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snootlestheangel · 9 months

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Cheers to the Unknown Pt.2

Monster/cryptid au ft. Just A Dude!Ghost; canon-divergent, alternate universe. More details here (parts are not a coherent story necessarily just scenarios as they come to me !subject to change!;all tagged under "cheers to the unknown") TW: some body horror, language

Meeting The Team

John Price being an inhuman probably would have upset Ghost more had he not been so numb to the world. Ghost had been officially born; Simon Riley was dead, along with his family. Crude, ugly scars twisted his face into a mock grin, something he learned is called a Glasgow smile. If Ghost himself could not bear to see them in the mirror, why would anyone else? How could anyone else? So he took to covering his face. Thus Ghost was born.

Now, Simon Riley had worked with John Price before his supposed death, but it wasn't for long and he still didn't really know the man. He knew Price to be a good man, however, and was rather pleased to hear he'd be working under the captain.

The mission itself was a simple infiltrate and extract operation, one that Ghost could probably do perfectly well on his own. But alas, given the novelty of his new identity, many higher ranking personnel refused to allow him solo for the time being. At least Ghost was stuck with someone relatively decent from his limited experience, and a fellow human.

Or at least Ghost thought he was with another human. He was due for a very nasty reality check when he happened to glance over at the Captain while tightening his tac vest. Ghost stopped all motion as he watched with sickening horror as Price's appearance contorted into a lowly guard for the site they were infiltrating. Price groaned a bit as he popped a few joints in adjustment to his different body.

"You alright?" Price asked in a noticeably different voice as he noticed the wide eyes of the lieutenant.

"Fine, sir." He snapped out, perhaps a bit too quickly. He wasn't all that shocked to be honest, a man of Price's reputation can't possibly be human, and it validated Ghost's feelings of uncanny valley when interacting with Price. It had seemed his intuition that something was different proved right. He wasn't shocked, no, more angry that no one bothered to tell him.

"I thought you knew." Price spoke quietly, almost sheepishly, at Ghost's sharp response.

"Quite frankly, sir, I don't give a shit. We've got a job to do, and I take it you've got a plan." Ghost meets Price's eyes, his expression earnest despite being blank. Price smirked back, slowly nodding.

"That I do."

~~~~~~

Ghost never enjoyed being assigned to various teams of rather inexperienced soldiers, especially ones run by cocky, know-it-all sergeants. He had arrived after the team to assist them with the stealth aspect of their assignment, since their last one had apparently gone haywire. Granted, it wasn't a real assignment, but rather a simulation and Ghost was there to teach them where they went wrong last time. Ghost scanned the clearing where the men were gathered, the cold spray from the sea chilling him even through all his layers.

"Glad you could make it, Lieutenant!" The sergeants, Ghost couldn't be bothered to remember his name, waved in greeting. Ghost resisted the urge to roll his eyes and instead remained quiet as he took his place.

"Do you have a plan for getting inside the walls?" Ghost asked, and the sergeant nodded, briefly patting the air tank in front of him.

"There's a locking system under the water against this side gate. I can easily be in and out. The gate will open and I'll meet the men on the inside." Sergeant Daniels, as Ghost suddenly remembered, said rather matter-of-factly. Ghost frowned at him. The plan didn't make sense, but he didn't want to say anything until after the fact, so as to avoid getting into an argument before anything has a chance to go wrong. Sergeants like this one loved to argue. Ghost didn't.

"Have you checked the tank?" Ghost asked, and the sergeant's eyes widened a bit before he bent over to check. Ghost did roll his eyes this time, and instead let his gaze wander to the small team. Most of them looked as green as they probably were, but one didn't. Instead of looking apprehensive like his counterparts, he seemed at peace, his stance relaxed and a small, almost knowing smirk on his lips. He met Ghost's eye and vaguely nodded his head towards Daniels, only to match Ghost's eye roll.

He hated to admit it, but Ghost already liked this kid. He was a corporal, given the markings on his uniform, but he still seemed to know more than the Sergeant.

"Um, there's a problem with the air tank. I'll lose more air than I get to breathe if I take this down." Daniels's nervous voice drew back Ghost's attention, but before he practically snapped his neck to look, he noticed the subtle face palm from the corporal.

"Got a spare?" Ghost snapped, and Daniels shook his head.

"That's mistake number one. Never under prepare. Better safe than a dead man." Ghost barked out, barely containing his anger. He really didn't want to be spending his weekend like this.

"I can breathe underwater." A different voice spoke up, and Ghost felt a bit of relief seeing it came from the corporal.

"How well can you see under there?" Ghost asked and the kid fought back a grin, settling for a small smile.

"Pretty damn well, I'd say." He responds, and Ghost nods. He turns back to glare at Daniels.

"You'd better be fucking grateful he volunteered. You won't be so lucky next time." He said, as dark and threatening as he could be without scarring the idiot for life. Daniels nodded strongly before taking a step back to allow Ghost full authority.

"Got a name, Corporal?" Ghost asked, and the man opened his mouth and closed it again before he gave a formal response.

"Kyle Garrick, sir." Ghost quirked a brow in question.

"Did you have something else to say?"

"I was only going to be smart-ass with your question, sir." Garrick responded, standing a bit straighter as if expecting the already agitated lieutenant to snap.

"Well then let's hear it." Ghost replied, surprising even himself.

"Was only going to say, no, I actually don't have a name." Garrick quipped back, and Ghost nodded, almost solemnly.

"A fellow unloved child, I see. Good to know." Ghost said, and Garrick let out a small laugh in shock.

"Permission to dive, sir?" He asked and Ghost scanned him briefly. The corporal really wasn't dressed for the weather, but given the fact he can apparently breathe underwater, Ghost supposed it didn't really matter.

"Can you disable the lock and alarm system?" He asked, and Garrick confidently nodded.

"Go for it." And with the lieutenant's permission, Garrick gracefully slipped into the water with barely a sound. Ghost shook his head after briefly glancing at Daniels, deciding not to push anything for his own sanity.

It wasn't long at all, rather only a minute or two, before the corporal resurfaced, giving them the go ahead. The rest of the simulation was a disaster on all fronts that didn't include Corporal Garrick. Ghost had yelled himself raw afterwards, and he even allowed Garrick to slip away before the berating began. Afterwards, as Ghost headed to his temporary quarters for the night, he passed the corporal.

"You did good out there, Garrick." Ghost said, half expecting the corporal to not have heard him approach. Instead, he gave Ghost a smile and a nod, seemingly already aware of his presence. It was times like this Ghost was jealous of his inhuman counterparts for their uncanny abilities to detect subtle changes around them.

"Thank you, sir. And, most people call me Gaz." He responded, his smile brightening. Ghost frowned at him, uncertain as to why he felt so drawn by him. He must've stared too long, as Gaz's face suddenly twisted into embarrassment. Iridescent scales slowly faded into view along his cheek bones and along the crest of his nose.

"Sorry, I keep forgetting some species are more... susceptible." Gaz muttered, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck. Ghost didn't understand why Gaz had said species instead of humans specifically, as that was more likely to be the case, but he didn't question it. He also didn't question what he meant by susceptible, but he refused to ask for his own peace.

"Well, good night, then. Hope to work with you again, Gaz." Ghost mumbled, and Gaz smiled once again.

"Thank you, sir. I hope to work with you, as well."

~~~~~~

Meeting Sergeant MacTavish was an... interesting experience for him, to say the least. Ghost had heard stories of the sergeant with the ability to produce lightning from his fingertips and a knack for blowing shit up. Yeah, because that's the perfect man for a stealth op.

Perhaps it was because Ghost had underestimated him, or perhaps it was the typical pre-mission jitters he still hasn't gotten used to, but something put him on edge when he saw the sergeant. Every hair on his body stood on end as the man approached him, a confident, if not cocky, grin stuck on his face. Thunder rolled in the distance, and something quite literally flashed in the Scotsman's eyes.

"Let's make this one a win, yeah Lt? Save you a seat, sir." Soap said, punctuating his sentence with a light punch to Ghost's shoulder that sent a harmless, yet startlingly shock through his body. Ghost watched him saunter away and onto the carrier as his heart beats loudly in his chest.

He'll never catch a break, will he?

Taglist: want added? Say so in the replies ;) @tacticaltaxonomist @cthulhusstepmom @cathnoneofyourbusiness @thorougly-melted-brains

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hawkeykirsah · 6 months

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Call of Duty (Video Games) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: John "Soap" MacTavish/Simon "Ghost" Riley Characters: John "Soap" MacTavish, Simon "Ghost" Riley Additional Tags: Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Gentle Sex, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Not Canon Compliant, Post-Call of Duty: Modern Warfare III (2023), Massage, Mentions of Injuries, Blow Jobs Summary:

Ghost didn’t make these sounds when he had to go to PT, Johnny knew; only with him. Only with him. There was something about that knowledge—knowing that the Ghost, Simon, trusted him with these signs of vulnerability—that sent a wave of heat through his body, enhanced by another low groan and the feeling of Simon’s skin between his bare thighs now that he was no longer wearing his jeans, both only separated by the thin fabric of their boxer briefs.

OR, Johnny embraces an opportunity to pamper Ghost a little.

#soapghost #ghostsoap #johnny 'soap' mactavish #john soap mactavish #simon 'ghost' riley #simon ghost riley #call of duty #fanfiction #smut #lemons #canon divergence #not canon compliant #hawk writes #my writing

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wildmtthyme · 2 days

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Home, Sweet Home

Eight years is a long time. Simon knew he should stay away but betrayal stings and panic drives him to go to the only place that has ever felt like home. The fact that he still knows it makes his chest tighten. The fact that she's still there makes him wilt. The fact that she's still waiting breaks his heart even more.

Or...

Ghost and Johnny need somewhere to hide in Las Almas when the shit hits the fan. If only for the night. Ghost knows where they can go... but it would mean opening the door on a past that he'd walked away from so many years ago.

SFW but slight warning on language and gore? Depictions/descriptions of canon-level injuries. Non-canon injuries. Spanish speaking Ghost. Tumblr only drabble. *I pulled the Spanish from memory so it's rusty, some might be a little wrong but oh well. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

And yes... this is what counts as a drabble for me. -sigh- I might continue this when I have the motivation to.

Soap squinted slightly as he studied Ghost in the fell light of the belly of the carrier they were in, steadily making their way towards the airfield in Mexico. Price’s words over their coms when they were getting ready to leave still making him wonder. You going to be alright going back there, Ghost? And Ghost’s deadpan reply of Yes Sir. That had given him no clue as to what Price had been talking about. He knew that Ghost had history with Mexico as a whole but not with Las Almas in particular. It wasn’t the last time he wondered that on this mission. There were quite a few times he caught the elusive and closed off Lieutenant seeming to slip into an even more stoic sort of thought, gazing off into a distance he couldn’t see himself before he seemed to snap back to this reality and act as if that hadn’t happened.

Simon felt uneasy on Mexican soil, he always would. For a variety of reasons. When they landed in Las Almas… he knew questions were growing in quite a few minds at the familiarity between himself and Rudy. The way the man didn’t just shake his hand. How he clapped his shoulder, giving it a squeeze and saying it’s good to see you again, hermano. Simon had just nodded. He couldn’t reply for the nerves that spiked inside him. Rudy was a part of a life he no longer had. And he didn’t want to answer questions about it. He was hoping he could fly under that particular radar while he was in Las Almas. But when the shit hit the fan… well… he stopped caring about a lot of those nerves.

Soap listened as Ghost guided him through the streets of Las Almas… the darkened alleyways were like a maze to him but Ghost seemed to know them intimately. He led him through twists and turns, guided him along all the while his shoulder screamed at him from the bullet that grazed the muscle. He had no idea where Ghost was leading him… but he didn’t have much of a choice except to follow his cryptic instructions. Shadows were everywhere, looking for both Ghost and himself. Things were going from bad to worse as he heard the screams, the shouts, the citizens of this town taking the fall for his and Ghost’s escape.

Simon knew he shouldn’t… he knew he should get the hell out of town, get to Alejandro’s safe-house. But he couldn’t leave without Soap. And the shot he took to the thigh was slowing him down in the worst possible way. He knew he had to get it out before he could make any kind of trip. Alejandro’s safe-house was a few clicks outside the city and there was no way he was going to make that distance if he was bleeding out the way he was. He knew he shouldn’t. But he did anyway. He slunk through the shadows… guiding Soap through their personal com channel to the same place he was currently approaching. He gave him the final instruction before he snuck up the covered stairway… his gloved hands easing the rug out of the way, shaking his head with a deep frown at the key he found laying there.

How many times had he told her to not hide a key under the bloody mat. He eased the key into the metal door’s lock, at least she kept the bars on the doors and windows; though, she’d hated it when he had them installed. He turned the knob on the interior door and winced when it clicked, seemingly so loud. There weren’t any lights on inside, but that didn’t mean anything. He shut and locked everything behind him… only a foot in and he heard the unmistakable click of a gun, felt the press of a barrel into the side of his damned neck. His eyes cut over and he swallowed down a whole mess of… god… so much. She was just as stunning as he remembered. No… even more so. “Easy with that, love.” Her expression shifted in a heartbeat… from fierce and threatening to stunned. She pulled the gun away, he heard the hammer disengage… the safety click on… and watched as she stepped away from him, nearly staggering back into the small kitchen table that he’d bought for her when they moved in here. Simón… she whispered his name, as if she couldn’t believe it. He stood up fully, his height always imposing. He nodded, looking down at her. His fingers itched with the urge to reach for her. He blinked sharp as he swayed back a half step… her violent shove the reason. The fuck are you doing here! She hissed at him, luckily not yelling. This shit all about you?! Is that why these gringos are fucking around tonight?! He sighed and she just groaned, holding her hand up, that gun still in it as if she were done and walking away from him. His eyes flew down her unbidden… from her worn old T-shirt to her jean cut-offs… she was… so damned beautiful. “Needed somewhere safe to go before heading out of the city.” He found himself murmuring, not because he had to be quiet but because he felt like a damned dog with his tail tucked.

So, you brought this to my door? She had set the gun in a cabinet, shutting it away before shooting him a glare. Eight years and nada… but now, now you decide is time to come home? He clinched his jaw to hold back a sigh… and silence the stab of pain that word caused. Home. His eyes flicked around… the place looked a little different but not by much. Nothing much changed in Las Almas, that much he was learning quickly. “Can we stay here tonight?” He swallowed against a growing lump in his throat. She raised a dark brow at him, her arms folding over her chest, her hip jutting out. We? Who the fuck is we? His sigh slipped past this time… and he saw her immediate response. Her lips pressed into a thin, hard line. He did not want to deal with her attitude right now… his thigh was starting to cramp… and he was sure there was a small pool of blood starting to form under his boot. He was about to answer when he heard Soap through his coms. Metal door, this the place. He heard the echo just behind him and he turned, opening her door even though he heard her go off in a hiss. Pinche-cabron. He eased the metal door open, letting a confused and injured Soap inside.

Johnny glanced at Ghost but immediately saw the woman standing just there past the pass-through to the kitchen in the hall. She looked livid… but kind of not? He wasn’t sure. She looked between him and Ghost once he was inside and the doors were once again locked. Well, this is just great, Simón… now I have two big ass gringos bleeding in my house. She made a sound and waved behind her as she started down the hall away from them. Sit down before you fall down, I’ll get the kit. She muttered to herself, quite a few curse words in Spanish that he recognized as she vanished into the darkness. He looked up at Ghost. “Simon.” He said simply… there was a question in the word but the LT ignored him and limped a little, moving past him and over to the dinning room where he pulled out a chair and eased himself down, letting his leg stretch out.

Simon ignored Soap’s questioning look and the man followed, sitting in the closest chair. He was struggling with a lot in his head at the moment… and her statement reminded him of what he should have thought of in the first place. Soap and him being here put her in very real danger. But in his weakness… his moment of betrayal and panic… he just thought of the one place he could go that was safe. Home. It struck him then that his mind still thought of this place as that. She returned a moment later carrying a first aid kit… she set it down with a snap, her jaw tight as she reached for a box of matches on the table and flicked one to light the candle there. The soft glow was the only light she was affording. She looked at Soap and kicked her chin in his direction. How bad?

Soap watched the woman… she was… a total knockout if he were being honest. Tan skin and dark hair, obviously a native. Beautiful. Long legs… and… he knew his mind was seeking out anything to focus on other than the burning in his arm. Sure, he’d been shot before but it never made it hurt any less. He started working his vest off, wincing slightly around his eyes. “Jus’ a graze, hen… nuthin’ major.” He saw Ghost sit up a little straighter, take in a little more air when he called her ‘hen’… he wanted to smirk, the man giving him a little information without even trying to. She opened the box and pulled out a bottle of alcohol and some gauze, some gauze tape and set it on the table in front of him. And you. He pulled his shirt off, his eyes flicking between what he was doing and her interaction with Ghost, fighting another smirk as she poked the imposing LT in the chest. What has you bleeding on my floor?

