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s-brant · 1 year

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With his pregnant wife with ordered to rest by the maesters until her labors begin, Aemond must find new ways of entertaining her.

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Warnings: smut, p in v, hair-pulling, come swallowing, strong language, and pregnancy. this can be read as a stand alone or part three to Judas.

Pregnancy has coaxed out a new side of Aemond.

Of course, he had always been protective and caring, even when he was trying to stifle his feelings for her in the first few months of their union, but once she was with child, it intensified. From having the handmaidens tend to her every minute of every day to insisting upon following her around as though he is one of the royal guards assigned to protect her. It is always toned down in the presence of others due to his general discomfort with public displays of affection, but everyone noticed his constant proximity to her whenever he wasn't attending to his duties as a prince.

"You needn't breathe down my neck, I am quite capable of doing this myself," she said when he had once insisted upon helping her bathe once she got into the late stages of her pregnancy.

Truth be told, she did appreciate his incessant caregiving, but when caregiving shifted into being treated as though she was weak, that positive mindset soured slightly. Still, she rolled her eyes and allowed him to help her into the sunken tub filled with steaming hot water and bathing oil that gave off an aromatic lavender scent. He could tell that underneath it all, there was a part of her that enjoyed being looked after. A part of her that reveled in the protective nature he allowed to take control once her belly began to swell noticeably with his child.

The maesters suspect she will go into labor at any moment and insisted upon her getting bed rest during the day in preparation for it. So, that is what she has been doing all day long, and it threatens to drive her mad.

"Truly, how much more needlework and reading can I do? I have read nearly every book in the library at this point. Can you not escort me to the Dragonpit to visit Vermithor?" Y/N asks Aemond from where she lays back against the headboard with a hand cradling her round belly.

Clad in nothing but her shift to keep herself from sweating in the summer heat, she is left with nothing to do, and in her ill-tempered mood, she has resorted to begging her husband for his assistance. Unfortunately for her, Aemond is equally as cautious regarding her condition as the maesters. The very last thing he would do is encourage her to exert herself with a trip to the Dragonpit.

He offers her a stern look as he dresses for the day in the morning light that shines on his half-nude figure. The eyepatch he wears in the presence of everyone else sits on the table behind him, allowing her to admire how the sapphire eye glitters in the sun. While he cuts her a commanding stare, she trails her eyes down the length of him. The shade of his skin is strikingly pale against the warm colors decorating their shared chambers, only shadowed in the areas where skin dips into muscles to emphasize the strong lines of his abdomen. And, of course, he notices the hunger that is present in her gaze but says nothing about it.

"I cannot escort you anywhere outside these rooms, ābrazȳrys." Wife. "Tis my babe inside of you. If the maesters order you to rest, your duty commands you to listen."

He doesn't miss how her eyes follow the movement of his hands as they button his trousers. Filthy little thing, she is. His suspicions are confirmed by the smirk she gives him when she next speaks.

"Perhaps you could distract me some other way?" She hooks a finger around the hem of her shift to lift it slowly up her thighs. A muscle in his jaw tightens at the sight of her baring herself to him without anything to protect her modesty. "You know, I heard the strangest thing from Nyla"—one of their handmaidens—"a day ago. She said that a healer she once met told her that coupling with one's husband can induce childbirth."

Aemond stares at her with predatory intent, as though he's considering it for a moment, then shakes his head. Although they have pleasured one another in other ways, they have not had sex since her bump began showing. It was already scandalous for them to continue their marital duties after the pregnancy was confirmed, to do so when she's heavily pregnant would be even worse.

"We have been through this," he says. "It is not proper."

She does not miss a beat.

"Says who?"

Neither does he.

"The maesters, along with every other upstanding person of noble birth such as ourselves." He pauses, then says before she gets the chance to, "Aegon excluded."

A wry laugh escapes his dear wife at this, and she can't help how the beautiful sound is cut short by the feeling of the babe kicking her palm. Those pretty eyes go wide as she reaches out with her other hand in an invitation for him to come to her. Based upon the panic that flashes across his face, though, he must mistake her excitement for fear. A fraction of a second later, he's already at her side before she can hear the heavy footfalls on the floor.

"What is it?" he asks, throat constricted with terror.

She smiles at him. It's a lovely, placating type of smile, and it washes away every worry present in his head when he sees it. Wordlessly, she takes his hand, calluses and rough from sword fighting, in hers and places it on the top of her bump where the movement can be felt.

"Feel," she whispers.

Her fingers mold overtop of his to keep his flattened palm pressed down on her. Beneath both the linen fabric of her shift and her warm skin he feels it.

"He must be coming soon. He's in the right position for birthing."

Then, her head tilts back to allow her to look up at him in on. It's unfathomable to her— the fact that a child is dwelling within. Not only a child but their child. She can't help but wonder what they will look like or which one of them they will favor. It's all too easy to picture what she may see as soon as a few days or weeks from now. Aemond, half-dressed as he is now, with their newly-born son resting against his chest as they lay together in the quiet of their rooms. The babe will look so small, so fragile and new, when cradled against his Kepa's larger body. And when she pictures that, she feels complete in a way she never has before.

It seems that he is having similar feelings when his eyes light up at her hopeful declaration. What she doesn't know is that he is imagining the very same thing, yet reversed. His mind conjures the image of their days-old daughter suckling at her breast, making soft coping noises throughout. Although he has never known himself to be the tender-hearted type, that thought warms him to the bone.

He rubs the spot where the babe kicked as though to soothe it in the only way they'll understand at this point in their development. No spoken words or language yet, just the communication of touch. The same instinctual form of communication animals use to soothe their children. The touch is firm yet soothing. Constant in a way that one's father should always be yet rarely ever is. It says, "Kepa is here. Don't fret. We will meet you soon."

"She," he starts, meeting her gaze with a stoic face, "will come tomorrow. Helaena told me so when we dined with mother last night."

Her eyes narrow.

"Helaena, I believe. However, you, dearest, are not a dreamer. You cannot know the babe is a girl. I, on the other hand, can sense it. We will have a male heir. One whose birthright will never be disputed as mine has been."

The part about wanting a male heir out of fear for their claim to the throne being challenged causes his mouth to shift into an imperceptible frown. Most people do not know how to read those changes in his expression, but she can. Since her pregnancy began, she has become well-versed in his non-verbal cues. For now, he bypassed the worry she so vulnerably laid before him. That is a matter they can discuss later.

He asks, head tilting slightly in curiosity, "You can sense it?"

"Yes, of course," she says and weaves her fingers into his to hold his hand. "There is such a thing as motherly intuition."

To this, he hums quietly, and it's such a distinctly him thing to do that she finds herself fighting a smile.

"If motherly intuition does, in fact, exist, why would my intuition as her father be any less accurate?"

She stifles a laugh at this, easily recognizing from his tone that he is merely teasing her. Something he never once pictured himself doing with his eventual wife. A marriage of duty was what he anticipated, yet this is far from it. He realizes right now that he would do anything for her. He would die for her if it came to that, but not just because their wedding vows brought her under his protection and Daemon would hunt him to the ends of the earth should anything happen to her. It's because he cares.

Y/N cups the bottom of his chin in her free hand and forces him a bit closer to say, "Because I am your very pregnant, very ill-tempered wife, and I said so. If you dare to question my authority, I may be inclined to use your knife on you again." There's a pause. "Also, while I have your obedience, I would like to dine with the family tonight one last time before our son arrives."

Although they both know they are jesting, Aemond's eye darkens the second she calls him obedient.

"If you were not carrying my daughter, I would bend you over my knee for that."

It's wholly true, and she knows that. He did it once before but knew the whole time she was simply allowing it to occur as a result of her own sexual gratification. He knew that if she wanted, she would break free and have him fleeing her wrath on Dragonback.

She smirks and pulls him closer until their lips nearly brush.

"Don't say those things if you are refusing to fuck me. It is cruel," she whispers. "It arouses me, and you know I cannot satisfy myself the way you can."

His body goes still in the wake of her brazen confession.

Knowing she has him right where she wants him, she decides to hammer the idea home. The strap of her shift has "accidentally" fallen from her shoulder as she kisses him just long enough to entice but not satisfy.

"Lest you've forgotten, the maesters told me to wait five weeks after the birth to allow myself to heal before taking you to bed again." The tremble in his exhale brings a triumphant gleam to her eyes, and she pulls her mouth back out of reach to tease him as he leans in to kiss her. "It would be a pity to waste such precious time, would it not?"

Their lips brush, and the hand that holds his chin breaks away to palm at his half-hard cock through his trousers. It swells eagerly beneath her touch after ages of restraint and self-pleasure, growing harder by the second until he is fully, painfully needing her.

"Come," she says and spreads her legs in invitation. "What the maesters tell you is largely myth and outdated theories. The babe will remain unharmed."

At last, the patience of her devoted husband runs thin, and he is unable to stop himself from kissing her with an unashamed lust that indicates she will be getting what she wants. The suspicion is proven true when he kneels on the mattress between her legs to crawl onto her without breaking the passionate, open-mouthed kiss shared between them. But before he can try to settle his weight atop her and prevent her from reaching for his trousers, she finds the waistband with fumbling hands. This halts him for just the right amount of time—long enough for her to undo the button and push the clothing, along with his small clothes, down his slender hips.

The disappointment he feels at her refusal to allow him to bury his fingers or head between her thighs in hopes that she will be satisfied without penetration is visible on his face. Yet he says nothing. In truth, he cannot do anything to stop this. If he truly did not wish to fuck her, it would be easy to deny her. The issue at hand is that he does wish to, and now that his cock is being pumped in her hand as he stares down at her pleading eyes, it no longer matters to him what is proper or not.

It's when she starts to guide him to her sweet cunt that he realizes that she would have had the chance to thwart his sabotaging efforts no matter how quickly she pulled his trousers down. What halts them in their tracks is the protruding belly, larger than it was the last time he took her to bed, preventing him from laying comfortably against her.

This would be the perfect opportunity for him to redirect himself back to his original intentions, but, instead, he says, "Turn over."

Her cheeks burn hot at this, at the sheer commanding nature of his words, before she obliges him. She turns over cautiously to avoid falling on her stomach and settles into a semi-comfortable position on her hands and knees, back arched just so to present herself to him. Though she cannot see it, he smiles.

His voice is soft yet stern when he next speaks.

"Down onto your arms," he says. "It will feel better that way."

She stares daggers at him over her shoulder and asks, half jesting, half jealous, "We have never done it this way, so how would you know, husband?"

Aemond rolls his eye at her dramatics.

"You already know, now do as I command."

He isn't wrong. They've been quite honest with one another about their past transgressions with members of the opposite sex, although hers was little more than a shy peck on the cheek while his were, well...Aegon took him to a brothel on his thirteenth name day, that much she knew before they were wed due to her eldest uncle's loose lips, but what no one else knows, save for her, is that he had a few lovers. Likely a result of the time he was taken to a brothel, he never sought his pleasure out with whores.

It began accidentally. He didn't intend to fuck a widowed lady in court, but it happened, and he was glad it was her. From then on, he followed the rules unintentionally set by his first time after the brothel. The first rule, of course, was to never lie with a maiden to prevent ruining her reputation and being forced to marry below his station as consequence.

The second was to never go back to the same woman more than a few times. This kept his time with them to a minimum and prevented any of his lovers from forming delusional attachments. Another rule was to never kiss them, and, the last, most important one was to never finish inside them. Though she was overwhelmed with jealousy upon first starting this conversation with him, his explanation for the last rule did well to soothe her.

It did not matter whether he chose to fuck whores in brothels or older women of noble birth, no one but his wife deserves the seed of a dragon prince. He would not dishonor her by fathering a bastard, he explained. Not like his brother did many times to poor, sweet Helaena.

So, she does already know that his skill at pleasing her comes from his experiences with the older women who now have husbands again, who sometimes try to meet his gaze as they pass to no avail. Still, it doesn't make her less jealous, nor does it make teasing him any less fun.

Y/N hardly has the time to shift her weight down onto her forearms before he nudges his cock into her with his hands gripping her full hips until his knuckles turn white.

"Aemond!" she cries out in surprise at the sudden intrusion, but it soon gives way to a soft giggle. Her explanation comes seconds later, once she has regained her composure. "I will hear no complaints of me forcing myself on you later. You are just as responsible."

The first few motions of his hips pushing in and away from her are tentative, holding back when his fingers brush her belly to remind him of her condition. In spite of his guilt for doing this, it feels too good to stop after months of nothing but his hand and, sometimes, her mouth when he wakes to the sensation of her sucking him deep into her throat. That is good, always, but this is incomparable, and it has been so long that he almost forgot. But, it's impossible to forget now. Not when he feels her rocking her hips back against him, meeting his thrusts at a pace that encourages him to keep up.

The pillow is soft on her cheek where it sinks into it with one of her hands gripping the corner for dear life. Soft noises leave her without realization as Aemond finally lets go of his reservations and surrenders to the primitive instinct that tells him to fuck her. He cannot wholly allow his instinct to take over, however. If he did, he'd get far rougher than he's comfortable being with her in this condition. It's a constant battle to keep himself from unleashing the full extent of his lust, ages in the making, on her the way they both enjoy.

Although he's holding back, she reacts with an enthusiasm often reserved for nights when he brings her to release over and over again. Anyone else would think she is exaggerating, but he knows her well. He knows that all this time they've abstained has made her ravenous, and from the times he has brought himself to his peak alongside her with her fingers trapped between her thighs, he knows pregnancy has made her a touch more sensitive.

He lets one hand leave her hip to clasp over her mouth and muffle the lovely little gasps and moans. His cock plunged into her harder as if in punishment for being too loud, hitting a spot that makes her squeeze her walls around him and whine into the hand over her mouth. His other hand uses its hold on her hip to tug her back to meet him stroke for stroke, quickly forgetting his internal promise to be gentle. It isn't nearly as intense as usual, but she can sense it. She can sense that he's starting to give himself over to the pleasure and allow himself to enjoy it.

"Quiet," he snaps and presses his palm harder against her lips to force them shut. His words seem to have the opposite of the intended effect, if the way she cries out has anything to show for it. "If the servants hear and gossip about me defiling you like this, Aegon will never stop talking about it."

The hand over her mouth leaves for an instant to reach for the belt looped into his undone trousers. Her body jolts with every hard thrust, and she cannot help how she moans now that her mouth is uncovered.

She yelps in surprise when he pushes the leather between her teeth and says, "Bite on this."

There's nothing else for her to do but listen.

It does a satisfactory job at keeping the sounds confined to their chambers. Not as well as his hand, but it will have to work. It allows him to hear her and revel in every sound without worrying too deeply about servants overhearing. If anything, he is the one who now risks getting them caught with how he groans and sighs with every smooth, wet drag of his cock inside of her.

The physical sensation is so overwhelming and euphoric, it almost feels torturous to him. Knowing that he cannot live in this moment forever is the cruelest form of torment he's endured, even above Lucerys blinding him and Aegon encouraging his nephews to bully him for lacking something they were all born with the privilege of having.

They made him feel inadequate, small, and he cannot deny the truth in what she said to him once before, in the midst of their coupling, regarding him deriving a sick pleasure from having stolen their sister away and making her his own. Fucking her full of heirs and taking solace in the fact that it is his blood, not the blood of the Strong bastards, that will continue their family's great dynasty. It's invigorating. Vindicating, even.

The muffled sounds of her moaning as he watches her, transfixed by the urge to wrap his hand up in the curtain of white silver running down her back like a flash of shooting starlight, brings him so close, he can almost feel it. His eye squeezes shut to allow him to focus on preventing himself from coming before she can, and it's only when he feels he's regained control over himself that he warns her.

"I won't last much longer," he says, breathless.

She knows that the words in and of themselves are an apology, so she shakes her head and murmurs, too far gone at this point, "Don't care."

There's a groan from behind her, then a harsh snapping of his hips against her ass as he says, "I do."

The feeling of the rough pads of his fingertips rubbing the sensitive bundle of nerves at the apex of her thighs has her writhing under him. She's grasping onto the pillow with one hand and braces the other on the headboard to keep her head from hitting it with the force of how he fucks her. Teeth biting down on leather, she cannot do much else than take it. She cannot call his name or warn him of her imminent climax, but she does not need to. By now, he knows when she's close to her peak by the feeling of her cunt spasming around him.

It's an addictive feeling. So much so that he doesn't quite enjoy his peak if it doesn't involve feeling, hearing, and witnessing hers first. It never fails to drag him under.

Another brush of his fingers against her, along with a well-aimed thrust, is all it takes to send her careening over the edge.

Her jaws goes slack and allows the belt to fall onto the pillow as she cries out for him at the intense crest of the wave that overtakes her. It's a mumbling, incoherent mixture of expletives, as well as his name, that pushes him closer to his satisfaction to hear it. To think that the beautiful creature beneath him, rendered useless in his hold and swollen with his child, is solely his and his alone is a fact he can hardly comprehend. All he can think as he chases his release is that he loves her. They have yet to say it, but he feels it. It's the kind of love that starts wars and ruins lives, and that is the most startling revelation he's ever had.

It takes little time—seconds, actually—for Aemond to succumb to the near-explosive feeling he has tried to stave off for the sake of satisfying his wife first. He is careful enough, even in the blissful reverie of climax, to not let his weight go on top of her and risk making her uncomfortable. Or injuring her or the babe in any way. Although exhausted from the relentless exertion, his body finds a way to hold itself up after he collapses onto her back and continues to rut into her as he fills her sensitive cunt with his seed until there's nothing left to give.

His softening cock slips out of her after he's taken the better part of a moment to come back down from the heavens she sent him to, and Y/N whines at the sudden emptiness. It isn't uncommon for him to remain inside of her long after they've finished sometimes. The first time it occurred, it was a result of mutual exhaustion, but the next time, it was a conscious choice.

His chest rises and falls rapidly with his panting breaths as his eye flutters shut for a second as though to take the time to burn the image of her now into the back of his mind. When he opens it again and moves back to see his come leaking from her hole, he has to keep himself from flipping her onto her back and kissing her sweet cunt until she's licked clean and lacks any evidence of the sin he committed today. But, he can't. He was already meant to be meeting Criston in the training yard, and nothing would be worse than the knight searching for Aemond only to find out he's been locked away in his chambers with his wife.

To pacify himself, he swipes his middle and forefinger between her slick folds to gather some of the dripping fluid on them. His other hand wraps itself up in her hair as he wanted it to moments ago to gently pull her head up from being buried in the pillow. Her head turns to the side only enough to allow him to see the side of her face, and he doesn't need to say anything to get her to open her mouth for him. All he does is bring it to her lips as he waits for her to obey his wordless command, wrapping her lips around his fingers and moaning at the salty taste on her tongue before swallowing it all.

When he watches this, he can't stop thinking to himself that he's lucky. Not only does he have a rare jewel of a woman as his wife and future Queen, but he also has a wanton whore who is quick to comply with his every wish and begs him to fuck her even when she is far along with child. Desperate for him and him alone.

"Mmm," he hums in approval at how she sucks his fingers clean and loosens his grip on her hair until it falls loose around her shoulders again. The hand that held back her hair slides down her back and rubs in soothing strokes up and down the length of her spine. The next words are barely a push of air, spoken so quietly that no one else in the world could overhear. "Sȳz riña." Good girl.

With his fingers falling from her lips, she sinks back down into the bed and rolls onto her back to allow herself the pleasure of looking at her husband. The adoration visible in her gaze never fails to catch him off guard. No one ever looks at him like that. With such fondness. Not even his own parents or siblings.

