#I think she understands that I do have to move everything because she says she can't do it.

[pitlanepeach]

The Long Way Home I Chapter Three

Oscar Piastri x Harper Grace (OFC)

Summary — When Harper, a kind girl with a guarded heart, meets rising karting star Oscar Piastri at their English boarding school, sparks fly.

It only takes one silly moment of teenaged love for their lives to change forever.

Warnings — Teenage love, growing up together, falling in love, teen pregnancy, no explicit scenes when the characters are underaged (obviously??), strong language, manipulative parents, past death of a parent, dyscalculia, hardly any angst, slice-of-life basically!

Notes — Are you ready? Because I'm not ready.

Wattpad Link | Series Masterlist

Harper regretted everything the minute they hit the incline.

"This was your idea," Oscar said, not even out of breath.

"I hate that you're actually good at this," she wheezed.

He grinned and reached for her wrist mid-stride. "We can stop."

"No." She panted. "If I stop now, I'll never start again. They'll have to airlift me out."

They were deep in the woods behind the school, the quiet part where no one really went except Oscar when he was doing his trainer-mandated endurance runs three times a week. It smelled like wet moss and pine needles and early autumn.

He slowed to a walk, just enough for her to match pace, then slung an arm lazily around her shoulders. She leaned into it, grateful and exhausted and warm in a way that had nothing to do with her temperature.

They didn't say anything for a while. Just breathed. Let the trees hush them.

Then, softly, "This is where I come when I need to think," he said.

Harper glanced up at him. "Or avoid people?"

"Same thing."

She smiled and nudged him. "You've been doing that more lately."

He shrugged. "It's been... a lot. Winning the British championship. Leading the WSK. Talking to teams. My dad's getting anxious about sponsors."

"And Mark?"

"Always calm. But I can tell he's pushing a bit harder now. It's all getting a bit more serious."

She nodded, quietly. "Yeah."

They walked until they hit a small clearing; soft grass, dappled light, the faint hum of wind through the trees.

Oscar dropped to the ground first, tugging her with him, and Harper let herself fall beside him. Their fingers tangled without thought. Her heartbeat still hadn't slowed.

"You really hate running, huh?" He teased.

She turned her head toward him. "I don't hate it."

He raised a brow.

"Okay, fine. I hate it. But I like being with you," she said, eyes soft.

Oscar looked at her for a long moment. His gaze dropped to her lips, then back to her eyes. "That's a good enough reason to torture yourself?"

She nodded.

He leaned in and brushed his lips against herself and she giggled breathily against him, shifting to her knees and pressing close to him.

And when she whispered, "Can we... just stay here a while?" He nodded, no questions, no pressure, just a gentle hand on the curve of her back.

They didn't... plan it.

They didn't even really speak about it as it happened.

They moved the way they always did — with instinct and quiet understanding, with laughter in the middle and too many nerves and awkward fumbling that quickly gave way to something softer.

They were teenagers, yes. But more than that — in that pretty little clearing, they became each other's firsts. And it wasn't perfect. It was fumbled and awkward and probably a bit out of order — but it felt right.

It felt like theirs.

Afterwards, they lay tangled in the grass and the quiet, Oscar drawing invisible lines on her shoulder, Harper tucked into his side like she belonged there and nowhere else.

"I don't think anything has ever felt that perfect," she whispered.

He kissed her again. But her lip. Made her giggle as he said, "You made it perfect."

—

Harper tiptoed into their bedroom just past curfew, hair messy, hoodie zipped up to her chin, and a dazed sort of softness clinging to her features like afterglow.

Jane was already in bed, face masked, glasses on, reading some dystopian paperback with a wildly dramatic title. She didn't look up.

"I know what you did," she sung.

Harper froze halfway across the room. "What?"

Jane turned a page. "Please. You've got pine needles in your hair and your skirt is on backwards.'"

Harper flushed. "Oh my God."

Jane finally looked at her. "Was it good?"

"...Yeah," Harper whispered, and then suddenly grinned, wide and a little overwhelmed. "Yeah, it was."

Jane set her book down and patted the edge of her bed. "Come here and tell me everything, you naughty, terrible girl."

Harper crossed the room in two steps, crawled under Jane's blanket like they were twelve again, and for the first time in a long time, let herself glow.

—

Monday morning, Harper's phone buzzed with a new message. She glanced down to see the sender: Viard Admissions.

Opening it felt like swallowing a stone.

The email was clinical, polite — an official acceptance letter to the elite boarding school in Switzerland her mother had threatened. Lines about curriculum, dates, and fees, but beneath every word, Harper could feel the cold weight of control.

She stared at the screen, heart sinking.

The rest of the day was a blur. Her smiles felt forced. Her laughs, hollow.

At lunch, she barely touched her food. During math tutoring, her mind floated, distracted by the looming exile.

Oscar noticed.

He cornered her between classes, hands stuffed in his pockets, brows furrowed.

"Hey," he said gently, "you've been off all day. What's wrong?"

Harper shook her head, trying to hide the tightness in her throat.

Oscar stepped closer, lowering his voice. "You can tell me."

She hesitated, then finally exhaled. "My mum." she admitted, voice cracking. "She emailed my mu acceptance letter. To that school in Switzerland she was threatening me with the other week."

Oscar's jaw tightened. "That's shit," he said.

"Yeah," Harper whispered. "I feel like I've found somewhere I belong, and now she's trying to take it away."

Oscar reached out, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "You do belong," he said firmly. "Here. With me. And with our friends. People who care about you."

Harper blinked back tears, the knot inside her loosening just a little. "Thanks, Osc," she said softly.

He smiled, squeezing her hand. "We'll figure it out, yeah? Together."

—

Saturday evening, their bedroom was buzzing with whispered giggles and the fresh scent of cucumber.

Harper and Jane lounged on the floor, wrapped in fluffy blankets, their faces slick with a honey-avocado facemask as they binge-watched Mean Girls for the third time that week on Jane's laptop.

"Oi, we're coming in!" Matt's voice boomed from outside their door.

The door swung open to reveal Matt, Sam, and Alfie — each armed with their own packets of face masks and towels, looking both sheepish and excited.

"Um, what the hell are you guys doing here?" Jane asked, raising an eyebrow at them.

"We're your new beauty consultants," Sam grinned, holding up a jar of what looked like expensive aloe mask (which he'd definitely stolen from whichever girl he was currently dating).

Alfie was already spreading a pink goo over his cheeks, looking hilariously out of place in the girls' soft dorm lighting.

Harper laughed despite herself. 

"Fine. Whatever. But only if you promise not to mess up the blankets," Jane bargained.

Matt plopped down on the floor, slapping a bit of mask on his nose and grinning. "Deal."

The night unfolded with half-serious skincare advice, sarcastic commentary on Mean Girls, and a lot of laughter.

At one point, Alfie tried to reenact the "You can't sit with us" line — but with a face mask so thick it practically obscured his words.

Harper messages Oscar a sneaky picture she'd taken of them.

Oscar: I asked them to keep an eye on you. Sry if they were annoying lol. Wish I was there x

Harper stared at the message and pulled her knees up to her chest with a hitched smile. 

Harper: Thank you. Love you

She held her breath as he typed.

Oscar: Love you too.

And it was that easy.

—

Jane's birthday was always celebrated in style.

The music thrummed through the room, warm and electric. Harper spotted Oscar across the room, his eyes locking onto hers with something intense — a mix of nerves and something more.

He moved toward her, hand reaching out gently to take hers. She didn't hesitate.

They stepped onto the dance floor, bodies close but careful, hearts pounding louder than the beat.

Oscar's hand found her waist, steady and reassuring. Harper's fingers curled lightly around his neck, breath catching in her throat.

They swayed together, the world narrowing to just the two of them — the noise, the lights, the rest all fading away.

His gaze dropped to her lips, and Harper's pulse quickened. When their lips met, it was soft at first — tentative, like testing the water.

But the kiss deepened, filled with all the restless energy and longing they'd been holding back.

They pulled apart slowly, foreheads resting together, breaths mingling in the quiet space between them.

"Happy birthday, Jane," Harper whispered, smiling shyly.

Oscar grinned, his fingers brushing a stray hair behind her ear. "Best party ever."

—

The door clicked softly behind them as Oscar guided Harper inside his bedroom, a quiet grin tugging at his lips.

She pointedly ignored the insane amount of mess.

"If you get caught here, we're both fucked," he whispered, pulling her close.

"I won't get caught," Harper replied, snuggling into his side as they settled onto the rumpled bed.

Oscar wrapped an arm around her and tugged her flush against him.

Then Harper shifted, her voice soft but animated. "I started this new coding camp online. It's... complicated, but kind of awesome."

Oscar tilted his head, interested. "Yeah? What's it teaching you?"

"How to build games. It's a bit elementary, but I'm learning how to work with CSS more efficiently."

Oscar smiled, fingers tracing slow circles on her arm. He had absolutely no idea what she was talking about. "That's pretty cool."

Harper hummed. "I know. I'll show you the video game when it's done. Won't be anything special, but it'll still be cool."

Oscar pressed a gentle kiss to her lips. "I'm glad you're here."

Harper nodded, resting her head against his chest. "Me too."

—

Harper's stomach churned as she made her way through the quiet halls toward the headmaster's office. Her mind raced with possibilities — had her mum found out about  the late-night escapades? Had somebody seen her sneaking out of the boys dorm? Was she in trouble?

She knocked lightly, then stepped inside.

The headmaster looked up, a warm smile on his face. "Harper, come in. Have a seat."

Her heart pounded, but she took the chair offered.

"I wanted to talk to you because I've been hearing some very good things," he said. "Your math level has improved significantly over the course of the term — and I understand that with dyscalculia, this is something to be very proud of."

Harper blinked, surprised.

"I understand that there's been some study sessions with a few of your classmates during your free time in the common rooms. A few teachers found the pinned-up schedules amusing. But that kind of initiative is impressive."

She let out a relieved breath, a smile tugging at her lips. "Thank you, sir."

"It really is a fantastic turn around, Harper. Keep it up."

As she left the office, the tension eased from her shoulders.

Maybe things were looking up after all.

—

Oscar sat on the sofa in the common room, phone balanced on his knee, his parents' faces bright on the screen.

"It's been great to hear from you, mate," his dad said, smiling.

Oscar grinned. "Yeah. You too."

The door opened softly, and Harper stepped inside, still catching her breath from P.E., cheeks flushed.

She paused, then eased herself down next to Oscar, curling up against his side.

Oscar glanced at the screen and said, "Harper's here."

Oscar's mum smiled warmly. "Hello, Harper, sweetheart."

"Hi," Harper murmured, closing her eyes and resting her head on Oscar's shoulder.

Oscar slipped an arm around her, fingers gently brushing her hair.

The conversation continued quietly, but Harper drifted off, the soft rhythm of Oscar's voice and the warmth of the room lulling her into a calm nap.

—

The cafeteria was quiet, soft morning light filtering through the windows. Harper sat at their small table, pushing her usual bowl of Weetabix aside.

"I'm not really feeling up for that," she said softly. "Just some toast, yeah?"

Oscar looked up from his cereal, eyebrows knitting together in quiet concern but not pressing. "Yeah. Yeah, of course," he said, sliding a plate across to her. "Whatever you want."

Harper nibbled at the edges, her stomach twisting uncomfortably, but she shrugged it off.

"Just feel a bit gross, probably nothing," she muttered, a bit frustrated. "Maybe it was that chilli we had last night. It tasted weird."

Oscar reached over, brushing a stray lock of hair from her forehead. "If you want, I can find you some ginger tea? My mum always made me drink it when I got sick."

She smiled faintly, grateful for the thought. "I'll be fine. Thanks, though."

She shuffled closer to him throughout breakfast, until she was practically on his lap as the ready of the sleepy students came pouring in.

Jane slammed her tray down on the table and said, "Can you believe that the prom theme is going to be 'Pirates'. I mean — who the hell came up with that?"

Harper giggled against Oscar's shoulder.

—

The bell had just rung, and students spilled into the hallway. Harper was making her way slowly toward the common room when she spotted Oscar waiting near the door.

He caught her eye immediately and fell into step beside her.

"You feeling okay?" He asked quietly, voice low enough that no one else could hear.

Harper shrugged, a small smile tugging at her lips. "Better. Still a bit off, but it's nothing."

Oscar studied her for a moment, concern softening his features. "Want me to walk you back to your dorm? Or maybe grab some fresh air?"

She nodded, grateful for the offer. "Yeah, that'd be good."

They walked together, the afternoon sun warm on their backs, and Harper leaned just a little closer to him.

—

The last weeks of the school year felt heavier somehow — classes wrapped up, corridors buzzing with end-of-year chatter, but Harper's thoughts kept drifting.

She sat beside Oscar on the astroturf, the chill in the air making them both pull their jackets tighter.

"Four weeks," she murmured, voice soft. "That's how long you'll be gone."

Oscar nodded, eyes tracing the frost on the pitch. "I know. It'll feel like forever."

Harper looked down at her hands, twisting the little rope bracelet Oscar had given her. It was black and white; the colours of a chequered flag. The finish line.

"I'm going to miss you," she admitted, the words tasting strange but true.

Oscar reached over, fingers brushing hers. "I'll miss you too. But it's not forever. We've got FaceTime, texts..."

She smiled faintly, though the lump in her throat didn't go away. "Promise you won't forget about me," she said, voice barely above a whisper. It was ridiculous, but she was feeling just a tiny bit delicate.

"I promise, babe," Oscar said, squeezing her hand.

She took a deep breath and let his words settle something in her chest.

—

The snow had started falling just before dusk, blanketing the city in soft white as Harper and her mother walked briskly up Fifth Avenue. The holiday lights sparkled across shop windows, casting golden reflections against the ice-slicked pavement. It should have felt magical — it usually did — but this year, everything felt off.

