#if the tide turns back they can not WAIT to do the same | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

bi-writes · 24 days ago

Text

attached | ghost x f!reader

i have no idea what it is that binds us together. but it doesn't really matter.

type: one-shot (8.4k)

cw: zombie apocalypse au, mature language and content, suggestive language and content, dark!ghost, dark!reader, reader described as curvy/plus-sized + has hair long enough to braid, graphic depictions of violence + murder + gore, depictions of suicidal thoughts + intentions (no actual action), mentions of depression + sadness + loneliness, depictions of assault + harassment (not by ghost), horror movie vibes, unprotected piv, allusions to baby trapping, cumplay, oral (fem!receiving), 18+

Death can be a curious thing. It used to be something definitive. Exact. It used to mean the end of something.

No, now it's a beginning. Not a sweet beginning, but a beginning nonetheless. It turns a new tide. Reactivates cells that were once dead. Sparks nerves that used to be dormant, that used to be dark. It makes muscles move even when they aren't supposed to. Brain-dead, but still hungry.

He hasn't been able to understand the phenomenon quite yet. He's tried. He's picked up a few books and tried to do his own research, but it's difficult when there is no way for him to view the cellular structure of it all on a micro-level. He cannot see the way it grows or how it takes over. He hasn't been able to figure out what techniques it uses to keep a body awake even when the central organs no longer function the way they're supposed to. What keeps it moving? What keeps the feet running and the stomach hungry and the saliva warm?

Why is it that when he plunges his blade through its heart, it still kicks? The brain is its engine, as with his own body, but this is different. The brain runs even when it has lost its necessary components. Blood circulation, oxygen, the things it needs to thrive; but this state of being is not like his own. It doesn't need the same things it used to need because its purpose is not to keep a body running. Its purpose is to eat. To infect. And that is all.

He likes to play games these days. He has a lucky silver euro, one he pried off the dead body of someone that he hated. He spit on that body before raiding his pockets. He hated that fucking brute; he disgraced the style of wearing a mask by using a fucking t-shirt instead. Perhaps Austria is a beautiful country, but it certainly produced one of the most unlikable of men. He thinks even if the world was still right-side up, he would've killed him anyway. The only thing useful about him was that he was carrying a few extra magazines and this coin in his front pocket.

Every morning, when he wakes up, he makes whatever will happen that day a game. If the coin lands on heads, he gets to kill himself today. If it lands on tails, he has to endure 24 more hours before he can play again. The rules are simple. The game is easy. Everyone knows how to play it, but not everyone will like to win it.

Today, he decides to do something different. Today, he decides if he wins, he will wait another day. He has never won this game; he decides if he can't win it, he'll manipulate it until he gets what he wants.

It hits the table with a light clink. It rattles around in a few circles before settling, and when he leans back in his chair, he sighs. He knows what it will be even without looking, but he looks anyway. When he sees the carved outline of its face-side up, his eyes flash. He won.

He never wins.

Something is keeping him here. He chooses not to ask questions. There isn't anyone to ask anyways. No one answers when he speaks. He doesn't think there is anyone left to listen.

If someone would ask him why he doesn't just put the muzzle to his temple and pull the trigger, he would just say that it was because that was how the game is played. Those are the rules. He can't try unless that's what it tells him to do. There is no fun in cheating the game; it wouldn't be proper, it wouldn't be correct. It would be grounds for disqualification, and that just wouldn't do, not for him.

He has to do things the right way. Always. It's how you keep order in a world that has none left. It's how you maintain structure even without the lines drawn in the sand. This is the way things are done; God is not waiting at the end of a very long staircase, He is rattling that coin on the table and waiting for Ghost to take a peek.

He thinks it keeps landing on tails because perhaps God is tired of playing this game with him; Ghost has never been surprised. He will always be ready for disappointment. Giving a gift is no fun when the recipient simply receives it.

It landed on heads today. He won the game. He tried to play it differently, but someone won't let him.

There's snow on the ground this morning. It snowed all night, coating the ground in a few inches of powdery ice. He looks away from the window and back towards the mirror, continue to run the razor over his head. His blonde hair falls in clumps in the sink. He keeps it neat and short, close to the head, and then he does the same with his face. He cuts the stubble close, keeping his face clean, but it doesn't wipe away the rest of his face, the things he can't just cut away. The scars, the ridges, the skin that closed over wounds angry and white and uneven. He can see his teeth through the broken skin above his lip, the yellowing of them now that he only brushes them a few times a week with his lack of proper toothpaste, and he grimaces when he sees the new red spots of raised skin left behind from the dirty mask he wears now. He dips his toothbrush into his bottle of water before brushing, careful to scrub his gums properly before spitting into the sink.

When he finishes, he makes his way back into the bedroom to get dressed. He did the washing yesterday; he found a creek only half frozen over, and he made use of the bar soap he keeps and managed to clean off most of his clothes. He feels a little better slipping into his cargos now that they aren't drenched in sweat or dirt. He tucks a long-sleeve into his pants before putting a thick windbreaker on over it, but he finally feels complete once he slips his mask on over his face. In the mirror, he adjusts it, making the skull straight, and he blinks back at himself. The mask does more than just hide him from the dead.

It keeps the living walking a careful circle around him, and he wants to keep it that way. He hasn't spoken to a single person since it began. He stopped counting the days once his boots ran out of space for notches. Anyone he sees now, he scares them off with one look, or he puts them down before they can take a step closer to finding out if he's real or not.

He doesn't take chances. He has always had a special skill, being able to sniff out the bullshit before it begins. He leans into it now, and it isn't a bullet wasted if it stops the chaos before it can wind up.

He still wears his tactical gear. He can't part with it. His holsters have not failed him, still buckled around his thighs. His vest is still strapped on, and without it, he feels naked. He has long since discarded of the Union Jack patch on his chest; there is no king nor country anymore. They are colors in different shapes, and they mean nothing now; they were buried a long time ago.

His backpack feels light. He's running out of bullets, and he doesn't like how it feels. Nowadays, he has to go further and further to get what he needs, and recently, he's taken to picking up everything and simply moving to make the trips all the easier with no home to go back to.

It's not all that different to the life he had before. He never stayed in one place too long then either. He signed the shortest leases, and he would move once it was up, never lingering and never buying more things than he could carry in the back of his truck. His memories are in his head and nowhere else. He keeps no trinkets. He saves no pictures. There is nothing from the old life that needs to be brought into the new. He shifts between both lives, one foot in the past and one in the future, and he thinks that's what really makes him live up to his name.

He's a Ghost. A drifter. Standing between two places at the same time, not knowing which to stay in and which to leave. It would hurt, if he was really human inside, if he could feel anything at all.

But he's not. His insides are nothing but organic matter. His head is a clock, ticking, counting down, but he's not aware of when it runs out.

He digs the heel of his boot into the snow to gauge the depth. It barely comes up over his toes. He huffs a little before taking a peek at the map tucked into his vest. He had circled a place just north, a main street he is hoping will have a stash of things he will need.

Ammunition. Weapons. Food. Water. A new book, for fuck's sake, maybe a Sudoku puzzle that isn't already scribbled into.

The forest gives him cover, so he sticks to it. Out in the open, he would stick out, dressed in all black. He keeps to the trees, ducking under the leaves and trying not to leave too much of a track behind. He doesn't plan on staying in that cabin again, but if he must, he doesn't want anyone seeing a way to come back to it.

The one thing he does appreciate about this new place is the quiet. It lingers, and it's calm, and when he breathes, the world breathes back. He feels like he had always been telling everyone to shut up, but now, his voice hasn't been used in months. Even when he passes other people, he doesn't speak to them. If they don't spot him, he keeps to the shadows, and if they do, they don't see him for long enough to know what hit them.

It's a good stash. The store had been rifled through by now, but in the office, there had been a nice drawer filled with supplies. A few boxes of ammunition, a revolver, and a new blade to stick in one of his boots. He picks up some other odds and ends. Batteries. A roll of yarn. A small sewing kit. A few pens. His backpack feels a little heavier, and it's a weight he appreciates when he makes his way back outside.

He sticks to the alleyways as he searches for the roof over his head for the night. He decides the cabin he slept in last night was too close to the road; if anyone was driving or following it, they could find that place too easily, and he wouldn't be able to sleep another night comfortably there knowing this truth.

He finds himself veering off road just enough. It's fucking cold, freezing, and he's grateful to the mask for helping him keep it together as he ducks under the wind and keeps an eye out for any nearby landmarks. Sometimes, on slow days like this, he would sit on a ridge and kill infected for sport. Practice focusing his sight, calculating the wind, keep his mind in check by hitting his targets and ridding the world of another one of those things.

There are different kinds of hunters out today.

He hears them before he sees them. He knows what kind they are when he hears their laughter. Low and untamed, sloppy and fucking messy. They always are. These kind spoil their treasures. They eat their food until it makes them sick, and then they do it all over again. They never learn their lesson.

When he settles his rifle down along a fallen tree, he eyes them through his scope. There are two of them. Both are fattened, with dark hair and lazy eyes, and they look greasy. Their clothes are in ruins, and their packs are light, and Ghost figures that they look enough alike to be perhaps brothers, or maybe cousins. Their smiles are equally as sadistic. The taller one tugs something along, and when Ghost aims the scope down a little, he sees her.

Her.

He's dragging her by her legs. She's kicking, but it's hard for her to do much when her arms and legs are bound by mismatched bits of fabric and rope. She's crying, that much is clear, squirming as she spits and gargles around the gag in her mouth as she tries to break free. She has heart, but she isn’t a fighter. If she was, she would’ve realized her teeth could snap that fabric of her gag, and she would know that the knot they’ve tied succumbs easily to upwards pressure.

He follows them. They keep going, dragging you and laughing as they make it to a makeshift camp hidden amongst a clearing. There's a few tents set up, a small dip in the earth to hold a campfire, and when they settle on tree trunks to sit, the smaller one takes a blade and cuts your gag off, leaning over you with a low chuckle. They mean to maim and to take and then to kill, and you know this when you look into his eyes.

"Hello, darling."

"Bite me."

He laughs again, dropping onto his knees over you, but when he gets close enough, you sit up with what little strength you have and bite him along his ear. The cartilage rips, and you tear half his ear off, and then he's scrambling off of you, screaming, holding the side of his head as he rolls around in circles in the snow. He colors it red, and you snarl with satisfaction. Ghost takes a deep breath in and lets it out shakily. The look in your eyes–he can taste that, roll it around on his tongue. You did not clock the poorly-tied knots, but you do see opportunity, and you are the kind to take it.

"You bitch!"

Just as the taller one is about to get on top of you, Ghost decides he's seen enough. He closes one eye, lines up the sight, and he lets out a cool breath as he drops the both of them within a second of each other. They fall easy; a bullet clean through the back of their heads, and now they're finally quiet again. They will not get up, either.

Your lip trembles as you look towards the trees. You watch as the leaves rustle, and when you see a man emerge from the thick of them, you start to cry. You think maybe you're seeing things; you must be so dehydrated, so hungry, that a reaper has come for you, and you are much deader than you thought.

The reaper stares down at you curiously. He swings his rifle over his shoulder, tilting his head to the side as he bends, getting a blade out of his boot before he cuts the restraints that bind you. He doesn’t hesitate when he does this; he does not deem you enough of a threat to keep you bound.

You sit up slowly, wiping your face, and when you meet his eyes, you're surprised to see how human they are. They're dark, but alive, and he has blonde lashes and pale skin underneath. He covers himself, but you can still see him. There's a man under there, not a reaper.

Just a man.

I hate men.

You shake off the rest of the restraints, turning your wrists and ankles and flexing your muscles for good measure. When you realize you are nothing but a little shaken up, you look back up. He's still staring at you, hard eyes lowered in a glare as he looks you over. He's sizing you up, maybe, deciding what to do with you. You meet his eyes one more time before gathering the saliva into your mouth and spitting onto the floor. It's a garbled mess of blood, from the flesh you had severed from that man.

He blinks slowly at that, makes some decision that he doesn’t voice out loud, and then he starts to walk away.

You stand on shaky legs, taking it as your cue. You watch as he rips open the flimsy tents that those men had left behind, and he's already grabbing backpacks and rifling through them for goods. He already starts filling his own vest and backpack with the things he finds; some flashlights, fishing line, more food and ammunition. You follow him, moving to the other tent beside it and starting to grab their things and toss them outside. You get to your knees and open the packs, laying out what you find carefully. They have interesting materials in here, ones you associate with explosives. C4. Lighters. Batteries. Wiring. You clench your jaw when you pull out the last box in the bag.

Condoms.

Bunch of pricks.

He finds your discoveries useful. He opens up an empty pack he found and fills it to the brim with supplies. When he zips it up, your stomach drops when you think he might toss it over his shoulder and leave. It only sinks for a moment before he turns the backpack around, holding it up for you.

You pause for a little and think. It only takes a few seconds for you to decide to stand up and slip your arms through the straps.

When he walks again, you follow.

The sun is setting by the time you find somewhere to sleep, but it looks like luxury to you. A quaint little brick house tucked between the hills, a ways from the road and positively hidden. He spotted it through his scope a few hours ago, and he made a beeline for it. It's difficult to keep up with him; he has incredible stamina and the longest legs. He moves like a ghost, too quiet for his own good. You would never know from looking at him how stealthy he could be. For such a huge man, you would never notice him before he could get the drop on you. It makes you conscious of your own steps and how loud they are, and you try to mimic the way he moves as you keep walking.

You don't know why, but you think he must be very pleased with how quiet you've gotten. You don't know why that fact pleases you, too.

He makes you stay outside when you arrive. He pulls a small handgun out of his backpack, and he checks the chamber before handing it to you. He clicks his tongue, forcing your eyes on his, and he puts a finger to his mask-covered lips, telling you to keep quiet. You take the gun from him, pointing it at the ground and holding it at your side, and he touches a knuckle under your chin before he twists a silencer onto his own gun.

You watch with rapt attention as he clears the house. His movements are quick and calculated, and he keeps low to the ground. It's mesmerizing. Big and capable, one with the shadows. The only thing you see in the dark is the white of the skull over his face, and if you didn't know it was him, you would think that you have just seen God.

But God isn't real. Apparently ghosts are.

He is back outside in less than ten minutes, nodding his head at you. You take it as your cue to come towards him, and you hand him the gun back when you pass him. You go into the house and immediately start to light some of the candles scattered around. You set your backpack down, rubbing your shoulders out, and you take a seat on the couch.

It hits you then, the gravity of it all. Men are your captors, and then they are your savior. They'll never leave you alone. They'll never let you go. You were ruled by their iron fist in a previous life, and you will endure their wrath in this new one.

You start to cry. It's the first sound you've made since screaming. You cover your face with your hands, and you don't know why you feel safe enough to cry, but you do, and it comes out of you fast.

He tilts his head to the side as he watches you. It's a strange thing to see something so...alive. He's used to only seeing things moving that can't speak back to him. If he does see things alive, he puts them down as if they are rabid dogs.

He can't find it in himself to kill you. Something is so odd about it. About you.

Everything about today seems more than coincidence. He won the game today. And then he found you.

When he tries the sink in the bathroom, he's surprised to find it working. He grabs a bowl and fills it with water, and when he comes back into the living room, you are staring at one of the flickering candles blankly, shivering. You have stopped crying, but your face is still wet with fat, lingering tears.

It looks like you've been hit by a brick wall. Your hair is matted in places, in tangles. It’s in desperate need of a cut. It's stuck to your face around the perimeter, caked by sweat and mud and dried blood. Your clothes are in ruins; you wear a ripped jumper, thin jeans, and the soles of your boots are starting to fray and come off, and he can see where you've tried to mend them unsuccessfully with duct tape. You wear no jewelry, and your fingernails need to be cut. Those men have left marks on you, but those will fade.

He kneels in front of where you sit on the couch. Using a threadbare cloth, he dips it into the water and raises it to your face. You show no resistance. You let him wipe your face off, the tears, the dirt, the blood. It stains the cloth ugly, but you can't look at anything else except for his eyes.

They're so dark. Brown, like bark, like honey. You haven't spoken a word to him yet, but the silence is sort of bliss. All you can hear is the drip of the water when he rings out the cloth.

He helped you. He didn't have to. He could've kept walking, but he stayed with you. He didn't leave you. He could've walked away again, but he let you follow.

He isn't a good man. You know that. Anyone who has lasted this long isn't a good person. You've done the same. You've let it take you, once or twice, let the snarl in the back of your throat guide your hand. You've let the voices fester, let them eat at the acid in your stomach until they begged for more, and you won't admit it, but it felt good. Felt good to protect yourself. To rid the earth of something terrible. To say no.

He must understand that. He's decorated in its essence, the one of understanding, the one that says I know what it's like to take matters into your own hands, and he did it with you, too.

He's doing it now, cleaning you up, and you don't know him, or his face, or his name, but you'll try hard to give it back. To give him something. To tell him you are worthy and not useless. It doesn't show today, how far you've come, but you'll try.

"Thank you," you finally whisper. He's dragging the cloth over your bottom lip, and he blinks rapidly, as if a bit startled by hearing your voice. When you speak again, it's to tell him your name, and he thinks for a few moments before continuing, wiping under your jaw.

He doesn't sleep that night. He stares out the window, like a guard dog, and he lets the soft breaths of your sleep keep him awake.

The gas lighter on the stove still works. It takes a match to light it properly, but when the fire starts, you take some of the soup cans from your pack and make breakfast.

Your smile when he comes into the kitchen nearly blinds him. You look more rested than yesterday, and you ladle some soup into a bowl for him, setting it down at the table. He notices the two bowls, his and yours, and he notices that his bowl has more food.

It is then that he decides to keep you.

What he doesn't know is that you've decided the same. The world has thrown you the way out. A man, built like a bear, happy finger on the trigger and capable of getting you out of harm's way. You need to convince him that you are worthy. You need to convince him that you are valuable. A keepsake.

Men are what start wars, not what end them. Men are the cause of chaos and destruction, it is prevalent throughout history, and it is why you are here now, in a place that doesn’t exist, where people don’t breathe the same air anymore. A man thought himself correct, but he was wrong, and he didn’t listen when someone told him otherwise. They are the ones that take advantage of your vulnerability, and instead of trying to understand it, they use it to get what they want.

You can do the same.

You start by mending his clothes. He's laid some out to dry after washing, and you notice the tears in his shirts. When he comes back a little while later, with dinner hanging off his shoulder, you are seated on the couch, feet tucked under you, with a needle in your hand as you sew up one of his shirts.

You've bathed, found new clothes, warmer ones, and your hair is braided and off your face. He hates to say he prefers you a little dirty, but he likes this, too. A natural beauty. A soft face.

You make a real dinner that night. There's canned vegetables that you try to spruce up with the spices you find in the cupboards, but the real meal is the venison you're served. He butchers it outside like a professional, and he sears it on the stove with a perfect touch. When he feeds you that first bite, your mouth explodes with flavor. Your belly is full that evening, and when he blows out the candles for bed, he eats you out in the dark of the corner bedroom.

He's not sloppy like you thought he might be. Not overeager. He's easy with it, casual. Big hunk of a man smothered between your thighs, and he laves his tongue through your folds like his very own personal dessert. He drinks straight from the source, holy water spilling sweet between his teeth, and when he gets his tongue inside of you and holds it there, you nearly leave earth for somewhere else. You come like that, too, his filthy mouth sucking on your clit before he's slipping that tongue in you again, and you mewl against the bed as he tucks his hand under your ass and spreads you wider.

He tells you his name a few nights later. He doesn't speak, not ever, but when you're crying around his thick fingers, he whispers it against your ear.

"'s Simon," he growls, and you know what he means by that. He wants you to say it while you bounce on his fingers, when you rut against his thigh. He wants you to say his name when you're coming undone riding his face, when you're wetting his mask with your pussy and making him choke on your cum. Such a wet, sweet girl you are, and sometimes he skips wash day for his mask so he can shove it into his mouth and pant around it and taste you while he fucks his own fist.

It's insanity, he thinks, as he's cleaning his rifle. The idea of traditional. But it's what befallen him, what he sees all around him, and he tucks his index finger into a hole too small to pinch himself just to make sure he isn't living a dream. You're in the kitchen, mending more clothes, something warm boiling on the stove. There were seeds in the greenhouse, and you're saving them to plant in the spring, so for now, you make do with canned goods and whatever Simon hunts for during the day. You found books in the attic, and you read them at night, head in Simon's lap as he plays with your hair or rubs your sore ankles or cuts your nails. You're the only one that ever speaks; he hasn't said a word to you except for telling you his name, and you're content to be the only one that uses their voice.

He always listens. You told him one time that you loved the shade of green that the trees wore, and he came back one day with a sweatshirt of the same color for you. He noticed you trying to mend those terrible boots, and he found a new pair for you, your size this time, barely worn and fit for winter. He brings lots of things for you; books, clothes, even rocks sometimes, when he just thinks he found one that you might like.

You do like them. You have started filling a small bowl with the ones he brings, and he notices you rifling through it sometimes, just looking at them, and it makes his chest swell with pride.

Like giving a treat to a dog. Like giving him a fucking bone.

He teaches you how to shoot. You know how to pull a trigger, but that’s the extent of your expertise. He teaches you how to stand, how to turn the safety on and off, how to hold the gun between two hands so not even his own can take it away from you. He makes sounds when you please him. Hums low, lets out a soft breath, sucks in the air through his teeth. You can’t see his face, but the way he looks at you when you fire a bullet and knock bottles off their ledges, it warms you, all the way down your spine, reaching your toes. You want him to keep looking at you this way, so you try hard, and he notices.

You’ll never be what he is, but the small victories are what have him chubbing up in his cargos and falling asleep between your thighs. You give, and he takes, and he keeps coming back for more.

He teaches you that distance is your strength. You aren’t like him; you aren’t built like a brick house, you won’t be bigger than a lot of your opponents. You need to keep them away from you, however you can. He makes you good with that gun because it’s your best chance, but in the even that you lose it or you run out of bullets, he shows you how to aim a hatchet so that the blade always lines up between someone’s shoulders.

