#wah.. with mama.. | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 10 months ago

Text

In The Gloomy Depths [Chapter 1: Amethyst]

Series summary: Five years ago, jewel mining tycoon Daemon Targaryen made a promise in order to win your hand in marriage. Now he has broken it and forced you into a voyage across the Atlantic, betraying you in increasingly horrifying ways and using your son as leverage to ensure your cooperation. You have no friends and no allies, except a destitute viola player you can't seem to get away from...

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), parenthood, dolphins, death and peril, violence (including domestic violence), drinking, smoking, freezing temperatures, murder, if you don't like Titanic you won't like this fic!!! 😉

Word count: 5.2k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Tagging: @arcielee @nightvyre @camsdaae @mrs-starkgaryen @gemini-mama

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🥰

A note goes sharp, and you swim up through colorless currents—indistinct conversation, an iron-grey draft each time the front door opens, cigar smoke like fog over the ocean—and turn to the viola player. His eyes have caught on the place where your left hand rests on the table by a glass of pear cider, still cold from the icebox, misty with condensation. Rain pours outside. Logs fracture and hiss in the fireplace. Your gown is thick velvet, indigo like the night sky, and the ruffles of your sleeve have slipped back to reveal the evidence roped around your wrist: shadows of trapped blood, rubies that sicken and turn to sapphires and amethysts.

You hurriedly adjust your sleeve. Now the viola player’s eyes are on yours, an overcast blue and improperly direct, and something flies between you: his shock, your shame. You look away and pretend to ignore him. His horsehair bow finds its rhythm again, a tempo like a racing pulse. The quartet is playing The Wild Rover.

Daemon hasn’t noticed. He has ensnared the reporter entirely, here in O’Connell’s Bar in the heart of Galway, just across the street from Eyre Square and only a few blocks west of the Docks and the North Atlantic Ocean. The young man writes for The Irish Times and has traveled from Dublin to interview your husband, once a celebrated newcomer but soon departing and taking you with him. Five years ago a storm blew him in; now the gleam of distant treasure catches his eye and beckons him like the moon calls the tides. He has been this way all his life. You were mad to believe he’d change.

“Lord Targaryen,” the reporter says with his felt-tip pen hovering over his notebook, gazing at Daemon worshipfully, firelight dancing on both of their faces. You glance at the viola player again. He’s still watching you, and this is bad. “You’ve been described as a cowboy by numerous publications and business associates. Do you consider that a compliment?”

Daemon chuckles, smirking and imperious. He puffs on his pipe, elbows propped on the table. His eyes are a deep-set reptilian green, emeralds glinting from the mouth of a mine. Strands of dark blonde hair fall roguishly down over his forehead. “Oh, it’s a massive compliment, isn’t it? A cowboy eschews the safe and the predictable. A cowboy makes his own way in the world. My father was a duke, and now my brother is a duke, and one day my nephew will be a duke, God help us all. And so I always knew that if I wanted anything for myself, I’d have to go out and find it.”

The reporter is smiling, enraptured. He asks, already knowing the answer: “And what was it you found?”

“In the Wah Wah Mountains of Utah, we discovered red beryl.” Daemon talks with his hands, magnetic fields, incantations, spells that once worked on you. “It’s exceptionally rare and a gorgeous stone, high color saturation, not as hard as a diamond but durable enough for jewelry, essentially a blood-colored emerald. I was twenty-five years old and had just put together my first small mining expedition, and here we were sitting on the only known supply of red beryl on the planet. And it was then that I realized that there are these sorts of…natural monopolies that exist scattered across the globe, gemstones that can be found in only one location, and thus if you are the man who owns the mine…every single stone must pass through your hands before it ends up in retail establishments in London or Paris or Milan or wherever.”

“And so you took the lesson you learned from red beryl and applied it to other minerals,” the reporter says as he scribbles in his notebook.

Daemon grins, puffing on his pipe, exhaling smoke like a dragon. And how remarkable he is to have agreed to meet here in this pub like a common man, so unpretentious, so unafraid of the world’s dirt, effortless and yet untouchable, and this is why his miners love Daemon, why they will break their spines and poison their lungs for him. “We kept the Utah mine, of course, and bought up rights to thousands of acres of land surrounding it. I hired more workers. And then I investigated reports of mysterious, unnamed, brand new stones that had been stumbled upon in far-flung places, untamed by civilized men, the earth just waiting to be slit open and butchered like a fat hog. In Madagascar, we found Grandidierite, a bewitching blue-green, the Indian Ocean in miniature, crystalized form. In Tanzania, we discovered Tanzanite, halfway between an amethyst and a sapphire.”

The reporter nods to you as he says: “I believe Lady Targaryen is wearing some this evening, is she not?”

“Indeed,” Daemon replies without much interest. You touch your fingertips to your teardrop-shaped earrings and give the reporter a polite smile. You steal a glimpse of the viola player; he isn’t staring at you anymore—a blessing, a relief—but he frowns distractedly as his bow glides over the strings. “In Australia there was black opal, and in the Dominican Republic we were the first mining operation to encounter Larimar, and then…well, then I heard of Connemara marble.”

“Native to Ireland,” the reporter says proudly. “The lone quarry that’s still producing is right here in Galway.”

“So of course that intrigued me.” Daemon taps on the tabletop with his right hand, and now he is watching you, curling lips, taunting eyes. “And when I crossed the Atlantic to acquaint myself with this quarry and inquire into purchasing it, I was intrigued by the quarry owner’s daughter as well.”

His pen scratching against parchment; black rivers of ink filling up the page. “How would you describe the courtship?”

“Brief,” Daemon says, then laughs. He points to you with his smoldering pipe. “How about you, dear? How would you describe it?”

“Flattering,” you answer honestly, and the reporter makes his notes. “Daemon already had a reputation by then. A captain of industry, a staggering success story, a man who refused to rest idly on his family’s titles, which he could have easily done.” And a man who also refused to marry, rejecting Rockefellers and Morgans and Astors, duchesses and countesses, but asked your father for your hand in marriage after only a few weeks of tours of the quarry and dinners set alight with charismatic retellings of his travels. You knew the Connemara marble was part of the allure, but you took this as a common interest rather than the only thing Daemon wanted from you. Well…one of two things.

“You’ve resided in Galway ever since,” the reporter is saying to Daemon. “Barring a few trips for business. But that is about to change.”

Daemon sucks on his pipe. “I’ve received a very generous offer from Tiffany & Co. in Manhattan. They’ve been around for almost a century, did you know they supplied the Union Army with swords and surgical tools during the Civil War? Real patriots. Not afraid to get bloody. They want to expand into the sale of colored gemstones, not just diamonds and pearls and gold, the same unimaginative pieces peddled by their competitors. And after some long and arduous negotiations, Tiffany has agreed to pay a fair price for the exclusive rights to specimens originating from my mines, and I have agreed relocate to New York City for the foreseeable future to consult with them as a gemstone expert.”

“It’s my understanding that you have family in New York too, Lord Targaryen. Perhaps a reunion is part of the appeal of a move across the pond.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t assume that,” Daemon says impishly. “I haven’t seen Alicent Hightower or her children in years and years. I wouldn’t even know them if I passed them on the street.”

“Is that right?” The reporter’s pen hovers uncertainly over his notebook; he doesn’t think this is the sort of familial disharmony that should be printed in a newspaper.

“But my wife and I will have some company for the voyage,” Daemon continues. “My niece Rhaenyra and her charming husband Laenor will be joining us on Titanic. They’ve been on holiday in the Mediterranean and have several social engagements on the East Coast before they return to summer in England with my brother.”

“Viserys Targaryen, the 9th Duke of Beaufort.”

Daemon grins, not kindly at all. “One man earns a title, eight others wear it.”

The reporter shifts awkwardly in his chair. It’s not the sort of joke he’s allowed to laugh at. Changing the topic, he looks to the string quartet, which is now playing Danny Boy. The viola player’s eyes flick to you; you drink you pear cider and pretend you are unaware. “You’ll be sorely missed in Galway. But what a proper Irish sendoff you’re receiving here at O’Connell’s tonight!”

“Yes,” Daemon muses, the bit of the pipe in his mouth. “A week from now, tugboats will be hauling us out of Cork Harbor and into the Atlantic Ocean, perhaps never to return.”

You shudder as a man enters the pub and a cold draft blows through you. You are terrified of ships, tiny metal buckets at the mercy of bottomless blue, unnatural incursions into inhuman spaces. You have sailed twice before with your parents—once to Le Havre to visit Paris and again on a cruise of the Aegean—and both times you were consumed by visions of water rising up over your feet, bodies thrashing in the waves, bones turning to silt. You don’t want to cross the Atlantic. You don’t want to leave home.

“You look a bit familiar, boy,” Daemon says, and you realize he’s talking to the viola player. You startle, then are relieved to see that your husband has only a dim curiosity in the musician. The reporter has bored him, and Daemon’s eyes are wandering. He is a man of short and restless attention. You have learned this the hard way. “Have we met before?”

The viola player—early twenties, around your age, sandy blond hair and a beard trimmed close to the skin—pauses his fiddling as his three companions carry on. His accent is English, not Irish. “Well I’ve played all over Ireland, sir. All over Europe, in fact.”

“Were you by chance at the McPherson wedding back in February?”

You don’t believe he was, you think you’d remember him; but the viola player nods eagerly. “Yes sir, that was me.”