Her mother was walking a few steps ahead, as always. Perfect posture, sleek gloves, eyes forward like she was leading a press conference instead of walking to her parents' townhouse.

"Straighten your scarf," she said without looking back. "You're not ten."

Harper didn't answer. She just adjusted the scarf, more out of habit than compliance.

Her grandparents' house was beautiful in that cold, museum-like way — all polished marble and antique chandeliers. They were kind enough, but Harper always felt like a stranger to them.

Dinner was stiff. Conversation danced around neutral topics — school, future plans, the weather in London — but never quite landed. Harper could feel her mother's eyes on her every time she spoke, like she was a sentence away from saying something inappropriate.

When dessert was served, Harper quietly excused herself and climbed the stairs to the guest bedroom, her phone already in hand.

She laid across the bedspread, scrolling through old photos of her and Oscar — blurry selfies after he'd climbed out of his kart, the one where he'd fallen asleep during a maths session, the video of him trying orange marmalade for the first time and gagging like it was poison.

Her chest ached.

There was a message waiting for her.

Oscar: Made it to the beach before Mum could shove a Santa hat on me. Send help. Miss you.

She smiled, blinking hard.

Harper: You'd better FaceTime me tomorrow. Or I swear I'll swim to Australia just to see you.

—

Harper sat cross-legged on the guest bed, the soft hum of New York traffic muffled by snow and distance. Laughter floated up faintly from the living room downstairs — the clink of glasses, her grandfather's booming voice, her mother's delicate laugh, like porcelain.

She stared at her phone until it buzzed, the screen lighting up with one name.

FaceTime Incoming: Oscar

She answered immediately.

Oscar's face appeared, backlit by sunshine. He was sitting outside, shirtless and tanned, with the ocean glinting behind him.

"Merry Christmas," he said, grinning.

Harper smiled, the tightness in her chest easing a little just at the sound of his voice. "Merry Christmas, beach boy."

"Snow yet?"

"Everything's white. Including the tablecloth. And every single guest."

He huffed out a dry laugh. "You okay?"

Harper nodded, though it wasn't entirely true. "Better now."

He looked at her through the screen, really looked. "It's been weird not seeing you almost every day."

"It's horrible," she admitted, flopping back on the bed and bringing the phone with her. "She made me wear this velvet dress that itches like hell. I would sell my soul for a hoodie and one of your perfect plates of breakfast toast."

Oscar chuckled, lying back on a sun chair, mirroring her position. "We had a barbecue. Dad burned the sausages. Classic."

There was a pause — not awkward, but full.

"I miss you," Harper said softly, picking at a fraying thread on the sleeve of her dress.

"I miss you too," Oscar replied, quieter this time.

Neither of them said it, but it hung in the space between them: I love you — unspoken, but understood.

"We'll be back home soon," she said, more to herself than to him.

"Ten days."

"Not like I'm counting."

Oscar smiled. "I'll call you tonight. Properly. When the house is quiet."

"Okay."

"Go be elegant and miserable," he teased.

"And you go burn in the sun."

"I'm wearing SPF."

She smiled again, softer now, the ache still there, but bearable.

"Bye, Osc."

"Bye, Harps."

—

The train ride had been long. The platform cold. And Harper's suitcase wheel had started squeaking halfway across campus.

But none of that mattered the second she saw him.

He was already there — leaning against the gate near the common room, hoodie half-zipped, hair sun-lightened from two weeks under the Australian sky. He looked taller. Or maybe she just missed him that much.

Oscar straightened the second their eyes met.

Neither of them said anything at first. He just stepped forward and took her suitcase handle from her hand like it was second nature, like she hadn't been gone for 28 days, 16 FaceTimes, and countless messages.

Harper looked up at him, trying to smile but it wobbled. "Hey."

"Hi," he said, and his voice caught on it.

She opened her arms before she could think better of it, and he pulled her into him like he'd been holding his breath since December.

His nose tucked against her temple. "You're freezing," he murmured.

"You're warm," she whispered back.

They stood there for a while, unmoving, while students bustled past with post-holiday energy and distant laughter filled the air. None of it touched them.

Finally, Harper leaned back just enough to look up at him. "You got taller."

"You got sadder," he said gently. "But you're back now."

She nodded, eyes stinging. "I missed this."

"I missed you."

They didn't kiss — not here, not in-front of everyone — but his hand found hers and didn't let go as they walked the familiar path toward the dorms.

Back to routine. Back to toast and maths study and Astro nights and quiet, stolen moments.

Back to where they belonged.

—

Harper was half-draped across Jane's bed, a leftover Quality Street melting on her tongue, while Jane rooted through her suitcase with dramatic flair.

"I forgot how depressing the lighting is in this room," Jane muttered. "It's like they want us to slowly wilt."

"You're very tan though," Harper said through a yawn. "So it looks fine."

Jane straightened up triumphantly, holding up a pink silk scrunchie like it was a crown jewel. "There it is."

Harper blinked. "That's what you were hunting for?"

"Excuse you — this scrunchie survived the Atlantic Ocean." Jane dropped it on her desk and flopped beside Harper. "I swam on Christmas Day. It was freezing. I highly recommend getting your period before beach season. It was the first year I didn't have to stress about leaking in the Mediterranean and attracting sharks."

Harper smiled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes.

A beat.

And then another.

And then—

Her face drained of colour.

"Oh."

Jane tilted her head. "What?"

Harper sat up, very suddenly, like the air had gone too tight. "I haven't... I haven't had mine."

Jane blinked. "Like—"

"I didn't think about it, I just—" Harper's voice trailed off as she stared at the wall. "I've felt sick. Tired. I haven't wanted my Weetabix."

Jane was still for a beat, then reached out and put a steadying hand on Harper's knee. "Okay. Breathe. It could be stress. Travel. Life."

Harper nodded slowly, but her brain was moving a million miles an hour. "Yeah. Yeah. Totally. Stress."

But Jane could see it in her eyes.

That switch had flipped.

Something inside Harper knew — whether or not she was ready to say it out loud.

—

She didn't knock.

She didn't even hesitate.

Harper shoved open the door to the boys' dorm common room, heart in her throat, fingers trembling, her mind screaming in spirals. Oscar was on the floor with Alfie and Matt, half-focused on a Mario Kart match, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, looking so calm it almost made her dizzy.

He looked up immediately.

And stood up faster than she'd ever seen him move.

"Hey— Harps?"

She just stared at him for a second, trying to speak, trying to make the words form. She couldn't do this with anyone else. Only him.

"I—" Her voice broke. "Can we talk? Please?"

"Yeah. Of course." He was already crossing the room, grabbing her hand, guiding her down the hallway toward his room without another word. The door closed behind them with a soft click.

Oscar turned to her, brows knit with concern. "What happened? What's wrong?"

She opened her mouth, closed it, then forced the words out before she could second guess them.

"I think I might be pregnant."

Silence.

Not judgment, not panic — just... stillness. The way Oscar always went quiet before a race, centring himself.

Harper blinked fast. "I haven't had my period. I've been nauseous, tired, my brain's a mess. And I didn't notice— I didn't think—" Her voice cracked. "I'm not saying I am. But I might be. And I don't know what to do."

Oscar stepped forward and gently took her hands in his, grounding her.

"Okay," he said simply, his voice steady. "Fuck. Okay. We'll figure this out."

Harper let out a breath she didn't realise she'd been holding. "I didn't know what to do. I just panicked."

Oscar's eyes softened. "Yeah but you did the right thing. You came to me."

She nodded, chest tight, and leaned into him. His arms wrapped around her without hesitation, warm and sure.

"Whatever happens," he murmured, "we'll handle it."

Harper sniffled. "I'm fifteen, Oscar. Fifteen."

He closer his eyes. "Shit, yeah. I know. Me too." He laughed. 

Nothing about this situation was funny.

She couldn't help but laugh too, a warped, wet kind of sound. 

—

The chemist in the village was almost empty. Harper kept her head down, winter hat pulled low, scarf wrapped high. Oscar stood beside her, tall and quiet, his hoodie sleeves tugged nervously over his hands. He didn't say much — didn't need to — just waited beside her.

They didn't look at the packaging too long. Just grabbed the one that looked familiar, Oscar paid in cash, and they left without a word.

—

Back at school, they slipped into the small student toilet block behind the science building — the one Oscar had jimmied the lock on once during a thunderstorm. It was quiet. Private. The only place that didn't feel like it had ears and eyes everywhere.

Harper set the box down on the sink with trembling hands.

"You don't have to stay," she whispered.

Oscar shook his head. "I'm not going anywhere."

She nodded. "Okay."

She went in, closed the door, and a moment later, came back out holding the test in shaking fingers. He didn't look at it. He just held her free hand and guided her to sit on the windowsill.

They set it down on the ledge between them.

A timer on Oscar's phone started counting down.

Two minutes.

Neither of them spoke.

Oscar's thumb stroked the inside of her palm, rhythmic and slow.

Harper stared at the test, as if watching it would make it kinder.

Her voice was barely a breath. "I'm scared."

"I know," Oscar said. "Me too."

Thirty seconds left.

The world outside the window was silver-grey, students scattered across the grass in the distance, oblivious. Everything felt fragile.

Fifteen seconds.

Ten.

Five.

Harper's grip tightened.

"Do we look?" She asked.

Oscar nodded once. "Together."

She reached for the test with trembling fingers.

—

The rain had started again. A soft pattering against the windows that filled the silence like a lullaby.

Oscar lay behind her on her narrow dorm bed, one arm around her waist, the other tucked beneath his head. Harper was curled into herself, facing the wall, her fingers gripping the edge of the duvet like it might keep her from floating away.

He hadn't said much when she showed him the test. Just took one look at her face, reached out, and pulled her into him.

Now he was just holding her.

Breathing with her.

Letting her be silent.

Her cheek was damp against the pillow, but she wasn't crying anymore. She felt wrung out, like all the air had been squeezed from her lungs, like her bones were vibrating with too many thoughts that had nowhere to go.

Oscar pressed his nose into the back of her shoulder. His voice was a whisper. "It's going to be okay."

She didn't answer. Just nodded once.

He didn't say it to convince her. He said it because it was the only thing he could offer — his calm. His presence. His belief in her, in them, in the idea that they'd somehow survive this.

His hand slid down to rest gently over hers.

She swallowed hard. "I don't know how far along I am."

"We'll figure it out."

She turned in his arms then, finally facing him, her eyes red-rimmed and tired. "I don't feel like a real person right now."

Oscar blinked slowly, brushing her hair back from her forehead. "Yeah. I feel a bit out of it too."

She let out a small, watery laugh. 

And then she tucked her head into his chest, and he held her tighter, as if he could anchor her to something solid.

Outside, the rain kept falling.

Inside, it was quiet.

NEXT CHAPTER

[bullet-prooflove]

The Gruffalo: Andrew 'Pope' Cody x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @fadeinsol @akotafi @yousigned-upforthis @cowardlycandy

Summary: Pope finally lays eyes on you for the first time in months.

Companion piece to:

The Professional - Pope meets the love of his life when Smurf hires her to crack a safe.

Ethical Thieving - You introduce Pope to a new skill set.

The Skatepark - Pope reacts badly when you try to share your feelings.

Crazy (NSFW) - Pope's always been crazy but now he's also a man in love.

Tomorrow - Pope's family always fuck up the good in his life.

Do Over Day (NSFW) - Pope tries to make up for the day before.

Everything - Pope's family life clashes with your time together.

Positive - Pope didn't expect for it to happen sooner rather than later.

Four Bullets - Smurf finds out about you and Pope, leading to dire consquences.

Misery (feat: Baz Cody) - Baz starts to notice there’s something wrong with Pope.

It’s been two months since Pope last laid eyes on you.

Two months since you told him you were pregnant with his baby.

Two months since he broke your heart to save your life.

He’s been depressed since then, suicidal. He knows Baz sees that it’s getting worse, especially after the last job. He still has bruised ribs from where two bullets struck him in the chest, fracturing the plates in his Kevlar vest.

It’s why they’re sitting outside your house right now in Baz’s truck, watching you potter about through the open blinds.

You still look as beautiful as the day he left. Your hair shines in the sun that filters through the window, your palm resting on the baby bump that’s started to show through your clothing. Pope clutches the stuffed grey elephant he bought for the baby even harder, his fingers digging into the fabric as you tuck an errant strand of hair back behind your ear. He’s missed so much already. By now she’ll be starting to move, to respond to your voice. He wonders if she’d respond to his, if she'll understand what you've told her about him.

“What if she doesn’t want me?” He asks quietly, staring down at the elephant.

“She does want you Pope.” Baz reassures him, his arm coming to rest on the open window as he studies the street. “When I told Dylan about Smurf, about what she threatened to do… She understood that you were just trying to protect your family.”

“And Smurf… She doesn’t know we’re here?” Pope says, his voice hitching. “Because if she finds out…”

“She won’t.” Baz reinforces. “Our phones are at Deran’s bar, she’ll just think we’re having a drink with our brothers, that I’m trying to drown your sorrows, talk a little sense into you.”

“Alright.” Pope says shakily, nodding his head as he grips the door handle. “Thanks for doing this… You have no idea what it means-”

“I do.” Baz cuts him off. “She shouldn’t be able to use our children to control us, she shouldn’t be able to reach out and hurt them if we don’t do what she wants.”

There’s finality in his tone, one that Pope doesn’t pick up on as he opens the car door and climbs out of it.

“I’ll see you in a couple of hours.” Baz tells him before he closes it. “I’ll call Dylan’s phone from the bar to let you know I’m coming.”

He drives away then, leaving Pope standing at the steps leading up to your porch. He takes them one at a time, his palm gliding over the rickety railing that he’s going to fix for you the next time he’s here.

When he reaches the door, his chest constricts because this is the moment of truth, the moment you tell him what he did was unredeemable and that you don’t want him in your child’s life.