The way you listen makes him salivate. The way you blink up at him and say yes, Simon and take his orders, it makes it difficult to keep away from you.

Today marks two months in the house tucked on the hill. Simon hunts, and you cook, and you live in some sick, twisted housewife fantasy at the end of the fucking world. Simon provides, and you keep, and when the box of condoms falls out of your backpack one day, you glance at Simon for just a moment before he's on you.

It's animal, that first time. He tackles you practically onto the carpet of the living room, and he props you up onto your elbows and only pulls down your jeans enough that he can fit his cock between your thighs. You hear the tear of the condom wrapping, and then he's laying over your back, sinking to the base, cock nestled inside of you as he grips your throat gently and fucks you into the carpet. Poor beast, he's definitely going to need his knees massaged after this, but you can't think about that much when you're taking the fattest cock of your entire life and trying to survive underneath him. It's that fine line between pleasure and pain that you're desperate for, and you pull threads out of the carpet as you try to hang on and take it like a good girl.

You can hear his voice. It's low, and subtle, but he grunts with each agonizing thrust, hips snapping against your ass as he fucks you back onto him over and over and over again.

It's primal. Nasty. You wish he wasn't wearing a condom, you want him to be in your skin, you want him to fill you until you're full, let it spill over, and then do it all over again. You want him to bite into your throat and tear, and you want him to eat you and then put you back together, and then do it again and again and again.

"So big," you gasp, and he falters at that. You recognize it, the need for praise, and you latch onto it with claws and stay there. I need him to stay here with me. "So good...so good t-to me, Simon–"

He groans. It's music.

Keep me. Keep me. Keep me.

"Simon, please–" You scratch at his arm, not satisfied until you feel blood. When you break the skin, he laughs, a breathless laugh that has your eyes rolling back in your head as he shoves your face into the carpet and mounts you like a fucking horse. The deep slap, slap, slap of skin is enough to send you away, send you home, your mind foggy as your pussy squeezes him for all he's worth. The slick of the condom is pleasant, but you want it raw. You want every part of him carved into you, and you arch your back, suck him in, whine and cry and beg for him to just, "please, Simon, I need it, I need it."

"Need wot?"

The sound of his voice is whiplash. He hisses when he sinks deep, staying there, holding you at a sharp angle so he can knead your ass and watch it bounce back on him. He sucks on his teeth, and there's drool slipping out of your mouth. That accent, his voice, like velvet, from deep within his chest. You want to hear more of it.

"Be a man," you gasp. "Be a man, and fuck me."

He doesn't see the desperate look on your face when he slips out of you. He doesn't see the relief that washes over you when you hear the condom come off, latex crumbling as he tosses it, but he feels the warmth of your pretty pussy when he sinks back in, skin to skin, and feels you clench for dear fucking life.

"Fuckin' Christ," Simon groans, and you reach back for him, gripping his arms, forcing him to fall over on top of you. He settles with his elbows on either side of your head, and you bow your back and grip the carpet again as he fucks into you nice and slow, deep, fat head leaking precum and making you cry because finally, yes, please, this is it, what I want, I'll have you forever.

You're so pretty. Even in his past life, Simon never got to have anything pretty. He was too ugly, too big, too awkward. Any woman of good faith stayed 100 yards away, as if his mere presence was a warning alarm, some invisible radius that kept them away from him. He always thought it was for the better. He always thought good riddance, they shouldn't have me, I shouldn't have anyone. Not when only days before, he had tortured a Russian militant until he had no teeth and hung his severed fingers on twine around his own neck.

But you won't run away. He's given you opportunity. He's left the cottage and staked out the outside just to watch you, and all he sees is you moving between windows, shaking out the dust from old blankets and washing the dishes. All he sees is you sewing his clothes and cooking his food, and when he comes back inside, all he sees is your smile and your face and your pretty mouth that falls open when he makes you come all over his hand.

Now it's the end of the world, and he lets a coin flip decide whether or not he lives or dies. And even when he flips it now, it never agrees. When he asks to die, the coin tells him no. When he asks to live, it’s always interrupted by you.

Yes, it tells him. Yes, yes, yes, because it's been keeping him here, because it knows, because it saw, because he couldn't see both sides of the coin, but he can see it now, plain as day, and she's underneath him now, letting him inside, and she's begging him to come and to fill her up, and she's crying because he's such a big man, and she wants him everywhere and always and all at once, and Simon is nothing if he isn't an insatiable bastard that can finally be fucking selfish.

The way you say his name could make him move mountains. That soft breath you take. The falter of your voice. The whine. The world has gone quiet, but he'll make a new one, and he will leave it at your feet for you to step on or pick up.

Whichever you choose. You can do no wrong.

When he comes, he moans. Into your ear, he lets you hear him, lets you bask in his pleasure as he spurts hot inside of you, hauling you a little higher on your knees so he can make sure you come, too. He gives you the palm of his hand to grind on, fucking into you at the same time, humming deep when he feels you squeeze around him and shatter like glass.

He takes his mask off for the first time that night. You see his face, all of it, not just glimpses when he lifts it to eat or to drink, you see the whole thing. He has a terrible looking face. Something only a mother could love. Too old of scars to be from this new life. They slash across his brow, across his cheeks. He has a jagged nose, and the skin around his lips had been reconstructed poorly from however they had been slit.

He's a terrifying piece of flesh. He is surprised when you lean in and kiss him. He's even more surprised when you kick off your jeans, turn over, and fuck him again.

The mantra that sounds like mine repeats in his head over and over. He feels it, deep, warm and beating under his ribs alongside his heart that hasn't moved in a long while.

He found you in those woods, kicking amongst predators, and he took you home with him. Picked you up like a stray, fed you, clothed you, and now you've stayed. For a moment, he thought it wasn't real. Thought your full belly is what kept you here, the warm house. He didn't mind pretending, but he figured it wouldn't last.

He doesn't think that anymore. Not with the way you kiss his severed face. You nuzzle into it, cup his cheeks, and he finds it agony when you pull away.

He hovers now. In whatever room you are in, Simon must also be in it. If he leaves, he makes you board the doors, and you are only allowed to open them if he knocks in his special way. He tested you once, came back earlier than expected, and he was so pleased you did not open the door to his casual knock and only the special one that he made you come one, two, three times with your thighs locked around his face.

A terrible thing happens.

Not to you.

You're searching the greenhouse. Hoping to find some flower pots for the herb seeds you found, you're rummaging through the cabinets beside it. Your gun is sitting away from you, and although Simon would chastise you for this, you feel safe here, and it doesn't bother you.

It flings itself at you. It cries, what used to be a teenage girl, reaching for you because it wants a chunk of your softness, of the life you pump into the muscles that keep you running. You're protected by all the clothes you wear for the weather, and it is slow because of the cold freezing their rigid, dead bones, but it does not lessen the hunger, the fight, the determination to eat and spread.

Before it can bite, the back of its head explodes. You close your mouth and shut your eyes as rancid brain matter splatters the white snow and you, and it is wrenched off of you immediately. Simon stands there, his pistol in hand, and you have never seen him quite so angry as he is right now.

His eyes are wild. He heaves under that tact vest, breathing hard, and his grip on the handgun shakes, so much that he has to shove it back into the holster at his thigh and lean over to pick you up off the ground.

He jostles you. Growls. Is nearly an animal himself as he shoves you up against the glass of the greenhouse and snarls.

"Wot the fuck is wrong with ya?!" Simon snaps. "Is y'r fuckin' head on?!"

It's so quiet in your head even as he yells. Your eyes tear, but not because you're upset. You reach out and cup his face gently, and he stops. Stops talking, just watches, just looks at you as he bends and leans his forehead against yours and squeezes you to his chest.

What is this thing you have? What have you become? What innate thing has festered between you? He’s gripping the edge of the glass so hard, you hear it crack under his hand. There is some kind of sick sense of devotion among you. Some kind of responsibility. He’s angry because something under his tongue tasted bitter when he saw you struggling. It won’t be this easy. He won’t make it this easy. If he doesn’t get to die, then neither do you, and he will make sure of that, because that is the only way this game can remain fair.

You never wander to the greenhouse again. He makes you promise (lest he wastes his cum between your thighs instead of inside you, that's it, promise me).

Another terrible thing happens.

Not to you.

They're wanderers. When they knock at the door, they don't use Simon's special knock, so you don't open it. Instead, you blow out the candles and hide, peeking at them from the fogged window in the attic.

They are men (you aren't surprised, they seem to be the only thing that survives nature's heavy hand). Cold. Shivering. One of them is bleeding, you can see it from the blood trail he leaves in the snow that seeps from somewhere under the hem of his jeans. The one uninjured tries to force his way through the door, but Simon added more deadbolts to it, and it doesn't give under his weak attempts. You trade your handgun for the rifle, aiming it at them. If they get through the door, maybe you can draw them back out, keep them away from the house.

You try to stay quiet, but the healthier one uses his body and a log of wood to get through. They're desperate, desperate enough to not care that breaking through the door cuts him severely, splits through his jacket. The second man limps behind him, getting inside, and you decide to put the rifle back.

You will stay quiet until Simon gets back. Your strength is not being a bulldozer, so you'll hide until he can be that for you. You steady your breathing; even if they make it to the attic, you won't go quietly. You tried that last time, and if it wasn't for Simon, you'd surely be naked and dead in that clearing that you were dragged to.

This time, if you go, you will take someone with you at least. Severed ears are not enough. You will not make them artists, you will make them forgettable and unrecognizable, and you will give back what they give you tenfold. Even if it kills you.

It takes them all night before they finally make it to the attic. They eat your food and take showers in your bathroom and stink up the living room, you can hear them. And when their bellies are full and their minds wander, you dread the pull of the attic door as he wrenches it open and the ladder falls.

You manage to kill one as he drags you out from the corner. He latches onto your ankle, and as he pulls, you put your finger on the trigger of your handgun, and you put one right between his eyes. The other takes advantage of your moment of pause, turning you over onto your stomach so hard the gun flies across the attic from your hand. He tosses you down from the attic, and you land on your side in the hallway, and you cry as you get to your elbows and crawl, trying to get to your feet, but he's larger than you.

He catches you in the kitchen. Slams you over the kitchen counter, using his weight to pin you down, but Simon taught you better than that. He taught you not to give in. He taught you not to give up. You think about him when your fingers find the discarded fork on the counter and you drive it right through his fucking eye.

You don't stop. You don't let his cries keep you from bringing your arm down again. And again. And again. You make his face your blank canvas, and you paint it with your anger. For every man that ever touched you. For every man that ever thought himself worthy to have you. For every man that tried to make your body his prize, you poke a thousand holes in him, and you scream with him as you do it until he can't scream anymore.

You're holding the fork and standing over him when Simon comes home. His handgun drawn, silent as he makes his way in, his body visibly relaxing when he sees you. He glances at the man at your feet, still alive, gurgling there, choking on his own blood as he tries to breathe through the holes that are scattered across his face and neck. You meet his eyes, and you smile. It's uncanny to do it now, but you are happy to see him.

"There's..." You sniffle, wiping your face with your sleeve. "There's another i-in the attic."

You don’t get to see him smile under the mask. You don’t hear the near purr that leaves him as he climbs the ladder and sees the perfect place you’ve left your mark. He’d frame it if it wouldn’t rot.

You twirl the fork in your hand before going to the sink, dropping it in there, and you close your eyes as you listen to Simon's footsteps as he goes into the attic. It takes him a little less than an hour to get the bodies out the back door, and when he comes back inside, you're already wiping up the floor in the kitchen.

There's nothing to talk about. This is normal. This is just another day. Tomorrow, you might have to do it again, and you'll still cook dinner after sunset and clean the kitchen like you're doing now and sit Simon on the edge of the bathtub and cut his hair.

Simon found chocolate on his trip today, and you make cake with it. You sit in his lap under the candlelight, and you feed each other, bite by bite, and you giggle when Simon gets it all over his lips.

You kiss him to clean it off, and then you reach for another bite of cake. There's some measure of satisfaction you feel when your tongue finds the dent in the fork prongs from when you used it earlier. The chocolate tastes better somehow. Sweeter.

You catch him in the morning, limbs tangled with yours under the sheets, flipping a coin. You smooth a hand over his thick chest, along his pudgy stomach, and you watch with him as the coin lands on the bedside table, falling flat.

It comes up tails.

He decides then that he doesn't have to flip it anymore. It's pointless. He asked for answers, and he got one.

You were not luck. You were fate. And because of it, the coin will always land the same way.

His thoughts are interrupted when you reach for the coin. You twirl it between your fingers, thinking. He doesn't see what you see, but that's okay. Maybe he'll let you play now. Some other game, a better one.

Heads or tails, win or lose, alive or dead. Either way, you are attached. Woven together, thread by thread. There are no vows to say in this new place, but you aren't tested by the same kinds of things. There is no law to keep two people together, no governing power of men that say if left is truly left and that right is really right.

You are drawn together by shared experiences. The same trauma. You won't leave each other not because you said you wouldn't leave, but because there is no one else in the world that has seen the same things you have seen and has done the same things you have done. There is no one else in the world that will forgive you for what you had to do to survive. That will love you not just in spite of it, but because of it, because you did what was necessary, and you are here now to learn a lesson and not suffer its consequences.

It's just a game. If you win, he wins. If you lose, he loses. If you're alive, he's alive.

And if you're dead, then he must be, too.

#simon ghost riley #simon riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #ghost mw2 #ghost cod #ghost call of duty #ghost mwii #ghost x reader #cod #call of duty #simon riley smut #simon ghost riley smut #dark!ghost #dark!simon

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gnocchibabie · 5 months ago

Text

Desire and Blood (Chapter 1)

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Targaryen/Strong OC(Jaenara Velaryon)

Tags: AU - canon divergence, enemies to lovers, arranged marriage, Targcest (uncle/niece)

Wordcount: 4.9k

Summary:

Against all odds, the love between childhood friends prevails and the Dance of Dragons is avoided.

However, peace comes at a cost. With the unexpected proposal of marriage between Alicent Hightower's son and Rhaenyra Targaryen's only daughter, can love truly blossom between sworn enemies? Or will Jaenara Velaryon be reduced to a mere pawn?

Love may yet arise where enmity once thrived, but Aemond's relentless pursuit of power threatens to shatter everything they hold dear, including each other.

Notes: You can find the rest of the chapters on my masterlist!

If you like the first snippet of this series, please consider showing some love on my AO3 posting of this fic :) thank you x

Atop the cliffs that line Dragonstone, Jaenara Velaryon watches the tide crash against jagged rocks littered below. Crystal blue waters lap at the sandy shores and white wispy clouds pass by overhead. She thought it unfair that a picturesque day such as this be wasted on tragedy. Jaenara grips the ground beneath her, plush green grass filling her palm and tickling the skin. Gripping harder, she reveals the dirt underneath as grime is pushed underneath her fingernails. She is alone now, away from her mother and brothers. From her step-father and step-sisters. Away from all prying eyes and listening ears. Away from hushed whispers, the only sound that fills her ears are that of the breeze that whips around her and the ocean below.

She is finally free to weep.

Tears litter the ground she sits upon. Although she is alone she chokes back a cry, as if fearing that the winds would carry her sorrow back to the castle. Her tears muddle in the dirt below, and Jaenara recounts the events of the past fortnight.

— — —

Sunlight spills into the Chamber of the Painted Table, where Rhaenyra and Daemon are positioned at the head. The war room had seen more activity this past week than it had in many years, Jaenara had thought. She and her twin brother, Jacaerys, had sat in on a few meetings with members of her mother’s council. The passing of King Viserys had left the realm in disarray, and while her eldest uncle had made no claim to the throne yet, Jaenara understood that time was not on their side.

“The instruction of a mother can only do so much, especially for a boy as unruly as Aegon,” Rhaenyra had said to her council, “While Alicent may urge her son to heed the wishes of Viserys, Otto and his council are surely whispering ideas of betrayal and usurpation into my half-brothers ears.”

“I will not wait to see if Aegon honors my rightful place on the throne. It is time to act.”

Her mother had said this before leaving for King’s Landing, much to the dismay of some of her council. The presence of Prince Daemon - no - King Consort Daemon, had helped to quell some of their anxieties, as well as Jaenara’s. Though she knew, better than most, that her mother was a force to be reckoned with even on her own. They had left Dragonstone on Syrax and Caraxes, a formidable warning to the Hightowers and anyone else who opposed Rhaenyra’s claim.

Jaenara’s desire to accompany her mother and step-father had fallen on deaf ears.

“Jace and I must ride with you,” she had urged her mother, “dragons are stronger together.”

Rhaenyra smiled at that. “There is truth in what you say, sweet girl,” her mother ran a hand through her daughter’s thick black mane. So unlike her own white-bonde hair. “But this is a delicate time. We may yet be on the brink of war-

“All the more reason for us to come!” Jaenara pleaded.

“You, Jace, and Luke are needed here.” Rhaenyra had not raised her voice at her daughter, though her piercing violet eyes scolded her all the same. “Keep a watch over Joffrey, Viserys, and Aegon,” Jaenara let out an over-exaggerated sigh at that, turning away from her mother.

“As well as watch over Dragonstone, atop Aetherion, Arrax, and Vermax.” Her mother added.

The princess turned around at this.

“We can only hope your uncle and his council of vipers will allow this transition of power to be peaceful. But I need you and your brothers to remain here, to ensure that no one dares to bring harm upon this castle.”

The prospect of riding her dragon alongside her brothers seemed to satiate the princess’ desires. That had been the end of it.

“As you wish, Your Grace.”

A week had passed. A cloud of tension hung over Dragonstone that Jaenara could only escape by mounting Aetherion. She patrolled the surrounding waters, in search of any signs of a siege on their isolated stronghold. Her dragon, still young and only slightly larger than a warhorse, danced across the waves below the castle. His dark, purple wings almost dip into the sea, allowing Jaenara to taste the salt in the air and feel the mist spray across her face. She had not a drop of Velaryon blood in her, though she enjoyed the water all the same.

I am no true Velaryon, Jaenara had thought to herself - a truth she would never speak aloud. But I may yet prove to be the blood of the dragon.

She reins Aetherion upwards, into the clouds above.

The princess is handing Aetherion over to the dragon masters when she finally learns of her mother and step-fathers arrival home. Her ears perk at the faint roars of Syrax and Caraxes in the dragon pit, surely feeding by now. Without another word, Jaenara turns on her heel, and sprints into the castle.

“Your mother requests your presence in the war room!” A servant had shouted after her.

Still in her riding leathers, she makes a sharp turn down the hall leading to the room and stumbles into her twin. “Jace-” Jaenara catches her breath, “Mother and Daemon are home! You must come with m-”

“I know.” Her brother responds shortly.

A pause.

“You have already met with them?” she asks.

Jaenara studies her brother and notices he will not meet her eyes. Her gaze drops to his fists, white knuckled at his side. “Go speak with her. We can talk afterwards.”

And before his twin has the chance to respond, Jacaerys is gone.

A sickly feeling settles in the young princess’ stomach as she faces the large doors of Dragonstone’s council room. She decided that there was no point in stalling whatever awaited her on the other side. Jaenara pulls open the doors and steps inside.

Queen Rhaenyra and King Daemon turn towards the young woman, and Jaenara feels even more unease spread through her. The feeling nearly subsides when she looks upon her mother.

“Nara,” Rhaenyra sounds as though she has not seen her daughter in years rather than days. Arms outstretched towards her daughter, Jaenara breaches the distance between them and embraces her mother. “Sweet girl” Rhaenyra breathes.

“Mother,” Jaenara exhales and realizes just how much she had missed her.

A moment passes before Jaenara finally pulls away. She eyes Daemon, and notes an unreadable expression etched upon her stepfather's face.

“Well,” Jaenara breathes, “I would venture to guess things went well?” she jokes.

Daemon turns away from mother and daughter and walks towards the large windows, looking out to the sea.

Rhaenyra looks upon her only daughter. The blood of her blood. Her long black hair spills over her shoulders. Her black and crimson riding leathers, crested with the symbol of House Targaryen, grips her form. She meets her daughter's lavender eyes. The rest of her daughter’s physical image, so unlike her. But not her eyes. Lighter than her own, but still undoubtedly Targaryen.

A deep breath from her mother. Daemon remains silent at the window.

“An agreement has been reached. I will take my rightful place on the Iron Throne, just as your grandsire intended. Alicent Hightower, members of the council, and even some lords throughout the Seven Kingdoms rallied to my cause - vouched for my legitimacy as heir. Your uncle, Aegon, seems surprisingly content with this arrangement. His mother tells me he has no true interest in ruling. He only wishes to retain his status so that he may live his life in his own…selfish ways.”

Rhaenyra sighs. “We have the gods to thank for allowing reason to prevail so that the realm may be spared from being plunged into needless war. There is no war so hateful to the gods as a war between kin, and no war so bloody as a war between dragons…” Her mother trails off but finds her voice once again. “But there are terms to this peace - I have agreed that your uncle has a seat on my council.”

Jaenara looks between her mother and step-father incredulously. A scoff breaks from her throat. “That’s it? Well this is good news!” she exclaims, “And Jace, he should remain your hei-”

“Tell her the rest of it.” Daemon turns from his place at the window, finally facing his wife and step-daughter.

The princess looks to her Queen, eyebrows raised.

“Mother?” Jaenara looks to her mother and sees a woman haunted.

“You are to marry Aemond Targaryen, and you will preside over Dragonstone together.”

Silence fills the room.

“Surely you jest, mother.” Jaenara bites out. Her voice is as cold and hollow as the room now feels.

“Your mother is not so cruel as to make a joke out of this.” Daemon says to his stepdaughter. The princess of Dragonstone stares at her parents. Rulers of the Seven Kingdoms. A position they have paid for with her hand. Her hand.

“Daemon,” Rhaenyra turns to her husband, “A moment alone with my daughter.” It is not a question but a command. He steps away from his place at the window and begins to leave the Chamber of the Painted Table. Daemon reaches his step-daughter and places a hand on her shoulder. Squeezes it. Leaves.