“Ah! That was a fine night. Excellent duck. Wasn’t the duck good, dear?” But Daemon only half-listens for your response. He has turned back to the reporter and is recounting how he and his expedition hacked through the jungles of Tanzania to reach the location of suspected gemstone deposits, how they endured attacks from crocodiles and chimpanzees and burned up from fevers.

“Please excuse me for a moment,” you say as you rise from the table. The reporter scrambles to his feet to stand as decorum demands.

“Yes yes,” Daemon replies abruptly, not looking at you, then continues his stories.

You escape from the pub through the front door and stand beneath the awning just out of the rain, watching the reflections of streetlights glow in puddles like stars. Across the street in Eyre Square, a public park established in 1710, shadows of ash trees rock in the wind. With trembling fingers, you fumble a Kerry Blue and your cigarette holder out of your black handbag, then realize you don’t have a lighter. Someone else always does that part for you. You sigh and stare out into the rain, taking deep breaths of Irish night, early April, cold and wet and green, the only air you know how to take painlessly into your lungs, blood, bones, the dark damp earth that built you. You cannot imagine living amongst metal skyscrapers and rumbling automobiles instead of verdant rolling hills dotted with sheep.

You hear the pub door open, and you assume it is one of the waiters or perhaps Rush—Edward Rushton, Daemon’s valet and bodyguard, ever-watchful and unwaveringly stern—bringing you the black mink coat you left inside. But to your horror, it is the viola player, carrying his instrument by its neck. You gape at him as rain continues to fall.

“Hi,” he says.

You are clutching your handbag, a cigarette and holder still tucked between your fingers. “What are you doing?”

“I just…I was…uh…” He spots the cigarette. “Oh, do you need a lighter? I have one, hold on…” He begins rooting around in the pockets of his olive green tweed jacket.

“No, I don’t need a lighter,” you snap, glancing anxiously at the door. “I need you to go back inside.”

“Wait a minute, I wanted to—”

“Why are you speaking to me?” Your eyes are wide and petrified, your voice is a sharp whisper. No musician has ever addressed you beyond pleasantries: Good morning, good afternoon, good evening, thank you ma’am, my pleasure ma’am. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Look, I came out here because…I just wanted to ask…” He struggles to find the words. His eyes fall to your left wrist, now fully obscured by the ruffles of your sleeve, then return to your face. “Are you okay?”

“What?”

“Do you…you know…do you need some kind of help or something?”

It’s improper, it’s unthinkable, it’s dangerous. “You’re deranged,” you say as you breeze past him towards the door. “You’ve clearly escaped from an asylum somewhere. I wish you all the best in your recovery.”

He does not grab you—that would be absurd—but he does get between you and the front door of the pub. “Wait, please, I’m sorry, I’m not trying to be rude or to overstep or anything, I’m trying to see if there’s anything I can do—”

“You will make it worse for me,” you hiss, and only then does the viola player go quiet and let you pass. You shove by him into O’Connell’s Bar.

Back at the table, Daemon and the reporter are engrossed in conversation. When you rejoin them, neither of the men take any notice of you beyond the reporter’s momentary rise to his feet. After a minute or two, the viola player returns to the quartet and slips seamlessly into the song they’re playing, Star of the County Down. You gaze into your pear cider, determined not to glance at him even once.

Daemon is saying as the reporter jots franticly: “I am reminded of something I read once in a French fashion critic’s guide from the 1870s. In the gloomy depths of the mineral world, stars are concealed that rival in their beauty those of the firmament. The fresh splendors of dawn, the sun’s incandescent rays, the magnificent sunsets, the brilliant colors of the rainbow, all are found enclosed in a morsel of pure carbon or in the center of a stone. Not everyone can see the potential, not everyone has the skill or the willpower to move the earth and free the treasures trapped beneath. But I found stars no one else knew existed. And my work isn’t finished yet.”

~~~~~~~~~~

At home in Lough Cutra Castle, your family’s estate since 1817, your parents are asleep and Fern is waiting up for you and Daemon, yawning into the back of her hand to try to hide it. She is your maid but she was hired by Daemon, and she scurries around the property like a mouse, eternally picking up toys and articles of clothing and papers that have slid off of tables, head bowed, footsteps so light you often don’t realize she’s walked into a room until she’s spoken.

“Care for some tea, my lady?” Fern asks as she takes your mink coat. Daemon goes directly to his study; you watch him leave with some feeling you couldn’t name, loss, relief, loneliness, resignation.

“No, thank you, Fern. I’m exhausted. Is Draco upstairs?”

“He is,” she says, but with hesitation, as if she is sending you into the lion’s den. You know what that means. You climb the staircase and find him in his bedroom sound asleep, four years old, surrounded by an army of teddy bears. Bears are his favorite animal; he likes the way they roar and brandish their teeth. He is named after the crest of Daemon’s family; Draco is the Latin word for dragon. His hair is white-blonde, a Targaryen trait. As they age it fades to an ordinary sand-like color, and by the time they are middle-aged—Daemon is forty, nearly two decades older than you are—their hair is a blonde so dark it’s almost brunette.

You stand in the doorway watching Draco for a long time. When you think of him, this is the image that comes to mind: your son across a room, or a lawn, or a garden, and you lurking on the periphery, longing to be a part of his existence, feeling so palpably unneeded. Already, he is becoming a stranger. He thinks it’s funny when Daemon insults people and breaks things. He stomps his little feet when he doesn’t get his way and rips flowers from the garden, tosses rocks through the windows of the greenhouse, hurls sticks at hissing geese.

“He’s asleep,” Dagmar says as if she’s scolding you. You whirl to see her behind you in the hall, glowering with those icy Nordic eyes, her hair grey and twisted into a tight bun, her face angular and cold-blooded. Legend has it that Saint Patrick expelled all the snakes from Ireland; you think he must have missed one.

“Yes, I can see that.”

“You’ll wake him.”

“I certainly won’t.”

“A boy that age needs his rest.” And this is how Dagmar has been since Draco was born: You can’t hold a baby like that, you can’t feed a baby like that, you can’t play with a baby like that, never showing you how to do things but only alienating you further and further until you looped around on some hopelessly remote orbit like Neptune circles the sun.

“Yes. Like I said, I won’t disturb him.”

But she does not leave; she only scowls at you with her bony arms crossed over her chest. She is ancient; she was Viserys and Daemon’s governess when they were boys, and your husband wrote to her immediately after Draco was born. She idolizes Daemon. The three of them are a family unto themselves, sardonic and spiteful and fiercely loyal, an oath you can’t figure out how to break. She wins this battle, as she’s won them all. It is not a war but an insurgency, a perpetual struggle for independence, sabotages and hunger strikes that amount to nothing. You retreat from Draco’s doorway and go to find Daemon in his study, bent low over his desk and sketching designs for jewelry men will buy for their wives, sisters, mothers, daughters, mistresses.

He glances over at you impatiently. “What is it?”

“You promised I’d never have to leave Ireland.”

Daemon shrugs, smiling wryly. “And yet…”

“Draco and I could stay here,” you say, as if this has not already occurred to him.

“And people would say my house is not in order. How am I to command the respect of American businessmen when my own wife does not obey me?”

You are desperate. “Half the year,” you plead. “I’ll spend winters in Manhattan and summers here.”

“Absolutely not.”

“What if I won’t go?”

“I don’t see how you’d accomplish that,” Daemon says, as if he’s already bored of this conversation. “You could throw yourself over the ship’s railing and into the Atlantic Ocean, I suppose. But that’s the only way you’re not ending up in New York.”

“You don’t even really want me there,” you reply, your voice quivering. “You don’t care where I am or what I do. Lots of men live separately from their wives, you can as well.” And even now—horribly, humiliatingly—you want him to contradict you, to swear that he does care, that he wants you, that he loves you in the sick brutal way he knows how.

Daemon picks up the dagger he keeps on his desk and uses it as a letter opener to unseal a piece of correspondence from one of his many mines, left in the care of managers just as your father’s Connemara marble quarry soon will be. The hilt is made of gold and has seven small gemstones imbedded in it, one on top of the other: amethyst, tiger’s eye, black opal, emerald, ruby, bloodstone, sapphire. “You know,” Daemon says offhandedly as he skims the letter. “Draco is getting old enough for boarding school.”

“What?” You are shellshocked; it takes a moment for you to sputter a reply. “He’s…he’s four, Daemon. He can’t read more than a handful of words. He just learned how to write his own name.”

“I was only five when my father sent me away.”

“And you turned out to be so normal.”

“No,” Daemon says, a blade-sharp warning, his eyes burning into yours, ruthless green fire. He aims the point of his dagger at you. “I turned out to be extraordinary.”

Draco. Draco sent away. If I lose him now, I’ll lose him forever. He’ll never know me. He’ll never love me. “Please let me have a few more years with him.”

“Sure. In New York.”

“I’ll go,” you surrender. “Fine, fine, I understand. I’ll go. No more complaints.”

“Good.” He sets down his dagger and the letter and resumes his sketching. You’ve been dismissed, but you can’t look away from him: cunning hands that won’t touch you, blood that runs hot enough to scald.

What is this feeling, this hunger, this hatred, all gnarled up together, dark earth glimmering with flecks of jewel-tone light, constellations of subterranean stars? He has hurt you, but he has given you pleasure too, this man who is so impossible to know, to predict, the only man who has ever been inside you. It’s not that you want him, not exactly; you want what he can give you, and the cold truth is that if it’s not him it’s not anyone, never again for as long as he lives. You’ve never craved another body, another soul. If you ever took a lover, you believe Daemon would kill you.

He grins, mocking and cruel. And you are transported back to your wedding night, still euphoric and flushed and panting on the bed as Daemon sighed and got up to go to the washroom, the satisfaction and the shame, the inescapable sense that you have disappointed him. “Did you only come here to be vexing and disobedient, or did you have something else in mind?”

“No,” you say softly, turning away, leaving him with his drawings of rocks stolen from distant corners of the world.

At breakfast the next morning—Fern cracking Draco’s soft-boiled egg and feeding him careful spoonfuls, Dagmar reading aloud to him from The Three Billy Goats Gruff, giving him smiles radiant with warmth you’ve never received from her—you sip tea and spread butter over your soda bread, gazing listlessly at the mist that hangs cool and heavy beyond the windows. Daemon is at the quarry already. You are suddenly acutely aware of the absence of music.

“Hey, lassie?” your father says as your mother tries to coax him into eating his full Irish breakfast: fried eggs, bacon, beans, mushrooms, tomatoes, white pudding.

You look to him, clearing the fog from your skull. “Yes, Daddy.”

“I saw the luggage. Where are you going?”

You keep telling him, but he doesn’t remember; he was becoming forgetful five years ago but now he can’t work at all, can barely even carry conversations. You had a brother who died in infancy and a sister who was taken at eight years old by convulsions. You are the only child left, and there are no other evident heirs to the quarry. This must have been something that occurred to Daemon when he met you, seventeen and overwhelmed by the black magic of him. He had seemed like the right choice: dashing, capable, from an illustrious family, a man who could take charge of the quarry as your father’s health continued to fail.

“Daddy, I told you. We’re going to Manhattan.”

He is stunned, grief-stricken. “What? That far?”

“Yes, on Titanic. It’s the largest ship ever built.”

“Who the hell cares about the ship?” your father says. “When will you be back?”

Never. You and your mother exchange a heartsick glance. She tries to be strong for him; she tries not to show you that her world is ending as you and Draco are taken across the ocean like gemstones mined and smuggled away for cutting. “Soon, Daddy,” you lie. He won’t remember anyway. “We’ll be back really soon.”

And then again ten minutes later, and then again after a half hour, and then again at lunchtime:

Where are you going?

When will you be back?