He raises his hand to knock but the door it’s already opening and there you are standing in front of him with your pretty sun kissed features and hair that flows like a waterfall over your shoulders. He squeezes the elephant tighter before thrusting it at you.

“I got this for her-”

He doesn’t get to finish the sentence because your arms wrap around him, drawing him close. The scent of the ocean floods his senses, the swell of the baby nestling between the both of you. He buries his face into the curve of your throat, his eyes stinging as he clings to you like a lifeline, like you are the only thing on this God forsaken earth worth living for.

“I’m sorry.” He whispers, his chest heaving as he tries to hold back the sheer force of  emotion raising up in him. “She was going to hurt you, she was going to hurt Freya. I didn’t see a way...”

“I know.” You sooth him, your fingers running through his unruly curls. They’re wilder now, no longer cropped to his scalp the way he normally keeps them. “You were just protecting us.”

“I don’t know how to do that anymore. I don’t-”

It’s then the baby kicks, a swift hard punt that lands right in his navel.

“Oh.” He says looking down between the two of you, his hands coming to rest on the baby bump, cradling her beneath his palms.

“I think she wants to say hi.” You tell him, taking his hand and guiding it just a little lower towards where the next kick is. “She must like the sound of your voice.”

“Really?” He asks you, his chestnut brown eyes glistening as he looks up at you.

“You have a relaxing cadence.” You tell him as the baby kicks again. “It’s why I always  fall asleep to the sound of you reading.”

Always, not used to.

Those words aren’t lost on him, they’re a sign that he still has a presence in your life, a future with you, with Freya.

“Do you think that I could read to her?” His voice cracks as he asks the question. “So she can learn who I am.”

“I have a few baby books on the coffee table I’m sure she’d love to hear.” You tell him, your fingers threading through his as you lead him inside. “She loses her shit when I read The Gruffalo.”

“What’s a Gruffalo?” He asks, taking a seat on the couch.

You sort through the picture books on the coffee table, before pulling one out and handing it to him. “Read the book and find out.”

It turns into a literary discourse, one that has you laughing as he lays with his head in your lap, reading out loud to your daughter. When he’s done with that one, he picks up another and then another. It goes on until he drifts off, his body relaxing into you as his words falter.

He’s not been sleeping, you can tell from the dark circles staining his skin. The crows feet at the edge of his eyes are more pronounced, his features more weather worn. Your fingertips trail over his freckles as you listen to the steady sound of him breathing.

Your phone vibrates on the cushions next to you, Baz’s name flashing up on the screen. Your heart thuds faster in your chest as you pick it up, tucking it underneath your chin.

“You get it done?” You ask, your tone low.

“Yeah, it’ll look like she slipped in the shower, broke her neck. The same way Craig almost did the other day.” Baz tells you as he closes the door to the bathroom behind him. “I’m going to ‘find’ her along with Deran in a couple of minutes.”

“He’ll know.” You say gently as Pope stirs in your lap, his cheek coming to rest upon the place where his baby resides. “As soon as we tell him…”

“Then we’ll tell him the rest.” Baz reminds you with a voice like steel. “About how she was going to wait for the baby to be born to kill you, how she was going to adopt her because the state wouldn’t hand her over to someone with his record, how she would have used her like she did Julia-” He cuts himself and you can taste the bitterness in your mouth at the life your daughter almost had, the one that was almost identical to yours. If Baz hadn’t overheard that phone call between Smurf and her lawyer, asking her to draw up papers and date them for four months’ time… “-Pope will understand why it had to be me. He hates her but he doesn’t have it in him to hurt her. She made sure of that.”

And that’s the God’s honest truth, she spent years cultivating him into the perfect attack dog, training him not to turn around and bite his handler no matter how much horrible shit she put him through.

“Just promise me you’ll take care of him.” Baz says, his voice softening. “That you’ll love him the way that he deserves.”

“We will.” You promise Baz, your fingertips lightly combing through Pope's curls. “There is no one on this earth that could love him more than us.”

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[byulyi]

Love In My Arms

Agatha All Along Week: Day 7 - Breeding

Summary: "Something on your mind, handsome?” Rio asks her eventually, probably noticing Agatha’s somewhat restless energy. “I’ve been daydreaming a little. About us.” Rating: Explicit Pairing: Agatha Harkness & Rio Vidal

Content: daddy kink, ejaculating strap, breeding kink (duh)

@agathaallalongweek I am exceptionally late with this but oh well.

An ache begins to form in Agatha’s heart.

It’s subtle at first: the constant need to keep Rio close, to hold her, to provide for her becoming stronger than ever.

She understands it when she finds Rio in the kitchen one day, singing along to the music she was listening to while making bread for the station's barbecue in the evening. It’s a hot day and Rio is wearing the prettiest summer dress, her hair up in a messy bun and no shoes on her feet.

Agatha loved the way Rio shifted so fluidly between her feminine and masculine side, simply taking each day as it was without overthinking it. Thanks to Rio Agatha had become kinder with herself as well. She wasn’t close to something she would call self-love but she respected herself and felt comfortable in her own skin more often than not these days – and how couldn’t she when Rio always loved her so fiercely, so complete with everything she was.

Her hands she often found too rough, had been kissed tenderly, held protectively and were often Rio’s way to ground herself during bad days.

Her shoulders that had been called too broad had carried Rio after long nights out, worked to build her raised beds for all the herbs she liked to grow and flexed beneath Rio’s nails digging into her skin as she unraveled her again and again.

Her breasts she sometimes tried to hide because she thought she had to in order to fit the way she presented herself were kissed and touched lovingly after days of binding and complimented on when she spent especially hot summer days at home shirtless.

Rio loved all of her and she loved all of Rio. Unconditional love. Something they both dreamed of in their youth but never imagined to be actually possible. Both had grown up with families that took and pushed without stopping to think about what their children needed. Boundaries were unheard of and acting up was punished or shrugged off. They were luckily past these people now – a lone sign of their existence being at most an unread Christmas card in the mail.

They had each other. They were a family.

And now Agatha was still standing in the doorway of the kitchen and her heart keeps on growing. Her feet carry her over to Rio and she doesn’t hesitate to wrap her arms around her from behind. She kisses her neck and breathes in the fresh scent of her shampoo.

“You’ve been standing there for a while,” Rio notes, a playful undertone in her voice. Ever the observant FBI agent. “Did you like what you see?”

“Very much so.” She rests her chin on Rio’s shoulder; her own boots and Rio being barefoot granting her a height advantage she usually didn’t have. “You’re breathtakingly beautiful, my love.”

Rio laughs in delight. “Want to try some of the sample bread? I’ve kept it in the oven to keep it warm.”

“A sample bread. You really won’t leave anything to chance.” Agatha kisses her shoulder then and let’s go of her before moving to the oven. “The whole house smells delicious,” she says as she pulls out the tray.

“It’s the rosemary. Gives it a little kick.”

When Agatha had tried the bread and moaned a little bit exaggerated at the taste, she hops onto a part of the kitchen counter Rio wasn’t using and watches her working for a while.

“Something on your mind, handsome?” Rio asks her eventually, probably noticing Agatha’s somewhat restless energy.

“I’ve been daydreaming a little. About us.”

“Nice things I hope?”

“It’s about what we’ve talked about a while ago. When I wasn’t sure yet. I… I think I am now.”

Rio tilts her head a little, obviously doing some mind gymnastics in search of needed context, before it clicks and her eyes widen, head turning to her girlfriend.

“You want to have a child?”

Agatha nods carefully, with both happiness and fear. “Yes. I think we would do a great job at being parents and…” she has to smile a little as she thinks about it. “Honestly I think that’s it. We would love our child and do our best for them. It doesn’t need more reason. I just want a child with you. Share our love.”

Rio pulls her in for a kiss so fast that she almost falls forward.

Agatha can’t keep her hands to herself for the rest of the day. She spends the entirety of the barbecue hovering around Rio and fussing over her, so much so that Rio eventually snaps at her and bans her from coming near her for at least twenty minutes.

Figurative tail between her legs Agatha trails off to the small circle of her colleagues surrounding the grill and the chief hands her a beer while another detective looks at her with sympathy.

“Feeling some extra TLC today, Harkness?” she asks and laughs when Agatha glares at her. “What? You’re the definition of ‘look at my wife, I love my wife’.”

“She’s not even my wife,” Agatha grumbles.

“Yet,” the chief chimes in.

“Will you mind your own business?”

“I’m just saying.”

Agatha sighs and throws Rio the saddest look she can muster. Unfortunately, it doesn’t work and somehow she manages the entire terrible twenty minutes of separation.

A few days later Agatha corners Rio the second they get home from work. They have a long weekend ahead, courtesy of Agatha bullying the chief, and she has every intention of making each hour count.

She’s holding Rio from behind and kisses her neck a few times before asking the question that had been burning on her mind since the day of the barbecue.

“Should we start trying?”

“Someone’s eager,” Rio says amused but she sighs when Agatha’s lip find one of her favorite spots.

“We didn’t have time all week,” Agatha notes and pulls Rio’s hips against her crotch, the bulge of her packer pressing against her ass. “I’ve become impatient.”

Rio gasps softly. “Agatha…”

“Do you feel me, babe?”

Rio nods, grinding back on her own accord now. Agatha groans and tightens her hold on her.

“I want to take my time with you. I want to undress you, I want to eat you out,” she mumbles into her ear, her hands moving up Rio’s waist. “And when I made you come so good that you’re shaking and begging for me I want to take my cock and fuck you. Slow and deep.” She moves her lips slightly, giving Rio the smallest idea of what was to come. “I am going to breed you tonight. I am going to fill you up until my cum leaks out of you. And when that happens I am going to fuck it right back into you where it belongs to make sure that it sticks.”

Agatha works absurdly fast as they get to the bedroom, grabbing a harness and the brand-new squirting dildo she had bought before digging further into the drawer to find the bottle with the cum-colored lube.

Rio watches her, equally turned on and enamored with her girlfriend, but before she can comment something Agatha kisses her in a way that almost makes her knees buckle and asks her to wait for a moment.

She goes into the bathroom, takes all clothes except her boxers off and fumbles the packer out of its pouch before stepping into the harness and fastening it. Her hands shake a little in excitement as she fills the syringe connected to the toy but once everything is in the right place she feels the weight of what the evening would entail settle right back into her mind. This wasn’t just one of their little games, it was the pledge to a step they would be taking together in the future.

The day before they made the decision to wait until next summer, when Rio would find out if the FBI would finally make her position at the Westview police station a permanent one after four years and then they would look into both adoption and IVF. It was exciting – it made Agatha lightheaded.

Now however she rushes back to Rio.

Agatha undresses her slowly, kisses and touches every inch of skin exposed, tells her how beautiful she is and that she can never get enough of her. When she sinks between her thighs Rio is wet and aching for her. She sighs Agatha’s name in the prettiest way when she comes and they spend minutes with making out after before Agatha pulls away again.

“Bend over. I want to see you.”

She’s kneeling behind Rio, teasing her folds with the tip of her strap before sliding the tip into her – just enough to stretch her a little.

“Agatha… fuck me

“Try again.”

“Please. Please fuck me. I need you. Need your cock.”

Now pleased Agatha proceeds, setting a slow pace to help Rio with adjusting to her.

It’s minutes of this until Rio whines for her to go faster, to go harder.

“You should see how pretty your pussy looks when you take me,” Agatha says with a gasp, her eyes fixed on the silicon shaft – shiny with Rio. “So fucking tight, clenching around my cock. I am going to cum in you soon, fill you up.”

“You’re going to make me a mommy, aren’t you, daddy?”

Something inside of Agatha’s brain detonates and she grunts through gritted teeth as she switches to a brutal pace with her thrusts. “Fuck – yes baby. You’re going to be growing our child in no time. I’ll keep you bred properly until we know for sure. Daddy can’t wait to see your belly swell, the way your pretty tits will grow. Everyone will know that you are mine.”

Rio topples over, followed by Agatha who slides a hand between Rio’s legs so she could touch her clit.

“Fuck, daddy-“ Rio whines beneath her. Agatha can see her white knuckles as she clings to the sheets.

“You’re taking me so well, baby, do you think you’re ready for my cum?”

“Yes, I want it – need you…to breed me.”

Agatha, almost beside herself from lust, reaches for the syringe snuck between the waistband of her boxers and her skin and pushes her thumb down while thrusting hard into Rio one more time – staying still as the cum spills into her.

It takes only a few more fast circles rubbed against her clit for Rio to come with a cry of Agatha’s name, her body trying to thrash around but Agatha presses her down with her own weight, keeping her pinned in place between herself and the mattress.

“Stop moving and take it,” she growls into her ear. “Take. My. Cum.” She accentuates each word with a sharp snap of her hips.

“It’s too much, daddy…” Rio mewls but presses her ass back against Agatha to keep her right where she was as she rides out her orgasm.

“Oh, is it?” Agatha tuts and pulls almost completely out of Rio’s stretched out cunt which has her whine even louder. “Do you want me to stop?”

Rio shakes her head. “No.”

“Good girl. Now, get on your back.”

When Rio doesn’t move on her own Agatha turns her around, a little concerned about her until she sees the wide and blissful smile on her face.

“Are you too fucked out to move?” She asks and laughs when Rio nods. “Speaking is also not possible?”

“I am perfectly content right now, shh. Don’t disrupt the vibe.”

“Gods, you are so adorable,” Agatha sighs and leans down to kiss her deep and slow. “I love you.”

“And I love you.”

The tension builds again slowly, their hands moving lazy while their mouths meet in loving kisses. When Rio reaches between them and grabs the toy Agatha smiles against her lips.

“Back inside,” she orders and Agatha follows suit. She slides into her with no resistance; the lube and Rio’s cum making it perfectly smooth. “you wanted to fuck your cum back into me.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Agatha jokes and stills for a moment when she’s fully buried inside of Rio again. They hold eye contact as Rio begins to move her hips, fucking herself with Agatha’s cock.