The door shuts and Rhaenyra moves towards her daughter, but not before Jaenara draws back.

“All my life,” she gasps, “All my life, you have told me you only wish that I may marry as I please. That I should not be in the position you found yourself in as a young girl. That I should not be some token of peace - some possession to be given away! You have allowed me to remain free in this position, even now at eight and ten!” Her hand finds her neck, as though she might start to choke.

“And now…now you - you give me away to him. To that - that man. Who tormented me throughout our childhood together. Tormented Jace and Luke! Surely it will be a loveless marriage.” She looks the Queen in her violet eyes. Eyes that mirror her own. “But anything for your throne, right?” She spits out.

Rhaenyra’s face falls at that. At a time such as this, she is reminded of herself in her youth and of her own mother. She remembers Aemma, her sweet mother, in her final days. Of when she had told young Rhaenyra that royal wombs as theirs are to serve the realm. Rhaenyra remembered the discomfort that had filled her, hearing her mother say this. And discomfort still surrounded her at the thought of her daughter following in her own footsteps. She remembered the gatherings of lords and their sons that had taken place in her teenage years. Auctions for her hand. Power hungry men only wishing to share her bed for a glimpse at the throne.

There was the evident truth. She had given away her daughter, in exchange for the Iron Throne. Rhaenyra had condemned her only daughter to the same fate she had suffered.

Jaenara immediately regretted the vitriol she had spouted at her mother. Her mother, who faced hostility and disdain all her life - from even those who were supposed to be her friends. Her family. Deep down, Jaenara understood what was necessary to avoid all-out war. She had told herself she would do whatever she would need to, to secure her mother’s crown and to preserve House Targaryen. But it was not supposed to be like this.

As a dragon-rider, she was supposed to forge the path to the Iron Throne through Aetherion. Alongside her brothers. Her step-father and step-sisters. Her grandmother, Rhaenys.

Not through a marriage pact.

Rhaenyra gathers her thoughts and speaks, “My love…this is not a decision I made lightly. You see now why our visit to King’s Landing lasted so long. The negotiations were a labyrinth to be navigated. I know this is not fair to you, but we inhabit a world that is unfair to women. A world that deals in our lives and in our misfortune. A world built by men, for men. But when I sit the throne…I will build a new world. I will forge a new path. One that your grandchildren may be happy to live in.”

Jaenara physically recoils at the thought. The Queen continues, “Though for now…we do what we must.” She takes her daughters hands in hers, “There are whispers about my ability to rule. There have always been, though now they are more present than ever. But you-” Her voice wavers and her grip tightens, “You have the opportunity to help me in ending the question of my capabilities. You can unite our house - we would all be the better for it. You will do the realm a great service in avoiding a war of fire and blood.” The mother finishes, squeezing her daughter’s hands again.

Jaenara breathes, low and steady. “Mayhaps I would rather see the realm put to the torch than marry a man such as him.”

“You do not mean that, daughter.” Rhaenyra is quick and stern in her reply. Now, her words burn Jaenara as well as her eyes. Jaenara does not shrink back, though she does not mean what she says. Not really. They are empty words, born from the heat of the present moment. It is not her mother she is angry with. The princess of Dragonstone is angry with the world, that it was made only in the interest of men. Angry with the gods, for making her a woman. Angry with herself. Angry at her now betrothed, for being who he was - for hating her so.

“I do not.” Jaenara finally replies. “But mother, he will not have me! Just as I will not have him!” Aemond Targaryen knew what Jaenara Velaryon was.

Memories of hurtful epithets from her youth—bastard, his Strong niece, the daughter of a whore—echoed in her mind, whispered by Aemond and Aegon alike, haunting her even now

All phrases that had been hurled her way in the days of their youth from him and Aegon alike. Words that followed her and her brothers throughout the corridors of the Red Keep. Words that coaxed tears out of the eyes of little Jaenara in the darkness of her bed chambers, where no one may see them.

Aemond would not settle for someone he viewed as inadequate as his niece, and Jaenara would not stoop so low as to marry someone as detestable as her uncle.

It would be a relationship doomed from the start.

Her mother’s words surprise her. “Aemond has agreed to the union.” Rhaenyra reasons with her daughter, “Alicent is very persuasive in her ways. She knows you to be good natured-”

The remarks earned a bitter laugh from Jaenara.

“-And not unlike him! You have both changed since the days of your youth. You are more alike than you may think.” Rhaenyra continues, “You would not be far from me daughter. Not far from the protection of myself and Daemon. As well as Jace. You would remain at the Red Keep for a time - before and after my coronation and your wedding - and leave for Dragonstone when you are ready.”

“He is vile. He despises me. And you.” Jaenara tells her mother.

“And yet my time at King’s Landing revealed a different side of my half-brother. He was not pleased with this proposal - though he took it much better than you have, Nara.” Rhaenyra reveals. A certain glint shines in her daughter’s eyes upon hearing this revelation, though it leaves as quickly as it had appeared. “Taking his hand will keep you close to me. You will both hold significant positions of power. You need not worry about being shipped off to the Riverlands, or gods forbid - the North - to marry a lord you barely care for-”

“I do not care for Aemond.” Jaenara interrupts.

“I would rather you take the hand of the devil we know rather than a devil we do not.” Rhaenyra remarks.

Jaenara left her mothers grasp and looked around the room before her. The room, which now belonged to her. And Aemond she thought bitterly. She had come to find profound comfort within the walls of Dragonstone. Some would call the castle dark and unwelcoming, though she knew its warmth came from the people within. Its merriment came from her time overhead, in the skies. But now, Aemond meant to ruin her home. Is nothing sacred? The princess wondered. In this moment, her thoughts felt so numerous that they may yet crack open her skull. Her emotions were so varying, she felt as though her heart would erupt from her chest.

Rhaenyra waits for her daughter to face her, and to finally give in to the Crown’s wishes. Instead, Jaenara lets out a noise akin to a wail and rushes out the door.

And Rhaenyra is alone.

— — —

Jaenara Velaryon’s tears finally stop and she feels as though she can finally catch her breath. She recalls the circumstances of the morning over and over, as if it were all just a bad dream she would soon wake up from. Wind whips her dark hair into her face. Salt kisses her lips. Salt from the air and from her teardrops mingle together.

A dragon does not weep.

“Dragons do not weep!” She echoes the words aloud, as if speaking them into existence will make it any more true. The words are carried away by the breeze and escape her.

“Everyone cries, child.”

Nara does not turn around. She doesn't want her mother to see her cry, as though she were a child reprimanded. Rhaenyra settles into the grass next to her daughter and takes her into her arms. Jaenara feels as though a coldness inside her melts from the warm embrace of her mother, and she allows herself to cry. She was still her mother’s child.

“I am sorry, my girl. My Nara.” Rhaenyra wipes her daughter’s tears away as her own begins to pool in her eyes.

Huddled in the warmth of her mother, Jaenara feels the anguish of her mother and sees the sorrow in her tears. How cruel it is, she thinks, that a mother could not save daughter from the same fate she once suffered — despite sitting on the most powerful seat in The Realm.

The princess understands sorrow to be a condition of life. A condition of womanhood, especially. But did sorrow have to become a hallmark of her life — for the rest of her life? Jaenara takes a shaky breath. She was a princess, a reality she had enjoyed as a luxury until now, when the weight of duty descended upon her. Marriage, a princess’s duty—she resolved it would not become her undoing, nor the source of her sorrow. Her duty is for The Realm. For her family.

In a moment of clarity, Jaenara understood the folly of her tears..

She sits there another moment, in her mother’s arms. She begins to picture Aemond Targaryen. His one eye, staring back at her with intensity. His sleek, white hair. The curl of his lip. Jaenara knew she could never come to love the man, and would never be able to love her. Duty, Jaenara thinks, is the death of love.

The princess finally rises up to look at her mother. Sorrow has been replaced with resoluteness.

Rhaenyra had always seen echoes of her past lover, Ser Harwin Strong, in her daughter’s features and had cherished her for it. But now, watching Jaenara, she sensed a dragon’s fire within her.

“I will do it mother.” Jaenara begins, “I will do my duty, I will serve my kingdom and you as its Queen - I will wed Aemond Targaryen.”

— — —

The One Eyed Prince rises from a dreamless sleep. He remains in bed for a moment, his eye adjusting to the early morning light that had begun to creep into his bed chamber. He stares at the ceiling and wonders if today will finally be the day that an agreement would be reached.

His half-sister and the Rogue Prince had descended upon King’s Landing on dragonback days ago. He regarded the gold and scarlet dragons with little interest. No matter, he had thought, mine is bigger.

During their lengthy stay, Aemond observed the frenzy that had been set upon the Red Keep. A frenzy that had started after his father’s passing and had only grown. He had sat in on a few meetings between Rhaenyra, his mother, grandsire, and members of the former king’s small council. Some meetings he and Aegon had been privy to - some they were not. His elder brother did not seem at all perturbed by the prospect of his possible throne being wrenched out from under him. He understood Viserys had no intention of leaving him with the crown. And Aemond had thought that the realm was the better for it.

Aemond and his mother had witnessed first-hand the kind of man Aegon had grown up to be. His sweet sister, Helaena, knew better than the both of them combined. It seemed the only person who wanted Aegon to sit the Iron Throne was their grandsire Otto - though he did not seek this out of the belief that his grandson could unite the realm. He only sought after a new puppet, one he could pull the strings of whichever way he pleased.

Alicent and Rhaenyra had grown closer in the past few months before the King’s passing. Letters carried by ravens were exchanged, and now the two women almost seemed like the close childhood companions the court had once known them to be. Almost. It was still uncertain if time could truly heal all wounds.

Aemond thought his mother naive. Easily bent to the will of his half-sister. A phantom pain settles in the socket of his eye.

It was no matter now. As a second born son, Aemond had nothing to gain either way. If the gods were fair, he would have been born the eldest. And his weak, malleable father would have named him heir, rather than Rhaenyra. It was no matter now. Dwelling on fleeting possibilities would do him no good.

Aemond is securing his leather patch over his sapphire eye when there is a rap at his door. Alicent Hightower stands before him. Dark circles sit below her eyes and loose, red curls frame her fair face. The negotiations between his half-sister and his mother’s family were taking their toll. “Your presence is needed in the council chamber. Rhaenyra and Daemon will be there, as well as Aegon and members of the small council.” She tells her son.

“And so we finally relinquish our power,” Aemond breathes, “under what conditions?”

Alicent’s eyes drop from her son’s and she walks away without another word.

His mother had always been a distant shroud. As a child she was wordless when he craved encouragement. Out of reach when he yearned for a motherly embrace. He tried not to blame her for this. He heard the stories that circulated the castle - of a girl who grew up without a mother of her own, forced to bring forth babes when she was not much older than one herself.

So, he was used to her aloof nature. Though her lack of explanation at a time such as this did unnerve the prince.

Aemond enters the council chamber where everyone else has already gathered.

“The man of the hour!” Aegon bellows.

Aemond regards his brother and wonders what has lifted his spirits at such an hour. Aegon delights in the misery of others, and in remembering this, Aemond feels unease.

“Aegon, enough.” Alicent is stern in her words, “Aemond, please sit.”

Prince Aemond sits opposite his half-sister Rhaenyra and her husband Daemon. Rhaenyra’s eyes rake over him, and he meets her neutral gaze with his cold one. Daemon lets out a wry chuckle at the wordless exchange. Ser Criston Cole, positioned at a corner of the chamber, stands stock still.

Alicent clears her throat and begins, “This council has come to a consensus,” Aemond looks to his mother.

“Rhaenyra…will be made to sit the Iron Throne, as King Viserys intended.” she shoots a sour look over to Otto Hightower, who sat on the far side of Aemond. Dismayed grunts and whispers circulate the chamber. “Aegon is to serve on Rhaenyra’s council. Jacaerys and Baela Velaryon are to stay here in King’s Landing. As heir, he will attend council with his mother and will make a place here.”

Aegon shifts in his seat and stares at a corner of the room, obviously bored. As if he had heard this to him recounted numerous times by now.

“The more the merrier.” he says in a voice so low, Aemond wonders if anyone else had heard him. Aemond then wonders how his brother can be so content with relinquishing rule over the Seven Kingdoms to their sister. He hears Rhaenyra draw in a breath and his cold gaze finds hers once more.

“Aemond. We find ourselves in unprecedented times. One of the last things our father wished was for the infighting amongst his family to cease. We cannot expect the realm to watch as sister fights against brother.” She pauses and Aemond senses the hesitancy in her words. Alicent picks at the flesh around her fingernails. Rhaenyra continues.

“I only wish to unite our families and ensure that everyone has a place amidst my rule. Amongst my court. To do this…your mother sees it best to…” Aemond wishes she would just spit out her decree and be done with it.

“I wish to wed you and my daughter, Jaenara Velaryon.”

Now that gives Aemond pause.

Aemond had seen his niece a short time ago, when she and her family had come to King’s Landing to defend her bastard brother’s claim to the Driftmark throne. He had eyed her as Vaemond Velaryon was cut down by Daemon, intrigued by her unwavering gaze despite the horrific scene. He watched her at dinner that night, finding a smile gracing her face at times. He noted the joy she took in watching Jacaerys dance with Helaena. He felt her burn holes into him as he toasted to Jaenara and her brothers. His Strong niece and nephews, he had said.

She despised him. And he gave her many reasons to. He did not have time to recount the enumerable times he had tormented her and her brothers during their childhood together at the Red Keep. A torment that was dealt back to him by the hands of his nephews.

Though Aemond could not deny, he held some sort of strange admiration for his niece.

His half-sister's voice returns the prince from his thoughts. “Aemond?”

Aegon does little to suppress his glee. “What do you say, brother?” He laughs and gives him a rough slap on the back. “Will you have your bastard bride?”

Daemon Targaryen slaps a hand down on the table. “Daemon.” Rhaenyra stops her husband before he can speak or act. Aegon quiets once more, though a smug smile settles on his face.

Despite the truth in his brother’s words, Aemond takes offense to them. He found himself feeling that way more often lately, when the slights towards his niece had not been dealt by him. His thoughts return to the situation at hand.

Aemond understands the position that he is in. This is not a request. It is a command by his new Queen. And by his mother. He considers that this may yet be a fortunate outcome for him. As the second-born brother, he has a small hope of ever sitting the throne. He had dreaded the day his mother would finally pass his hand onto the daughter of a lord that the Targaryens and Hightowers only wish to form political alliances with. Is that the only purpose children served? We are the bartering chips of our parents, he had thought bitterly. But with his niece - with Jaenara - Aemond would rule over the ancestral home of House Targaryen, and that seemed a better lot in life to have. They would retain their status. It could prove to be a comfortable position. But Aemond wondered if this is how low his family truly thought of him - to marry him off to a bastard. A so-called pure-blooded descendant of Old Valyria with hair as dark as the night.

It was no matter now.

As Aemond considers the future that has been thrust upon him, a new thought crosses his mind. The line of succession.

Jacaerys is her heir.

And if something were to happen to his betrothed’s twin brother before he were to have an heir himself? If The Stranger were to come for the eldest male heir of the crown? Well, then Jaenara would be next in line. The realm had already accepted Rhaenyra as their ruler - surely they could come to accept another woman.

Jaenara Velaryon - or Targaryen - Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. And her King Consort:

Aemond Targaryen.

It was hard to suppress the wry smile that began to tug on the prince’s lips. Aemond may yet use the cards he had been dealt to his own advantage. He could feel the cold steel of the Iron Throne beneath his fingers - power he may yet reach through his niece. He sat there another moment, as if still mulling over his options.

A sigh escapes him as Aemond once again meets the violet eyes of his half-sister.

“As you wish, your Grace.” The One Eyed Prince bites.

#house of the dragon #hotd #hotd fanfic #house of the dragon fanfiction #aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #aemond x oc #aemond targaryen fanfiction #hotd aemond #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen x oc

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yoditopascal · 3 months ago

Text

Like A Prayer (Part 2)

summary: best friends with wade you’re always being dragged into something even when he’s not trying to, what are you to do when you find the fate of your timeline in the hands of yourself, your chaotic merc and an angry wolverine who’s hellbent on drinking himself to death?

content warning: romance, some angst, a little fluff, character deaths, canon-typical violence, smut, lots of cussing, mutual pining, found family, drug and alcohol use, reader insert but with no use of y/n cuz I hate that shit, deadpool being deadpool, mentions of poor mental health (depression anxiety and ptsd mostly), scent marking, the honda odyssey scene needs a warning all on its own MINORS DNI

a/n: I wanted to get up to the part where you finally meet Logan but it was too long 😭 and I ended up deciding to split the chapter up. In the mean time I hope this enough to tide you over. <3

tag list: sorry if you weren’t tagged I tried tagging everyone that asked but some usernames didn’t work! @allmyn1ghts, @blooket-scares-me, @amararosesblog, @talanyra, @spideybv28

Previous Chapter//Next Chapter

Wolverining is Hard

When you come to, your arms are tightly secured behind your back. Sitting up you try to take in your surroundings as you wiggle around trying to free yourself. The room you’re in is dark with a metal table and a singular chair in the middle and smelled strongly of disinfectant.

Just as you felt like you were making progress with your restraints, really you had just dislocated your hand, a door opens up on your right flooding your vision with a blinding light.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” Came an accented voice, it sounded British. Just as your eyes had started to adjust to the light you were harshly hoisted up to your feet and dragged away into another room before being dumped unceremoniously at the feet of a pair of red and black boots

“Pookie you’re alive!” said Wade dressed in a new and improved Deadpool suit. Where did he get that? You thought to yourself. “I thought these TVA fucks ate you or something!

Helping you to your feet Wade pats you on top of the head before gesturing between your restrained hands and a guy holding what looked like a giant remote in his hands.

Rolling his eyes the guy snaps his fingers and you’re manhandled again as your restraints are roughly yanked off.

Taking in your surroundings you notice you’re in what looks to be an office with office workers and a floating platform above it. On the platform, where you all were standing, are a bunch of monitors all showing different scenes of you and your friends.

“Where are we Wade? What is this place?” You asked confused as you rubbed at your sore wrists, getting closer to him.

“You, baby girl, have just been upgraded to first disciple! Congratulations!” He said jokingly, just as he was about to say something else he was interrupted by an accented voice, the same one you had heard before.

“As you can see Mr. Wilson your friend is alive and well mostly well.” Said the man from behind Wade with the British accent, he eerily reminded you of Mr. Darcy from Pride and Prejudice. Frowning, the man watched you with a disgusted expression as you flicked your hand popping your wrist back into place as you sucked in a breath in pain. You had definitely dislocated it earlier.

“Now as much as I hate to cut the reunion short it’s time for her to go back home.” He said snapping his fingers again, suddenly you're surrounded by men in body armor again, one reaches out quickly to grab you but you stumble back into Wade who pushes you behind him.

“Wait wait wait….you’re just gonna send her home? To die?” He turns to ask the man behind him. He could feel you pressed against his back, like you were trying to get under his skin. You were scared and he couldn’t blame you, you still had no idea what was going on.

“Die? What are you talking about?” You asked looking back and forth between the man and Wade until a gloved finger fell on your lips silencing you.

“Shush child Marvel Jesus is talking.”

“What the fuck?” You whispered, pushing his hand away.

“You can’t send her back Paradox.”

“Oh I can and I will.” The man, Paradox, had said as one of his armed men came up to him handing him one of those electric baton stick things you had seen earlier. You immediately tensed up, as he started to approach you with it, not knowing what it would do to you on contact.

“No wait wait wait please just hang on a fucking second!” Wade shouted, it was one of rare times he got serious and it made your hair stand on end

“What now Mr. Wilson?” Mr. Paradox asked, groaning dramatically, as if all of this was just a giant waste of his time

“W-what can I do to fix it? The timeline?”

Timeline? What the fuck was happening? You thought confused as you looked back at Wade again as he stared down Mr. Paradox

“Nothing unless you can bring Wolverine back to life in the next,” he says nonchalantly as if it were the most obvious thing in the world as he checks his watch “96 hours. But that’s impossible to-“

That little bit of information was enough to get the cogs in Wade’s brain turning as he hatched a play.

“Say less, I’m on it like a car bonnet!” Wade said cheerfully, you had no idea what the fuck that many but whatever it was Wade had set his mind too it and once his mind was set nothing was going to get in his way.

“Mr. Wilson-“ Mr. Paradox had started to say but before he could get another word out, Wade lunges forward and headbutts him full force, breaking his nose on contact, knocking him out as he snatched up the strange remote device Paradox had had in his hands.

Before you could even blink, Wade grabs you, scooping you up into his side, right under his armpit, as he opens up another one of those orange portal doors and jumps right through it with you.

The other side of the portal opens up midair and you crash land in the middle of a frozen forest. The ground and trees around you, covered in a powdery dusting of snow as a harsh wind blows over you causing you to shiver slightly, as you go to sit up you find yourself unable to move as a sharp pain shoots up your right arm.

It took a few moments to realize Wade had landed with you, more like on top of you it seemed, until you heard him groan from your back.

“I gotta get better at opening those things.” He groans, getting up.

“Sorry sugar lumps, we didn't really stick the landing there.” He said stretching his sore limbs as he gestured to your arm. It was bent at an awkward angle behind you, most definitely broken. Standing to your feet you grab at the injured appendage, popping it back into place with a loud snap and a yelp before it has a chance to heal wrong

“Ok Wade I’ve had enough of this Leon and Helena bullshit-“ you panted out still reeling from the pain of your arm.

“Ha! Resident Evil 6 humor!”

“Enough! Please just tell me what’s going on?!” You finally snap as you pull your cardigan around yourself in an attempt to block out the cold. Wade looks you over as if contemplating what to say next before he groans, running a gloved hand over his mask.

“Ah shit where do I even start?” He says as he sits down on a pile of rocks that had a makeshift stick x on top that looks suspiciously like a grave, you chose not to comment on it, as he begins to explain what had transpired over the last hour.