~~~~~~~~~~

Titanic is not a ship but a wonder of the world, unbreakable like the pyramids, towering like the Colossus of Rhodes, beckoning seafaring travelers like the Lighthouse of Alexandria. It is too large to dock in Cork Harbor, and so two tenders—named, quite appropriately, Ireland and America—are used to shuttle the passengers to the anchored goliath waiting to carry you across the ocean. Aboard, a five-piece string ensemble greets the first-class passengers with The Sunny South, and beaming stewards distribute flutes of champagne, liquid gold freckled with bubbles of trapped air. The men are chucking and shaking Captain Smith’s hand and the women are sighing with soft, feminine awe at the soaring funnels and the sprawling Promenade Deck, steel overlaid with yellow pine and teak, and you stare vacuously back at the shadow of the shore, speaking to no one, noticed by no one, alone in a wonderstruck crowd on a cloud-covered, warm afternoon, April 11th, 1912.

Rush is giving bellboys instructions for the luggage to be taken to your rooms. Daemon disappears with Rhaenyra to inspect the accommodations, their steps swift and careless, laughing like children, Rhaenyra’s blonde hair—yellow jasper, yellow jade—streaming out behind her, her gown a shallow-water bluish-green like the Grandidierite Daemon found in Madagascar. Fern skitters after them to unpack the bags when they arrive in the staterooms and offer to make tea. Laenor, wearing a deep and dignified shade of blue, immediately makes the acquaintance of several Parisian passengers and sets about to stroll the deck with them, smoking their pipes and remarking on the ingenuity of the ship’s design, planning to enjoy the Turkish Baths together this evening. Draco is getting tired and ill-tempered; Dagmar merrily whisks him off to see the Grand Staircase and distract him until the rooms are ready.

Meandering, rudderless, you walk to the deck railing and look down into the water as the ship weighs anchor, unmooring itself from Ireland, stealing you away forever. Trying to distract yourself from weeping—tears burn in your eyes like a stoked furnace—you pretend to adjust your earrings. You wear amethysts to match your gown, dark mauve, a color not long ago only owned by royalty. One of the musicians has appeared to soothe your maladies, desperate terror and melancholy he perhaps mistakes for seasickness. But no, it’s not one of the men from the ensemble that welcomed you aboard; he is not wearing a pristine black suit but a pale green tweed waistcoat and unceremonious plaid trousers. He isn’t a crewmember of Titanic at all. He’s the viola player from Galway.

You jolt away from him, spinning around to ensure no one from Daemon’s party has reappeared to witness this. Then you whisper furiously: “What are you doing here?!”

The viola player stops fiddling and holds his instrument by its neck. His answer is amiable and innocent. “Playing viola.”

“No, why are you on this ship?!”

He shrugs, smiling, his hair blowing in the wind as the tugboats pull Titanic out to sea. “Heard it was the biggest one ever built, unsinkable, extravagant beyond compare. Seemed like something I’d like to experience given the opportunity.”

“You followed me,” you say flatly.

He winks, resting an elbow on the railing. His teeth are small and white; there are lines from the sun around his eyes.

“You overheard our arrangements at O’Connell’s Bar and bought a ticket for yourself? Crossed Ireland, travelled south to Cork, all to stalk me like some lunatic? A nautical Jack the Ripper?”

“Well…I wouldn’t say I bought a ticket.” He is playful, teasing you. “I found one.”

“How did you manage to by pure happenstance find a ticket for Titanic’s maiden voyage?”

“I ran into an aspiring passenger at a pub in Cork,” the viola player explains. “A very nice man, his name was Fergal. Unfortunately for poor Fergal, when the time came to board the tenders, he was…indisposed, and I found myself in possession of his third-class ticket. A strange coincidence!”

“Indisposed?” you say, squinting suspiciously.

“Perhaps he had a few too many pints in celebration and passed out somewhere. Perhaps he got lost on his way to the harbor. Or perhaps he was locked in the pub’s storage room and therefore unable to make it to the tenders in time to sail blissfully away on his trans-Atlantic journey. Who could say for sure?”

“So you stole a ticket.”

“I think that’s a cynical way to put it.”

You are incredulous. “How would you put it?”

“Fortune brought me a ticket. The stars aligned, the saints were looking out for me.”

“If you hold a third-class ticket, you are on the wrong deck of the ship.”

“Shh!” He holds a finger to his lips. “No one knows that, I just wander around playing songs for the rich people and they assume I’m supposed to be here.”

“You have to stay away from me,” you plead, staring out over the ocean. “Daemon can’t see us talking, he can’t know you followed me from Galway, he can’t find out that you saw…” The bruise, the evidence, the betrayal of you not keeping his secrets.

“Relax, I’m not here for you,” the viola player says, and of course he is lying. “I have family in New York City. I left home and haven’t been back in years, and I think now’s a good time for a visit.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah. Okay.”

He grins, slow and mischievous, and you are alarmed to realize some part of you wants to smile too. “You know what?”

“What,” you offer resentfully.

“I think you want me to be here for you.”

You turn away from the railing to make your escape. “I want you to leave me alone.”

“I’ll think about it,” the viola player quips. And when you glance back at him from the end of the Promenade Deck, ocean wind tearing your hair out of its pins and salt stinging on your skin, he’s still watching you.

#aegon x reader #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon ii #aegon ii x y/n #aegon ii targaryen x reader #aegon ii x you #aegon ii fanfic #aegon targaryen x you #aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen ii #aegon targaryen

243 notes · View notes

foreverisntenough · 9 months ago

Text

‘Act II’

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

Index

Warnings: This series is 18+ MDNI

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

Chapter 20 - 'Be Yours ' | ‘Act II’

word count - 10.3 k

The morning light filtered through the windows, casting a soft glow over the room as you stood with Whitney, watching her transform into a bride. The stylist worked meticulously, zipping up her intricate gown, the soft rustle of beading filling the quiet air. You couldn’t help but feel a surge of emotion well up inside you. Whitney had been through so much, and now here she was—radiant, about to step into a new chapter of her life, one that she deserved more than anyone. Tears prickled your eyes as you took it all in. She caught you wiping at your eyes, and with a soft laugh, shook her head.

“Don’t you dare start crying already. We haven’t even gotten to the ceremony yet!” But the laughter faded as Teddy, in her tiny dress, tugged at Whitney’s gown, her face lighting up.

“Mama is princess!” She exclaimed. Whitney bent down, pulling Teddy into her arms for a tight hug, kissing her forehead. The tenderness of the moment only made your emotions stronger. You had seen Whitney through every phase of her life—the highs, the lows, the struggles, and the triumphs. And now, watching her stand there in her wedding dress, about to marry the love of her life, you were overwhelmed with pride and joy for her. Whitney straightened, smoothing her dress as she turned to you with a glint in her eyes.

“What about you?” she asked, a teasing smile creeping across her face. “Do you think you’ll be next?” She raised her brow. You let out a surprised giggle, quickly wrapping your arms around her in a tight hug. The weight of her question wasn’t lost on you, but in that moment, it was more about the joy you felt for her.

“Well,” you said, pulling back just enough to meet her gaze, “I wouldn’t exactly say no.” Whitney grinned, eyes sparkling with a mix of mischief and affection.