Simon looked up at her and saw her brown eyes swimming in worry… worry she was trying to hide. He sighed and shook his head. “Is nuthin’. Jus’ need—” You think you can lie to me? She cut him off with a hardened tone. He sighed again before he froze… feeling her hand under his chin, making him look at her again. You wearin’ this calacas like it’s dia de los Muertos. Like you some dios de los Muertos. She removed her hand and focused back down at the box, sorting through some of the remaining first aid supplies. Take that thing off and answer me, the truth this time. He stilled… his eyes flicking from her to Soap, who was now cleaning the swipe on his arm with a slight grimace around his eyes, but the man had stilled too… his eyes not looking at him but he knew he was focused out of his peripheral. Waiting to see what he was going to do. He swallowed tensely before he spoke. “Can’t do tha’, love. It stays on.” She blinked rapidly before looking at him again, more pointedly this time, her hip shifting as he saw her clinch a muscle in her jaw. She opened her mouth but he hissed. “Es definito.” He spoke firmly, his voice taking on a growl as he held her gaze with that same firmness.

She pursed her lips, rolling around her words no doubt before she dropped some of the first aid supplies down with a slap. You wanna be stubborn, burro. Fine. She snapped at him before she dropped to a knee, hard. Her hands reaching for his belt, he jerked slightly but didn’t move otherwise. Bleeding all over my clean floor, acting all big and bad with your estupido gringo friend… she was muttering at him, he could hear the heat in her words and he flexed his thigh on purpose, the pain keeping his cock from reacting to her close proximity and the fact that he’d always found her even more attractive when she was angry. He pushed his hands down on the chair, letting her jerk his jeans down, quickly tugging his boxers back up into position while she pulled his jeans down to his ankles. He wanted to quip at her but with Soap paying such close attention… he couldn’t. Wasn’t the best idea anyway. She paused when her eyes locked on the wound… he heard her mutter quieter under her breath, still angry… but he couldn’t make out her words anymore.

She rose up onto her knees and tugged a headlamp out of the box, grabbing the bottle of alcohol off the table now that Soap was done with it… some gauze… and started making a proper mess. She cleaned her hands and then doused the wound. His muscle jumped and he clinched his teeth. She pulled the headlamp on and grabbed a pair of forceps from the kit… dipped them into the bottle of alcohol and swirled them around before she slotted herself between his legs, having to climb into the valley created by his jeans. It was… oddly intimate… and he knew it spoke volumes to how close they were… or rather, once were. Soap cleared his throat as he set the tape down, having finished bandaging his arm. Bathroom? “Down tha hall.” They both said in unison and Soap paused over that but otherwise made his way quietly away from them.

Johnny glanced over his shoulder once he was in the hallway… watching as that woman started digging around in Ghost’s leg for the bullet that was no doubt lodged in there. Ghost tensed up… hissed and he saw her set her hand further up on his thigh. Shh, big baby. Ghost chuckled low. Tha hand’s not exactly helpin’, love. She rolled her eyes and continued working. It was clear that they knew each other on a more… intimate level. But how intimate was the question. Was this a girl that Ghost had met while they were here? He hadn’t spent every single moment with the LT while they’d been here. But somehow… it seemed… like an older thing? He wasn’t sure. He went down the hall and found the bathroom, was pretty easy to do since there were only two doors. One to an obvious bedroom and one to a bathroom. He used it and washed his hands before quietly heading back out.

He didn’t return to the dining room though, having walked back into the main living area just in time to hear the sound of metal hitting the tabletop, the bullet rolling a little as it did. He went into the living room instead, settling down slowly onto the couch with a heavy sigh. His bones were tired. He let his eyes lazily move around the room… and they landed on an older style entertainment center… the top of which was littered with clutter. A statue of the Virgin Mary… some candles that weren’t lit… and pictures in cheap gold frames. One he spotted right away, it seemed to jump right out at him. Not because of her… no… but the man with her. He was huge… much larger than she… and he had familiar brown eyes. But the white man with the sandy blonde hair was a stranger otherwise. He had a crooked nose, a scar that bisected both of his lips in a single swipe… another on his chin… but those lips were crooked in a grin. And he was holding her in his lap sitting in the sand on some beach. His eyes moved quicker now, over the photos that held a lot of people he obviously didn’t recognize, until he saw another one with the man. This one was like the clue that cracked a case wide open. He was standing in front of a small chapel… wearing a uniform, younger… and there she was beside him, her dress white, a lace veil around her face, and he had her pulled in under his arm like that was where he always wanted her to be.

Johnny couldn’t help but look over his shoulder at the LT now… and it just clicked. Holy Shit, he thought. This wasn’t just some girl. This was the LT’s wife. No wonder she poked at him… she knew him… in pretty much every way. But… there was a strange distance between them now. Something had happened… something changed between them. Something that made Ghost come here on a plane with him and not come straight here to this apartment. Soap desperately wanted to know what that was… but he knew better than to ask. And frankly, at the moment, he was too damned tired to care.

Simon watched her as she stitched him up… her steady hands and unyielding focus hadn’t changed at all. He couldn’t stop his gloved hand from reaching, brushing some of her hair back behind her shoulder where it had been before it had slid off. She paused, froze for a heartbeat before continuing. Rudolpho said you were in town. He sighed quietly, watching as she dropped the needle back into the box and grabbed a tube of ointment. She dabbed it around the wound softly before laying a bandage over it. She stood up and stepped out of the trap his jeans created, clicking the light off before she did, plunging the place back into near darkness. “Rudy shouldn’t have said anything.” He muttered… he saw her shoulders tense… and felt the way his stomach dropped. She was quick about collecting the first aid supplies. There’s left overs in the fridge. You should shower… don’t get the stitches wet. He stood up, tugging his jeans back up and securing them… she hadn’t looked at him again and her words were uncharacteristically quiet. “Maria.” He breathed but she was already turning away from him and heading down the hall. I want you gone by dawn. She left him standing there like a jackass… and he felt like one, too. The tension thick around him. He sighed quietly before he turned into the kitchen and tugged the fridge open. He quickly made food for himself and Soap… he ate in the kitchen, hiding from his colleague.

Johnny ate the rice and meat quick, using the tortillas like bread… it was probably the wrong way but he didn’t care, he was starving. As soon as he was done, he took his plate into the kitchen, where Ghost was already rinsing his. He did the same but hovered there as the LT was fiddling with something on his vest. “So… she seems nice.” He said quietly, testing the waters. And the look Ghost shot him let him know that those waters were the fucking arctic ocean. He held his hands up a little in surrender. You take the couch. I’m gonna go shower. He nodded. “Prolly won’t be awake by the time you get out.” He said low as he passed the man, he could already feel his eyelids drooping. One of them should take watch but he was just exhausted. And frankly… they were pretty well hidden and out of the way.

Simon hung his head under the cold spray of the shower, opting for as little hot water as possible. He needed to clear his head, get it on right before he did something stupid. Something like what he was doing the moment he was dry and had that towel wrapped around his waist. He shut her bedroom door behind him, his eyes already on her. She wasn’t laying down… she was sitting on what had once been his side of the bed, her hands in her lap, her head bowed. Go away. She whispered it but he heard how thick her words were. He swallowed thickly and shook his head. He only hesitated for a second before he reached up and tugged his mask off, having put it back on once he was out of the shower. He laid it on top of what had once been their dresser… but was probably only full of her clothes now. He crossed the room and he was a few feet from her when she erupted out of her seating.

She flew at him, her hands pushing on his chest in a half-hearted, hurt-fueled… well, he hesitated to call it an attack for how she very quickly sagged against him. His arms went around her, hands spanning her back as he shushed her softly… her shoulders rocking as she wept so damned quietly. He felt his eyes stinging, his throat burning, his nose itching. He never could stand to see her cry. You left me here alone. He closed his eyes tight and bowed his head, pressing his lips into her crown and taking a deep breath, nodding silently. She started struggling again, her hands balling into fists against him, she wanted to hurt him… but she hadn’t the heart to, he knew that. But he still tightened his arms around her.

Eight years ago… he’d left. He knew he’d been a fool to marry her in the first place but… he’d fallen so damned hard for her. He wanted her in every way. But the past had a way of sneaking up on him… and it did. It did in so many ways. She weathered his night terrors, his panic attacks, his episodes of PTSD. She’d stuck by him through it all… and he pushed her away. He fought with himself… against himself. Simon wanted her… but Ghost wanted to protect her from everything, even himself. He wasn’t split but he was close. “Had to make sure you would be safe.” He said low and heard her scoff against his chest. That was why he’d left in the first place… but that wasn’t why he stayed away. What had kicked it off was her asking for something he never thought he could have… something he couldn’t give her. She wanted kids. And he told her no. He couldn’t tell her why, though. So… after so many fights… one morning, before she even woke up… he just left. He left to hunt down Roba.

And he did. It took him three years… but he did it. He found that son of a bitch and killed him. Made sure he couldn’t come after him or her… made sure he could, if he wanted, give her a family. That they’d be safe. But… but then he didn’t come back. He didn’t return to her. He just stayed gone. Because he was technically a war criminal. He was a murderer. What kind of husband was he, then? The kind that hunted men like they were dogs? The kind that strangled them with their own hands? The kind that could slit another man’s throat without a thought? What kind of husband is that? What kind of father is that? No kind she deserved. She deserved the best. And that wasn’t him.

He kept in contact with Rudy, though. Her brother. Just… just to make sure she was alright. He sent Rudy money to give her… because he knew she’d not take it from him. But he never divorced her… and she never asked for one. Rudy never mentioned any other men… but he was sure there had been some. Not that he’d taken another lover in all that time… never. Not once. He was faithful to her. Always had been and always would be. Even though he was sure she’d been with others… but Rudy never said… in fact… his eyes flicked around the room now… there wasn’t a single sign that anyone else had been here. Just her. His side of the bed was vacant… his end table was empty. Almost like… he shook his head slightly at himself. She wasn’t waiting for him to come back. It was impossible.

He guided her back to the bed slowly. “I’s late, love… le’s get some sleep.” He murmured and felt her nod. He pulled back the woven cotton blanket and sheets… guided her into them. He glanced down at his towel and frowned slightly. Still have some boxers in your drawer. He blinked at her… looked over at the dresser and walked over… his hand shook just a little as he tugged what had once been his undergarments drawer open. He let out a shallow breath. Everything was as he left it… down to the vacant spot of the last pair of socks he’d pulled out. He looked over his shoulder at her but she was on her side, facing away from him. Had… had she been just… waiting for him to come back? He swallowed thickly and blinked rapidly before he took off the towel and laid it on top of the dresser, grabbing a pair of boxers and shaking them out before putting them on. They were a little tight, him having gained some bulk since he was here last. Climbing back into the bed was surreal… but wrapping around her, pulling her into him in the middle of that queen-sized was… second nature. A second nature he thought he might have lost somewhere along the way.

Simon was up and dressed before the sun… looking down at her still sleeping form. He knew that if he left now… it’d hurt her in the worst way. So… against his better judgement- as far as the mission was concerned… he knelt in front of the mattress and reached, smoothing his still bare hand over her hair softly. She stirred, her eyes fluttering open, locking on him in a sleepy haze. “Gotta move before the light.” He murmured out. He saw her chew on her lower lip but she nodded. Via con dios, Simón. He smirked and started to lean in but stilled, giving a slight shake of his head and started backing away only for her hand to snatch his collar and tug him towards her. He sucked in a deep breath through his nose, feeling her lips collide with his. It wasn’t a matter of not thinking… he couldn’t think as he climbed onto the bed, covering her in a heartbeat… bullying his tongue into her mouth and kissing her with every ounce of longing that broke free upon feeling her lips against his again.

God damn, he’d missed her so much. He felt he wrap a leg around his, felt her arms snake around his neck and hold onto him so damned tight that her muscles were trembling. His cock screamed from disuse, begged against the zipper of his jeans… she was so damned close… and yet so far away. He took a gasping breath, breaking the kiss that stole his sanity. “Can’t.” He breathed out… pushing his hands down into the mattress to lift himself off of her. “Not yet.” He kissed her again, a shorter but no less heated one. She was panting, her lips tinged red from his stubble. He pressed his brow to hers, holding her eyes… watching as they turned glassy on him.

He shushed her softly, ran the backs of his fingers along her cheek. “Te amo, mi esposa.” He kissed her softer then, just a peck really but it was sweet. He caught a tear on her temple and wiped it away. You come back this time, Simón… or don’t ever come back. He gave a nod, hearing the seriousness in her words… and the warning. “I will.” And he meant it. He climbed off the bed and took a deep breath before he pulled his mask on… then his gloves, hiding himself away. He looked down at her… bending slightly to brush some of her hair off her brow. “Still so beau’iful.” He said low and felt her bat his hand away, a bashful sort of smirk on her face. He couldn’t help his own huff of a smirk. Still so full of ca-ca. He chuckled and made for the door. Him and Soap stole a truck on the street and were out of the city in no time, aiming for Alejandro’s safe-house. He ignored Soap’s probing gaze.

Getting Alejandro his base back… shutting Graves and his men down… it all took a lot longer than he’d planned. But it was done. As Price, Gaz, and Soap all readied to return home… he glanced over his shoulder at Rudy. The man was eyeballing him with a hardened look… he must have spoken with Maria. He sighed when Price nudged his shoulder. Let’s head out. “Not comin’.” He heard himself say. He looked back into Price’s suddenly very serious eyes. “Got some business to wrap up before I head back.” He took a breath. “If I head back.” Price’s jaw flexed. You know this isn’t over. He gave a slight nod. “It might be for me.” He said simply. Yeah, he knew that Markarov was at the root of this. Yeah, he knew that. But he also knew that there would always be a big bad guy at the center of it.

There would always be another enemy pointing a gun at the world. And there would always be another operative. It didn’t have to always be him. “I’ll let you know.” Price’s aw tensed again, his mustache flaring. The thing about being dead, like him… was that he technically wasn’t in the SAS. He technically wasn’t in anything. He was dead. Legally speaking. So, Price couldn’t order him onto that plane and Price knew it. I’ll be waiting for your word, then. He nodded and Price walked off, obviously angry… but he’d get over it. Or he wouldn’t. Simon couldn’t control that. He waved Gaz and Soap off before he turned around and gave a nod to Rudy. The look Rudy gave him was half approving and half relieved.

This time… the sun was out when he climbed the stairs to the apartment… and the door was open, though the metal door was still shut and auto-locked. He didn’t let himself in this time, though. He knocked… and waited.

To be continued… probably.

#call of duty #my writing #cod writing #simon ghost riley #fanfiction #not beta read we die like men #civilian oc #ghost x oc #johnny soap mactavish #las almas #spanish speaking oc #spanish speaking ghost #canon divergence of course #it's a long one but oh well

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hustlemeanokay · 4 months

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Off the Radar . 3 chapters . 5361 words

[Last Chapter=18+ Minors DNI]

'We can’t stay here long.' Price mumbled in the near silence. There was a series of nods but nothing beyond that. They were all shell shocked. Simon looked between each of them… all of them looked like they were scraping the bottom of their barrel… they looked so lost. 'We don’t know who we can trust.' Gaz chimed in, even the usual happy tone that lived in the man’s voice was gone. Another round of nods. “I know where we can go.” He finally looked up and moved his brown eyes from each and every one of them until they landed on Price. “Off the radar.”

Or...

Simon "Ghost" Riley takes the team home. His home. The home they know nothing about. Where they will meet the family they don't know he has. I'm a sucker for the secret family trope. 18+ Minors DNI for the last chapter.

AO3 Link

-*-

I might start posting them to Tumblr but I'm not sure. Might have to make a separate blog if I start doin that. We'll see.

#simon ghost riley #cod #call of duty #cod writing #cod fanfic #simon riley x original female character #secret family trope #john price #kyle garrick #john mactavish #konig #canon divergent #fluff and smut

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whumpwriterforlife · 10 months

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Call of Duty Snippet #1

In which Price watches over his sleeping Sergeant (Ghost) and contemplates his strength.

***

Simon was asleep, his chest rising and falling in a deep, steady rhythm. Price didn't dare to move. It must have been days since the newly promoted Sergeant had slept for more than mere minutes at a time, constantly tormented by nightmares that weren't even that, but actual memories.

Price downed the rest of his coffee in one gulp, grimacing when it burned on its way down. His eyes drifted to Simon's face, to the scars that now marred the previously unmarked skin. There were more of them hidden all over Simon's body, Price knew, and it pained him that they would never let Simon forget, always there when he looked in the mirror and undressed, a cruel reminder of the betrayal and torture he had gone through.

