more.
“Tell me what you want, love,” he murmured against her lips, his fingers slipping beneath the fabric now, skin against skin.
She shuddered, parting her legs wider for ease of access and wrapping them around his hips, “just don't stop.”
The sound his fingers made as he explored through her wetness was nothing short of lewd, her back arched slightly into him, wanting to feel the girth of them inside her, and quick.
“Christ,” he murmured, almost to himself, as two fingers slipped inside her, drawing a soft gasp from her lips.
Her nails dug into his shoulders, and her head fell back slightly. “Tom—” she breathed, her voice breaking.
“That’s it,” he muttered, his tone somewhere between curious and wicked as his fingers curled inside her, finding the spot that made her whole body tense and then melt in the same breath.
She bit her lip to stifle a moan, but he wasn’t having it. His hand moved faster, more confident now, his thumb pressing firmly against the sensitive bundle of nerves that had her hips bucking against him.
“Let them hear you, love,” he murmured, his lips brushing against her jaw as his fingers curled just right inside her.
Her body trembled, the tension coiling tighter and tighter until it snapped, a cry spilling from her lips as pleasure surged through her like a tidal wave. She gripped his shoulders, her nails digging into his uniform as her thighs clenched around him, holding him in place as her body shuddered with each wave of her release.
Once it subsided, the feeling of how tight his fist was holding her hair became apparent but not unpleasant. She sighed, the tension leaving her body slowly, easing her into lulling waves of warmth.
He withdrew his hand slowly, his fingers slick and glistening, and stepped back slightly, though the smirk on his face suggested he wasn’t quite ready to let go of the moment.
“Worth the trouble of knocking, I'd say,” he quipped with a wink, infuriatingly wiping the moisture on his fingers against her bare thigh.
She glanced up at him through her lashes, her smile some kind of soft but amused warning. Her hand shot out to his belt, and his eyebrows shot so high to his forehead she was sure he'd seen God for a moment as her hands worked quickly to undo the buckle and then the buttons.
“Christ, love. Didn’t think you’d still have the energy.”
“Maybe next time, bring actual mistletoe,” she said, her voice dry but laced with heat.
“Next time?” he repeated, his grin turning wicked as he leaned down, his lips brushing against hers, a full body shudder running through him as she took him into her palm, hard and thick, giving a few languid strokes before sliding her other hand up his neck.
Summary: You and your boyfriend Tom are decorating the Christmas tree. Tom's enthusiasm is limited – but he knows how to make it interesting.
Warnings: Fluff; some dirty talk
Author’s note: English is my second language, please forgive me if I made any mistakes (:
Word count: 1.3k
Other stories of mine
12 Days of Smuffmas
12 Days of Smuff
The cozy little flat is aglow with the warm flicker of candles and the soft hum of the radio. Tom has been looking forward to a quiet evening, just him and you, basking in each other’s company without interruptions. But his sister Lois had other plans.
Lois had swept into the house earlier that day like a whirlwind, carrying a box of Christmas decorations and a cheery resolve that neither you nor Tom could easily argue with. “You can’t just ignore the holiday spirit!” she had declared, dropping the box onto the coffee table with a thud. “I’m working tonight, but you two can do something useful with your time. Decorate the tree!”
Tom had groaned loudly, slumping back on the sofa. “Decorate a tree? Why bother? It’s just going to stand there shedding needles.”
But Lois had turned to you with a persuasive smile. “You’ll help, won’t you? I’d do it myself if I wasn’t stuck at work.”
You hesitated, glancing at Tom. He gave you a pleading look, silently begging you to refuse. But there was something about Lois’s determined grin that made you relent. “Alright,” you agreed.
Tom’s groan grew even louder, but you simply patted his shoulder. “It’ll be fun,” you said.
Now, standing in the living room, Tom eyes the half-assembled Christmas tree with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. You, on the other hand, are happily untangling strings of fairy lights, humming to yourself. He leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching you with an expression that is part amusement, part exasperation.
“You know,” he drawles, his voice low and teasing, “we could be doing something a lot more interesting right now.”
You glance up, arching a brow. “Interesting like what? Watching you complain about decorating the tree?”
He smirks, pushing off the wall to step closer. “That’s not what I had in mind.”
Before you can respond, his hands are on your waist, his fingers brushing lightly over the fabric of your dress. You froze for a moment, a shiver running down your spine.
“Tom..” you gasp, a blush was already creeping up your cheeks, “…hands off. We have a job to do.”
“Oh, I’m helping,” he say innocently, his lips quirking into a mischievous grin. His hands slide lower, and you swat him away, the blush on your cheeks deepening.
“Stop it” you scold, trying to keep your composure. But he just chuckles, leaning in close to whisper in your ear.
“Why? You don’t seem to mind.” His breath is warm against your skin, and you can feel your resolve wavering.
“Tom Bennett,” you say, doing your best to sound stern. “If you don’t start hanging these ornaments, I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” he interrupts, his voice full of mock innocence.
“I’ll make you sleep on the sofa,” you shoot back, holding up a bauble like it is a weapon.
He laughs, a rich, deep sound that makes your heart skip a beat. “Alright, alright,” he says, raising his hands in mock surrender. “I’ll behave. For now.”
But of course, he doesn’t.
Every few minutes, he finds some excuse to touch you—a hand brushing against yours as you reach for the same ornament, his arm slipping around your waist as he adjusts the lights, his fingers trailing down your back when he thinks you aren’t paying attention.
And then there are the whispers.
Tom has an uncanny ability to find just the right words to make your cheeks burn and your resolve crumble. As you crouch by the box of decorations, untangling a particularly stubborn knot of tinsel, he leans over you, his breath warm against the shell of your ear.
“You know,” he murmurs, his voice low and velvet-smooth, “if I were that tinsel, I’d wrap myself around you too.”
Your hands still, the comment catching you off guard. You glance up at him, a flush creeping up your neck. “Tom,” you say, though the warning in your tone lacked its bite.
“What?” he asks, grinning. “It’s true. That dress you’re wearing is a bit unfair, isn’t it? How’s a man supposed to think about baubles and lights when you look like that?”
You roll your eyes, attempting to ignore him as you focuse on unraveling the glittering mess in your hands. But then his hand brush lightly against the small of your back.
“I could think of a few better ways to use that tinsel,” he muses, his voice dropping into a husky undertone. “You’d look good all tied up in it… Remember that one time? When you were lying on your belly, unable to move? And I just grabbed your hips and…“
“Tom!” you gasp, spinning to face him, your face now fully aflame.
He laughs, utterly unrepentant, and snatches a length of the tinsel from the box. “Just saying,” he teases, wrapping it loosely around his hands. “It’s versatile stuff. Don’t blame me for having ideas.”
“Stop being ridiculous and hang it on the tree,” you order, your voice cracking slightly as you try to maintain your composure.
“Hang it on the tree?” he repeats, tilting his head as though considering the suggestion. Then, with a wicked grin, he drapes the tinsel across your shoulders instead, letting the silvery strands shimmer against your skin.
“There,” he says, stepping back to admire his handiwork. “Perfect. Tree’s done.”
“Tom Bennett,” you say, grabbing the tinsel and throwing it back at him, though you can’t help the laugh that bubbled up.
He catches your wrist before you can pull away, tugging you closer. “You’re blushing,” he notes, his tone both smug and tender.
“No, I’m not..” you retort, though your voice waveres under his intense gaze.
“Liar,” he whispers, his fingers trailing up your arm as he lets the tinsel slip through his other hand, the glittering strands brushing against your skin like a feather.
You shiver, swallowing hard as you struggle to hold his gaze. “The tree,” you manage to stammer, motioning weakly toward the half-decorated branches.
“Oh, I haven’t forgotten about the tree,” he murmurs, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “But I think it can wait a few minutes. Don’t you?”
Your breath catches as he tugs the tinsel taut between his hands, his smirk deepening. “Besides,” he continues, his voice dripping with mock innocence, “Lois said we should make it festive, didn’t she? I’d say this qualifies.”
“Tom!“
Your protests fell on deaf ears as he loops the tinsel over your head like a garland, letting it cascade down your shoulders. You swat at him, trying to hide your laughter, but he only grins, the glint in his eye unmistakable.
You sigh after he reaches into the box again to take a bauble and ‘accidentally’ runs his hand a little too far up your thigh.
“Focus”, you say, but you can’t suppress a smile.
“I am focusing,” he says, smirking as he took a step closer, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “Just not on the tree.”
You roll your eyes, still trying to fight back that smile. “If Lois knew how useless you’re being right now, she’d kill you.”
“Good thing she’s not here, then,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to that low, suggestive tone that makes your knees weak.
“Tom,” you warn, though your resolve is faltering.
“Yes, love?”
“Hang. The. Ornaments.”