“I knew it,” she said playfully, leaning in for another hug, this time a little tighter. “You would say yes so goddamn fast. You’d be like ‘ah oui Judey I love you… wah wah wah.” She giggled mocking you, amplifying the dramatics and thickening your accent that wasn’t there. The moment felt surreal—being there with her on her wedding day, the two of you sharing this quiet, intimate exchange before the whirlwind of the ceremony you were set to take a helicopter out to from Manhattan to Montauk soon. You were both adults now, but it felt like no time had passed since you were younger, whispering about your dream weddings late into the night. And now, Whitney was living hers.

“Mama up now.” Teddy, eager for more attention, ran back over, clinging to her mother’s leg, her giggles filling the room. “Pleabs!” Whitney reached down to pick her up, settling her on her hip.

“What do you think, my beautiful girl?” Whitney asked, bouncing her lightly. “You think Auntie Y/N should marry Judey?” She asked sweetly. Teddy nodded enthusiastically, her curls bouncing as she looked at you with wide eyes.

“Yeah huh! Like mama and dada!” Teddy squealed. You laughed, giving her little nose a playful tap.

“Maybe…. Maybe one day, Ted. Maybe one day. Judey would have to ask me.” You cooed looking at Whitney to remind her just that. Whitney looked at you, her expression softening again. It took all Teddy's might not to ask for Jude right then and there but daddy had told her it was a big secret just for him, Judey, and her. So she remained hush.

“You’ll have this too, I know it. And when it happens, I’ll be right there with you, every step of the way.” She whispered. Her words touched something deep within you. You smiled, swallowing down the lump of emotion in your throat, and nodded.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” The morning buzzed around you as everyone finished getting ready, but that moment between the two of you—between old friends, sisters in spirit—was one you’d hold onto forever. Watching her step into her future felt like watching a piece of your own heart move forward too, and you knew that no matter what, you’d both be there for each other, for every step of the journey ahead.

The waves lapped gently against the Montauk shoreline, the soft murmur of the ocean providing a serene backdrop as you watched Trent and Whitney exchange their vows. The scene was almost too perfect— the horizon stretched endlessly, the sun low and golden in the sky, casting a warm glow over the gathering. The sound of their voices, filled with love and promise, drifted through the air, each word sealing their future together. It was all perfect frankly just as perfect as they were. You sat there beside Jude, his presence grounding you in the moment. But as you looked at Trent, standing there so sure, so devoted, something stirred inside you. It wasn’t just about the beauty of the wedding or the romance of it all; it was about the feeling that had been slowly bubbling up inside you for some time now. The certainty that you and Jude were more than just together. You were meant for each other. Without thinking, you turned your head slightly toward him, and before you could stop yourself, the words slipped out, quiet but sure.

“Jude…” He looked over at you, his brow furrowing slightly in concern.

“You okay?” he whispered back, his hand giving yours a reassuring squeeze. Your heart pounded, your fingers trembling slightly in his. You leaned in closer, your voice so soft it was barely audible over the sound of the waves.

“I want to be yours.” Jude’s gaze softened immediately, his lips parting in surprise before he quickly recovered. He leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple.

“You are,” he whispered, his voice filled with affection, as if it was the most obvious truth in the world. “You’ve always been mine." A shiver ran down your spine, not from the breeze that carried the scent of the sea, but from the weight of his words. The salt air mixed with the warmth of Jude’s cologne, the earthy, musky scent wrapping around you like a comforting embrace. It was intoxicating—Jude’s presence, the summer air, the emotion of the moment—it all swirled together, making your head spin in the most delicious way. You closed your eyes for a brief moment, leaning into him as his arm slipped around your waist, pulling you closer. His hand sliding crossed your exposed back in your dress. You could feel the steady beat of his heart beneath his chest, the rhythmic rise and fall of his breathing as he held you there, close to him, as if you were the most precious thing in the world. The sound of Trent and Whitney’s vows carried on in the background, but all you could focus on was Jude—the way his touch seemed to soothe every nerve, the way his whispered words anchored you in place. You were his, and he was yours. And in that moment, beneath the open sky, with the sea stretching endlessly before you, it felt like the world had aligned just for the two of you. You opened your eyes, turning to look at him, catching the soft curve of his smile as he gazed out at the ceremony. His fingers gently traced circles on your back, his touch as calming as the waves. You rested your head against his shoulder, feeling the strength of his arm around you, and for the first time in a long time, everything felt perfect. You were his, and there was nowhere else you wanted to be.

And so later into the evening as you stood by Jude, watching Trent and Whitney share their first dance as a married couple, the ambiance was filled with love and joy. The soft melodies floated through the air, and the sight of the newlyweds lost in their own world was enough to make anyone’s heart swell. You expected Jude to lean in and crack a joke about Trent’s dance moves, but instead, he turned to you, his expression serious yet tender.

“What do you think, hmm?” he asked, his gaze fixed on the couple, but his focus was undeniably on you. Jude was a little drunk at this point and he couldn’t bite his tongue. He spent all last night thinking about how he would want to propose and now it felt like he couldn’t shut up about it indirectly. You couldn’t help but giggle at his sudden change in tone.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” you replied, trying to keep the mood light. But your heart raced at the implication of his question. Was he genuinely curious about your thoughts on the wedding or was he hinting at something more personal?

“C’mon now,” he urged, his voice low as he leaned a little closer. “It sounds good, doesn’t it? Y/N Bellingham—I can already hear it. Be like my missus,” he said, a playful grin creeping onto his face, but there was a glimmer of something more serious behind it. You felt your cheeks flush at his words. A teasing, light-hearted joke or a hint at a future? You weren’t sure, but either way, the mere thought sent butterflies fluttering in your stomach.

“You’d just have to ask,” you whispered cheekily as a reminder to him, trying to maintain your composure, but inside, your mind was racing with possibilities. Unbeknownst to you, just the night before, Jude had been sharing his thoughts with Teddy. The two of them sharing a conspiratorial whisper back in Manhattan. But back in the present, Jude’s gaze was steady, searching yours for any sign of what you might be thinking. As you turned your attention back to Trent and Whitney, your heart fluttered at the thought of possibly sharing a similar moment with Jude one day. You imagined your own first dance, and the thought of being his forever made you smile.

“What do you think they’re talking about?” Jude asked, his voice breaking through your thoughts as he nodded towards the couple.

“Probably how lucky they are,” you mused, taking a moment to catch your breath. “I mean, look at them. They’re so happy. You can’t buy those smiles.” You cooed gently.

“Trent did.” Jude cheekily quipped. You bit back a giggle and glared at him for ruining your soft moment. Jude shrugged an apology but then nodded, a small smile on his lips.

“Yeah, they do though, angel. And you know what?” He paused, his eyes locking onto yours, and you could see the sincerity there. “I want that. I want that with you, Y/N. I want us to be that happy.” Your heart skipped a beat at his admission, and you felt warmth spreading through you.

“Yeah, me too, Jude. That sounds nice. More than anything,” you replied, your voice barely above a whisper, but filled with all the emotions you had yet to voice fully. He smiled, leaning down to press a soft kiss against your forehead.

“Then let’s make sure we get there, yeah? One dance at a time.” As the music swelled around you, you felt the magic of the moment sink in, knowing that whatever came next, you would face it together. And with that thought, you took a step closer to Jude, ready to create your own memories, one dance at a time.

You and Jude were set with a task that evening sneaking into Trent and Whitney’s room, setting it up for their wedding night. The atmosphere was intimate but simple—just a few candles, creating a soft glow in the dim lighting. It wasn’t over-the-top, but it was romantic enough to make it special for them. Whitney would hate anything more but anything less would feel too mundane And so, as you placed the final candle on the nightstand, Jude came up behind you, slipping his arms around your waist.

“Think we should leave them some condoms?” His chin rested on your shoulder as he teasingly asked you with a smirk.

“Oh yeah. Do you even have any?” You turned around with a mock-serious expression.

“Nah, forgot.” Jude laughed, shaking his head. You smiled knowingly.

“I don’t think they’re planning on using any tonight or ever… or have ever.” You giggled. Jude raised an eyebrow, a with a mischievous glint in his eye.

“More Teddysss!” He sang as he playfully swayed with you in his arms, his voice light and teasing. You laughed, shaking your head at his silliness, but then he asked, a bit more seriously, “Do you want babies?” The playful tone faded, and something deeper settled between the two of you. He hadn’t meant it to be so heavy, but the question lingered in the air, the implications hitting you harder than you expected. Your laughter quieted as the thought of it truly sank in. Babies. A future with him. The idea filled your chest with warmth, but also a strange kind of nervousness, like you were standing on the edge of something bigger than the both of you. Jude didn’t seem to notice at first, still smiling, but when you didn’t respond right away, he looked at you more closely. His arms stayed wrapped around you, but his expression softened, sensing the change in your mood. “Hey,” he said quietly, turning you gently to face him, his hands slipping down to hold yours. “I didn’t mean to—” You shook your head, interrupting him.

“No, it’s okay,” you reassured him, but your voice was quieter now, more thoughtful. “I just… I don’t know, I never really thought about it like that. With anyone before.” Jude’s gaze softened even more. He tilted his head, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

“But you’ve thought about it with me?” Your eyes met his, and suddenly everything felt very real. There was something about the way he was looking at you—like he could see a future, a life where the two of you built something together the way Trent had spoken about it all last night. And the idea didn’t scare you as much as it once might have.

“I have,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. Jude smiled, pulling you closer. He kissed the top of your head, his lips lingering there for a moment as he held you tightly against him.