Apparently he was Marvel Jesus, you still didn’t get that part, and your timeline was dying. How? You weren’t entirely sure but Wade kept mumbling under his breath about some “Aussie fuck stealing his thunder from down under”, and that Mr. Paradox guy, who’s in charge of those TVA bastards that kidnapped you and Wade, was in charge of overseeing it but instead of letting it die out naturally over the next hundred years or so was going to speed up the process and now Wade only had 96 hours to fix it before everyone you knew and loved died.

“Which is why we’re here!” He said cheerfully pulling two shovels out of nowhere. Looking behind him to see where the shovels had intact come from you missed as he took a sip from his newly acquired ‘I Like Me’ mug through his mask before tossing it. “Grab your shovel jelly bean, we're hunting a Wolverine!” He said tossing the second shovel at your feet as he pulls the makeshift x grave marker from the pile of stones and starts to dig.

As soon as he said that you felt your stomach drop to your ass. That was a grave behind him, and it wasn’t just anyone’s… it was the Wolverine’s. You were digging up Wolverine to save your timeline?

“Holy shit.”

To say you idolized the guy was an understatement. When you were a kid you had all kinds of Wolverine comics and stickers, hell you still had a pair of Wolverine underwear to this day. Digging up his grave after all this time, after all that he went through in life just felt…wrong.

“You can cream your spinach later, right now we need to see if widdle Wolvie is really taking a dirt nap or not.” Chunks of dirt flew through the air as Wade kept digging, completely absorbed in his task.

“Wade this is-“ Not right you wanted to say. You start feeling your anxiety bubble up in your chest. “I can’t-!”

The sound of his shovel hitting something metal, adamantium, stopped you in your place. Tapping his shovel twice more to make sure he had actually hit something and that it wasn’t just his imagination, Wade looked over to you before turning back to what he had found, wiping away the dirt, he stared down at the now exposed decaying metallic skull of the Wolverine.

Your breath caught in your throat as you watched Wade stare at the corpse for a moment, lost in thought, before he raised his shovel over his head and bought it down on Wolverine’s skull over and over again, not stopping until he got even frustrated and snapped the wooden handle over his knee, no doubt breaking it in the process.

“Damn it! Son of a bitch! Fuck! Motherfucker! My world is fucked!”

He screamed, throwing the pieces of the shovel and swinging his arms as he punched at the air. It had been a long time since you had seen him this serious, albeit the last time you were quite literally dying, and it was honestly terrifying.

Your stomach sank even further at his words. Hugging your arms to yourself in an attempt to make yourself smaller you slowly approached Wade just as he was pulling the adamantium skeleton fully from the grave, dragging it over to a downed tree as he propped it up to sit cross legged by him.

“That was weird. I’m much calmer now.” He says with a chuckle, you’re not sure if he’s talking to you or the corpse. “Look, I’m not a man of science, but you seem incredibly passed away. But it’s good to see ya.” he pats the corpse on the knee causing you to wrinkle your nose up in disgust as bile rises in your throat. You’d seen Wade do a lot of strange shit over the years of knowing him, but exhuming a grave of a fallen hero and having a one on one with his dead body was a whole new world for you.

“I gotta be honest, I’ve always wanted to ride with you, Logan. You and me, getting into everything. Just fucking shit up. Can you imagine the fun, the chaos, the residuals?”

You didn’t even want to know what he meant by that as you crept up next to Wade, kneeling down by his side.

“G’day, mate? There’s nothing that’ll bring me back to life faster than a big bag of metal cash.” Wade placed a finger under the corpse’s chin making its mandible move up and down as if he was talking to him, you put your arm on his to get him to stop but he just kept going as he moved to hold his masked head in his hands.

“No, no, no, no, uuuugh!” He groans dramatically as he throws his head back, thumping it on the tree trunk behind him. “He had to get all noble and die for real. God damn it! We coulda really used your help right about now Hugh.”

“Wade,” you said softly as you reached out to rest a hand on his shoulder, “we’ll figure something out, there’s got to be another way right?”

Wade’s masked face turns to look at you, deep in thought, before the sound of multiple approaching footsteps pulls him out of his head. Pulling you until you were tucked between him and the tree truck, he peeks over the tree before ducking back down just as fast, cursing under his breath.

“Wade Winston Wilson! You’re under arrest by the Time Variance Authority for too many crimes to count, come out!” Came a booming voice over the chill of the air. You and Wade look at each other for a moment as if deciding what to do.

“This is your last chance! Throw out your weapons and come out peacefully!” The voice said again as he and a bunch of other TVA agents began to surround you.

You look Wade in his eyes again and nod, knowing he’s going to have to fight to get you both out of there. Looking around himself for anything you could use to defend yourself, his eyes land on the adamantium skeleton sitting nearby and he gets a horribly morbid idea.

“I’m not gonna give you my weapons! But I promise not to use them.” He shouts back as he turns back towards you, placing a hand on your head. “Ok Nugget you know the drill.” He says so that only you can hear.

“You go right, I go left.” You nod your head towards the tree line in the background on your left.

“Good girl.” He pats you on the head one last time, tucking baby knife into your hand. “Maximum effort.” He grunted as you both stood, jumping into action. You break to the left as fast as your feet can carry you just as Wade jumps over the tree trunk pulling Wolverine's body with him.

Hearing rapid footfalls following close behind you try to pick up the pace, your lungs burning as you run, just as you reach the woods a gloved hand reaches out tangling itself in your locs before yanking you backwards. You hit the snow covered ground with an audible thud. Your head ringing and vision blurred from the impact. Just as your eyes were starting to clear, that rapid thumping noise from before came back with a vengeance.

Shaking your head to clear it you try and get back up to your feet until a black boot, steps down on your shoulder harshly. Above you stood a TVA agent, his stick pointed right at you as he glared down at you. Just as he began to lower it, you pulled baby knife from your boot, stabbing it as hard as you could through his foot.

He screams in pain as he stumbles backwards falling on his ass as he goes to pull out the knife. Scrambling back up you yank the knife from his foot before embedding it in his exposed neck. Pulling the knife back out again the fall back on your ass in shock at what you just did. You killed someone and hadn’t even hesitated. Sure you had see your fair share of people dying, thanks mostly to Wade, but never had you actually been the one doing the killing.

Before you have a chance to wallow anymore to yourself, you hear a body thud next to you and jump.

“My bad!” Wade calls as he smacks a TVA agent across the face with something that looked suspiciously like a metal femur, shattering his helmet and mostly his face on impact. “Wolverining is hard!”

“Wolverine was a hero and the only thing worth a shit to ever come out of Canada!” Shouted a voice from in front of you two, it was the same guy from before, the one who you tackled through the portal earlier, and he looked pissed. Before he had a chance to say anything else a katana goes bouncing off the ground and right through the guy’s mouth.

“Get my country’s name out of your fucking mouth.” Wade said as he walked up to the still standing body, pulling his sword out of his mouth. “And my sword, gimme that.”

Cleaning off the blade with his sleeve, Wade looks you over, checking you for injuries, something he couldn’t break himself from doing, no matter how much you told him you could heal, before pulling you to your feet.

“We gotta find us another Logan, an alive one.” He said looking around himself assessing the overall damage.

“How?” You question still trying to quiet the pounding in your head, it was starting to fade out now, only being a low murmur at the point, but it still made it hard to focus.

Pulling something from his belt, Wade holds up the remote looking device he had stolen from Mr. Paradox earlier between wiggling fingers.

“This my dear bestest pal is how.” He said opening it up and hitting a few buttons. Another orange portal opens and you stare at it in contemplation, nervousness grips your stomach as you think about what the two of you would get into on the other side of the portal. Wade goes through first holding out a hand for you from the other side. Swallowing down rising anxiety, you take up his hand following him through.

On the other side of the portal the atmosphere is much warmer, you're both in a club, a nice one at that, surrounded by other people as they mingle and converse by the bar.

“Logan I’m gonna need you to come with us!” Wade spoke over the music. Looking around the room, you wonder which of these people he was talking to, none of them really looked like a Wolverine to you.

“Who’s asking?” came a familiar voice from the bar. Turning to look to see who it was that said that, you were shocked to see a guy, about your height, with a crazy hairy torso, wearing a tight fitted black v-neck.

His face definitely screamed Wolverine to you but there was something about this man that just struck you as off.

“Look at this little Mary Lou Retton. Did you stick the landing little guy? Yes, you did, comic-accurate short king.” Wade cooed to him from your side in a baby voice as he crouched down dramatically.

You frowned up as Wade as he mocked him, definitely planning to ream him out later when you, yourself, was the same height as the man he was making fun of. This Wolverine stares at you, recognition and another emotion in his eyes, that you weren’t sure of as his nostrils flared and they took in yours and Wade’s, no doubt horrific, scents. Just as you were about to tell Wade that this Wolverine would work, another orange portal opens up behind you and he dragging you inside with him.

“Cue the fucking montage, baby.”

#logan howlett imagine #logan howlett x reader #wolverine imagine #wolverine x reader #logan howlett #wolverine #platonic deadpool x reader #deadpool and wolverine #deadpool 3 #hugh jackman #like a prayer

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 25 days ago

Text

Sum of All 3

Warnings: non/dubcon, mentions of crime, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: mob!Steve Rogers

Part of the mob drabbles au

Summary: you are given an unexpected assignment.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

The hollowness remains. It feels like there’s stones rattling around in your chest. You don’t think you ever truly understood the word frazzled until that moment.

And each time you glance over and see Rogers’ bloody knuckles, it adds to the frenetic energy trapped inside you. Your mind flashes with the sight of him on top of that man, fists raining down, blood on the asphalt. Each time, a tide of dizziness threatens to sweep you away.

He finally pulls up to a grey brick building. You look at your watch. It’s been barely half an hour since you left the firm but it feels like a lifetime.

He gets out without a word. You follow suit, or try to. You push the door open, only to be trapped by the seat belt still strapped across you. You grunt and unclick it. You grab your briefcase and lean heavily on the door as you set your feet on the ground.

You stand and teeter in your short heels. Where are you? Scratch that. You don’t want to know. You know that it’s best to know nothing and not ask any questions.

“Hurry up,” Rogers hand curls around the top of the car door. You step away and he swings it shut. He points tersely to the building, “in.”

You obey, gripping tight the leather handles of your bag, and scurry ahead of him. You feel like a mouse with a cat slowly stalking you from behind.

There are two men standing outside the doors of the building. You look between them with wide eyes. They don’t seem to see you but are quick to nod to the man at your tail.

“Rogers,” one intones and gets as much answer as you have so far.

The blond henchman opens the door and you flit inside. This is like a cartoon. It’s absurd. You don’t know much about these type of people, you were never into those movies. Kind of boring in your opinion and besides, this is real life.

“Hey, you’re going the wrong way,” Rogers calls as you turn left without thinking. “Up.”

He points upstairs and you turn back and nod. You show your teeth and push your shoulders up, “sorry.”

He waits and walks up at your side. Your eyes trail again to his hand. His long fingers twiddle in agitation. Would he do the same to you if you step out of line?

You trip over the top step and he catches your arm before you can topple. You suck in air, terrified, and right yourself.

“Sorry, er, thanks,” you utter.

He lets you go with a sigh and points to his right. You’re going to mess this up. God, why did Brenner send you? You’re a new accountant, you aren’t prepared for any of this. Well, they didn’t exactly offer a class on the underworld, did they?

“You’re breathing loudly,” Rogers says as he stops at a door.

You blanch and hold your breath. You look at him and blink. His brows arch.

“You can breathe, just... quietly,” he shakes his head.

He taps on the left door in the double set before you. He drops his hand to the curled candle and pushes inward. You stare at his knuckles again. He nudges you ahead of him.

You walk into the room as you wring the handles of your briefcase. There’s a man inside. Is he the big bad? Then what does that make Rogers?

You look between them and sway. Your head is spinning. You haven’t had breakfast yet.

“Buck,” Rogers says dully.

“That them?” The man behind the desk asks. His dark hair is swept back as his thick beard defines his already square jaw. He wears a silver tie and a black suit. These men might be criminals but they dress well.

“She can count,” Rogers says.

“Great,” the other man replies flatly. “And she understands?”

“She does.” Rogers assures.

Your eyes skitter back and forth. What are they talking about? What do you understand?

The man he calls Buck exhales. His eyes lower and you follow them. Once more you’re looking at the bloody knuckles.

“You been scrapping?” The man behind the desk accuses.

“Keeping order,” Rogers crosses his arms.

The other man tuts and looks at you, “what did he do?”

Your eyes round and your head swirls. You tilt your head one way then the other. You can feel Rogers watching you. You don’t know much about being bad, you’re a good girl, but you know you don’t snitch.

Again the scene plays like a reel in your head. That man’s face smeared across the pavement, the horrible sound of his ribs cracking against leather shoes.

“I... He did...” you wisp and lock your knees, “he did what needs to be done. You know... he...”

Your eyes roll back and you tip backwards. You don’t feel the crash. You sink into the black cushion of your subconscious, content to escape into the void.

You wake in a leather chair. The two men stand before you, looking down at you as your head lolls. You grumble and flutter your lashes.

“She okay?” The dark-haired man asks.

“She does that,” Rogers puts his hands on his hips. “She’s awake.”

“I can see.” The other man sneers and reaches under his jacket. You follow his hand as he rests it on his holster. You gulp at the silver butt of the handgun there. “Time for the talk,” he reaches his other arm above you and leans in. “You hear me?”

You nod as you stare at the gun.

“Look at me,” the man demands. Rogers grunts, a warning. You look into the man’s bold blue eyes. “Anyone asks you anything about me, or him, or anything that happens inside these walls, you keep your mouth shut.”

You slump as your head throbs. You feel the blackness creeping up. He snaps his fingers in front of your face.

“Stay with me here,” he says. “Look, we aren’t gonna hurt you. Not unless you give us a reason. So, you keep those lips zipped and do your work, you’re good as gold. You understand me?”

You show your teeth and nod.

“And as long as you’re working for me, you’re under my protection. Got it? Rogers will take care of you.” He pushes himself straight and turns to face the other man, “get her some water before she passes out again.”

#steve rogers #dark steve rogers #dark!steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #drabble #au #mob au #sum of all #marvel #mcu #captain america #avengers

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luimagines · 2 months ago

Note

Can I ask for FD Warriors or Sky post battle making sure Reader is ok?

Why not both?! :D

Masterlist

Content under the cut!

Warrior

He was furious.

The power coursing through his veins was intoxicating and compelling in the mortal sense of divinity.

This was a drug and the purest sense of invincibility.

Rage and fierce devotion were his only companions as it stands. They fought in the confines of his mind for control. He could keep fighting. He could continue to end the enemies that stood between his loved ones and their safety.

But the threat was no more.

Gingerly, he puts his sword away. He feels as if he is shaking.

The boys all come to him, asking his questions and attempting to get his attention to dullness of their reality. But that's currently none of his concern.

Warrior takes a deep breath, patting his brothers on the shoulders before he stalks his way through the camp.

He stops right in front of you and puts his hands on his hips. You were injured and bleeding. "you're hurt."

"I'm fine." You gasp as you attempt to shift out of your position.

Warrior shakes his head. Without prompting and without warning, he begins to tend to the gash on your arm.

"Warrior please-"

"silence."

You shut up.

Warrior takes the bandage and wraps it tightly around your bicep, not wanting it to get worse. He grits his teeth and clenches his jaw, willing himself with sheer force of will alone to keep his hands gentle.

The others wait on baited breath to see what he will do next. They are also paying extra attention to your own reactions, wanting to see how you fare dealing with the one who had donned the mask.

He finished fairly quickly and scowls at the bandage.

"It didn't insult your heritage." You say softly, taking your arm away. "Stop it."

Warrior raises an eyebrow, taking off the mask with little fan fare. He seems unbothered by the power that is sucked away from him and sealed with the wooden mask once more.

"You got hurt."

"It'll heal."

"I told you to stick to the plan."

"I'm aware that the group had elected a decision, but given that it was a stupid decision, I've elected to ignore it." You snarl back, turning away form him. You stand up in indignation and begin to storm away.

You pause and sigh in defeat before you could even take the first step.

"Thank you.... for saving my life."

"Always."

Sky

That was it. It was over. The power of gods was no longer needed.

He sighs and puts the familiar (?) weight of his sword on his back. This power was strange but not entirely foreign. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew how to use it and how to call it forth to use for his own benefit.

How fortunate, he thinks to himself for a moment, that he is not a god, nor is he on a rampage for vengence.

He feels invincible.

He looks over the carnage and walks through the fallen bodies with the same casualness as if he was on a mere Sunday stroll.

The others stare at him with varying degrees of shock and awe as he gets closer to them. They are not who he's after though. There's a specific person that eh wants to check up on and there currently no where to be found.

If he was a lesser man, he would have panicked, but with this form, he knew better. There was no voice telling him here to go. Sky has no idea why he seemed to know where he was going, but he wasn't about to question the force behind his actions.

He had saved the day by listening to them, hadn't he?

"Oh for the love of-! Sweet blueberry pie." You shout and fall silent suddenly at the sight of him. You step back, putting a hand over your fragile heart.

Sky takes a knee, putting his sword in front of him with his opposite hand. "Are you harmed, Beloved?"

You push yourself against a tree. You had attempted to create more space between you and his other worldly figure, but had only figuratively trapped yourself. You're silent. Jaw dropped and eyes widen, you find it in yourself to shake your head.

You're unharmed.

Good, Sky takes in a breath. His rather drastic attempt of turning the tides on the battle field had not been in vain.

He stands.

You slide down the bark of the tree, staring at him with an unreadable expression on your face. Sky doesn't think it's fear, but you've certainly reverted to a primitive sort of reaction.

Sky shakes his head. The call to the power is alluring and smooth. Soft and inviting.

A softer, almost imperceptivity softer curse leaves your lips.

Sky takes off the mask and wobbles on his legs for a moment. He takes a knee again, but not out of a sign of respect this time.

He's heaving.

"...Ow..." He raises his head, panting harshly. "...I'm not doing that again."

#linked universe #linked universe x reader #linkeduniverse #lu x reader #lu warrior #lu warriors #lu sky #FD sky #FD warrior

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foreverisntenough · 1 month ago

Text

‘Act II’

Summary: Attraction is like a gravitational pull that is undefinable and unavoidable. Unbeknownst to you, Jude had been keeping an eye on you since he caught a glimpse on his best friend’s girlfriend’s Instagram but he’s been loving his single life. You always were independent and know how to swim on your own but maybe you have been just treading water. Could the tides change on a holiday in Greece when you finally meet? It might get a little rocky but maybe you could be his paradise.

Index

Warnings: This series is 18+ MDNI

Note: Thank you for reading! Please be sure to like, comment, or message me what you think of the series! ‘Act II’ is interconnected to the 'You’re Mine' and 'Ours' Series but can read it independently.

Chapter 22 - 'Galería D’ange ' | ‘Act II’

word count - 10.8 k

Lunch out in Madrid with Jude, Jobe, and Toby was a lively, carefree afternoon. The café was full of laughter and teasing, a pleasant contrast to the more serious moments you’d been through recently. You’d almost forgotten about the world outside until you noticed some fans began to gather at the window, phones out, eager to catch a glimpse of Jude.

“You came back for this?” Toby leaned over with a grin, nudging you lightly teasing. You laughed, feeling the attention, and instinctively buried your face in the crook of Jude’s neck, giggling as he chuckled too, his arm slipping around you protectively.

“Obviously,” you joked, peeking up from behind Jude as Toby continued to tease. Lunch carried on with more laughs and playful jabs as you all enjoyed each other’s company. When the meal ended, the four of you wandered down a picturesque cobblestone street, the sun warming your skin but the breeze sending a shiver down your spine. The atmosphere was light, peaceful, and Madrid felt a little more like home with them by your side.

“Yo…Have you heard about the new gallery in Carabanchel?” Jobe casually mentioned as you walked. You looked at him, surprised he had.

“You? A gallery? I hadn’t” you giggled. “But why do you even know that, Jobe?” you teased, a grin spreading across your face.

“What, I can’t have interests?” He smirked.

“You can! You just didn’t tell me we had the same one. It hadn’t come up yet that’s all,” you said, laughing, hands raised in innocence. “You wanna go?”

“Yeah, why not?” Jobe shrugged, acting nonchalant. You tilted your head, narrowing your eyes suspiciously.

“Since when are you so down for stuff like this? I tried to get you to go with me one time and you said no.” You raised your brow joking but recalling a recent event you got invited to. Jobe was in town and a friend of friend invited you to an opening knowing you were now in Madrid,

��Because it was a pity invite!” Jobe yelped! Jude couldn’t go so you invited Jobe to go with you genuinely. He still was invited with or without Jule so whilst he was pretending to be offended right now… he hadn’t wanted to go that night.

“Alright alright, regardless, I think we should go today.” Jude, walking beside you, squeezed your hand and chimed in. You blinked up at him, a bit confused. Normally, you’d have to persuade him to join you on something like this, but today, both brothers seemed unusually eager.

“No…Wait… What’s going on?” You smiled. Jude grinned but didn’t give anything away.

“Nothing, just thought it’d be fun.” He quipped. You weren’t going to press. If they wanted to go look at art you were more than okay with it. With a shrug, you let it go and continued walking, Jude’s hand warm in yours. It was a sunny day but the weather was turning. It was brisk and so you had to nick Jude’s jacket off him adding a men's Saint Laurent jacket to your mini skirt, t shirt, and boots look. “You ruined my fit but I guess I’ll still go to the gallery with you, angel.” Jude teased. You giggled pushing your face into his bicep. The exchange almost distracted you from the direction change in your route. The cobblestone streets soon led you to a part of the city you loved but one you weren’t intending to go to today. You were struck by a striking green windowed wall, an old garage-style door with vibrant green window panes catching your eye. It made you smile. It reminded you of a door at your chateau. You smiled at the look of the place, appreciating the aesthetic and the familiar feeling it brought to you, but as you got closer, something seemed off. The space was completely empty, just concrete floors and nothing inside.