"Umbagon lēda nyke tubī, ñuha jorrāelagon?" Stay with me today, my love? "Jikagon udir naejot Criston bona iksan tolī va naejot ñuha sikagon syt ao naejot henujagon ñuha paktot. Umbagon kesīr, sagon iā sȳz valzȳrys, se qogralbar aōha ābrazȳrys ēva se tubis iksis toliot." Send word to Criston that I am too near to my labors for you to leave my side. Stay here, be a good husband, and fuck your wife until the day is gone. Her bold request draws a scoff from him. A second passes, then she says softly in the common tongue, "You have been quite protective of me as of late. I am sure people will not think anything of it."

There's a second of contemplation during which he weighs the costs and benefits. On one hand, he does need to train and maintain appearances in court. On the other...Well, he would very much like to spend the day in bed with her, testing out the theory the handmaiden presented to her about sexual activity inducing childbirth.

Screw Criston, he thinks.

"Sagon careful skoros ao epagon yno. Kostā jiōragon ziry," Aemond says to give her one last chance to rescind the offer. Be careful what you ask of me. You may get it.

Her expression turns stony as she asks, looking up at him through her lashes like she once did as a demure little cocktease of a newlywed, "Ao kivigon?" You swear?

And in the midst of the night, after a day of laying together—reading, fucking, talking, and giggling like little kids—they discover the theory regarding sex and childbirth to be true, and it's in the late hours of the morning that their little dragon finally decides to greet them in the form of a wailing infant girl.

Tag list: @m-indkiller, @tinykryptonitewerewolf, @hopebaker, @bcon24, @eleganttravelercloud, @aemond-targaryenx, @the-blue-banshee, @saramayu, @merakiaes, @its-sam-allgood, @grungegrrrl, @singitoutgirl26, @scarlettmoon98, @cicaspair418, @itisjustwhatitis, @cl-0-vr, @d34d-4c1d, @hargrovehoe, @vainillasmil157, @leahjean, @captainweirdo42, @magnificantmermaid, @dark-night-sky-99, @kaicyl, @ladybug0095, @bellaisasleep, @blackravena, @isaxbella749, @reneki, @heylosers06, @izzicle, @bucky-thorin-winchester, @hangmanscoming, @harrypotteranna23-blog, @fan-goddess, @glame, @muthafuckingstargirl, @barnes70stark, and @shintax-error.

#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen smut #house of the dragon #aemond targaryen x reader #fanfiction #wrote most of this in my notebook at the psych ward last month ✌️

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captainfern · 11 months

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141Rugby!au [18+]

• Part Two - Crush •

Johnny "Soap" MacTavish x fem!reader

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You've recently started a new job as a physiotherapist for an English Rugby Union team. It's your job to ensure that all the players are in top shape for upcoming games against other strong teams. This job is absolutely perfect for you: good pay, good hours, a fun and exciting atmosphere to be apart of. But there's just one thing you can't seem to understand– the same four players seem to need more attention than the rest.

chapter summary - you're getting used to your new job now, and have a knowledge of player's injuries. but the scrum-half insists it's more than just his leg that needs attention lol.

rating - 18+

wordcount - 5.5k

chapter warnings - fem!reader, slow-ish burn [but not really cause ik you're here for the porn], soap's an absolute menace, mutual masturbation, guided masturbation?, brief discussion of oral [m!receiving], light degradation/dumbification but only if you squint tbh, praise, strong language

disclaimer - physiotherapist, or staff x player sexual relations are not allowed in the real world. but please keep in mind this is fanfiction. it's fake. if you have an issue with inappropriate relations with faculty, blurred morals [etc], then please do not read. additionally, reader be fucking in this series. all four. separately, and at once. it's not cheating, i promise. it's consensual sharing <3

Soap is a scrum-half, or half-back – has a wide set of skills, kicks and passes well, and is generally the smallest on the team. this position tends to work the best under pressure.

see my rugby union introductory for definitions of rugby words

<- part one | part three ->

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You wake bright an early the next morning, the sunlight streaming through your window and bathing you in warm golden light. You stretch, joints popping, back shifting out of sleep-mode.

You ready yourself for the day, manage to eat a small amount of breakfast, and then you're out the door– the sun hovering above the horizon and reflecting onto the city below.

You're one of the first to arrive at work, as per usual. It's unusually quiet. The players usually bring the noise once they all start arriving a few hours later. So you hum to yourself as you walk down the award-lined hallway, passing by the coaches door and seeing light peeking out from beneath it. He's the first at work, before you.

You round the slight corner, juggling the files and your lunchbox in your hands, as well as your favourite choice of beverage for that time in the morning, while you wriggle your keys out of your pocket. You look up at your door, and almost drop your things in fright.

The scrum-half of the team leans against the wall beside your door, scrolling absent-mindedly through his phone. He looks up when he hears you approaching, a broad smile passing over his face. He pockets his phone and kicks himself off the wall as you walk over, your heart still beating a bit faster than normal after that unexpected fright.

"Mornin', doc," he smiled, then held out his hands. "You need a hand."

"Oh!" You hand your files and your lunch over to him, now finding it significantly easier to slot your key into the keyhole. "Thanks, Johnny."

When you twist the key, it unlocks, and Johnny beats you to it– pushing the door open for you and sliding his hand inside to flick on the light. He then stood aside, allowing you to walk in as the lights beamed on.

"After you." He smiled, and you smiled back, walking into your office. It was cold and dark, so after placing your keys and your travel cup on your desk, you moved to open the curtains and then turn on the heater in the corner of the room. Johnny followed in behind you, placing your files and lunch neatly on your desk, before looking around your office with a small quirk in his lips.

You pulled the curtains and allowed golden sunlight to stream in. You then passed a look over your shoulder. "You know... your appointment’s not for another forty minutes, Johnny."

"I know," he shrugged as you moved to the heater to turn it on. "I just figured you'd probably want to get it out of the way, right?"

You laughed. "Not necessarily. It is my job."

Johnny smiled. "Well, I'm glad you don't want to get it over and done with then, eh?"

You turned from the heater, catching his sly grin and the flirtatious tone in his voice. You ignore it with a roll of your eyes, before pointing to the medical table on the other side of your office. Johnny got the memo, hobbling across the room and scooting himself back up onto the table.

You grabbed his file from your desk and walked over to him, thumbing through the pages.

"Right, so you've pulled a muscle in your calf, correct?"

"Yes ma'am," Johnny said, twisting to lie on his stomach, but looking over his shoulder so he could see you. "My right one."

"And you did it at training the day before yesterday?" You questioned him again, placing your files to the side and opening one of the cabinets, pulling out a bottle of cool, muscle rub gel.

You approached the table and unscrewed the cap as he continued speaking. "Yeah, pulled it coming out of a ruck."

"What's the pain like?"

"Not too bad, but still unpleasant."

"So it's definitely not a tear then, which is good." You said, squeezing a generous amount of the gel onto Johnny's calf. He flinched at the cold.

"So that means... it's probably just a strain?" Johnny asked, no longer looking over his shoulder. Instead, he had folded his arms and was now resting his head over them.

You began to smooth the gel over the surface of his calf, gently at first. "Most likely. They're very common."

Johnny grunted when your grip hardened– a firm massage into the skin, feeling for the muscles that were causing him the most discomfort.

"Does that mean, you know, because it isn't a serious injury, that I won't be able to come in here as much?"

You rolled your eyes. "Very funny." Your thumb then pressed down on an inflamed patch of skin, feeling a particularly tender strain of muscle beneath the thin layer of flesh. Johnny let out a low groan, and you quickly apologised as you lightened your touch.

You spent a couple of minutes working your fingers and thumb around the injury. Not too hard, like a proper massage, as the injury was still fresh. But you got a feel of the strain on the muscles, and you moved away to wash the gel from your hands.

"What's the diagnosis, doc?" Soap asked as you scrubbed the gel from your hands.

"Oh my god," you shook your head in disbelief. "What is with you boys and calling me doc?"

Soap cracked a smile, though you couldn't see him do it. "It's 'cause you're our doc."

"I'm a physiotherapist, Johnny."

"Same thing."

You shook your head in disbelief again, drying your hands and moving to scribble down a few things on Johnny's file. Your eyes lingered on the top for a moment, and you laughed behind closed lips. Johnny heard you, turning around and sitting up, his head cocked to the side like a curious puppy.

"What're you laughing at?" He asked, trying to get a peek at your files.

You tapped the tip of your pen to the top of the page you were writing on. "How'd you get a nickname like Soap?"

Johnny smiled. "Oh, that! S'cause I'm slippery like that, doc. Hard to catch on the field."

You blew out an unimpressed sigh, moving back to your cabinets and taking out a new tube of gel– this time, Voltarol. You spoke to him as you unscrewed the cap and walked back towards the table. "That's a stupid nickname and– turn back onto your stomach for me, thanks– I find it hard to believe everyone calls you that."

Johnny twisted himself back around to offer you his calf. He laughed. "It's a popular name 'round here, doc. Not many of the lads call me Johnny."

You piped a small amount of the Voltarol gel onto the back of Johnny's calf, screwing the cap back on and placing the tube to the side. You then slowly began to smooth the gel into the skin, which was now bright red from where your hands had been moving against it.

"Am I the only one that calls you Johnny, then?" You asked, carefully rolling his calf beneath your fingers and palm.

He grunted, lost in the feeling for a second, and then cleared his throat in an attempt to re-centre himself. "Uh, yeah, pretty much."

"Do you like it?" You asked.

You said it innocently enough, but Johnny's brain was in a slight haze. Your hands on him, the slight twinge of pain, the smell of the gel and of your perfume. He blinked rapidly where his head was tucked against his folded arms.

"Huh?"

"Do you like it?" You repeated, fingers rubbing gently across Johnny's burning-hot skin. "Do you like when I call you Johnny?"

"Uh–" Johnny was praying that he didn't get a fucking boner.

"Or would you prefer it if I called you Soap like everyone else?" You asked, this sentence sounding more sweet and sincere than seductive like the last few.

Johnny cleared his throat again. "Oh, I mean, it's up to you, doc. I don't... you know, I don't really mind–"

"No, seriously," you assured him, the palm of your hand pressing down on his calf, making his breath hitch. "What would you prefer? Don't worry about what I prefer. What do you prefer?"

Anything. Fucking anything. You could call him whatever name you wanted to, even if it wasn't his, and he'd still love it. He'd still love the way it sounded falling from your lips. Call him whatever you want, doc.

"You can call me Johnny." He said quietly.

"Yeah?" You smiled. "I'm not cool enough to call you Soap?"

Johnny bristled. "What? No! No, doc. It's not that–"

You laughed, and the sound alone made Johnny's heart start beating a hundred times faster. "I'm just kidding, Johnny. Don't worry."

Johnny sighed into his arms, shaking his head, which made you laugh. Soon, you finished applying the Voltarol gel, and were washing your hands at the sink while Johnny gingerly put his feet to the ground, sliding off the table.

"Okay, so I've just put some Voltarol on your calf, which should help reduce the swelling and inflammation. It'll also help soothe the muscles a bit and hopefully reduce the risk of you cramping up in the near future," you said, double-checking your files once more before turning your full attention to the scrum-half. "Don't shower or put water on the area for at least an hour, and try to avoid direct sunlight if you can. It works better in the first hour if you do that."

Johnny was nodding along to everything you said.

"Oh, and don't touch it and then touch your eyes, that'll sting like hell," You finished with a smile, clasping your hands together. "Any questions?"

Johnny looked out the window briefly, and then back at you. "Yeah, uh, do I need to do anything else?"

"Well, no training for thirteen days at least. Which means no game this weekend."

He gaped at you. "What? Doc, come on–"

"If you want it to get better, Johnny, then you need to rest it," you told him sternly, and he shut his mouth immediately. You smiled. "Any other questions?"

"Am... Am I coming back?"

You laughed. "To me?"

"Yeah. I mean, you know, as a physio–"

"Yes, you'll come back to me, Johnny. Give it about a week, but if it's still feeling as though it's a fresh injury before then, make an earlier appointment. Oh! And don't let me forget–" You hurried over to your cabinets and grabbed a spare tube of Voltarol gel, handing it to him. "You can use it up to four times a day, but your injury isn't too swollen anymore, so just put it on after your shower, maybe once in the morning and again at night if it's bad."

"Okay. Okay, cool, thanks doc." Johnny said, looking down at the gel and nodding.

You smiled, heading back towards your desk. "I'll see you in a week's time then, okay?"

"Yeah, sounds good," Johnny told you, pocketing the gel. "Thanks for that, doc. Have a good day, yeah?"

"You too, Johnny."

Johnny left your office, closing the door gently behind him. His calf was already feeling so much better, but he had another problem.

He adjusted himself in his shorts, placing his hands in front of his hardening cock.

Fucking hell.

•º•º•

He felt like an absolute perv the way he would take any opportunity just to look at you.

Over the next week, Johnny wasn't allowed to take part in any of the trainings, but he played water-boy pretty well. That meant he was still limping around the training grounds, wandering through the halls, and annoying his teammates by just being himself.

But, one of the main reasons he was so happy to play water-boy for the next week or so was because he could see you.

He watched the way you hurried down the hall, files tucked beneath your arm, humming to yourself. He admired the way you smiled and greeted all of the players and staff, always so happy to be talking with any of them. He noticed how sometimes you'd absent-mindedly watch the training from your window, and Johnny got to steal glances of your pretty face behind the glass.

It was some high-school type crush. It had to be it.

Or maybe not. When Johnny saw the way Gaz looked at you, just for a split second, a fleeting moment passing each other in the halls, he felt his stomach drop. Would he have to compete with Gaz for your attention now? The way the winger smiled at you; all bright white, absolutely perfect fucking teeth. So charismatic, and charming, and Johnny saw the way it melted you. The way you hid half of your face behind your clipboard of files, and the way you averted those pretty eyes of yours.

Johnny had no reason to feel like this. But something about you... something about you had him feeling so... different.

So he did feel as though he was competing with Gaz sometimes. Subtly, of course. Gaz was still his teammate and one of his closest friends, so the Scotsman had to ensure his strategy was invisible.

For example. Walking down the hall on the way out to the field, and you'd pop your head of your office to wish everyone good morning. Johnny found it easy to just push Gaz ahead, jostling him around with false excitability that everyone predicted of the scrum-half, anyway.

Or at night, one time Johnny caught Gaz lingering near your door, waiting for you to finish up your shift and then, like the gentleman he was, walk you to your car. Johnny found it slightly less easy to tell Gaz he had a last minute appointment, and so Gaz didn't need to wait around. It was just a little white lie. Nothing major. And then, when you'd finish with your work, Johnny would walk you to your car, opening the door for you, leaning against it as he spoke to you. He'd wish you goodnight, and a safe drive home.

And then–

"Did you need a ride, Johnny?" You asked at the end of the week, looking around the empty carpark.

Johnny drove sometimes. But as of late, to keep himself moving– and occupied– he'd walk from home to the station and then take the train. If he really wanted to, he could probably walk all the way home in less than thirty minutes.

But, how could he say no?

Not with the way you were offering him such a warm, comforting smile. The night was cold, too.

"Are you sure, doc? I don't want to keep you from heading home..." Johnny said, drumming his fingers against the car door.

You smiled, starting the ignition. "Don't be silly. Hop in, it's cold out tonight."

Johnny tried and failed to hide his smile as he walked around to the other side of the car, sliding into the passenger seat. After giving you his address, he thanked you while he put his seatbelt on, and then thanked you again when you rolled out of the parking spot. He thanked you a third time when the car merged out onto the main road.

You released a small, bashful laugh, glancing at him momentarily. "You don't need to thank me. I'm sure you would've done the same for me."

Of course he would have. He'd do anything you asked of him, you know that, right? Hell, if you wanted him too, he'd let you drive him home and get you splayed out on his sofa and, because you'd probably ask so nicely, he'd press his face between your legs and make you come in his mouth. Or, or, if you let him, if you granted him even the slightest chance, he'd be so fucking happy for you to drop to your knees in front of him, pump his cock in those soft, skilled hands of yours, and then wrap your lips around him. Good god—

"Yeah, o'course I would doc." Johnny mumbled, screwing his eyes shut and trying not to focus on the image he just put in his head.

You shot him a look. "Are you alright?"

Johnny's eyes snapped open, and he realised, with heat forming in his cheeks, that he'd made a pained face and released a soft groan. How fucking embarrassing.

"Yeah, m'fine... s'just, you know, my calf." He lied.

At that time, you pulled up outside his flat. Johnny took a deep breath.

"It's still sore?" You asked with a frown.

Johnny felt guilty now.

"No..." He admitted. "It's actually feeling a lot better. I should probably thank you for that too, eh?"

You smiled. "That's okay. It's my–"

"Your job, yeah..." Johnny trailed off, looking down the dark street through the windshield. He turned back to you and found you were already looking at him. He furrowed his brows. "What?"

You squinted at him, as though trying to see him better. "What has been going on with you lately? You've been acting... different."

Johnny looked around sheepishly. "S'nothing, doc."

You hummed, skeptical, but didn't question him further. Instead, he thanked you again for the ride, wished you goodnight, and exited the car. You watched him disappear through the door of his flat before driving away.

•º•º•

Of course you had a crush on Johnny. Who wouldn't?

It was hard to ignore his charm, his infectious smile and his flirtatious compliments. It was hard to ignore the looks he gave you across the hall, or the way he always seemed to run into you after the end of your shift.

He was a handsome man. An absolute menace, mind you, but he was nice. Really nice. And you wondered whether it was a ploy to get you to actually like him.

Thirteen days after your initial appointment with Johnny, and a couple of days after you had dropped him home, he sauntered into your office, chirping out a "morning, doc!" before automatically laying himself down on the medical table.

You smiled, shaking your head ruefully, getting up from your desk and walking over to him. He was rolling up the leg of his grey sweatpants, exposing his calf to you.

"Morning to you too," you said. "Your calf looks good. The swelling's gone down significantly, hasn't it?"

He nodded. "Yeah, and it feels good too. No pain."

"No pain?" You questioned, gently prodding the target area on the back of his calf. "None at all?"

"Yep," Johnny said, popping the p. "I'm all good."

"Good," you told him, patting his calf a couple of times before walking away to write up a final statement on your computer. "Then I suppose we're all done."

Johnny jolted up, his head snapping over to look at you as he quickly lifted himself off of the medical table. He began rolling down the leg of his sweatpants. "Oh, well, I mean– are you sure? Like, did you want to check it again?"

"No, it's alright," you said without looking at him, eyes on your computer as your fingers flew across the keyboard, the clacking filling the room. "Swelling's gone down, pain is gone. You're all good to go."

Johnny frowned. "Right... okay... Do I need to, I dunno, like, come back for a follow-up appointment?"

"No." You shook your head, still typing.

"So that's it?" He was almost pouting now.

You smiled at your screen, hearing the slight sadness in his tone. "Yes, Johnny, that's it. Until you get hurt again, you don't have to come back and see me."

Johnny's frown was deep now. "But what if I want to see you again without being hurt?"

"Well, I work here, so you'll see me–"

"No, I mean, what if I want to spend time with you without you– you know– checking me for injuries."

You finally looked away from your computer, cocking your head to the side in confusion. You stared at him for a moment, and then laughed. "God, at least take me out to dinner first, MacTavish."