“Fine,” he says with an exaggerated sigh, grabbing a bauble and hanging it on the nearest branch. “Happy?”
“Ecstatic,” you reply, though the flush on your cheeks betrays you.
Despite his constant teasing, the tree eventually starts to come together. By the time the star is perchs on top, you have to admit it looks pretty good—though you’d never let Tom take the credit.
As you stand back to admire your handiwork, Tom slips an arm around your waist, pulling you close. “See?” he says, his voice soft now. “Told you we could make it fun.”
You roll your eyes, but you can’t help smiling. “Merry Christmas, Tom.”
He leans down, brushing his lips against yours. “Merry Christmas, love.”
A/N: While I continue to write my Aemond Targaryen fanfiction, here is a Tom Bennet fanfic I've had sitting in my brain for a while.
When Tom Bennet leaves for the war, you are already pregnant.
You spend nearly two years alone, carrying his child, surviving air raids, giving birth without him, and raising a baby he has never held. By the time Tom finally comes home, you are no longer the waiting wife he remembers. You are a mother, hardened by absence and forced independence.
TW: Explicit Sexual Content, Dubcon, Toxic, p in v sex, semi dark!Tom, no use of y/n, dirty talk, cockwarming, somno, drugging, lactation kink (with lactation), forced orgasm, creampie,
Reading Time: 12 minutes.
You remember the day you felt the changes.
The way certain smells made your nose turn up. The way your breasts had become more tender. The way you became emotional at almost anything that you thought of, heard or saw.
You remember the day it was confirmed. How excited you were. After months, years of trying, your dreams were finally coming true.
You were pregnant.
And when you told Tom? Well, he was more excited than you. Lifting you off the floor and squeezing you tightly. Not much had gone right for Tom in his life, but you. You were the one thing he hadnt managed to fuck up.
Yet.
Then the war started. And Tom was drafted. He'd miss it all, the sick days, the appointments, the first kick, the cravings. And God, he hoped he wouldn't miss the birth, but it was a possibility, a large one.
You cried, and he held you in his arms. He promised he'd be back in one piece, safely to see you and his baby. That he would keep his mind intact and come back whole to you. He'd write to you when he could and hoped he would receive any and all of your letters.
And so the day eventually came when you said goodbye to him. When you hugged him and cried into his arms once more. He kissed your forehead and held back his own tears, wanting to be strong for you.
Then he let go.
You found comfort in other women going through the same thing. Many were also pregnant or already had young children. You joined a group, and you had Tom's sister for support as well.
It was rough. Pregnancy alone with no emotional support, or at least not support from the person you wanted, was hard. You wrote letters constantly keeping him updated on every progress, but you rarely heard back.
Months went by. Your belly grew, you painted the nursery and built the crib. You imagined life with a second child, how Tom would get to do this on his own next time...if there would be a next time.
Those thoughts were the hardest. What if he didn't come back? What if he died? What if he couldn't keep his mind intact? You read stories in the paper of men who came back from the First War, broken. Would snap at the smallest sounds and at the people they loved most.
Would Tom ever snap at you? At your child? Could you be so sure that war wouldn't change him and he wouldn't harm you or the baby?
You pushed those thoughts out. Went day by day. Worked in a grocery store, making not much but decent money. You lived with Tom's sister before you could eventually afford your own place.
You were near the end now. Tom's letters held no hope for his return. He said sorry many times, saying how badly he wished he could be there to see his first child born, but that he would most likely miss it.
You wished he'd get injured, that something would happen that would force him back home...back to you. It was dark, you knew that deep down. But you couldn't help it, you couldn't help but be angry at the situation.
The birth of your son came and went. He was a beautiful baby, easy to. As if he knew not to give his mother more trouble than she could handle. Tom's sister helped when she could, gave money towards the baby and babysat when needed.
But more time went by, and no letters came. The last letter you sent held a Polaroid of you holding Henry, thats what you named him, Henry. Hopefully, Tom got the letter, hopefully the image would be enough to keep him going. You hoped he'd see he had something, someone to return to.
More time went by.
And soon your baby boy had turned into a toddler. Henry was one now and the spitting image of his father.
Your hope turned into resignation.
Your waiting turned into a routine.
Your patience turned into anger.
Your love turned into something you no longer recognized.
Your forgiveness turned into something he would have to earn.
Deep down, you knew you couldn't place the blame on him. You knew that he was forced into this as much as you were. That if he had the option, he'd have chosen to stay home with you and Henry.
Yet your heart no longer allowed for what felt like excuses.
And so you stopped waiting by the door. You stopped writing letters to someone you weren't even sure was still there. No more did you attend those mother group meetings. You couldn't stand their hope. You couldn't stand to listen to them one more time tell you that things will be fine and that you must be patient.
Fuck being patient. You couldn't care less who wins or loses this war. You just wanted your husband.
It was late at night after tucking Henry into bed. As you stared at the toddler, at the face of your husband. And you decided then, you needed to be strong. For Henry.
Anything of Tom's was packed away. His clothes were in a labelled box, shoved into storage. Any photos flipped over so you didn't see him. You couldn't be reminded of him.
And it worked. Overtime you became happier, focusing on your son and his future.
And then....it happened.
You were in the kitchen cooking, the radio on. Henry was playing with his toys as usual in the living room when you heard him speak.
"Hewo." It had been the one word he enjoyed saying. But normally, Henry would only say it to others. You peeked into the living room, your view only seeing Henry, but then you saw a shadow move. Panic filled your chest, and you grabbe dthe bat you had near and stepped further into the room.
And there he was. Tom Bennet.
His eyes were locked onto Henry. A tear slid down his cheek as he stared at the boy. He took a step forward, and before you could tell your body no, you reached for Henry first, pulling him into your arms, into safety.
Tom was shocked at first, snapping out of his head. When his eyes found yours, they softened, and a gentle smile came to his lips.
"Baby." He took a step forward, and you took one back. He sighed, understanding it was all a shock. "...he's beautiful...you look well..."
You look well? Thats what he had to say?
For some reason, the words filled you with anger.
"Say something...anything." He steps forward once more. You hold up a hand, stopping him from coming any closer. "Im not going to hurt you....I would never hurt you."
You knew that, God, you knew that deep down.
"It's just- a shock. I didn't expect you to come back, really..." It was brutal but honest.
"Well im here. Im here and im not going anywhere."
He sounded like your Tom. he looked like your Tom. He acted like your Tom.
Had war not changed him a bit?
"Two years alone...I gave birth alone. I raised him alone. Im just so angry at you for not being here...and I know it wasn't your choice but-"
"But you can't help it." Tom finished your sentence for you. Of course, he did the man knew you better than anyone else. "I understand, of course, I understand love. But im here now and im not going anywhere. I want to be here for you and our boy."
"I think I need time- we need time."
It hurt Tom to hear that; he had imagined this reunion going a lot smoother in his head, but he understood.
"Can I hold him before I go? Please." You could see the pleading in his eyes. Not even you could say no to him. You handed Henry to him. Tom held the boy tightly, smelling his hair and kissing his forehead. You could hear him repeating "daddy's here" over and over. It tugged at your heartstrings, but you would sooner cut those strings with a butcher knife than ever rely on your heart again.
After a moment longer, Tom stepped closer to you, handing Henry back to you again. He kissed Henry's forehead once more and then, making sure you were okay beforehand, kissed your cheek.
He promised to give you space but begged you to agree to see him once more this week.
But that week came and went by, and truthfully, you avoided Tom altogether. You had the locks changed. You switched routes to avoid areas you thought he might be in.
And Tom himself noticed that he could tell you were avoiding him. All this time, he worried about whether war would change him, but it seemed to have changed you. You had grown independent and cold. Guarded. And he blamed himself for it.
Many weeks went by, and a cold frustration settled in. He couldn't take it anymore. Tom wanted to be with his wife and so,n not living with his sister after being away at war for two years. He knew you needed the time, but how much time did you really need for you to remember your husband was back?
So he did research. After finding out more about where you went during certain days and time Tom caught you at the perfect moment. You were carrying groceries home, and Henry was waiting at the house with his babysitter. Tom crossed the street, coming in front of you.
"You've been avoiding me." His voice was rushed and low. "Why?"
"I-I told you I needed time." You try to walk around him.
"How much time do you need, love. I miss you and Henry so much. I just want us to be a family again."
"Were we ever a family?" The words came out before you could stop them.
"Don't say such things." Tom was hurt, his voice running cold. "Of course were a family. I didn't want to leave love! You know that. But im here now-"
"Well, now it's too late! I've learned to live without you, Tom. I've learned to be on my own. And letting you back in again could prove to be stupid if you end up having to leave me!"