“So greedy,” Agatha groans. “Making sure not to waste a single drop of my cum. What a good girl you are for me.”

Rio’s movements soon falter until she stops with a pitiful whine. Agatha feels her thighs shaking – sees the way her chest rises and falls fast. She’s sweaty, she’s flushed – a beautiful mess just for Agatha to enjoy.

“Exhausted from coming twice already, hm?” Agatha leans forward, supporting herself with her hands positioned next to Rio’s arms. “Do you want daddy to help you, pretty girl? I can feel you clenching around my cock.” She pulls out slowly, before harshly thrusting back into her.

“Yes, please please, fuck me, daddy,” Rio sobs and grabs Agatha’s wrists.

She lasts barely a minute this time – overstimulated and still so hungry for more that it doesn’t take much from Agatha. A few thrusts, a little twist of her hips and Rio is seeing stars.

“Shit,” Agatha curses and lies down next to Rio, still half draped over her body.

“Yup, I’d be definitely knocked up now if this was legit cum.” Rio nods in thought as she looks down between her legs where a rather impressive puddle had built up.

Agatha laughs and kisses Rio’s neck. “A little bit of practice can’t hurt, right? Wanna go take a bath?”

“If you carry me.”

“Aw. Pretty princess needs to be carried.” She teases but Rio doesn’t let it get to her.

“Yes, she does.”

Rio gets into the water first and sighs pleased when the warm water surrounds her slightly aching limbs. She smacks Agatha’s ass when she steps into the bathtub as well and giggles at the offended look she gets in return.

“You are such a little shit,” she remarks before settling between Rio’s legs and leaning back against her chest.

“You love me.”

“I do.”

“That was really fun,” Rio hums after they’ve been enjoying the warm water and the skin-on-skin contact in silence for a while. “And really hot. Next time it’s your turn though.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, you’re not the only one with mad breeding skills.”

Agatha sighs. “Has this become a competition now?”

“If I actually do get you pregnant I win.”

“If you get me pregnant I won’t even ask questions and just roll with it.”

“Because it would be some sort of miracle?”

“Because I love you and want your child.”

Agatha hears Rio’s sharp intake of air and just when she’s about to ask what’s wrong Rio wraps her arms and legs around her and pulls her in with such a force that Agatha shrieks in surprise – embarrassingly high-pitched.

“What the hell?”

“We are going to have a kid. You and me.” Rio says, completely in awe and Agatha hears her voice tremble a little which in turn drives some tears into her own eyes.

“Yes.”

“We are going to be great parents. I’ll be the cool dad and you’ll be the lame dad.”

“Excuse me? Why am I lame?”

“The Birkenstocks with the white socks…”

“Oh, you little shit.”

Agatha frees herself from Rio’s grip and stands up. She glares down at her but Rio seems to be more occupied with Agatha’s wet and naked body in front of her than her faux anger.

It’s silent for a moment until Agatha decides that Rio had done enough staring. She climbs out of the bathtub and wraps a towel around her waist after drying herself off haphazardly.

“Come back in here and let me fumble you.”

“I have a better idea. You apologize on your knees for calling me lame and I’ll let you eat me out.

With that Agatha turns around and marches back into the bedroom.

She is followed by the sound of water splashing and a few curse words as Rio hurries after her.

[daydreamer131313]

Cw/tw- i talk about death of all the marauders

I’m sorry but each one of the marauders (including Slytherin skittles) probably had a dope school life leading to a traumatic death the second they graduate.

James and Lily having the most powerful Dark wizard kill them, like the aura both of them probably had.

Marlene was killed in her house, you know the saying ‘you pick the best roses first’ That was her. Death eaters found her so important and dangerous that they went to her house and killed anyone who shared the same blood.

Dorcas Dorcas Dorcas. The dark lord was smart to kill her off first because had he not I’m pretty sure she would’ve done anything and everything to hunt him down and kill him after the news of Marlene reached her.

Then we have our darling Regulus. Drowning in the only lake in the world where u can’t swim. I don’t think people understand the amount of rebellion that went into this. I fully believe this was his last attempt to prove himself that he something bigger then his parents son.

We have Evan killed by the BEST auror the order had. I cannot imagine what Barty went through. Like he was still pretending to be his father’s son, so he probably couldn’t even mourn properly.

Our batshit crazy Pandora. Who was the only one who didn’t die due to the war. This girl was lucky to live and then still decided to get herself blown up. Like okay.

Barty….Honestly i feel his is the worst cause he didn’t even die. Imagine spending so much time to avenge your love and then the only chance you have of reuniting with them taken away. I read this micro fic of Evan screaming in the afterlife because, after the dementors kiss both of them have no chance to reunite.

Sirius…you know what’s really sad, the spell that hit him was not even the killing curse. It was a stunning spell and had he just fell on the other side and not into the veil, Harry would’ve probably saved him. I love how in the movie they had shown Remus in slow motion because can you imagine loosing the love of your life so many times??

Remus actually lived till the very very end. Unfortunately he was always going to be a victim of war like every single marauder. Sometimes I feel happy that he died, so that we know he has a chance of reuniting with his friends. Also I firmly do not believe for my own well being that Sirius is stuck in that arch. He WILL have moved on.

Lastly Mary… she didnt die. She just forgot. I can imagine after the battle of hogwarts somehow the spell is broken and she comes back to see everyone, anyone…but the she realises shes the only one left..

on a depressing note- I DO NOT believe that Regulus is stuck as an Inferni and Sirius is stuck in that arch. Both of them have moved on and all of the are happy together( except Evan). If you believe the former happy mourning.

[hello-nichya-here]

https://www.tumblr.com/zuko-always-lies/783017606851559424/ive-heard-the-complaint-before-that-certain-azula?source=share

What do you think of this? What ship would you say does Azula dirty more often?

I think this poll is a classic case of people voting zucest as being the worst of something just because it's incest and they're uncomfortable with it. Plus, I'm sure the "Azula NEEDS to be a lesbian" crowd will see any ship of her with a guy as "denying her agency."

It's extra ironic because for a long, long time, THE biggest problem in Zucest fics was how ZUKO had no agency. Azula was always the one moving the plot forward, the one pursuing the relationship, the one affecting (or full on controlling) all of Zuko's actions, and the only one that was ever the aggressor in dubcon/non-con fics. It took YEARS to get rid of the unspoken rule that, in zucest, Zuko should always be the helpless puppet on the string.

Of the ships listed, I'd say Tyzula (which I do like) and Azutara are the ones that consistenly make the relationships completely unballanced, with either Azula having no personality beyond "I'm in love with this girl" or with the love interest existing solely to justify everything Azula has ever done wrong in life. And in Azutara's case, it suffers from the same "Both of them need to be wildly out of character for the ship to even happen at all" problem as Jetzula, Azulaang and Sokkla.

Also I'm really surprised to not see Ozula on the list since that one is THE relationship that, canonically, has Azula's agency go right out th window because she just can't bring herself to ever say no to her dad - though I guess it could be argued that this one goes without saying, not only because of canon but also the inherent power imbalance.

Now, onto what I do best: Zucest propaganda!

Long, well-written Zucest fics tend to be super character-driven, so as a consequence we see a lot of both Zuko and Azula's POVs and both of them tend to affect the plot significantly with each decision, right or wrong, that they make.

One of THE most popular tropes in it gotta be Zuko becoming obsessed with protecting and redeeming Azula after her breakdown (and having the terrible realization of "Oh shit, I'm a freak and my obsession with defeating her was repressed horniness" that sends him into an Angst Meltdown), to the point of eventually trusting her above anyone else.

That, as a consequence, gives Azula quite a lot of agency in EVERYTHING, especially in Fire Nation politics (first as advisor and then as queen). There's also a lot of calling out Iroh and Ursa's blatant favoritism, having the Gaang grow to either care for or at least understand her, unpacking tons of Ozai trauma to help her move past it, rebuilding her relationships with her friends in a healthy way, and eventually breaking the cycle of unhealth family dynamics by being a good parent to her own children.

Zucest thrives on functional codependency, aka Azula might devote her entire life to her brother, but he does the same to her. It'd scare any therapist, but it's two EQUALS being unhinged and making questionable decisions that end up paying off against all odds. That is the dynamic shippers love, and it simply cannot exist unless both characters are done right.

[coquelicoq]

actually i kind of hated the ending of tout le bleu du ciel. "dénouement d'une grande beauté" mon cul

[kellystar321]

.

[savage-rhi]

I'm very much a, "fuck yeah and fuck you, I don't need validation! I'm me, cunts!" kinda fella, but sometimes I could use support.

[victusinveritas]

Story below the cut to avoid a paywall.

There was no explanation, no warning. One minute, I was in an immigration office talking to an officer about my work visa, which had been approved months before and allowed me, a Canadian, to work in the US. The next, I was told to put my hands against the wall, and patted down like a criminal before being sent to an Ice detention center without the chance to talk to a lawyer.

I grew up in Whitehorse, Yukon, a small town in the northernmost part of Canada. I always knew I wanted to do something bigger with my life. I left home early and moved to Vancouver, British Columbia, where I built a career spanning multiple industries – acting in film and television, owning bars and restaurants, flipping condos and managing Airbnbs.

In my 30s, I found my true passion working in the health and wellness industry. I was given the opportunity to help launch an American brand of health tonics called Holy! Water – a job that would involve moving to the US.

I was granted my trade Nafta work visa, which allows Canadian and Mexican citizens to work in the US in specific professional occupations, on my second attempt. It goes without saying, then, that I have no criminal record. I also love the US and consider myself to be a kind, hard-working person.

I started working in California and travelled back and forth between Canada and the US multiple times without any complications – until one day, upon returning to the US, a border officer questioned me about my initial visa denial and subsequent visa approval. He asked why I had gone to the San Diego border the second time to apply. I explained that that was where my lawyer’s offices were, and that he had wanted to accompany me to ensure there were no issues.

After a long interrogation, the officer told me it seemed “shady” and that my visa hadn’t been properly processed. He claimed I also couldn’t work for a company in the US that made use of hemp – one of the beverage ingredients. He revoked my visa, and told me I could still work for the company from Canada, but if I wanted to return to the US, I would need to reapply.

I was devastated; I had just started building a life in California. I stayed in Canada for the next few months, and was eventually offered a similar position with a different health and wellness brand.

I restarted the visa process and returned to the same immigration office at the San Diego border, since they had processed my visa before and I was familiar with it. Hours passed, with many confused opinions about my case. The officer I spoke to was kind but told me that, due to my previous issues, I needed to apply for my visa through the consulate. I told her I hadn’t been aware I needed to apply that way, but had no problem doing it.

Then she said something strange: “You didn’t do anything wrong. You are not in trouble, you are not a criminal.”

I remember thinking: Why would she say that? Of course I’m not a criminal!

She then told me they had to send me back to Canada. That didn’t concern me; I assumed I would simply book a flight home. But as I sat searching for flights, a man approached me.

“Come with me,” he said.

There was no explanation, no warning. He led me to a room, took my belongings from my hands and ordered me to put my hands against the wall. A woman immediately began patting me down. The commands came rapid-fire, one after another, too fast to process.

They took my shoes and pulled out my shoelaces.

“What are you doing? What is happening?” I asked.

“You are being detained.”

“I don’t understand. What does that mean? For how long?”

“I don’t know.”

That would be the response to nearly every question I would ask over the next two weeks: “I don’t know.”

They brought me downstairs for a series of interviews and medical questions, searched my bags and told me I had to get rid of half my belongings because I couldn’t take everything with me.

“Take everything with me where?” I asked.

A woman asked me for the name of someone they could contact on my behalf. In moments like this, you realize you don’t actually know anyone’s phone number anymore. By some miracle, I had recently memorized my best friend Britt’s number because I had been putting my grocery points on her account.

I gave them her phone number.

They handed me a mat and a folded-up sheet of aluminum foil.

“What is this?”

“Your blanket.”

“I don’t understand.”

I was taken to a tiny, freezing cement cell with bright fluorescent lights and a toilet. There were five other women lying on their mats with the aluminum sheets wrapped over them, looking like dead bodies. The guard locked the door behind me.

For two days, we remained in that cell, only leaving briefly for food. The lights never turned off, we never knew what time it was and no one answered our questions. No one in the cell spoke English, so I either tried to sleep or meditate to keep from having a breakdown. I didn’t trust the food, so I fasted, assuming I wouldn’t be there long.

On the third day, I was finally allowed to make a phone call. I called Britt and told her that I didn’t understand what was happening, that no one would tell me when I was going home, and that she was my only contact.

They gave me a stack of paperwork to sign and told me I was being given a five-year ban unless I applied for re-entry through the consulate. The officer also said it didn’t matter whether I signed the papers or not; it was happening regardless.

I was so delirious that I just signed. I told them I would pay for my flight home and asked when I could leave.

No answer.

Then they moved me to another cell – this time with no mat or blanket. I sat on the freezing cement floor for hours. That’s when I realized they were processing me into real jail: the Otay Mesa Detention Center.

I was told to shower, given a jail uniform, fingerprinted and interviewed. I begged for information.

“How long will I be here?”

“I don’t know your case,” the man said. “Could be days. Could be weeks. But I’m telling you right now – you need to mentally prepare yourself for months.”

Months.

I felt like I was going to throw up.

I was taken to the nurse’s office for a medical check. She asked what had happened to me. She had never seen a Canadian there before. When I told her my story, she grabbed my hand and said: “Do you believe in God?”

I told her I had only recently found God, but that I now believed in God more than anything.

“I believe God brought you here for a reason,” she said. “I know it feels like your life is in a million pieces, but you will be OK. Through this, I think you are going to find a way to help others.”