“Jude…” you said, your voice holding a note of suspicion. “What is this?” He stopped walking and looked at you with a mischievous smile.

“Come on then, just trust me please,” he said softly, pulling you toward the empty building. You glanced back at Jobe and Toby, who were both smiling like they knew something you didn’t.

“No… I don’t like this. What is going on?” you asked again, more curious now than anything else but not appreciating Toby and Jobe’s smugness. Jude led you closer to the empty space, his hand still firmly in yours.

“Voilà! Mon ange.” Jude cooed, leaning to whisper into your ear. You roughly could see inside, your eyes wide as you took in the space, its high ceilings and expansive windows filling the room with natural light. The charm of the old, worn exterior contrasted perfectly with the brightness and newness inside of it, and it felt like the perfect balance between something familiar and something entirely new. Before you could process it all Jude gently dropped a pair of keys into your hands before he moved behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist. You stared down at them, heart pounding. “It’s for you… for us,” he said, his voice soft and calm, but the weight of his words settled over you. He leant around you, his eyes flashing to meet yours, and there was something vulnerable in them. “I wanted you to have something here. A place that feels like you.” He said. Your breath hitched. The gesture, the thought behind it—it was overwhelming. He was offering you more than just this physical space. He was offering you a home, a way to make Madrid yours too, to build something that belonged to you both. Jude’s hand cupped your cheek as he smiled softly. “You can do whatever you want with it. Sell it, keep it, leave it empty… or,” he paused with a smirk, “my personal suggestion is you make it the secondary location of my favorite gallery in the world. What do you think?” He cooed. Your lip trembled, and before you could stop it, tears spilled down your cheeks.

“And she’s off.” Jobe, who was standing behind you, made a quip with a laugh. You barely heard him as Toby elbowed him to shut up. You were locked in your own little world, where all that mattered was Jude and the weight of what he was giving you. The thoughtfulness, the future he was offering—it all hit at once.

“Do you want to go inside?” Jude’s voice broke through your daze. You nodded, but your hands shook as you tried to steady your breath. Jude noticed and took the keys from your hand, unlocking the door himself and holding it open for you. You stepped inside, feeling the cool air from the wide, open space wash over you. Jobe and Toby followed, their usual banter quieting as they sensed the enormity of the moment. You walked a few steps into the gallery but couldn’t move any further. The reality of what this space meant, the future it held, made your knees weak.

“You good?” Toby, sensing your shock, gave your arm a gentle squeeze as he asked with a soft smile. You couldn’t respond, couldn’t do anything but stand there in disbelief. Jude had mentioned the idea of a gallery before, but you hadn’t taken it seriously. Now, standing in the middle of this space that was yours, you felt the full weight of his commitment. Jobe and Toby, sensing the need to give you two space, quickly made an excuse and headed out, leaving you and Jude alone. The second they left, your legs gave out, and you sank to the floor, your hands shaking as you tried to process it all. Jude was instantly at your side, kneeling in front of you.

“Angel…” he murmured, his hand brushing the hair from your face. “It’s just the space, there’s no pressure. I want Madrid to be our home. And your work… it’s important. It’s important to you, it’s important to me.” His voice was so sincere, so full of love. “If having a little annex here in Madrid helps us build something that feels like home, then I think it’ll be good for us.” You looked up at him through teary eyes, your bottom lip quivering as you tried to form words. His face softened as he waited patiently for you to speak. He was giving you everything, and it was almost too much to bear. “So… thoughts?” he asked gently with a smirk, trying to pull you back from the brink of your emotions.

“I love you,” you whispered, your voice cracking as more tears spilled over. “I love you so much.” Jude pulled you into his arms, his embrace warm and steady.

“C’mere, I love you too, Angel,” he whispered into your hair. “We’re going to make this our home. Together.” Jude helped you up, pulling you gently into his embrace as the two of you stood in the empty gallery space.

“Me and you.” You murmured into his chest almost silent, confirming your togetherness.

“Us against them all, yeah?” He cooed. You nodded. Normally, a space like this, with its bare walls and concrete floors, would feel cold and impersonal. But in Jude’s arms, it felt warm, alive. His presence, his heartbeat against you, made this gallery the most beautiful it would ever be, even in its emptiness. He looked down at you, his cheeky smile making your heart flutter. “I thought of a name… if you’d want to hear it,” he said, eyes twinkling.

“Okay, go on” you said, your curiosity piqued. The moment broken by your soft giggles, leaning into his warmth.

“Galería D’ange,” he said with a playful grin, stumbling over the Spanish and French words. His attempt was endearing, and you couldn’t help but laugh. It was so Jude, and it melted you inside. Your eyes lit up with amusement and affection as the sweetness of the name settled in your mind. But then, Jude’s face softened into something more serious, his gaze intent as he continued. “And then we’ll add the ‘of Y/L/N New York,’ you know? Make it yours, connect to your gallery back there.” He told you. You blinked, processing his words as the reality of what he was saying sunk in.

“Galería D’ange of Y/L/N New York,” you repeated slowly, the name rolling off your tongue with meaning. It was perfect. It was you. It was him. It was everything the two of you had built together, now grounded in something tangible and lasting. This was your life—intertwined with his, filled with love and adventure, and now, with a space to call your own. “Babyyyy,” you whined, overwhelmed with emotion, but your smile was radiant. “Perfect. Parfait. Perfecto,” you giggled, switching between all three languages with playful enthusiasm. Jude chuckled softly at your reaction, the warmth of his laugh spreading through you. “Thank you,” you whispered, your heart swelling with gratitude. You leaned in, kissing him deeply, your hands sliding up to his face as you pulled him closer, pouring all the love you felt for him into that kiss. When you pulled back, you gazed up at him with glistening eyes, unable to fully express how much this moment, this gesture, meant to you. But you didn’t need to. Jude knew, and the way he looked back at you, as if you were his whole world, said everything. So you stood there in the middle of the empty gallery, the air around you buzzing with quiet emotion as you held onto Jude tightly. The tears on your cheeks felt never-ending, your nose pressed into his shirt as you sniffled. His arms wrapped around you, steady and grounding, as if he were trying to physically hold together the emotions between you.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but this really shouldn’t…” You trailed off, your voice cracking with the weight of how deeply overwhelmed you felt. “It shouldn’t work.” You finished your sentiment. Jude understood what you meant. You weren’t questioning the relationship, you were complimenting how unreal it was that you were finding success Looking up at him, your eyes wide and filled with adoration, you pouted. “Why are you like this?” you asked with a pout, barely above a whisper. “You’re the sweetest boy in the whole world.” Your hands found their way to his face, cupping his cheek as your thumb brushed gently against his skin. He closed his eyes for a moment, leaning into your touch, as if he were savoring every second of the connection. And when he opened them again, your heart flipped. His gaze was soft, yet intense, filled with so much love that it made you feel like the luckiest person alive. He was so gorgeous, inside and out, and right then you were certain of everything.

“It works because I love you,” he said, his words carrying a weight that made your chest tighten. “And no newspaper, no tweet, or even ocean can keep me from loving you.” Jude’s voice was low but steady, filled with unwavering certainty. His eyes held yours, and for a moment, the world felt like it had stilled completely. “I want you with me,” he continued, his voice soft yet firm. “Whatever you need, whatever you want—I’ll take care of it. I’ll take care of you, Angel. For the rest of my life.” You stood there, holding him in the stillness of the empty gallery, the city sounds faint and distant outside. It was just the two of you, wrapped in each other’s presence, as the moment stretched into something timeless. Tears continued to slip down your cheeks only slower, but there was a warmth in your heart that overtook the fear and uncertainty. You pressed closer to him, your body melting into his, and in that quiet space—empty, yet so full of promise—you stayed, holding onto the one person who made you feel safe in the storm.

Time had passed since Jude gave you Galería D’ange. It was like the gallery built a damn blocking anything from the past from getting to you and Jude and today was just another day behind it. You held Jude tightly in the middle of the shop, your arms naturally wrapping around his waist as he reached up onto a shelf to grab something.

“Angel, let go for a minute, yeah? I need to reach the shelf.” His warm laughter filled the small space as he gently teased. You blinked, realizing you hadn’t even noticed how close you were, how your body instinctively pressed into him, as if you couldn’t bear to be apart for even a moment. With a soft laugh, you apologized, reluctantly letting him go, though the warmth lingered between you. Things were so good—almost terrifyingly good, like you were waiting for the other shoe to drop. But you tried not to think about that. You let yourself stay in the warmth of these moments, the mundane sweetness of just being together. You were out running errands, something so ordinary but so full of meaning when you did it with him. A few people had stopped Jude for photos as you wandered through the streets, smiling and nodding politely as he interacted with the fans. It wasn’t overwhelming, not today. Just a few brief interactions, faces lighting up when they saw him, quick requests for a picture or a signature. It was part of the rhythm of your life now. After the shop, you stopped for coffee, the two of you slipping into a quiet corner of the café. But even in the hushed space, life had a way of reminding you of its presence. As you sat across from Jude, the faint sound of a camera shutter echoed, a flash going off accidentally as a girl tried to take a picture of her coffee. Or maybe it wasn’t an accident. It definitely wasn’t. Either way, it didn’t matter. She glanced your way apologetically, realizing she’d been caught. You gave her a small smile in return, understanding that this was life now—moments of hazy bliss with Jude, sliced through by interactions with strangers, with cameras, with glimpses of the outside world that never quite went away. But Madrid had become your home. You’d moved there primarily, letting New York slip into the background. You’d go back maybe quarterly, only when necessary, but that house nestled just outside the city with Jude—that was home. The kind of home you could breathe in. Where you could wrap yourself around him as much as you liked, no cameras, no interruptions. Just you and Jude, and the life you were building, piece by piece, moment by moment… And on occasion Denise would pop back in too. But today it was just the two of you. As you walked back to the car, the last whispers of summer clung to the air, the warmth still lingering just enough to remind you of the heat, though the crisp bite of autumn was making its steady, inevitable arrival. Madrid had that way of feeling alive during these in-between moments, where the seasons shifted, and the city’s energy matched the change. You tucked the jumper of Jude’s you were in tighter around you, enjoying the cool breeze that swirled around the street. Jude walked beside you, his hand brushing yours as you made your way toward the car. Ever the gentleman, he reached for the door handle, but not before planting a soft kiss on your temple, his lips lingering just long enough to make you smile. The moment was sweet, simple, until you felt the playful slap on your ass. He laughed, full and bright, watching your reaction.

“Jude!” you whined, rolling your eyes dramatically as you shot him a mock glare. “We’re in public!” You dropped your head to the side pouting.

“Sorry, couldn’t resist angel,” he teased, his grin unapologetic. “Look leng today.” He smirked. With an exaggerated sigh, you slid into the driver’s seat, sending him a sarcastic shake of the head.

“Thanks so much for that,” You cooed as he shut the door behind you. Of course, you were the one driving—again. This had become part of your dynamic, one that the public, and his fans especially, had picked up on. Jude, for all his skills on the pitch, was still absolutely useless behind the wheel, and you had teased him about it endlessly. He rounded the car, sliding into the passenger seat, completely unbothered by the fact that he was always chauffeured around by you. As you pulled out of the parking lot, heading home, the atmosphere between you was light, carefree. It was one of those days where everything felt just easy—running errands together, grabbing coffee, and soaking in the simplicity of it all. It was as normal as it could get. These were the moments you loved most, the ones that felt like a pause button on the chaos of your lives. But as the city blurred by outside the window, the buzz of Jude’s phone filled the car, and you saw him scrolling through something on social media. He chuckled under his breath, shaking his head as he scrolled faster, clearly amused by whatever he was seeing.

“What’s so funny?” you asked, glancing over as he leaned back in his seat, a sly grin creeping onto his face. He turned the phone toward you, and there it was—the video. Someone had filmed your entire little exchange back in the parking lot. The kiss, the ass slap, your mock protest, all of it. And it was already making the rounds online. The comments were blowing up. Boys were praising Jude, hyping him up for being so cheeky. Girls were half-swooning, half-scolding him in a mix of affection and exasperation. But then there was the real fan conversation that seemed to be dominating the thread—the one about his driving, or more accurately, his lack of driving.

‘Why can Jude still not drive? That’s a full adult ’

One tweet read, with endless replies echoing the same sentiment. It was a long-running joke at this point, one that had taken on a life of its own. Jude clicked his tongue, visibly annoyed but amused all the same.

“Nah, see… when are you actually going to teach me to drive? I’m just getting rinsed online at this point. They’re ruthless,” he said, glancing at you with a mix of frustration and playfulness. You couldn’t help but giggle, the sound bubbling up despite yourself.

“Wait, that’s what you’re concerned about? Not the fact that people are talking about you smacking my ass in public?” He shot you a serious look, his brows furrowed as if this was an actual pressing issue.

“Yes. Everyone knows I can’t drive. It’s like a national crisis at this point.” He scrolled through more of the comments, his eyes scanning them casually as if he wasn’t slightly stung by the teasing. “But our relationship? That’s private. They don’t know anything about that.” Your eyes widened as you raised an eyebrow, leaning back against the seat.

“Private, huh? Jude, you kissed me, then slapped my ass. So private,” you said, your voice dripping with sarcasm. He shrugged, completely unbothered.

“I can be way sweeter than opening the car door for you,” he said nonchalantly, scrolling through more tweets. “And I can definitely be rougher than tapping your ass.” You blinked, not expecting that. Your eyebrow raised higher as you studied him, waiting for the smirk you knew was coming. But Jude just kept scrolling, not looking up, completely casual about the whole thing, as if he’d just said something totally normal.

“Oh, really?” you asked, your voice low, teasing. Finally, he looked up, locking eyes with you, his expression softening into that playful grin you knew too well.

“Really, angel,” he said, the edge of his voice teasing, but there was something earnest behind it. He reached over and brushed his hand against your thigh, his touch light, but the warmth of it lingered. His smile grew, and it was one of those rare moments where the public and the private blurred, and you realized how much of your relationship was still yours, still hidden away from the world, even with all the prying eyes.

“You’re unbelievable.” You shook your head, trying to hold back a laugh. He leaned back, satisfied with himself, and scrolled through the last few tweets with a sigh.

“All I’m saying is, one driving lesson would solve this whole thing. They’d have nothing left to clown me about.” He explained seriously. You shot him a look.

“Jude, I love you, but the way you panic at a roundabout… I’m not sure I’m the right person to teach you.” His face lit up with mock offense, a hand flying to his chest.

“Roundabouts are stressful! It’s like driving in circles for no reason, angel.” You couldn’t hold back the laughter anymore. The absurdity of it all—the fact that Jude, this world-famous footballer, was more concerned about his lack of driving skills being roasted online than the viral video of your intimate little moment—made you laugh so hard, you had to concentrate a bit harder on keeping your focus on the road.

“Okay, okay,” you said between laughs, “we’ll do some lessons. But no promises you’ll end up with a license.” You cooed. He grinned, leaning over to plant a kiss on your cheek.

“Deal. But for now, you can keep driving. I like having my chauffeur.” He smirked. You shot him a playful glare, but the truth was, you didn’t mind. These moments—the teasing, the banter, the simplicity of just being with him—made all the noise from the outside world fade away. This was home. And that was enough.

"So, rough, huh?" you teased Jude later that evening recalling his joke earlier after the shops. You were leaning against the bathroom counter as you got ready for bed. The playful smirk tugging at your lips was impossible to hide. Jude, mid-motion of pulling his shirt over his head, paused just enough to catch your eye in the mirror, his grin widening as he tossed the shirt to the side. He turned to face you, that mischievous look in his eye lighting a fire that you'd become all too familiar with. Things had been-well, let's just say spicy between you lately. With no hectic long distance travel schedules and the nights together stacking up, except for the odd away game, you and Jude had spent a lot of time wrapped up in each other. Not just in the bedroom, either-pretty much anywhere had become fair game at this point. The frequency had ramped up in a way that left you both breathless and constantly looking for the next moment to be alone. The scrutiny online about your relationship, the constant public attention, it only seemed to fuel the fire between you. It was as if the more people speculated and watched, the more determined you both were to shut out the world and claim each other, over and over again. Your relationship had found new life through this physical closeness, this undeniable pull toward each other. You weren’t sure you could possibly be more in love with him-this intensely connected, both emotionally and physically. And the sex? Well, it had taken on a life of its own. You were both impossibly horny all the time, a constant heat simmering between you, and it felt like no matter how much time you spent together, it was never enough. You found yourself stealing glances, teasing touches, small moments that quickly spiraled into more. It wasn't just a phase either. It had become your new normal, and you weren't complaining -except maybe for the fact that you couldn't seem to get enough. Your mind was often preoccupied with when you'd get your next fix, your next stolen moment with Jude. The real concern, though, the one in retrospect probably should’ve been entertaining more, was whether you were keeping up with your birth control. But honestly, having to drag yourself upstairs to grab a pill from the nightstand at 9:00 p.m. when you were cuddled downstairs with Jude felt like such an inconvenience. Especially when his arm was draped over your waist, and his lips were finding that perfect spot on your neck that made you melt. It was hard to care about practicalities when life felt this good, when he felt this good. Every kiss, every touch-it was like a drug, and you were both addicted. You couldn't help but wonder if this was what it felt like to be in the perfect moment, where everything aligned just right, and nothing outside the two of you mattered. Jude stepped closer to you now, his hand sliding up your arm as he leaned down, his lips brushing just beneath your ear.

"Oh, you have no idea," he whispered, his voice low, teasing, sending shivers down your spine.

You turned to face him fully, biting your lip, your heart racing in anticipation. His eyes sparkled with that playful, knowing look as he reached for you, pulling you against him. The warmth of his skin, the way his body molded to yours, it was almost too much-and yet, it was never enough.

"Care to remind me?" you teased, your voice breathless, the words barely slipping past your lips before he kissed you, deep and slow, pulling you into the kind of moment that you'd found yourself living for lately. Life was good. Jude was even better. Suddenly the bathroom mirrors fogged up with steam, blurring your reflection after you and Jude had fallen into each other once again. He fucked you in the shower till he was dripping out of you. You both knew you were being reckless lately, but the thrill of it all kept you repeating it again and again. It was as if you'd created your own little world within these four walls, a world where pleasure and desire reigned supreme. You locked eyes with Jude through the haze, his brown eyes sparkling with mischief. He looks so fucking sexy, his frame glistening with water droplets from the hot shower. Your heart raced as you began to anticipate what was about to happen again, knowing very well that Jude could make you feel things no one else ever could, and you knew that because he just showed you moments ago. As he stepped out of the shower, his tanned skin contrasted with the white bath towel wrapped around his waist. You bit your lip as you watched him approach you, his eyes never leaving yours. The towel accentuating his muscular physique, you couldn’t help but admire the way his abs flexed as he moved.

"Not done with you, angel. Can't keep my hands off you," he whispered, his voice low and husky. You giggled, a playful glint in your eyes.

"Okay. Come here, baby. Give me some more of you.” You smirked. Arousal flooding your veins all over again. He grinned, revealing his perfect pearly white teeth.

“Starting to push the limits here, innit? Endless rounds and rounds, and you keep begging for more.” Jude cooed. He was teasing a bit but you both knew there was a slight undercurrent of irresponsibility in what you were doing.

“Are you complaining?” You teased moving past any possible practical concern with a raised brow, dropping your own towel off your body.

“Nah, never. You’re just too fucking good f’me. I could never stop wanting more of you.” His hands moved towards you magnetically, his hands then brushing up and down your sides, making goosebumps rise on your skin. You nodded, already feeling a little breathless.

"I can't help it. You make me feel so good." You whined with a frown as you reached for Jude’s towel, and with a swift motion, you let it drop to the floor, revealing his hard cock. Your eyes widened at the sight, your mouth watering. He was thick and long, a masterpiece of male anatomy.

"Let me make you feel good again, angel. I want more of you," he growled, his voice filled with desire. You didn't need any more encouragement for things to kick off again. But in opposition to Jude’s ideas you hummed a ‘mmnhmm’ with a cheeky shake of the head. In a quick but smooth succession, you dropped to your knees, your hands reaching out to stroke his length. The skin was hot and silky under your touch, and you could feel a rush of power as you took control. "Oh yeah, baby?" he moaned questioning your decision to take more of him as your fingers wrapped around him. "That's it, take what’s yours." Your fingers moved up and down, teasing the sensitive tip, making Jude's breath catch. You leaned in, your lips brushing against the head of his cock, tasting the salty pre-cum that glistens there. "Fuck, YN," he groans. "Your mouth... I need it." Jude was a mess. Neither of you could be satiated lately, and he, right now, was proving just that and thankfully, you didn't need to be told twice. With a sultry smile, you took him into your mouth, swirling your tongue around the head, savoring the taste of him. Jude's hands dove into your hair, gripping gently as he encouraged you to take more of him. "That's it, suck me off, angel," he pants. "Deeper, baby, let me feel you." You obliged, taking him deeper, your throat opening to accommodate his girth. Your eyes watered slightly, but the pleasure on Jude's face kept you going. His moans filling the room. You knew exactly how Jude liked head by this point in your relationship. It was almost down to a silence. As you sucked and stroked, Jude's hips began to thrust gently, meeting your mouth with each forward motion. The wet sounds of pleasure filled the bathroom, mixing with the steam and the scent of sex. "Fuck. I'm gonna cum, Y/N," he warned, his voice tight with restraint. "Fuck.”

"I wan’ it... all of it." You pulled back briefly looking up at him with lust-filled eyes, a string of salvia still connecting you to him. And so moments later, with a final, powerful thrust, Jude came, his hot cum flowed down your throat. You swallowed eagerly, savoring the taste of him, not wanting to waste a drop. He groaned, his body trembling as the orgasm washed over him.

"Fuck, that was so good," he breathed heavily, pulling you up for a deep kiss. You kissed him back, tasting yourself on his lips, and feeling his passion ignite yours.