"Baby-" Tom tried to reach for you, but you backed away. His hand fell at his side. "I know it can't have been easy for you. I don't doubt that. And I know you're worried about the future, but please, please don't let that be what keeps my son and wife from me. Im begging you."
You could hear the raw emotion in his voice. The last time you had heard him on the verge of tears was your wedding day when he read his vows.
"I just- I need time, Tom. Real time." Despite the war of emotions raging inside you, your voice held firm. Tom, seeing your determination, nodded and stepped out of your way so you could head home.
A month went by. Tom was driven to madness. Plagued by nightmares of what he saw, felt and could smell. The scent of death, the sounds of gunfire and bombs, was often all too much. He spoke to whatever doctors they said he should, but what did they know? They weren't out there. They didnt see what he saw. And no amount of medication or sleep could remove those memories.
The only thing that could help him was his family, his family which was only a couple minute walk away but yet so far out of his reach.
Tom's routine was abandoned. He stopped taking his medication, and he began drinking. He was waiting by the door constantly, hoping you'd knock, hoping youd show up ready to welcome him back in your life, but you never came. He wondered if thats how you felt, waiting for him to come home to you, but he never showed up.
And one night...he snapped.
You put Henry to bed. Sang him his usual songs, read the same stories and kissed him in the same spots. You changed for bed and read some chaptersof a book you recently bought while drinking your tea that was brewing while you had been busy tucking Henry in.
You didn't notice the change in taste. Or how quickly you fell asleep, your body luring you into that comforting darkness.
You don't know when you fell asleep, but eventually you felt yourself being pulled out of it.
There was a familiar feeling growing within you. Your mind was slowly waking, slowly taking in your surroundings.
Thats when you felt the warmth on your body, the hands between your thighs. The fingers swirling on your bud bring you pleasure, slowly waking you up.
"Wake up for me, love." You knew without a doubt who it was; only one man could have you close to your peak like this.
Your core clenched around nothing as he continued to tease your bud. You wanted to talk but felt all too weak to do so. Your limbs felt heavy and tired.
His fingers did not stop a beat. He could hear your breathy moans and knew you were close. He pushed a finger inside you, finding that spot that he knew could bring you pleasure. It only took mere seconds before you came into his hands. He removed his now-wet finger from within you. You could not see it, but he used the wetness to coat his cock, which was already hard. He moved himself so he was above you.
"So beautiful. My pretty girl." He kissed you gently. You hated how much you enjoyed it; his touch, which you had not felt in years, was like a wake-up to who you used to be. Who you were for him. His wife.
"I know this was wrong of me...but if I could just get you to remember. Remember how much I love you, and you love me, then I know we can get back to normal."
You managed to finally muster enough strength to move your arms, trying to use them to push him off you. He tutted softly and took hold of your wrists, bringing them down.
"Relax, love." He pulled your legs apart, nestling himself between them. "I know you want me." You could smell the rum on his breath; he was drunk.
You feel his cock push against you and sigh when you feel him fully enter you, filling you in a way no man ever could. You could feel his cock twitch within you, and you watched as he spoke gently to himself.
Despite war temptation, Tom had waited. He entertained no other woman like every husband should.
The stretch was painful, and you were grateful for the pause to let you readjust. Tom leaned his head on your neck as he rocked his hips with gently shallow thrusts. He left kisses on your neck and cheek.
Your arms lifted once more, but this time they didn't push him away; they wrapped around his neck. You could feel the head of his cock pushing against your cervix, and the stretch was still painful; a small whimper passed your lips.
"Shhh itll feel good soon. Fuck your tight. You just need time to remember me." Tom groaned as he picked up the pace. The bed rocking into the wall creates a soft rhythm.
"You don't know how much I missed this pussy. How much I missed your touch." The pain warred into pleasure, and the tip of his cock began repeatedly hitting that sweet spot inside you.
His hand comes up and grips your breasts before rolling your nipples between his fingers. They had become sensitive since breastfeeding. Tom watched with pleasure as some milk spilled out.
"Wouldn't want to waste that." He adjusted himself so he could bring his mouth to your breasts and use his other hand to return to swirling your clit and bringing you constant pleasure while he drank greedily. He switched to the other breast and gave it the same treatment before coming up to your mouth and kissing you deeply.
"I know I should have asked first. And I shouldn't have drugged you," he saw your eyebrows raise in confusion. "Easy to pick a lock, love. Docs prescribed Barbiturates, given to help with the sleep nightmares...knocks you out quick, wake up too soon and you feel immobilized, but don't worry...i just needed to use it for our first time back together."
His hips began moving once more. His hands found your waist as he held you for leverage and began fucking into you, his head fallen back in pleasure. Not even you could help yourself as your moans spilled past your lips, even picking up in pitch. He knew you were close once more.
"No one else could fuck you like this. No one else could have you like this. You're mine, my wife, the mother of my child." He kissed you once more.
"Im gonna fuck another baby into you, and I promise you im not going anywhere this time, hm? You want that?"
The pleasure was all too much, you mewled back to him, which he took for yes. Tom wraps a hand around your throat, one on your hip for leverage and keeps fucking into you.
"Fuck im almost there. Gonna cum inside my wife, gonna put a baby in her so we can be a family again. Fuck."
Tom releases your throat once more, circling your bud.
"Cum with me, baby. Cum with me and I'll know you forgive me, hm? Do it for me, do it for our family." Tom pulled the pleasure out from you and could feel you tighten around him. Broken moans fall from your lips. Just knowing you came had him spill his seed within you and collapsing next to your head, moaning in your ear and kissing you wth promises to love you and cherish you. You felt yourself slowly relax around him as he lay next to you and adjusted himself.
Though he stayed inside you, wanting that connection.
"Shh," he cooed, one hand on your stomach imaginig it round once more. "Did so good for me."
He pulled the covers over both of you and held you closely, still not removing himself from within you.
"I love you, baby, I'll always love you. And im not letting you go anywhere if it's not with me."
You felt the pull of sleep and exhaustion.
You didn't know what to think of what just happened. Part of you was disgusted that he would do something like this, drug you, then crawl into your bed. And part of you felt a release you didn't know was needed.
You had loved him once, but you weren't sure what to call this now.
But you were sure of one thought.
War did this to us.
A/N: Thank you to anyone who read! Im happy to be back into writing once more. Let me know what you guys thought, and if you wish to be a part of my general taglist then let me know in a comment! Love you guys!
Warning: 1940-1950, slight misogyny, Tom is the perfect husband, fluff, swearing
Summary: To be a woman after the Second World War...
Tom was home early for once. The body shop had been slow today—no new cars or engines to repair.
He was just pulling his work clothes from the washing machine to hang up when he heard the front door open and slam shut.
He raised an eyebrow but shrugged. Bad day at work, maybe, he thought.
But then he heard her angrily toss her keys into the crystal bowl by the door, followed by the loud crash of glass.
“Shit!” she shouted.
Tom sprang into action. Laundry could wait—his wife needed him.
He bolted down from the bathroom and stopped in the foyer, taking in the sight of shattered glass strewn across the floor.
“Don’t move, darlin’. I’ll get the broom.”
He turned and walked into the kitchen to grab the broom, dustpan, and garbage bin before heading back to the entrance.
One look at his wife told him this was more than just a bad day. It was shit. The unshed tears in her eyes were proof enough.
“I got your favorite flowers on my way home,” he mumbled as he carefully swept up the shards. “Nearly nicked my thumb cuttin’ the stems. You gotta show me again how to do it right.”
A small chuckle escaped her lips, making his own lift slightly.
“You shouldn’t have,” she whispered.
“Yes, I do,” he said. “I love you, and I wanted to show you. Also bought everything for dinner. I waited for you. Ya know, ‘cause I keep burnin’ the kitchen down without your supervision.”
More giggles escaped her lips.
He finished cleaning, then grinned as he tossed the awful crystal bowl into the bin.
“You hatin’ it that much?”
She rolled her eyes. “It was from me mom. You know how she gets when we don’t put her stuff up.” He knew all too well. One ugly dust catcher less in their house.
Tom grinned down at her. He set the broom and dustpan aside before stepping closer. His strong, left arm wrapped gently around her waist, and he pressed his nose to her forehead, pulling her into his chest.
“What happened?” he asked simply, holding her closer. Letting her know she was safe and she could cry her heart out to him.
He felt her body tremble. At first, he thought she was cold, but then he felt her fists balled up against his chest—warm, tense. She was furious.
“They’re letting me go,” she whispered, her voice hollow.
Tom stiffened at her words. Letting her go? She was the hardest-working person in that damn office.
“Why, darlin’?”
She let out an angry huff—cute, but now wasn’t the time to think about that. He needed to listen.
“Because I’m married,” she gritted out.
Tom frowned, more confused than ever. “I don’t see the problem. I’m married, and no one bats an eye. What’s so different between the two of us?”