The way you said his last name had his cock twitching within the confines of his sweats. He cleared his throat, fidgeting with the elastic of his waistband. "Yeah, actually, I mean, if you wanted, you could come 'round to mine for dinner."

You smiled at him. "You cook?"

He shrugged. "I try."

You laughed. "Okay, sure. When–?"

"Tonight," Johnny said a bit too quickly, then slowed himself down to repeat; "Tonight. Six o'clock."

Your smile didn't fade. "Okay, Johnny. I'll see you at six."

•º•º•

"For the record, this is not a date. It's just dinner, okay?" You reiterated as you walked into Johnny's flat at a few minutes to six that evening. He took your coat from you, and showed you into his flat.

"I know, doc. Don't worry," He said, and then led you into the living room. "Dinner's in the oven, but we can wait here if you'd like."

You sat down on the couch and Johnny took the armchair directly opposite. You were presently surprised, too. The flat smelt amazing, savoury smells of rendering fat and frying potatoes– a good roast, by the smell of it. And the flat was tidy, well decorated too. Not something you expected from a rugby union player.

"Your place is really nice, Johnny." You remarked, looking around the room.

"Oh, that's all Simon. He likes keeping the place clean."

"Oh, you flat with Ghost?"

Johnny nodded. "Yeah, but he's out for the evening. Gym, I think. Probably with Price and Gaz, too."

After looking around the room, you turned your attention back to him. He was already looking at you, and it was like a wave of heat passed over you– the way he was looking, his soft dark eyes and the slight pinch in his brow, made you grow hot. It was like he was studying you, an unwaveringly warm appraisal that had you shifting in your seat. The only other person that had ever looked at you like that with such admiration was Gaz.

"What're you staring at, Johnny?" You asked accusingly, trying to play it off like a joke. Something flippant. Anything to conceal the fact your heart was beginning to hammer in your throat.

He sighed through his nose, lips quirking as he looked at you. "You're a smart girl, doc. I think you can figure it out."

Your stomach fluttered at that. What the hell.

You forced yourself to roll your eyes and sigh and act the complete fucking opposite of the way you were feeling. You shook your head, a mocking smile on your face as you broke eye-contact, looking anywhere else but him. "Don't do this to me, Soap."

"Oh, no Johnny?" Johnny teased. "You're nickname-zoning me now?"

You huffed, finally looking at him. "No, that's not what I–"

"I'm not trying to make you uncomfortable," Johnny quickly said. "And you're more than welcome to leave, seriously, no hard feelings. But... but I have a huge crush on you, doc."

Oh. Well… it’s not like you weren't expecting it. But you still felt your mouth drop open a bit.

You tried to play it cool. "Crush? What are we, thirteen–?"

"Don't shoot me while I'm down, doll," Johnny grimaced. "My heart's beating out of my fucking chest."

Doll. That's new. You didn't know how to feel about that.

But your pussy certainly liked it. [LMAO]

That pulsing heartbeat in your chest seemed to move down your body and into your underwear, pleasure pinching at the base of your tummy, making you feel giddy. Maybe it was because it was Johnny saying it...

"Johnny..." You whined, flopping back further onto the couch.

Johnny groaned in response, his legs spreading as he lifted his hips, adjusting the way he was sitting in the armchair. Your eyes followed the movement unabashedly, causing a wicked grin to split across the Scots face.

"God, I've imagined you saying my name like that since you walked into the team room on your very first day," Johnny muttered, and you watched him with bated breath as he palmed himself over his sweatpants. You could see the hard outline of his cock, and you squeezed your thighs together.

"Johnny..." You whispered to him and he groaned again.

There was a prominent tent in the front of his sweats now. He groaned again, watching the way your eyes never left his body. "Tell me to stop doc, and I will. I'll stop. I'll... I'll stop for you."

You didn't want him to stop. Maybe you did– I mean, hello! You're job? But, just like with Gaz, all thoughts of your job seemed to fly out the window. The way Johnny was looking at you, the way his cock hardened just by you whining his name like that, had heat flooding your body and arousal dripping from your cunt.

"I... I don't want you to stop," you told him and you could see the visible relief on his face. You bit your lip to hide your smile. "I want you to touch yourself, Johnny."

"Oh, fuck yes–" he literally growled, pulling his cock out of his boxers and sweats. He hissed out a low groan when he squeezed his cock at the base, the tip already flushed red and pearling with pre-cum.

You bit back a whimper at the sight. The way he fisted his cock a couple of times, before holding it at the base; the way his cheeks burned red, eyes darting across your face; the soft grunts and groans that elicited from his chest; the light pinch in his brows as more pre leaked from his slit.

You released a shaky breath, teetering on a whimper. "You're so pretty, Johnny."

"Ah, fucking hell, doll–" He groaned, using the pre-cum rolling down his length to slick his grip, pumping his cock while his eyelids fluttered. But he willed them open, eyes finding yours. He noticed the way you were squeezing your thighs together, moving in your seat. God, he loved it.

"Come on, doc. Let me see you touch that pretty cunt, eh?" Johnny uttered, a sparkle in his eyes as you wasted no time pulling your trousers down, followed by your underwear. He noticed the damp spot on the fabric, and groaned again. "God, s'this what you wanted the whole time? Naughty fucking girl, doc. Look how soaked you are."

You spread your legs slowly, parting your thighs for him to see your glistening core. He moaned out, the pace of his hand increasing as you dragged your own fingers along your inner-thighs, dancing across your bikini-line but not quite going further. That made Johnny grunt, movements slowing.

You blinked lazily at him, pleasure stirring in your stomach at just watching him. Your clit was throbbing.

"Tell me how to touch myself, Johnny." You basically begged, and Johnny almost came right then and there.

"Fuck, fuck–" He gripped his cock hard at the base, trying to slow the building of his orgasm. But you looked so good, sounded so good. You were perfect. He slowly began his movements again, the sounds of his pre-cum alone sending soft squelches through the living room. "Play with your clit, doll, come on. Show me how you like it."

You moaned, finally dragging your fingers over your core. The pads skimmed across your wet folds, gathering your slick, before circling your puffy clit. Johnny's eyes were burning you whole.

You moaned out, a breathless "oh my god, Johnny–" following, bracketed by another long moan at the end of your sentence. You were so sensitive, your bundle of nerves throbbing beneath the tight circles of your fingers. Johnny jerked himself off to the sights and sounds of you, his cock twitching in his hand, rigid velvet beneath his fingers. His eyes flitted from your blissed-out facial expressions, to the way your fingers toyed with your clit. Your cunt squeezed around nothing, and Johnny groaned when another dribble of slick leaked out down the lower curve of your arse.

"You're so wet, fucking hell," Johnny muttered, more to himself than you. "Want you to fuck yourself now, doc. Want you to stuff that wet cunt with your fingers," he said louder this time, wetting his lips as he quickened his hand movements, hips twitching upwards to meet each thrust. "Go on."

You whined at his words, reluctantly dragging your fingers away. Your clit was buzzing with your unreleased orgasm. So fucking close. But you listened. Like a good girl, you listened and trailed two fingers down your folds to your dripping hole. You waited for him, fingers circling the opening.

Johnny cursed, then groaned. "Waiting for my permission? Really, doc?"

You whined. "Please, Johnny–"

He chuckled darkly, still pumping his cock. "Go on then, doll. Two fingers, yeah? S'that it?"

You whined again, two fingers smearing your arousal across your dripping core, heat fizzling in your lower tummy. Your hips twitched, body warming against the couch.

"I know that wet cunt can take more than that," Johnny said. "Fuck yourself with three fingers. Go on doc, you can count. Three fingers. Make yourself come thinking they're my cock."

Listening to him, you added a third finger and then slowly pushed inside. The stretch was there, of course– the light twinge of pain somewhere deep inside you, but you ignored it. The gummy walls of your cunt sucked your fingers in, wet and warm, until your knuckles were brushing up against you.

"Steamin' Jesus–" Johnny whispered, cock twitching in his hand, leaking pre. "That's it... now fuck yourself, doc. You can do that, can't you? Be good– fuck– be good and fuck yourself."

You did. In and out, you dragged your fingers, fucking yourself like he said and imagining they were his cock. His cock filling you up, pulling moans and whimpers from your throat, building that bubbling hot pressure in the base of your gut. You knew he'd feel so good inside you. Warm and hard and thick inside you. You were almost salivating, whimpering out to him as you neared your orgasm.

Your legs shook against the couch, trembling. You tried your best to keep your eyes on him, but the heat of his stare was making you dizzy. You whimpered "Johnny, Johnny, please–" and he grunted in response, praising you through it, uttering deep "that's it, doll, that's it" with each thrust of your hand.

"M'gonna come, fuck, m'so close–" You gasped out, eyes rolling.

Johnny was close to, grunting as he fucked his fist, eyes on you the entire time.

"Eyes on me when you come, doc. Open those pretty eyes." Johnny told you. You wrenched your eyes open, head falling forward slightly and your lips parting, a string of breathless whimpers emerging.

Johnny moaned. "You can come, doll, go on. Come 'round your fingers and tell me– fuck– tell me who you’re thinking about. Who’s on that pretty mind of yours while you’re being a good girl and coming ‘round your fingers, hm?"

Your orgasm crashed over you like a wave, and you did as you were told– keeping your eyes on him for as long as possible before the weight of your pleasure forced them shut, moaning his name in a long, loud "Johnny–!"

He came too, moaning your name into the living room. No doc, or doll; it was your first name– moaning it as he came across his knuckles, his cum splattering up his abdomen and dripping onto his lap. He pumped himself through it, slowly softening, muttering your name over and over, eyes finally closing.

"Next time..." He breathed, chest rising and falling rapidly. Yours was much the same. "Next time, I'm coming down your throat."

You smiled, fucked-out, taking a deep breath as you relaxed against the couch, the pair of you basking in each other's company as your highs waned. When you breathed in again, you smelt food. Burning–?

"Oh, fuck! Fuck–!" Johnny was tucking himself back into his cum-stained sweatpants and sprinting out of the living room and into the kitchen. "Fuck! My fucking roast!"

You couldn't help but giggle, moving to slip your pants back on. "Make sure to wash your hands first!" You called, and immediately heard the water running. You laughed again.

As you got dressed, you looked back down at the couch, embarrassment flooding you. A wet stain on the fabric. Oh, fuck no.

"Uh, Johnny? Do you have anything I could, uh, clean the couch with?"

"Check the bathroom! First door on the right!" Johnny called.

Thank god for that, you thought. You didn't exactly want Ghost wondering why his perfectly clean couch had a fucking stain on it. And, knowing Johnny, he wouldn't exactly have a good excuse for it.

Speaking of Ghost...

"Oh, by the way, I forgot to ask, what has Ghost done to himself? He's got an appointment before the game tomorrow, and it only says he's hurt his hand." You asked after exiting the bathroom with an arms full of cleaning supplies.

"Yeah, something wrong with his fingers, I think. I dunno. He hurt himself sparring with Price on Monday," you heard Johnny reply. "Price made him book an appointment. He usually doesn't."

"Huh..." You pondered. "Why's he at the gym if he's hurt?"

Johnny poked his head in the doorway. "He's Ghost. It'll take more than a couple'a sore fingers to knock him down... and, by the way, dinner's ready."

You smiled. "It's not too burnt, is it?"

Johnny rolled his eyes. "Shut up."

•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•

#captainfern #call of duty #call of duty mw2 #fem reader #141rugby!au #johnny soap mactavish #soap smut #soap x reader #soap call of duty #cod smut

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zvaigzdelasas · 9 months

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A painful reality check shows the 600-mile-long Ukrainian-Russian front in a figurative and literal freeze, draining Ukrainian resources and lives without much prospect for change in the foreseeable future. The much-anticipated Ukrainian counteroffensive of the past six months exacted a huge cost in casualties and matériel, but barely nudged the front lines. Ukraine’s top military commander has said the fight is at a “stalemate” — a notion deemed taboo not long ago — and only an unlikely technological breakthrough by one side or the other could break it. [...]

The way things are going, “Ukraine will for the foreseeable future harbor Europe’s most dangerous geopolitical fault line,” [...] an endless conflict that deepens Russia’s alienation from the West, enshrines Putinism and delays Ukraine’s integration into Europe. That, at least, is the bleak prognosis if victory in the war continues to be defined in territorial terms, specifically the goal of driving Russia out of all the Ukrainian lands it occupied in 2014 and over the past 22 months, including Crimea and a thick wedge of southeastern Ukraine, altogether about a fifth of Ukraine’s sovereign territory. But regaining territory is the wrong way to imagine the best outcome. True victory for Ukraine is to rise from the hell of the war as a strong, independent, prosperous and secure state, firmly planted in the West.[...]

the only way to find out if Mr. Putin is serious about a cease-fire, and whether one can be worked out, is to give it a try. Halting Russia well short of its goals and turning to the reconstruction and modernization of Ukraine would be lasting tributes to the Ukrainians who have made the ultimate sacrifice to preserve the existence of their nation. And no temporary armistice would forever preclude Ukraine from recovering all of its land.

With U.S. and European aid to Ukraine now in serious jeopardy, the Biden administration and European officials are quietly shifting their focus from supporting Ukraine’s goal of total victory over Russia to improving its position in an eventual negotiation to end the war, according to a Biden administration official and a European diplomat based in Washington. Such a negotiation would likely mean giving up parts of Ukraine to Russia. The White House and Pentagon publicly insist there is no official change in administration policy — that they still support Ukraine’s aim of forcing Russia’s military completely out of the country. [...]

The administration official told POLITICO Magazine this week that much of this strategic shift to defense is aimed at shoring up Ukraine’s position in any future negotiation. “That’s been our theory of the case throughout — the only way this war ends ultimately is through negotiation,” said the official, a White House spokesperson who was given anonymity because they are not authorized to speak on the record.[...]

“Those discussions [about peace talks] are starting, but [the administration] can’t back down publicly because of the political risk” to Biden, said a congressional official who is familiar with the administration’s thinking and who was granted anonymity to speak freely.[...]

The European diplomat based in Washington said that the European Union is also raising the threat of expediting Ukraine’s membership in NATO to “put the Ukrainians in the best situation possible to negotiate” with Moscow. That is a flashpoint for Putin, who is believed to be mainly interested in a strategic deal with Washington under which Ukraine will not enter NATO. [...]

For most of the conflict GOP critics have accused Biden of moving too slowly to arm the Ukrainians with the most sophisticated weaponry, such as M1A1 Abrams battle tanks, long-range precision artillery and F-16 fighter jets. In an interview in July Zelenskyy himself said the delays “provided Russia with time to mine all our lands and build several lines of defense.” [...]

The Ukrainians themselves are engaged in what is becoming a very public debate about how long they can hold out against Putin. With Ukraine running low on troops as well as weapons, Zelenskyy’s refusal to consider any fresh negotiations with Moscow is looking more and more politically untenable at home. The Ukrainian president, seeking to draft another half million troops, is facing rising domestic opposition from his military commander in chief, Gen. Valeriy Zaluzhnyi, and the mayor of Kyiv, Vitali Klitschko.

So what was all that for then [27 Dec 23]

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yume127 · 5 months

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I find it interesting how Roxas is often described as the “angry one” or “short-tempered one” when compared to Sora or Ventus, mostly because I always felt Sora and Ven have a shorter fuse than Roxas.

The association between Roxas and anger is understandable, because many of Roxas’ most poignant moments in the series happen when he is very (and understandably) angry, but I also feel like it’s a disservice to his character to only reduce him to his anger, especially when it’s far from who he is in normal circumstances.

For example, during Days, many Organization members treat him poorly and insult him to his face and, for the most part, Roxas doesn’t react at all. In Halloween Town, Lock, Shock, and Barrel throw bombs in his face multiple times before Roxas finally snaps at them. He senses that many people around him are keeping things from him, but it takes him months before he confronts someone about it. That’s far from someone I’d consider short-tempered or easy to anger.

The only situation I can think of when we see him get upset quickly is if anyone does or says something bad to Xion and, even then, the most of his reaction is verbally snapping at Saix to make him stop disrespecting her. In Axel’s case (when Roxas is upset with him for attacking Xion), Roxas doesn’t confront him at all, he just avoids him altogether. Also, I think it’s important to note that every moment in which Roxas is very angry happens when his entire life is falling apart, which is a situation in which, I believe, everyone would be upset.

Roxas seems the kind of person who bottles everything up without much reaction until it becomes too much and he explodes, and that’s when he has a hard time controlling his anger/emotions. Having spent most of his life in the organization probably plays a part in it as, every time he brings up any emotion, his feelings are invalidated and suppressed. That’s not an environment that gave him the tools to process strong emotions in a healthy way.

Let’s compare that to Ventus. Ven is the definition of short-tempered in BBS. He’s ready to throw hands with Vanitas the moment he says something remotely bad about Terra, which was minutes after he met him for the first time. He fought the dwarves without a second thought just because they refused to talk with him. His first reaction when he becomes small and is trapped in a mousetrap is to shout. These are just some examples from the top of my head, but it’s clear Ven has a shorter fuse than Roxas.

Ventus usually expresses how he feels in any given situation and has a short fuse. On the flip side, he doesn’t seem to hold on to these feelings at all. He externalises them the moment he feels them, but then he lets it go and it doesn’t bother him anymore. Out of the three of them, Ventus seems the most open about his emotions and, from what I remember, when he opens up about feeling a certain way with his friends, his feelings are usually not invalidated nor brushed aside. In UX, Ventus seems calmer and doesn’t have much anger in him, but he’s still open to expressing his feelings of low self-worth and sadness with the other union leaders.

Sora, I think he falls in the middle? He seems to have a shorter temper compared to Roxas, which was especially clear in KH2, where he snaps at the Organization multiple times, but he also bottles up his emotions more than Ven, especially around his friends. This happens mostly with his sadness, which he always tries to hide or brush aside, but in KH3 we can also see, for example, how much he’s bothered by everyone constantly bringing up him not passing the Mark of Mastery, even if he tries not to show it.

I think Sora feels like he should always be happy for his friends’ sake, and even during the rare moments when he tries to express his sadness, his feelings are not truly welcomed (“No frowning. No sad faces. This boat runs on happy faces”), so he just tries to brush it off as a joke. He’s loud in expressing any kind of positive emotion, and he openly expresses his anger against his enemies (and to his friends too, sometimes), but he also doesn’t hold on to that anger and is pretty forgiving. However, he usually bottles up his sadness, low self-esteem and other negative feelings, and then explodes when he can’t hold it together any longer (like it happened at the Keyblade Graveyard when he thought all his friends were gone forever).

#roxas #ventus #sora #kingdom hearts #kh #i wonder if this misconception about roxas happens because most of his personality is shown in days #like in the actual game not in the movie #and maybe people who didn't play days don't know his characterization during the game #even if i would argue sora and especially ventus suffer from the same problem but opposite #where they're often described as always happy and sunshine when there's much more to their characterization #anyway i just wanted to talk about them #sorry for any mistakes #long post

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winterarmyy · 2 years

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Plot Twist | Part I

An arranged marriage with mafia!bucky.

Run-through: I just need to get this out of my system. Most of arranged marriage mob/mafia!au I've read has a strong/bratty reader. And a really mean/asshole Bucky. Which is absolutely fine btw but its getting repetitive for me. I wanted to see a reader who's actually soft but fierce when she wants to be. And Bucky who is generally cold and seems to be married to his job but notices small things that the reader do, thus subconsciously started to care about her. They don’t hate each other, nor do they are infatuated. I don’t know if this exist, so I decided write it myself just in case. Enjoy!