At times Price wished the men responsible weren't dead, just so he could make them regret their actions. It had taken weeks after his return for Simon to speak, and he had refused to talk to anyone but Price. It had taken him nearly two months to be released from the military hospital. Many more before he stopped flinching at Price's touch

It had taken until last week, nearly seven months after his return, that Simon had felt comfortable enough to leave his mask aside when they spent time together in private.

The kid wasn't even thirty, damn it, he didn't deserve to be burdened with such heavy trauma.

Simon shifted in his sleep, but soon settled back to sleep.

Price breathed a sigh of relief.

Simon was strong, though. The strongest man Price knew. He had survived and built himself back up after losing his family and so very nearly himself in the hands of pure evil. It didn't matter that his recovery was most likely going to span years, Simon had beaten all odds so far and would continue doing so because he was a survivor.

And Price couldn't have been more proud of him.

#call of duty #simon ghost riley #john price #captain price #cod mw2 #mw2 #mentions of torture #scars #canon divergence #simon has trauma #papa price is there to help #whump #my writing #pre-game #pre-canon #kinda

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klmwrites · 14 days

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NEW FANFIC JUST POSTED! 📢‼️

You know when you play a computer game and your character dies, you are forced to repeat that level several times until you find the solution in order to make progress? What do most people call that phenomenon? That’s right - groundhog day.

It’s what Bell has been experiencing ever since being shot in the Solovetsky Islands by Adler. So if dying by their handler’s hand wasn’t the solution…then what is?

#call of duty #call of duty fanfic #call of duty special ops cold war #russell adler #bell call of duty #Helen Park #eleazar azoulay #time travel fix it #Bell is AFAB but uses they/them pronouns #alternate universe #canon divergence #ao3 writer #ao3 fanfic #cod fanfic

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alidravana · 1 year

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Day 1. Housewarming

Planned to do some drabbles for @domaystic's prompts this month only for the first drabble to end up at over 700 words...oops?

Will plan to tidy this up and post to A03 eventually, but here's a scene from the 'Leave a Light On' canon divergence, where Kick reflects on his and Hesh's journey towards buying a house, for Day 1: housewarming.

Home. A four letter word that means so much more; a place to feel safe, to be warm, to be loved.

Kick never had one when he was growing up. His mother had taken off, his brother abused his trust, and he never felt safe around his father, not with all his side comments about people like him. As soon as he was old enough, he took off, south towards Mexico, intending to get lost in a sea of people and culture.

It worked for a while. He found a girl, thought he was in love, made some friends. He finally thought he was closer to making that home, only to find himself knocked off his feet, the rug pulled out from under him again.

After literally stumbling into the Ghosts, it took a long time for him to get comfortable with the team, to accept the brotherly bond that Ajax and Keegan were offering, and to accept the safety that the team so freely granted. Once he settled in, he was happy. He had found his home. Until Rorke came along and took his brothers away, one by one.

Kick never blamed Hesh for going after Rorke that day, only wishing that he had been by his side. He was by Hesh’s side the next time they tried, and that time, they were successful. But while dead bodies tell no lies, they don’t tell anything else either, and so the next few years, they searched, hunting down any clue, tracking down any trace of Logan but ended up with nothing.

Kick knew that to this day, that Hesh believed Logan was alive, and there were times that Kick wished he still believed that too. But Hesh had finally taken the steps towards healing too.

They both decided to retire from service. It had been a bit harder for Hesh, having planned on staying in the military longer term, just like his father. The only thing that had Kick staying around in the first place was the team itself, and the Ghosts were a shell of what had existed before; Merrick and Keegan retiring not long after they lost Logan. Neptune was now the last soldier standing.

It had taken them a while to find the right house; Hesh wanting some distance from town, Kick wanting a large enough garage for all his toys, and both of them wanting to have a handful of spare rooms to have the rest of the team over.

But here they were, standing at the foot of their sidewalk, two sets of keys securely in each of their hands, staring at each other almost in disbelief.

“Ready?” Kick asked Hesh, reaching out to grab his hand.

“I still can’t believe we have a house,” Hesh replied with a grin, leaning in to plant a kiss on Kick’s cheek.

Kick allowed Hesh to go first, falling in behind him as they headed towards the front door, only to find himself smacking against Hesh’s back as his partner stopped abruptly.

“Uhh...Hesh? Why’d you stop?” Kick asked, trying to peer around his partner’s broad shoulders.

“Did you buy those flowers?” Hesh asked, sounding alarmed as he pointed at the large pot of sunflowers that were sitting on the front step.

“N-no?” Kick replied, looking at his partner curiously, unsure why Hesh was seeming concerned.

“They were mom’s favourite flowers…” Hesh said softly, almost a whisper as he bent down by the pot, his fingers flickering through the leaves, as if he was looking for something. “Dad always made sure to get some for her birthday.”

Kick’s eyes flickered to the surrounding area, quickly scanning for signs that anyone was around, or that anyone had been around. His mind was telling him that they had to have been left by their agent, or the previous owners, but there was something about the whole set up that left him feeling unmoored.

“Sorry,” Hesh muttered, standing back up suddenly, sliding his arm around Kick’s waist. “Got a bit side tracked there. Ready to have sex in every room?” Hesh asked with a wink, his hand sliding lower to squeeze Kick’s butt.

Kick grinned in response, sliding out of Hesh’s grip to make a dash for the door.

“First one in tops!”

#call of duty #ghosts #domaystic #day 1 #housewarming #leave a light on canon divergence #hesh/kick #hesh walker

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cherryatombomb · 1 year

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i am holding out my hands i need all of your soapghost fic recs!!! feel free to rec ur own too i simply need to read more wooh

#my only things #no major character death #no hurt no comfort #other then that go wild #aus?#canon divergence?#all of it #i require it all #call of duty #soapghost

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crispy-bonnie · 7 months

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Let me tell you all about: The VENGEANCE AU!

!! DISCLAIMER !!

This post contains major spoilers for CoD:MWII and CoD:MWIII while also heavily diverging from canon! If you don't wish to be spoiled on either of these, or really fucking hate canon divergency, DO NOT READ THIS POST!

The Vengeance AU is an alternate universe that I have translated to many fandoms and franchises, but this post will be focusing on the Call of Duty versions of the stories.

First, let me introduce you to my character: Bonnie, callsign "Northstar". A sniper and assassin, one of the best at their job, but their role is so specific that they aren't needed for much. They are a rookie to Task Force 141, deeming them as not as reliable compared to the others whom are of higher ranks.

Bonnie doesn't seem to be much in the Task Force, seen as the backup option and sometimes even just dead weight. The only one advocating for them is Price, and even so, his doubts are starting to overrule his initial impression on them. In a feeble attempt to prove themself, they push themself harder in hopes that their efforts will prove some sort of worth. Yet their attempts fail as if they were words falling on deaf ears. The only thing keeping them at ease is their lucky charm necklace that was passed to them by one of their deceased best friends [this is important, remember this bit].

Now, this is taking place during the time that Graves is involved in the story. Due to their lack of missions, Bonnie ends up wandering, and that leads to them fucking around and finding out. They find out about Graves' betrayal plans and makes an attempt to call him out on it. Attempt after attempt, they fail, and it's not long before Graves catches on.

Graves, not wanting to take any risks, frames Bonnie for some silly war crimes and even adds subtle hints that pointed towards them working with El Sin Nombre. Enraged, Task Force 141 and Los Vaqueros have all eyes on Bonnie, but not in a good way. They're detained and interrogated rather harshly, to the point where the interrogation seemed more like a bloodfest. Bonnie eventually can't handle it, considering that their body is a lot weaker compared to the others', and ends up dying just after one of the many interrogations.

Hey so remember that necklace that I mentioned just a couple paragraphs ago? Yeah that thing is a demonic necklace. It serves as a link between the Limbo realm a certain demon is trapped in and the Overworld. Now, who is this demon you may ask? This demon goes by the name of Raymond Yonaga, a serial killer trapped in Limbo for his wrong-doings. However, his wickedness and cravings for entertainment are enough to push past this barrier, now using the emotions of those who crave vengeance as puppets for his murderous intent. However, he can only link himself to these people through the necklace that was previously mentioned.

Bonnie, having possessed this necklace in their final breaths, eventually finds themself in Raymond's realm. Raymond offers Bonnie a second chance at life, a chance to be able to get back at those that wronged them. Bonnie, still distraught and infuriated at their own team's blindness to their reasoning and Graves's audacity to frame them, they accept.

Back into the world they come, new body, new alias, yet following that same setting. They're introduced once again to the Task Force by Price: Kai, callsign "Cassiopeia". None of them suspect a thing.. except for Soap MacTavish. He didn't know much about Bonnie, but he was one of the few that Bonnie trusted a tad more than others, making him significant to them. Soap has his suspicions, but he'd be crazy to say anything. Surely they couldn't be reincarnated with such.. resemblance... right?

W R O N G . What Soap thought was him going crazy or being delusional was completely true; Bonnie was back, and they were fucking pissed. Soap was very much denying his own 'delusions' but he still wanted to make sure that this newbie didn't try anything funny, so he keeps an eye on them and makes sure the others are wary. Little did Soap know that he was getting himself into some deep shit.

Alright, this is the part where things get wonky because I haven't finalized this yet. There are several ways this could go, perhaps you can pick one?

Kai [Bonnie and Raymond] go on a killing spree, picking off various members of Los Vaqueros, Shadow Company, the Las Almas cartel, and eventually targeting Task Force 141. When Raymond tries to go after the Task Force, Bonnie tries to stop him, but it fails as they soon realized that the deal they made gave him more power than they realized. Bonnie tries everything they can to stop him, knowing damn well they should've just stayed dead. This one splits into two as well, one ending being that Kai dies and Bonnie finally manages to stop Raymond, or Raymond takes over and kills the Task Force before going on a hunt for more victims.

The story progresses as usual, the only difference being that Kai is there. Kai does a few kills every now and then, but Raymond's hunger is far from satiated. Bonnie on the other hand realizes that they're being selfish and harming those close to them. In an attempt to bring light to the situation while also not being suspicious, they ask Raymond for help as they form a blood pact with Soap. The blood pact works similarly to the necklace, only being through blood this time; Raymond didn't tell Bonnie this. He lied and claimed that it would give Bonnie the ability to communicate to Soap without using Kai, but he already knew what Bonnie's plan was. Eventually, Soap dies [MWIII shits] and is sent to Raymond's realm, much to Bonnie's dismay. Regardless, Soap finds himself ashamed for his actions, as well as the actions of his teammates. Raymond, being the ultimate manipulator, convinces Soap to do the same thing Bonnie did.. and the cycle continues.

...and that, my friends, is a very condensed version of the Venguance AU! I may make visuals and I've been definitely thinking about making an animation or two of it. It's a story/AU I've been holding onto for years now, WAYYY before I even got into CoD. This story was for a completely different franchise! Nonetheless, I adapted it here, and this is the first time I've ever written about it. It's scrappy at best but it works. Hope you like it :]

#fanfiction #fanfic #headcanons #call of duty #oc x canon #self insert oc #canon x oc #canon divergent #original character #au #alternate universe #original au #call of duty oc #cod mwf2 #cod mwii #cod mw2 #cod mw3 #crispy rants #crispy writes

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callsign-pyro · 3 months

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WIP

The sun’s gentle rays casted the room in a gentle glow. It was warm in the bed, the soft covers wrapped around the couple within them. Neither had been roused from their sleep yet, the man had the woman wrapped in a protective embrace his chest pressed against her back. The woman blinked blearily, yawning as she came out of her dreams.

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sleepyconfusedpotato · 2 years

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if the traitor is ghost, sleepy, just an fyi, i will cry.

WHAT HELL NAW NO NO NO OMG WHY WOULD I DO THAT TO MY GIRL 😭😭

We already know who the traitor is, obviously. Just that after her captivity, Jade needs to find out who the man is 👁️👁️

#IT'S A CANON DIVERGENCE #not a whole diff story don't worry #141 is solid 😤#call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #cod #cod mw

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proxima-writes · 7 months

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pairing: cult leader!joel miller x virgin!female reader

rating: explicit (18+ MDNI)

word count: 8.6k

summary:

You think you’re as good as dead when a band of raiders find you. In what you think are your final moments, an angel appears.

His name is Joel Miller, and he is here to deliver you from evil.

author's note: a huge thank you to my fellow cultist @atinylittlepain for listening to me scream about this. without them, we'd probably be on version 5 of this story. and to everyone who has been excited about this, i hope you enjoy!

warnings: DARK CONTENT - DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, dub-con: power dynamics, dub-con: cult mentality, age difference - 60M and 27F, explicit sexual content (18+ minors do not interact), no use of y/n, dual POV, post-outbreak, canon divergence, canon typical violence (knife wounds, gun shot wounds, numerous mentions of blood), minor character death(s), blood cult ceremonies, religious themes, possessive behavior, emotional manipulation, loss of virginity, oral sex - f receiving, vaginal fingering, unprotected p in v, cum play, dirty talk, pet names, praise, joel really has a loose screw ok? if there are any tags missing, please let me know!

“I don’t think you should go out there by yourself,” you say, watching as your dad inspects his gun. He looks up at you with a pained expression.

“I gotta see where we should head next. I don’t want to lead you out in the wrong direction, accidentally get you in a bad spot,” he says. “I’ll be fine, buttercup.”

There’s a heaviness that settles in your stomach at his words. He sounds confident enough, but his eyes tell a different story, expose his fear. He stands with a sigh, a wince of pain washing over his face.

“Maybe I should—“

“No,” he interrupts. “I’m going. I won’t be gone long, okay? We can’t stay here forever. Who knows what’s out there in the forest.”

That’s exactly what you’re afraid of. At least inside the rotted cabin you stumbled across you could pretend you were safe. The forest is alive in a way you’ve never experienced growing up in a QZ surrounded with barbed wire and steel. You hear the snap of twigs and the howl of wolves, or the flutter of wings and the call of birds, and sometimes you think you feel the weight of eyes watching you if you venture out too far in your exploration.

“We’ve made it this far. We got out of Denver and that was half the battle,” your dad says. “You got your knife, right? And enough rations.”

You nod, swallowing around the lump in your throat. He kisses your forehead, dry lips lingering on your skin. You have an aching feeling this is a goodbye, some sinking intuition that he’s making a mistake that you can’t correct.

“Be back soon. I love you.”

Joel’s been keeping an eye on the people in the woods for the last three days. There was chatter on one of the radio stations that the Denver QZ was facing an uprising and he knows that once those walls come down, the survivors that venture out are bound to stumble across his town.

The cabin door opens and the man steps out, venturing into the forest. Joel waits to see if his female companion follows, but the door remains shut. He longs to see you, the girl who’s image has been burned into his brain since his first glimpse, but he has a duty to fulfill first.

He walks quickly and quietly through the forest, sure feet catching up with the man less than a mile from where he’d started. Joel clears his throat.

The man turns, fumbling with a gun that he clearly has no experience using, pointing it at Joel with shaking hands and shouting, “Move and I’ll shoot!”

“You lost?” Joel asks, holding his hands up and keeping his face trained in a mask of concern. “Lookin’ for somethin’?”

After a pause, the man seeming to have concluded that Joel isn't a threat, he says, “My daughter and I…we escaped the Denver QZ."

"That must've been difficult."

"We....we're running out of food," he continues, dropping his arms, limbs hanging heavy at his sides. "I-I don't know what else to do, man."

Gun no longer pointed at his face, Joel approaches the man, stopping when he's within arms reach. Up close, he can see the dismal state the guy is in -- sunken cheeks and bloodshot eyes, tattered clothing hanging on a thin frame. Joel places a hand on his bony shoulder.

"I can help you," he says. The man looks up, a brief glimmer of hope flashing in his eyes. Joel watches the slow realization, the way his brain catches up to what's just happened, a choked noise spilling from his dry lips.

Joel tugs his knife from the man's gut and steps back, watching as he collapses to the ground. Desperate hands smear the blooming red stain across his abdomen. Joel circles the man, positioning himself at his back, and pulls him close with a hand slapped over his mouth.

"I'll take good care of her," he whispers before dragging his knife across his neck in one clean slice. The man twitches once before growing limp and Joel releases him, body hitting the forest floor with a dull thud. Not one to waste, Joel gathers anything of use from his person.

Something catches the light against his neck. Curious, Joel tugs the bloodstained neck of his t-shirt to the side, finding a silver chain. He pulls, revealing the length of it.

A cross.

The clasp snaps with a sharp tug and Joel stuffs it in his pocket. Standing and shouldering his bag once more, he begins his walk back towards the cabin.