At the time, I didn’t know what that meant. She asked if she could pray for me. I held her hands and wept.

I felt like I had been sent an angel.

I was then placed in a real jail unit: two levels of cells surrounding a common area, just like in the movies. I was put in a tiny cell alone with a bunk bed and a toilet.

The best part: there were blankets. After three days without one, I wrapped myself in mine and finally felt some comfort.

For the first day, I didn’t leave my cell. I continued fasting, terrified that the food might make me sick. The only available water came from the tap attached to the toilet in our cells or a sink in the common area, neither of which felt safe to drink.

Eventually, I forced myself to step out, meet the guards and learn the rules. One of them told me: “No fighting.”

“I’m a lover, not a fighter,” I joked. He laughed.

I asked if there had ever been a fight here.

“In this unit? No,” he said. “No one in this unit has a criminal record.”

That’s when I started meeting the other women.

That’s when I started hearing their stories.

And that’s when I made a decision: I would never allow myself to feel sorry for my situation again. No matter how hard this was, I had to be grateful. Because every woman I met was in an even more difficult position than mine.

There were around 140 of us in our unit. Many women had lived and worked in the US legally for years but had overstayed their visas – often after reapplying and being denied. They had all been detained without warning.

If someone is a criminal, I agree they should be taken off the streets. But not one of these women had a criminal record. These women acknowledged that they shouldn’t have overstayed and took responsibility for their actions. But their frustration wasn’t about being held accountable; it was about the endless, bureaucratic limbo they had been trapped in.

The real issue was how long it took to get out of the system, with no clear answers, no timeline and no way to move forward. Once deported, many have no choice but to abandon everything they own because the cost of shipping their belongings back is too high.

I met a woman who had been on a road trip with her husband. She said they had 10-year work visas. While driving near the San Diego border, they mistakenly got into a lane leading to Mexico. They stopped and told the agent they didn’t have their passports on them, expecting to be redirected. Instead, they were detained. They are both pastors.

I met a family of three who had been living in the US for 11 years with work authorizations. They paid taxes and were waiting for their green cards. Every year, the mother had to undergo a background check, but this time, she was told to bring her whole family. When they arrived, they were taken into custody and told their status would now be processed from within the detention center.

Another woman from Canada had been living in the US with her husband who was detained after a traffic stop. She admitted she had overstayed her visa and accepted that she would be deported. But she had been stuck in the system for almost six weeks because she hadn’t had her passport. Who runs casual errands with their passport?

One woman had a 10-year visa. When it expired, she moved back to her home country, Venezuela. She admitted she had overstayed by one month before leaving. Later, she returned for a vacation and entered the US without issue. But when she took a domestic flight from Miami to Los Angeles, she was picked up by Ice and detained. She couldn’t be deported because Venezuela wasn’t accepting deportees. She didn’t know when she was getting out.

There was a girl from India who had overstayed her student visa for three days before heading back home. She then came back to the US on a new, valid visa to finish her master’s degree and was handed over to Ice due to the three days she had overstayed on her previous visa.

There were women who had been picked up off the street, from outside their workplaces, from their homes. All of these women told me that they had been detained for time spans ranging from a few weeks to 10 months. One woman’s daughter was outside the detention center protesting for her release.

That night, the pastor invited me to a service she was holding. A girl who spoke English translated for me as the women took turns sharing their prayers – prayers for their sick parents, for the children they hadn’t seen in weeks, for the loved ones they had been torn away from.

Then, unexpectedly, they asked if they could pray for me. I was new here, and they wanted to welcome me. They formed a circle around me, took my hands and prayed. I had never felt so much love, energy and compassion from a group of strangers in my life. Everyone was crying.

At 3am the next day, I was woken up in my cell.

“Pack your bag. You’re leaving.”

I jolted upright. “I get to go home?”

The officer shrugged. “I don’t know where you’re going.”

Of course. No one ever knew anything.

I grabbed my things and went downstairs, where 10 other women stood in silence, tears streaming down their faces. But these weren’t happy tears. That was the moment I learned the term “transferred”.

For many of these women, detention centers had become a twisted version of home. They had formed bonds, established routines and found slivers of comfort in the friendships they had built. Now, without warning, they were being torn apart and sent somewhere new. Watching them say goodbye, clinging to each other, was gut-wrenching.

I had no idea what was waiting for me next. In hindsight, that was probably for the best.

Our next stop was Arizona, the San Luis Regional Detention Center. The transfer process lasted 24 hours, a sleepless, grueling ordeal. This time, men were transported with us. Roughly 50 of us were crammed into a prison bus for the next five hours, packed together – women in the front, men in the back. We were bound in chains that wrapped tightly around our waists, with our cuffed hands secured to our bodies and shackles restraining our feet, forcing every movement into a slow, clinking struggle.

When we arrived at our next destination, we were forced to go through the entire intake process all over again, with medical exams, fingerprinting – and pregnancy tests; they lined us up in a filthy cell, squatting over a communal toilet, holding Dixie cups of urine while the nurse dropped pregnancy tests in each of our cups. It was disgusting.

We sat in freezing-cold jail cells for hours, waiting for everyone to be processed. Across the room, one of the women suddenly spotted her husband. They had both been detained and were now seeing each other for the first time in weeks.

The look on her face – pure love, relief and longing – was something I’ll never forget.

We were beyond exhausted. I felt like I was hallucinating.

The guard tossed us each a blanket: “Find a bed.”

There were no pillows. The room was ice cold, and one blanket wasn’t enough. Around me, women lay curled into themselves, heads covered, looking like a room full of corpses. This place made the last jail feel like the Four Seasons.

I kept telling myself: Do not let this break you.

Thirty of us shared one room. We were given one Styrofoam cup for water and one plastic spoon that we had to reuse for every meal. I eventually had to start trying to eat and, sure enough, I got sick. None of the uniforms fit, and everyone had men’s shoes on. The towels they gave us to shower were hand towels. They wouldn’t give us more blankets. The fluorescent lights shined on us 24/7.

Everything felt like it was meant to break you. Nothing was explained to us. I wasn’t given a phone call. We were locked in a room, no daylight, with no idea when we would get out.

I tried to stay calm as every fiber of my being raged towards panic mode. I didn’t know how I would tell Britt where I was. Then, as if sent from God, one of the women showed me a tablet attached to the wall where I could send emails. I only remembered my CEO’s email from memory. I typed out a message, praying he would see it.

He responded.

Through him, I was able to connect with Britt. She told me that they were working around the clock trying to get me out. But no one had any answers; the system made it next to impossible. I told her about the conditions in this new place, and that was when we decided to go to the media.

She started working with a reporter and asked whether I would be able to call her so she could loop him in. The international phone account that Britt had previously tried to set up for me wasn’t working, so one of the other women offered to let me use her phone account to make the call.

We were all in this together.

With nothing to do in my cell but talk, I made new friends – women who had risked everything for the chance at a better life for themselves and their families.

Through them, I learned the harsh reality of seeking asylum. Showing me their physical scars, they explained how they had paid smugglers anywhere from $20,000 to $60,000 to reach the US border, enduring brutal jungles and horrendous conditions.

One woman had been offered asylum in Mexico within two weeks but had been encouraged to keep going to the US. Now, she was stuck, living in a nightmare, separated from her young children for months. She sobbed, telling me how she felt like the worst mother in the world.

Many of these women were highly educated and spoke multiple languages. Yet, they had been advised to pretend they didn’t speak English because it would supposedly increase their chances of asylum.

Some believed they were being used as examples, as warnings to others not to try to come.

Women were starting to panic in this new facility, and knowing I was most likely the first person to get out, they wrote letters and messages for me to send to their families.

It felt like we had all been kidnapped, thrown into some sort of sick psychological experiment meant to strip us of every ounce of strength and dignity.

We were from different countries, spoke different languages and practiced different religions. Yet, in this place, none of that mattered. Everyone took care of each other. Everyone shared food. Everyone held each other when someone broke down. Everyone fought to keep each other’s hope alive.

I got a message from Britt. My story had started to blow up in the media.

Almost immediately after, I was told I was being released.

My Ice agent, who had never spoken to me, told my lawyer I could have left sooner if I had signed a withdrawal form, and that they hadn’t known I would pay for my own flight home.

From the moment I arrived, I begged every officer I saw to let me pay for my own ticket home. Not a single one of them ever spoke to me about my case.

To put things into perspective: I had a Canadian passport, lawyers, resources, media attention, friends, family and even politicians advocating for me. Yet, I was still detained for nearly two weeks.

Imagine what this system is like for every other person in there.

A small group of us were transferred back to San Diego at 2am – one last road trip, once again shackled in chains. I was then taken to the airport, where two officers were waiting for me. The media was there, so the officers snuck me in through a side door, trying to avoid anyone seeing me in restraints. I was beyond grateful that, at the very least, I didn’t have to walk through the airport in chains.

To my surprise, the officers escorting me were incredibly kind, and even funny. It was the first time I had laughed in weeks.

I asked if I could put my shoelaces back on.

“Yes,” one of them said with a grin. “But you better not run.”

“Yeah,” the other added. “Or we’ll have to tackle you in the airport. That’ll really make the headlines.”

I laughed, then told them I had spent a lot of time observing the guards during my detention and I couldn’t believe how often I saw humans treating other humans with such disregard. “But don’t worry,” I joked. “You two get five stars.”

When I finally landed in Canada, my mom and two best friends were waiting for me. So was the media. I spoke to them briefly, numb and delusional from exhaustion.

It was surreal listening to my friends recount everything they had done to get me out: working with lawyers, reaching out to the media, making endless calls to detention centers, desperately trying to get through to Ice or anyone who could help. They said the entire system felt rigged, designed to make it nearly impossible for anyone to get out.

The reality became clear: Ice detention isn’t just a bureaucratic nightmare. It’s a business. These facilities are privately owned and run for profit.

Companies like CoreCivic and GEO Group receive government funding based on the number of people they detain, which is why they lobby for stricter immigration policies. It’s a lucrative business: CoreCivic made over $560m from Ice contracts in a single year. In 2024, GEO Group made more than $763m from Ice contracts.

The more detainees, the more money they make. It stands to reason that these companies have no incentive to release people quickly. What I had experienced was finally starting to make sense.

[markrosewater]

I want to speak out against the whole push towards DEI. I feel that ever since you made the push to make identity the forefront of a character it has hurt the stories you tell. Captain Sisay's race was never the focus of her character and she was a complete badass! And I fear if you did it over again Gerrard would be trans, black and disabled just because. It also cheapens the stories of world devastation when characters worry more about their gender than Bolas destroying everything.

The reason I started this blog is so we can have frank conversations about things, so please let’s talk about this.

Imagine if every time you turned on the TV or watched a movie, no one looked like you. For some of us, that’s never happened. We see ourselves constantly, so it’s hard to truly understand what not seeing yourself represented in media is like.

I do have a personal window to this experience. While I am white and male, there’s an area where I am the minority - my religion. Jews are just under two and a half percent of the US population. I have had many experiences where I’ve been in situations where everything is geared towards a group I do not belong to, and zero consideration is given that not everyone at that event is part of the majority.

You just feel invisible and like an outsider. It’s not a great feeling. And I just experience it a tiny portion of time, only things that are geared specifically towards something religious. Most minorities have this feeling all the time, whenever they’re outside their personal community.

Now imagine, after years of not seeing yourself ever, you finally see someone that looks like you, but nothing about the character rings remotely true. They don’t sound like you, they don’t act like you, the facts about their day-to-day life are just wrong. It’s clear whoever wrote the character didn’t truly understand the lived experience of the character, so the character feels fake.

You bring up Sisay. Michael Ryan and I didn’t technically create Sisay (she played a small role in the Mirage story), but we did do a lot to flesh out her character as the creators of the Weatherlight Saga. We turned her from a minor character into a major one.

And while I’m proud, in general, of our work on the Weatherlight Saga, I don’t think we did justice to Sisay as a character. Neither Michael nor I have any knowledge of what it’s like to be a black woman. Nor did we ever talk to someone who did.

And if you’re someone like us that has no knowledge of that experience, you probably didn’t notice. But that doesn’t mean it’s a good thing.

Imagine if we made a movie about your life, and we just made everything up. We invented people you never knew, we gave you a job you never had, and we had you say things you’d never say. The movie might even be a good movie, but your response would be, but that’s not my life - that’s not me.

Now imagine we put the movie out, and people that never met you assumed that was what you were like. When people met you for the first time, they assumed things, because, you know, they’d seen the movie.

That’s what misrepresenting people does. It not only makes them feel not seen, it falsely represents them, spreading lies, often stereotypes, making people believe things about them that aren’t true.

Our move towards diversity is just us trying to better reflect the world and the people in it. We’re trying to do to everyone else what a certain portion of people get every day without ever having to think about it.

But why are we “making it the forefront of their character”? We’re not. We’re making it a part of their character. But in a world where you’re not used to ever seeing it, it feels louder than it is. Things that are a natural part of the world that you’re used to feel like the background of the story because you understand the context to it.

If a man kisses his wife before going off to a battle, that’s not a big deal. It’s just a thing a husband might do to his wife when he leaves. It’s not the forefront of his character. It’s just part of his life. But you’ve seen it hundreds of times, so it feels normal.

When someone does something that isn’t your lived experience it pulls focus. It seems like a big deal, but only because it’s new to you. It’s just as mundane a thing to that character as the man kissing his wife is to him.

Even the turn “pushing” implies that it’s unnaturally here, that we’re forcing something that naturally shouldn’t be. But why? That thing exists naturally in the real world, and it doesn’t make the real world any less. Maybe you’re less aware of it, but is making you aware of how others live their life “pushing” something on you?

How you live your life is represented constantly, everywhere. Why isn’t over-representing your experience at the expense of everyone else’s “pushing” it? Why is media only being the experience of those in power the “proper way”?