Navigation: Part I | Part II | Part III* (end) | Extra

Words: 1.1k++

Pairing: beefy mafia!bucky x female!reader

Warnings: just fluffy and wholesome stuff here. Nothing graphic or explicit.

P/S: I like to write in 3rd pov btw. There's a few mentions of y/n sometimes too. Beware of the grammar mistakes, English is not my first language. This might be 2-3 parts type of fic, so tell me what you think so far.

Read my other works here: Masterlist

“He's late.”

The soft clinking sounds of his rings colliding with each other and onto the dresser woke her up from her deep slumber. Though her body remained still, her mind continued to wonder,

“Late. Again.” She thought.

The sound of fabrics rustling about hinted her of what was happening beyond her closed eyes. The shut of the bathroom door confirmed her speculations.

“So, what if he came back home late? Why does it concern you?” She questioned herself.

Only a fool would believe if she said that she didn't care at all about the whereabout and well-being of this man. He is her husband after all.

Six months ago, she stood on the alter with that man. They swore an oath. They sealed the kiss. He was hers and she was his.

James Buchanan Barnes; Bucky was what he preferred to called. He is what every man wants to become, and every woman wants to be with.

An Adonis of a man; impossibly tall, 6'5"; body armored with thick layer of muscles. Bucky is huge, that if he trapped her against the wall, she might just see the resemblance of him to a grizzly bear. His dark hair flowed just above his shoulder and his steel blue eyes were as cold as his personality.

Though she wouldn't compare him to a frozen blizzard during the winter, he was more like the first day of snow, when the white flakes started to fall.

Cold enough to make you shiver and warm enough to lure you out but most importantly, obscenely beautiful.

However, of course, the main reason of the marriage set up by her father was not because of how beautiful he is, but to fulfil his hunger for power. As if the territories that their family has wasn't enough, her father arranged this union to extend his reign.

Y/N protested at first but knew better than to fight against her father. Being raised in such family, at a very young age she learned to think always ahead; pass the emotions and intuitions. What's the rational and logical way to solve a problem.

Took her a week to wrap her head around the matter, research about Barnes and go through the agreement between her father and her then husband to be. Barnes had listed some main demands regarding the union and although most of them were about their business, but one particular demand had caught her attention.

“After marriage, the couple must be faithful to one another. Any romantic/sexual relationships prior must be severed/resolved immediately. Failed to do so will result to termination of the contract.”

“Hmm. Interesting.” She thought.

Not that she was in any relationship at the time, and all the research result to possibly positive outcome. So, in the end, she complied.

Which then explained why she was sleeping in Bucky's bed six months later.

“I know you're awake.” Bucky's gravel voice startled her internal thoughts. She could feel the indentation of the mattress on his side of the bed, the fresh and clean scent wafting from him. She nearly purred from a sniff of it.

She slowly opened her eyes as if she was trying to peep and god what a sight to see after a restless sleep; Bucky's idea of pajamas was basic pants and nothing above and Y/N didn’t know what to feel about that. Does she hate it? Absolutely not. Does she like it? Well, he is easy on the eye indeed.

The room was dimly lit, but she could see his slightly damp hair; it looked longer than it is dry. Her eyes followed the outline of his body leaning against the bed. The soft light reflected on his metal arm particularly follows the gold lines decorating the dark surface.

She often had intrusive thoughts of tracing the lines; what would it feel like against her fingertips. Does he feel anything? Is it cold? Will it feel good?

“You do know that it’s a waste your time to wait for me, right?” He huffed a heavy breath. She could hear the fatigue in his sigh.

And how does Bucky know that she waited for him before admitting her defeat to the drowsiness? Somehow, Bucky always managed to know things, to the littlest matter, even when he’s million miles across the world.

Just like when she found a copy of Pride and Prejudice on the bed a few months ago. The day before she received it, her copy was drenched in coffee; a young woman bumped into her in front of the café she often visit. He was in Russia that time. “Was it Clint? Did he tell Bucky?” she wondered.

“Whoever said I was waiting for you?” She scoffed, yet if the room was well lit enough, Bucky would’ve seen how playful her expression was.

He hummed a deep voice, “Hmm.” there’s a hint of doubt in his tone.

Y/N quickly follow her previous sentence, “I was simply enjoying my reading, that I lost track of time.” She shifted to face him and tucked herself further into the blanket, hiding the lower half of her face as she looked up at him. She wondered if he could tell that she was smiling just from her eyes.

Bucky’s gaze remained still on her, as if he was trying to reach into her soul, before he leaned closer to peek on the book on the table. Pride and Prejudice written on it.

He chuckled, which was rare. At the least the real ones are.

Of course, she had seen him smile and laugh countless of time. Especially during those gala they often attend. But those were just another set of armor he wore on a daily basis.

Bucky tried to bite back a smile, sinking his teeth into his lower lip, “Lost track of time, huh?” Yet, somehow Y/N can hear the smile in his tone.

“A good read?” he asked as if he did not know why his wife brought up about the book. She never said anything about the gift; not a thank you or a complaint.

She simply cherish it in her own way. He heard from Clint that she rearranged her whole bookshelf just to make space for the book he gave her. Maybe this was her way of saying thank you.

He had been giving her books every week, since.

She pulled the blanket away from her face, lips curled into a genuine smile, “Always.”

Bucky preened to her reply before suddenly, “Okay, enough chit chat. It’s late.” he said almost monotone sounded, as he made himself comfortable under the blanket.

Before she could overthink of what went wrong, why the sudden drop of chemistry; that was when she felt his hand roamed to find hers. Bucky brought her palm closer to his face, she could feel his hot breath against her cold skin.

He leaned his lips on her palm, leaving a soft and tender kiss as he mumbled, “Goodnight, doll.”

Rush of red shades bloomed on her cheeks, before caving into the feeling of his stubble on her hand. She gently caresses the side of his cheeks, hoping it soothes him to sleep.

The corners of her lips curved upwards into a smile, "See? Like, the first day of snow."

Part II >>

Read my other works here: Masterlist

A/N: It’s my first fic so... share your thoughts? ily 🤍

#winterarmyyfics #plottwistfic #mafia!bucky #mob!bucky #bucky barnes au #mafia!bucky x reader #mob!bucky x reader #arranged marriage #husband!bucky #beefy!bucky #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you

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yaksha-lover · 1 year

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TWST x ASOIAF/Medieval AU

Introduction (Part 1)

this au will center around seven different kingdoms, with one representing each dorm. the stories for each kingdom all happen in the same universe, and thus the reader is a different ‘character’ in each part

cw: arranged marriages, political hostages, slightly yandere in malleus’ part, gn!reader

Kingdom #1 - Queendom of Roses

Riddle Rosehearts is the crown prince of this kingdom, with his mother being the current ruling monarch.

You are from another prominent noble family. There have been discussions of a potential arranged marriage to unite the two families, and so you are sent to live in Riddle’s castle to see if this deal can be made.

Riddle is initially internally opposed to the idea of being in an arranged marriage, but as he gets to know you, he begins to realize that the world he’s grown up in - full of rules and empty of care - is far from what he could have with you.

Unfortunately, Riddle’s mother quickly becomes opposed to your union, seeing it as you attempting to change Riddle and pulling him away from her and their ‘perfectly good’ way of life.

It will be a challenge for the two of you, forced to try and convince his mother to still let you marry, while helping Riddle break free from the restrictive life he’s been forced to live.

Kingdom #2 - Sunset Savanna

Leona Kingscholar, the second prince of the kingdom of Sunset Savanna, has studied and worked his entire life to be the best version of himself. A great leader, a strong swordsman, someone politically astute and aware of more than what goes on in his own castle.

Still, no matter what Leona does, he has practically no way to use his skills to better the Sunset Savanna. His brother, the king, has offered him positions on the high council, but his advice is hardly taken seriously.

Practically resigning himself to live a meaningless life, Leona is suddenly faced with a choice when you come to the Sunset Savanna to offer your hand in marriage.

The future heir to the royal kingdom of the Shaftlands, you’re looking to form a strong alliance between your family and Leona’s.

Leona has, so far, resisted any of his brother’s attempts to set up marriages for him, and so Falena thinks it will be the same. He finds himself suprised when Leona accepts your offer.

By marrying into your kingdom, Leona will become the prince consort, and you’ve promised him actual power and influence. The two of you will govern your kingdom together, and Leona will finally be able to do something with his talents.

The fact that you and Leona were once childhood friends certainly helped in his decision to agree as well. Now that you’ve both grown up, Leona is eager to rekindle your relationship. However, he’s up for a challenge when he realizes you aren’t exactly the agreeable child you once were.

Kingdom #3 - Coral Sea

Azul is a famous travelling merchant, known for his ability to grant practically any wish - at a cost, of course.

When you make a deal with him to save your younger sibling, and find yourself unable to hold up your end of the contract, the fine print comes into play: you’ll have to serve as his assistant and travel with him across the seven kingdoms.

Unfortunately, the mask of Azul’s benevolence seems to decay before your eyes, as he forces you to uptake all sorts of demeaning tasks.

However, you find the mask of his charm slipping off just as fast. The real Azul is hardly as confident as he presents, and you think this may finally be your opportunity to take advantage of a flaw and escape this situation - then you start to feel bad.

For the rather strategic and unfeeling side you’ve seen of Azul, returning to his home kingdom of the Coral Sea, you begin to realize by the way he’s treated that his demeanour may be more reactionary than you first believed.

For better or for worse, the two of you are forced to become a team when an unruly customer begins to hunt the both of you down. The two of you escape the kingdom together, but it won’t be long before you’ll have to go on the run again.

‘Partner in crime’ wasn’t exactly on the job (contract) description, but Azul is lucky that you’ve grown fond of him.

Kingdom #4 - Scalding Sands

Kalim is the prince of the Scalding Sands, with Jamil as his retainer.

You are sent by your family to marry Kalim, but it’s Jamil that seems to capture your interest more.

You wed Kalim, but the feelings between you and Jamil boil over until you begin a secret relationship.

Both of you are hesitant - if anyone were to find out, Jamil and his family would suffer endlessly, and you would lose your status, being disowned by your family.

Things only become more confusing after you begin to see Kalim in a different light, thinking that perhaps you sized him up too quickly.

However, Kalim may be less oblivious than you and Jamil both realize, and he may be more okay with the two of you than you think.

While things may still be dangerous if anyone were to find out, things are certainly much easier with the three of you to cover up any rumours.

The relationship between Jamil and Kalim even improves as a result - you come to get Jamil to have a more kindly outlook of Kalim, while being able to make Kalim more aware of Jamil’s needs so he doesn’t continue to be overlooked.

The three of you still have lots of work to do, but as the future of this kingdom, you hope Kalim will do well with both yourself and Jamil behind him.

Kingdom #5 - Shaftlands

Vil Schoenheit is the son of a prominent noble family in the shaftlands.

Known as the ‘Knight of Oleander,’ Vil is famous for both his swordsmanship and his great beauty.

Due to his family’s involvement in a current political skirmish, Vil is taken as a very valuable political hostage.

You are a knight who works for the side that has taken Vil hostage.

You are eventually told to take him and travel back to his family, in order to try and come to a resolution of this conflict.

Vil is eager to escape and get back himself, so that his family will not have to give in to the demands necessary to get him back.

The two of you seem to fight and bicker every second of the trip back, but when it becomes dangerous for the both of you, you’ll both end up seeing a different side of each other.

While Vil has tried to take advantage of your insecurity and the fact that you are often made fun of by the others for your looks to escape, he begins to see a different, attractive side when he sees how truly good you are, so different from the other knights he has met.

Conversely, you’ve only ever thought of Vil as a shallow noble, unable to understand what it’s like to be imperfect in any way. When his beauty is taken away and he feels like he’s left with nothing else, you teach him that he’s so much more than his looks.

If you’re a asoiaf fan, Vil will have a similar story/character arc to Jaime, with dynamic with the reader being that of Jaime/Brienne.

Kingdom #6 - Island of Woe

Idia’s family are nobles who have been outcasted from the main kingdoms because of their perceived threat and treachery.

Idia is sent as a political hostage to stay as the ward of the reigning noble family of the Island of Woe, in order to prove his family’s loyalty and rejoin the rest of the kingdoms.

You are the child of the reigning family, and the one who helps him adapt to his new circumstances as best as possible.

You know he’s hardly responsible for his family’s problems, and you want to lessen Idia’s suffering as much as possible.

When others in your kingdom begin to harass Idia for being a ‘traitor,’ you impulsively decide to announce your marriage to him, making him royalty and therefore practically untouchable to others (unless they are willing to face severe punishment from the royal family).

Idia, while somewhat thankful for your help, is less than thrilled with this development. He’s going to be a royal? Don’t you know what kind of responsibility this means for him? Why would you force him into the spotlight like this?

Even more than that, Idia knows, no matter how sympathetic, you still believe the narrative set by your family that the Shroud family did betray the kingdom, when that’s far from the truth.

When he confronts you with this, you become frustrated with him, stuck in between the truth and the lie your otherwise kind family has always told you.

Neither of you are able to give up loyalty to your families, and this makes for a very difficult marriage indeed.

Kingdom #7 - Briar Valley

Malleus, the future ruler of the most powerful of all the kingdoms, has nobles travelling to Briar Valley from all over the world to ask for his hand in marriage.

To the annoyance of his grandmother, he turns down every proposal. Partially because he knows they only wish for his throne, that they do not know him nor do they really care to…and partially because of you.

You are part of his Kingsguard, alongside Silver and Sebek, trained in both swordsmanship and magic to keep him safe at all costs.

Unlike your fellow knights, you actually approach and converse with him. Perhaps foolishly, if he’s being honest. You would hardly have known his temper beforehand; many think him to be cold and quite scary.

You already spent time around him when it was your rotation to guard his current whereabouts instead of the castle perimeter, but you begin to do so even more when he requests that you stay on this rotation.

Flattered and thankful, you remain oblivious to the true reason Malleus desires you close to him at all times. It would be unthinkable for anyone of your station to believe that Malleus would have any kind of romantic interest in you.

Thus, you continue to remain unconvinced of the prince’s casual touches, of the way he favours you above all his other guards.

When you begin to reciprocate his feelings but believe them to surely be unrequited, you request to be dismissed from his service, it being unprofessional and too difficult to continue with your love for him.

Malleus, also unaware of your feelings, takes this as you trying to escape him. He knows you’re confused but in time you’ll see; he’ll take care of you, just like he’s always wanted.

You just need to stay in the dungeon until you’ve gotten over this little tantrum of yours. He keeps your cell decorated with luxuries and comfort that you’d never experienced in your time as one of his guards, not wanting you to suffer unnecessarily.

When you wisen up and decide to be his, all will be well again - but you won’t be returning to your previous position.

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wyrddogs · 2 years

Note

29, 30 for Dogblr Questions

29) What’s your dogs favorite treat?

Kermit's #1 favorite treat* is dehydrated liver, which he can only have in extremely tiny quantities because the richness makes him sick.

Runner-up is Carl's Jr hamburger patty.

After that, bacon appears to be tied with beef hot dog and deli meat.

Everything else that you would expect a dog to love is varying levels of mid-value.

*If I could somehow train him using live rats that he gets to kill, that would be #1. But alas.

30) What’s your dogs least favorite treat?

Kibble. Won't even open his mouth for it.

Thank you for asking!

#he has a strong union position #kermit #meme

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ceilidho · 1 year

Text

prompt: ghost works on an oil rig. he meets reader during his osha mandated 2 weeks off. (ns/fw)

Ghost experiences time like a sudden swarming of locusts. Absolutely devastating for a period, and then silence, just him to observe the aftermath of the wreckage.

Work on an offshore oil rig is split into shifts of two weeks on, two weeks off. During his two weeks on, he spends his near twelve-hour shifts in constant motion, muscles aching to the point of fatigue, to the point of giving out where he lugs tools and parts across the rig. He contorts himself into all manner of positions for quick and long repairs, breaking his back day in and day out because that is what work expects of him. What he expects of himself.

Lying motionless in his bed, the sound of Soap’s snoring from the bunk over him the only thing half-resembling a lullaby. Hours before sleep falls on him, and then suddenly it’s day again, opening grit-crusted eyes to the bottom of Soap’s bunk, metal and leather straps across the underside, and then he’s up and down the halls that are never big enough for him. He wakes up ravenous, never full. Hungering always.

It takes nearly a full three days onshore to get his bearings; he never quite loses his sealegs.

Foam-topped beer at his local pub. That’s how Ghost fills his days off; the rest of his crew flock off to their families, some into the warm arms of whatever casual arrangement they’ve got going on outside of the rig. For Ghost, he finds solace in counting down the minutes until his OSHA mandated period of rest is over and it’s time to head back.

There’s nothing waiting for him outside of the rig. Family home long since burned to the ground. He won’t even let his mind turn to the family in it.

He’s on the fifth day of his union-enforced leave, hunched over the bar like usual and picking away at an order of fish and chips when he happens to look up and catch sight of you. You’re chattering away at the other end of the room, dressed like one of the waitresses.

You’re new. Ghost learns as much when he turns to the bartender—an old friend of his, though he’d call him less of a friend and more of a familiar face that’s come to know his name after the years he’s spent at this particular pub—and it’s said like it’s a novelty. It is. New faces are rare in towns like this, working class towns far off from any big city. It’s the same reason he hasn’t fallen into bed with anyone in too many years to count, not when he sees the same old faces whenever he touches land.

With you though, it’s different. Ghost keeps an eye on you while he nurses his pint. It’s not hard to catch your eye; you’re new and keen and curious and when your eyes rove over the crowd that grows as night outside deepens, it’s impossible to skip over the shape of him. His line of work has shaped him into something strong and solid; linebacker-size, a condition of which is to never feel comfortable on any chair.

Your eyes go wide for all of a second, betraying you. Momentarily desirous. Ghost sees it and feels it stir in him for once in years. No longer the perfunctory thing to be dealt with in the bathroom every morning after waking up, one calloused hand wrapped around his thick length, grunting with his release and then washing his hands off before getting started with the day’s errands.

Ghost waits until he’s nearly at the end of his glass before stepping from his chair, heading out the front door. Before he exits, he makes sure to catch eyes with you again, something significant passing between the two of you.

Cigarette in an alleyway beside the pub. Taking the glove off his hand so he can feel the cig between his fingers, feel the ash flake off past his knuckles. He’s leaning against the brick wall when you come out, apron tied demurely around your waist.

It’s you that breaks the silence first. “Hi—haven’t seen you around before.”

He stares into your eyes for a spell, taking another pull before he tosses the butt to the ground, snuffing it out under his boot. “Wouldn’t imagine you had.”

You take a couple steps closer, despite yourself. Despite the fact that you know what you’re broadcasting, the way you look up at him from under your lashes, cheeks dusted with a blush that’s hardly visible in the dim light but for the way you make it obvious with the rest of you.

“I just moved into town a couple days ago. Guess I’ll see you around more often—Gaz said you’re a regular.”

“‘Spose you could say that.” Time feels molasses slow for once; Ghost feels the edge of his lip curl up into something half-resembling a grin, in another time. “Don’t suppose you’re off for the night, are ya?”