You're running as fast as your legs will carry you, lungs and limbs burning with the effort. You made the mistake of not listening to your dad when he'd told you stay where you were, to stay hidden, that he'd come back. Your nerves had gotten the best of you and you decided that you would catch up with him, but you didn't know which direction he'd gone. You figured you would travel a little ways and see if you could find him and if you didn't do so quickly, you'd rush back to the cabin and wait, just as he told you.

That's when the men saw you, two large figures with rifles that reminded you of FEDRA soldiers slung across their backs.

You duck behind a thick tree to catch your breath. You can hear voices calling out through the forest above the rush of blood in your ears, taunting tones carrying through the air.

"C'mon out, pretty girl!"

You chance a peek out from your hiding spot, only catching a brief glimpse of one man through the trees.

"Where ya hidin', sweet thing?"

His voice sounds far away and that gives you the courage to move forward, a tentative dash for another tree.

“I might be nicer to ya if you just come on out, but if I have to hunt ya down…well…you know what a hunter does to its prey, don’tcha?”

You press your hand over your mouth, muffling the cry that claws its way up your throat. You start to run again, faster, not caring if he can hear you so long as you're able to maintain that distance, hoping that if you can outrun them for long enough, he'll just give up and then maybe you can find your--

You crash into something, the world sliding out from under you and the breath rushing from your lungs as you land on your back with a pained shout. A hand wraps around your ankle, pulling you across the rough ground before you have the chance to recover.

"Gotcha," a man says, the voice different from the one that had been taunting you before. A figure stands over you, a foot on either side of your hips, looking down at you with a sinister smile. "Pretty little prize, huh?"

You twist your body, scrambling away from him. He laughs, following after you with unhurried strides.

“Now, don’t play hard to get,” he admonishes. A hand wraps around your ankle and he drags you toward him, kicking and screaming. Your foot connects with some fleshy part of him and he curses.

“You little fuckin’ cunt,” he hisses, dropping your foot. He kicks you, heavy boot colliding with soft flesh and bone, a sharp pain blossoming in your side, shooting down to your very marrow. You curl in on yourself, wounded prey trying to protect its most vulnerable parts.

A shot rings out, the sound startling in the relative quiet of the forest. You sit up, sudden movement making you light headed, and it takes you a long moment to register the scene before you.

The man that had been chasing you, the one that had caught you, the one that had hurt you on the surface but planned to do far worse, lies on the ground, eyes wide open but unseeing. Above him stands your savior, an older man with gray streaked dark curls and tan skin, broad shoulders and hard brown eyes. He reminds you of a painting you saw once in a book your dad owned, long before the outbreak.

“Death On A Pale Horse,” he explained when you showed him the painting that caught your eye. “Based on the Book of Revelations. You remember that one, right?”

“Yeah.”

“This one,” — he pointed to the central figure, a dark creature on a white horse — “is Death. And this one” — he pointed to a figure on the right that rides a dark brown horse, the dark colors making him blend among the horrors breaking from the sky behind him — “would be famine. You can see the emaciated man below him.”

“What about the other two?” You asked.

“The one of the red horse would be war.”

You pointed to the remaining figure, a man with dark curls and a determined expression. “And the white horse?”

Your dad paused. “Conquest. Pestilence. The Antichrist. The first horseman of the apocalypse.”

The man before you today looks like that figure on the white horse and despite his choice to rescue you from one horror, you fear he may be something far worse.

The man kneels and you flinch away from him. He sighs and says, “I ain’t goin’ to hurt you.”

“Who are you?” You ask, voice weak, throat on fire.

“My name is Joel,” he says. “I want to help you.”

“How do I know you weren’t with those other guys?” Your eyes grow wide and you rush to stand on shaky legs. “Wait, there’s another—“

“He won’t be an issue,” Joel assures you, wrapping a steadying arm around your waist. “C’mon.”

“I can’t—“

“Men like those two ain’t the only things in the forest to worry about, and I’m afraid we can’t sit around and find out. That gun shot could send a horde runnin’.”

“Wait!” You snap, pulling out of his grasp. He holds his hands up, as if in surrender, or maybe like he’s approaching a wounded animal. You’re not sure which. “My dad is out there. H-he went to figure out where to go from here. We were in a cabin…” Your voice trails off. “I told him I would wait for him.”

Joel’s eyes are soft as he says, “We need to get ourselves to safety. I can send someone out to look for your dad first thing in the mornin’.”

“Send someone?”

“There’s a group of us, down in the valley. Survivors, like you.”

“Really?” Relief washes over you, eclipsing even the ache in your belly and the burn in your throat and the pain in your muscles. “How far?”

“With the state you’re in, probably about a two hour hike.”

You don’t have much choice but to go with him, do you?

“Okay.”

“Where’re you comin’ from?” Joel asks, glancing over his shoulder at you. You’ve been following quietly behind him, head down and eyes fixed on the ground.

“Denver,” is all you offer in response. He knew that much already. He wants to know more.

Maybe he has to give more first.

“‘M from Texas, originally. Was in a QZ in Boston for a while before makin’ my way out here.”

“Why’d you come out here?” You ask.

“Had a friend once tell me, ‘Save who you can save’,” he says.

“What does that mean?” You ask.

“You’ll see.”

Joel had mentioned survivors, but you're shocked to discover that just past a wooden sign proclaiming WELCOME TO CRESTONE in chipped yellow paint, a whole town is tucked away, surrounded by a wooden gate that opens for you as you approach. You feel the weight of curious eyes as you walk through a town square, Joel's palm between your shoulder blades steering you towards a more residential area until you reach a two story adobe home.

Once inside, you’re led upstairs to a sparsely decorated bedroom, a large bed in the center with a faded quilt tucked around the mattress with precision and a dresser against one wall covered in yellowed wallpaper. Joel gestures for you to sit, kneeling on the wood floor in front of you to work on the laces of your sneakers.

“What—“

“You need rest,” he says, removing your shoes. He looks up at you, brown eyes full of concern. Your stomach flips.

“But—“

“No,” he says sternly. He stands and walks to the side of the bed, tugging the quilt free and folding it down. “I have duties to return to, but you’ll be safe here.”

You don’t have it in you to continue arguing. You haven’t seen a comfortable bed in more than two days and the exhaustion catches up to you in one fell swoop, eyes halfway to shut as you crawl into the space Joel’s made for you between the sheets. He pulls the covers over you, the warmth of a hand smoothing across your cheek the last thing you feel before falling asleep.

You wake to the sun high in the sky, streaming through the open window of a room that you don't recognize. You push yourself to sitting, your ribs protesting the movement and your head pulsing just behind your eyes. Your mouth is unbearably dry, so much so that you start coughing, further aggravating your bruised ribs.

"There's water on the nightstand," a voice says, startling you.

You look to your left, finding a young girl sitting in a wooden chair by your bed. Her dark hair is pulled back from her face, wayward pieces falling across pale skin. Her sharp brown eyes watch you with an intensity that makes your skin crawl.

“I’m Ellie,” she says. You mumble your own name.

“Did Joel save you?” Ellie asks.

“Uh—“

“He must have. That’s what he does,” she continues, cutting you off.

“Ellie!” A familiar deep voice calls out. Her eyes go wide and she scrambles from her seat, rushing for the door. Heavy footsteps climb the stairs, Joel appearing in the open doorway. He looks at her with a stern expression, mouth pressed in a thin line. “Thought I told you not to come up here.”

The look on her face isn’t fear, like her reaction would have led you to believe. No, she looks up at Joel with reverence as she says, “Sorry. Wanted to see her.”

Joel nods. “Head to the mess hall. I’ll bring her down shortly.”

Ellie casts a lingering look in your direction before disappearing through the doorway.

“Sorry about her,” Joel says. He takes a seat on the edge of the mattress. “How’re you feelin’?”

“Could be better,” you say honestly. “How long was I asleep for?”

“A little more than a day.”

Your eyes go wide. “My dad—“

“We’ve sent out a search party. No luck yet, I’m afraid,” he says. You curl into yourself a bit at the news, shoulders tight with worry. He reaches forward and places a hand on top of your own where it rests on the sheets. “You should get some food. I brought you some new clothes, too. I’ll let you get dressed and we can go down to the mess hall.“

He leaves the room before you respond and you drag the pile of clothes closer to you, finding a neatly folded t-shirt, jeans, underwear, and socks. It takes you a long moment to work your way out of your dirty clothes, your movements slow to not aggravate your injuries. You keep your bra on, pulling the clean shirt over your head, followed by the jeans. You're thrilled to be wearing something that's not caked with dirt and sweat.

You're working on putting your socks on when there's a knock at the door, Joel entering when you call out for him to come in. He smiles at you.

"There, that's better," he says. "C'mon. Let's get down to dinner."

You follow him out of the room and down the stairs. The first floor of the home has a kitchen that opens up to a living and dining area, the space filled with worn mismatched furniture. The walls are wood paneled and there's a massive stone fireplace with elk antlers mounted above it.

The sun is setting as you step outside and get your first real look at the town as its bathed in gold. Narrow residential streets give way to wider roads once you reach the town center, where commercial buildings are pressed together advertising long forgotten businesses, their windows dark.

"That's the butcher up there," Joel says, pointing to one of the wooden buildings. "He gets the meat from the traps prepped for us." He points to another building with a sign that says RESTAURANT. "That's the bakery."

"A butcher and a bakery?" You ask. "Do you have electricity here?"

"Sure do. Solar panels, just outside the gate."

You continue walking through the town until you come up on a large white building, people entering and exiting through a set of thick double doors. The shadow of a cross remains above the door, perhaps scorched by the sun where a crucifix once sat. People welcome Joel as he enters, heads turning in their curiosity. You press a little closer to Joel's side.

The large room is bursting with noise and activity -- a flurry of conversations, the clink of cutlery, and laughter. You've not seen anything like it before, the mentality in the QZ not conducive to camaraderie. You can count on one hand the number of people you would have considered friends within those walls, and even that was a stretch. You and Joel join a line of people retrieving plates of food from a single window.

"How long has all of this been here?" You ask, gesturing to the room. He looks around proudly.

"Ellie and I came across this town on accident after we went through hell leavin' Boston. The folks here set up their own quarantine zone and with bigger fish to fry, FEDRA sort of left ‘em alone. They were kind enough to take us in," he says. "After that, more people started showin' up lookin' for safety. Lots of people who escaped the QZs or had been on their own for a while and were tired of runnin'."

"Ellie says you save people," you comment, taking a step forward as the line moves. "What's that mean?"

"Every flock needs a shepherd."

You’re at the front of the line now, standing in front of the window. A woman appears, her face lighting up when she sees Joel.

“Joel! How are you?” She asks, leaning onto the ledge. Behind her you can see people moving quickly and efficiently around a stainless steel kitchen, large pots of food simmering on the stovetop.

“Well enough,” he says. He places a hand on your shoulder. “We have a new guest. Make her plate nice and full for me?”

“Of course.”

She gathers a plate from a precarious stack, loading it with a heaping pile of food ranging from mashed potatoes and stew to colorful vegetables that you haven’t seen in ages, not since before the outbreak when you were seven and your dad would make dinner rather than pass you a ration package. You’re speechless as she hands you the plate with a kind smile, a mumbled thank you the best you can manage to show your gratitude.

Joel is handed a plate as well and you follow him to a table where Ellie sits next to a man with white hair, her plate already empty in front of her. The man looks up at Joel as you approach, his expression closed off and wary.

“Michael,” Joel says in greeting, jaw ticking. You take a seat beside Ellie, who to your surprise moves closer to you, arm brushing yours. “You botherin’ Ellie?”

The man, Michael, shakes his head. “No, sir. We were just having a little talk.”

“What about?” Joel sits on the opposite side of the table. He rips his bread roll in half.

“Just some concerns I was having.”

“You bring your concerns to me. Not to her.”

The two men stare at each other, the tension thick and impossible to ignore. Finally, Michael gets up, leaving the table without another word. Ellie’s shoulder’s lose their tension and Joel catches her eye, the two of them seeming to have an entire conversation in just a look.

The moment passes and Joel’s features relax, a smile tilting the corners of his lips as he returns his attention to you and gestures to your plate.

“Dig in,” he says.

Joel walks you back to his home after dinner, the sky now dark. Ellie’s already closed herself in her room by the time the two of you return, having left the mess hall before you had finished eating.

“Tired again?” Joel asks when you yawn, mouth open wide as you stretch your arms above your head.

Your expression is sheepish as you say, “A little bit.”

“That’s to be expected,” he assures you. “You fought a hard fight. It’s okay to relax now. I’ve got you.”

“Thank you.” Your fingers tangle in the hem of the t-shirt he’d given you earlier. “I don’t know if I’ve said that already.”

“You’re welcome. Come on, let’s get you back upstairs. You can use the shower and get to bed.”

“Oh my god, a shower sounds amazing.”

He shows you the bathroom and helps you get the water running. Once he shows you where to find a towel, you smile gratefully before shutting the door on him.

Dismissed, Joel makes his way to Ellie’s room, knocking on the door. She answers quickly, opening up only enough for him to see her face.

“Yeah?” She asks.

“Can I come in?”

She rolls her eyes but opens the door further, allowing him inside. Her room is smaller than his but far more decorated, pages ripped out of old magazines and comic books tacked to the wall. She takes a seat on her single bed, folding her legs beneath her.

“What did Michael talk to you about?” He asks. She shrugs her shoulders. Joel bites back a sigh. Sometimes he forgets what it was like to reason with a teenage girl. “Ellie.”

“He said” — she pauses, scratching at her wrist in the way that she will when she’s anxious — “he said that you were full of shit. That your fucked up ceremony isn’t helping any of them.”

Joel’s teeth grind together. “That all?”

“Called me a stupid kid for following what you say,” she mumbles. “Said everyone in town was stupid for believing you.”

“Thank you for tellin’ me,” he says. Rage burns in his veins as he turns to leave.

“What are you gonna do?” Ellie asks as he reaches the door.

“I’m goin’ to teach him a lesson.”

He pulls the door shut behind him, tilting his head against the wood with a sigh. The click of a latch down the hall precedes your quiet, “Joel?”

Joel turns to face you, surprised to find you standing just outside the bathroom door with a towel tucked around your body. Water glistens on your skin in the low light, drawing his eyes down your neck and across your chest. He clears his throat.

“Everythin’ alright?” He asks.

“Yeah, everything is fine,” you murmur. “I…could I get some new clothes?”

“Of course, should’a given you some before you showered. Sorry about that.”

Joel walks past you, entering his bedroom and approaching the dresser. He tugs the top drawer open, full of clothing he’d gathered while you’d been asleep for more than a day. He piles together another t-shirt, sleep pants, and underwear, setting them on the bed for you.

You’re standing in the doorway when he finishes and he fights the urge to go to you, to pull you close, to run his wretched hands over your body like he’s wanted to since he first saw you in the forest.

He doesn’t, though. Not yet. You still have much to learn.

“Here you go,” he says. “Some more stuff in the drawers for you if you need it.”

Joel leaves you to get ready for bed, shutting the door behind him. He heads downstairs to grab what he’ll need, essentials shoved in a bag thrown over his shoulder before venturing off into the night.

Only a few lights continue to illuminate windows as Joel walks through the residential area. The house he approaches at the end of a street is already dark, quiet beyond the wood door that he knocks on three times. The door opens slowly, Michael appearing in the small space.

“What?” He grunts.

“Come take a walk,” Joel says. Michael rolls his eyes, moving to shut the door but Joel’s boot blocks his effort. “I ain’t askin’, Michael.”

“Oh, yeah? What are you going to do?” He challenges. Joel throws his weight against the door, catching Michael by surprise enough for him to step into the house.

Joel throws an elbow into the man’s gut, making him double over with a groan. He circles behind him, kicking the back of his knee to send him to the ground. He pulls a length of chain from his pocket, looping it around Michael’s neck and pulling the ends.

Michael struggles, clawing at the garotte and thrashing wildly, but Joel holds strong. He tightens his grip further until Michael’s fight becomes sluggish, lack of oxygen finally causing him to go limp.

Joel releases the chain and Michael’s body slumps to the ground. He removes his backpack, digging through the contents until he finds a rusted pair of handcuffs that he uses to bind Michael’s arms behind his back. Next, he places a strip of duct tape over his mouth.

When he wakes, Joel will lead him out past the gate. He will find an unassuming home that rests outside the boundary of Crestone. He will open the hidden doors of the cellar, the ones covered in a layer of leaves and grass. From the darkness he will hear the echo of desperate groans and the rattle of chains and the angry attempts to break free from bindings. He will lead Michael down the dirt steps, the smell of rot and fear and death clawing at his olfactory nerves.

He will place a burlap bag over a struggling Michael’s head and the man will beg and plead in words muffled by tape. Then, Joel will offer him for judgment.