"Come on, baby. I want more of you still. Bed now," you whispered commandingly against his mouth. Jude's eyes lit up with excitement. He was thrilled you wanted to keep going. As you entered the bedroom, the soft sheets beckoning, you both knew this was just the beginning of another session. You pushed Jude onto the bed, his back against the headboard, you straddled his waist, your wet pussy already aching for him.

"You wanna ride me," he urged, his hands cupping your tits, thumbs flicking over your sensitive nipples. You leaned forward, your hands on his chest for support as you began to grind your hips, feeling his hard cock slide along your slick folds. Your tits bouncing with each movement, Jude's eyes darkening with desire. "That's it, angel, show me how much you want it," he encouraged, his hands moving down to grip your hips, guiding your movements. You moaned, the sensation of his cock rubbing against your clit drove you wild. “Tell me how bad you need my cock.” You could feel your pussy throb as he teased you. You begged him to fuck you whimpering.

“Jude please. Please fuck me. I want you,” you whined causing Jude to smile smugly. He lined his cock up with your entrance but kept you hovering above him, not allowing you to sit down.

“I know.” He cooed as you sank down. He stretched you perfectly. You breathed slowly as he filled you. He held his same smug grin watching the pleasure on your face. “Such a good girl f’me. Just like that, baby.” He was enjoying watching you but his own feelings had him struggling to keep his eyes from rolling back. As you grinded on him, Jude knew this was a feeling he could never replace. His hands slid up your waist to grip your tits as they bounced with every movement. You leant back, your hands behind you for support, and begin to ride him with purpose, your pussy engulfing his length with each downward thrust.

"Fuck, you feel so good," You whimpered as his hands squeezed your ass, urging you on. The pace quickened, and your moans filled the room as you rode him harder, your pussy clenching around his shaft. Jude's hands move to your thighs, spreading them wider, giving him deeper access.

"That's it, let me feel that tight pussy," he grunted, his own control slipping as he met your downward thrusts with powerful upward strokes. The sensation was incredible, and you could feel your orgasm building, your body trembling with anticipation. Jude's eyes locked with yours, his gaze intense and loving. "Cum for me, angel," he whispered, his voice hoarse with desire. "Let go, I wanna feel you." He told you. You whimpered, your body tightening as the pleasure peaked.

"Oh, fuck Jude... I'm..." Your words were lost as your orgasm hit, your pussy convulsing around his cock, milking him as waves of pleasure wash over you. Jude's hips bucked off the bed, driving his cock somehow deeper inside you as he came with a roar, filling you with his hot release this time in a different way. In the aftermath, you collapsed onto his chest, both of you breathing heavily. He wrapped his arms around you, holding you close, his lips trailing kisses along your neck.

"I love you so much angel," he whispered, his voice filled with adoration. "You're my everything." You smiled, snuggling closer, feeling the warmth of his body and the wetness between your thighs.

"I love you Jude. This... was…we... are so good at that." You giggled, hiding your face. He hummed in agreement kissing your hair

And so as it goes, life was good all until it wasn’t. All it took was one tweet.

‘All I’m saying is since that girl showed up Jude Bellingham has been shite. Save some energy for the games, mate.’

It felt like you’d read this exact tweet hundreds of times but apparently this one carried firepower and it brewed a whole debate online, for weeks. And so it was declared Jude’s form had been off—at least, that’s what everyone was saying. The press, the fans, the analysts. And somehow, as ridiculous as it sounded, you were the one they blamed. You’d become a convenient story for them, something to latch onto when the statistics didn’t add up the way they wanted. Even the most reputable pundits asking if his personal life or is the spotlight affecting him. Sure, Jude had been playing well, but his goals and assists were down compared to last season, and people needed someone to point fingers at. The narrative spun out of control in the way only a media frenzy could. It wasn’t new to you. But somehow, this time it stung a little more. You didn’t like that people were being rude to your Jude. It made you sad. You didn’t want to inflict that type of hurt on him and so… you hide. Tonight, you were at the Bernabéu. You’d come early, as usual, trying to stay out of the spotlight as much as possible. The stadium was slowly filling with fans, the energy building in that electric way it always did before kickoff. The roar of the crowd was still a murmur at this stage, the steady hum of anticipation floating through the air. You found your spot far in the back of the box, standing as you always did, eyes squinting to make out the figures of the players warming up on the pitch below. From here, Jude was just another one of the players, moving through his drills, stretching, shaking off the tension that always seemed to cling to the start of a game. This had become your routine, this quiet, removed place where you could watch without the weight of all those eyes on you. In a way, it was your safe zone—a place where you could feel present for Jude but shielded from the noise. From the stories. From the judgment. You shifted on your feet, feeling the cool metal railing beneath your hands as you leaned forward just slightly, trying to focus on Jude and not the knot in your stomach. It was hard to ignore the things people said sometimes, even when you knew they weren’t true. But before you could sink too deep into your thoughts, you felt a hand on your arm. Firm but gentle, the touch snapped you back to reality. You turned to see Denise standing there, her expression sharp but filled with concern. She didn’t say anything at first, just pulled you slightly toward her, her grip softening as she looked you in the eye.

“Hun…enough,” she finally said, her voice low but carrying the weight of everything unsaid. “You are not here for them. You’re here to support Jude. And you can’t do that from back here.” You blinked, trying to find a response, but nothing came. Denise didn’t wait for you to argue. She grabbed your hand and tugged you toward the front of the box, toward the seats you’d been avoiding. There was no point resisting; when Denise had made up her mind about something, it was best to just go along with it. And truthfully, you knew she was right. She sat you down next to her, her hand never leaving yours as if she knew you needed the grounding. Her tone softened, the edge replaced by something warmer, more maternal. She was incredibly sweet with you but you knew she’d always been tough, protective in her own way, and over time she had come to treat you like one of her own, the toughness included. You could feel that in moments like this. “Do you know the surname on your back?” she asked, her gaze steady. You looked at her, caught off guard by the question, but you nodded. Of course, you did. You wore that name every time you stepped into this stadium, whether or not you realized it. “You’re either part of this family or not. You decide.” She said it bluntly but you knew it wasn’t meant as a threat but as a reminder. Still, her words struck a chord deep inside you. You were part of this family—Jude’s family, but also this team, this life. You hadn’t chosen the spotlight, but it came with the territory, and Denise was reminding you of that in the most direct way possible. This wasn’t about the press, or the stories people told, or the numbers on a scoreboard. It was about standing beside Jude, even when things felt overwhelming. You couldn’t help but smile at her. It was a small, grateful smile, one that said more than words could. Denise nodded, satisfied, before she wrapped her arm around you, pulling you close in that protective, motherly way she had. She kissed your temple softly, a quiet show of affection that made you feel both cared for and understood. As you settled into the seat, you felt the weight of a few eyes turning toward you. People noticed, of course they did. In this world, you were never truly invisible. The whispers and glances might come, but sitting here now, next to Denise, you realized something: it was okay. Let them look, let them whisper. You weren’t here for them. You were here for Jude. You straightened up a little, your back pressing firmly against the seat as the crowd roared louder, signaling the match was about to begin. The tension in your chest eased ever so slightly as the players lined up on the field. You could see Jude now, clear as day, and for the first time tonight, you didn’t feel the need to hide. This was where you belonged, and it would have to be enough.

Since the series came out, Jude had become, if possible, more clingy with you, though the internet had it all wrong. People assumed that with his fame, his talent, and the endless attention he received, he didn’t need you to ground him, that he was the star and you were just along for the ride. But in truth, Jude believed he needed you to perform, to thrive on and off the pitch. Jude was struggle despite the fact that he wasn’t playing badly, you both knew that and so did the more seasoned football fans too. But you also both knew the scrutiny was part of the job, but it didn’t make it any easier. Jude was always a target. If he wasn’t scoring or assisting every game, the critics were quick to pounce. It was exhausting, but you had your own ways of supporting him through it all, grounding him when the outside noise became too loud. Jude’s clinginess had always been endearing, even if the public rarely saw it. They had this image of him—self-sufficient, confident, the superstar who didn’t need anyone. But in reality, behind all the headlines and highlight reels, Jude leaned on you more than anyone could guess. He wasn’t shy about it, either. To him, you weren’t just his partner; you were part of his success, his comfort, his why. Every day was a reminder of that, in small ways that meant everything. Your presence had become a part of his routine, the glue that held everything together for him.

Take this morning. He was mid-set in the gym, his arms straining as he pushed through the reps, sweat dripping down his face. Often, you’d sit on the floor of your home gym while he worked out, chatting away as he powered through reps, his eyes occasionally glancing your way for a quick grin, your words acting like background music to his workout. He swore it helped him focus. He needed you there. Today was no different, you sat on a yoga mat, leaning against the wall, scrolling idly through your phone while chatting with him, explaining some drama Winnie was in. He’d glance over between sets, grinning like a boy who couldn’t get enough of the sound of your voice, as if it was the only thing keeping him grounded during the workout. But sometimes you wouldn’t say anything at all, you’d just watch. Your presence enough for him.

“You’re staring again,” he muttered teasingly, mid-lift, his breath labored but full of amusement.

“Who says I’m staring?” you shot back with a smirk, not even bothering to deny it.

“I can feel it,” he replied, his lips twitching into a smile as he set the weight down and shook his arms out. “Keeps me going, though.”

And that was just the start. Then, there were the breakfasts you made for him before training. He’d follow you into the kitchen, waiting as you made him breakfast—his usual, the one you’d perfected over the months. It was always the same, exactly how he liked it. And no matter how many people offered to do it for him—a chef, his mum—he insisted that only your cooking was right. It was part of the ritual, part of his connection to you, and through that, his connection to the game. You once tried to tell him someone else should* handle but Jude had immediately vetoed the idea.

“Nah,” he said, shaking his head. “They wouldn’t make it like you do.” It wasn’t just the food. It was you. He was playing well—anyone with a proper eye for the game knew that. He wasn’t putting up these astronomical numbers in goals or assists, but he was solid, consistent, and crucial to the team’s strategy. Still, that didn’t stop the critics from coming for him whenever they could. That kind of pressure could break anyone. But not Jude—not as long as he had you by his side. And you knew he felt that. You could see it in the way he sought you out after games, his eyes scanning the stands, always finding yours, as if that was the moment he could finally exhale. With the international break around the corner, you felt a twinge of relief. It was always an intense period, with Jude off representing England. He was proud to pull on that jersey, but the added strain on his body was undeniable. You’d spent nights massaging the knots out of his back, watching him ice his knees after long stretches of games. He was fit, sure, but the game took its toll, and you could see the wear in moments of quiet, when he finally let down the walls. Still, the two of you were eagerly looking forward to this particular break for one reason: the draw. England versus France. The very idea of it lit a spark in both of you, not just for the magnitude of the match, but for everything it represented. Paris wasn’t just another city for you—it was a place loaded with history, with meaning. This international break there was something extra to look forward to. The two of you had been eagerly anticipating the draw, and now it was official. The game would be at that little old place on Rue du Commandant Guilbaud, Parc des Princes in Paris. December would bring cold air and frosty breaths, the perfect atmosphere for a match that was sure to be icy with tension between the two countries. The history, the rivalry, it all made the stakes feel even higher. You could already imagine it—friends and family in the stands, the energy electric, your heart racing as you pulled on Jude’s England jersey, feeling the weight of it, the pride, the love, but slight fear because you knew Louis was going to kill you when he saw you in the kit. You grew up going to Parc des Princes but you hadn’t been in ages. The nostalgia was already pulling at your heartstrings, memories of the city swirling in your mind. But more than anything, you were excited to be there for him. To stand in the cold Parisian air, bundled up, but warm with pride as Jude stepped onto that familiar pitch, surrounded by tension and anticipation. This wasn’t just another match. It felt bigger, more meaningful. For Jude, for you. And you couldn’t wait to be there, standing by him as always, ready to watch him shine, knowing that no matter what, you were part of his every win, every challenge, every moment.

“oh mon Dieu. I’m so so so excited, baby,” you said one night seeing the fixture announced on Instagram as you curled up beside Jude on the couch, his arm draped lazily over your shoulder. “Feels like ages since we’ve been in Paris together.” You smiled jumping over your last Parisian memories with Whitney and instead skipping to recall better times with Jude. He smiled, pulling you closer.

“Feels like ages since we’ve done anything that wasn’t football-related.” He cheekily smiled a little annoyed at the fact that you were going for his work but also eagerly anticipating what was going to happen on this trip.

“You’re not wrong,” you agreed, letting your fingers trace small circles on his chest. “But this match… Jude, it’s sweet. It’s like us..” You smile. His expression softened, a mix of pride and excitement. The darkness of the room wrapped around you both like a cocoon. “England versus France. December in Paris. The crowd, the atmosphere…” Jude’s hand slid across your waist, pulling you closer until your head rested against his chest. You smiled against his skin, your heart full.

“Big weekend, innit?” He smiled but his heart was pounding. His voice was a soft rumble in the quiet of the room. You nodded none the wiser. He had plans for that weekend and he was stressed about much more than the game. “And my angel will be there f’me. Wearing my shirt, hmm?” He cooed, kissing your hair a few times. You laughed, nudging him playfully.

“Of course, likely freezing my ass off but I wouldn’t miss a chance to see my favorite player in the world. I’ll even brave the Parisian winter for it.” You giggled.

“Such a martyr,” he teased, kissing the top of your head.

“I cant’t wait to see Kylian play, Aurel and Cama too, you know?” You giggled and Jude kissed his teeth.

“Honestly. Just so rude. Can’t wear my kit anymore. Get one of your little French boys to give you a jersey.” He feigned offense. You kissed his neck with a giggled, squeezing him in a bone crushing cuddle. It was all in good humor because the truth was, you’d do anything for him, and he knew it even beat your own heritage. The match itself was already steeped in tension—the rivalry between England and France, the history, the weight of national pride. The Parc des Princes had always held a special place for you but this time, it wasn’t just about the past. It was about now. It was about Jude, about watching him in the jersey that meant the world to him, feeling the weight of his name on your back as you stood in the crowd. There was something magical about it, something that felt different from all the other matches. Maybe it was the nostalgia of Paris, or maybe it was the fact that after all the scrutiny and pressure, this match felt like an opportunity for Jude to remind everyone who he was. And you’d be there, as you always were, bundled up in the cold, feeling every ounce of pride and love for the man who had your heart. Jude might have been the star, the one everyone watched, but the truth was, the game—his game—wasn’t the same without you.

With the break fast approaching you were worried about Jude’s body, more now than ever before. The season was relentless—game after game, with no real break in sight, and every added match meant another 90-plus minutes of strain on his already taxed muscles and joints. His shoulder, his ankle, his knee… they all weighed heavily on your mind. The problem was, Jude would never admit if something wasn’t right. He always brushed off your concerns, telling you he was fine, that it was just part of the game. But you could see it—the subtle winces when he stood too quickly, the extra time he took to stretch in the mornings, the way he sometimes favored one leg over the other when he thought you weren’t looking. And yet, lately, it wasn’t just Jude’s physical state that had you worried. There was something going on with you too. You felt so achy, this unfamiliar heaviness lingering in your limbs. By the afternoons, your energy was completely drained, leaving you groggy and fighting to keep your eyes open. And then there was your body. You’d been brushing it off for weeks, but you couldn’t ignore it anymore—your jeans didn’t fit quite right, not like they used to. They were tighter around your waist, your hips, and no matter how many times you told yourself it was just bloating or stress, the little voice in the back of your mind whispered something different. It was the reason why that trip upstairs at 9 p.m. to get your birth control had suddenly become so important again. For weeks, you’d been a little careless, caught up in the whirlwind of life with Jude, in the physical intensity of your relationship. It had been too easy to forget, to prioritize the comfort of cuddling on the couch over getting up and grabbing the pill. But now, you couldn’t brush it off. You couldn’t let it slip for one more night. The problem was, the thought that had been creeping into the edges of your mind—the one that you were now terrified to even entertain—scared you. It was a fear you weren’t quite ready to acknowledge, let alone say out loud. Because if you did… what then? You sat on the couch beside Jude that night, your head resting against his shoulder as he scrolled through his phone, oblivious to the storm of thoughts swirling in your mind. His body was warm and steady against you, his presence always a source of comfort. But tonight, comfort felt elusive. Your thoughts kept drifting back to how off you’d felt lately, how your body seemed to be betraying you, sending you signals you weren’t ready to interpret. You knew you needed to make that walk upstairs to your nightstand, to pop that tiny pill and push the thought out of your mind. But for the first time in weeks, you weren’t sure if it was already too late.

“Everything okay in there, angel? You’ve been quiet tonight.” Jude’s voice broke through your spiraling thoughts, pulling you back to the present. His finger coming to tap on your temple gently but teasingly. You forced a smile, looking up at him.

“Yeah, just tired, that’s all.” You admitted a half truth. He kissed your temple where his fingers were, his lips lingering there for a moment, his breath warm against your skin.

“You sure? You’ve seemed off lately.” Your heart skipped a beat at how easily he could read you, even when you weren’t ready to admit anything. You nodded, not trusting yourself to say much more. Jude was already dealing with so much—his body, the pressure of the season, the upcoming international matches. The last thing you wanted to do was add to his stress. But as you sat there, wrapped up in his warmth, you couldn’t help but feel the weight of uncertainty pressing down on you. Something was happening. You just weren’t sure what it was yet. And that terrified you more than anything. The night was quiet, the soft hum of the television the only sound filling the room as you cuddled into Jude’s side. After the international break games had been announced, Paris—Parc des Princes—was where Jude’s thoughts had been circling for days. He was focused on upcoming fixtures but also what was meant to happen outside of those match days. You could feel his excitement simmering just beneath the surface, even if tonight, he was calm, content just being there with you. As you shifted, settling deeper into the couch, Jude’s voice cut through the stillness again.

“I was thinking,” he began, his tone thoughtful but easy. “Do you think your dad would want to come to the match? I’d really like to invite him.” Jude cooed. You blinked, surprised.

“Yeah, I’m sure he’d love that. I can tell him—” You cooed almost instinctively, it was sweet but you were not really thinking about it much. Jude gently placed a hand on your arm, stopping you mid-sentence.

“Nah, angel.” he said softly but firmly. “I mean I want to invite him myself.” His words hung in the air, and you pulled back slightly, sitting up, studying his face. There was something deeper in his request, something more personal than just an invitation to watch him play. For a second, you felt touched by how important it was to him. But then, like a wave crashing over you, the thought hit hard: What if something’s wrong? Your mind started to spiral. All the little signs—the achiness, the strange grogginess, the tightness of your jeans—they all seemed to be pointing in one direction, a direction you weren’t ready to consider. What if… you were… no surely not. The thought made your stomach churn. You suddenly felt a bit sick, not from any physical symptom, but from the sheer weight of the possibility. Seeing your family, especially in Paris, suddenly felt like a mountain you weren’t ready to climb. You pictured sitting across from them, the warmth of wine glasses being passed around, the ease with which they would pour you a glass without question. In your family, wine wasn’t just a drink—it was tradition, hospitality, connection. Refusing a glass would raise eyebrows. They’d notice, they’d ask questions, and how would you explain that? You couldn’t decide which option was worse: taking a test and confirming your fears, or sitting through a meal with your family, knowing you might be hiding something so monumental. “Angel?” You must’ve gone quiet for too long because Jude’s brow furrowed in concern. You nodded quickly, trying to shake off the dizziness of your thoughts.

“Yeah, yeah, sorry. I’m fine. Just thinking.” You forced a smile, still trying to process his request. “It’s sweet, Jude, but… You don’t have to do all that, why do you want to ask him yourself?” Jude didn’t hesitate. He looked at you with the kind of sincerity that always made your heart skip a beat.

“It’s a big deal for me to have people at my games and not just there as spectators but I want them there as family, as friends. Your dad… he’s important to you, so he’s important to me. I’d love for him to be there as someone I invited, someone who’s part of my or our world.” His words softened the edges of your anxiety for a moment, his thoughtfulness tugging at something deep inside you. You knew your dad would appreciate that gesture. He wasn’t the kind of man who liked to use his name or status to get into fancy places. He didn’t care for the fuss of hospitality suites or special treatment. What he cared about was connection—being present, being part of something real. And here Jude was, offering exactly that. Although your dad was a man of comfort and luxury so you knew he wouldn’t complain in Jude’s box either.

“He’d love that, Jude. Really, baby.” You smiled, this time genuinely. Jude’s eyes lit up, clearly pleased. He reached out, gently pulling you back down into his arms, your head finding its familiar spot against his chest. His lips pressed a soft kiss to your temple, a steadying presence as always. The warmth of his body, the rhythm of his breathing—it was enough to slow the racing of your thoughts, if only for a moment. As you lay there, your mind couldn’t help but return to the nagging possibility of what might be happening with your body. You tried to push it down, tried to focus on the feeling of Jude’s arm around you, the comfort of his presence. But it was hard to ignore. Every day, it seemed more likely that you were dealing with something much bigger than just fatigue or stress. You had brushed it off for so long, but now, sitting here with Jude, your thoughts swirling, you realized how scared you really were. And yet, in this moment, with Jude holding you close, something shifted. His kiss against your temple, the way his hand rested protectively on your side—it all steadied your heart. Maybe, just maybe, it didn’t have to be so terrifying. Maybe if Jude was by your side, and if your family was there too, it wouldn’t feel so overwhelming. The idea of facing whatever was coming with both of them by your side suddenly didn’t feel so impossible. As Jude’s breathing slowed, and you realized he was drifting off to sleep, you stayed awake a little longer, staring at the ceiling. The thought of Paris loomed ahead, the cold December air, the intensity of the match, the weight of what might be happening with your body. But maybe, just maybe, if you had Jude and your dad there with you, it would all be okay. Eventually, you let yourself relax into Jude’s arms, closing your eyes, telling yourself that whatever was coming, you wouldn’t face it alone. Maybe, just maybe, it would all be okay.

You leaned against the counter, watching Jude pace around the kitchen, phone in hand, looking every bit as anxious as someone about to make the biggest business deal of their life. You couldn’t help but laugh.

“Jude, are you seriously this nervous to call my dad? You’ve known him for how long now?” You giggled.