Having more depth and variety doesn’t lessen stories. It makes them deeper, more rich, more nuanced. In short, it makes them better stories. In my former life, I was a professional writer. I took a lot of writing classes. One of the truism of writing is “speaking truth leads to better stories”.

There’s another famous quote: “When you’re accustomed to privilege, equality feels like oppression.” You’re used to being over-represented, so being a little less over-represented feels like something has been taken from you. But really it hasn’t. Having a better sense of the rest of the world comes with a lot of benefits.

I’ll use food as an example. Let’s say all you were ever exposed to was the food of your heritage. Yeah, that food is really good, but sometimes isn’t it nice to eat foods of other nationalities? Isn’t your life better that you have a choice? Isn’t your exposure and access to the food of other nationalities a positive in your life?

Exposure to variety is a positive. It allows you to learn about things you didn’t know, experience things things you’ve never experienced, and get a better sense of understanding of your friends and neighbors.

Our actions are not to harm anyone, and if you think that’s what we’re doing, please take a minute to actually absorb what I’m saying. You’ve spent your whole life metaphorically eating one type of food, and we’re just trying to show you how much you’ve missed out on.

And while this might not impact you directly, we’re making a whole bunch of people felt seen. We’re bringing joy. Think of it this way. We make a lot of cards. Not every card is for you. But if it makes someone else happy, if they get to include it in a deck, and it makes Magic better for them, how is it harming you that we include it? You have so many cards that you can play.

To this poster or people that share their viewpoint, the narrative that a gain for someone else is an attack on you is just not true. As I just pointed out above, you play a game all about personal choice, about players getting to choose how they play and enjoy the game. Why should life be any different than Magic?

Thanks for reading.

[corkinavoid]

DPxDC John Constantine's How To: Ghost Kids (pt.2)

[<- part 1]

"Oh, yeah," John jerks his head up like he just remembered the fact people are supposed to have names at all. He gestures to the kids, pointing to each of them as he introduces, "Daniel, Daniel, and Danielle."

This time, all three kids flip him off simultaneously. Bruce clears his throat, trying to figure out if Constantine is messing with him and, if so, in which parts. Since, so far, everything the man has said sounds like a poor attempt at pulling his leg.

"I don't think they like those," he cautiously says, and the kids whip their heads at him, nodding furiously. Bruce can't help but be just a little enamored with the way they behave.

"Of, sod off, at this point I don't care what they like," John straightens up with a dismissive, albeit weak, wave of his hands, and rubs his face, "They are menaces. Sometimes by accident, but mostly on purpose. Their grandfather thought it would be easier to handle them if they were not teenagers, and while I agreed with his reasoning at the time, I-" he glances at the kids, who all have displeased grimaces of various levels on their faces, "I have been made to reconsider. I swear that ancient bitch is laughing his ass off wherever he is now."

The kids suddenly grin. They are not very friendly, nor polite smiles - if anything, they look a bit nightmarish. An old grandfather's clock in his study makes a very loud ticking noise.

"See?" John whips his head to look at said clock, the expression on his face bordering on insane. His eye twitches.

If Bruce doesn't do anything now, he might become one of the very few people who managed to witness John Constantine, the Laughing Magician, have a meltdown. So he sighs and decides to solve the problems one at a time.

Which means that no matter how alarmed or suspicious he is, his first move would not be to interrogate either the man or the kids.

"You can sleep in one of the guest rooms, I trust you can find it on your own," he tells John, almost softly, as he catches the girl from slipping away from his lap, "Is there anything I need to know about children before you fall unconscious?"

John slumps with relief, so obviously that Bruce almost smiles. Hardships of raising - or, watching, for that matter - kids, he understands.

"Yes," he breathes out with an air of exhilaration and turns to the kids again, pointing to the middle child, "Danny is the original. He is from this dimension and timeline, that is. Dan," he turns his finger to the older boy, "is in the wrong timeline, he's Danny's future evil self redeemed into older bratty brother. Dani," he switches to the girl, "is Danny's clone, made by his arch-nemesis of a godfather. If she starts melting at any point, wake me up immediately. If any of them start floating, sprouting tentacles, speaking to walls in static, or glowing, don't."

Bruce looks down to the kids. So, definitely metas, that would explain the government trying to get them... Or, no, it wouldn't because he is fairly certain no government is going to blatantly ignore the Meta Protection Acts.

"Don't let them raise the dead, and if you give them food, make sure it doesn't have a face. If you find more than three of them, it means one of them has duplicated, don't worry, they will absorb it back later. Absolutely don't let them touch any guns," Constantine is backing down to the door as he speaks, his gaze flickering from the kids to Bruce and back every second. Like he is leaving a ticking bomb in Bruce's lap, and not three children. "Danny is, comparatively, the most responsible one, the other two are up for any dubious trouble they can get to at any moment. Oh, and their memories are wonky because of de-aging, they remember some things but not others, so if they say something particularly disturbing, it's most likely some random piece of knowledge they managed to keep."

Bruce raises an eyebrow. He did get the part about the kids being, well, abnormal in the matters of their origins, but the disjointed set of rules and advices doesn't help as much as Constantine probably thinks it does.

"Allergies, preferences, ages they were before?" He tries to get at least some more info down before John disappears through the door. Actually, maybe he should send someone to handcuff the man to the bed lest he disappears completely.

"None, but don't let them eat cutlery. Danny likes space, Dani has a thing for exploring, and Dan likes violence." The older kid stirs in Bruce's lap and says something in the direction of Constantine. No sound comes out, but the man seems to get what he's trying to say anyway, "Okay, yes, that was rude of me, sorry. Dan likes... exercise," he ends up with, and that placate the boy enough to slump down and cross his arms. John sighs, "They were seventeen, fourteen, and twenty respectively. Now," he snaps his fingers, and suddenly Bruce can hear the girl - Dani - humming a tune under her breath. So, he lifted the silence spell, it seems.

"Good fucking luck," John wishes to Bruce, earnestly, and all but vanishes away.

Bruce sighs and looks down to the kids.

"Are you hungry?" He tries, and all eyes are on him at once, attentive and unblinking.

"Fruitloops," Danny says, and while Bruce is positive that's the name for a cereal, he gets a feeling that's not what the kid meant.

[chuxmy]

Hello! I really love all your work, especially the Seung Jae one. Speaking of Seung Jae, can I request a one shot smut about him (if you're comfortable to write smut) where reader and him have a private and secret relationship. Then one day, someone was flirting to the reader but reader is so shy and naive that she thinks that he is friendly to her. Then, Seung Jae saw it and felt rage, jealousy, and possessiveness towards her. Btw, their relationship is not toxic but there are times that it can be toxic when Seung Jae can't control his emotion. Thankie 😘

Only mine

Pairings: Geum Seongje x Fem!Reader

Summary: You smiled at the wrong guy.

Warnings: Smut, explicit sexual content, possessiveness, jealousy, praise kink, mdni

A/N: *gulp* it‘s kinda hot in here..

You’ve always been soft.

Polite. Shy. The kind of person who smiles at strangers without thinking twice. It’s part of your charm one of the reasons Seongje fell for you. But sometimes, that sweetness felt like a curse.

Because it made people think they had a chance with you.

And today, someone took that chance.

It was during break, near the vending machines. A boy from another class. You didn’t know him well he wasn’t even on your radar. But he struck up a conversation. Said something about how you looked better every time he saw you, called you “adorable” in this half joking, half serious voice.

You thought he was being friendly.

You smiled. Awkwardly. Tucked your hair behind your ear and said, “That’s really nice of you,” like you always did.

You didn’t see the possessive stare from across the hallway.

But Seongje did.

He saw everything.

You don’t notice his silence until hours later after school, when you meet in the unused music room, like always.

You close the door behind you, expecting his usual smirk, his lazy voice teasing, “Took you long enough.”

But when you turn, he’s already across the room. Eyes dark. Hands in his pockets.

Something is off.

“Seongje?” you ask gently. “What’s wrong?”

He says nothing. Just stares at you.

Then moves.

Fast.

You barely register the way his hand slides behind your neck, how his mouth crashes onto yours, how your back slams into the nearest wall with a gasp. His kiss is rough. Messy. Tongue pushing past your lips like he’s trying to claim every part of you.

You whimper, clutching at his hoodie. “W-wait, what—?”

“You smiled at him,” he hisses against your lips.

You blink. “Who—?”

“That fucker by the vending machines.”

Your breath catches. “He was just being nice…”

He laughs, but it’s humorless. “You really believe that?”

You swallow. “I didn’t think—”

“That’s the problem. You never think when it comes to this shit.”

His tone isn’t cruel, but it’s sharp. Laced with frustration. With something worse.. hurt. As if your smile had cut him in ways you didn’t even understand.

“I’m sorry,” you say, voice small. “I didn’t mean to upset you—”

He kisses you again. Harder. Teeth clashing.

“You didn’t upset me,” he growls. “He did. But watching you smile at him like that… like you enjoyed it…”

“I didn’t,” you whisper.

But he doesn’t stop.

His hands are already under your shirt, calloused fingers skating across your ribs, making you shiver.

“You don’t get it, do you?” he murmurs darkly. “You don’t see how guys look at you. You think they just want to be friends?”

Your silence answers for you.

His hand slides up your thigh, under your skirt. You gasp when his fingers brush your inner thigh, the heat of him pressed between your legs.

“They want you,” he breathes, dragging his lips down your jaw, to your neck. “They want to take you from me. And you don’t even fucking notice.”

His touch is rough, almost desperate, like he’s trying to erase the idea of anyone else from your skin.

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” you say softly, trembling.

“I know,” he mutters, dragging your panties down. “You never do.”

Then, lower, much lower he rasps, “But you need to remember who this belongs to.”

You inhale sharply when he dips his head, mouth brushing against your core.

“I—I didn’t know someone could be this jealous…”

He looks up, eyes blazing.

“You think this is just jealousy?” His voice drops an octave. “I love you so much it makes me crazy.”

Then he slides his tongue along your folds.

You choke on your breath, hand flying to your mouth to muffle the moan. Your other hand buries in his hair, gripping tightly as his tongue moves with skill you didn’t know someone like him had.

“You’re already soaked,” he murmurs against you. “You liked me getting jealous, didn’t you?”

“N-no, I—”

“Liar.”

He fucks you with his tongue until your thighs shake.

Then he stands, pulling you to him. Lifting you with one strong arm under your thighs, he carries you to the piano bench and sets you down, your legs spread around him.

His pants drop. You barely see it happen, your eyes are half lidded with need, your breath uneven.

He doesn’t ask.

He slides in deep, all at once.

You cry out, your hands flying to his shoulders.

He’s big, he always is and this position makes it even deeper. You squirm, gasping his name.

“I know,” he groans, forehead resting against yours. “I know it’s a lot.”

But he doesn’t stop.

He won’t.

His hips begin to move slow at first, then faster. He grunts softly each time he sinks into you, the wet sound of your bodies filling the small room.

“You’re mine,” he whispers again and again. “Mine. Mine. Mine.”

“Yours,” you gasp, clinging to him like a lifeline. “Only yours.”

Your body wraps around him like you were made for him. His thrusts hit deep, dragging broken sounds from your throat.

You cry out when he hits that perfect spot inside you again. And again. And again.

“Look at me,” he demands, voice wrecked. “I want to see your face when I make you come.”

You do.

You look up at him, eyes wide and shining with emotion and he shatters.

“Fuck, I love you.”

Then your orgasm slams into you like a wave, blinding, breath stealing, intense. You moan, body shaking, clinging to him with everything you have.

He follows seconds later, hips jerking as he empties inside you, groaning your name.

When it’s over, he doesn’t move.

He stays pressed against you, arms around your waist, face buried in your shoulder.

You’re both breathing hard.

Your fingers stroke his hair.

“…You okay now?” you whisper.

He laughs quietly. “No.”

You blink.

He lifts his head. “Because I know I’ll feel this again. The second someone else even looks at you.”

You smile sadly. “You can’t keep getting mad at me for being… me.”

“I know.” He kisses your collarbone. “But I can remind you who you belong to.”

You cup his cheek.

“You don’t have to remind me.”

He closes his eyes, leaning into your hand.

“…I still will.”

[neferaskingdom]

♡ Where's The Trophy? He Just Comes Running Over To Me | MV1

NEFERASKINGDOM

Summary: She ended it — he said she was too much. But now every time he wins, he looks for her.

A/N: Here's a little drabble for you guys. Inspiration is still on the down low but MAX WON IN SUZUKA GUYS and this lil idea struck.

MAX VERSTAPPEN MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST

It was all over the internet. The photos of him standing on the second step of the podium in Melbourne, jaw tight, eyes scanning the crowd with this distant, searching look. He should've been proud—second place with a car that was fighting him every step of the way—but it was like he was waiting for something. Or someone.

People on Twitter noticed. Reddit too. The way he didn’t smile properly, the way he glanced toward the sidelines right before the champagne came out. There were theories. Some people even guessed right. He was looking for her.

Max hadn’t been himself for a while. And maybe that wasn’t fair to say, because he was still fast. Still pushing the Red Bull harder than anyone else could’ve. But the car was holding him back this season. Everyone knew it. It wasn’t just bad luck or a weird setup. It was an actual issue. Aero, balance, whatever the hell the engineers were arguing about behind closed doors. Max could drive like hell, but if the car wasn’t ready, it just wasn’t.

Still, it didn’t stop people from whispering about him. And it didn’t stop her from wondering, in quiet moments, if he was okay.

It had been almost six months since they broke up.

Not that the anniversary needed marking.

It happened just before his fourth championship.

The fight had been coming for weeks—tension simmering beneath every conversation, every missed call, every cancelled dinner. She gave him space, tried not to take it personally when he snapped or forgot her birthday or ghosted her texts for two straight days because he was in sim sessions and meetings.

She really tried.