He loosened his hold just enough to look down at her. Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears, and his chest ached at the sight.
“You aren’t expected to care for our future children,” she whispered, gaze dropping to the floor.
Tom took a deep breath, his mind racing. The whole situation made no damn sense.
“But I will be their father,” he mumbled. Then, suddenly, it clicked.
“Bastards,” he scoffed, looking down at her. He gently hooked a finger underneath her chin and lifted her face to look at him. “They want you gone so you stay home and be a good little housewife?”
She nodded.
Tom’s jaw clenched. He knew plenty of women chose to stay home and care for the house and kids. But then there were women like his wife—like his sister Lois—who wanted to work, to contribute, to build something of their own. And now, they were just forcing her out?
Over his dead body. “Not gonna happen while there’s air in my lungs. I’ll go to your office myself and fight for your job.”
But she shook her head. “Don’t. Maybe it’s an opportunity,” she whispered.
He raised a brow. “Oh?”
She nodded. “I was already looking for another job and found one. The head of the office is a woman. And honestly? I hate that job anyway,” she murmured, cuddling closer to him.
He chuckled softly, holding her closer to his chest and wrapping his other arm around her shoulder. He pressed a gentle kiss to the crown of her head.
“You’re too precious for this world, sweetheart,” he mumbled against her hair, breathing in the sweet scent of her soap.
The tranquillity of the moment was interrupted by the low growl of her stomach.
“The lion woke up,” he whispered teasingly, kissing her forehead before looking down at her.
She grinned. “It’s not sleeping tonight.”
He laughed softly, knowing she’d caught onto his little jab.
“Come on, my darling. Let’s feed it before it wakes the goddamn jungle,” he murmured, pulling her along to the kitchen—ready to once again learn to cook from his brilliant wife.
To read more of my work, please take a look at my MASTERLIST.
Pairing: Tom Bennett (World on Fire) x f!reader x Billy Taylor (The Halcyon)
Warnings: Angst, mentions of PTSD and familial death, (consensual) infidelity, voyeurism, smut.
Word count: ~3.9k
Summary: Tom's been sullen since returning from the Navy, and when his sister, Lois, moves from Longsight to London it heralds the end of the honeymoon period of his and his wife's marriage. Deciding a trip to the capital is just what they need to reignite the flame, Tom's wife gets much more than she bargains for when they check into The Halcyon, and she flirts with the handsome young bell boy to make her husband jealous.
Author's note: This is not a crack fic. I have warped canon (I mean, I had to get these two to exist in the same AU anyway), so Billy didn't die when he was drafted, and has gone back to his old job at The Halcyon. No tag list. Please follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications. Community labels are for cops.
Dappled sunlight plays upon Tom’s sharp features, the occasional shadow of a tree or building passing across his face as the train speeds through the British countryside. He’d look beautiful, bathed in golden hues, were it not for the pensive expression he wears, and the faintest of dark circles that linger beneath his eyes.
She can’t remember the last time he looked genuinely happy - perhaps it was their wedding day?
Her and Tom had met in secondary school, and she’d thought he was an idiot to begin with; handsome, but always mucking around in lessons, never able to take anything seriously. It wasn’t until they’d both left that they’d become an item. She’d go to the weekly dances at the Pavillion, and every week he would ask her out. The first three times she had said no, not wanting to get mixed up with a known troublemaker. On the fourth occasion she’d relented, simply in the hopes that if she said yes he’d leave her alone. But she’d found she enjoyed his company, he made her laugh effortlessly, and when his blue eyes gazed into hers it made her feel like the only girl in the world that mattered. When he had kissed her it had stolen all the air from her lungs, and from that point on she was smitten with Tom Bennett.
The night before he shipped out for the first time, she had thought he meant to slam the bed’s headboard through the brickwork of the wall with the force with which he took her. However, she had smiled to herself when she’d felt the pleasant ache between her thighs the next day.
“Something to remember me by,” he’d told her with a wink and that trademark smirk of his.
Something to remember indeed.
She’d barely recognised him when he’d returned. He was thin, tired, didn’t laugh as freely, and learning that his father had passed when the Bennett family home was shelled had darkened his mood further. He hadn’t stayed long, enough to argue with his sister, Lois, and enough to find his way between her thighs once more and make her swear to him that she’d marry him when he came back.
Of course she had said yes, there was no one in the world she could imagine wanting to marry more than Tom. But with how things are between them these days she is left wondering if he’d married her because he loved her, or because she was the one thing left in Longsight that he could anchor himself to.
They’d married quickly when Tom was discharged for the final time, the war at its end. It had been an intimate affair, and despite the toll his service to his country had taken on him, Tom still gazed into her eyes on their wedding night and made her feel like the only girl in the world that mattered.
But then Lois had announced she was taking Vera and moving to London - her and Connie had found a place they could share. A fresh start. She had hinted at wanting to move away from Longsight before, and Tom had dismissed it, insisting that the family must stay together.
He was furious when she’d chosen to go anyway, refusing to be part of the send off party for her at the train station.
“This is where mum and dad are buried, how can she do this?!” He’d raged.
“They’re just headstones, Tommy,” she had tried to reassure him, “memories go everywhere with you.”
“You wouldn’t fucking understand,” he’d seethed back at her, “you’ve still got both your parents, what have I got?!”
“You’ve got me, you’ll always have me,” she’d said quietly.
He’d fallen silent at that, bowing his head and averting his gaze. It made her chest ache to see him that way.
It’s been close to a month since they were last intimate, and she has done her best to be patient and understanding. His time in the Navy has put him through a horrendous ordeal, coupled with losing Douglas, and his sister moving away, so she doesn’t pressure him.
However, she misses her husband. She feels that he is abandoning her each time he retreats into himself, going somewhere she can’t follow. Like two ships in the night, they pass each other by, laying in the same bed physically but emotionally never further apart.
When a letter arrives from Lois, letting them know she’s settled and would love for them to visit, she jumps at the opportunity. She has some money put aside from her job at the factory, and her and Tom never got to have a honeymoon, this would be the perfect way for them to rekindle the romance in their marriage.
She is shocked, yet thrilled, when Tom actually agrees to it, and the pair of them arrange a week’s worth of leave from their respective jobs, arranging to stay in a hotel rather than impose themselves upon Lois’ hospitality. There’d be plenty for them to do while they’re there, and she can’t wait to see the sights of Piccadilly Circus and Carnaby Street, she’s never been to London before.
Tom has stared silently out of the window the entire train ride from Manchester, though she knows better than to believe he’s taking in the scenery. It’s merely so he doesn’t have to make conversation. She can live with that, she is certain that once they’ve had their romantic week away that he’ll be much more talkative on the journey back.
Everything will be fine once we’re checked into The Halcyon.
It is early evening by the time they arrive, and Euston station is a crowded rush of people when they step onto the platform. She is fearful of it for a moment, never having seen so many people all in one place at once, until Tom takes her by the hand, guiding her through the crowds towards the taxi rank. Her heart soars at the gesture, a hopeful smile tugging at her lips over his protectiveness. Perhaps he is not lost to her after all.
She stares in wide eyed wonder out of the window of the black cab as it drives through the streets of London. It is similar to Manchester in its greyness and vastness, they both have all the trappings of big city living, however, the heart of London beats to an entirely different rhythm than that of Manchester’s. The capital seems harsher, more relentless than the northern locale that she calls home. She wonders if perhaps this is the right place to try to rekindle the spark in hers and Tom’s marriage after all.
That is until they step into the foyer of The Halcyon. Her heels click against the black and white tiles of the foyer, her mouth agape as she takes in the opulence of the huge pillars, the palm trees that flank either side of the entrance, and the yellow and orange hues of the stained glass panel in the ceiling. How could they not reignite their passion when they were going to live like royalty for a week?
“Billy!” The dark haired woman manning reception calls around the corner, once they’ve checked in. “Come and help Mr and Mrs. Bennett with their bags.”
A tall, lean young man, who can’t be any older than twenty, rounds the corner. He’s handsome, with bright blue eyes, and mousy hair that’s slicked back beneath the cap of his black and grey bellboy uniform.
He gives her a tight lipped smile, the tips of his ears turning pink as he looks at her and she can’t help the way she preens at his flustered state.
Still got it.
“Second floor, Billy,” the receptionist tells him as he leans down to grab their suitcases, “room twenty six.”
Billy nods. “Right this way, please, Mr and Mrs. Bennett,” he says, directing them towards the lifts.
She can feel the bellboy’s gaze upon her in the tight confines of the elevator and smiles to herself. At least someone was appreciative of her.
He takes his leave, bidding them both a good evening once their luggage is deposited outside of their room door, and her and Tom are left alone once more.