“I like the sound of that,” he murmured into your hair, his words sending a wave of warmth through you. The room was quiet now, just the flicker of candlelight casting soft shadows on the walls. Jude didn’t push any further, sensing that the conversation had already gone deeper than either of you had anticipated. But there was a comfort in it, in knowing that the future—whatever it held—was something the two of you could talk about. Something you could figure out together. For now, though, it was just the two of you, standing in the quiet, wrapped up in each other, the future a distant but not unwelcome thought.

After all the festivities, the wedding, and the whirlwind of emotions, it felt surreal to be lying next to Jude in bed finally. Everything had been so full of life and celebration, and now the silence between you both felt thick, like the weight of unspoken thoughts was pressing down on you. You were cuddled up close to him, your head resting on his chest, but your minds were racing in different directions. His fingers absentmindedly stroked your arm, but his thoughts were far away—wrapped up in the future. The weight of the past few days, the conversations about marriage and children, after having gotten tattoos for each other, lingered in the back of both your minds. Jude was still thinking about Teddy’s innocent question at the wedding, her excitement when he told her he was going to ask you. The promise he made to her felt more real than ever. He had always known he wanted you, but now that the idea of asking you had been planted, he couldn’t stop wondering how he would do it. Would it be the perfect moment? Would he catch you by surprise? What if you said no, or what if you weren’t ready? The uncertainty gnawed at him, though deep down, he knew your connection was solid. He turned his head slightly, looking at you as you lay peacefully, your breathing steady but your mind clearly not at ease. He wondered if you were thinking the same things. What did you want? Would you want to marry him? What kind of life did you imagine? His thoughts swirled further—where would you live? In Madrid, Paris so you’d be mildly closer, or maybe you’d want to stay here forever? The questions stacked up like bricks, building a future that seemed close yet still distant. You, too, were feeling the weight of those same thoughts. Marriage, children—it had all come up so fast, and suddenly the future seemed like it was looming in front of you, asking you to make decisions you hadn’t fully prepared for. You loved Jude, there was no doubt about that. But the enormity of what those next steps would mean, how they would shift the dynamic of your life together, was beginning to settle into your bones. The quiet stretched on, neither of you daring to break it, as if saying something would make everything too real, too soon. But there was also a comfort in being wrapped up in each other like this, knowing that you didn’t have to rush anything. The love you shared was strong enough to hold these conversations, these uncertainties.

“Angel… You okay?” After a while, Jude broke the silence, his voice soft and low. You nodded against his chest, squeezing him a little tighter.

“Yeah… just thinking.” You cooed.

“Me too,” he admitted, his fingers still gently tracing patterns on your arm. A pause. “About… everything?”

“Yeah. It’s just… a lot, isn’t it?” You hummed.

“It is,” he agreed. “But… I don’t know. I’m not scared of it.” His words settled over you like a warm blanket, comforting in their simplicity. You tilted your head to look up at him, your eyes meeting in the dim light of the room. There was a kind of clarity in his gaze, an assurance that you both would figure this out—whatever it was. “I love you,” he whispered, his voice barely above a breath.

“I love you more,” you replied, the weight of everything suddenly feeling a little lighter. You both let the silence take over again, your minds still buzzing but a little less frantic, knowing that whatever came next, you would face it together.

You had a few days planned in New York after the wedding, some of which you had decided to stay out in Montauk for. It was your first full morning out there after the wedding, and you woke up early with the sound of the waves gently crashing in the distance. The sun peeked through the curtains of Whitney and Winnie’s family’s summer home you were all staying in, casting a warm, golden glow across the room. You were excited to get out to the beach, but Jude was still half-asleep, his arm draped lazily across your waist, pulling you closer into him. He muttered something under his breath and nuzzled his face into your neck, his voice still heavy with sleep.

“Don’t wanna get up,” he grumbled, tightening his grip as you tried to wiggle out of bed. You giggled softly, giving him a playful pout.

“But it’s so nice out! Come on, let’s go to the beach, baby.” He groaned dramatically, pulling you back down into the bed and wrapping both arms around you like a human blanket.

“Stay,” he whispered, kissing your shoulder, his voice soft and sleepy. “We don’t need to go anywhere… just stay here with me.” You rolled your eyes, but there was something sweet about the way he clung to you.

“Jude, you’re hungover and sleepy,” you teased. “I’ll go without you if I have to. If we’re at the beach, I’m going.” He peeked one eye open at you and smirked.

“You wouldn’t…” He playfully teased.

“I would,” you teased back, wriggling free from his hold and standing up. “If I’m staying in bed, I’ll change back into pajamas.” You cooed almost as a threat as you slipped into your bikini, you felt Jude’s eyes on you, and before you could fully finish getting dressed, he groaned again, louder this time, and grabbed your waist, pulling you back into bed with a dramatic sigh. “Okay, okay, I’ll come. Can’t have you putting anymore clothes on around me than this.” You laughed as he finally dragged himself out of bed, grumbling playfully under his breath. Once you both got down to the beach, though, the salty air and the sight of the sun reflecting off the water woke Jude up completely. It was like a switch flipped, and suddenly, he was full of energy, running ahead of you, his hangover seemingly forgotten.

“You’re such a little boy,” you teased, watching as he jogged toward the shore, his excitement contagious.

“Come on, angel, get in the water with me,” Jude called, turning back with that wide, boyish grin you loved. He splashed his feet in the shallow waves, beckoning you with a wave of his hand. You smiled, settling onto the towel, the warmth of the sun sinking into your skin.

“Nooo, baby,” you giggled, shaking your head as you stretched out lazily. “I’m good here, just laying in the sun.” Jude gave you a mock pout, his hands resting on his hips.

“Pleaseee?” he begged, trying to convince you with that puppy-dog look that always worked. You couldn’t help but laugh, sitting up slightly to look at him.

“Go in the ocean without me,” you smiled, waving him off. “I’ll watch you from here.” He groaned dramatically, but there was a gleam of mischief in his eyes.

“Fine, but don’t think I’m not dragging you in at some point,” he teased before running into the water, splashing around like a kid. As you watched him, you couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of contentment. Jude’s playful energy, the sound of the waves, the warmth of the sun—it was all perfect. You could hear him gasp at waves as they rolled in echoing over the water, and you couldn’t stop smiling as you laid back on your towel, soaking in the moment. It was like you could feel it was one of those perfect summer afternoons, the kind where the sun seemed to shine a little brighter, the ocean was a shade of navy blue only the east coast of the US had, and the sound of the waves crashing against the shore melted away every worry in your mind. You could feel the soft terry cloth beneath your back, soaking in the warmth of the sun, your skin tingling with the mix of suncream and salty sea air. The soft breeze brushed your face as you closed your eyes, the world fading into the background. Jude had stayed in the water, swimming and splashing about, he’d call your name out occasionally reaching your ears over the sounds of the ocean begging you to come in but you continued to decline. You were in that blissful in-between state, half-asleep, half-aware of everything around you, when you finally heard his footsteps padding up from the shore. You stirred, thinking about sitting up, but Jude quickly stopped you.

“Wait, wait, stay right there,” he said softly, a playful seriousness in his voice. “Don’t move.” Curious, you smiled but stayed where you were, letting your body sink further into the towel. You could hear him rustling around in the sand nearby, collecting something, but you weren’t sure what he was up to. After a few moments, you felt the gentle touch of his fingers, placing something small and cool against your arm. You peeked through your lashes and saw he was outlining your body with seashells. “Stay, just hold on, angel,” he insisted, eyes twinkling with concentration as he carefully placed the shells in a delicate pattern around you. You couldn’t help but giggle at how serious he was being, but you held still, watching him work. It was a simple thing, but there was something so sweet about the way he was so focused on creating his little masterpiece. After a while, though, you grew impatient. He was taking his time, and you wanted him close.

“Judey,” you called softly, “just come here,” You giggled. Without waiting for him to finish, you grabbed his arm and tugged him down onto the towel with you, laughing as he fell beside you. His brow furrowed with a pout initially l. “Did I ruin your art, baby?” You asked him almost patronizingly.

“You are my art,” He mused, pulling you closer and kissing you. He smiled into the kiss, the sun warm on both of your faces as you lay together in the soft sand. The shells he had so carefully placed were forgotten as the two of you lay there, wrapped up in each other, the summer sun and the sound of the waves creating the perfect backdrop. The world beyond the beach seemed to disappear, and in that moment, all that mattered was the two of you—together, tangled in love, the ocean and sky stretching out before you. The connection between you felt effortless, like this moment could stretch on forever. The smell of saltwater, sunscreen, and his familiar scent all mingled together, creating a feeling of perfect peace. The warmth of the sun and the softness of the sand beneath you made everything seem light and easy. As Jude settled down next to you, his head propped on one arm, he gazed at you with that look of pure adoration that made your heart flutter. He shifted the conversation to something more serious, his voice low but sincere.

“You know I was serious the other day… about you getting a gallery in Madrid. I really think you could do it. You could expand to have a second location. It would be amazing.” You giggled, a little shy under the weight of his suggestion.

“I don’t know if my brand is big enough for an international market,” you teased. “I’m not exactly a household name yet.” He smiled softly, shaking his head.

“Nah, you could. But could come be in Madrid more. I’m not asking you to move for me. I don’t want you to feel pressured. I just… I want you to know I’m thinking about it. Us.” Your heart melted at his words, his thoughtfulness clear in every syllable. You shifted a little, turning to face him fully.

“Jude, I know you’d never ask me to move for you but it’s nice to know you’d want me there and maybe that’s part of why I’ve been thinking about it.” His eyebrows rose in surprise, his eyes lighting up as he processed your words.