Your legs around his waist are softer than anything he’s touched in years. It’s a near revelation. There’s something in him that grows frantic when he finally has you on your back on his navy sheets; the sparseness of his bedroom hardly seems worthy of having you in it, but he won’t pass up the opportunity. His eyes go half-lidded when he gets between your legs, tongue flicking over your clit and laving over you from hole to hole. Greedy for it.

His head spins when he finally slots himself over you and pumps into the soft warmth between your legs. The little bitten off noises, kitten-like moans that get trapped behind your teeth. Your arms are snaked around his neck, tightening like your pussy around his cock. His big hands clutch at your ass, squeezing into the flesh there; everything so soft.

“None of that, love,” Ghost grunts into your neck, sucking dark bruises into the softness there. Hoping they flare bright in the morning light. “Want you loud. Gonna imagine this every time I’m alone and hard on the rig. Perfect little cunt.”

When he makes you come, fingers rubbing at your clit until you squeak, nails digging into the muscle of his back, it burns into his memory. Time stilling for once, segmented only by your quick breaths in.

For the first time in longer than he can remember, his time off-shore can’t be long enough.

#cod mw2 #simon ghost riley #cod x reader #ghost x reader #simon riley x you #cod simon riley #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost/reader #simon riley #ghost cod #ghost mw2 #ghost call of duty #ghost mwii #ceil writing #dont ask where im getting the energy to write this much itll vanish soon

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sadnymi · 5 months

Text

「 ✦ Fresh Out the slammer. ✦ 」

[Mattheo riddle × reader] [TTPD Masterlist]

Summary: Y/n made a decision she thought was right, but it ended up costing her the only real thing in her life. Now, instead of finding peace and stability, her life has turned into a nightmare a slammer. She ran away, only to realize her mistake and now she knows there's only one person she can turn to—the only person her heart truly loves.

Warnings: angst,fluff,smut,strong language.

Words:5k.

The dress shimmered like moonlight on water, a cascade of champagne silk that clung to my curves in all the right places. I stood frozen, a statue sculpted from fabric and societal expectation. Perfect. Flawless. Engaged.

Yet, the reflection staring back at me held no spark of joy, just a hollow echo of a smile. It wasn't sadness, not exactly. More like a numb acceptance of a life carefully mapped out, not by my own desires, but by the whispers and needs of my family.

Charles, my fiancé, was everything a respectable young woman could desire. Handsome, wealthy, with a lineage as distinguished as his manners. On paper, we were the perfect match – a union that would solidify our families' positions in high society.

The party buzzed around me, a symphony of congratulations and well wishes. I played my part, radiating a picture-perfect fiancée. Laughter bubbled on my lips, practiced and polite. This was the new normal, the life I'd been groomed for. A gilded cage.

Then, across the crowded room, my gaze locked with a pair of dark eyes. A jolt went through me, a spark that had nothing to do with champagne or diamonds. Mattheo. There, in the shadows by the doorway, stood the one man who disrupted all carefully laid plans. His lips were curved in a smirk, a knowing amusement that sent a shiver down my spine.

He wasn't celebrating. He was observing. Analyzing. Like some predatory toying with the carefully orchestrated scene before him.

Exhaustion, emotional and physical, washed over me. I needed a moment, a single breath outside the suffocating air of expectations. Slipping through the French doors, I stepped onto the cool balcony overlooking the city lights.

And then, there he was, leaning against the railing a few feet away. Mattheo, his gaze following mine as he took a long drag from a cigarette. I clutched the glass of juice in my hand tighter, the cold seeping through the crystal.

"Care to share the joke?" I finally managed, my voice low and laced with a touch of bitterness. He didn't turn towards me, but his voice, when he spoke, was a smooth caress in the night air.

"Just admiring the performance, love," he drawled. "You play the part beautifully. Almost makes you believe it yourself."

The words tumbled out of my mouth, a torrent of frustration and a desperate attempt to mask the truth even from myself. "What are you doing, Mattheo? Making fun of me?" My voice rose a notch, defensive and angry.

"He's a perfect man. His family and mine have been friends for decades! Don't go acting like you care about some fairytale love story." I knew I was overplaying it, the words spilling out too fast, a frantic attempt to convince someone – maybe myself – that Charles was the answer.

He didn't flinch at my outburst. "No, not that," he said, his voice surprisingly gentle. "It's just… I don't get it. Why settle for 'perfect' when you could have something real?" His gaze held mine, a challenge and a question all at once.

"Real?" I scoffed, the bitterness dripping from my voice. "What's real? This?" I gestured at the glittering party scene below, the forced smiles and hollow laughter. "Or a life filled with… with what? Uncertainty? Danger?" The words hung heavy in the air, a silent acknowledgment of the life I'd always secretly yearned for, a life that somehow always seemed to revolve around Mattheo.

"Maybe," he conceded, shrugging a shoulder.

My breath hitched. His words were a direct hit, piercing through the carefully constructed walls I'd built around my heart. "I…" I started, but the words wouldn't come.

Frustration bubbled over, a cocktail of anger and confusion. "This is for me to decide, Mattheo! I don't need him, I want him! He'll be a good husband, a good father, a good partner. " My voice grew louder, the carefully constructed facade crumbling with each word.

"Sure, love," he said, that infuriating smirk twisting his lips once more.

"Dammit, Mattheo!" I exploded, tears stinging my eyes. "Either be happy for me, at least pretend, or leave!" The words were out before I could stop them.

Regret washed over me as quickly as the anger had risen. The light in his eyes, playful just moments ago, vanished, replaced by a flicker of pain I couldn't decipher.

For the first time that night, he looked at me seriously. No smirk, no amusement, left me speechless. "I think I'll leave then “.

And then he was gone, disappearing back into the throng of partygoers. The air felt suddenly colder, the weight of his absence a physical blow. My heart pounded a frantic rhythm against my ribs, a mix of anger, fear, and something far deeper twisting in my gut.

A desperate urge to chase after him, to call him back, flooded me. But pride, stubbornness, and the carefully constructed image I'd spent all night portraying held me frozen in place.

I watched him go, a lone figure swallowed by the crowd, and a single, tear finally escaped, tracing a glistening path down my cheek.

The engagement ring felt like a lead weight on my finger. It was supposed to be a symbol of happily ever after, but all it brought was a dull ache in my chest. Charles, my fiancé, had proposed on a gondola ride in Venice, a picture-perfect moment straight out of a romance novel. The only problem was, the picture was a lie, a carefully staged facade.

The cracks began to show soon after. Charles, always so attentive during our courtship, started developing a curious habit of "forgetting" dates and appointments. His phone, an ever-present extension of his hand, would suddenly become a mystery when important calls came in. Excuses piled up like unwashed dishes, each one chipping away at the foundation of trust.

One particularly galling instance involved a charity gala. Charles had promised to accompany me, a public show of unity for my family's foundation. As the guests arrived, resplendent in their evening wear, I stood alone, a nervous knot twisting in my stomach. An hour later, with half the night gone, he sauntered in, a sickeningly self-satisfied smirk playing on his lips. His excuse? A "business meeting" that ran long. The lie was obvious, the scent of his cologne a dead giveaway – the same kind of perfume that clung to the woman flitting at his side the previous weekend.

One blustery Saturday, we planned a picnic by the lake. Charles, however, turned up two hours late, reeking of butterbeer and with a smear of lipstick on his collar. My accusations were met with a dismissive, "Oh, Y/N, you're being paranoid again."

Selfishness was another of Charles's defining traits. He saw everything in terms of "me" and "mine." My interests, my dreams, were relegated to mere footnotes in his grand narrative. One weekend getaway we'd planned, meticulously tailored to my love for hiking and stargazing, was abruptly rerouted to a luxurious spa resort "because stress relief is good for everyone, darling." My protests were met with feigned sympathy and a dismissive pat on the head.

The final straw came at a Ministry charity gala. All night, Charles was glued to a group of Aurors, completely ignoring me. I stood alone, clutching my champagne flute feeling like a pretty ornament on his arm. As I excused myself for a moment of fresh air, I rounded a corner and saw him, laughing carelessly, his hand resting on Astoria's waist. They were kissing, a passionate embrace that ripped the last shreds of hope from my heart.

Tears blurring my vision, I confronted him later that night. "How could you?" My voice trembled, the anger barely masking the deep well of hurt.

He sighed, a hint of annoyance creeping into his voice. "Y/N, darling, don't be dramatic. It was just a kiss. A silly little thing."

"Just a kiss?" I cried, the dam of my emotions finally bursting. "And all those lies? The neglect? Charles”

His face contorted in anger. "You," he snarled, "are supposed to be the perfect fiancée. All smiles and beauty. You're just a pretty face, Y/N, that's all. Your role is to stand there and look pretty."

“I deserve better than this!"

He grabbed my face, forcing me to look at him. "You deserve exactly what I'm giving you, Y/N," he said, his voice cold and hard. "A comfortable life, a prestigious name. Do you think your father will be thrilled if you call off the wedding? Think of the scandal, the gossip! That's all that matters, after all."

His words cut deeper than any wand. In that moment, I saw him for who he truly was – a self-serving, arrogant man who only valued me as a trophy, not a person. The anger surged through me, hot and cleansing.

"I don't care anymore about what any of you want!" I ripped his grip on my face, my voice a ragged scream. "This doesn't matter anymore!"

With that, I spun on my heel and fled, leaving him and the shattered remnants of our engagement party behind. Tears streamed down my face, a mixture of anger, sadness, and a newfound sense of freedom.

Escaping the suffocating confines of the argument felt like breaking free from a Dementor's grip. My phone buzzed incessantly, a frantic symphony of missed calls from Charles and my furious father. Ignoring them, I switched it off, the silence a balm to my raw nerves.

There was only one person I craved, the one face that flickered behind my tear-filled vision – Mattheo. He'd been a constant presence in my mind, a forbidden flame that refused to be extinguished.

With newfound resolve, I hailed a carriage, the rocking motion mirroring the turmoil within me. He might not want to see me, might not even care. But right now, there was nowhere else I'd rather be. Nobody else who understood the storm raging inside me the way he did.

Love. It was a terrifying, exhilarating word, a truth I could no longer deny. I loved him. We'd never spoken the words, not truly, but in stolen glances and secret smiles, a connection had bloomed, defying all societal expectations.

The ride seemed to stretch on forever, each passing minute mirroring the frantic beat of my heart. Finally, the carriage drew to a stop before the imposing gates of Mattheo's mansion. As I stepped out, a heavy rain began to fall, mirroring the tempest within.

The grand entrance, familiar yet intimidating, recognized me with a soft hum. It creaked open without a touch, a silent welcome that sent a tremor through me. Taking a deep, shaky breath, I approached the heavy oak door that separated me from him.

"Mattheo," I whispered, my voice barely above a choked sob. "It's Y/N. Please, I… I need you."

Silence. The only sound was the insistent drumming of the rain and the frantic pounding of my heart against my ribs. Doubt gnawed at me. Maybe he wasn't there. Maybe he didn't want to see me.

Tears welled up again, blurring my vision. Just as I turned to leave, defeated, the door creaked open. Light spilled out, illuminating Mattheo's tall figure framed against the warm glow.

Relief washed over me, so intense it took my breath away. His face was etched with surprise.

But before I could decipher it, his surprise melted into a mask of cool indifference. My tears, held at bay for a moment, finally spilled over, cascading down my cheeks in a torrent.

Ignoring the shocked silence, I threw myself into his arms, clinging to him as if he were a lifeline in a storm-tossed sea.He reacted instantly, his strong arms enveloping me, lifting me off the ground with surprising ease. His warmth seeped through my cloak, a familiar comfort amidst the chaos.

Buried in the crook of his neck, I poured out the events of the evening, the anger, the hurt, the suffocating realization of Charles' lies. He held me silently, his touch a silent reassurance. I clung to him, feeling a sense of safety I hadn't experienced in a very long time.

Finally, the sobs subsided, leaving behind a raw vulnerability. I pulled back slightly, wiping a tear from my cheek.

The room spun as he set me down on the plush couch, a soft cushion beneath my tear-streaked face. His strong arms cradled my shoulders, steadying me. Then, cupping my chin, he tilted my head up with a gentle yet firm touch.

"Y/N," he said, his voice a low rumble laced with concern. "What happened? Did someone hurt you?"

His worry, raw and unconcealed, was another dam breaking within me. Shaken sobs wracked my body again, each one a release of the pent-up emotions.

"I…" I choked out, voice thick with emotion. "I just… needed you."

He didn't pry, just nodded understandingly, a silent promise of safety washing over me. "Let's get you out of these wet clothes first, love," he murmured, his touch surprisingly gentle.

He helped me remove my soaked dress, the cold fabric clinging like a memory I desperately wanted to shed. A blush crept up my neck as he handed me one of his oversized shir. I slipped it on, the familiar scent of him – a mix of expensive cologne and something uniquely Mattheo – wrapping around me like a comforting embrace.

Settling back onto the couch, he cupped my face again, his thumbs brushing away stray tears and a lock of hair that clung to my damp cheek. "Now, tell me everything," he said, his voice low and steady.

Taking a shuddering breath, I spoke. Words tumbled out, a torrent of pent-up emotions finally finding release. I told him everything – Charles' lies, the crushing disappointment, the suffocating loneliness of a horrible engagement.

"I'm so sorry," I whispered, clutching his hand like a lifeline. "I was so afraid. I thought feelings, love, they would make me weak. So I thought Charles, with his perfect reputation and his predictable life, was the safest option. I didn't want to end up like my parents, constantly fighting, their love a battlefield. But this... this is worse. An empty shell of a life. And the hardest part…" My voice hitched, threatening to break again. "I lost you in the way. And I missed you, Mattheo. I missed you almost all the time."

"You will never lose me," he said.

Surprise flickered across my face. Never lose you?

"I never wanted you to leave," I confessed, my voice barely above a whisper. "That night of the engagement, I… I wanted to run back to you. Run back home."

The tension in the room crackled as I stood, my body fueled by a newfound courage. My gaze swept across the opulent room, searching for escape, for a way to bridge the chasm that had grown between us.

Then, I met his eyes. A storm of emotions brewed within him – surprise, vulnerability, a flicker of something that made my heart skip a beat.

"I love you, Mattheo," I blurted out, the words tumbling forth with the weight of a thousand unspoken confessions.

He held my gaze for a long, agonizing moment, then looked away, a muscle clenching in his jaw. He turned towards the window, the rain now a gentle patter against the glass.

"You're not going to say something?" The silence stretched, threatening to suffocate me.

He finally turned back to me, a wry smile twisting his lips. "Well, I've spent my entire life only loving one thing, Y/N. Only one thing. And it was you. So yeah, I don't know what to say now."

My mouth opened, ready to respond, a million questions swirling in my head. Images of a younger us flooded back – a scraped knee, whispered secrets, and a childish declaration that love was a fool's game.

"No, no," I stammered. "I remember when we were kids, and I said I didn't believe in love, and you said you didn't too. You said—"

He cut me off, a playful glint in his eyes. "Well, I lied."

My heart skipped a beat. "You lied?"

He walked towards me, his smile turning tender. "You were terrified of the idea, and I may not have believed in love then, but I believed in loving you, Y/N. So I would have done or said anything you wanted me to."

Shame clawed at me. How could I have been so blind, so wrapped up in my fear that I missed the love that had been right in front of me all along?

"I'm so sorry, Mattheo," I choked out. "I'm so sorry. I don't deserve your—"

He cut me off, pulling me into a tight embrace. "Stop being so harsh on yourself, love," he murmured, his hand stroking my hair gently. "Look at me."

I lifted my head, meeting his gaze. His eyes, usually filled with a mischievous glint, now held a tenderness that made my breath catch.

"You rest now," he said, his voice a soothing balm. "And if you're still in your word tomorrow…" He trailed off, leaving the sentence unfinished.

"I love you, Mattheo," I repeated, my voice firm and unwavering. "And tomorrow, and the day after, and every day after that."

He smiled, a genuine, heart-melting smile that sent a warmth radiating through me. "Okay then," he said, his voice husky. "If you're still sure tomorrow, I'll be here. I'll always be here for you."

He leaned down and kissed my forehead, the soft touch sending shivers down my spine. As I burrowed into his oversized shirt, a new sense of comfort and belonging washed over me.

Holding the pillow to my chest, the scent of his cologne lingering on it, I drifted off to sleep. Two things were crystal clear in my mind. One, I loved Mattheo with a fierceness I never knew existed. And two, never again would I let fear or societal expectations dictate my heart. He was mine, and I was his. And nothing would ever tear us apart again.

The morning light streamed through the window, painting the room in a soft golden glow. Sunlight and the lingering scent of Mattheo's cologne pulled me from sleep. The events of yesterday flooded back – the storm of emotions, the confessions. Was it real? Had I imagined it all in the heat of the moment?

Uncertainty gnawed at me. Should I stay curled up in this bed, a safe haven from whatever awaited me downstairs? But the thought of not seeing Mattheo, was unbearable.

Taking a deep breath, I reminded myself, 'It's Mattheo. My Mattheo.' The fear ebbed slightly, replaced by a nervous flutter in my stomach. Ten minutes later, after a pep talk in the mirror and a failed attempt at straightening my sleep-tousled hair, I crept downstairs.

The kitchen was bathed in the warm glow of the morning sun. And there he was, leaning against the counter, a cup of steaming coffee in his hand. Relief washed over me, as welcome as the familiar aroma of roasted beans.

His eyes lit up as he saw me. "There you are," he said, a smile playing on his lips. He crossed the room in two strides, handing me a steaming mug.

My heart did a little skip. It was my favorite blend, a subtle smoky aroma that always reminded me of cozy mornings at home. A smile tugged at the corners of my lips. "Thank you," I murmured, accepting the mug. "That's perfect."

"I'm so sorry for showing up like that yesterday," I stammered, the words tumbling out in a rush. "I thought… well, I thought you'd be mad. That you wouldn't want to see me."

He chuckled, the sound warm and genuine. "Mad that you came to me? Y/N, I'd be mad if you didn't. I'm glad you're here."

The weight of anxiety that had been building in my chest began to loosen. But with the tension gone, my nerves started playing up. In a desperate attempt to fill the silence, I launched into a monologue about the weather, the latest Quidditch news (which I barely followed) and the peculiar new flavor of Bertie Bott's Every-Flavour Beans I'd tried the day before.

I could feel his eyes twinkling with amusement, but he didn't interrupt my rambling. Instead, he leaned against the counter, a smile playing on his lips. Finally, he took a step closer, his hand reaching out to gently tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ear.

"Y/N," he said softly, his voice sending shivers down my spine.

"Yes?" I squeaked, my eyes locked on his.

"Calm down, love," he murmured, his thumb brushing my cheek. "You're safe here. And you don't have to talk if you don't want to." He paused, his gaze holding mine. "Just stay. Just be with me."

My fingers traced the familiar lines of his face – the strong jawline, the slight furrow between his brows that always appeared when he was thinking, the little scar above his left eyebrow from that time we tried to ride a rogue Hippogriff in third year. I missed it all – the details, the imperfections, everything about him.

As I looked up to meet his eyes, a wave of emotion washed over me. It was a cocktail of relief, happiness, and a lingering nervousness that fluttered in my stomach. This was the same feeling I used to get whenever he was near, but this time, it wasn't laced with fear. It was pure, unadulterated excitement.

"Every time you look at me like that," he murmured, his voice husky, "I lose control."

My heart skipped a beat. "And is that a bad thing?" I leaned in closer, the space between us shrinking with each passing second.