Tom whistles low as they enter, flicking on the lights, and she feels pride swell in her chest that he’s impressed by the lavish surroundings. A shiver of excitement runs through her as her eyes move over the crisp white pillows and crimson duvet that adorn the bed, thinking that this might be where they’ll finally make love for the first time in a month.
It’s a beautiful room; lace curtains hang in the windows, ornate floral wallpaper decorates the walls, there’s a writing desk by the window, and a yellow velvet armchair is placed off to one side by the bed.
Turning back towards Tom, she steps towards him, sliding her hands up his chest, over his jacket. She smiles demurely up at him, her voice a soft purr. “So, Mr. Bennett, what shall we do now?”
“It’s been a long journey, love,” he tells her, taking one of her hands and brushing his lips against her knuckles. “Let’s just get some rest, yeah?”
“Oh…okay,” she nods, stepping back and looking away. She feels like she might cry, as disappointment weighs heavily upon her chest. This is not how she imagined their first night here would go at all.
As she lays in the darkness, listening to the strange sounds of the city, motor cars and loud voices, all seeping in through the closed window, she can’t seem to fall asleep. She turns her face towards Tom, who lays facing away from her, wondering if he’s awake too.
“Tommy?” She whispers.
“Yeah?” He whispers back.
She pauses a moment, and when she speaks again she’s unable to disguise the tremble of emotion in her voice. “Do…do you still love me?”
He rolls to face her then, and the devastation of what she’s implying is evident in the arch of his eyebrows and parting of his lips, illuminated by the light of the streetlamp that pours in through the lace curtains. She feels a lump in her throat, regretting having asked.
“Course I do,” he says earnestly, tugging her towards him, and she buries her face in his chest. He presses his lips to the crown of her head, rubbing her back. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, “I’ve been letting you down.”
They stay like that for the rest of the night.
The next morning they sit in the hotel’s dining room for breakfast. Tom idly smokes a cigarette, a full English in front of him, while she butters her toast.
“Gonna go and see Lois today,” he tells her, taking a swig from his tea cup.
“I thought we’d arranged to visit her on Sunday?” She asks, frowning in confusion as she sets her knife down on her plate.
“We are,” Tom says, blowing smoke out through his nostrils - a gesture she has long since learned is a sign of irritation on his part. “But I’m gonna go see her today - alone.”
You’re going to start an argument, and then come back in a bad mood.
She sighs, folding her hands in her lap. “And what am I supposed to do?”
Tom shrugs. “Go to Carnaby Street, or whatever it was you were saying you wanted to do while we’re here.”
“Tommy, we’re supposed to do those things together, and I don’t wanna walk around London on my own!”
He nods, stubbing his cigarette out on the yolk of his fried egg, causing her to wrinkle her nose in disgust. He had barely touched his food, he never does anymore.
“Alright, look, I’m only gonna be gone a couple of hours, then we can do whatever you want. Why don’t you order some drinks for when I get back, and we can start our holiday properly?”
“You promise?” She asks with a small smile.
“Cross my heart,” he says, taking a final swig of his tea. He stands from the table and presses a kiss to her temple.
“And promise you won’t be horrible to Lois?”
“I’m not promising anything for that mardy cow,” he says, giving her a wink, before walking off.
She leans back in her chair, crossing her arms.
Fuck’s sake, Tommy.
She goes back up to the room once she’s finished her breakfast, and takes a long, hot soak in the bath. Almost two hours have passed by the time she has her make-up finished and her hair curled. Dressed in lingerie and a satin robe, she is still deciding on an outfit when she realises Tom will be back soon and she hasn’t ordered their drinks.
Calling down to the hotel’s switchboard from the phone on the desk, she asks for a glass of white wine and a whisky to be sent up to the room. Ordinarily, Tom is a lager drinker, but she decides he deserves a treat as they’re on holiday.
Ten minutes later, there’s a knock at the door and the bellboy from yesterday stands on the other side, holding a tray with the drinks they’d ordered.
She smiles warmly, watching him blush as he bows his head and enters the room, setting the tray down on a nearby table.
“Thank you…Billy, wasn’t it?” She asks, cocking her head.
He presses his lips together in a tight smile, glancing at her before looking shyly away again. It’s clear her state of undress is having an effect on him. “Yes, Mrs. Bennett,” he says, clearing his throat and straightening, clasping his hands behind his back. “Will that be all?”
Excitement flutters in her lower belly. It’s been a long time since a man has reacted to her so bashfully, and she’s enjoying it. She isn’t ready to let Billy slip away just yet.
“No need to be so formal, sweetheart,” she coos, “you can call me by my first name.”
He shuffles from foot to foot, huffing a nervous laugh. “Sorry, Mrs…sorry…”
“How old are you, Billy?” She asks, stepping towards him.
“I’m twenty-one.”
Seven years my junior. Not as bad as I’d thought.
“Did you serve, Billy?”
“Yes,” he says with a proud smile. “I manned the anti aircraft guns at the barracks for three years.”
The sound of a key in the lock draws both their attention towards the door, as Tom walks through it. Just as she’d anticipated, his expression is sour. He’s argued with Lois.
“I’ll leave you both to it,” Billy says, with a polite nod of his head.
She knows how this will play out. Billy will leave, and Tom will allow his bad mood to ruin their day, either by refusing to leave their hotel room, or simply sulking his way around London when they’re supposed to be having a good time. Opting to use the current situation to her advantage, she decides to be tactical, and give her husband a reminder of what he’s missing out on. If he sees another man flirting with his wife, perhaps it will snap him out of this.
“No need to be in such a hurry, Billy, we were just getting to know each other. Or do you have somewhere you need to be?”
Billy eyes Tom carefully as he walks past the both of them, taking the whisky from the tray on the desk and sipping from it.
“Well, my shift finishes in ten minutes,” he says distractedly, “so I s’pose I could–”
“Perfect,” she cuts him off, taking his arm and guiding him to sit next to her on the edge of the bed.
Tom remains silent, taking a seat in the armchair and placing his glass on the table next to it. His jaw is set, gaze dark. He only ever looks like this when he’s sparring for a fight, but if this is what it takes, then so be it.
“Do you have a sweetheart, Billy?” She asks softly, fingernails grazing his thigh, causing him to flush bright red.
“Er…well…” he removes his cap, keeping his gaze fixed on it as he turns it round in his hands. “There was a maid that worked here…Kate, her name was. I fancied her…really fancied her, but she moved back to Ireland to be with her family when the worst of the bombing hit.”
“Oh, you poor love,” she soothes, giving his hand a squeeze. “I expect a handsome lad like you has girls queuing up.”
The click of Tom’s lighter pulls their focus back to him, and he exhales a plume of smoke, staring intently at them both. “Do you fancy my wife?” He asks Billy, with a steely gaze.
Billy swallows thickly, eyes widening in panic as he opens and closes his mouth.
“It’s okay, Billy,” she says gently, “you don’t need to be shy.”
“Well…I hope you don’t mind me saying, Mrs…sorry…but I think you’re beautiful.”
This time it’s her turn to feel embarrassed, and she averts her gaze as she feels her skin grow warm.
“Yeah, she is beautiful isn’t she? Would you like to kiss her?” Tom asks, lifting his glass and taking a deep drink from it, his eyes never leaving Billy.
Her head snaps up, looking at her husband with wide eyed shock.
Why is he asking that?!
“Tommy…” she says hesitantly, an edge of warning in her tone.
“It’s fine, love,” he takes another drag of his cigarette, settling further into the armchair, observing the both of them. “Go on, kiss her.”
Returning her attention to Billy, he’s shuffled closer, looking at her questioningly.
“Is…is this okay?” He whispers, leaning in.
She nods, closing the gap and her lips meet his. He is hesitant at first. His kisses are not as forceful as Tom’s, his lips are softer. As she reaches up to cup his cheek, he seems to grow more confident, applying more pressure, a quiet hum of approval rumbling in his throat. It makes her core throb to be desired like this.
When they finally part for air, she is breathless and flustered. She looks straight to Tom. He sits, watching them casually, fingers wrapped around his glass in one hand, propped on the arm of the chair, his cigarette burning low between his forefingers in the other.
“Do you wanna touch her?” He asks Billy, a low, darkened edge to his voice.
“Yeah…yeah, I do,” Billy answers, sounding more poised than he had just moments before.
“Go on then,” Tom instructs, “brush your thumb over her nipple, she likes that.”
She gasps softly as Billy leans in again, capturing her lips with his own once more. A quiet moan escapes her as she feels his hand tentatively slip into the opening of her robe, his thumb swiping gently over the lace of her brassiere.
He is not as self assured as Tom, Billy’s touch is featherlight by comparison, but it’s been so long since someone has paid this kind of attention to her that she responds to it just the same. She arches against Billy, her tongue slipping into his mouth as she hears his cap drop to the carpet with a soft thud.