“You’ve been thinking about moving?” You nodded, smiling as you watched his face.

“Yeah… for you. I mean, it would be a big change for me, but I’ve thought about it a lot. I’d want to be with you more, and Madrid is beautiful, you’re not so bad. It could be a little adventure.” Jude’s face broke into the most radiant smile, his eyes bright with excitement and disbelief. He shifted closer, his hand resting on your waist as if grounding himself in the moment.

“You’d really do that? You’d move to Madrid for me… because angel… I don’t want you to feel like… wow— you’d really come?” You nodded, feeling the warmth of the sun and the warmth of his happiness blending together, wrapping around you both.

“Yeah, I would.” His lips found yours again, a little more urgently this time, the kiss filled with gratitude, excitement, and something deeper—like he knew this was the beginning of a new chapter for both of you.

“I love you so much.” When he pulled back, he whispered against your lips.

“I love you too,” you whispered back.

After awhile Jude’s body lay sprawled across yours, his head resting on your stomach, his face smushed against your warm skin as he murmured sweet nothings. His voice was soft and low, talking about how beautiful you were, how much he loved you, just babbling in a gentle, almost sleepy rhythm. You know the way a boy only talks to his girlfriend. A way he’d be mortified if anyone else heard.

“You’re so beautiful, angel… like, the most beautiful, angel,” he mumbled, his words slurring slightly as he continued. “I’m so lucky… you know that? So, so lucky becuase you’re mine..” You couldn’t help but smile, your fingers scratching gently on his scalp as he went on, lost in his little world of affection. It was so sweet in this sort of baby boy talk —until you noticed a shadow fall over you. Glancing up, you saw Winnie walking down from the house, her brow raised in amusement. Winnie sat down next to you, clearly hearing some of Jude’s rambling. You stifled a giggle, trying not to give away her presence just yet. Jude, completely oblivious, kept going.

“God, I love you so much. You’re sooo perfect, angel. Just want you with me all the time. Wanna cuddle all day with my baby,” he babbled, his voice full of affection. You let out a soft giggle, and that was when Jude finally noticed. He froze, lifting his head slightly, and then he saw Winnie sitting there, smirking.

“Oh my fucking God,” Jude cursed, his eyes widening in sheer horror. “I’m gonna die.” He groaned loudly, dropping his head back onto your stomach in embarrassment. Winnie laughed, shaking her head. “Why did you let me keep talking!?” He asked you mortified.

“Because ‘Youre so perfect, angel.’” Winnie teased him, smiling uncontrollably, mimicking his lovesick tone and brummie accent.

“I hate you both. I actually hate you both.” Jude let out another groan, his face buried against your skin as he whined.

“Aww it’s okay, Jude. You’re just soooo in love with your baby,” Whitney teased, pinching at him playfully. Jude pushed himself up, shaking his head in mock frustration before suddenly scooping you up into his arms.

“Yeah, well guess who’s going in the water now,” he grunted, his lips curving into a mischievous smile as you screamed in surprise.

“Jude, no!” you squealed, wiggling in his arms as he carried you toward the ocean. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Please don’t!”

“You should’ve thought of that before,” Jude teased, laughing as he stepped into the waves. Before you could protest again, he dropped into the water, taking you under with him. You came up sputtering and laughing, splashing him as he stood there, his grin wide and unrepentant. He pulled you close, water dripping off both of you as you tried to catch your breath, both of you laughing under the bright summer sun.

“I just like hearing that you love me,” you said, your tone teasing but soft. As you gasped for air, still giggling, you gave Jude a playful pout. Jude, his face still slightly flushed from the embarrassment, shook his head with a smirk and wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close as the water swayed gently around both of you.

“You know how much I love you, angel,” he whined, still cringing at the memory of Whitney overhearing him. You grinned, squeezing him in a tight hug, planting soft kisses along his neck.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered between giggles, “but it’s cute, and I love you.”You cooed. His embarrassment started to melt away under your affection, and he sighed, resting his forehead against yours.

“You’re lucky you’re so beautiful,” he murmured with a grin. You tilted your head, eyes wide with faux innocence.

“Then, you should carry me back.” You cooed. He pulled back slightly, looking at you like you’d just said the most ridiculous thing in the world.

“Erm.. No.” he laughed, shaking his head. You pouted dramatically, sticking out your bottom lip.

“But you carried me down here,” you reasoned, “and I am beautiful.” Jude groaned, running his hand down his face.

“You’re too beautiful,” he muttered, though the smile tugging at his lips betrayed his playful annoyance. With a resigned sigh, he bent down and scooped you up again, your legs instantly wrapping around his waist. You giggled, burying your face in his neck as he started trudging back through the water, his breath heavy from both effort and amusement.

“This is why I love you,” you teased.

“Yeah, yeah,” he chuckled, holding you tightly as he carried you back toward the shore, the sound of the waves crashing behind you.

You and Jude were waiting at the airport to return to Madrid after a few days, the hum of travelers and the muffled announcements filling the air. Jude stood a few steps away, absorbed in something on his phone, while you sat quietly watching people pass by in a lounge. Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed a little boy lingering nearby, shifting his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other, clearly working up the courage to approach Jude. The sight tugged at your heart a bit. You could tell he was starstruck, maybe a little intimidated by Jude’s presence. With a soft smile, you gently tapped Jude’s arm to get his attention.

“Hey, baby,” you said, nodding toward the boy. Jude looked up from his phone and turned to the boy, his tall frame towering over him with a smile. The little boy’s eyes went wide as he looked up at Jude, frozen in awe.

“Do you want me to take a picture for you?” you asked, your voice warm and sweet, trying to ease the boy’s nerves. He nodded silently, too shy to say anything. Jude, noticing his nerves, gave him an encouraging smile.

“Yeah? Go on, come here, mate,” Jude said, beckoning the boy closer. The boy hesitated for just a moment before stepping forward. Jude greeted him warmly, wrapping an arm around his small shoulders, leaning down slightly so they were at eye level. Just as you were about to take the picture, the little boy whispered something you could just make out.

“Your girlfriend’s pretty and nice,” he said, his voice almost lost in the noise of the airport. Jude laughed, the sound genuine and light.

“Yeah, she’s great, mate. I’m a lucky lad,” he responded, glancing over at you with a soft smile that sent warmth through your chest. As the boy beamed up at Jude, you snapped the photo. But Jude wasn’t just thinking about the compliment. It went deeper than that. Watching you, sitting there so kind and patient, embracing his world without hesitation—it hit him that you were everything. You didn’t just accept his fame, you handled it with grace and warmth, making everyone around him feel at ease, even when he wasn’t sure how to. You were kind-hearted, understanding, and in that moment, he realized how perfect you truly were for him. As the boy thanked him and ran off to his parents, Jude walked back over to you. His eyes lingered on yours a bit longer, that soft smile still tugging at his lips, and in his mind, all he could think was how lucky he was to have you by his side.

You were finally back in Madrid. The warm breeze floated in through the open windows, filling the room with the scent of the sun-drenched day outside. The white bedding was soft and fluffy, almost glowing in the sunlight that streamed in, casting golden beams across the cool sheets. Your tanned skin contrasted beautifully against the pristine fabric, long forgotten were those itchy sheets of James… or maybe it was John, the warmth of the sun lingering in the air but balanced by the coolness of the breeze. Everything felt light, calm, and perfect, like this could be the rhythm of your life—a gentle, sunlit day, waiting for Jude to come home. You had just closed your laptop, trying to ease a nervous flutter in your chest when you heard the door downstairs. Moments later, Jude stepped into the room, his face lighting up when he saw you. He crossed the room and hugged you from behind, pressing a kiss into your hair, the familiar scent of him grounding you for a moment. His embrace was warm, strong, and exactly what you needed.

“How’s my baby?” he murmured softly, his breath tickling your ear. You smiled, leaning into him, though your nerves from the upcoming series interview still lingered in the back of your mind. He sensed it before you even spoke, his hand gently stroking your arm. “You nervous about the taping?” he asked, his voice filled with concern.

“No, not really.” You tried to sound casual. But you were lying, and Jude knew it. He tilted his head, brushing his lips softly against your temple.

“Angel… I promise, it’s going to be okay. I’ll be with you the whole time,” he whispered, tightening his hold around you as if he could shield you from the pressure building up inside. You sighed, turning in his arms to face him fully.

“What if I say the wrong thing? Like… am I even supposed to say I’m your girlfriend?” you asked, the anxiety finally slipping into your voice. Jude grinned, playfully teasing you to ease the tension.

“Nah, you don’t have to say that,” he chuckled softly. “You could say love of my life, most perfect woman in the world… whatever feels right,” he added with a mischievous smirk. You groaned, playfully swatting at his chest. It was subtle but Jude’s peeled off his shirt.

“Jude!” you whined, your nerves easing just a little as you leaned against him. “I’m serious.” He laughed, his hands slipping down to your waist, holding you a little tighter.