A hand on you shoulder shakes you awake, the room still mostly dark when you manage to open your eyes. You groan, pulling the quilt up over your head.

“C’mon, we gotta get to breakfast,” Ellie says. The cover gets yanked down and she gives you a mischievous grin.

“Where’s Joel?” You ask, sitting up slowly. She shrugs.

“Probably there already.”

You swing your legs over the side of the bed and stand, stretching your arms up. You grab the same jeans and socks from the day before, changing into them quickly and sitting down on the floor to pull your sneakers on. Ellie watches you, her foot tapping impatiently.

“You can go without me if you’re in a rush,” you offer. She shakes her head.

“I’m fine,” she says quickly. “You ready?”

“Sure.”

You follow her out of the house, her clipped pace difficult to keep up with due to your lingering pain. As the sun starts to rise and you pass by more of the houses, you notice something peculiar about some of them.

“What’s that?” You ask, pausing in front of one the houses. There’s a streak of what looks like dark red paint across the top of the door. Ellie doubles back and stands beside you.

“Protection,” she says.

“From what?”

She shifts her weight from foot to foot, uncomfortable with your line of questioning. Rather than answer, she walks away, leaving you to catch up to her or be left behind.

As the two of you start to walk through the square, there’s a rush of people around you. Shouting can be heard up ahead as a crowd comes into view, gathered around the front of the mess hall building. People press in close together, craning their necks to see over each other and catch a glimpse of whatever spectacle has their attention.

Ellie pushes through the crowd and you follow close on her heels until she manages to break through the other side of the wall of people. You catch glimpses of something writhing on the ground, something animal but not quite, something failed and fetid and foul. Another peek affords you a view of an arm littered with bite marks shaped by blunt teeth, deep gouges into their skin that shine red with blood and fester with disease.

Joel appears, stepping around the side of the building. The whispers cease, the crunch of Joel’s boots and pained groans the only noise to be heard in the stale air.

His dark eyes scan the crowd. People shrink back from his gaze, pressing closer to each other for relief. He reaches down, curling his fingers into the burlap material and yanking it off to reveal a man, familiar and yet not recognizable. Unseeing eyes, ashen skin, and dark red veins now the hallmark characteristics of the man you now remember as the one who had been talking to Ellie in the dining hall.

Joel draws a gun from his back, aiming it at Michael’s head. “Let this be a lesson,” he says, pulling the trigger.

The shot rings out, making you jump. The agonized sounds come to abrupt halt and his body goes limp, eyes still open as blood blooms on the ground around him.

“No blood spilled. No blood saved,” Joel says. You look up from the horrible scene and meet his hard gaze. You step back, turning and shoving your way through the crowd.

Then, you run.

You’re frantically shoving clothing into your bag when a door slams downstairs and heavy footsteps climb the stairs at a quick pace. You can feel the burn of Joel's eyes on your back, his presence in the room thick and cloying as you refuse to turn around, even when he murmurs your name.

He moves closer, a hand on your shoulder prompting you to turn to break the connection. He holds his hands up in surrender, taking a step back as he says, "Let me explain."

"Explain? Explain?! How the fuck do you explain that?!" You snap.

"If you'll just listen--"

"There's nothing you could possibly say that will--"

"Ellie is immune!" He shouts. Your words die on the tip of your tongue, lost to ether as you stare at Joel.

"W-what do you mean? Immune?" You ask.

He takes a deep breath. "I told you what my friend said. 'Save who you can save'. The first person I saved was Ellie."

"I helped her out of Boston, kept her safe, nearly lost my life if it meant keepin' her alive," He continues. "That's what I offer here."

"So you think you're....what? Some kind of god? That you can grant immunity?"

He huffs a laugh, the noise devoid of any humor. "God abandoned his worst experiment in their time of need. There is no god anymore, just the poor creatures he left behind. Someone had to take up the mantle."

"But how?"

"The ceremony," he says.

"That’s not a fucking answer, Joel!” You shout. “What fucking ceremony?!”

“Blood spilled for blood saved. You can’t make it in this world without givin’ your everythin’ first.” He lifts the bottom of his shirt, just enough to reveal a jagged scar to the right of his belly button, shiny scar tissue disrupting smooth tan skin. “I did this for Ellie. Now everyone else has to do it for themselves.”

“I don’t…I don’t understand.” You take a small step closer to inspect the wound, raising your hand and reaching out with a tentative touch. Joel inhales sharply as you run your fingers across the puckered flesh.

His hand wraps around your wrist, pulling your hand up and holding it against his chest. “It’ll be easier to show you, okay? There’s a ceremony in a couple days.”

“I don’t—“

“You’re just afraid because this is somethin’ new, but I promise you that you got nothin’ to be scared of. I’ll take care of you.” He lifts a hand to your face, tilting your chin with his thumb. “I just need you to trust me.”

His eyes are honest, earnest, pleading with you to believe him and the longer you search them, the more truth you seem to find. He will take care of you. You just know it.

“Okay.”

Dinner is served early on the day of the ceremony, the room buzzing with excited conversation. You haven’t seen Joel much the last few days, just passing glimpses, and Ellie says it’s because he has a lot to prepare for. Tonight there’s a woman at his side wearing a white dress that flows to the floor, black hair braided down her back. She smiles at Joel, hanging on every word you can’t hear. It makes your stomach clench in a weird way when her hand curls around his bicep and her head leans against his shoulder.

“That’s Marcy. She’s volunteered for the ceremony,” Ellie says. She’s sitting across from you, a smirk on her lips. “S’why she’s been hanging around Joel the last few days. Joel’s gotta prepare her.”

“Oh,” is all you manage to reply, picking at the vegetables on your plate. “What does…what does he do? To prepare her.”

She shrugs. “Dunno.”

You glance at the pair. Joel leans in close to the woman, whispering into her ear. Your fingernails dig into the meat of your palm, your hands curled into tight fists beneath the table. He stands, a hand on the woman’s shoulder as he calls the people to attention, voices fading until silence envelops the room.

“Tonight,” Joel says, “another is to be saved. And we will all bear witness to the gift of deliverance that only self-sacrifice can grant.”

It’s only a few words, but the power in them is palpable as you glance around the room at the entire town watching him with rapt attention. His eyes meet yours.

“Save who you can save,” he intones. A chill runs down your spine.

“Save who you can save,” the town echoes back.

The sun is already low on the horizon, twilight casting a soft glow on the scene. You stand at the back of the crowd, watching as Joel leads Marcy onto a raised wooden platform. Another man joins them, passing something wrapped in cloth into Joel’s outstretched hands.

“The thing about the world today,” Joel says, unwrapping the cloth to reveal a large knife, “is that there ain’t a single guarantee.” He looks out over the crowd. “Except here, within these walls. Why? Because here you’ll make the greatest sacrifice and earn the greatest reward.”

He begins to pace the length of the platform, knife in hand. “Givin’ your blood in exchange for your safety? That doesn’t sound so bad, right?” The people around you nod their heads in agreement. “You’ve seen what that sacrifice can do. I did it for Ellie. I did it for myself. And tonight—“ he places a hand on Marcy’s shoulder “—another has made the choice to earn that gift of protection.”

A cheer erupts, spreading through the crowd through shouts and applause. You find yourself joining them, clapping your hands together as you continue to watch Joel.

“Marcy,” Joel says. “What brings you here today?”

“No blood spilled, no blood saved,” she recites dutifully.

“Are you afraid?” He asks.

“No,” she says.

“Why?”

“Because I trust in your protection.”

Joel smiles at her, beaming with pride, and that knot in your stomach from earlier returns with a vengeance. You want him to look at you like that.

He stands in front of her, blocking her from view with his body. A hush falls over the crowd and from the silence erupts an anguished scream. You flinch, the sound piercing and painful and petrifying, though it seems to have taken nobody else by surprise.

Another scream as he jerks his arm back, the knife in his hand now stained with red that slides down the blade, dripping to the wood beneath his feet. He steps to the side and you can see the woman now, her hands pressed to her belly. Crimson blooms beneath her hands, marring her pretty white dress and leaching the color and vitality from her face. She drops to her knees and so does Joel, who wraps an arm around her shoulders and gently guides her until she’s lying on her back. He holds her hand and smooths her hair from her face as she just repeats, “Thank you.”

Slowly, the strength in her voice fades. Her arm goes limp in his grasp, dropping to the floor with a dull thud as her eyes flutter shut. Joel whistles sharply, three men rushing up the platform and lifting the girl into their arms, careful not to jostle her too much. Joel remains kneeling, his head turning to scan the crowd.

“We are born covered in blood,” he says. “It gives you protection from the outside world when you’re wrenched from the womb. And it will protect you now as it is wrenched from you.”

He steps off the platform and walks past the crowd, heading for the residential street. Everyone shuffles forward, moving en masse like sheep following their shepherd or cattle to the slaughter. You’re led to one of the smaller homes and you watch as Joel smooths the flat of the blade across his hand, gathering blood in his palm.

He places his palm on the door, smearing the blood across the faded blue paint. When he’s done, he turns to face the crowd.

“Marcy has earned her protection. Those of you among us that have not yet made your sacrifice, may you return home this evenin’ and realize that each passin’ day is a wasted opportunity for your salvation.” His serious expression softens as he smiles. “No blood spilled.”

“No blood saved,” the crowd says.

To your surprise, the words fall easily from your lips.

Joel shuts the door quietly behind him. He’s just finished checking on Marcy and was pleased to find that her wound has been dressed and she’s recovering well. At the kitchen sink he runs the water as hot as he can tolerate and scrubs his hands clean.

He can hear faint footsteps upstairs, the sound of your pacing back and forth in his bedroom. He’s pleased that you stayed through the entire ceremony, didn’t run away filled with fear or disgust like you had watching him make an example out of Michael.

There’s hope for you yet.

Joel dries his hands on a towel and heads upstairs. He glances at Ellie’s room out of habit, though he knows it’s empty. She likes to help out after the ceremony, usually sticking beside the town nurse, Shelly, as she monitors the person who participated in the ceremony over night.

The door to his bedroom is shut but he can see that the light is on, the glow of it seeping out from the gap beneath the door. He knocks, three sharp raps of his knuckles, and waits.

You pull the door open, and Joel is once again struck by how much he wants you, how much he’s craved you since the first time he saw you. You look up at him with wide eyes but he doesn’t sense any fear as you pull the door open further and step back to let him enter.

“You doin’ okay?” He asks, shutting the door quietly behind him. You’re standing with your arms wrapped around yourself, nodding quietly. Joel moves closer, tentatively reaching out to tilt your chin up so that he’s looking into your eyes. “Talk to me.”

“I….,” your voice trails off. You take a breath. “I want that protection.”

He was hoping you would say that. Relief floods through him.

“I can’t do that,” he says. Your brows pinch together, hurt flashing across your features. “I won’t have your blood on my hands.”

“But—“

“Listen to me—“ his hands frame your face, thumbs smoothing over the high points of your cheeks “—you’re meant for somethin’ different here.”

“Something different?” You repeat. You shake your head slightly. “I don’t understand.”

“From the moment I saw you, I knew I couldn’t let you lose a drop,” he whispers. “You don’t need to bleed, sweetheart. Not like them. I’ll protect you myself.”

Your mouth drops open the slightest bit, drawing Joel’s gaze. He slides his thumb across your bottom lip, mesmerized by the softness of it. There’s not much about his life the last twenty or so years that he would call soft.

There was his brother, Tommy, even though they couldn’t see eye to eye and had to part ways. His daughter, Sarah, before the outbreak. She took care of him, made sure he took his vitamins and packed his lunch and didn’t miss a parent-teacher conference. She was light and joy, his heart outside of his body, and she was ripped from his grasp.

There was Tess, who was not a soft person but was a soft place to land among the carnage. Bill, ornery though he was, and Frank, arguably his better half. They were a breath of normalcy, even when Bill had a gun trained on him. Ellie, once she quit being a pain in the ass and wormed her way into his heart with her promise to follow him wherever he went.

And now there was you.

“Will you let me do that?” Joel asks. “Protect you?”

You lift your hands, delicate fingers wrapping around his wrists. He wonders if you can feel the rapid beat of his heart, his pulse pounding beneath your grip. Finally, after a long moment, you whisper, “Yes.”

Joel captures your lips with his, swallowing your gasp of surprise. You’re tentative, a bit clumsy with your movements as you kiss back and he pulls away, leaning his forehead to yours.

“I-I’m sorry,” you murmur. “I’ve never—“

“Don’t worry, baby, I’ll take care of you.”

While his words don’t stop your pulse from racing, they do calm your nerves the slightest bit. It’s not that you’ve never been interested in sex, there was just never a good opportunity. Going through puberty in an apocalypse where a militant government faction monitors your every move in exchange for basic necessities wasn’t exactly conducive to forming intimate relationships.

While you’re lost in your thoughts, Joel moves you backwards until your legs hit the mattress and he urges you to sit down. He kneels in front of you, working on the laces of your sneakers, removing them and setting them to the side. He looks up at you as he removes your socks and you’re not sure if you're supposed to find the sight of him kneeling at your feet as sexy as you do, but a rush of warmth rolls through you all the same.

He runs his palms up your legs, across your thighs, until his fingertips find the waist of your jeans, popping the button of the fly and pulling the zipper down.

“Lift your hips a bit, sweetheart,” he says, working the denim down and off your legs, tossing them aside. His hands return to your thighs, goosebumps erupting along their path to your hips.

“No one’s touched you here?” He asks, here being the soft skin of your inner thigh that his thumbs sweep across. You shake your head. He moves higher, a featherlight touch over the elastic of your underwear that makes you gasp. “What about here?”

“N-no,” you manage to whisper. He smiles at you, the same proud smile he’d given Marcy that you were so desperate to have for yourself.

“Good girl,” he murmurs. He kisses the inside of your knee quickly before sitting up higher, reaching up to lift your shirt up, tugging it over your head and dropping it onto the growing pile of your clothing.

“Lie back for me,” Joel commands. You shift up the mattress and follow his instruction, bringing your arms up to cover your exposed breasts. He makes a dissatisfied click with his tongue, pulling your arms away as he crawls up the mattress to settle between your legs.

“None of that,” he admonishes, planting your hands by your head. He kisses your lips again, butterflies erupting in your stomach when his tongue tangles with yours, hot and demanding. He palms one of your breasts, hands rough on the delicate skin. “This is mine, do you understand?”

Joel brings his mouth to your breast, tongue swirling over your stiff nipple. You cry out, the foreign sensation making more heat rush through you, leaving you throbbing between your thighs. He looks up at you through his lashes as he sucks your nipple between his lips, releasing it with a lewd pop.

“Mine to touch,” he says, leaning on one arm to trail his fingers down your stomach. “Mine to kiss.” His lips trace the same heated path. “Mine to protect.”

When he reaches your underwear, he pulls back. “Look at that,” he murmurs, thumb rubbing across the gusset, making you whimper and squirm. “You’ve soaked your panties, sweetheart.”

Your face feels hot with embarrassment. “‘M sorry,” you mumble.

“Sorry? Ain’t nothin’ you need to be sorry about,” he says with a chuckle. He sits up, working your only remaining barrier between you down your legs. He spreads your legs with his hands on your thighs. “Goddamn, you look so pretty, baby.”

“Really?” You ask. His answering grin is wolfish.

“So pretty,” he repeats. He settles on his belly, face so close to your pussy you can feel the warmth of his breath against your heated flesh. “Gotta get you ready.”

Your response to the question is cut off with a high pitched moan as Joel runs his tongue through your folds, circling your clit with broad strokes. You try to close your legs against the sensation but his strong hands keep your thighs pinned down near the mattress.

He groans as he sets a slow and measured pace, alternating attention to your clit with dipping his tongue inside of you, dragging your essence from the source. Your hands clench in the sheets, chasing and retreating from the overwhelming sensation in equal measure.

There’s a blunt pressure that turns into a slight pinch as Joel slips a finger into your tight heat. Your head tilts back with a high keening noise and you’re panting, desperate for breath as he moves his hand in tandem with his tongue.

One finger becomes two that thrust and curl and part inside of you, stretching you in unfamiliar ways. It feels good, and all you want is more, more, more.

Joel’s hand moves quickly and he sucks on your clit, swirling his tongue around the sensitive bundle of nerves until that flood of relief that you’ve only accomplished a handful of times on your own washes over you, your back arching sharply off the mattress as you shout his name like a prayer to the heavens.

His motions slow to a stop and he leaves the bed. You hear the clink of a belt and the rustle of clothing being removed before his weight returns between your legs, a new heat to be felt against your flushed skin with his clothes no longer in the way. With shaky hands you reach up to touch him, starting at his shoulders.

You trail your hands across his warm tan skin, down his hard chest and softer belly. That scar, the one that frightened you before, leaves you breathless as you run your fingers over it now. He’s so strong, so powerful, and he wants you. Wants to protect you so that you don’t know that same pain.