“You can fuck her, if you want to,” Tom rasps, and she glances over at him, as Billy’s desperate kisses move down her neck. His blue eyes are still dark, she’s no longer able to tell if it’s from anger or arousal, the two states look much the same when he wears them.
There’s a part of her mind that’s screaming at her that this is wrong, that they should stop. However, if this is what it takes to get Tom to notice her again, then she’ll do it, and selfishly she’s enjoying how it feels.
Billy pushes her back, and she goes willingly. “Are you sure this is okay?” He whispers, his voice betraying his nerves.
She nods, untying and opening her robe, to reveal the lacy lingerie set she wears beneath.
Billy draws in a sharp inhale, before hurriedly unfastening his belt and unzipping his trousers with shaky hands.
He freezes, looking at Tom. “I…I don’t have a sheath.”
“Don’t need one,” Tom replies nonchalantly, crushing his cigarette butt out in the ashtray. “Best not keep her waiting.”
She pulls the gusset of her knickers to one side as Billy hovers over her. She can feel she’s soaked already. Billy is not quite as girthy as Tom, but still an impressive size that causes her breath to catch in her throat as he starts to press inside.
Tom chuckles quietly from where he sits. “She’s tight, isn’t she? Tightest little pussy I’ve ever had. Go careful.”
His words cause her to ache with want, and she moans wantonly as Billy bottoms out with a grunt. He’s gentle, much more so than Tom would be, slowly withdrawing before pushing back in, a dusting of pink prominent across his cheekbones.
“You won’t break her,” Tom tells him, “can just imagine how wet and warm she feels. Fuck her harder, and wrap one of her legs around you. She goes mad for that.”
She cries out, white hot sparks of pleasure swirling in her gut as Billy does as he’s told, the shallow pants of his breath puffing hotly against the side of her face.
Turning her head, she looks at her husband and he smirks, eyes raking over the scene before him as Billy continues to rut into her.
“T–Tommy…” she moans.
With each push of Billy’s hips into hers, she can feel her climax building, she’s right on the precipice, but it seems Billy is too. He tenses, a groan escaping him.
“Don’t you dare come inside her,” snaps Tom.
As if on cue, Billy pulls out, making her whine at the loss, coating her thighs in his hot spend as his jaw slackens and his brow furrows.
Before she’s had a chance to recover, Tom is rising from his seat towards the bed. “You can go now,” he tells Billy.
Still struggling to catch his breath, Billy nods, clambering off of her and fastening his trousers and belt back up. He stoops to pick up his cap, before hurrying towards the door, followed by Tom.
She lays there, dumbfounded and breathless, through glassy eyes she watches Tom hand Billy a bank note. “You’ll not tell anyone about this, d’you understand?”
“Y–yes, sir.”
She hears the door click closed, and Tom walks back over to the bed. His pupils are blown wide with lust and it sends a shiver through her.
“Enjoy yourself, love?” He asks, grabbing her thighs and tugging her towards the edge of the mattress, making her squeal.
“Are you angry with me?” She asks quietly, feeling shame bloom heavily within her chest.
“No,” he says distractedly, attention focused on her core. His thumb swipes through the stickiness that’s been left on her thigh, spreading it slowly over her skin. “No, I’m not angry.”
“You’ve been so absent lately,” she says sadly, propping herself up on her elbows. “Just wanted your attention.”
He straightens, nodding in understanding. “Yeah, I get it. I’ve been neglecting you, and that’s my fault. But don’t worry, I won’t anymore. Now–”
She clenches around nothing as his hands move to his belt, and she hears the metallic clink of it opening.
“Now you have my full attention, and I’m gonna make sure you get all of it.”
Pairing: Osferth x f!reader
Warnings: Canon typical violence, smut, fluff.
Word count: ~1.4k
Summary: Osferth is tired of her underestimating him, of being seen as nothing more than "Baby Monk", so goes out of his way to prove to her that he is so much more than that. A little birthday treat for @doomwhathouwilt - based on this request.
Author's note: I don't have a tag list - please follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications. Community labels are for cops.
She points the tip of her sword to her opponent’s chest, dragging him closer by the shoulder as it plunges forward to the hilt, before sliding it back and watching him crumple in a heap before her, his lifeless eyes staring up towards a gray sky. She cannot hear the screams of pain, the cries of triumph around her over the roar of the blood in her ears.
Her body aches with exertion, the arrows in her quiver are long spent, meaning she has to use her blade to defend herself. As the fighting dies down she is left only with the hammering of her heart, panting for breath as the world swims back into focus, and she is greeted by the coppery smell of viscera and the rancid stench of shit. She feels like crying, the adrenaline that courses through her is beginning to subside as she watches what little remains of their opponents flee, the majority of their forces having been cut down.
There is rarely a dull moment on the road with Uhtred and his men; she's been with him since he parted ways with Brida, accompanying him and Leofric on their travels. She enjoys never settling anywhere for long, drinking ale and sharing stories beneath the stars. It keeps her skills as an archer sharp, their battles are frequent, though lately she finds herself tiring of them, there is little joy to be found in taking the life of another.
She longs to give up, to declare she can take no more, but as her weary eyes look up, taking in the aftermath of the battle, she is met with the very reason why she continues on. Osferth’s eyes, vividly blue and wide with fright remain fixed ahead, his grip on his weapon so tight his knuckles are blanched with the force of it. Though he fights courageously, there is fear in his heart and she worries about what will happen to him if she simply walks away from all of this. They all give him a hard time; he is a Christian, always seems to say the wrong thing and has no qualms with passing judgment on their behaviours that he deems inappropriate. Despite all of this, he is steadfast in his loyalty to the group, and so she along with the rest of them would gladly lay down her life for him.
They sit around the campfire, tending to the minor injuries they’ve sustained, cuts and scrapes alike. She bats away Sihtric’s attempts to dab at her temple with a moistened rag.
“It’s a scratch, leave it be,” She says with resignation. Her eyelids feel heavy as she stares ahead into the flames, she longs for sleep.
“I think this calls for ale and women!” Finan declares, slapping his thighs and standing up.
“And prayer,” Osferth adds, with a hopeful smile.
“Yes, but in that order,” Finan counters with a grin.
She remains seated as the four of them head towards the village, she has no desire to join in with their festivities.
Osferth glances over his shoulder, pausing and allowing the group to move ahead when he notices she remains where she is.
“Are you not joining us, my lady?” He asks, brows pinched together with concern.
“Not tonight, no,” She says quietly. “I’m not in the mood.”
He nods, returning to the fire and seating himself next to her. “Then I shall stay with you and keep you company.”
“You don’t need to do that.”
“I don’t. But I want to.”
She looks at him, a warm smile spreading across her face as she sees the sincerity in his eyes.
“There’ll be women waiting for you in the village,” She teases.
The tips of his ears turn pink. “I’m not interested,” He tells her with a shy grin.
“I doubt you’d know what to do with them anyway, Baby Monk,” She chuckles lightly.
“I do, actually,” His voice is stern, his expression hardened and she worries she’s offended him.
“I was only jo–”
Her words are cut off as Osferth leans in, pressing his mouth to hers. His lips are soft yet firm against her own and the kiss steals her breath away. He keeps their foreheads pressed close, his thumb tracing lightly over her cheek as he pulls back.
Her heart flutters wildly as her breaths come shakily. “Y-your blood still runs hot from battle, Baby Monk, we should not do this.”
“I am tired of waiting for you to see me as I see you,” He whispers. “Let me show you how much I desire you.”
This time when his lips capture hers, she returns the gesture with equal enthusiasm, allowing herself to get lost in the basic primal urge of feeling wanted.
Deft hands exchange caresses across each other’s bodies, each pass of their fingers serving to remove an item of clothing until the two of them lay bare beneath the night sky. Her flesh prickles against the chill of the air, but she barely notices as her eyes drink in the sight of the man before her.
She looks appreciatively, silently cursing the robes that have been swamping the hard planes of muscle of Osferth’s torso. Her breath hitches at the sight of his hardened length, it’s thick and long, flushed pink at the tip, it appears that he is full of surprises.
“You are beautiful,” He declares softly, taking his time to gaze upon her own form, and she feels her skin grow heated at his compliment.
As he moves his body to cover hers, his mouth travels a path from her neck to her chest, leaving a trail of wet, opened mouthed caresses. He suckles on the hardened peaks of her breasts and she arches against him, a soft moan escaping her at the jolt of arousal that rushes through her.
She halts Osferth’s movements when he attempts to move lower, the ache between her thighs is unbearable and she is certain she needs no further preparation. “Please,” She whispers. “I want you.”