“Angel, relax,” he murmured, his voice dropping lower, taking on that teasing edge you knew too well. Suddenly your joggers were off. His hands began to roam, tracing lazy patterns against your skin, sending shivers down your spine. “Let me help you relax.” His lips ghosted over your neck, and you could feel his mischievous smile against your skin as you yelped his name in protest, though deep down, you were already melting into his touch. Now all clothes were gone. He knew just how to calm your nerves, pulling you deeper into the comfort of this perfect moment, where nothing else mattered but the two of you, the sun, and the soft sheets beneath you. “Just relax f’me.” He cooed, his breath warm against your ear, sending a tingling sensation down your neck. You smile, feeling his strong, muscular body against yours, the soft cotton sheets barely covering his tanned skin. His brown eyes sparkle with mischief as he notices your satisfied smile. "You really don’t need to stress" he says, his voice deep and sensual. "You’ve got me." With that, he started to gently massage your shoulders, his strong hands working their magic on your tired muscles. You sigh contentedly, letting your worries melt away under his skilled touch. Jude's fingers dance across your skin, tracing lazy circles on your back, making you squirm with pleasure. "Relax, angel," he cooed, his lips brushing against your temple. "Let me just get rid of all this stress." As his hands glide down your spine, you feel your body responding to his touch, a familiar warmth building between your thighs. You arch your back slightly, pressing your tits against his chest, enjoying the sensation of his firm nipples against your sensitive skin. "Mmm, see? You’re already feeling better, huh?" Jude purred, his hands now sliding down to cup your full, round boobs. He thumbs your erect nipples, causing you to gasp and squirm. "See I gotcha angel" He smirked. You reached up and pulled him closer, your lips finding his in a slow, sensual kiss. His tongue danced with yours, tasting the sweetness of your desire. Breaking the kiss, you looked into his eyes, seeing the same hunger reflected back at you.

"I want you to fuck me, Jude. Show me I'm yours," you whisper, your voice hoarse with need. "But I want you to go slow, take your time with me." You smiled with wide eyes filled with both a bit of innocence laced with lust. Jude's hands traveled down your body, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. He knelt between your legs, his eyes fixed on your core, now glistening with anticipation. With a gentle touch, he parts your folds, exposing your swollen clit to the warm morning air.

"You're so wet, baby," he murmurs, his voice thick with desire. "Let me taste you." And with that, he lowers his head, his tongue flicking across your sensitive bud, sending shockwaves of pleasure through your body. Your back arched off the bed as his mouth teased and pleased you, his tongue delving deep inside your pussy, lapping up your sweet juices. You gripped his hair, holding him close, as wave after wave of pleasure washes over you. Just when you though you couldn’t take any more, Jude stops, his breath hot against your throbbing clit.

"Not yet, angel," he teased, his fingers replacing his tongue, circling your sensitive bundle of nerves. He slid one long finger inside your tight, wet pussy, his thumb continuing to work your clit. You moaned, your hips rising to meet his touch, your body desperate for release.

"Please, Jude," you begged, your voice barely a whisper. In response, he added another finger, stretching you, filling you, his thumb never ceasing its relentless assault on you. You're on the edge, teetering on the brink of orgasm, when he suddenly stops again, leaving you panting and desperate.

"Shhh, angel… you said you wanted me to take my time.” He smirked. “We have all the time in the world," he reassured you, his voice soothing your frayed nerves. "Just want you to cum on my cock instead, yeah?" You nodded as Jude positioned himself above you, his hard cock brushing against your wet entrance. He teased you, rubbing the head of his dick along your slit, coating himself with your juices, before slowly, oh so slowly, pushing inside. You gasped as he filled you, inch by glorious inch, his cock thick and hard, stretching you in the most delicious way. He set a slow, sensual rhythm, his hips moving in a gentle, rocking motion, his eyes never leaving yours. "You feel so fucking good, Y/N," he groaned, his voice strained as he fought for control. "So tight and warm. I could fuck you forever." You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, needing to feel every inch of him. Your hands roamed over his muscular back, feeling the play of his powerful muscles as he moved within you. The pace quickened, your bodies moving in perfect harmony, your moans and cries filling the room. You were close, so fucking close, when Jude pulled out, his cock glistening in the sunlight covered in you and flipped you onto your hands and knees. "I want you like this f’me. I know you love taking me like this" he panted, his voice thick with desire.

“Please please Jude. Fuck me, make me cum all over you cock. I want you to fuck me til your cums dripping out of me.” You whined desperate as he kept edging you. You eagerly presented your wet pussy, your ass raised high, back arched, your tits hanging tantalizingly below you. Jude entered you in one smooth thrust, filling you completely, his balls slapping against your clit with each stroke. You cried out, the new angle and the depth of his penetration sending you into a frenzy. "Oh fuck, Jude, fuck me!" you begged, your words punctuated by his deep, relentless thrusts. Jude reached around you, his fingers finding your swollen clit. He began to rub it in time with his thrusts. The dual stimulation was too much, and you came apart in his arms, your orgasm ripping through you, causing you to scream his name. Jude followed quickly, his cock throbbing as he emptied himself deep within you, his hands gripping your hips tightly, his body shuddering with release. As your heart rates return to normal, you collapsed onto the bed, your bodies still joined, the sun still streaming in. As he pulled out you turned to Jude, a satisfied smile on your face, and pulled him close, kissing him deeply.

"I think I’m relaxed now," you whispered, snuggling into his strong embrace. "Thank you,” you giggled. He smiled, his eyes full of adoration.

"I love you so much.” He told you and your heart fluttered as you laid on the bed still havening trouble breathing, your skin covered in a slight sheen. You moved your fingers to intertwine with Judes. You were sore after that one but it was a nice sort of pain and to be honest, you were a little too fucked out to really notice it anyways. “You alright, angel?” Jude squeezed your hand.

“Mhmm,” you hummed, slightly falling into a sleepy daze. You lay curled up in Jude’s arms, the cool breeze from the open windows brushing over your skin as the two of you lay entangled. The exhaustion from your earlier passionate moments left a pleasant heaviness in your limbs, but the comfort of being close to him made you feel completely at ease. Jude’s fingers gently traced patterns along your back as he pressed a kiss to your forehead, his voice soft and tender.

“I want to be with you forever,” he murmured, his words slow and deliberate, like he was giving each one extra weight. “ Would you want that?” He asked almost sheepishly like as the words came out he got nervous you’d say now. You nodded though to his relief, your head nestled against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.

“Yes please,” you whispered, feeling the warmth of his skin against yours, the scent of him still lingering in the air. His arms tightened around you as if he was afraid to let go. Jude’s lips grazed your temple again before he asked, his voice filled with concern,

“Promise you’re okay after… all of that?” He smirked but his tone held a softness that told you he wanted to make sure you were genuinely all right after the intensity of your earlier moments together. You nodded again, but he wasn’t having it. “I need real words, angel,” he teased lightly, though there was an edge of seriousness in his voice. You smiled, lifting your head to look at him.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” you reassured him softly. “I want you forever, and I definitely want what we just did forever.” You giggled. He smiled, clearly satisfied with your response, his eyes warm as he held your gaze.

“Good,” he murmured, before letting out a soft chuckle. “Want to get cleaned up?” He asked gently. You groaned in protest, burying your face back into his chest.

“Nooo,” you whined playfully, snuggling closer. “Just want a cuddle and a nap.” Jude laughed softly, his chest rumbling beneath you, as he pulled you even closer.

“Alright, angel. You can have whatever you want. You can have a nap and a cuddle from me,” he whispered, his voice fading into a hum as you both drifted into a peaceful, contented quiet.

You and Denise sat in the sunlit kitchen, the hum of Madrid in the distant background. The smell of freshly brewed coffee, of course made from the beloved French press, swirled in the air, but your mind was far from settled. You’d been running over this conversation in your head for days now, and even sitting here with Denise, who’d become something of a second mother to you, you couldn’t shake the anxiety that gnawed at your thoughts. She watched you carefully, sensing something deeper behind your polite smile and quiet fidgeting.

“Can I ask your opinion on something?” you began, hesitant, your voice almost trembling. You looked up from your cup, feeling the weight of the words already forming in your mind. Denise set her coffee down, leaning in slightly, her eyes soft with concern.

“Of course, love. What’s on your mind?” You took a breath, trying to find the right way to explain everything that had been racing through your head.

“Jude wants me to be in the series,” you finally said, a nervous smile flickering across your face. “I mean, like properly be in it. And it’s not that I mind the idea, but I’m just… apprehensive. I keep thinking about how things could change for him.” Denise furrowed her brow slightly, listening intently.

“What kind of changes are you worried about?” She asked. You sighed, your fingers tracing the rim of your coffee cup.

“If I’m publically stamped as his girlfriend,” you began slowly, “everything’s going to be different. People will start making assumptions. Every time he’s seen with another woman, they’ll say he’s cheating, or there’ll be all this gossip. And Jude… I mean, he’s just so trusting. I don’t think he realizes how bad it could get. I don’t want that kind of pressure to mess with his head or affect his game.” Denise’s expression softened as she listened, understanding the depth of what you were saying. She reached over, giving your hand a gentle squeeze.

“Hun, I hear you,” she said kindly. “You don’t want to say yes to the shoot, and then down the line, Jude feels boxed in by the public scrutiny. That’s a real concern.” She cooed. You nodded, grateful that she seemed to get it.

“Exactly. And I don’t want him to feel like he has to choose between his career and me, or like his life is going to become more of a circus because of my feature in a show.” Denise smiled sympathetically.

“I can see why you’d be worried. It’s a big step. But the only way you affect his performances is when you’re not here. The way I see it, he’s not trying to hide you because he’s embarrassed or anything like that. Jude’s protective of you, sure, but I think he’s reached a point where he’s proud to show you off. He loves you, hun. He’s not going anywhere.” You felt your chest tighten, but this time it was more from emotion than anxiety.

“I guess I just don’t want to make things harder for him,” you murmured, your voice small, almost as if you were admitting something you hadn’t even fully realized until now. Denise gave you a soft smile, her gaze unwavering.