“Joel,” you whisper. He leans forward, hands on the mattress beside your head. He kisses you, slow and all encompassing. You can feel the hard length of his sliding through the mess he’s made of you and you gasp.

“Let me make one thing clear,” he says, face serious, “there ain’t any goin’ back from this. You’re mine. You got that?”

“I trust you,” you reply. Your response earns you a deep groan from the man, a kiss to your forehead that precedes the blunt head of his cock pressing to your soaked entrance.

His cock is thicker, much thicker, than his fingers were and you whine at the intrusion. His shushes you, peppering your face with soothing kisses.

“I don’t think—“

“You’re doin’ so good, sweetheart, I know you can handle it,” Joel says. “Take a deep breath, just a little more.”

Tension gives way, a sharp pinch that turns into an ache as Joel presses his hips firmly against yours. He kisses your neck and trails his nose across your sweat damp skin, holding still as you adjust to his girth.

You shift your hips the slightest bit and Joel’s moan echoes your gasp. “Tell me I can move,” he begs, another desperate kiss pressed to your lips. “Please, baby.”

There’s something heady about the power you have in this brief moment, a man like Joel begging you for something when he’s used to having everything. You nod and that’s all the encouragement he needs to draw back slowly, that fullness leaving you inch by inch, before thrusting sharply.

It’s unlike any experience you’ve had before — the way his body moves with yours, the flex of his muscles above you, the intense look in his eyes each time he presses inside of you.

“Made for me,” he murmurs. “Mine.”

“Yours,” you agree, moaning as each drag of his cock presses against a tender spot inside of you that has your stomach tightening rapidly.

His effort doubles, hips slamming hard enough to make the headboard bang against the wall. You dig your nails into his back, watch the clench of his jaw against the sting, and moan his name as you succumb to the feeling of free falling into bliss, clenching around his cock.

“That’s it, sweetheart, fuck,” he growls, hips stilling against yours as warmth pulses inside of you, his mouth dropped open on a groan of your name.

Joel takes a moment to catch his breath before withdrawing from you. He reaches his hand between your legs, pressing his fingers into your swollen pussy as you gasp.

He holds those fingers up, the light catching on the red staining them.

Perhaps you’d spilled blood for your safety after all.

You wake to the early morning light filtering through the window, a noticeable ache between your legs as you begin to stir. You’re naked, having fallen asleep in Joel’s arms last night, his lips caressing your neck until you’d drifted off and dreamt of blood and wolves. You stretch your limbs, encountering only cold sheets as you do.

As you sit up, you realize the sound of rushing water is the shower and surmise that Joel must be in there. With stiff movements you leave the warmth of the bed and approach the dresser, tugging open the top drawer to find clothing for the day.

You’re reaching for underwear when your fingers catch on something cold, metal in a sea of fabric. You pull on the object, unearthing it from its hiding spot and holding it up for inspection.

A cross, hanging from a silver chain. A chain you would tangle your fingers in as a child, a cross that a thumb would rub across as a deep, familiar voice muttered prayers.

The shower turns off and you take one last look at the crucifix before setting it back into the dark corner you’d unearthed it from.

Then, you shut the drawer.

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youraverageaemondsimp · 9 months

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To Ruin. // Dark!Aemond Targaryen x Niece!Reader

THIS IS A DARK FIC, READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED, DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT.

MDNI

block the tag #MAE:DARK!CONTENT to avoid seeing dark content from me.

Summary: you are aegon's and helaena's daughter, being the eldest triplet, you were betrothed to your older uncle Aemond the moment you were born, he seemed to show no interest in you, being lost in his own world until he returns to kings landing and sees you again, in your prime age. // based on this request.

WARNINGS: noncon to dubcon, p in v sex, fingering, orgasm denial, knife kink, blood kink, dacryphilia, breeding kink, choking kink, corruption kink, purity culture, age system is in accordance to medieval/canon standards and not modern but do not worry they dont get sexual until reader is 19, virginity loss, tiddy sucking, thoughts of violence, fucked up shit, age gap (13 years), extreme canon divergence, cunty aemond + not proofread

WC: 4.3k

The moment you were born, you were immediately betrothed to your uncle, Aemond Targaryen. Alicent never wanted to betroth or marry someone from the same family after Aegon and Helaena but Otto convinced her to do so, even if they see it as a sin. Telling her that it would secure the hightower blood further down the line.

When Aemond was informed of this, he laughed, he was just thirteen back then, the idea of marrying someone that was just born seemed comical to him, especially when the babe was his elder sister's and elder brother's daughter, but he quickly accepted it, as he realised it was his duty.

Aegon however, was against it, calling you too young, but he was only sixteen at that time so his opinion was disregarded.

You were the oldest by an hour to your younger siblings, Jaehaerys and Jaehaera.

You were informed of your betrothal to your uncle when you were ten years old, that's when they deemed you old enough to understand what marriage and everything was. Aemond had turned twenty three that year, performing his duties as the prince of the realm, securing aegon's claim to the throne, claiming lands and power back to their hands successfully. At the end, Rhaenyra was successfully usurped, having lost way too much before she died at the hands of Aegon. And then came Aemond's march to Harrenhal, killing off every person that contained even a single droplet of the strong blood, except he spared one, Alys rivers, who he took as his war spoil and a bedmate.

He spent most of his time there with her in Harrenhal, burying himself deep inside of her, and other political matters, only returning to King's Landing when he was needed, just like now, but what he didn't expect was you. He was surprised to see you.

You were no more the gangly limbed child he knew you as and remembered you to be, your breasts and hips were fuller, your face having lost its childlike appearance as you were going through puberty, becoming more sharp and mature, having recently turned seventeen, You were becoming a woman now. You greeted him with a small smile. “Welcome back, Uncle.” you greeted him and he swallowed thickly, hoping you had not noticed how his breeches tightened as he got hard at the sight of you. Your beauty captured him.

“Niece, you've grown.” he comments, eyes shamelessly roaming over your breasts, which you weren't aware of, “You too Uncle, it has been a while since we properly saw each other.” you tell him and he hums, looking at the soft flush of your breasts pushing against the bodice, almost calling out to him to set them free, he fought with every urge to not do so.

It was when he spent some time with you, he realised he didn't know you at all, so he put in effort into knowing you, courting you properly which you were taken aback by, always knowing him to be distant towards you, but that was only because you were a child, you are a woman now, and he was a lot interested and willing to be with you.

It was on your eighteenth name day, which he attended, when he cut off multiple ladies tongues out for bad mouthing you, they had said mean things about you, calling you too old now, that nobody would be interested in marrying you if your betrothal to Aemond was called off, which was unsurprisingly a rumor circulating due to Aemond's involvement with Alys, his disinterest in you and your grandmother, Alicent, doing nothing to make the betrothal move forward. It had been a messy name day but it was also the moment you fell in love with your uncle, impressed by how he defended your honour and your name.

Aemond had to return to harrenhal as there were some pressing issues which needed to be taken care of, and he was less than enthusiastic about it, not even the thought of seeing his spoil made him excited. He was sitting on his chair doing the paperwork when Alys walked into the room, she sat on his lap and caressed his face, “What is it my love?” she cooed and he sighed heavily, not in the mood for her, “Get out.” he said, and Alys was heavily hurt by it, but left nonetheless. His mind was constantly on you, he remembers how your breasts pressed against his chest when you hugged him during your name day, and he immediately gets hard at the thought, that night, he finishes in his hand before cleaning himself up.

You had plagued his mind, cause he couldn't look at his lover nor bed her anymore because she isn't you, he was becoming more and more insatiable, tired of fucking his own hand, he was in need of a real cunt.

He stopped ordering silk green dresses for Alys and instead ordered dresses of material you would wear, the colour palette you dearly loved, and requested her to wear those instead, and do her hair up in a way you did, so he could at least pretend she was you when he fucked her, moaning your name loudly while being buried inside of her cunt. He knew he was being cruel to Alys, but he couldn't give a fuck, and Alys kept quiet, not wanting to anger him, knowing that he could kill her.

But it still wasn't enough, no, because it wasn't you.

Aemond was so delighted when he was called to the keep again, it means he got to see you, it was to discuss matters of the realm, and after what seems like hours, his mother finally changes the topic. Which catches his immediate attention.

“I think it is in our best interest if you marry aemond and y/n soon, maybe in a moons time, there have been various slanderous whispers about their betrothal, and i want to put an end to it.” Alicent says and Aemonds heart picks up it's pace at that. “It's better if we call off the betrothal.” Aegon's voice booms across the chambers. “I do not think it is necessary anymore, not after we have won the war. Rhaenyra is dead, the blacks are dead, my daughter shouldn't need to marry her uncle anymore.” Aegon reasons and Aemond clicks his tongue, “It is my duty brother, to keep our valyrian blood pure, I do not mind marrying my niece.” Aemond replies and Aegon sighs. “You need not perform your duty anymore, she is my daughter, and I do not wish her to be subjected to your cruelty, little brother.”

“My cruelty? What of your whoring?” Aemond grits his teeth, and Alicent visibly flinches at the mention but Aegon only laughs, “I have put it past me dear brother. You however, still are as merciless.” and Aemond scoffs.

“I want to marry her.” Aemond says, tone final, staring daggers at Aegon, and he just laughed. “Alright, Alright, it was merely a suggestion.” Aegon backs down which makes Aemond calm down. “The matter is settled then, the wedding will take place when the moon turns.” Alicent says and everyone nods.

Another moon to finally bed you? Gods be damned, he cannot wait that long.

So he didn't.

He snuck into your chambers that night, through the secret tunnels, he had expected you to be asleep but you were awake, sitting on the chaise, reading a book of some sort, but you didn't hear him enter your chambers, so you jumped when you heard him speak.

“Hello, Niece.” you snapped your head to the direction of the voice and were surprised to find Aemond.

“Uncle? What are you doing here” you asked and he just stalked towards you, “Mhm, is it wrong to see my future wife?” the word wife rolling off his tongue with such delicacy. “No- you misunderstand- i merely meant that–”

“What are you reading?” he asks, cutting you off and coming even more closer to you, he took the book from your hand and you stood up, feeling vulnerable when you were just sitting.

“A romance novel huh?” he asks and you nod, he would love to go through the content to tease you, but he had no interest in wasting his time, he came here with a purpose.

“Dear niece, we are to be wed in a moons time.” he says and you look at him, “Understood, Uncle.” his gaze was too intense, so you looked down in submission of a sort.

He felt his cock stir at that, the way your puffy lips were pouty, eyes darted to the ground, like a good obedient and innocent wife.

Oh seven hells how he wanted to ruin you.

And so he would.

You were surprised when Aemond threw the book on the chair before grabbing you by your arms and pushing you in the direction of your bed, he slammed his lips against yours in hunger, swiping your bottom lip with his tongue, you were frozen in shock before it finally clicked and you used all your strength to push him off.

“We-we shouldn't, we are yet to be man and wife.” you breathe heavily, hoping he'd understand but he doesn't. He pushes you down unto the bed before getting on top of you, you panic, “U-uncle- please.” you were scared.

You knew how dishonourable it is to lose your maidenhead before marriage, it will ruin your reputation, it did not matter whether the person who took it was soon to be your husband. It is a sin, and you were extremely protective over it. After all, your grandmother raised you to be protective of it, saying it is a woman's honour that should not be given carelessly.

“P-please uncle! You said we were to be wed in a Moon's time, then you can have me! Please!” you beg and he smirks, “No can do, niece. No way in seven hells am I waiting that long, not after I have suffered so much because of you.” he says, and before you can say something, he grabs your throat, choking you, “Shut the fuck up. I do not want to hear your pleas.” he says meanly before squeezing your neck tight, making you see stars and leaving your head feeling light as the blood supply to your brain was being cut off due to his ministrations.

“P-pl-ple-” you try to choke out, tears welling in your eyes until he finally lets go of your throat, causing you to gasp for air, the air entering your lungs so quickly making it painful.

Aemond takes the dagger from its holder and starts cutting, tearing up your nightgown, the sound of clothes tearing filling the chambers as you pleaded him to get off of you, how your virtue was an important thing to preserve, how embarrassing it would be if you did not bleed on your wedding night, but all of that fell deaf to his ears, his only mission was to fuck you.

Soon enough, you are completely bare, you crossed your arms across your chest to protect your dignity but he pulled them apart, pinning them to your sides, “Do not hide yourself from me.” he said, voice low, emitting a slow growl. You sobbed.

“P-please, I promise I won't resist or hide myself from you- just wait until our wedding night, I am begging-” he shuts you up by pushing his lips against yours, his hands leave yours before he starts undressing himself, undoing the clasps on his clothing, he pulled apart to completely rid himself of his clothes, feeling to suffocated.

He was very fit, lean muscles coating his body, defining and toning his arms, chest and thighs, you felt yourself clench at the sight of him so bare, you were beginning to get aroused.

Aemond leans and places gentle kisses on your face, before trailing down your neck to lick and bite at them, you felt a burning sensation when he bit too hard, causing you to yelp, he pulled back and looked at the bite in satisfaction, which was now drawing blood. You whimpered pathetically.

You didn't like the feeling of ache between your thighs.

Aemond leaned down once again to take one breast into his mouth, suckling on it like a hungry babe, causing you to gasp, your breasts were extra sensitive considering you were near your moons blood, you gripped his hair and tried to pull him away but, he bit down harshly onto to your nipple making you tug harder at his hair for the pain to subside, however the more you tried pulling him off, the harder his bit and latched on, the other hand painfully dug into the flesh of your other breast, nails biting through the skin, so you removed your grip on his hair, and only then did he stop his inflictions of pain on your tits, beginning to suckle at your nipple in a pleasurable way,

Your hand reflexively went to his hair again, but this time instead of trying to pull him, you held him there like that, arching your back when you felt his warm tongue tickle the bud, shoving more of your breast into his mouth, he hummed in satisfaction before he pulled away with a wet pop, to continue the same thing on your other breast.

It was sensual, it was so slow, and you were getting aroused by the minute but your fear of committing a grave sin still plagued your mind.

“A-aemond-” you say his name making him groan and pull away to look at you, “Gods, when you say my name like that- it makes me want to ruin you so fucking hard.” he confesses and you gulp, his hands part your thighs, exposing your core to him.

You try to clench them shut in reflex but he holds them apart, visibly drawn by it, you felt the cool air hit your clit making you shiver, he trails his hand down your inner thigh before rubbing small circles there, teasing you.

You whine, the ache beginning to get even more stronger, making you buck your hips, hoping his hand grazes over the sensitive part, but he just chuckles, “Greedy are we? What happened to waiting till marriage?” he mocks you and you fight back the tears of shame, he then presses his fingers right onto your core, parting the flesh and caressing your clit, you twitch at the foreign sensation.

His other hand leaves your thigh as well, and he uses both of his thumbs to hold the flesh covering your core apart before he leans down and sucks on your pearl, making you arch your back in pleasure, his tongue flickers over your bud constantly, sending sparks of pleasure.

You were shocked when he did that, how can someone put their mouth over there?

Your hips start to move on their own, trying to keep up with his rhythm, he groans at your attempts and pulls away, you whine at the lack of warmth, “Be still.” he says and descends onto your clit again, and you try really hard to be still but you couldn't help it, you grip his hair, shoving his face into your cunt to the point he was suffocating but it didn't matter to him, this would be the best way to die according to him.

You feel something creeping up at your core, a itch that keeps plaguing you, a certain type of string tightening constantly as he continued his actions, you were confused until you were snapped out of your own confusion by an overwhelming feeling of pleasure hitting your body, causing you to moan loudly into the chambers. Aemond drinks up your release like a dehydrated man before pulling away and looking at your face, he chuckles when he finds you looking confused and dazed, eyes teary, wondering what the feeling was.

“It's called a peak, my love, was it your first time?” he answers, staring at your face and you tilted your head in confusion.

Women can peak?

You knew how the act is performed, the cock goes into the cunt, and you're supposed to lay there taking it as your husband impregnates you. It was taught to you by your grandmother alicent, it was supposed to hurt, not feel intimate. If you're lucky, you'd get a few kisses on your face and neck.

But what aemond did was so foreign, you didn't know you could experience sexual pleasure like this.

“Y-yes, but i- i didn't know.” you blush while saying it, you don't need to finish the sentence before aemond caught on and Aemond almost moaned at the thought that you didn't know anything, that you probably thought that sexual pleasure can only be felt by a man.

Oh how he was going to show you all the ways.

Oh how he was going to corrupt you.

He smirked.