He inhales sharply at this, pupils blown wide with lust and hovers over her as she spreads her legs further to accommodate him. The gentle stretch as he pushes slowly inside is exquisite torture and causes her to gasp.
He pauses for a moment, softly stroking her hair. “Am I hurting you?”
“No, it feels good,” She reassures him. “Please don’t stop.”
He kisses her deeply as he bottoms out, allowing her a moment to adjust before he begins to rock his hips. His strokes are sure and even, and she finds herself wondering if this is practiced or purely instinctual. She had expected Osferth to be clumsy and inexperienced, yet every thrust of his hips finds a spot inside her that leaves her crying out as her toes curl involuntarily.
“I have wanted you for so long,” He whispers into her ear, as his hips snap against hers with more urgency. “You feel better than I have ever dreamed.”
She feels her eyes grow misty with emotion at this, the combination of his soft confessions and the pleasure she is experiencing becoming too much, until the tightly wound coil within her lower belly finally snaps, and she falls apart, clenching ceaselessly around him, as her cries of ecstasy are offered up to the stars above them.
Osferth shudders, pulling out of her with a strangled groan, stroking frantically at himself as he paints her upper thighs with his spend before collapsing beside her.
As the euphoria begins to wear off, she becomes aware of the tickle of the damp grass against her back, the coolness that licks against her sweaty skin.
He gently tugs her to his chest and she goes willingly, draping herself across him, listening to the rapid thud of his heartbeat.
“Are you alright, my lady?”
“Just fine, Baby Monk.”
“Could you…could you just call me Osferth? Simply Osferth.” He asks gently.
She lifts her head from his chest, raising a questioning eyebrow at him and he smiles fondly down at her.
“It seems more fitting for you to call me by name if you’re to be my woman.”
“Your woman?” She feels her stomach flutter.
“Yes, my woman,” He gives her a squeeze. “If that’s agreeable to you.”
She squeezes him back. Nothing has ever sounded better.
Pairing: Tom Bennett (World on Fire) x f!reader
Warnings: Angst. Smut (individual warnings applied to each chapter)
Summary: Tom's landed on his feet since arriving back in Longsight; a steady new job as a mechanic, utilising the engineering skills he learned in the navy, and the companionship of his childhood friend. Life should be idyllic, but nothing is ever that simple when it comes to Tom. And it's always her that bears the brunt of it.
Chapter one | Chapter two | Chapter three | Epilogue | Wedding night
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Author's note: I don't have a tag list. Please follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications. Community labels are for cops.
absolutely chuffed that, for the first time in my life, i’ve read the word naff in fanfiction. i know a northerner when i bloody well see one.
just a moment for : he’s healed enough to be in a place where can be someone’s husband, and he has chosen to be hers. : also because that was wonderful.
Pairing: Tom Bennett x f!reader
Warnings: Explicit sexual content.
Word count: ~1.6k
Summary: Tom's girl gets a reckless idea when he returns on shore leave, and he's all too happy to oblige. For the Kinktober prompt "breeding".
Author's note: No tag list. Please follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications.
All of the air had left her lungs the moment she had opened the front door of the tiny terraced house she shared with her parents in Longsight – Tom was standing on the pavement outside, his kit bag slung over one shoulder. He looked the picture of regality in the crisp dark blue of his Navy issue uniform, his cap perched handsomely on his head. His trademark cocky smirk had tugged at his lips as his gaze raked appreciatively down the length of her body.
“Miss me then?” he’d asked, clearly amused by her shocked expression.
His words had broken the spell of frozen shock that his unexpected appearance had cast upon her, and her arms immediately shot out, reaching for him. He had followed willingly, stepping over the threshold and crowding into her space as he had kicked the door closed behind him, dropping his kitbag to the floor. He swept her into his arms and his cap had fallen from his head as she had clung to him, her fingers curling into the cotton fabric that encased his broad shoulders.
They were not gentle with each other – months apart had ignited a raw desperation within each of them, and they had pawed at each other’s clothes like wild animals, tripping and stumbling up the stairs as they went, their kisses too clumsy for their lips to meet properly. She hadn’t cared, each painful nip was a reminder that Tom was real, he was here, he was alive.
Now she laid naked beneath him in her single bed – the one he’d taken her in multiple times over when her mum and dad weren’t home, the one where they had to hold the headboard still, or else Beryl next door would be round the next day, asking what all the thumping against the wall was. She had complained before that her little bed was too cramped for them to properly enjoy themselves, but now it felt utterly perfect – she’d cram them both into far smaller spaces if it meant having him like this. The warmth of his body seeped into her own as he settled between her spread thighs, his forearms resting either side of her head, caging her in. He was scrawnier than when she’d last seen him; his arms were more sinewy, his ribcage visible, and he had scars that hadn’t been there before. It didn’t matter – the hunger that blazed in the depths of his blue eyes as he gazed down at her was exactly the same as always, smouldering and intense. One thrust would be all it took for them to be fully reunited, but disappointment sank like a stone in her chest when she realised they had used the last of the rubbers the night before he’d first shipped out all those months ago. They had written letters back and forth, but his replies were slow, and she hadn’t known he would be returning on shore leave, so hadn’t had time to prepare. She curled her fingers around his biceps, anchoring him to her, afraid he might pull away at what she was about to confess.
“I haven’t got a sheath,” she admitted quietly, sad and almost guilty to be denying them both after so long.
Tom was quiet for a moment, studying her face intently, his expression unreadable, before he grinned down at her, eyes sparkling with mischief. “You think I’d let that stop me?” he teased, leaning down to press a sticky kiss to the crook of her neck. “I’ll pull and pray. I’ve crossed an ocean for this, sod the sheath.”
A shiver of nervous excitement ran through her at his words. They had never been intimate without using a rubber before, and the implied risk was both terrifying and exhilarating. It was one she was prepared to take, however, if it meant not being parted from Tom for even a moment longer. Exhaling shakily, she gave a small nod of consent.
She gasped, her hips bucking as he pressed forward, his movements measured and careful as he stretched her open inch by inch. All of the hurried eagerness from moments ago was gone, melted away by this new experience for them both.
“Fucking hell,” Tom gritted out, jaw tense and brow furrowed with the effort to hold back.
The sentiment was shared by her, but she couldn’t give voice to it, too overwhelmed by the warmth of each new sensation. Once he was fully inside of her, she could feel every twitch and throb of him, it felt dirty and forbidden, yet at the same time there was a tenderness to being so intimately connected – as close as they could ever be without any barriers. Perhaps he didn’t need to pull out after all; she loved Tom, and she knew she’d love his children even more. If the war was to steal him away from her again, then would it be so selfish for her to want to keep a piece of him for herself? A perfect little bundle that was the best of both of them.
Tom pulled back, cupping her jaw in his calloused palm as he tilted his head in question. “You’ve gone quiet on me.”
She hesitated a moment, chewing her lip nervously, contemplating on whether it would be wise to give voice to her thoughts. But she knew Tom, and knew he was too stubborn to be simply brushed off, she had to be honest. “I was just thinking…what if…what if you didn’t pull out? Would it be so bad to let nature take its course? I think we’d make beautiful babies, you and I.”
His eyes widened in shock, his lips parting momentarily before he swallowed thickly. She immediately regretted saying anything, she had scared him, pushed him for more than he was ready for, and spoiled everything. But then something shifted in his gaze, it darkened with intent, and she squealed as suddenly he grasped one of her legs and lifted it over his shoulder.
“If I’m gonna fuck a baby into you, I’m doing it properly,” he uttered.
Her breath hitched as without giving her a moment to adjust he withdrew from her and then quickly snapped his hips forward again. The pace he set was brutal, every harsh thrust made the bedsprings squeak and the headboard slam loudly against the wall. Neither of them bothered to try to hold it this time, that would be a problem for later. Right now, she was utterly lost to the primal force with which he took her, the animalistic flare of his nostrils, and how his eyes blazed wildly as he stared into hers. He’d never been this deep before – with her leg over his shoulder, she felt as though she was close to being folded in half. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to squirm away or pull him closer.
“Feel that?” he whispered breathlessly, splaying his hand against her lower belly and gently pressing down, “feel how deep I am?”
Her only answer was a whine, she couldn’t form words. It had never been like this with Tom before – he was always eager, but their intimacy had always been soft giggles and clumsy caresses, he had never taken her with such forceful intent. This was a possession, a claiming, and she never wanted it to end.
“You’ll look so pretty,” his lips ghosted the shell of her ear as he leaned down to speak directly into it, “all round and full of my kid.”
She clenched around him, her body tensing as his filthy words pushed her towards the edge. Where had this side of Tom been kept hidden before now? It was surreal to her that the mention of him knocking her up had unleashed this. As she trembled, feeling her sensitive walls flutter around him, she knew she wouldn’t last much longer – it was always hit and miss as to whether Tom would bring her to climax. They were both inexperienced, and the few times he had managed it had been pure luck, and they had been gentle tickles of pleasure that made her feel warm all over. What he was pushing her towards now with each hard thrust seemed as though it would shatter her apart completely.