But he pushed. And pushed. And then, one night, he said something he couldn't take back.

It was late. Past midnight. The apartment in Monaco was dead silent except for the sound of Max’s voice echoing from the kitchen, clipped and sharp.

"You don't get it. You never have."

She was standing by the window, arms crossed, the city lights painting her face in cool blue. "Don’t turn this into that. I’ve done nothing but try to understand."

He walked past her, tossing his phone onto the counter with a thud. “You think trying means texting me after every quali like that’s supposed to fix it? I don’t need a cheerleader. I need someone who doesn’t make everything harder by hovering all the time. You're just too much!”

The words came out fast, angry. He froze as soon as he said them.

“I didn’t mean—”

She blinked at him. Just once. Then picked up her bag from the back of the chair. “Yeah. You did.”

Max moved toward her quickly, regret all over his face. “No, I didn’t. I swear. I’m—fuck, I’m tired, I’m under so much pressure, I—”

“I gave you space,” she said, voice quiet but shaking. “I let you push me away. I made excuses for you. I convinced myself this was just temporary. But this?”

He reached out, catching her wrist. “Please don’t go. I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry. I’m just tired. I love you.”

She looked at him, heart breaking and already halfway out the door. “I love you too. But I can’t do this anymore. I need space to think.”

She left. No big scene. Just keys on the counter and a cab at the curb.

The last time they spoke was the night of his fourth championship. She watched the race from her couch, pride and heartbreak mixing in her chest like poison. When he crossed the line, the tears came fast. It was supposed to be a moment they shared.

She sent him a message. Just one.

Her: congrats on the title. you deserved it.

He replied five minutes later.

Max: Please call me. I need to talk to you.

Max: I’m so sorry. I think about you every day.

Max: I fucked up. Please don’t shut me out forever.

Max: I know I don’t deserve it, but if there’s any chance at all… please.

She didn’t answer right away. It took her hours to even look at her phone again. And when she finally did, she typed out something simple.

Her: I’m proud of you. I really am. I know it was a stressful time. But what you said… it stuck. I just need some space. I hope you understand.

She didn’t text back after that. Not for months.

Then came the 2025 season.

It started off okay. Not great. Not Max levels of dominance. The car was twitchy, unstable in corners, and the engineers were playing catch-up from day one.

He still dragged it to second place in Australia. It was a miracle drive. But when he stood on the podium, he wasn’t smiling the way he used to.

Then China happened. P4. Not a disaster, but it hurt. Everyone could see he was wringing every last drop out of that machine and it still wasn’t enough. But he wasn’t throwing tantrums or being cold with the press. He just looked… tired.

That was when Lando started texting her.

Lando: okay hear me out

Lando: come to japan

Her: lol what?

Lando: serious. Quadrant’s first launch post-rebrand is in Suzuka and it’s a big deal and I want you there. you always said you’d come if we did something huge. You promised

Lando: don’t be mean i’m sensitive

Her: I don’t think that counts as a promise lol

Her: lando.

Lando: Please. I’ll keep you away from him. swear on my life. you won’t even smell a red bull. max won’t know. just come support your favourite british gamer boy.

Her: I’m not sure it’s a good idea.

Lando: It’s for me not for him. come on. just this one time.

Lando: I’ll buy you japanese snacks and let you win mario kart. i’m begging.

Her: you never let anyone win mario kart.

Lando: but for you. I’ll throw the race.

Her: …

Her: fine. one weekend.

Lando: YES. you’re the best. he won’t even know. it’s gonna be chill. just quadrant stuff. you’ll have fun.

Suzuka was buzzing. She had an amazing time with the Quadrant crew, watching all the behind-the-scenes of photoshoots and going out for ramen with Lando. But she couldn’t avoid the paddock. Not when Saturday’s quali brought a surprise. Max was on pole.

She watched it all from the shadows, tucked behind a wall of McLaren gear and camera rigs, staying low-key like she promised. But when he stepped out of the car, helmet tucked under his arm, grinning wide like it was 2023 again, her heart did this dumb little flip.

God, she missed him.

Race day came. And Max? He dominated.

He drove like a man possessed. Fast. Precise. Every lap smoother than the last. The Red Bull finally looked decent again—maybe not perfect, but close enough in his hands.

And when he crossed the finish line, hands raised, engine screaming, she didn’t mean to move. But her feet took her to the barricades at parc fermé before her brain caught up.

She stayed hidden, sandwiched between McLaren crew and camera guys.

Max was all celebration—yelling over the radio, hugging his engineers, trading high fives and slaps on the back. The joy on his face was infectious, the kind of smile she hadn’t seen in ages. He placed his helmet gently on the stand, grabbed a water bottle from the pit wall, and turned slightly—ready to take a sip—when he spotted her.

He froze.

The bottle slipped right out of his hand, hitting the concrete with a loud thud as he stared.

Then he ran.

No hesitation, no second-guessing. Just sprinted straight toward her and pulled her into a hug so tight it knocked the breath from her lungs.

She was too stunned to speak, too overwhelmed to do anything but hug him back. Her fingers curled into the back of his suit, and she held on as the flashes of cameras popped around them like fireworks.

She glanced up, catching Lando a few steps away trying to subtly signal if she needed help—if he should pull Max off her. But she shook her head, just barely.

Max wasn’t letting go.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmured into her hair, over and over again, voice hoarse with emotion. “I’m sorry. I missed you. I’m so sorry.”

She leaned back just enough to cradle his face in her hands, thumbs brushing his cheeks as she looked at him—really looked at him—for the first time in months.

“Congratulations Max” She whispered, watching him calm down a little.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at her like he was afraid she'd disappear.

"I didn’t know you were here," he said finally, voice rough.

She nodded. "Wasn’t planned. Lando guilt-tripped me."

He gave a breathy laugh. Then his face sobered. "You saw the whole thing?"

She nodded again.

Max stepped closer. "I meant what I said. About being sorry. I think about it every day."

"Max—"

"Just let me say this," he interrupted, voice low. "I was angry. At the team. At the car. At myself. And I used you like a punching bag and took you for granted. That was on me."

She looked at him for a long second before smiling widely.

"Go celebrate," she whispered against his shoulder. "You earned it. I’ll meet you in your driver’s room later ok?."

He pulled back just enough to look at her. Hope flickered in his eyes. "Yeah?"

You nodded. "We’ll talk. After."

He didn’t push for more. Just touched their foreheads briefly before turning back towards the staff ushering him to the cooldown room.

And this time, as Max stepped onto the podium, standing tall as the Dutch Anthem played in the background, as he sprayed Champagne on Lando and Oscar, he didn’t need to search the crowd.

He already knew she was there.

[quickestgold]

Dr. Abbot / The Pitt

Resident!reader has a crush on Dr. Abbot, but never acts on it because they work so well together and he's never given her any firm indication that he likes more than as his favourite resident. But every so often the praise he'll give is just on the edge of being unprofessional without crossing that line...so she decides to go for it and he rejects her. Before they can speak again she's in a car accident and is brought into the pitt and he goes *feral*. Bonus points if he breaks down and admits his feelings when he thinks she can't hear him because she's so out of it, but she remembers everything. Extra bonus points if he thinks she's going to die at any point. ALL the bonus points if there's a spicy ending....or spicy anything.

Say It First: Dr. Jack Abbot x Reader

Synopsis: Jack has grown used to the emptiness in his heart, a quiet companion that has kept him safe for too long. But when you finally speak your truth, he realizes the hardest battles aren’t fought on the field or in the chaos of the ER, but in the silence between two hearts longing for each other.

Warnings: Canon-typical depictions of trauma, angst, hurt/comfort, rejection, mentions of drunk driving, death, car accidents, reader is injured

Word count: 3.6k

A/n: Thanks for sending this in!! I got so many requests and I’ll try to work through them, but a) this was the first and b) this may or may not be inspired by real events (minus the accident) lmfaooo yikes good times…. Also, no spicy ending, because of, well, where I've ended it, but a bit of flavor sprinkled in... this is soo long / slow burn sorry, pls lmk what you think <3

Thirty-six years old. A mother of two. Only trying to get home. Gone. In the blink of an eye. All because one man chose to get behind the wheel after a night out.

You spent the last hour coding the woman, the air thick and heavy with grief. After taking a minute to honor her life, your feet carry you instinctively towards the roof.

The first rays of the morning sun gently kiss your face and the weight on your chest begins to lift, if only slightly. Your shoulders drop slowly with each cleansing breath, as you release the night’s tragedy into the vastness of the world below.

Your eyes meet a familiar silhouette standing behind the railing. As always, a little too close to the edge.

"What are you doing here?" Jack turns around, his features softening at the sight of you.

"Can a girl not enjoy a beautiful sunrise in peace?" you counter playfully.

That's a lie. You were looking for him. You always find him here.

"Heard you had a rough one", his tone full of sympathy, or just understanding.

A flicker of pain flashes across your face and without missing a beat, Jack steps back, moving to stand beside you, just behind the railing. His hand rests on your shoulder, warm and reassuring, the lightest of squeezes grounding you.

Your jaw tightens. "She had groceries and toys in the back of her car." With a deep sigh, "Her kids... are still waiting for her to come home."

He lets your words hang there, giving you time to process the loss. "You want me to talk to them with you?"

You wonder when Jack started being so soft with you. You think back to your early days in residency. Your first impression of him was that of a broken, stone-cold man. A soldier, hardened by years of seeing too much, too many lives lost. He used to move through the halls like a ghost, never letting anyone get too close.

But somehow, at some point, he let you in. At least you think so.

You shake your head, desperate to change the subject. "What are you doing up here?

A hint of a smile creeps in. It's faint, but it's there. "Just thinking..."

"...About?"

"Nosy as ever..." Jack's smile grows a little. "Life. Death. Everything in between..."

You press on, "Well, if you're ready to rejoin the living, a few of us are heading to the new pub down the road. The owner was a patient of mine. So, free drinks for me and my friends!"

"I don't have friends here."

You roll your eyes. Hard.

"What am I then?"

"One of my best residents?"

You lean in, whispering, “I'm your favorite though, right?”

Jack huffs a quiet laugh, a small shake of his head. He’s aware of the irony, of course.

He hasn't really been playing favorites, not consciously anyway. But lately, you've been getting extra attention from Dr. Abbot. More lessons. More opportunities. More praise.

But between the nepo babies and the kid geniuses in this hospital, you figure you deserve a little favoritism.

And you are grateful. Jack is a great teacher. He knows when to step back and he takes the time to teach when you're out of your depth. Believes in you, even when you don't.

The bar is buzzing with noise. You stand there, waiting for the free drinks, watching the crowd. Jack is sat on a stool in the corner, like he's part of the furniture, his eyes scanning the exits. Always on guard, even here.

Most of the team is clustered together, laughter and chatter in the air like a cocktail of relief and friendship. Glasses clink with a sound of shared thanks.

Robby and Heather slip to the other side of the room, their conversation low and intense, the tension between them palpable.

You wonder if people notice a similar air between you and Jack. Your shifts have somehow magically aligned lately.

Princess and Perlah, no doubt, have been talking. The boys, likely betting on who’s going to admit it first.

Dana steps closer, voice barely above a whisper, "Can't believe you've managed to get our sad boy to come."

Your eyes widen, but she doesn't let you object "He never does. Believe me, we've all tried. Nothing. Not even for Robby. And they're... friends."

You can’t help but laugh, "He doesn't have friends."

Dana shoots you a look. "So I've heard."

The bartender hands you two beers, a welcome interruption. You flash Dana a warm smile, before slipping away towards your table, feeling the weight of her gaze still on you.

You hand Jack one of the bottles, without looking, it's almost automatic. Natural. If people saw you on the street, they'd probably assume you were more than just colleagues.

You slide onto your stool, leaning in closer to Jack. "Dana's a little hurt that you've never gone out with them before. Not even for Robby!" You laugh, taking a big gulp of your beer.

Jack smirks, "I told you, I don't do favorites." He's satisfied by the loud laugh he gets from you.

The hours pass by, the noise of the bar blending into the background as you and Jack stay in your own quiet bubble.

Your stools have shifted closer, your knees just barely brushing. You glance down, surprised to find Jack’s hand resting on your thigh, his thumb rubbing slow, deliberate circles over the fabric of your jeans. It’s almost too gentle, too careful, like he’s testing a line neither of you wants to cross but can’t help but feel drawn to.

Your cheeks are flushed, your eyes glazed, laughter still filling the air. You don’t know if it’s the alcohol or the way Jack’s presence calms you, but it’s been a long time since you’ve felt this alive.

Have the rest of the team even noticed? Are they still here?

You’ve had a bit to drink, maybe more than a bit and as you push yourself up from the stool to head towards the restroom, a dizzy spell hits you.

For a split second, you’re sure you’re about to face-plant into the cold wall next to you, but then Jack’s there. His hand steadies you, pulling you against him with a surprising gentleness.

You remain in his grip, your body melting at the contact. His breath is uneven, but it’s probably from the shock of almost seeing you fall. Unless...?

You look up into his eyes and for a fleeting second, there’s something there.

A spark.

Something electric that makes your heart skip. And before you can stop yourself, you want to close the distance between you, feel his lips against yours.

But Jack pulls away, his movements soft and almost apologetic as he helps you stand with a shy smile.

You return the smile, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes as you step away, heading towards the restroom.

Once you're out of sight, he turns to see Dana glancing at him across the room. Before he can protest, you’re back, gathering both your jackets, moving with the same confidence you always have. "Wanna walk me home?"

Jack's eyes widen at the bluntness. He freezes for just a moment, hesitation flickering in his eyes before he nods.

"Yeah. I’ll walk you home."

You both head for the door, only to find that the team are, in fact, all still there. And now they're staring.

Watching you leave with Dr. Jack Abbot.

The ER buzzes with its usual chaos, patients rolling in, monitors beeping and the staff moving in sync. But today, there's something else in the air that you can't quite put your finger on.