He shook his head slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. Our lips were a breath apart, the tension crackling in the air. Then, he closed the distance.

The kiss was electric, sending shivers down my spine. It was filled with a raw emotion that neither of us had dared to express before. But just as quickly as it began, he pulled away.

"We can't," he said, his voice strained. "You're still confused with what happened, and I can't take advantage of that."

A pang of disappointment shot through me. But then, a cold realization dawned on me. He thought my confession, my affection, was a way of coping, a distraction from the fallout of yesterday.

"Mattheo," I said, cupping his face in my hands, forcing him to meet my gaze. "You would be crazy if you thought I didn't mean what I said. I'm in my right mind. I meant every word. I love you. I have for a long time, even when I told myself I didn't."

And then, without further preamble, he closed the gap. His lips were on mine again, this time with a fierce intensity that left me breathless.

He picked me up, setting me on the kitchen table. The cool wood beneath me was a stark contrast to the heat radiating from his body. He trailed kisses down my neck, making me shiver with pleasure.

“Your skin is so soft against mine. I could spend eternity just touching you."

I ran my fingers through his hair, pulling him closer. "Don't stop," I moaned, as he nibbled on my earlobe.

He chuckled, the sound sending vibrations through my body. "I have no intention of stopping," he said, his voice full of promise.

He continued his descent, his lips and tongue leaving a trail of fire on my skin. He reached the waistband of my pants, teasing me by hooking his fingers under the fabric but not pulling it down.

I squirmed under him, desperate for more. "Please," I begged, my voice barely above a whisper.

He looked up at me, his eyes full of desire. "Please what?" he asked, a smirk playing on his lips.

"Please touch me," I said, my voice filled with need.

He didn't need any more encouragement. He pulled my pants down, exposing me to him. He leaned in, his breath hot against my skin. He kissed my inner thigh, teasing me even more.

I moaned, my hips bucking towards him. "Please, Mattheo," I said, my voice filled with desperation.

He finally gave in, his tongue darting out to taste me. I cried out, my fingers digging into the table. He licked and sucked, driving me wild with pleasure.

I could feel myself getting closer and closer to the edge. I wrapped my legs around his head, pulling him closer. "Don't stop," I begged, my voice barely above a whisper.

He picked up the pace, his tongue working its magic. I could feel myself tightening, my orgasm building inside me.

And then I was there, my body shaking with pleasure. I cried out, my fingers gripping the table even tighter.

He didn't stop, his tongue continuing to lap at me. I moaned, my hips still bucking towards him.

Finally, he pulled away, looking up at me with a satisfied smirk."You taste like heaven. I could spend hours between your legs." he said, his voice full of affection.

I smiled down at him, my heart filled with love. As I pulled him up for a kiss.He lifted me off the table, carrying me to the couch. laid me down, his body covering mine.

I could feel his hardness pressing against me, and I wrapped my legs around him. "I want to feel you inside me today and everyday I want all of you," I whispered, my voice filled with need.

He kissed me, his lips hot and demanding. He reached down, positioning himself at my entrance.

He looked at me, his eyes full of love and desire. "Do you want me to show you how much I've been thinking about you?" he said, his voice full of conviction and i nodded.

And then he thrust into me, filling me completely. I cried out, my fingers digging into his back."You're so big." I say and he shuts my cries with a kiss.

He started moving, his hips thrusting in a steady rhythm. I met him thrust for thrust, our bodies moving in perfect harmony.

“want to hear you say my name over and over. Let me know who's making you feel this good." He reached down, his fingers finding my clit. He rubbed in circles, sending waves of pleasure through my body.

"I want to mark you as mine, leaving my scent and my love all over you." He whispered in my ear, his hot breath sending shivers down my spine. He placed soft kisses on my neck, nibbling gently on the sensitive skin there.

"The way you look at me when I'm inside you drives me wild, love." He murmured, I could feel myself getting even wetter at his words if that was even possible.

His phone rang, interrupting the moment. He looked at the ID and smiled. "Turn around for me, my love." He said, his voice low and commanding. I did as he asked, turning around so he could take me from behind.

He put the phone on speaker and pulled my hair to the side, exposing my neck. He sucked and bit gently on the skin there, marking me as his. I moaned at the sensation, my body trembling with pleasure.

"She's with you right?" The sound from the phone was Charles, my ex-fiancé. I moaned at the thought of his call while we’re doing this, and Mattheo put his hand over my mouth to muffle the sound.

"Yes, she's very much with me, Charles." Mattheo said, his voice confident and sure. He thrust hard into me, making me scream into his hand.

"I don't want any rivalry, just stay away from my fiancé." Charles said, his voice filled with anger. The moment the word fiancé got out of his mouth, Mattheo thrust into me again, harder this time.

"I want that rivalry, it's fine with me. And she's your ex-fiancé, I can see no ring in her finger anymore."

"What was that? Was that Y/N? Can I talk to her?" Charles said.

"No, you can't. Not now, not ever “Mattheo said, He turned me around so I was looking at him. He pulled his hands away from my mouth and leaned down to kiss me.

"If I saw you near her, if I saw you in the same place as her, even by accident, if I saw you breathing the same air as her, you're a dead man, little Charles." Mattheo said, his lips touching mine. And then he ending the call.

He kept thrusting into me until I knew I was close. "I'm so close, Mattheo." I said, my voice breathless.

"You're such a good girl, taking me so well. Cum for me, baby." He said. I did, my body trembling with pleasure. He thrust into me a few more times, then cum. He pulled away, his cum on my stomach.

"One day, I'm gonna cum inside you." He said, his voice low and commanding. The thought turned me on so much, my face was red by now.

"Oh, you like that? Like the thought of me putting a baby inside you?"I nodded, unable to speak. He pulled me so I was on top of him, hugging me so tight.

He played with my hair as we lay there, our bodies still trembling with pleasure. "I love everything you say, I want everything if it will be with you." I said, my voice filled with emotion.

Now that I knew better, forever was no longer a scary word, but a beautiful vow. I would never lose him again.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

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icarusignite · 1 month

Text

For Whom the Bell Tolls Masterlist

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Strong! Reader

Tropes: World War 2 HOTD AU, nurse x soldier, trauma bonding, childhood sweethearts, star-crossed lovers

Wattpad / AO3

Summary:

"The tragic hero is complete. You can call him unhappy (miserable, utterly broken) even before he is dead. For an instant, he is something divine, and then he dies, because there's nothing else left to do. The center of every tragedy is the image of a human being who has already died but keeps talking, someone whose face is a mask."

In the years preceding the inferno of the Second World War, the world dances precariously on the edge of destruction, teetering between disintegrating old empires and the looming dawn of new ones. In the heart of this volatile era, the Targaryen family rises to power through the might of their ironclad empire, the Targaryen Ammunitions Conglomerate. The story is set against a backdrop of a world torn between tradition and modernity, where the echoes of old wars linger in the corridors of power, and the spectre of new conflicts casts long shadows across the lives of those entangled in its web.

Viserys Targaryen, the Chief Executive Officer of Targaryen Ammunitions, is a man haunted by the ghosts of his past. Decades before the world would be set ablaze, he cements his legacy, but at the cost of his own soul. The death of his first wife leaves him shattered, clinging to the last vestiges of humanity through the love he bears for his only daughter, Rhaenyra, his chosen heir.

But even Viserys cannot escape the machinations of those around him. Drawn into a marriage with Alicent Hightower, his daughter's former college classmate, he finds himself ensnared in a web of deceit spun by her father. Otto Hightower's ambitions reach far beyond the bounds of mere familial ties; he seeks to control the empire itself, and the Targaryen family, once bound by blood and loyalty, begins to fracture as ambition and betrayal take root.

Rhaenyra, a woman of fierce independence and unyielding spirit, is forced into a life she never wanted. Pressured by her father and the demands of his legacy, she is coerced into a marriage of convenience with Laenor Velaryon, a man whose own struggles mirror her own. Their union is one of necessity, where neither partner truly belongs to the other, yet, in their shared discomfort and understanding, they find solace, forging a partnership that defies the world's expectations. Laenor, hiding his true nature in a society that would cast him out, finds safety in the match, while she, in turn, secures the power and stability she needs to maintain her position as her father's heir.

Years pass, and the couple's inability to have children leads them down a different path—a path that brings them to the doors of Harrenhall, where the recently deceased Harwin Strong leaves behind four orphaned children who have been disowned by his brother Larys in his greed for their fortune. Rhaenyra, with a heart as relentless as it is kind, cannot bring herself to separate the siblings, despite the dangers it may pose to her own ambitions. She adopts them all, bringing the Strong children into the fold of the Targaryen family.

As the eldest of these children, you are burdened by the weight of the world. At just ten years old, you have been forced to grow up far too quickly, stepping into the role of mother and protector to your younger siblings in the absence of your own. Your heart is a fortress, built stone by stone, your mistrust of the world as deep as the abyss. When you and your brothers are taken in by the Targaryens, your siblings find joy in the luxuries and love showered upon them by their new family, but you cannot let yourself believe in the comfort being offered, waiting for the moment when it will all be torn away.

Your fears are only compounded by the cold reception you receive from Rhaenyra's half-siblings, the children of Alicent Hightower. The second of these, Aemond Targaryen, is a boy who has grown up in the long shadow cast by his half-sister. Neglected by his father, who lavishes affection upon his new adoptive grandchildren, he harbours a deep resentment toward the Strong siblings. In his eyes, you are all usurpers, interlopers who have stolen all that should have been his and his alone.

Nevertheless, the two of you find an unlikely ally in each other. Aemond, who despises the hollow privilege of his lineage, finds in you a kindred spirit, someone who understands the bitterness that festers in his heart. You, in turn, see in him a mirror of your own disillusionment, a boy lost in a world that seems intent on breaking him.

As the world outside your gilded cage hurtles toward cataclysm, your connection blossoms into something deeper, something tender, but just as your hearts begin to entwine, calamity, as it always does, intervenes.

Tragedy strikes the family, one blow after another, as the winds of war begin to howl across the continent. The fragile alliances that Rhaenyra has built start to crumble, and as Viserys struggles to hold his empire together, the rifts within his own family threaten to destroy everything he has worked for.

It is all made worse when a terrible accident steals away two precious loved ones, and in the aftermath, guilt weaves its thorny tendrils around Aemond's heart. At the tender age of eighteen, burdened by the weight of his own self-reproach, he severs all ties with his family, abandoning the name that has become a symbol of his anguish. He takes up his mother's maiden name, hoping to cast off the shackles of his past and live free from the burdens that have haunted him.

But in his flight from the wraiths of his former life, he leaves behind the only person who has ever understood him, to pick up the fractured remnants of their family. You are left all alone, as you have been for so much of your life, to mourn in silence, and the grief that once bound the two of you together now festers into a simmering resentment. Aemond does not write, nor does he respond to the countless letters you send, each one a plea for reconciliation, a desperate attempt to reach him across the chasm that has opened between you.

Eventually, you receive word that he has been drafted into the conflict. The news shatters the fragile remnants of your dreams, the ambitions you once held of becoming a historian now buried beneath the rubble of a world on fire. You abandon everything and follow him into the inferno, earning the nursing certifications that place you at the very heart of the battlefield, where life and death are decided with every breath.

In this vast and chaotic landscape, the young lovers keep missing each other, like ships passing in the night, always just out of reach. Time and again, they come within moments of reunion, but never actually do. Until, at last, they are thrown together once more when a severely wounded and half-blind Aemond Hightower is brought into the makeshift clinic where you have been stationed.

The reunion is a storm of tears and apologies, a raw and unfiltered outpouring of the pain that has been carried for so long. For a few precious months, you have each other once more, as you tend to his injuries, nursing him back to some semblance of health. In those fleeting moments, the two of you cling to each other like drowning souls.

But fate is a fickle mistress, and there is nothing she loves more than to slit the throats of young lovers, and you are not spared the annihilation that has been written for you in the very stars, centuries before you were even born, a destiny that neither of you can escape, no matter how hard you try.

"You're going to die in your best friend's arms. And you play along because it's funny, because it's written down, you've memorized it, it's all you know."

CHAPTERS: (coming soon)

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter3

Chapter 4

A/N: This isn't going to be a full-length fic. It's going to be a collection of one-shots almost, or snippets jumping around the timeline to tell the most important parts of the story, so maybe 10-12 chapters at most. This way I won't bore yall with unnecessary filler chapters and still get to tell the story I want. The summary is about as much as you'll on the background tbh, this is meant to be an AemondxReader centric story. It's inspired by Atonement and every other WW2 movie I've ever watched.

Comment to lemme know if this is something you would be interested in and if you'd like to be added to the taglist.

Alternatively, add yourself to the taglist!

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botanicalsword · 1 year

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Astrological indicators • Traits of your Significant others (for women) Part I

Certain aspects between Sun and Planets in a woman's natal chart can indicate the type of significant other she is likely to choose.

The most important factor is that a woman's inner needs, as reflected by her natal chart, will ultimately attract and resonate with a partner who can fulfill those needs.

Photo credit @le.sinex

Sun conjunct Moon

You may want a significant other who is impressive and admirable. Your ideal s/o is a conservative and traditional man who is generous and dignified, making him a highly respected and good partner. However, he may have strong patriarchal beliefs.

Harmonious aspect between Sun and Moon

You desire a partner who is empathetic and can provide protection. Your ideal partner is a traditional, conservative man who values family and maintains positive relationships outside of it. He is highly respected and a good husband.

Hard aspect between Sun and Moon

You are looking for a partner who is honorable and respectable. He should be an independent thinker with his own ideas and opinions, actively involved in decision-making within our household - who might not easily give in or compromise on his values.

Sun conjunct Mercury

You enjoy variety and excitement in life and cannot handle a boring routine. Therefore, you want a partner who shares your interests. Even if you do not come from a high social status, you can still find one who is fun-loving, talented, and energetic. Choosing a witty and humorous partner can make your married life more joyful.

Sun conjunct Venus

You may prefer a wealthy and attractive s/o who indulges you with gifts and compliments. While he may not be the most masculine, he is gentle, sophisticated, and highly respected. He could be considered an ideal partner.

Sun conjunct Mars / Harmonious aspect

You desire a passionate and exciting marriage and are attracted to physically strong and charismatic men. Your ideal partner is ambitious, unafraid of power, and has a pioneering spirit. With dedication and effort, he will have numerous opportunities to achieve success and potentially forge his own path. You will offer him your support and work alongside him, potentially even playing a significant role behind the scenes.

Hard aspect between Sun and Mars

It appears that you have a tendency to be impatient and may make hasty decisions when it comes to marriage. It's possible that you may end up with a husband who is similarly impatient and has a tendency towards aggression. This type of person is often rebellious and ambitious within organizations or systems, like a wolf.

Sun conjunct Jupiter / Harmonious aspect

You hope to find a mature partner who can be both a mentor and a friend to guide you in your personal growth. Your ideal partner should be honest, trustworthy, have lofty aspirations, and solid moral values, while actively participating in all aspects of life. In addition, after marriage, you may gain wealth and status, especially if both your parents approve of the marriage. This will certainly lead to a successful union.

Hard aspect between Sun and Jupiter

You are attracted to people with different ideas and lifestyles. Your future husband should be adventurous, enjoy trying new things, and not be stuck in the usual way of doing things. However, after marriage, you may become frustrated by his wasteful and playful behavior, and there is even a possibility of legal disputes.

Harmonious aspect between Sun and Saturn

When choosing a partner, you prefer responsible and traditional men who can provide protection. Your future husband should be calm, restrained, diligent, and eager to learn. It's possible that he may have a prominent position in business or politics, which may limit his availability to take care of the family. If you are able to understand and accept this, he should still make for a good partner.

Hard aspect between Sun and Saturn

When it comes to marriage, you prioritize status and reputation over love. Your future partner values work above everything else, and has a strict and cold personality. There may be an age or status gap between you two. When you were younger, you had limited opportunities to express your opinions, but as you mature, you will have your own ideas.

Conjunction/ Harmonious aspect between Sun and Uranus

When it comes to choosing a partner, you prioritize mindset over physical appearance. You value a flexible mind and seek a future partner with an enterprising outlook on life, a sharp mind, and professional talents. You reject the notion that women are naturally dependent on men and believe that choosing an open-minded partner can lead to a happier and more fulfilling family life.

Hard aspect between Sun and Uranus

You admire men with personality and talent. Your ideal husband possesses a sharp mind, professional skills, and is not afraid to challenge traditional ideas. You highly value your independence and cherish your freedom. If your partner cannot accept and respect this, your marriage may not be a lasting one.

Sun conjunct Neptune / Harmonious aspect

You might rely heavily on your partner, so it is important to find a partner who you can count on. Your future s/o should have a high level of spiritual awareness and be an idealist, though he may lack material wealth.

Hard aspect between Sun and Neptune

Subconsciously, you may have a competitive mentality that could make you insensitive in observing marriage, leading to possible failure. Your future s/o may lack a sense of responsibility and moral values. If you struggle to discern human nature, listening to the opinions of others could be helpful.

Sun conjunct Pluto / harmonious aspect

When choosing a partner, you place a great emphasis on their qualifications and talents. Your potential spouse may appear gentle and introverted, but in fact, possess a strong willpower and remarkable talents. It's possible that you value your partner's talents because you see your husband as a means to achieve your own ideals.

Hard aspect between Sun and Pluto

When choosing a partner, it's easy to be influenced by intuition or factors such as the other person's sexual attractiveness. Your future s/o may appear steady on the outside, but in reality, he is passionate and has strong desires for material possessions and power.

Masterlist @botanicalsword

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captainfern · 11 months

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141Rugby!au [18+]

• Part One - Pink Tape •

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick x fem!reader

•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•

chapter summary - your introduction to the rugby union team and your new job as their physiotherapist. and the team winger ensures you have a warm welcome lol.

rating - 18+

wordcount - 7k

chapter warnings - fem!reader, slow-ish burn [but not really cause ik you're here for the porn], gaz has insane rizz in this, f!masturbation, oral [f!receiving], fingering?, praise, strong language

Gaz is a winger, or wing – fast, agile and play on the "wing" or outside edges of the field. this position tends to score the greatest number of tries.

see my rugby union introductory for definitions of rugby words

part two ->

•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•

When you received the phone call that you had been hired by one of the best rugby union teams in England, you were overjoyed.

It was a dream come true to be a physiotherapist for a professional sports team, and although you were excited to be apart of such an incredible work environment, you were also excited to see a significantly higher amount of money enter your bank account on paydays.

Your first day, you woke up earlier than usual, a good twenty minutes before your alarm. Nerves swirled in your stomach as you got ready for the day, completing your usual morning routine and getting dressed. Putting on the team's colours, with staff across the back made a smile grow wide across your face. You stared at yourself in the mirror for a while, butterflies fluttering rapidly around your stomach as the time ticked closer to the start of your workday.

Before you headed out, you pulled out your phone and searched the team up one last time. You tapped on the first link, and then proceeded to find the team list that had every player and their statistics available to the public. Their age, height, weight, the amount of games they've played, the amount of tries they've scored. In most of the photos, the players were posing in ways that made you roll your eyes– pointing at the camera, shouting with a fist in the air, pointing at the logo on their jersey with a huge grin. You couldn't help but laugh a little.

As you scrolled, perched on the end of your bed, four specific players caught your attention, your thumb hovering over your screen before you could scroll on. There was just something about them that made them stand out, even when they looked similar to everyone else– the same shirt, same background in the photo, same layout of statistics between them.