He grasped her neck, squeezing just enough to make her panted breaths feel like an effort, his eyes dark as he stared down at her. “Promise you’ll wait for me,” he pleaded desperately, sandy hair sticking to his forehead with perspiration.
“I will,” she mewled, and the unashamed need he expressed for her was her undoing. Her back bowed off of the mattress as she came, a hoarse cry tearing from her throat as she squeezed rhythmically around him, her entire body convulsing with the force of ecstasy sending her into hot spasms.
He followed closely behind, collapsing atop her as he spilled inside of her with a groan, his hips jerking and muscles twitching as he pressed his face into the crook of her neck. She sighed deeply at the feeling of him finishing inside of her, boneless and satiated with utter bliss. Wrapping her arms around him, she held him close as they both breathed raggedly, stroking her fingers through his sweat-dampened hair. As her mind became less hazy, she was fearful of the moment he would pull back, afraid that she would see regret in his eyes, or that he’d tell her they’d made a mistake.
“Promise you’ll come back to me,” she murmured after a few moments of silence.
Tom lifted his head, a soft, lazy smile spread across his face as he cradled her cheek. “Got something to fight to come back for now, haven’t I?”
•Hey Saf! first of all thanks for your beautiful work. i had this idea in mind of reader being a Martell so she goes to kings landing to visit, she falls for aemond but Otto doesn’t trust her bc he believes she can poison him or something , so things go down
thank you if you take it! again thank you for your work it helps a lot
Snake in the Garden ~ Aemond x Martell!reader
word count: 1.4k
warnings: none, little angsty
note: loved writing this! thanks for sending and thank you so much for your kind words I'm glad you're enjoying my work 💚
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“Be careful,” Otto warns his grandson, as the wheelhouse pulls into the front courtyard.
Qoren Martell’s firstborn was arriving from Dorne, on a visit to the capital. Aemond nods, slightly bouncing on his heels as though preparing for battle, not the arrival of a lady.
“They are slippery snakes, Dornish women,” Otto murmurs, lowering his voice as the door to the wheelhouse opens.
You appear, a cloud of red and purple silks, dark hair pulled away from your face. Eyes wide you look up at the towers of the Red Keep, before suppressing a shiver.
“Cold here,” you say, more to yourself than anyone else.
Aemond watches you carefully as you step down, your delicate hand draped on a knight’s arm. Aemond’s eye follows you as she moves towards the royal family, as though she is a pit viper about to strike.
“We welcome you, Princess,” Alicent says, greeting you, “you must forgive the King’s absence, he is not faring well.”
“Of course, your grace,” you answer, “I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Your dark eyes move across the members of the royal family, and Aemond can feel his grandfather stiffen beside him as your eyes glance over at him. Then your eyes rest on Aemond.
You move to stand in front of him, staring up at his face. Aemond blinks in surprise, looking down at you. You are so close he can count the individual eyelashes that frame your sparkling eyes.
“Why do you cover it?” you ask, causing Aemond’s brow to furrow.
Bold.
“To spare the women of the court, princess,” Aemond answers.
You narrow your eyes.
“You have soft women in the north.”
“This is not the north.”
You laugh, the sound much like the peel of bells. Aemond’s mouth twitches into a smile, before his grandfather glares at him, causing him to retreat to his usual stoic expression.
“Everywhere is north of Dorne,” you answer, swishing past Aemond, skirts brushing his hand.
Aemond moves to follow you inside, set on not letting you leave his sights. Otto reaches out, clasping a hand on his arm.
“What did I say?” he asks, voice low.
“I only mean to keep an eye on the serpent,” Aemond tells him, pulling free from his grandfather’s grasp.
Aemond follows the Dornish beauty, not allowing you to leave his sight. Especially during the feast that night as you converse with Aegon, who has draped himself across your lap, cup in hand.
Aemond, though not overly fond of his brother, is his protector nonetheless.
He watches as Aegon says something to you, earning more musical laughter that floods through the halls. Aemond feels something inside him curl up with rage at the sight of how at ease Aegon is around you.
It should be him.
Aemond wishes to shake the thought away but he cannot. It remains like the pain that sometimes lodges itself behind the empty socket of his eye, as though his body has suddenly remembered a part of him is missing.
Aegon is the heir. It is he who should be fearful of you. Dornish enchantress.
Aemond should be enjoying himself in your company, have your hands stroking his hair as you do to Aegon now. It is too much to watch.
Aemond turns and leaves the hall, taking some air on a nearby veranda. The sky is black as death, lit up with thousands of diamond-like stars.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” a voice says behind him.
He knows it is you before you step beside him.
“You must have stars in Dorne.”
“Indeed,” you answer, chuckling, “but the northern air gives them such a glow.”
Aemond hums in response, feeling his heart beating hard in his chest, like a hammer against the cloth.
“Drink?” you ask, holding the second goblet you hold.
Aemond looks at it a moment too long. You smile wolfishly, teeth glowing in the moonlight. You look the part of an enchantress. Temptress. Beckoning him towards an early grave.
“Scared?” you tease.
“Should I be?”
“If you are wise.”
An honest answer, you give him.
Aemond does not move. You bring the cup you offer to your lips taking a long sip, before holding it out to him once more. Your lips shimmer with the remnants of the Dornish red.
“How do I know you haven’t been preparing for weeks, taking small amounts of poison to train yourself to withstand its effects?” Aemond asks, still not reaching for the cup.
You twist your mouth, as though deep in thought.
“True,” you murmur, “but that seems like an awful lot of work, just to murder a second son.”
Aemond feels a rush of anger, it burns through his body. He meets your eye and watches the smirk that forms.
“You jest,” he says, earning a nod.
“I do,” you admit, “though, if I meant to kill you tonight, you would already be dead.”
Aemond is not easily frightened. Fear has not been an emotion he was familiar with, not since the taking of his eye. But something about the way you say that hangs in the air; it wraps around his throat like a tightening noose.
He takes the cup from your hand, fingers brushing against yours.
He lets a sip of the Dornish red slip past his lips, down his throat. You grin watching him swallow.
“Still alive?” you tease, earning a hum.
“You cannot fault me for valuing my life.”
“I suppose.”
You both stand in silence, staring up at the stars and taking sips from your cups. Your skin is warm from the wine, the taste reminding you of home, causing your chest to tighten. How you hate being so far from home.
“Shall it take effect soon?” Aemond asks, draining his cup.
You laugh again, and Aemond allows himself to smile.
“You surprise me, my prince,” you tell him, “I did not expect you to be a man of humor.”
“What did you expect?” Aemond asks, curious about your answer.
You turn to face him, becoming suddenly very serious.
“A haunted man,” you tell him, “the ghost of a boy stretched tall.”
Aemond finds it hard to look away from you, instead settling his gaze on your mouth, still dewed with wine as though it is venom. No, the wine is not venom, but the words you speak are. They are clearly meant to incapacitate him.
“A princess, and a poet?” Aemond murmurs.
“I do not wish to offend you,” you continue, as he turns from you.
“You do not,” Aemond assures, looking down at his cup, “I am not used to the directness, that's all. Most people avoid the topic.”
You wait to speak, sensing he is not finished.
“Most people avoid me in general, I suppose.”
You bring a hand to his arm, and his chest warms at your touch.
“Tis their loss then,” you tell him.
Aemond purses his lips, unsure of what has made him confide in you.
“I understand what it is like, to be assumed to be something you are not,” you tell him.
Aemond feels shame run through him. He assumed you were dangerous, all because of his grandfather. He looks at you once more, your face glowing in the moonlight.
“You must forgive me, my lady,” Aemond tells you, “we are overly cautious in the capital these days.”
You smile gently at him.
“There is no need for apologies,” you assure him.
“Still, you shall have mine,” Aemond says, taking your hand in his and placing a kiss atop your knuckles causing your breath to hitch in your throat.
“Shall I escort you back into the great hall?” Aemond asks.
“I shall be just a moment,” you tell him.
Aemond eyes you curiously.
“You’re certain?” he questions and you nod.
“I shall meet you there.”
Aemond gives you a slight nod, before taking his leave. You stand on the veranda, leaning over the edge and peering down. You glance behind you, before pulling a small vial from between your breasts. Undetectable, small, and full of a ruby-red liquid.
It would have been quick.
You run your fingers over it before breaking the wax seal. You turn the vial, letting the contents of the glass run down the stones over the edge like blood before smashing the vial underneath your foot. You brush the pieces away and straighten your skirts, before heading back to find Aemond.