“It’s different this time. You don’t get it, alright?” Jude stopped, glancing at you with a look of half-embarrassment, half-whining.

“Oh, I get it,” you teased, folding your arms. “You’re about to ask him to a football match, not pitch for a place on the team.” He groaned, running a hand over his hair, the nerves clearly getting to him.

“Angel, seriously,” he whined, “don’t make fun. This is… important.” He glanced at you. You weren’t sure why this was such a big deal to him. Like just ask him to the game? Simple as. So you raised an eyebrow.

“Important? Jude, you’ve invited people to games before.” You explained dropping a bit of the humor and inquiring a bit more genuinely.

“Yeah, but this is different.” He shot you a look and mumbled. You could see that he was genuinely stressed, and that only made your curiosity grow.

“Different how?” you asked, stepping closer, playful but also wondering what had him so rattled. “Are you planning something secret?” You teased and Jude’s breath caught momentarily in fear you knew why this was a bigger deal until he let out a frustrated sigh, cheeks turning a little red as he waved you off.

“I’m calling him,” he muttered, “but I need to do it in private. You’re making me nervous.” He told you sheepishly with a childish pout. But that word made you pause.

“Private? Why?” You asked. He shot you an almost panicked glance and headed for the door.

“Because you can’t hear this,” he called over his shoulder, already making a break for the living room. “Don’t listen in!” You blinked, watching him retreat. What on earth was going on. Jude closed the door behind him, breathing out heavily as he looked down at his phone again, preparing himself. This wasn’t just about inviting your dad to the game—that part was easy. It was about the real reason he wanted to meet him before the match. He needed to ask your dad something far more important, something that had been weighing on his mind for ages now. He knew how much your family meant to you, and he wanted to do this right. He wanted your dad’s blessing before asking you the biggest question of his life, your life. Jude’s hand hovered over your dad’s contact before he hit the call button, exhaling deeply as he heard the line ring.

🪩🫶❤️‍🔥🍹🌞🍒 Thank you for reading! Please like, comment, or message what you think of the chapter 🍒🌞🍹❤️‍🔥🫶🪩

Next part - Chapter 23 - The Right Time xx

#jude bellingham imagine #jude bellingham #jude bellingham fanfic #jude bellingham x reader #jude bellingham smut

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tikosblogg · 4 months ago

Note

Can I put in a request where you and Noah are at the same party/club and somebody puts something your drink, and he just so he opens to be near you when you’re getting dizzy, and you ask him for help? I totally see Noah doing everything in his power to help a girl who has been roofied. Also I love your writing!❤️

ABSOLUTELY! This is definitely Noah coded. Noah would totally help any woman he saw this happening to. Thank you🥰

Summary: your best friend is dating Matt the tour manager for bad omens, and she brings you along to one of there parties where you’re roofied, and have to ask Noah for help.

Warning/TW: alcohol consumption, being drugged(plz don’t read if that triggers you), protective Noah, TINY bit of violence?? Let me know if I missed anything!

A/N: I feel like Noah would definitely do this for a woman, whether he knows her or not.

The air was thick and the sound of laughter and music bled into the night from the small, dimly-lit bar. Droplets of condensation rolled down the cool glass of your half-empty drink as you leaned against the polished wood of the bar.

Tara, your best friend, her cheeks rosy from a cocktail she was drinking, was perched on a stool next to you. She had dragged you along to this party thrown by none other than Bad Omens—a band you had been obsessed with since high school.

You had waited patiently, hoping for the moment when Tara would introduce you to the band, but they were constantly wrapped up in conversations with other friends and associates. “I’m sorry, y/n I didn’t know they’d be so busy.” She slurred, her eyebrows furrowing in pity.

You shook your head with a small laugh at her intoxicated state. “It’s fine Tara, I promise. I can meet them another time.” You did your best to suppress the feeling of disappointment. There would be other opportunities, and tonight, you promised yourself, you would have fun regardless.

As the night unfolded, you nursed your second drink while Tara giggled and stumbled about, her laughter infectious, pulling you into the joy of the evening. You met some interesting people and shared stories that made the night feel surreal.

Suddenly, Matt, the band’s charming tour and production manager, and also Tara’s boyfriend broke through the crowded space, a warm smile gracing his face. He wrapped an arm around Tara, steadying her on her feet.

"I see you two had fun," he chuckled, looking down at her. “C’mon I’ll get you two home.” The affectionate way he regarded Tara made your heart swell for her. He threw her over his shoulder, leaving a playful smack to her ass, as she giggled.

You waved your hand at them, giggling at the sight in front of you. “I’ll meet you outside, I just need to use the bathroom!” Matt nodded, and they began to weave through the colorful crowd.

You turned back toward the bar, finishing off your drink and scrunching your nose at the unexpected bitterness that lingered at the back of your throat. It was strange, but you shook it off as you made your way to the restroom.

Once inside, you handled business quickly before approaching the sink to wash your hands. However, as you turned the tap, a wave of dizziness crashed over you like a sudden tide, knocking you off balance. Panic shot through your chest. Something doesn’t feel right. You only had two drinks. You stared at yourself in the mirror, and started to piece together that strange taste in your drink; someone must have slipped something in it when you were turned away.

Your heartbeat thrummed in your ears as you grabbed your phone, desperate to contact Tara or Matt. Stumbling out of the bathroom, the corridor stretched out in front of you like a maze, and you desperately leaned against the wall for support. You were spiraling now, your surroundings a blur.

Suddenly, the sound of the men’s room door creaked open. A tall figure emerged, and you squinted through your haze to see Noah Sebastian, looking at you with a playful smile. “Somebody had too much to drink.” You shook your head, reaching your hand out towards him. If you couldn’t get to Matt or Tara, you knew you’d be safe with Noah.

His laughter died instantly as he noticed your panicked expression. “Hey, are you okay?” he asked reaching for you, and stepping closer, a frown taking over his features. He noticed the tears forming in your eyes, and running down your cheek. “Hey it’s okay.”

You shook your head weakly, trying to speak but the words fell out in a slur. “Someone… put something in my drink,” you managed, your voice barely above a whisper.

His demeanor shifted in an instant, anger etching deep in his eyes. “What the fuck? Okay. You’re going to be okay. I’m right here,” he assured you, wrapping a strong arm around your waist as you wavered.

“Who’d you come with?” he cupped your cheek, bringing your blurry eyes up to his, his voice steady amidst your rising panic.

“Matt… and Tara,” you mumbled, desperation creeping into your voice. Your hands gripped his shirt tight, terrified of being taken away.

He paused briefly, recognition flickering across his face. “Y/n?” A faint light of realization sparked in his eyes. Matt had told him, that Tara was bringing you with her tonight. You nodded, your head feeling 1000 pounds. You leaned forward pressing your forehead against his chest as you felt your knees begin to buckle beneath you.

“Shit” he grunted, holding you tighter. Before you realized what he was doing, he hoisted you into his arms, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. You brought your heavy arms up and around his neck, holding on tightly. You felt dizzy, your world slowly dimming as the edges of your vision faded into darkness.

Just then, a rough-sounding guy approached, his eyes dead set on your shaking body, as you heard his deep voice from behind you. “Hey man thanks for finding her she’s with me.” he smiled at Noah, reaching out to pull you from his arms. Your body trembled in horror, as you shook your head weakly sobbing into Noah’s neck, your hands fisting his shirt against his back.

You tried to speak, but your mouth was dry, and completely numb. Noah knows nothing about you. He could hand you off to this creep, thinking he’s saving you, when really he would be unknowingly confirming your possible death.

Noah’s eyes turned icy, his grip tightening protectively around you. “Get the fuck out of my way. You’re the piece of shit that did this to her aren’t you?” he growled, anger radiating off him. Noah body went tense against you.

If he wasn’t holding you in his arms right now, he would beat the fuck out of this creep. He took a deep breath, remembering that you and getting you out of here, was what was important right now.

The stranger’s bravado crumbled in the face of Noah’s fury, panic flickering across his features “I’m her friend dude, she came here with me!” He defended, crossing his arms. Noah knew who you came with, and even you confirmed it.

He decided to test him anyways. “Oh yeah? What’s her name?” The guy became flustered, before shaking his head. “I don’t have to tell you shit man, just give her to me.” He huffed, and went to step towards Noah.

Noah instantly kicked up his right leg, kicking the dude right in his dick. Usually Noah would think that’s a low blow, but his hands were kind of occupied at the moment, and he needed to get the dude on the ground. Noah went to walk away with you until he turned around, landing another kick right in the dudes ribs for good measure.

You felt weak, your eyelids growing heavy, and just as the world began to dim in earnest, Noah’s voice broke through the haze. “I’ve got you, sweetheart, hold on.”

In your daze, you felt him stride confidently through the crowd, shielding you from curious eyes, his strong arms cradling you against his chest like you weighed nothing. He suddenly stopped, as you barely heard his voice.

Noah stopped, talking to Jolly and Nicholas. “There is a guy on the ground in the hallway. Go stay with him and do not let him leave! I’ll explain later.!” The two men instantly nodded, and headed towards the hallway.

That was the last thing you heard, before finally succumbing to the sleepiness you tried so hard to fight.

Outside, noah spotted Matt, beelining straight for him. Matt’s worried voice, filled the air, as Noah approached. “Woah what happened??” He opened the back door, letting Noah gently place you on the seats.

A sudden rush of relief filled his body, as he closed the car door, knowing you were safe. He turned towards Matt, running a hand through his hair. “Some ass hole slipped something in her drink. I just so happened to walk out of the bathroom, while she was stumbling down the hall.”

Matt’s eyes widened, as he looked towards your limp body in the backseat of his car, and back to Noah’s seething frame. “Holy shit dude, I shouldn’t have left her. I should have waited on her.” Matt covered his face with his hands, as the guilt ate at him.

Noah shook his head, ready to go back into the party, to beat the fuck out of that creep before he called the cops. “No, it shouldn’t have fucking happened here. Somebody fucking brought him here, and I wanna know who, I’m gonna take care of him, you get her to the hospital.”

Matt nodded his head without another word before, jumping in the car, and speeding out of the parking lot, while Noah made his way back into the building making damn sure this guy pays for what he did to you.

#noah sebastian #bad omens #noah sabastian smut #badomensimagines #noahsebastiancult #bad omens cult #imagines #bad omens band #bad omens smut #nick folio #joakim jolly karlsson #nicholas ruffilo

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sepublic · 1 month ago

Text

People still ask how Belos died from being stomped on when he survived something similar in King’s Tide. People, Belos was still healthy enough to defeat the Hexsquad even when he was being drained of magic; He hasn’t retained any physical damage from the fight until the Collector steps in.

In S3 Belos is dying just from existing and needs a host, he’s still breaking down even when inside the host because he emerges from Raine in a worse state than when he entered;

(At the very least, Raine whistling Belos out of their body whittled down his form even further.)

It’s almost as if the crew emphasized in For the Future what a terrible state Belos was in, with him saying aloud he needs a host, to set up why he can’t survive the same injury he did last time. It’s like these details were here for a reason. Belos hasn’t had a Palisman in two months (something the show emphasizes he needs) and both the Day of Unity and Vee also drained his magic, the former doing it for a decent while uninterrupted no less. He did rebuild himself, but then Belos began to fall apart from starvation; He tried to address it by absorbing Flapjack —the show’s way of reminding you what’s missing— but Hunter stopped him and contributed to Belos’ death.

(So not only did Hunter assert his agency, he helped kill his uncle without having the additional trauma of directly doing/seeing it, and it led to Flapjack’s life force being left to save Hunter; So Hunter got Belos killed, saved himself, and stood up for himself!)

And after failing to absorb Flapjack, after leaving Hunter, does Belos try to fight Hexsquad despite not having to worry about a draining spell killing him, and having already won the first time with it? No, he runs away; Because despite initially looking the same, he’s much weaker and can’t win a fight in his state. And that leads to the next episode’s reveal that he’s dying and crumbling apart even after regenerating, or rather because he used up his energy to regenerate.

Even if Belos survived being stomped on, he’d just be a puddle of goop but be unable to build himself back up as he continued breaking down. There was nothing around and even if Belos possessed something, he’d still keep degrading the whole time until he dies truly, and at that rate the host might just wait for Belos to perish without needing someone to save them. Belos is dead, he knew he was dead.

People also ask how Belos can turn back into Philip at the end and not only is it a literally paper-thin facade and the curse is there underneath. But they forgot he already did the same thing in King’s Tide by turning his face back around Hunter (but not his whole body, he’s being killed by his draining spell at that moment); But it falls apart fast, esp when angry. Only Palisman essence can fully turn Belos back into a human.

And we see the curse was overtaking him even in that state, and when Belos hides the mold on his face it re-emerges when he’s angry. He’s always had this ability, but it’s superficial and doesn’t last long. Belos can’t even truly hide the mold on his face when he’s human, he couldn’t tangibly turn back into a human when he was fully transformed, and he’s never going to, he can only create a facade. Maybe Belos could’ve briefly turned young, but he always defaults back to his ‘natural’ state, which at first was an old human but over time has become the curse beast.

Finally, why didn’t Belos possess the Titan from the start? I don’t think he even knew he could do that until he had to figure it out during the two-month gap. He didn’t even turn into a monster yet when he decided on the draining spell with the Collector, his eyes just went blue as we see in the memories with Caleb, or his flesh writhed.

Belos always reverted his curse form with Palismen because he loathed and didn’t want to experiment with it. But after S2 his body began to break down, Belos had no other options, so that’s how he figured it out, and then applied that realization to the Titan’s heart in his castle after the Collector reminded him of it.

#the owl house #emperor belos #philip wittebane

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aemondapologistfrfr · 4 months ago

Text

More Beautiful Than the Stars

addam velaryon x targ!fem!reader

Summary: After the war Rhaenyra has you enter a strategic marriage. You were unsure at first but quickly fell for your betrothed. After a moon of courting you two cannot wait to be wed.

Warnings: 18+ wine, mentions of death from the war, arranged betrothal, oral (f receiving), p in v, proof read like 95%

Authors Note: i was late to work bc i wanted to keep writing this :))

Word Count: 6.8k anyways

⊹₊⋆☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆☁︎⋆₊ ⊹ ⊹₊⋆☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆☁︎⋆₊ ⊹ ⊹₊⋆☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆

In the wake of the war we’ve lost many who were in high positions of power and authority. Lesser Lords and Lady’s have been granted new lands and titles helping strengthen the loyalty to my mother. What took everyone by surprise was when she offered Driftmark to Addam Velaryon.

The house seat should’ve passed to one of my brothers should they have lived. Addams elder brother refused due to resentment of Corlys. I can’t blame him for his feelings, if I was in his position I would have felt the same. Addam on the other hand wanted the recognition and the title. He served my mother well and faithfully even when Corlys did not.

I think my mother sees a lot of Leanor in him. He has a gentle and kind spirit who is very laid back but fiercely protective. I’ve never had much interaction with him since we met right before the war. I did admire him for his bravery to flying to war in the name of my mother on dragonback. Now I’m watching his eyes water as my mother offers him Driftmark and all the comes with it.

“Your Grace, I am honored.” Addam bows his head deeply and goes to his knee.

“Rise, Addam, Lord of the Tides.” Rhaenyra smiles pulling him up to his feet.

“I don’t know what to say.” he shakes his head as a smile spreads across his face.

“Say yes, and become my master of ships.” she hums as he shakes his head in disbelief.

“I will serve you well and faithfully. I am yours to command.” he nods and she dismisses him from the council chambers.

“That was very generous,” I hum nodding my head to her.

“I have one more thing to offer him.” she nibbles on her lip looking to me.

“What more could you offer him?” I tilt my head.

“A wife.” I shake my head in confusion.

“I didn’t think you were so eager to marry again?” I study her face.

“Not me, my sweet girl.” she reaches across the table to hold my hand.

“Who?” my heart starts to race as I fear I know her answer.

“You.” I feel my heart drop.

“Mother, I barely know him.” my voice cracks.

“You’ll get to know him. You’ll stay with him on Driftmark for a moon and then you will marry. I need you to do this for me. I need you there making sure he remains loyal.” her eyes pleading to mine.

“There’s no one else to contest your throne. Why do you remain so paranoid mother?” I don’t mean to lash out with my words but I never expected her to marry me off.

“As long as I, a woman, sit the throne there will always be scores of men to contest my birthright.” her eyes harden and she pulls her hand back.

The chair groans as I push it against the stone and leave the hall. I try to control my breathing as I make it to my chambers. I never thought she would put me into a marriage pact. I knew with the end of the war I would be expected to marry but I didn’t think she would choose for me.

As I push my chamber doors open I see a half dozen maids packing my bags and trunks. My breath catches at how quickly I’m to leave apparently. I feel like everything is moving so quickly as I just stand idly by. I lay back on my bed and breathe deeply as my maids continue to work.

“Is there anything I can get you, Princess?” one of them comes to my side.

“Please just leave me.” I wave my hand at them and they’re scurrying out of my chambers quickly.

I sigh and turn to burry my face in my pillow. It’s not that I don’t like him, I just don’t know him. The small conversations we have had he’s been nothing but kind and sweet. I groan into the pillow feeling sorry for myself and pouting. I rise from the bed and drag my feet across the stone to finish shoving gowns into my trunks.

⊹₊⋆☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆☁︎⋆₊ ⊹ ⊹₊⋆☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆☁︎⋆₊ ⊹ ⊹₊⋆☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆

As we enter the docking area I look around at the life buzzing around them. Seasmoke sings out a song over the docks as he dips in and out of the water. Once the boat stops moving I get up and walk to the edge to make it to land again. The rickety ladder won’t pull from the dock and I’m ready to tell them to just turn the boat around.

“Allow me.” Addams voice trails from the dock and I look him over.

He pulls on the ladder and it still won’t budge. I look to him with a raised brow as he huffs and looks up to me. He reaches up and I gasp as his hands wrap around my waist as he lifts me down to the docks with him. I steady my feet and tilt my neck to look up to him.

“Thank you,” I feel my cheeks heat as his smile spreads across his face.

“Of course, my Princess.” he dips his head down.

“Y/n will do just fine.” I smooth my skirts as he continues to smile down at me.

“Come, Y/n. Let me show you to your chambers.” he offers me his arm and I reluctantly accept as he leads me through the docks and people.

“How fares Driftmark, my Lord?” I ask breaking our silence.

“It fares better now that a beautiful Targaryen Princess has graced its shores.” I blush at his words and avoid his eyes. “I’m sorry if that was too forward.” he says worriedly.

“No, my Lord it’s okay.” I shake my head hoping my blush recedes.

“Please, call me Addam.” he hums as we turn and start our way up to the castle.

My eyes dart around the castle as I take in its beauty. Guards and servants bow their heads to us as we enter. My head tilts up to take in the enormity of the hall and its ceilings. I look across the hall and can see the Blackwater crashing into the stony shore. He leads me up the stairs and looks both ways.

“I must admit I’m still learning this castle.” he murmurs leading us right. “But I’ll be able to show you the best places in Hull and Spicetown with ease.” he smiles down to me.

“We shall learn this castle together then.” I offer him a small smile of my own.

“Here we are.” he stops in front of a large set of double doors with a guard standing sentry.

“My trunks and bags?” I turn to him.

“Are being brought up. I will go check on them. I’ll send a servant up to see to it your needs are met while I’m indisposed. Should you need me let your guard know and I will come at once. No matter how small the issue is, I will come.” Addams words a promise as he nods his head to me. I go to turn to slip into my chambers and he grabs my hand and places a soft kiss on it.

I click my doors shut behind me and pray he didn’t see my cheeks catch on fire. Gods that man is so chivalrous. I look around the chambers and see how massive they truly are. I’m standing in what I assume to be the solar as there’s a large table with chairs and couches spread around a rug. I walk into the next room and gasp as I see the bed. The bed takes up an entire wall with stone pillars jutting up to the ceiling. There’s a small couch in front of a great hearth with fur hanging off the back. I peer through the next set of doors and smile at the sunken pool I have as a bath. I look out to the balcony and dip down to one of the chairs to soak in the salt in the air.

“Princess,” I hear a woman’s voice come from inside my chambers. “Is there anything I can do for you?” the maid lowers her head.

“Maybe some wine and a fire.” I ask softly not wanting to be too demanding already.

“Of course, at once.” she nods her head and is out of the doors before I can even offer her thanks.

I get up and walk back into the main room as my bags and trunks are trickling in. Maids start to unpack them at once and begin to hang my gowns. The first maid comes back with a glass of wine and a man trailing behind with wood. I thank the woman for the wine and the man who starts my fire. I thank the servants in my room and offer them leave. I wish to unpack myself and set out gowns for my upcoming days.

I change into a fresh gown and peek out my doors. I close them behind me and the guard goes to follow me. I shake my head saying I’m just staying to the castle. My skirts flow behind me as I start around the corner. I go to turn another corner until I hear a couple of maids talking about Addam.

“Can you believe he gave her the main chambers?” the first woman’s voice hushed.

“You sound jealous.” the second woman scolds.

“Of course I am. He lets her sleep lavish while he goes to the guest chambers. I heard she pouted the whole way here.” my heart beats at the insinuation that he gave away his chambers to me. I care not if they think I pouted, because I probably did.

“She just lost most of her family to war and now she’s being sent away from her remaining family to be wed.” one of them defends me and I decide I like her.

“How terrible it must be to be a Princess of the realm and be forced to marry a handsome Lord who also rides a dragon.” I can hear the eye roll in her voice and I’ve had enough.

“Did you watch your family get taken by The Stranger day after day?” I ask turning the corner. “Did you watch your family crumble to the ground around you? Tell me.” I cross my arms looking to her.

“My Princess, I didn’t mean-“

“What did you mean then?” I cut her off narrowing my eyes at her before looking to the other who I recognize as the first woman to bring me wine.

“I just- I I’m sorry.” she lowers her head and scurries down the hall.

“I’m sorry for her words, my Princess.” she dips her head.

“Thank you for defending me, what is your name?” I hum looking her over.