The scrum-half was posing like many of the others– pointing dead at the camera, a cocky grin on his face. In the photograph, he had a freshly shaven mohawk, too, the sides trimmed neat and the strands on top sitting perfectly on top of his head, as though he had got himself all done-up for picture day. Even in the photograph, you could tell simply by the way he grinned at the camera that he'd be cocky on the field. All good scrum-halves were, to be fair.

The winger held a finger to his lips, shushing the camera with a slight quirk in his lips, as though he was trying not to laugh when the camera went off. He was the only player wearing a cap, one with a Union Jack printed on the front, and you wondered whether he was allowed to do that, or he somehow managed to just keep quiet and get away with it. What amazed you the most though was the sheer amount of tries he had for his age. He was one of the younger players of the team, but his try-count for the previous season was impressive.

The number eight made your eyebrows shoot up as you took in the sheer broadness of him. His shoulders barely fit into frame, and he had his arms crossed over his chest, making his biceps and pectorals grow bigger in front of the camera. He had a passive look on his face, dark blond hair recently cropped by the look of it, and one of his eyes was bruised and slightly swollen– a recent black eye. His arms were huge, one tattooed, and you couldn't help but stare a little longer at the expanse of his chest before scrolling on.

The flanker, and captain, was the fourth player that caught your attention, especially with his neatly-kept facial hair. Like the number eight, he had his arms folded across his chest and his face was void of a smile or a wink. He looked serious, definitely, and you wondered what kind of a captain he was to the rest of his team. He was in his late thirties and would be probably nearing retirement, but he had played a large number of games over the years, so his experience would be unmatched.

You looked up briefly at the small time at the top of your phone screen, and jumped to your feet when you realised that, holy shit, you had to go. It'd be so embarrassing if you were late on your first day of work.

Quickly, and with first-day nerves churning in your stomach, you grabbed your bag and all that you needed before sprinting out the door, the cool morning air kissing your skin as the sun peaked over the horizon.

•º•º•

Meeting the team was even more nerve-wracking than you thought. When you arrived, the coach welcomed you and gave you a rundown of all you needed to know about the players and other staff. He then introduced you to the other staff, assistant coaches, team physicians and nurses, sport directors and personal trainers. There were so many people that worked with this team behind the scenes, it almost made you feel a bit out of place.

Sure, you were qualified and literally one of the best sporting physiotherapists in the United Kingdom, but the idea of working with such an infamous team was making doubts worm into your head. You shook your head and took a deep breath as the coach led you into the main meeting room of the stadium, where the players talked strategy and game plan between games and during the off-season.

The room was full of players, nearly forty of them if you had to make an estimate. The main thirty-three, including the starting fifteen and the bench, as well as other players that looked to be recovering from injury or training to become apart of the main squad in the next season.

The murmur of conversation died down when you and the coach entered the room, and you suddenly felt incredibly self-conscious as all eyes fell onto you. The coach stood beside you, patting a comforting hand on your shoulder as he got his players attention with a short whistle.

"Lads, meet our new physio," he said, and then introduced you by name, urging you to smile and offer a polite wave to the crowd of sportsman sitting in front of you. The coach continued. "She's bloody good at her job, so she'll be able to get you lot into working shape quick as a flash. But, that doesn't mean you can go 'round acting like idiots and getting hurt by doing stupid shit–"

You laughed to yourself as the coach divulged into a very coach-like rant, grilling the players about looking after themselves and taking care of their bodies, especially with the start of the new season rapidly approaching. They all needed to be in top shape.

"And remember," the coach said, and then pointed at you. "Physiotherapists are not doctors or nurses, so don't be crying to her with a cut finger, got it? You roll an ankle or strain your neck, or something– god forbid– worse than that, then you make an appointment to see her, got it?"

There was a collective murmur of acknowledgment from the team, many eyes still focusing on you. You smiled politely, and thanked them for their time before the coach was gently leading you back out of the room and into the spacious hallway. The walls here were lined with photos and trophy cabinets detailing every win and award this team has ever had.

The coach shook your hand one last time. "It's a pleasure to have you on, miss. I appreciate you taking the job at such short notice, too. Our last physio..."

You stifled a laugh at the disbelief on the coach's face. "What?"

"Our last physio got scared off," the coach almost laughed. "She was an older lady, real nice too, and had been with us for a while. But we've got a new wave of younger players that do stupid shit and get themselves hurt, so she wasn't exactly happy when they'd turn up every day with a new muscle to be strapped up."

You laughed, shaking your head in disbelief. "How was she scared off? Surely a bunch of twenty-something year old union players aren't the scariest of people."

"You'd be surprised," the coach joked. "Nah, I'm kidding. She retired, but what I said is true. A lot of the younger players'll probably be knocking at your office door within the next couple of weeks, so prepare yourself for that. Most of them you can just give an icepack and send them on their way, though."

You smiled, nodding. "Right, sounds easy enough."

The coach smiled too. "You will probably have regulars, too, by the way. Players that have had pretty bad injuries that need weekly physio, but the info's all in your books. If you have any questions, come and find me. Or ask Price, I'm sure he'll help you."

"Price?"

"The captain. John," the coach said. "Most of the boys call him Price, or cap, but you can call him whatever you feel comfortable with."

You nodded, eyes drifting down the hallway, admiring the gleam of the silver and gold trophies stacked in trophy cases along the wall. You turned back to the coach. "Do a lot of the players have preferred names?"

"Some, yeah," the coach nodded. "But they'll tell you when you get to know them a bit more. And don't stress if you don't remember names within the first week or so. You have plenty of time to get used to it."

You smiled, the nerves in your stomach beginning to ease. "Thanks, coach."

After the talk in the hallway, the coach led you to your office, which had a large window overlooking the training grounds. The field was in immaculate condition, mowed to perfection with a light veil of due covering the grass. The white goalposts reflected a couple of fragments of golden, early-morning sunlight.

Your office was a good size, which surprised you. You had your desk and shelving units that were stocked full of books and folders, no doubt about each player's injury record for the past hundred-odd years. And on the other side of the room, the carpeted floor shifted to linoleum, cabinetry and a medical bed placed in the centre of it. There was a door beside it, no doubt leading to the cupboard where all your physio equipment would be kept.

"Is this alright?" The coach asked, gesturing to the room.

"Is this alright?" You said in slight disbelief, looking around the room. "This is amazing. Thank you so much."

The coach smiled again. "No worries. Come get me if you need anything but otherwise, good luck and have a great first day."

He left the room and allowed you to be alone with your thoughts for a moment. You took a deep, calming breath, taking a good look around the room. You then looked out the window, where the players were now jogging out onto the field for their first practise of the season. You smiled softly, watching them interact with each other, throwing balls and pushing the scrum-machine out onto the field.

The nerves in your tummy were almost completely gone now. You were going to be just fine.

•º•º•

Your first two weeks were eventful, especially when getting used to a whole new working environment. You spent most of the time researching current players injury history, particularly those who had repeat injuries, or injuries that required extensive physio over the season. A couple of sprained ankles, a few over-worked muscles in the back and shoulders, even a torn ACL which had been receiving extensive physiotherapy for the last one and a half years.

Early into your third week with the team is when you met Gaz.

He had sauntered into your office with the sun streaming through your window, the rest of the team out doing warm-up drills on the training field below. He smiled widely at you, flashing his perfect teeth, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners.

He wanted to make an appointment for a possible strain to his wrist. He emphasised that it had happened over the weekend after a bit too much to drink. You asked him to elaborate and he simply told you he fell out a window. A window.

"How on earth do you just fall out a window?" You asked, beginning to book his appointment on your computer.

He shrugged, eyes watching you carefully. "Not sure. Can't remember much."

"I thought you weren't meant to be drinking during the season?"

He smiled bashfully. "Yeah, I'm not. You're not going to tell coach, are you?"

He battered his eyelashes, and you rolled your eyes. "I won't. But I'll take a look at your wrist now, if you want."

Of course he wanted you too.

You deducted that it was simply a strain, and nothing that a good, tight bandaging won't fix. You bandaged him up and told him he was good to go.

"Will... will I need to come back to make sure it's healing well?"

"No," you told him. "It's a pretty simple strain. Just make sure to change the bandages, especially after training. You should only have to wear the bandages for a week or two."

"Uh..." He looked from his wrist, back to you. "I... I don't know how to wrap my own bandages."

You raised your brows. "Really? A rugby union player can't tape himself up?"

He shrugged. "Nope."

You sighed, shaking your head. How was it possible that a professional sports player couldn't wrap a simple sprain-wrap around his wrist?

"Fine," you conceded, patting him gently on the arm and slowly leading him towards your door. "I can change it after each practise, but you should definitely learn how to do it yourself, okay?"

Gaz beamed. "Thanks, doc."

"I'm not a doctor, Kyle," you said. "I'm a physio."

"Same thing," he smiled wider. "See you after practise, doc."

And that's what happened. For the next two weeks.

He claimed he just couldn't wrap it himself. It hurt too much, you see. You were the only one who could wrap it secure enough that he felt safe to play.

"I thought I told you to learn to do this yourself, Kyle." You said, wrapping fresh pink tape around his wrist, smoothing your fingers across his hand and lower arm in the process. It was just a few days after he initially came to you.

"You can call me Gaz, doc," he corrected, eyes watching your hands. He trailed the movement of your fingers, before his eyes shifted upwards and scanned your face. He watched you with his warm brown eyes as you fixed the strapping tape into place. "And I just can't seem to do it as well as you."

You scoffed. "Flattery isn't going to get you anywhere, Gaz. You need to learn to do simple strapping by yourself, got it?"

"Will you be proud of me when I finally learn?" Gaz joked, eyes still on your face as you finished strapping his wrist.

"Very," you said, pulling away and examining your handiwork. It was good, as usual. "Does that feel secure enough."

Gaz was still looking at you, his eyes drifting over your face as you looked down at his wrist. He hummed a reply, and that prompted you to look up and meet his gaze.

"Gaz?" You questioned. "Does that feel good?"

The warmth of your fingertips ghosted over the pink tape, and Gaz could feel the ticklish sensation beneath it, his skin warming beneath the bandage. "Oh, yeah," he blinked, then looked down at his wrist. "I– what–? Doc, pink tape?"

You smiled. "What's wrong with pink?"

"Nothing, nothing," Gaz shook his head. "Yeah, uh, that feels good. Thanks."

•º•º•

The very first game of the season came in your fourth week as the team's physiotherapist. It was against a team from Scotland, that had travelled down to play the team on English soil.

You found yourself skimming your teeth nervously along your nails, your stomach drawing tight and heart racing as you sat on the bench beside a couple of medics, their medical bags at their feet. The sky was a steely grey, the smell of rain lingering in the air and the wind picking up a tad, blowing icy wind across the field. No doubt, if the rain decided to fall today, the field would turn to mud.

The game was held in a much smaller stadium than usual, not like Twickenham in London that could fit upwards of 80,000 people. Nevertheless, the stands were packed full of whistling and cheering spectators. The shouting and waving of colourful flags increased when the teams jogged out onto the field in a line, and you found yourself clapping alongside the crowd. You found Gaz immediately, his wrist bound in white tape rather than the pink tape you had bound it in a couple of days ago. You smiled to yourself, realising that he had bandaged it up himself.

You hummed to the national anthem, too nervous to open your mouth and sing. You had watched this team play a million times before, but this was different. The anxieties were stacking up within your conscious, and you wondered whether it would have been better to have a strong drink before you came.

The game started and within minutes, Gaz had the ball. He avoided one, then two opposition players, before breaking into a sprint along the sideline. You watched him speed past the bench, the benched players up on their feet and cheering. But it was short lived– Gaz was spear-tackled by one of the Scottish players, tumbling off the field and skidding through the grass. The crowd and bench turned from cheering, to jeering.

You sprung to your feet to get a better look, watching as the Scottish player helped Gaz to his feet, giving him a firm slap on the back as Gaz handed him the ball. He looked pissed off as he jogged back onto the field as the Scottish players readied their lineout. You watched as he rubbed at his wrist, flexing his fingers a few times with a grimace on his face.

"Ah, shit..." you mumbled, noticing the way he held his wrist close to his body. Some of the bandaging was slowly peeling away, making you sigh through your nose. Maybe you should have just done it for him, for goodness sake.

England won the lineout, and the ball was passed rightwards through the team. The captain grabbed the ball from the air, taking it to ground as two Scottish players wrapped their arms around his legs and midriff. Other members of his team came to his aid, a ruck building as more and more players attempted to volley the ball back into their possession. But England held on, with Gaz spotting an opportunity when the ball was popped out of the ruck by the scrum-half with the mohawk.

Gaz broke into a sprint just as the scrum-half turned and saw him, throwing an impressive pass over the top of other players' heads. The entire bench let out a sound of astonishment when Gaz leaped, snatching the ball from the air with one hand and managing to hold onto it. The crowd erupted into cheers as the winger dodged one Scottish player, and then took off down the sideline once more.

Take two, and he seemed to be more successful– speed building until opposing players were dropping behind, unable to keep up as his legs blurred with his pace, grass kicked up behind him. He reached the try-line, diving through the air near the corner and slamming the ball down, his body sliding through the grass behind it. The crowd cheered louder, and so did the bench– and you, too. You were on your feet alongside the subbed players and the other medics, clapping as both the captain and the scrum-half ran up alongside Gaz, patting him on the back and the top of the head.

Sitting back down as one of the water-boys ran the tee out for the conversion, you looked up to find Gaz running towards the sideline, beckoning at you to come closer.

You scooped up your medical bag and met him just over the sideline.

"What's wrong?" You asked, and Gaz answered you by outstretching his arm, offering his wrist to you. The tape was beginning to peel off, brushing against his forearm, and Gaz's brows were pinched, jaw clenched.

"It's painful still?" You asked another question as you quickly began to unwrap the tape.

He nodded, wincing when you ripped the rest of the tape off, taking a couple of his arm hairs with it. You whispered an apology as you kneeled down, unzipping your bag and pulling out a fresh roll of injury tape– bright pink, of course. You heard him groan as you stood back up, and you couldn't help but laugh.

"What's with you and pink tape, doc?" He asked you, voice a bit hoarse. Probably from yelling at his fellow teammates over the past ten minutes. The boys all tended to just shout at each other when they wanted something done, which you found incredibly amusing.

"I like pink," you told him, making quick work of re-taping his wrist as the kicker lined up his kick and concentrated on his conversion. Your eyes flicked up to Gaz's face for a moment. "I thought you said you didn't mind me using pink tape?"

Gaz offered you a cheeky smile, and you realised the two of you were quite close. You could see the thin layer of sweat covering his dark skin, his face glistening beneath the strong overhead lights. He flashed his charming smile as he began slowing his breathing, moving out of puffs, the rise and fall of his chest calming. You could feel the warmth radiating off of him, and smell the light tang of sweat beneath his cologne.

You felt something flutter in your stomach as a smile stretched onto your face. It didn't last, and you immediately felt embarrassed– instead, you dropped your head back down and quickly finished strapping the bandage just as the kicker converted a successful two points.

"No, I like pink," Gaz said after a prolonged pause, eying you carefully as you stepped away and scooped your medical bag off the ground. "It reminds me of you, actually. And it might be my good luck charm, you never know."

You scoffed, shaking your head as you backed off the field. "Whatever, Garrick."

Gaz flashed his smile again. "If I score another try, it'll be because of this pink tape." Then, he winked and jogged back to where the game reset was taking place.

You found yourself shaking your head, smiling to yourself as you return to the bench. A good luck charm. Whatever.

•º•º•

A couple of hours later, you were back in your office, running through a few extra things before heading home. The team would have nearly finished celebrating their 31 – 14 win, and would soon begin to head home, ready for a new day of training in a couple of days time.

Typing one last report into your computer, there was a knock at your door. It opened, and Gaz stuck his head in.

"Hard at work, doc?" He asked, slipping into the room. He gently shut the door behind him, leaning up against it.

You smiled at him. "I'm finishing one last report, then I'm heading home for the night. Are you boys finished your celebrations?"

Gaz grinned. "Yeah, just about. Just thought I'd pop over and say thank you for redoing my bandages.”

You noticed he looked bashful when he said it, his eyes darting away from yours when the words left his mouth, roaming around your office. His eyes found the medical bed in the corner of the room, staring at it as he finished his sentence.

"It's okay, Gaz, don't worry," you told him, reassured him. "It's my job, anyway." You finished with a laugh, and his dark eyes found yours again. You began packing up your belongings when he shuffled further into the office, his wrist on full display. The pink tape was soggy and mud-stained, and you frowned at him when he held it out to you like a shy child showing they had broken something.

You didn't say anything. You didn't have too. You simply beckoned him towards you, urging him around the desk as you picked up a half-used roll of pink tape from one of your desk drawers. You made him peel the old bandage off.

"I don't understand how you got that so... wet," you remarked, casting a look of disgust at the old bandage now sitting in the waste-paper basket near the base of your desk. "This tape is meant to be water-proof."

Gaz barked out a quiet laugh. "It's probably got a bit of beer on it. And I did spend... you know, a bit of time in the shower, rinsing off the mud and all that."

"Right..." You mumbled, slowly wrapping the pink tape around his wrist.

The room fell into a comfortable silence, except for the low buzzing of the overhead light, and the distant voices from other players beginning to go home.

Gaz watched you silently, his eyes never once leaving your face as you wrapped his wrist. You felt the weight of his stare, the warmth of his gaze, and it made your body slowly begin to heat up, something tight pulling in the base of your gut. You ignored him at first, focussing solely on reapplying the tape. But when you had finished, you made the mistake of looking up and into his deep, dark eyes while still standing in close proximity with him.

His pupils had expanded, his eyes darting all over your face as you gently held his wrist. His fingers had grabbed hold of your arm, the searing heat of his fingertips making heat prickle on the back of your neck in nervousness.

"Does that feel secure?" You managed to whisper, throat drying. "I– does it feel–"

"You gonna let me kiss you, doc?" Gaz whispered an interruption thick with lust, his tongue darting out to swipe against his lower lip. "Please let me."

You bit your bottom lip, eyes scanning his face and waiting for him to tell you that he's joking. But it didn't come. Instead, you were left there, standing in a haze of his cologne and shampoo, his entire body radiating a warmth that made your legs begin to tremble.

"Kyle..." You murmured.

He groaned, eyes closing for just a second. "God, you're killing me here, doc."

"Gaz," you corrected, barely above a whisper. "I– we can't. I'll lose my job–"

"You won't," he responded instantaneously. "You... you won't, doc, I promise. Just... god, just one. Let me just–" he cut himself off with a low groan as he lowered his mouth to yours, brushing his lips so gently against yours that you weren't sure they even touched. He hummed, eyes fluttering shut as he spoke against your lips, his words ghosting across your face. "Just once... one kiss, that's– that's it."

He closed the gap all the way this time, slotting his mouth against yours with a hum from the back of his throat. You were still surprised, struck across the face with confusion as he moved his lips against yours, the warmth of his mouth making your brain short-circuit. His hands moved to cup your head, holding your face to him as he licked your bottom lip and attempted to slip his tongue into your mouth.

"God, you're so good." He whimpered against your mouth, before shoving his tongue further inside, yours meeting his with force.

But with a low whine, you stopped him– placing a hand to his chest and pushing him away. He grunted, breathing hard as he opened his eyes, leaning his forehead against yours. He dropped his arms, grasping at your hips instead, trying to bring you closer, but you resisted with a stab to your heart.