“I think Jude would feel like having you by his side is worth any challenge that comes with it. And as far as pressure goes—look, he’s already dealing with it. Football, fame, it all comes with expectations. But you two have something real, and I think that’s stronger than any of the noise that’s out there. You’re his balance. His constant.” Her words hit you deeply, and you felt the knot of anxiety in your stomach begin to slowly unravel. It wasn’t just about you worrying over what people would say, but about how Jude would handle the inevitable attention. Yet Denise’s words carried a truth you couldn’t deny. He wasn’t asking this of you lightly. He was ready to share this part of his life because he wanted to share it with you. You nodded, the overwhelming weight of your thoughts lightening ever so slightly.

“I guess I just don’t want to be the reason things get complicated.” Denise chuckled softly, her hand still resting over yours.

“Oh, love, you’ve been with him this long—through ups and downs. You’re not making things more complicated; you’re making them better. Trust me, Jude knows that.” The warmth in her voice brought a small smile to your face. Maybe she was right. Maybe Jude had thought this through more than you’d given him credit for. And maybe, just maybe, this was the next step you both were ready to take, together. You smiled at Denise’s words, feeling an overwhelming sense of warmth and comfort from her. She was like a grounding force, always knowing what to say to ease your worries.

“I just don’t want him to feel like I’m asking to be his wife or anything,” you said softly, but as soon as the words left your mouth, you realized how vulnerable they sounded. You’d forgotten for a moment that you were talking to Jude’s mom, not just a close friend, but she had this way of making you feel like family. You felt your cheeks warm slightly, realizing the gravity of what you had just implied. Denise laughed gently, a soft and knowing sound.

“Hun,” she said, her voice filled with affection, “ I also think that Jude wouldn’t be asking you to do this if he wasn’t sure about how much he wanted you by his side—publicly…. Or privately. Jude’s been telling me he’s been trying to get you to move here for a while. I really don’t think he’d mind that either—if anything, he might be waiting for you to ask. You two are good at communicating, and he knows what comes with all of this. We’ve never dealt with a girlfriend at this height of his fame yet, but we’re all here for you. Truly.” You watched her expression soften, her eyes glimmering with the kind of wisdom that only comes from years of experience and love. “And between us,” she continued, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “I think it’d be wonderful if you spent more time here. I’d love having you around. And Jude—well, he could finally stop spending every day complaining when you’re not.” She chuckled, the sound brightening the room. “Plus, I’d get to see Jobe more often. Promise, hun, these things work themselves out. You just have to focus on what makes you happy.” The truth of her words settled in your heart, comforting and yet a little unsettling. You bit your lip, thinking about how your happiness had become so intertwined with Jude’s.

“Him being happy makes me happy,” you admitted, your voice soft but sincere. Denise smiled, her eyes twinkling with understanding.

“Good, because I like when you’re both happy. You two have something special, and I don’t want you to lose sight of that.” She leaned in, kissing your temple, and gave your arm a gentle squeeze. “It’s important that you take care of yourself in all this, too. Just trust yourselves. You’ll figure it out.” You took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the conversation settle in.

“I just worry about how much everything is changing,” you confessed, your voice barely above a whisper. “This life, this level of spotlight—it’s all so new to me, and I don’t want it to change how we are together.” Denise nodded knowingly, her expression serious but gentle.

“Change can be scary, especially when it feels like it’s being thrust upon you. But remember, love isn’t bound by circumstances. It’s about how you both navigate those changes together. Talk to him, share your fears. You’ll find that he’s just as invested in this as you are.” A small smile crept onto your face as you thought about Jude, his laughter, his warmth, and how he always seemed to know when you needed reassurance.

“He really is the best but you know that,” you said, the smile widening at the thought of him. Denise smiled back, her eyes shining with maternal pride.

“I like to think so but don’t forget, you’re amazing too. Jude sees that. Just be you, and everything else will fall into place. You’ll both adjust to whatever comes your way.” She told you surely.

“Thank you, Denise,” you said sincerely, feeling grateful for her support. “I really appreciate this. I just want to make the right decision.”

“Trust your heart, hun. It knows what’s best for you. And don’t hesitate to lean on us, okay? We’re here for you, no matter what.” With that, you felt a renewed sense of hope and confidence wash over you. You’d tackle this uncertainty together, just like you always had. And with Denise by your side, you knew you were not alone in this journey.

The room was staged for your interview or maybe you’d call it more of a confessional like on reality tv. It was buzzing, cameras rolling as you settled into your seat, laughing to yourself about how surreal it all felt. Jude was supposed to stay in the other room, but the moment you noticed him lingering just inside, you couldn’t help but call him out, cameras already rolling.

“You can’t be in the room!” you teased, your smile stretching wide. Jude leaned against the doorframe, eyebrows raised in playful defiance.

“What? Are you going to talk about me?” His grin was as smug as ever, the kind that always made you roll your eyes, but in the most affectionate way. You turned to the camera crew with a long, exaggerated sigh all being recorded.

“He’s so annoying.” You deadpanned, though your laughter quickly broke through your pretend irritation. The crew chuckled along, amused by the obvious chemistry between you two. The man behind the camera peppered you with questions but then steered into a conversation more about football as anticipated.

“And now you watch quite a bit more Real Madrid games, huh?” He asked sort of teasingly after you told him you had watched prior to knowing Jude.

“I do,” you nodded, a knowing smile on your face. “I don’t think I’m allowed to say who I used to support, though…” you trailed off, laughing. “But I’ve been converted according to Jude.” You smiled. “Madrid has some of my favorite players anyway, so it wasn’t that hard.” You continued. Your voice was playful, teasing the fact that you knew Jude would know exactly who those other players were.

“And your favorite player is?” the interviewer asked, leaning forward with a sly grin anticipating Jude to be the answer. You tilted your head, thinking, and then smirked.

“Player or person? Because those are definitely not the same answer.” You giggled. You grinned wider, leaning into the joke. “Person? It has to be Birmingham’s very own.” You shot a quick glance towards the door you knew Jude must’ve been hugging in an effort to try to listen in. “But as for player…” you paused for dramatic effect, your eyes twinkling with mischief. “J’adore Kylian, j’adore. He’s the best in the world, non?” You cheekily told them. Before the words were even fully out of your mouth, Jude’s voice boomed from the door.

“Nah, cut!” he said, storming into the room with a fake, exaggerated look of betrayal on his face.

“Jude!” you whined annoyed he was listening in but you were laughing as he came over, standing in front of you, arms crossed, trying and failing to look serious.

“Say that again, angel. Who’s your favorite player?” His voice dropped playfully, eyes narrowed but full of humor. “Go on, say it to my face then” You laughed, knowing exactly what you’d started.

“What, baby?” you teased back innocently. “Kylian est incroyable. Am I supposed to lie?” You giggled. Jude’s hand shot out to cover the camera lens, and with a swift motion, he knocked it slightly off-kilter, sending the viewfinder up toward the ceiling. The crew was in on the joke now, chuckling behind the scenes as Jude loomed over you, smirking.

“Nah, not having that Angel. ‘Ah Kylian incroyable,’” he murmured mockingly, before burying his face in the crook of your neck. His breath was warm against your skin as he mumbled sweet but teasing nothings, his words muffled but unmistakably teasing. You could barely contain your laughter, giggling uncontrollably as Jude peppered your neck and shoulders with playful kisses. His hands gripped your waist as he pulled you closer, and you squirmed in your seat, trying to push him away, but not really meaning it. The sounds of your laughter filled the room, mixing with the faint shuffling of the camera still recording from its skewed angle.

“Jude, stop!” you gasped through your giggles, but he only kissed you more, grinning against your skin. The camera picked up the noise of kisses against your skin, the pet names, the type of teasing that only two people in love did. All of it saved and set to be included in the final edit of the show.

“Oh my godddd, they’re so cute!” Whitney squealed loudly from the living room, practically bouncing on the couch as she watched the first episode of Jude’s now released series. She pouted, eyes glued to the screen.

“Who’s cute?” From the kitchen, Trent’s voice called out.

“Ugh, come look!” Whitney rolled her eyes playfully as she turned her attention back to the TV. The screen showed one of many clips you seemed to be featured in indirectly. It was a post-match clip, with a wide angle of Jude greeting his family and friends in a box at the stadium. You were standing with Jude, his arm around you. The murmur of the room picked up by microphones low but your voice was amongst them was easily identifiable by Whitney. She could hear you softly saying how proud you were of Jude, and he responded by kissing your temple, keeping you close to him. Whitney practically melted at the sight, throwing a hand over her heart. “He put her in the show!” she yelled, delighted. Trent came sauntering back into the room, leaning on the back of the couch with a smirk.

“Wow… I’m surprised she agreed to that,” he said, watching the clip with a raised brow. Whitney giggled, shaking her head.

“I mean.. she really isn’t in it much but look at them” She was glued to the screen again, not wanting to miss a second. But then much to Whitney’s delight when the next episode rolled, and there you were, sitting down for an interview she squealed once more. “Oh, this is so on-brand for them,” She giggled hearing you call Jude annoying and then him barging in to kiss and tease you. “They’re so good together.” Whitney sighed, her pout returning in full force. But then a soft smile tugged at her lips from how much she adored seeing her best friend in that moment. Trent glanced at the screen and chuckled, then kissed the top of Whitney’s head.

“Good match making, beautiful” he cooed, complimenting her before heading back to the kitchen. Whitney just grinned, completely in agreement.

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

Next part - Chapter 21 - Space xx

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

124 notes · View notes