“Cyerra, if you wish.” she keeps her head bowed.

“Cyerra I would be honored if you would be my personal handmaid. I need someone headstrong and loyal and I fear I have no friends here.” my voice hushed as her eyes rise to mine.

“You honor me.” her voice shakes. “I shall be your friend and anything you need.” she smiles.

“Thank you, Cyerra.” I smile to match hers. “Does this place have a library?” she smiles even wider and I follow after her as she leads me through the winding stone halls.

⊹₊⋆☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆☁︎⋆₊ ⊹ ⊹₊⋆☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆☁︎⋆₊ ⊹ ⊹₊⋆☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆

My first week on Driftmark has been going well. Cyerra keeps me company when I’m not roaming the library for a new book. Addam has been very sweet but has had a lot of meetings to deal with due to his new position.

“Do you ever go anywhere else?” Addams voice reverberates off the library walls and I huff and put my book down.

“I go outside..” I trail off. “Sometimes.” he smiles and takes a seat next to me.

“The people are curious about you, they wish to meet you.” he says softly as his eyes search mine.

“What if they don’t like me?” my voice hushed.

“How could they not?” he scrunches his brows. “Come, let me show you around Hull and maybe if you like it I can take you dancing.” his smile is infectious as I abandon the book and accept his hand as we exit the library.

As we exit the castle I feel as if everyone is staring at me. I lean into Addams side more and he looks down to me to offer me a comforting smile. We walk through the main gates and continue on into the crowd. People stop and talk to him and offer me warm smiles and welcomes.

“This is where I grew up.” his voice soft as we enter into a different part of town. “It is my wish to focus on and help the people of this island. We may be formidable but we could use help.” he ushers me over to a stall with delicious smelling food.

He offers the vendor more coin than this stick of meat is worth and hands it to me. I moan as the meat melts into my mouth. I eat another piece before offering him some. He shakes his head and I finish the rest not caring about the juices sliding down my fingers.

“That was divine.” I lick my lips looking up to him with a smile.

“Let me show you my favorite.” he smiles grabbing my hand and leading me to another vendor. This time it’s a smoked fish that is well seasoned and smoked.

“Addam,” I moan as I take another bite. “I fear I’ll eat Hull dry.” I giggle as he wipes the side of my mouth.

“There’s another delicacy we’re known for, but it’s not everyone’s favorite.” he leads me down the streets closer to the docks.

I look at the small chopped up raw fish in front of me with vegetables and grains. I sniff it and look at Addam with raised eyebrows. He pops a piece into his mouth and blink at him in surprise.

“You eat it raw?” my voice full of concern.

“You’d be surprised at how good it is raw.” he hums bringing a piece to my lips.

I sigh and accept the fish from his fingers. The texture throws me off but the flavors still burst through my mouth. I chew almost in question as I contemplate if I like it.

“Not my favorite, but I don’t hate it.” I take another piece to try it some more as he chuckles softly.

The sun slowly begins to drop behind the horizon as we stop at more vendors and I try new foods and drinks. We walk deeper into the city until we start to hear laughing and music. He pulls me into a tavern and it erupts into cheers as we enter.

“Lord Addam!” they all cheer and clap as I look up to him admiring his smile.

“You’ve finally blessed us with a glimpse of your beautiful Princess.” a man approaches and bows deeply to me.

“That is unnecessary,” I shake my head with a smile. “There’s no need to bow to me.” the man rises with a smirk.

“You’ve got yourself a sweet one.” he claps Addam on the shoulder before disappearing into the crowd.

“A drink?” Addam smiles down to me and I nod.

He leads us to the bar hands and encases me with his body placing both of his hands on either side of me on the bar top. I lean back into his chest enjoying the simple protection he’s offering me from the crowd. I don’t even focus on his words to the man and allow myself to shrink into him.

“Did you hear me?” his voice is low as he dips down to my ear.

“Hm?” I hum turning my head to him and blush at how close our faces are.

“I asked if you wanted to go to a table.” I blink up to him still lost.

He chuckles and grabs both of the cups by their handles in one hand. He turns us and keeps an arm around me as he pulls us to a back corner. He somehow manages to find us an empty table in the back and I take a sip from the cup he places in front of me. It burns as it goes down my throat and warms the entity of my body as I relax back into my seat.

“What are you thinking about?” he hums from next to me.

“How I could feel this warming me all the way down to my toes.” I raise my cup to him with a smile.

“If you ever wish for me to help warm you up, just say the word.” his words playful.

“Addam,” I gasp as my cheeks heat.

“I jest,” he jokes but I can see the seriousness in his eyes. “I’ll get you hot enough when we dance you’ll be asking me to help cool you down.” his smirk is downright devious.

“Is this your attempt to get me out of my gown before we wed?” a smile plays at my lips.

“Is it working?” he licks his lips as he looks to mine as I tilt my head up to him before rising to meet his face.

“Not in the slightest.” I kiss his nose and sit back down.

“I don’t mind waiting.” he chuckles taking a sip from his cup.

We drain our cups continuously teasing one another. I’m in a fit of giggles at his words when the music gets louder and starts to thrum through me. I look to the moving bodies and turn back to Addam.

“I want to dance.” I pout my lips to him.

He rises and pulls me up by both of my hands. Giggles spill from my mouth at my uneven feet and he’s quick to steady me. He shakes his head looking at me with lowered lids as he brings us to the moving bodies. His hands go to my waist and pull me close. I sigh resting my head against his chest as we begin to sway to the music. My hands roam across his back fueled by liquid courage.

We dance and hold each other as if we’re the only people in this building. His hands squeeze at my hips every now and then reminding me of his delicious strength. We slowly pull apart and we take in each other’s heavy breathing.

“It’s late, let me take you back to the castle.” he says lowly and I nod my head not trusting my voice.

He gets us back to the castle in impressive time and is helping me navigate the stairs as I’m still on uneven feet. I giggle when he gives up guiding me and simply tosses me over his shoulder. His hands hold on at the back of my thighs and I squirm in his arms. He sets me down in front of my doors and looks down to me with a lazy smile.

“The maids said you gave me your chambers.” I look up to him.

“So what if I did?” he bites his lip.

“You didn’t have to.” I murmur.

“I’ll be moving back in soon enough,” he places a kiss on my forehead and opens the doors for me. He seals the doors shut and leaves me to our large apartments.

⊹₊⋆☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆☁︎⋆₊ ⊹ ⊹₊⋆☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊��☁︎⋆₊ ⊹ ⊹₊⋆☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆

I groan as Cyerra opens the curtains and lets in the early morning light. I kick the blankets off of me and stretch across the bed. She starts to revive the fire to ward off the chill and goes to my wardrobe to find appropriate attire for collecting shells and muscles.

“Curse Addam for having me wake so early.” I groan wiping my eyes.

“It’s not so early.” Cyerra chuckles bringing me over a pair of pants and a white billowy shirt.

“Could you possibly get me some tea?” I rise from the bed stretching once more.

“Of course, I can always have it brought up in the mornings if you wish.” she offers.

“No no, that’s too much trouble.” I shake my head grabbing for the pants.

“It’s not, my Princess. If it makes you happy.” Cyerra nods walking to the door.

I sigh at how much she waits on me. I slip the pants on and walk around getting used to them. I rarely wear pants and they just feel so different. I pull the shirt over my head and push the sleeves up my arms. I step into my slippers cuffing my pants up and go sprawl on a couch in the solar.

“Your tea, my Princess.” Addams voice comes into the room as he kneels before me and offers me my tea.

“Why must everyone insist on waiting on me?” I playfully roll my eyes and accept the tea.

“What a tragedy.” he shakes his head and sits next to me on the couch. “Are you ready for a day on the shores?” he hums placing my legs in his lap and massaging my calves.

“I am, but I’m afraid I lack the proper footwear.” I rub my fur lined slippers.

“Is this you asking me to carry you on the sands?” he leans his head back onto the couch and lets out a laugh at my face.

“No, I expect a full covered litter with at least ten men carrying me.” I hum sipping my tea.

“At once,” he chuckles rising and offering me his hand.

I quickly finish my tea and discard the cup on the table. We’re bounding down the main stairs quickly. Addam pulls me along and soon we’re approaching the shores. We stop on the edge of the sands and he begins to remove his boots.

“I won’t make you be the only one barefoot.” he tosses his boots to the side and I start to push off my slippers. “Ready?” he pulls me into the warm sand and my toes curl in.

“It’s so soft and warm.” we continue to pad out to the water.

Addam pulls me away from the workers so we don’t interrupt their flow. He’s brought a small basket with us to put our collection in. He falls to his knees near the water and waves me over. I look down and thank the Gods I’m wearing black pants before I shrug and kneel next to him.

“This is where it gets fun.” he smiles and shoves his arms into the sand up to the elbow. When he heaves the sand back up there’s a bunch of muscles that he quickly grabs and tosses into the basket.

“How do you know where they are?” I tilt my head as he places more shells into the basket.

“You’ll feel them.” he nods encouragingly. “So hands open and pull up.” I bite my lip as start to emerge my hands into the sand.

The sand is cold and damp as I plunge my hands in deeper. I don’t feel anything so I push my hands further down until my nose is practically touching the sand. My finger grazes a cold, slimy shell and I yelp pulling my hands out quickly causing me to fall back.

“What happened? Are you okay?” Addam is quickly hovering over me and smiles once he sees I’m laughing.

“I didn’t know they would be so slimy.” I get out in between giggles as he helps me upright. “Let me try again.” I steady my breathing and plunge back into the sands. I give a small jolt when I feel them and I pull up quickly.

“Very good.” his smile is genuine as he begins to pick out the shells.

We dig in the sands for a while longer until we decide to stop and admire the water. We walk around the shore line allowing the water to lick at our heels. We stop and pick up rocks that catch our eye. As I pick up a particularly vibrant one his hands linger on mine as we examine it. As I look up to him I see that he’s staring at me and I blush pulling the rock into my hand.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to drone on.” I say looking down.

“You weren’t.” my eyes lock to his. “I was just admiring you.” his words are soft as a snails spreads over his features.

“Mm, and what were you admiring?” I tease pursing my lips.

“Everything.” his eyes look to my lips before they flick back to mine.

“Everything?” my tongue licks along my bottom lip and I see his eyes catch the movement.

“I want to kiss you.” his face moves closer to mine.

“I want you to kiss me.” he kisses me once the words leave my mouth. He pulls me closer deepening the kiss. My hands hold on to his back as he cups my face. His tongue dances with mine as we melt into one another. He pulls back as we both breathe heavily.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a while.” he offers me a soft smile. “There’s a lot of things I want to do.” his voice low which stirs something low in my stomach.

“Like what?” my voice still breathless but not from the kiss and he smiles knowing it.

“You’ll find out soon enough.” he chuckles at my red cheeks. “You seem flushed. Shall we cool down in the water?” he scoops me up and runs us into the waves and I gasp as it splashes on us and he sets me in the water.

“Addam,” I huff as the cold water seeps through my shirt. I push him back and he falls back into the water laughing loudly.

“You don’t seem as flushed anymore, my Princess.” he hums as he stays below the water and starts creeping his hands up my sides. “Although, I made your shirt see through and it seems as if you’re too cold now.” he pointedly looks to my chest and I look down seeing my nipples pushing through the wet fabric.

“Was that your plan?” I look down to him huffing with red cheeks trying to hide the smile on my face.

“No,” he shakes his head trying to look anywhere but my chest. “You can use mine and hopefully it’ll cover you up a bit more.” he pulls off his shirt quickly and hands it to me.

“You’re the only one here so I don’t mind.” I push his shirt back in his hands but don’t miss an opportunity to allow my eyes to linger on his muscles.

“Are you admiring me?” his tone playful as he inches closer.

“I am.” I nod my head as my hands spread across his toned stomach. “You are very handsome.” I hum as my hands slide up his chest.

“How long until we’re wed?” Addams voice low as his hands grab mine.

“Just under a fortnight.” I look up to him.

“Gods give me patience.” he mumbles before pressing his lips softly against mine.

⊹₊⋆☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆☁︎⋆₊ ⊹ ⊹₊⋆☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆☁︎⋆₊ ⊹ ⊹₊⋆☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆

I lay awake in bed tossing and turning. I kick off the blankets and walk out to the balcony to see if the night air will help. The breeze kisses my heated skin and I sigh out. It’s times like this when I wish I had a dragon of my own to fly under the moonlight. I walk to the door and crack it open.

“If Addam is awake, could you see if he could come here?” I ask softly.

He turns the corner and I click the door shut behind me. I sit on the couch in the solar looking to the door waiting. There’s a quick knock and he’s slipping inside the doors.

“What’s wrong?” he looks around the room and looks me over to make sure I’m unharmed.

“I couldn’t find sleep.” I chew my lip. “I wanted to know if you could take me for a ride on Seasmoke.” I look up to him as he sighs in relief.

“It’s cold out.” he looks over my simple night dress.

“I’m hot.” I bring his hand to my forehead. “If not, could we walk along the shore?” I look up to him with pleading eyes.

“You will let me at least put you in a cloak.” his lips turn upwards as he leads me back into the bed chambers to my wardrobe.

“Are you ready to have your bed chambers back?” I ask taking the cloak he hands me.

“Only two days left.” he hums pulling the cloak around me.

I trail after him as he takes me to the shores. I try to take off the cloak multiple times but Addam will hear none of it. There’s a low whistle on the wind and Seasmoke lands on the sands in front of us. He walks up quickly and I curl into Addams side. Seasmoke tilts his head as Addam lets out a low chuckle.

“He is truly more cat than dragon.” he rubs my shoulders trying to soothe me. “You’re going to scare her off.” Addam chides as Seasmoke burrows his snout into the sand huffing.

“You speak the language well.” I hum watching him walk up to his dragon.

“That means a lot. Thank you, my Princess.” he rubs Seasmokes neck and he seems to purr.

Addam waves me over and I slowly walk to him. My hand slips into his as he brings it to rest on Seasmoke. The dragon leans into our touch and gives a soft chuff. Addam walks us over to his wing and nods at me to start climbing. I make my way up to the saddle and I feel Addam following close behind. We settle and Seasmoke has us launching into the skies.

I lean back into Addam who holds me tightly from behind. Seasmoke circles us around the island and I sigh as the moonlight kisses our skin. The breeze flows through my hair and I close my eyes contented. Addam leans into me as we allow the skies to lull us into a dreamlike state.

Seasmoke lands us on the barren shores before he shoots himself back into the skies. I slip the cloak off and lay it on the sands. I kneel down and lay back to look up at the stars. He joins me on the cloak and looks over to me. I turn my head with a smile spread across my face.

“You’re supposed to look at the stars.” I purse my lips.

“Mm, but I’d much rather look at you.” he turns on his side so he’s fully facing me. “You’re more beautiful than the stars.” he looks at me with pure devotion.

I lean in and press my lips against his. I melt into his touch as he rolls over on top of me. I pull him down to me to reunite our lips once more. I pull around his body trying to get him to press against me but he’s steadfast. I hook my legs around his waist and try to lure him that way but he just chuckles into my mouth as I’m just hanging off of him.

“Addam,” I whine against his lips.

“You’re gunna kill me.” he groans dipping down to capture my lips once more. He rolls back over onto his back and I turn over narrowing my eyes at him. “I can feel how hard you’re staring.” his chest moves up and down as he chuckles.

“Do you not want to touch me?” he rolls his eyes as he turns to me.

“You know that I want to touch you so very badly.” his voice low as he looks at me with dark eyes.

“Do you?” I scoot closer to him.

“Y/n,” his hand goes to my waist, his voice strained as I drape across his chest.

“I can’t sleep because you’re all I think about at night.” I whisper against his lips. “I work myself up to the point where I get so hot it’s unbearable. It’s why I had you come to me tonight, I couldn’t take it anymore.” my voice barely a whisper as his fingers dig into my sides.

“Then I’m just going to kiss you as you look at the stars.” he smirks as he flips us over once more.

“Well how am I going to see the stars your head is in the way.” I giggle before he captures my lips and trails them down to my neck. I gasp as his tongue licks across my throat.

“I’m gunna kiss you other places if that’s okay?” he pulls back and looks down to me and I nod my head quickly.

He brings his lips back down to my neck and sucks softly on my pulse. I gasp as my hands grab onto his back. He trails kisses down over my night dress and peppers his lips across my covered breasts as I arch into him. He licks around my hardened nipples before continuing down my navel. I’m panting above him as I watch him move lower. His hands spread my thighs more as he settles between them.

“Is this okay?” he looks up to me.

“Yes, please Addam,” I feel my body hum in anticipation.

He licks up my slit and my head falls back into the sand. My breathing is ragged as he swirls around my throbbing bud. My hips grind against his face as a moan tears through me. His tongue lashes against my bud as my legs shake around him.

“Addam,” I mewl as he licks down to my core.

He wraps his arms around my thighs to hold them open as his tongue licks at me feverishly. My hips roll onto his face as they seek pleasure. Whimpers fall from my mouth along with his name as I feel myself about to go over the edge.

“Yes, please Addam,” I sob as I explode across his tongue.

He continues to lick at me until my thighs are shaking before he slowly pulls back. He looks down at me licking his lips. His breathing is as equally as ragged as mine and we look to each other. He pulls my night dress back down and sits back. I sit up and squeeze my thighs together still feeling my release.

“I hope my kisses were to your liking.” he smiles looking over my flushed body.

“I think I might need kisses every night.” I smile nibbling my lip.

“Then you shall have them every night.” he chuckles as he stands pulling me up with him and begin to make our way back to the castle.

⊹₊⋆☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆☁︎⋆₊ ⊹ ⊹₊⋆☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆☁︎⋆₊ ⊹ ⊹₊⋆☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆

“You both make such a handsome couple.” Rhaenyra beams at us after the ceremony.

“Thank you, mother.” I feel my cheeks blush at her words.

“She pouted the whole week before coming here, you know?” she smiles to Addam who chuckles.

“Oh, I believe it.” he pulls me into his side. “Look she’s even pouting at our wedding.” he pinches my cheek as I roll my eyes at him.

“I’m happy for you.” she cups my cheek before she returns to her seat.

“You look absolutely divine in this gown, my wife.” he whispers into my ear as he leads me to the dance floor.

He pulls me against him and smiles down at me tenderly. The rest of the hall blurs as we sway around the room together. I rest my head against his chest as I hear his steady heartbeat beneath me. He wraps his arms around me and holds me tightly. I look up to him and he places a soft kiss on my lips. As the slow song comes to an end we continue to hold each other as more couples join us in the next dance.

Throughout the night guests come up to congratulate us and we offer them polite smiles. As the night grows late I begin to get restless wanting to finally get to enjoy my husband. When there’s only a handful of guests left we retire to our chambers for the night.

“I’m really just excited to have my bed back.” his tone playful as he opens our doors.

I roll my eyes at him as I brush past him and walk into our bed chambers. I hear the door thud shut and he comes behind me chuckling. He starts to unlace the back of my gown causing it to slide down. I turn to him only left in my slip as he soaks in my body.

I reach out and start to unbutton his doublet. My fingers make quick work and I’m soon pushing it down his shoulders. He pulls his shirt off quickly and my eyes linger on his muscles. His fingers grip the hem of my slip and he has it over my head in seconds. His hands caress my sides before he cups my breasts. He looks to me as he starts to softly knead them.

“You’re perfect.” he dips down to kiss me as his fingers brush across my nipples.

I gasp into his mouth as his fingers offer pleasure to my sensitive peaks. He drinks down my noises as one of his hands travel between my thighs. I whine pulling back as he swirls his fingers slowly around my bud.

“Addam,” my breath comes out in pants as his fingers coax pleasure through me.

He dips a finger into my core and a loud moan falls from my mouth. He pumps into me as his thumb starts a rhythm on my bud. I rest my head against his chest as he slips a second finger into me. I cling to his arms as whimpers pour off my lips as he begins to curl his fingers. My legs clamp around his hand as pleasure washes through me with his name on my tongue.

“Let’s go to the bed.” he hums pulling his hand from between my thighs.

I make it to the bed on weak legs as he chuckles keeping his hands on my waist. I fall back onto the bed and watch him begin to unlace his pants. I sit up so I can fully appreciate his body. I reach out to him and he begins to crawl over me.

“You’re sculpted by the Gods, husband.” I pull his lips down to mine.

His tongue pushes into my mouth as we mend ourselves together. He presses his body against mine and I sigh at the feel of him. His hips roll into mine and I squirm at the feel of his hardened length against me. His tip brushes against my wetness and I buck my hips up.

“Are you ready?” his breath fans across my chest as he lines himself up at my core.

“Yes,” I pant watching as he sinks into me.

My nails dig into his back at the stretch of him. He continues to push into me until he’s fully settled. The feel of him filling me has me gasping. I move my hips slightly and whine at the stretch. My muscles continue to relax around him and soon enough I’m rolling my hips into his waiting for him to move.

“You just feel so good.” he rasps as he starts to slowly pump into me. When he pushes his hips into mine more rushed my breath catches. “I’m sorry,” he grunts trying to slow his hips.

“No, faster,” I buck my hips into him whining.

He groans as he snaps his hips into mine. Moans seep through my mouth as I start to lose myself to my pleasure. I cry out his name as I pulse around him and he groans slowing his movements. His breath comes out in pants as his hips start to move faster again.

“Yes, yes Addam,” I feel my release coiling once more.

He finds a rhythm that has me squeezing my eyes shut. The second his thumb brushes against my bud I burst around him. His hips stutter as I feel him begin to fill me. His breath fans across my face as we both try to calm our breathing. I shiver as he pulls out of me and cuddles into my side as my eyes flutter shut.

“Don’t go to sleep yet, I haven’t given you your goodnight kisses yet.” my thighs clench remembering my request a couple nights ago as he slides down the bed and opens my thighs once more.

⊹₊⋆☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆☁︎⋆₊ ⊹ ⊹₊⋆☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆☁︎⋆₊ ⊹ ⊹₊⋆☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆

masterlist 🔌

this got out of hand and i’m not mad abt it

taglist ✍️

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