"We can't..." You breathed, slowly backing away. Gaz dropped his arms and watched you shift away from him, the corners of his mouth downturning.

Gaz exhaled with the tip of his tongue pressed to the inside of of his cheek. "I know."

"M'sorry–"

"Don't you dare apologise," Gaz said sternly. "I'm sorry. I'll... I'll see you later, doc. Have a good weekend."

You sighed. "Gaz–"

But he was already gone, closing the door softly behind him, leaving the rich smell of cologne in his wake, lingering around your office like incense.

•º•º•

You thought about the kiss the entirety of the weekend, and it was like it was eating you alive. Every time you got a message from the staff group chat, or an email from the coaching administration, your heart lurched out of your chest. Not because you were scared that you'd somehow been found out, but because seeing the name of the team pop up on your lock-screen make you think about him.

The winger. Gaz.

You couldn't help it– he was just so warm against you, his mouth soft and inviting as the solid, wet heat of his tongue slipped into your mouth and drew the breathiest of whimpers from you. Your body grew hot at the memory, and the memory of his hands on your face, holding you, cradling you as though you were the most perfect thing on earth. All for him, too.

You expected a wave of regret and humiliation to his you over the weekend break, but nothing came. The only thing that did come was, pun absolutely intended, you.

You just couldn't help it. The memories of the way he made you feel, how he felt, had been festering inside your brain long enough that it needed to be expelled someway. And that way was best fit for the later hours of the night, when you were curled up beneath the covers of your bed, your fingers teasing the wet hole of your cunt, another on your puffy clit.

You just couldn't help it. Rethinking the kiss again and again as you sunk two fingers inside yourself, pumping them at the phantom feeling of Gaz's lips against yours, the muscular plains of his chest and abdomen pushed up against the soft curves of your body, his hands keeping your face against his. He felt so good, smelt so good.

The noises slipped from your mouth as you fucked yourself with your fingers, the sheer amount of your arousal evident by the soft, wet squelches and the sensation of it rolling in pearls down your bare thighs. Your clit was so puffy, so sensitive, that you were coming around your fingers in barely a minute, moaning Gaz's name into the dark emptiness of your bedroom.

You needed him. So bad.

And that's why you called him the following morning. Why you picked up your phone, still in bed with your blankets bunched around you, and dialled his number. Why you waited patiently until he replied with a deep, sleep-clogged voice and why you invited him over. Why you got excited when he accepted almost right away, and why you showered with your heart thrumming, buzzing, racing in your chest. Why you answered your door with a bright smile and allowed him to crowd you back into the entrance hall of your flat, closing and locking the door behind him. Why you let him back you against the wall, his hands straight away grabbing your face, fingers warm on your soft skin, and especially why you let him slot his mouth against yours.

You weren't thinking about anything but him at that point. Not about your job, the coach, the captain or any other player. You were thinking of Gaz, the winger, the rugby union player that was currently dropping to his knees in front of you and pulling your trousers down with him. He kissed your bare legs as he helped wriggle your trousers away from your ankles, kissing the sides of your knees as his hands roamed up your legs.

His face trailed up your inner thighs, dragging his nose against the smooth skin, eyes flicking from your clothed core to your pretty face. You partially gaped down at him, chest heaving, your palms flat against the wall to ground yourself. Gaz's mouth found your core through your underwear, already soaking the fabric, and he nudged it with the point of his nose, catching on your clit. He smiled against you as he pressed a kiss to your clothed cunt, and you rewarded him with a pretty little moan that echoed through your quiet flat.

"Mm, jus' so wet already," he said it as though he was in genuine disbelief, but the smile never left his face as he placed another hot kiss to the underside of your underwear, his hands now kneading the fat of your arsecheeks, pushing you away from the wall and closer to him. "Soakin' these pretty little things, hm? Don't want to ruin them, do we, baby?"

You mewled down at him, one of your hands settling on his shoulder as he gently shifted your underwear to the side, exposing your glistening core. He groaned, low and breathy, eyes transfixed on where your leaking hole clenched around nothing, your clit sitting all pretty between your puffy lips. He groaned again, pushing you closer to him and settling his face right up between your legs, his mouth immediately attaching to your clit.

He sucked it into his mouth with a gentle scrape of his teeth, a scrape that sent bolts of electricity through your system, your back arching off the wall as Gaz's hands returned to your arse, groping. You could vaguely feel your underwear pushed into the crevice of your thigh, but you weren't focussing on that– you were focussing on the way Gaz circled your clit with his tongue, before he dragged his tongue through your wet folds and around your hole.

You moaned loudly, and Gaz hummed in response against you, his tongue running in tight circles around your slick hole, licking over it. The sensations were making your body light up, fiery hot pleasure coursing through your veins and you were worried that you were going to come before he even put his tongue inside you. You gripped at his shoulder as finally, finally, he slipped his tongue inside you, a loud whine ripping from his throat.

You could barely keep your eyes open, trying desperately to remain eye-contact as he held your gaze, tongue moving in and out of you, lapping up each drip of your arousal. He was vocal, too– grunting and whining as his tongue moved, his lower-face no doubt drenched. His hands gripped at the flesh of your arse like it was his lifeline, his fingers squeezing and releasing, squeezing and releasing each time his tongue licked into you.

The world around you was spinning, the morning light streaming in from the small window above your front door. You can't believe you were in this situation. But here you were– leaning against the wall of your hallway, one of England's best rugby union winger's gripping your arse, his face buried between your legs and eating you out the best you'd ever had.

"Gaz, Gaz, oh my god–" You whispered, honeyed with your on-coming orgasm. It was building, burning hot inside you, slowing the thoughts of your brain and forcing you to hone in on the feel of Gaz's solid, wet tongue inside your cunt.

He only broke the movements of his tongue for a moment, his nose still nudging your swollen clit. "Tha's a good girl, baby. Say my name while you're comin' round my tongue." Then, his tongue was back inside you, thrusting in so deep that stars burst behind your pupils and your body wracked with shudders.

You came, moaning out a blissful "Gaz–!" as your orgasm washed over you– no, slammed over you. You gushed around him, your legs trembling in his hold, sweat beading along your hairline as the warmth overtook you. You moaned out again, stretched around a desperate whine, as he licked you through it, sucking up as much of your arousal as he could before he reluctantly pulled away, placing one last kiss to your clit before sliding your underwear back into place.

His entire lower face was wet, glistening with you. You groaned, shutting your eyes as he got to his feet and proceeded to kiss you, rubbing your slick all over your face as well. He smiled into your mouth, tongue probing for yours, meeting it and passing on more of your slick. You moaned, and he moaned too.

"Been wanting to do that for so long," Gaz said in between kisses, his hands on your hips now, rubbing you against his front. You could feel the tent growing in his trousers, and a whimper escaped you. He dragged his mouth down your neck, sucking and biting and licking, spreading more of your sticky arousal across your bare skin. "Pretty little thing she is too, isn't she?"

One of his hands dragged down between your legs as he said that, fingers rubbing through your folds over your soaked underwear. You whimpered, and he hummed, increasing his speed. He still didn't move your underwear, just kept rubbing at your wet, puffy clit with his fingers, his hand moving back and forth between your legs.

"I– I take it your wrist is all better now?" You questioned him, almost out of breath as he rubbed your clit. He was using his injured wrist, the pink tape still visible working between your thighs.

Gaz smiled against your neck. "I had a great physio, didn't I? The best physio..." he increased the speed of his fingers, rubbing you quicker, circling your clit. Your arousal was further dampening your underwear, small whimpers falling from your lips, overstimulation creeping up. Gaz licked at the pulse point behind your ear. "You're just so good, doc. Such a good girl. So fuckin' good letting me play with this pretty pussy, hm? So fuckin' good."

You mewled, turning your head so you could kiss him. This time, it was your tongue shoving into his mouth, and he moaned quietly around your tongue as your lips moved together. His fingers sped up, circles deepening.

"M'gonna come, Gaz..." You whispered, and he shushed you with a kiss. When he pulled away, he did so with a low whine, eyes raking down your body, absorbing each and every little bit of you with his dark eyes.

"You can come, baby," he told you softly. "Come in these pretty things–" he punctuated his sentence by pinching at the fabric of your underwear, pulling it back and letting it slap against your clit, before resuming his previous movements. "–and ruin them for me, yeah? Come all over them and I'll take them home, how's that sound?"

You moaned loudly, clawing at his clothed back.

He chuckled deeply. "Yeah? You like the thought of me takin' these home and wrappin' them around my cock? Hm? Want me to fuck them while thinking about this pretty pussy? O'course you do, doc, cause you're just such a good girl for me. So good, 'n such a good fuckin' pussy too."

That made you come– slick flooding the gusset of your underwear, soaking through and dampening his fingers. He hummed, pleased, against you, his mouth roving over your neck and jaw again as you came. You were breathing hard, and the weight of Gaz's hard cock was making you even more breathless, pushed up between your thighs.

Heaven on earth, it felt like.

But it ended all to soon. Way to fucking soon. Gaz's phone began ringing in his pocket, and he fished it out with his fingers still tacky with your arousal. He kept you pinned to the wall with his body as his eyes swept over his phone screen and he sighed, showing you the screen too. It was the coach, and he mouthed an apology as he answered.

The phone call felt like it went on for an eternity (it was probably just over a minute) and you watched as Gaz's brows drew together in frustration. When he hung up, he angrily shoved his phone back into his pocket and rested his head against your shoulder, groaning as his hands circled your hips, massaging the pliable flesh there.

"What's wrong?" You asked, and he groaned into your neck again.

"I forgot I had sprint training today."

"Oh..."

"Yeah... fuck, m'sorry–"

"Don't apologise," you said, taking his head into your hands. "You need to stay at the top of your game, don't you? And you don't want to make coach mad, either."

"S'pose you're right," he mumbled, and then leaned in to press a quick kiss to your lips. "See you tomorrow?"

You smiled. "See you tomorrow."

•º•º•

When you got to work the next day, you found a new set of folders on your desk. Placing your belongings down, you picked up the next folder, which had a new patient for you to begin working with, who had received a small injury during the last game that had gotten a bit worse over the weekend.

Your mind was still lingering on thoughts of your and Gaz's encounter yesterday morning, but you picked up and opened the file anyway, intent on not letting sex, and that handsome winger, distract you from doing your job.

"Pulled muscle in the calf, hopefully not a tear..." You read through the file. You flipped the file shut, reading the name on the front. "MacTavish, nicknamed Soap," you laughed. "What kind of name is Soap?"

•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•

my first chapter of this series. let me know what you thought, and stay tuned for the next one !!

#captainfern #141rugby!au #call of duty #call of duty mw2 #fem reader #kyle gaz garrick #cod smut #cod gaz #gaz x female reader #gaz call of duty #gaz smut

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urdnotstxrm · 1 month

Text

Pairing: Rhaenyra Targaryen & Reader

AU: The Targaryen family dynamics are a blend of political intrigue and personal emotions. Rhaenyra Targaryen, the strong-willed and fiery daughter of King Viserys, is caught in a dilemma. Her father has decreed that for her to secure the Iron Throne, she must marry your brother, a match designed to solidify alliances and secure her claim. Despite this, Rhaenyra's heart belongs to you.

1st, 2nd & 3rd

tw: nsfwish

Your arrival in King's Landing with your family was marked by a sense of inevitability. The city was alive with preparations for the wedding, the streets bustling with activity and excitement. As the evening of your arrival culminated in a grand feast, you found yourself surrounded by the opulence and power of the royal court. Despite the festivity, a weight settled over you, a reminder of the approaching union that would bind Rhaenyra to your brother. As the feast progressed, laughter and conversation filled the air, the clinking of goblets and the aroma of lavish dishes adding to the atmosphere. Yet your thoughts remained elsewhere, lingering on the complexities of your situation and the unspoken emotions that simmered beneath the surface. It was during the height of the dinner, amidst toasts and stories, that Rhaenyra rose to her feet. Her presence commanded attention, and the hall fell silent as all eyes turned to her. You watched her, a mix of admiration and unease knotting in your chest, wondering what she intended to say.

"I have an announcement to make," she began, her voice clear and confident. "As I look to the future and my eventual ascension to the throne, I have decided on a matter of great importance. I wish to name the Knight Commander for my personal guard." The room buzzed with curiosity and anticipation. You felt a sinking feeling in your stomach, your instincts already telling you what was to come.

"It is a position that requires loyalty, skill, and above all, trust. I can think of no one more suited to this role than you." A ripple of surprise and murmurs spread through the hall as she continued. "Until such a time when he can fully embrace his role as Knight Commander, I wish for him to serve as my personal guard." Her words hung in the air, and you felt a mixture of emotions crash over you—shock, disbelief, and a growing sense of anger. The eyes of the court turned towards you, expressions ranging from approval to envy. You realized in that moment that this was a plan she had undoubtedly conceived long before now, a strategy to keep you close despite the circumstances that sought to keep you apart. The thought of being so near to her, yet unable to have her as you wished, filled you with frustration.

You forced a polite smile as those around you raised their goblets in a toast to her decision, but inside, your mind was racing. It was a brilliant move on her part, securing your presence in her life and binding you to her side, yet it felt like a cruel twist of fate. The prospect of serving as her guard was both an honor and a torment. You would be closer to her than you could have imagined, charged with protecting her, but the emotional toll would be immense. You wondered how you could endure the constant reminder of what you could never truly have. After the announcement, the feast continued, but you found it hard to focus. The realization that Rhaenyra was determined to keep you in her life, in whatever way she could, both infuriated and unsettled you. It was a reminder that, despite the impending marriage, your connection with her remained strong, even if it was forged in the shadows of duty and desire. The grand hall had become stifling after Rhaenyra's announcement, and you found yourself needing air, a moment to clear your mind. Wandering the dimly lit corridors of the Red Keep, your thoughts were a storm of anger and confusion. The flickering torchlight cast long shadows, mirroring the tumultuous emotions inside you. As you turned a corner, you nearly collided with Rhaenyra. The sight of her only intensified your anger, and before you could stop yourself, words erupted from your lips.

"Tell me this is some kind of jest, Rhaenyra!" She glanced around nervously, aware of the prying eyes and ears that filled the castle. "Not here," she whispered urgently, reaching for your arm. She pulled you into her chambers, closing the door behind you with a soft click. The room was lavish and opulent, but you barely noticed, too consumed by the rage boiling inside you. "Have you gone completely mad?" you demanded, your voice rising with each word. "You think this is a game? Do you get some kind of thrill from knowing I'll be right outside your door while you... while you're with him?" Your words were raw, edged with the bitterness and jealousy that had been festering inside you. Rhaenyra faced you, her expression a mix of defiance and vulnerability. "I did it to keep you close," she replied, her voice steady but filled with emotion. "I can't bear the thought of losing you entirely."

"Close? Close enough to hear every moment you're with him, with my brother? Is that what you want?" Your words were harsh, spilling out in a torrent of frustration. The boundaries of respect had crumbled, leaving only the raw, unfiltered truth. "I never wanted this, any of it!" she shot back, her own anger surfacing. "You think this is easy for me? To marry someone I don't love, to live a life dictated by others?" You paced the room, trying to contain the anger that threatened to consume you. The thought of being near her but unable to have her was almost unbearable. "So this is your solution? To keep me close enough to torture us both?" Rhaenyra stepped forward, her eyes pleading, her voice softer now but no less intense. "I want you in my life, even if it can't be the way we both wish. You mean too much to me." Her words struck a chord deep within you, and despite your anger, you couldn't deny the truth in them. She was as trapped by duty and circumstance as you were, both of you pawns in a larger game. "And what about me, Rhaenyra? How am I supposed to live with this?" She reached for your hand, her touch a reminder of the connection that had always been there, even in the midst of turmoil. "I don't have all the answers. But I know I can't face this life without you by my side, in whatever way possible." The room fell silent, the weight of her words hanging between you. Your anger slowly subsided, replaced by a deep sense of helplessness. You realized that, despite everything, she was trying to hold onto what little control she had, to carve out a place for you in her life. You took a deep breath, your mind still reeling from the confrontation.

"And what happens when you're queen? When the expectations become even greater?" She looked at you with a fierce determination. "Then I will have my personal guard, someone I trust above all others, someone who knows me better than anyone else." As much as it pained you, you understood her reasoning, the desperate need to maintain some semblance of control over her life. The anger that had initially clouded your judgment began to dissipate, leaving a sense of resignation. You knew that this was the path you had chosen, and it would require every ounce of strength and resolve to navigate the challenges ahead. As you stood there, facing Rhaenyra, you realized that your fate was inextricably linked to hers, and that you would need to find a way to make peace with the role you had been given. For both your sakes.

The days leading up to the wedding were filled with an overwhelming sense of disconnect. Everyone around you was caught up in the preparations at the Red Keep, their excitement palpable, while you tried to find solace in distractions. The promise of a lavish lifestyle, with all its trappings and titles, offered little comfort to a heart weighed down by unfulfilled desires and the reality of Rhaenyra's impending marriage. You threw yourself into training with the other knights, trying to numb your mind and body with the rigors of combat. Yet, even the physical exertion couldn't shake the image of Rhaenyra from your thoughts. Her face lingered in your mind, a constant reminder of what could never be. To escape, you sought solace in the brothels of King's Landing, where anonymity and indulgence offered a temporary reprieve. Each encounter was a fleeting distraction, a way to lose yourself in the carnal pleasures of the flesh and forget, if only for a moment, the ache in your heart. On one particular night, two days before the wedding, you found yourself in a drunken haze, stumbling through the streets on your way back to the Red Keep. A lady you had charmed earlier caught your eye, her beauty enough to stir something within you, though it was not her face you saw when you looked at her. You brought her back to your chambers, the room spinning slightly as you pushed the door shut behind you. The woman before you was eager, eager to please and eager to be pleased, and as she knelt on the floor, naked and waiting, you let the fantasy take hold. Her mouth was warm and inviting as you thrust yourself inside, your mind conjuring images of Rhaenyra. The vision was intoxicating and infuriating all at once, your imagination supplying the details that your reality could not. You closed your eyes, the alcohol in your system dulling your inhibitions and amplifying your desires. With each movement, each thrust, you chased the illusion, the woman before you becoming a vessel for the emotions you could not express. It was a mix of anger, lust, and longing, all tangled together in a moment of raw, primal need. Your grip tightened in her hair as you moved, driven by a desire that was as powerful as it was unattainable. In those moments, it was easy to forget where you were and what was coming. The promise of release was a siren's call, a brief escape from the reality that awaited when the fantasy ended.

When you finally reached your climax, the wave of pleasure was accompanied by a sense of emptiness, a hollow reminder that nothing could truly fill the void left by Rhaenyra. The woman looked up at you, a satisfied smile on her lips, but she was not the one you wished to see. As you helped her to her feet and she gathered her clothes, you felt the weight of your choices pressing down once more. The distractions had been temporary, fleeting moments of escape, but the truth remained the same. Rhaenyra would marry your brother, and you would stand by as her guard, bound by duty and a love that could never be. When she finally left your chamber, you were left alone in the dim light, the silence a stark contrast to the earlier indulgence. The night stretched on, leaving you to grapple with the reality of your situation, knowing that in two days, everything would change forever.

#house of the dragon #rhaenyra targaryen #rhaenyra targaryen x reader #rhaenyra x reader #hotdedit #whispers of the dragon: a forbidden love #*

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