You looked up at him, the tears from the orgasm threatening to fall, and oh gods how that made him want to be extremely cruel, he wanted to ruin you. It set off his blood thirst, something he would only feel while fighting during battles, when he burnt the riverlands with vhagar, when he took the life of his own uncle, when he slaughtered the strong house watching as the blood coats the ground, the screams of men, women and children alike. He hadn't felt that in a while considering the war was long over.

And so he would.

His eyes trail over to the dagger that laid forgotten on the bed, and he reached out for it, changing his grip and pointing the blade at the direction of your body, you look at him in what seemed like fear but he didn't care, he brought the blade down gently, and then pressed it against your skin, piercing through the skin. You winced at the burning sensation, he removed the blade and watched as beads of blood poured out, he leaned down and licked it all up, the iron tasting sweet to him.

You whimpered in pain, feeling the twinge, when the wound was met with his saliva, causing an even more burning sensation to plague at your skin.

He pulled back and watched as the blood smeared onto the surrounding skin, the wound already trying to close up. He looked at your pained expression and decided that he wouldn't be that cruel and scar your body as much as he would've loved to since it was your first time with him, he needed to leave a good impression after all. When you're truly his wife, he'd ruin so much.

He watched as the tears fell down your face, he licked them up before pressing gentle kisses to your eyes. “Shh.. It's okay, I won't do more.” he says and you whimper, trusting him.

He pulls back and grabs his hard leaking cock. The tip all flushed pink, it looked so painful.

It was painful, he was so fucking hard the entire time, he was trying to savour everything before he fully went in, but he realised he had no such patience for that.

He lined it against your cunt, and slid his cock up and down, coating him in your juice before he caught the tight hole which wouldn't open at all, and he realised he needed to prepare more for you to be able to take him.

So he replaced his cock with his fingers, shoving one inside you slowly, feeling all the ridges of your inner walls, wishing it was his cock that was inside you.

He started pumping in and out, curling his fingers from time to time to graze over the rough part located inside you, and you felt your stomach tightening again, and before you could reach your peak, Aemond pulled his fingers out. “H-huh?” you looked at him confused and he smiled meanly before shoving his fingers once again, and making you come to the edge but never topple over it, pulling out every time you were so close. It made you frustrated.

He decided you were relaxed enough to take his cock, so he replaced his fingers with his cock, pushing the tip inside, making you grip your bedsheets underneath tightly.

He wanted to go slow, let you adjust to him, but it was way too much, he finally got to be inside you after what felt like way too long, these past few years he always dreamt of this moment, so he lost control and slammed himself fully inside you cruelly, pushing to the hilt, making you scream in pain, which he shushed you by cooing you and caressing your cheek.

Your legs twitched visibly, he pulled back, thinking he was taking his cock out, you relaxed but then he slammed into you, causing you yelp and then he started pulling and pushing over and over again, the pace messy at the first because your walls were still trying to adjust to him, sometimes even pushing him out.

But then as the continued thrusting, the pain slowly went away and you felt pleasure beginning to rise, causing you to relax around, and he moaned in pleasure when he felt you loosen up around him, not holding his cock in a tight grip that made it impossible to move without hurting you.

He fastened his pace, unable to hold himself back, he fucked into you brutally, breaking your maidenhead, he watched the sight of your maiden blood coating his dick leaking onto the white sheets below, and he moaned your name.

The chamber was filled with lewd noises, wet slapping sounds as his hips rammed against yours, his balls slapping at your ass as he thrusted in and out, sweat coating his eyebrow, he was grunting loudly, he wasn't usually a vocal person, but with you? you bought out the worst in him.

He felt his peak beginning to come, but he wanted you to peak first, so his hand went over to your clit and rubbed small circles over it, and the pleasure intensified for you, you peaked extremely hard, wet fluid gushing out of you, all because of the multiple denied orgasms finally catching up to you.

Aemond moaned as he watched your juice coating his cock, and he was reaching his peak too, “Fuck- fuck- going to fill you up, with my seed, watching you grow round with my child in your belly.” he babbled and reached his peak, his cock twitching inside you, shooting ropes after ropes of cum, coating your walls.

He didn't pull out, staying inside, making sure his seed didn't spill, he began to soften inside you.

He pulled and held you close to him, before he propped down on your bed, pulling you on top of him, his cock slipping from inside you at that, you laid on top of him, head on his chest as you listened to his fast heartbeat, it was relaxing for an odd reason.

He grabbed the sheets and threw them over both of you, covering you and himself and then slowly drifting off to sleep.

The maid couldn't have picked the worst time to enter the chamber in the morning, she usually entered without knocking since you and her were close, but she gasped when she found you stop aemond cuddled and then noticed the blood on the sheets, it didn't take a genius to figure out what went on, and she quickly reported it to the dowager queen.

Enraged was an understatement. Alicent was extremely disappointed, barging into the room, by then aemond had already put on his breeches and he was confused when he saw her, then he figured it out.

You woke up, gripping the sheets tightly to your chest as you watched your grandmother yell at her son, your uncle.

And just then your father barged in, along with your mother, she quickly rushed over to you to check if you were alright and looked at her younger brother in disappointment.

Aegon had never been angry like that in his life, he went straight for Aemond, tackling him to the ground, trying to hit him, “You ruined her! Couldn't your ass wait until the wedding? What was it that made you so impatient?” Aegon yelled at his brother, and Aemond dodged every hit Aegon threw his way.

“Fucking CUNT!” He was mad, and one of hits finally landed on Aemond, punching him right in the face.

“Father! No! Please.” you yelled, but he didn't listen and that's when you started sobbing loudly, which made him immediately halt and rush over to you. Aemond spit the blood that coated his mouth on the ground and got up.

“My dear.” Aegon looked at you sadly, noticing all the cruelty Aemond left on your body.

“The wedding is to be held in a week.” Alicent's voice booms the chambers

“Mother you cannot be serious! He-” the king tried to reason with her, but she looked at him with a stern expression and he backed down, he was the king yes, but he knew he would never stand a chance against his own mother.

Aemond simply smirked, accomplishing what he had wanted, Aegon glared at him.

“Please, I want to be alone.” you say and everyone looks at you, you were extremely tired and you didn't want this hassle.

The matter came to an end like that, you watched everyone leave reluctantly, except Aemond, you looked at Aemond, waiting for him to leave, but instead he sat down next to you and made himself comfortable in your presence.

Aegon grit his teeth, turning around to storm into the room but Alicent and Helaena held him back, and you didn't say anything else, but leaned your head on Aemonds shoulder.

That told everyone what you wanted and they soon left, you allowed yourself to get comfortable in his presence. Slowly falling asleep.

“My sweet girl.” you heard him coo before the sleep finally pulled you under.

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darlingofvalyria · 9 months

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❝Will you forsake me, my love? And the babe I carry?❞

[ You had made a mistake. A slip up. You had overlooked the extent of Otto Hightower and his greed. Now you must make it right... or pay in fire and blood. ]

[ +18 MDNI ] [ 5,504 ] [ series masterlist ] | jacaerys velaryon x targaryen aunt-wife!reader (aegon's twin sister),

contains— canon divergence - manipulative reader— gets darkish but not yet dd:dne - targcest, angsty as fuck, pregnancy - nsfw: p & v sex, oral (male receiving) - no kings, no martyrs, no betas.

a/n— i... actually dunno how i got here tbh. thankfully, this isn't dead dove quite yet, but you, yes you, as jace's manipulative targ wife, almost did, girl, jfc. ahahaha! comments, reblogs & like at will, mwa! 💝 + now that there is a second part, and a third part i'm plotting (uh huh), this is officially a series!! its v loosey goosey, but it'll have a masterlist so... it means it has a taglist! message me to be tagged 💝 & if there are any drabbles/blurbs you wanna see!! message me lmk!! i have so many thoughts about jacey & manipulative reader hehe + dividers by @danowh0re

The only warning you receive is the missive hastily made by your twin.

In his panic, Aegon's scrawl had been barely legible, but the cold sweat that shot through your spine at making sense of the text had you keening over; fingers over your mouth, a dangerous gurgle in your stomach.

The world tilts, the air sucks inward.

Fear... Cold, weightless fear, settles in your heart.

"Princess!" Your maid, Dyana, shrieks, hands grasping your elbows to prevent you from falling. She turns to the door. "Call the maestre back! Now!"

You shake your head rapidly. "No, no. No Ser Addam. I am alright."

"But princess—"

"No, Dyana, I am alright." But you are pale, and a thrum shakes through fingers, rattling your ribcage and trying to yank your heart out of your throat. You have to find your footing or all will be lost. You grab Dyanna's arms and she winces. "Tell me- the prince - where is he?"

"I'm not sure, princess, I can—"

"Quickly! We shan't lose precious more time."

You turn to Meera. You had invested in her from the early age you had taken her in from the orphanage. Loyalty, in its absolution, must be rewarded.

And ease for your own plans can be disguised as a reward.

She steps forward obediently, hands clasped behind her back like a soldier awaiting orders. She is nondescript with plain features, easily able to hide between other common folk; and no one, truly, looks at a maid.

"Go to the Sea Dragon Tower, wait on the Rookery for Johan. Only Johan, do you understand me? Keep the missive that I will dictate to you close to his heart, hidden, and he must depart immediately. Throw extra gold at the captain, I do not care. Meera, no other eyes must touch the paper I will send, tell him of the utter import such a thing. No other than another Spider. We cannot unravel further than this or we will start burning."

Meera's gaze darkens, her posture straightening. "Yes, your grace."

You grasp her hands, your mind whirring— so many plots, so many lies, in between them, he flashes in your mind; the dark hair, the warmth of his hand, the sweet, simpered smile and the flicker of rage that dances like a flame. In and out and calmed and wild.

Dutiful. A Perfect Son. A Beloved Prince. Your Lord Husband.

He flashes in between plans and unraveled lies. Along it, Aegon's missive, quickly written, panic seeping in every vowel.

Grandsire had gotten to Aemond's head. Went to Storm's End. Met Lucerys. They are calling him Kinslayer.

Your head is pounding. Kinslayer, Kinslayer, Kinslayer. It churns your stomach, dries your throat. Lucerys dead. Aemond beheaded. Jacaerys' rage. Rhaenyra's. Dark Sister in the Rogue Prince's hand. All your clever threads, your webs and tales, everything you have sacrificed to get here— they are unraveling, the lives you care about, your fondness and love — the fear has moulded and churned; the Stranger now haunting the skies, searching for names, trying to grasp for your neck.

Aemond, You, Aegon, Helaena, Alicent, Jaeheara, Jaehearys, Maelor—

Aemond, Aemond, Aemond.

Your baby brother. Marred and disfigured, dutiful and dedicated. Sarcastic and princely; dancing with you if you ask. Reading with him in the library. A flickering hearth, a kind eye, a protective arm.

Your baby brother, beheaded, gaping mouth and bloodred eye.

Justice spun and spun, but oh so corrupted when they had taken his eye and no name step forth to claim.

Disfigured, marred, and dead.

Focus, you think, your mouth moving, words spilling, plans stretching. Focus.

Otto Hightower must die. It is a pressing thought, digging into the centrefold of your mushy, wet brain. Pressing and pressing like a fever as words of instructions, orders, must be sent along one spider to another.

Your hand drifts to your stomach as Meera leaves, in her head the words that must reach King's Landing. That must pass only the cleverest of hands. Your hand curls, your fist tightens enough that blood clots and beads through crescent rings. Clever girl. Clever spider. You have to believe in Meera and the people under your hushed employ.

You have no choice. You have built your webs, you must trust your spiders.

Not when you can't even trust your own fucking blood.

It took a while to get your network going in Dragonstone. As soon as the smell of brimstone and dragon broached your nostrils, the plans for moving what you had started in Kings Landing became the forefront plan. There is only so much movement you can make in a board full of enemies; and with so many more things to do, you cannot be restrained.

People with stakes, with ambitions and wants of their own— be that money, a good future, a house with warmth and love — if you can provide it enough, dash it in enough kindness and care, people, like ants, could move mountains for you.

It took most of hyour life to have what you established in Kings Landing. Most of your free time— feiging afternoon teas, walks along the garden; young lady things that will not arouse suspicion, fit for a pious, devoted daughter of Alicent Hightower — was spent building and building webs.

Thankfully, as a Princess of the Realm— and as the future Heir's wife, the future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms (the title tingles and throbs, comes alive in gasps and winning hands) — you can have your pick of maids and lady in waitings here too. Connections are important, and Jacaerys did not bereaved you of choice.

In fact, he so encouraged you to make changes to Dragonstone as you so chose fit.

"You are my wife," he sighed, pressing kiss after kiss to the side of your head. When he was wrapped around you like this— arms around your torso, a finger, almost absentmindedly, rubbing just the underside of your breast, and the smell of him, boyish but smoky, like a fireplace and first kiss, swaying you to a rhythm he is fond of, absentminded almost — it reminded you of how Vermax oft like to wrap around small hills and large rocks. A dragon mimicking another dragon; a twin soul so connected.

He sighed again as you run your own fingers against the back of his palm, against the side of his head behind you. "You may do so as you wish," he finished, nuzzling further into you as if he wants no more than to become one with you, flesh and blood. An engorged monster of sorts.

"Just your wife?" you teased. The wedding had only been a few moons ago. The missive had been immediately sent to Kings Landing (under your orders, of course, your new husband none the wiser as he had preferred a few more days of just you), and before lunch, your hand on Jace's thigh, his eyes more than hungrily looking at your lips— Caraxes screech alongside Syrax' wing pattern shook the walls, demanding answers.

Jace had looked nervous for a second, not at all prepared to be facing his mother so soon, his Queen, and his stepfather... whose own daughter he was supposed to marry. Better prepared to face all of them in Kings Landing was his plan.

But you had grasped his hands, had mounted girlish excitement shining in your eyes (an expression so familiar to you to adopt that it so perfectly hides the sharp edges of your excitement; your smugness. It oft reminds you of Aemond)— and Jacaerys had melted.

"My Queen," he reimbursed. You turned as his hands cupped your face. Gentle, possessive in its own way. You sighed, eyes fluttering close with a small, satisfied smile on your lips. "My beautiful queen."

A Maiden in love is not a hard thing to emulate. And he does not make it hard to be.

On some days, you even think it will be easy to actually fall in love with him. You already do so feel his warmth for you permeate your own being. His attention is addicting for one; it is whole and preserving. He makes it known when he is looking at his lady mother, at Baela, his former betrothed (who had given you a meaningful eye when Rhaenyra and Daemon escorted you back to Kings Landing to face the rest of your consequences), and other ladies of the court versus when he is looking at you.

He does not hide his adoration. His so obvious desire.

When you reward him for his loyalty, for private little ticked boxes you keep for him— siding with you in arguments, defending you upon ugly whispers in the Keep, requesting from his mother, a more permanent residence of your own in Dragonstone, in the guise of newly wedded bliss to hide growing your connections far and wide (once Rhaenyra takes the throne, Jacaerys will be named Heir and Prince of Dragonstone; your spiders and people must reach each end of Westeros, and Dragonstone is the perfect central chatter) — you mount him and bask at the lust contorting his features, at his hands gripping your waist in a staccato rhythm of feeling and gasp, each harsh bounce of your hips sending you both to bliss. You feel him inside you so deeply, enjoy his eyes rolling back and exposing his neck for you to sink bruises on.

Most oft, he enjoys mounting you. And you like the alternative of his choice to be buried so deep you feel him in your throat; to hold you down and hold you close, telling you to keep your eyes open for him as you come undone again and again— time and practice can manage his newness to the act. His enthusiasm, both for the act and for you, definitely helps his case, and he is so fond of finding your pleasure, of leading you to the precipe, so addicted to your sounds and writhes.

"There? Is that it, little dragon?" he huffs against your mouth, so attentive as he held your wrist and watch as you gasp, your face twisting as he hits that point inside of you, that sweet, sweet spot of undeniable pleasure buried so deep within— that he laughs. Not meanly, but of pride as he pulls back and hits it again. More insistent. You mewl and scratch his back, your toes curling as you seek the pleasure he so enjoys insisting you into.

"I've found it again, didn't I?" Another snap of his hips, another cry of your lips. "I will fuck your sweetest spot until you- are- crying- my name in that sweet, sweet whine of yours, shall I?"

But it's not really a question privy to an answer, surely not by your own mouth but by your body, as he manhandles you easily and does not stop until you are a quivering, overstimulated mess against wet sheets.

Sometimes, when you can't help but reward him as soon as possible— so excited from his gallant display; the perfect King bowing to his wife — you drag him to shadowy corners and solemnly drop yourself on your knees, unlacing his breeches with deft precision. You place your hot mouth against his manhood, your eyes fluttering delicately, making him reach completion enough times that he is left with a dopey, simpleton of a smile afterward, a soft, chaste kiss against your your head, your nose, your lips. So tender to how he was fucking your mouth not but seconds ago.

"I love you," he whispers against hot skin and cool, salty air.

And it eases, every time he looks at you like that, holds like you that. His love is patient, sweet, kind, and devouring. It overflows and seeps into you that when you whisper back, just as soft, just as troublingly honest, "Avy jorrāelan, ñuha zaldrīzes, I love you, my dragon," the truth of them bleeds further and further into your heart.

Jacaerys.

A warm grief swells within you. Your hands twitch, flattening your grief beneath your chest, deep in your gut. Deep below. You fought hard to be here. You cannot lose him now.

Otto Hightower must die.

A cruel thought, a natural order. With your marriage to Jacaerys meant a relative peace, a truce. Moving to Dragonstone many moons was more than just to establish your position, your future. It was also for your darling sister to take better control of her position back in the centre of power, alongside her husband.

Aged well with a stronger alley who most would not dare defy— a vainglorious guard dog, really, one who isn't afraid to sic people with a mere nod from his master — more than evens out the playing field.

The Queen To Be is prospering. And in her prosper, meant your husband's position more than fulfilled. He was to be King, and with you as his Queen, his reign will want for not.

You should have known it would put Otto on defense, would panic and use your siblings and your poor, nervy mother, to move in unfeasible decisions.

Aegon had taken to calling him grandsire again. Aemond... Your spiders had told you that Lucerys was sent to Storm's End as no more than a casual reminder of Lord Borros' oath. Viserys was in no doubt in worse conditions than he had been the last time you or your husband had visited him. Rhaenyra was settling on her position, reminding the Great Houses which heir was meant to rise soon, so close to the changing of the guard.

And your little brother no doubt was moved in panic.

This was a slip up on your part. Once the King was dead, Otto Hightower would hold no cards; Rhaenyra would never take him as Lord Hand, and his daughter would no longer be a foreground of power. Rhaenyra has her heir. The winning hand is more than ensured on her part.

His only move would be an usurpation, and would ruin your chance at being Queen... it was a good move. Your twin was not made for duty whilst you craved it. He knows you better than you know yourself; you will not be played in his palm. You would be useless to him.

"I should have killed him," you murmur to yourself.

Yna, the last maid in your arsenal, steps forward. She is the youngest of your main three wards, and the newest. She is still learning her letters, but she is young and always eager to serve.

"My lady?"

"I am going to find the prince. Whatever happens, tell them Vermax must not leave with his rider. Make up any excuse you must. My husband must stay in Dragonstone until I say otherwise." You raise your chin, tone icy. "Anyone who dares to defy my orders will be beheaded."

"At once, princess."

Your steps are measured, your breath held between lie and tongue. So many pretty rings on your fingers, twisting and twisting at the idea of the confrontation plagues you.

But you raise your chin. You will not be defeated. All is not lost.

Dyanna had caught you at Aegon's Garden, windblow hair and wide, fearful eyes.

You had braced yourself. "The Prince?"

"The Stone Drum, my princess, he is..."

"Angry," you supplied. She nodded jerkily. "Tell me everything."

"The Prince was talking with Ser Robert, was about the missive sent from Kings Landing says Kevan, not soon after your own." Another spider, one that follows most of your husband's movements. Unassuming and quick on his feet. A good soldier. "Prince Lucerys is alive but badly maimed." The breath you had withheld between grit and fright unrolled, the world slamming back into the ground in a giant's fitful wake. "He still hasn't woken up, says Arrax took most of the damage— one wing torn but is awake. Dunno about recovery for dragons, 'specially against Vhagar. Mournin' the prince, Kevan says. Makin' loud, sad dragon noises."

"But he is alive?" you pressed. Aemond's life hung in its balance. Your sweet, vengeful baby brother who bore his tragedies between muted teeth and rage.

"Yes."

"And Aemond?"

"No word in the missive or between them." It made your throat tight, the convulsion restraining your neck once more.

"It's fine. As long as there no mention of his death. Then that's all I need."

"My lady, there's more. There might be a reason we haven't been getting much word from King's Landing. Or Oldtown. It seems to connect is all."

Your pulse jumped. "Tell me later. I have to see to the prince. No one is allowed in Stone Drum for the time being. Not unless absolutely necessary." You think and you think hard. "Ready to call in a maestre."

Dyanna had looked alarmed when you left her, but you only gave a pensive smile. A soldier's nod.

He is bent over the Painted Table, shoulders so hunched, reminding you of monsters and tall tales. A dragon, really. He may not have Velaryon blood, your husband, but you— nor others — could deny the thrum of fire in his blood. Roiling and boiling, so engulf in his rage, his voice is quiet at the approach of your footsteps.

"You have bound me to Dragonstone," he says calmly with all the quiet rage you can hear in your very soul. It makes you shiver, but you stand resolute.

He is still turned away, away from you, palms flat on the surface. The iron brazier is lit up, and so is the Painted Table itself.

"Can you honestly tell me you won't try and kill my brother if I let you, ñuha valzȳrys my husband?" you say softly. You plead. His refusal to turn to you spikes your madness in corners. The night reaches and you finger your rings as you try not to spill all over the floor; your own madness, your own fears, your quiet, quiet webs. "Aren't you at least satisfied at the thought of your stepfather excelling at planting Dark Sister to his neck? At least cheery at the idea of him suffering inside those dungeons?"

He spins then, rage—white hot and spilling — breathes as he bellows, "He has harmed my brother!"

You calmly met his gaze. "You do not know that for sure."

He laughs without mirth, arms wide and daring. Crazed anger outlandish and wild, while in response you tighten and become small.

But you do not cower. No truth cowers. And you are a princess. A dragon the same as he.

Lest all, he is a mere husband.

"What else could it be? Your brother has called us bastards our entire lives," he spits. "Neither of us are blind to his dark looks. Despite your family's attempted plots, his rage beholds him. His grudge is stronger. He attacked Lucerys, on fucking dragonback— Arrax, a dragon Luke has barely flown against your brother's war dragon — and that makes him a kinslayer."

Your blood leaps, and you cannot control your own fear, your own anger. "Do not throw that word around so carelessly, Jacaerys! My brother has killed no kin!"

"He has tried, " he hisses and it makes your eyes burn because he has never looked at you so before. At his thunderous footsteps to reach you, to aggravate you, you fight the urge to flinch. His anger spills and spoils you. You try not to curdle. You keep yourself braced. Kinslayer is so ugly said aloud. "That is enough of a brand to call him kinslayer."

Your jaw tightens, tears unleashed from your eyes and there's a glimmer there— a spark, of your Jace. Your husband. It is small and short, a comet so faint it is almost nothing, but it is there.

He does not like to see you cry, your Jace. Not if it isn't from pleasure.

You raise your chin. "My brother is no kinslayer. Lucerys is alive. Do not make Aemond what he is not."

He laughs humourlessly against your face, his hand reaching for your jaw, thumb over your chin, but the mock gentleness wounds you worse. "And who has alerted you of the news? Your twin usurper?"

"W-what?" Blood rushes to your head. Something is missing. He knows. He knows about grandsire's plans. Dyanna would have said. Dyanna didn't know. "Aegon is not an usurper," you whisper, faint but firm.

His thumb rubs against your bottom lip, his eyes tracing your face. "Is this the plan all along, then?" he says softly. "While your brother and grandsire plot to usurp the throne from my mother, and your younger brothers raise bannermen from Oldtown to Storm's End, and try to kill my own when they get the chance, I suppose your job is to warm my bed and to ensure I'm out of the fray before you kill me in my—"

His words stutter for you have slapped him. It is not the hardest move on your part, and he stops not from pain but from shock. Tears freely flow down your face now as you push him off you.

"I know nothing of these plots you speak of." That in much is true. These plots are half-assed. Made in panic and fear, and it makes you curse Otto Hightower to the depths of further Hell. "And you may bully me as you wish, husband, but I will not take it as if it does not hurt me. As if- as if I would take pleasure from your death."

He raises his chin, so defiant in his own anger that he clenches his jaw. "Are you telling me you took no part in your grandsire's plans?"

"We have been married for many moons now. I think, out of anyone on this island, amongst our family even, you would know me best. I have only ever truly bloomed in your presence," you say softly. Lies and truths are balanced so precariously; they spin and spin in a tantalising grip that even you don't know where fabrication meets honesty.

If your own lies befuddle you, why not your truths to him?

"If you are doubting me, then you are doubting our marriage, is it not?" You give a mirthless laugh of your own, chin wobbling as you brush your tears away. His eyes track your movements and his brows are furrowed. "Is it ease, that has turned you so from me? Has your doubt been seeded long before you took us to Dragonstone? To affirm your mother that you have wedded me? Yes, Aegon sent me a missive a mere hour ago. He says Aemond had been urged by our grandsire, no doubt played with as he had done so to our mother, as he tries with Aegon. With me."

Jacaerys' eyes darken. Bottomless pits of dark, dark eyes. You've grown to love them you realised.

"I will give you all the violet-eyed heirs you desire," you had purred once in your new marriage bed, having just christened (one to a few times) your new marital chambers in Dragonstone. "But I do so wish I get a babe with your eyes."

"They are hardly exemplary," Jace had said, snorting. His hand rested on your back while you rest on top of him. The air is acrid in sweat and sex, but neither of you mind. "They are not a show of Valyrian blood."

"Who cares?" You reached to dance your finger against his lashes. "A daughter with your eyes... I fear, I would spoil her rotten. She would be an absolute beauty."

"Are you calling me a beauty?" he teased, trying to hide his rosy cheeks.

"Your eyes, yes," you teased back.

"If I was such a pawn to him," you say now. "If I was using you as you so callously accused me of, why would I bother with a marriage with you? You are right, they have accused you of not being a trueborn Velaryon—" He flinches. "—So why would Otto decide marrying you was a good idea at all? Any babes I carry would be questioned, and it would serve no benefit at all if the main plot was Aegon usurping the throne. To keep you entertained? Hardly. It would serve him better, as was his earlier plan, if I had married Aegon myself."

He loses his stance, a grit in his teeth gives you way to a slow curl of possession. A renewed sense of anger. His fists clenched at his sides.

You found a thread. You don't just unspool, you decide, you will yank, and you will yank hard.

"Aegon is a firstborn male heir, even as twins. It made sense to anyone who understood Targaryen customs that marrying us would be the natural order. It did not matter any past transgressions he may have had, I keep him better. I am his tether to this world. It was obvious to anybody with eyes that if we were to marry, we would breed good Valyrian stock, our children—"

But he has lurched forward, grasping your face, seething, angry at an idea, at a diverted road.

"He wanted us to marry," you continue, a snake's hiss that it is. "But your mother sent a missive asking for Helaena's hand, and I had already told her I wanted someone else. I wanted you." You grasp his leather, pulling him to you in equal ferocity. Madness meeting a mirror. "From the very start, grandsire could not control me for my blood sung for you. I had done my very best to free my siblings from him, resigned myself to be their forever protector inside that Keep with no real power of my own, but when the Gods gave me the chance to have you, I had been selfish. I abandoned them for you. Because I wanted to be yours for a night, I was willing to have that, if it is the only moment you will grant me."

You are crying again, and lies are spinning with their truths, golden and bloodstained, but you are cracking him.

"But it was you, Jacaerys Velaryon, who had asked for my hand. You wanted to marry, whisk us away to Dragonstone, and I love you too much to blind myself to the idea of becoming your wife would not be a totally selfish act, for what act of ours would be considered selfish if it was borne out of love?" you sob hard, grasping and reaching against him, trying to shake and ruin him. "I thought you loved me, and yet here you are, accusing me of plotting? What? Usurping your mother? Killing you in your godsdamned sleep?"

"Wife, I—"

"No. I am sorry for what happened to Lucerys. But if it is vengeance that is truly what you seek, and in the morrow my brother," my choke out. "My brother would be announced d-dead, I would rather you kill me now for it seems I have not only failed them from my grandsire's clutches, I have also failed at being your wife."

Your hands reach in and pull his dagger out, and he is instinctive, a true swordsman, holding onto the dagger before your own. But you do not give up. You yank him forward so suddenly, the dagger now positioned over your heart.

You keep him there, defiant as you are. As no true dragon is afraid of metal. Metal melt in the face of dragonfire.

The tip of his dagger deepens against your skin as war rages in his own mind. Truths and lies spinning and spinning in his head, but your thread— your thread is Hightower green clung in blood and gold — and it's the brightest, twisting beneath his lids and rage. Rage and grief, the tethering madness is spilling, trying to break into the dragon's clutches—

But your Jace is strong. He holds it at bay with a fury.

It is love, it is love, it is love.

But you are not sure. And you have to be.

You have been betrayed already, your Jace cannot betray you. If you are to have a future with him as King, there must be no doubts.

You step forward, letting the blade sink against your skin. It draws blood. A few beads bloom and slide. Thick red in a string or two. It makes his jaw tighten, and you feel, almost impercibly, the strain in his hand give.

That flash of panic, panic bathed in love, in adoration, is all you need.

You grasp his hands in yours, blade nestled between two grips now, and he gasps, thinking you were going to push him away finally, but no. You hold on tight to his hands, nails digging into his skin, keeping the blade where it is before you push forward once more. The tip sinks into your flesh, blood gushes as pain explodes.

"What are you doing!? Let go!" he roars, but you stare at his eyes, brown, so pretty, framed in featherlight lashes, did he even know there are violet flecks in his eyes?

You will not harm me, you think. You realise. For you have given yourself to me body and soul. Even the Gods know.

"Will you forsake me, husband?" your voice is no higher than a whisper, than a wind's hum. It is hollow and cracking. A siren song. In the silence, it is a whip cracking against petty flesh. Against a beating heart thrumming for you. "And the babe I carry?"

Before the words register in his brain, you yank his hands again with every strength you can muster, the dagger, to hover over your stomach. Your Jace roars, pulling with his entire strength as complete fear in floods his beautiful, brown eyes. The strength propels your force of gravity, and you fall with a hard thud. The dagger is flung in the second as he reaches for you, cold-curdled terror ruining his face as he tries to make sense of where to touch you.

The fall is hard enough that you wince. And your instincts, new as it is, is to curl your hands protectively over your stomach.

"M-my heart? Does it hurt? I-I am so sorry, I-A MAESTRE, CALL A MAESTRE FOR THE PRINCESS NOW!"

Your child is strong, you have always known that in your heart.

The second you held suspicion, pressing against the tender flesh of your breast to the nausea that kicked in out of nowhere, before Maestre Gerardys had confirmed: you are with child. Your firstborn. The heir of heirs. You could not wait to meet him.

"I hope it is a boy," you murmur weakly into the darkened space of your chambers. You don't turn as Jacaerys' head snaps, his hands over your own, sat on a chair by your bedside. Relief, guilt, fear breaks and crashes in waves against him, trying to nudge you, but you don't look. You stare from your position on the bed; forward and into nothingness.

"My love," he breathes, hands against your own warm and tight. "I am so, so sorry. I shall call for a maestre—"

"No need." Your other hand moves to your stomach. An emotion glimmers in his gaze at the movement. "My babe is strong. Blood of the dragon that he is. I know him already in my blood. Call for my maid instead. Any of them. Tell them to move my things to a different room, perhaps the one above Aegon's Garden. By morn, I will fly to Kings Landing to be with my family."

Panic fills and breaks. His hold tightens. "I-If that is what you wish, we can go as soon as Maestre Gerardys says it is alright for you and the—"

You turn to him, finally, your eyes dead of emotion. "I will go for I do not think you would like your would-be murderer to sleep beside you, haunting you with a dagger. This way, I can take advice from my mother about births and the like, and you can sleep comfortably. Do not worry, I will not poison you to your child's mind. You may visit him as you would like. You might even take comfort in knowing your mother would look for him as if he were hers. She is so very motherly, I'm sure she would enjoy a grand..."

Your words drift off as he had fallen to his knees, tears soaking your hand as he presses it to his face. You feel like the Mother, looking down on a penitent. Or the Father. Or the Stranger. You feel complete, as his apologies fall in graceless, shaky exhales and sobs. The axe is in your hand. His neck is exposed.

"—I will do anything, a-anything for your f-forgiveness. Y-You can move rooms if it comforts you, I will not s-shadow your doorway, but please. Please. Do not leave me. Anything. I will do anything."

You, and you alone, is the owner of his absolution.

You smile, despite yourself.

Maybe you should reward your grandsire after all.

TAGGED (bold means I couldn't tag you: @inkareds @marihoneywk @caterina-caterina @ahristata

#jacaerys velaryon fanfiction #jacaerys angst #hotd angst #jacaerys velaryon x reader #jace velaryon x you #jacaerys velaryon x you #jacaerys velaryon angst #jacaerys smut #hotd smut #manipulative reader #elle writes !! ꒱ ↷˗ˏˋ🍒

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