You’ve just finished treating a patient, now sitting at a computer at the nurses' station, neatly typing up your notes.

You feel everyone's eyes on you.

Today, they are definitely talking.

You glance up and spot Jack across the room. He’s looking at you already, his expression unreadable. Something about his gaze feels different. A little too focused. A little too intense.

He walks over, reaching across you to grab a chart. His hand briefly brushes against yours as he leans in slightly, too close for a colleague, but not quite crossing the line.

You blink, trying to focus on the patient notes in front of you, but the words suddenly feel distant.

It’s impossible not to notice the way the team is starting to gather in their little huddles, whispering, eyes darting in your direction.

He stands close enough now that you feel his warmth. The line between professional and personal blurs and for a brief, dangerous moment, you’re not sure where the boundaries lie.

"You’re a natural," he says, his eyes meet yours and the intensity is enough to make your heart stutter. "Well done."

Jack continues, his voice lower now, just loud enough for you to hear, but not to be overheard by anyone else "You should be proud."

Before you can reply, a sudden voice cuts through the moment. It’s Robby, walking past with a glance over his shoulder, a knowing look in his eyes. “Hey, Jack,” he calls out casually. “Save some of the praise for the rest of us, yeah?”

Jack’s gaze flicks toward Robby, "You know, I don’t do favorites."

But something has changed and it’s too late to pretend otherwise.

You suddenly stand, confidently grabbing Jack's arm and pulling him to one side. He is surprised, a flicker of curiosity in his eyes, but he follows you without a word.

You look up at him, “Listen, I know we’re not exactly friends.” You pause, your eyes meeting his, willing him to understand what you’re trying to say. “But you’ve been working a hell of a lot of shifts lately. And… I thought maybe we could grab dinner sometime?”

You watch Jack's lips twitch ever so slightly, but he composes himself quickly.

He doesn't say anything for a long beat.

Did you cross a line?

“I mean”, you add, “You know, to talk about cases or whatever. You don’t always have to eat in the break room. And I’m sure you’re tired of hospital food.” You give him a smile, warm and genuine.

For a second, you think he might decline. You feel your pulse race just a little faster.

But then he returns your smile, "Sure. Dinner sounds good."

You sit across from Jack in a dimly lit restaurant, the glow of the candlelight casting soft shadows on his face. The flicker of the flame reflects warmth onto his dimples.

It feels intimate, like you’re seeing a side of him that’s been hidden for too long, even from himself.

"Fuck me", you mutter, sinking into your chair, hiding from someone across the room.

"Excuse me?" Jack's voice is surprised, with a hint of something else.

If you weren't so uncomfortable, the shocked look on Jack's face would have made you laugh.

“Don’t look,” you whisper, the words slipping out before you can stop them. “But the guy over there… he broke my heart in med school.”

Jack’s gaze flicks to the man in question, but it's so obvious that it makes you flush.

He turns back to you, leaning in, "Want me to rough him up? Just a bit?"

You giggle, "Please don't, we weren't that serious anyway. But he did cheat on me. And at the time, it hurt."

Something dark flickers in his eyes.

"He's a prick", he spews, voice low and sharp.

"Why do I always get the assholes? I think I'll just give up", you laugh.

He hesitates for a moment, but the words leave his lips before he can stop himself.

"Why are you single?" His voice holds genuine surprise.

"Since when are you interested in my love life, Dr. Abbot?"

Or lack thereof.

He doesn't respond. You contemplate for a moment. Is he really this clueless?

"Why do you think?" You question, like a challenge.

"I don't know", his brows furrow. "I think - you like being independent. You're not looking for a man to complete you." He ponders, "And I also think you find dating distracting."

The way he reads you, so honestly, so accurately, hits you in ways you weren’t prepared for. You drop your mouth slightly.

How can he be so spot on and so wrong at the same time?

"What do I know. Maybe you just haven't met the right guy", he adds, trying to ease the awkward tension that’s settled between you.

Or maybe the right guy just doesn't know how to connect the dots!

"What about you then?" You try to shift the conversation.

"What about me?" He laughs.

You shoot him a look.

"Why am I single?", he asks most innocently. "What if I'm not?" You roll your eyes.

"We'll then what are you doing here with me and not making love to your gorgeous girlfriend... or boyfriend?" You add the last part with a smirk that feels more daring than you expected. He can't place it, but this new energy awakens something inside him.

His eyes flicker to your lips, but there’s a hesitation. The air is electric, you can almost feel the wall between you crumbling.

But his face grows serious. "It's just easier like this."

"Since when are you one to take the easy road?" You counter, your voice sharp.

It's now or never.

You search his eyes, willing him to say it first.

Anything.

But he doesn't. You break eye contact and he feels like he just lost something he didn't know he could have. Didn't know he deserved.

You exhale deeply, the words finally escaping you, "You know I have feelings for you, right?".

The confession slips out, barely louder than a whisper, as if you’re terrified of hearing it yourself.

For a moment, there’s only silence.

A flicker of vulnerability crosses his face, but it disappears just as quickly. His stoic exterior is intact, but something has cracked. His gaze remains unreadable, like his brain can't comprehend what you just said.

You wonder if you should take it back, pretend it never happened. Maybe you're lucky and he really didn't hear you.

You're not.

Before you can retreat, Jack beats you to it. "Y/N..."

Oh no.

"I'm so flattered...I- Thank you." His words are slow, measured, as if he's trying to find the right ones. "I- I didn't know you felt this way."

What, the excessive flirting and the obsessive need to be near him didn't give it away?

"Ouch. I suppose you don't feel the same", you laugh nervously.

There's that look again. Like he sees right through you. Like he's already seen every part of you. Touched every inch of your body, without ever having seen you naked.

"What do you want with an old man like me anyway?" His voice thick with uncertainty.

Hello? Is that a no?

It stings, but you fight to keep your composure. “You’re not that old", you tease, but the effort feels hollow in the face of his hesitance.

"It wouldn't end well...", his voice quieter now. "I don't want to hurt you."

"God, if you don't have feelings for me just say so. We're adults. This will they/won't they game is really messing with my head!"

"I'm sorry" he says, the words soft but final. "I can't."

You have your answer.

You've been through too much uncertainty. Always hoping for more. Always confused. It's too much hurt. Too much heartbreak. So you accept his decision.

And know you'll move on.

Your evening has come to an unexpected end. He slips your jacket over your shoulders with that same careful attention, the way he’s always done, because, of course, he’s the perfect gentleman, even after this brutal rejection.

You know it'll take some time to heal, which feels silly, because nothing really happened!

But in your mind, you're already preparing to switch shifts, changing your routine, so your schedules will no longer align.

Jack insists on walking you to your bus stop, his steps matching yours in a slow, rhythmic silence. And in that moment, a wave of sadness overcomes you. You feel like you're not just losing a friend, but also your mentor. Your eyes well up, praying he doesn't see. But he does, of course.

He always does.

You're ready to say goodbye, to the night, but also to what could have been.

When you reach the stop, he unexpectedly pulls you into his chest, his arms wrapping around you with a tenderness that makes your breath catch. One of his hands presses gently against your back, while the other holds your head against his heart, each beat a reminder of what it feels like to be alive, to be loved.

For a brief moment, as you breathe in his familiar scent, you only exist in the present.

In his arms.

The weight of your future and present not threatening to pull you under.

But then reality hits you.

You step back, slowly, as if leaving a piece of yourself behind in the safety of his embrace.

You turn around and walk away. You know he's watching, but you don't look back.

Jack has barely seen you this week, your shifts conveniently ending when his start and vice versa.

He can't help but feel like he's lost something good, not even giving it a chance to become something great.

He's on his way to the hospital for yet another shift without you, his mind wandering back to the moment he watched you walk away.

When he let you go.

When all he really wanted was to let you in. To have his lips touch yours. To interlock your fingers with his. To take you on a real date. To take you bake to his place...

To watch the bus drive off without you.

But you said it first. And he said nothing at all.

The air is different today, charged, the nurses a little quieter, the doctors a little more tense.

Jack looks around, he realises something isn’t right. The staff are huddled in groups, whispering.

Is the hospital finally closing down?

He has a bad feeling about this.

He notices Dana first. She's standing by the nurses' station. When she catches his gaze, her eyes flicker with something Jack can’t quite place. Concern? Worry? He’s about to walk over to her when Robby appears out of nowhere, stepping right into his path.

“Jack”, Robby says, his voice low. There’s a weight in his tone, a hesitation that only deepens Jack’s unease.

“What's going on?” Jack asks, his brow furrowing, but Robby doesn’t answer right away.

Instead, Robby pulls him aside, out of earshot of the others.

The words “drunk driver” and “Y/N” are enough to send a cold shiver down Jack's spine.

Jack's hands tremble as he heads straight for your room, but everything feels distant, muffled.

He’s flooded with guilt for not being there, for not having checked on you, for all the unsaid words between you.

Christ, he's a doctor and he wasn't there to help you.

More importantly, he was your friend and he let you believe that he wasn't.

Maybe, deep down, he knew he wanted to be more than that.

Now, there you are, lying still, tubes and wires everywhere.

He takes a shaky step forward, his hand hovering near yours. The thought of touching you, of being this close and you not being aware, makes his chest tighten. But he can’t help it. His fingers brush against your skin, a fragile connection.

“I didn’t- God, I was an idiot. I should’ve… said it. Should’ve been… with you. But I didn’t. I’m sorry. I-” His voice breaks and he curses under his breath.

He doesn’t know if you can hear him.

If you’ll ever hear him again.

Jack takes a seat next to your bed, drowning in fear for you. Broken. Guilty. Devastated. Alone.

“I’m so sorry", a quiet sob escapes his lips. "I've grown so used to the emptiness in my heart, I didn't know how to let you in..." It's in this moment, he realizes he’s terrified of losing you without ever having truly had you.

For the next couple of days Jack watches your chest rise and fall in a steady, artificial rhythm, but you don't move.

He loses a fraction of hope with every day that passes, waiting for you to wake up, for you to roll your eyes and tell him to stop being an idiot.

Your friends and colleagues check in on you as much as they do on him.

But the silence stretches on.

Robby often lingers in the doorway, exchanging quiet, knowing glances with Jack before he leaves, like there’s nothing else to say or do.

On the seventh day, Jack finds himself sitting beside your bed long after his shift has ended. His hand rests on the edge of your mattress, close enough to feel the warmth of your skin, but still too far away.

"I’m sorry”, he mutters, knowing you can’t hear him. His eyes flicker to the machines keeping you tethered to this world, his heart feeling too heavy to bear.

His body stiffens when he suddenly sees your fingers twitching ever so slightly. Then, a shallow inhale, before your eyes flutter open.

Jack watches you look up at the ceiling, disoriented. Then, slowly, your gaze moves to him.

"Jack?" Your voice is hoarse.

He leans forward, the weight of the last few days catching up with him. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I’m here Y/N."

You blink a few times, before the corners of your mouth turn into a smile. Though it’s small and fragile. “I thought you didn’t have favorites?”

For a second, he isn’t sure he heard you right.

His heart aches, raw and exposed and he knows he can't hide his feelings anymore.

You know. And he knows you know.

You lift a hand, weak but determined and place it over his.

Omg, this turned out way longer than expected!! Hope you liked it anyway. Pls comment/share your thoughts below. ♡

[zaczenemiji]

Hi I hope you are having a lovely day my dear ♥. I was wondering if you could do a Kenji Sato x reader where the reader is an assistant manager to him and one day he like acts arrogantly towards her during one of his interviews when he sees a pretty journalist amongst the crowed of ppl interviewing him and he says some hurtful things to reader and collectively ignoring her and instead choosing to focus on the journalists girl. Ever since that day reader has been silent around Sato and he thought he didn't care but it bothered him because even though she is usually quite, these days she is *too* quite and then there is like a mini celebration for like a baseball game win and reader goes with a guy who is like an athlete but is not as famous as Sato. So the kicker is reader is absolutely DROP DEAD GORGEOUS and ppl at the party even think she is a model. So Sato get jealous and he acts all possessive and protective of her , while she is still angry at him but eventually he makes it up to her over time. If you have anything else to add please do.

Shattered Pride

Kenji Sato x AssistantManager!Reader

Word Count: 1,873

Genre/Warnings: Character Development, Eventual Romance, Forgiveness, Jealousy, Regret, Redemption

Author’s Note: The idea behind this was just fantastic! Thank you so much for the request, writing this was my honor.

MASTERLIST

Being Kenji Sato’s assistant manager is not an easy task. I repeat: Not. An. Easy. Task. Throughout his baseball career, he has had several assistants who quit as soon as they were hired because, for one thing, Kenji is stubborn.

Ghosted interviews, off-topic answers, and insults to other players were just some of the many things about him that gave you a headache.

You remember being referred to him by his last assistant saying that it was a high-paying job. However, you were skeptical at how quickly and willing they were to give off their job to another person.

You understood why the first time you met him. After the meeting, you asked him, “Is there anything else you need from me today?”

In response, he gave an irritated sigh. “If I needed something, I would have asked.”

Thankfully, you were more on the nonchalant scale, and how people respond to you didn’t bother you much. You were here to do your job—and excellently at that, not exactly to be friends with an arrogant baseball star.

Kenji’s behavior was… challenging, that’s the best word for it. He barked orders, rarely said thank you, and seemed to take your presence for granted. But in conditions like these, you thrive the most; you succeed where others have failed.

Today was a usual day with the usual crowd of journalists and fans gathering in the conference room. You stood by his side, ensuring everything was in order for yet another post-game interview.

It was going all smooth and well when Kenji suddenly paused mid-sentence. It was a very short pause that wouldn’t be noticeable to others but you, with all the time you spent as his assistant, noticed it.

Your eyes looked in the direction he kept glancing at. A girl, of course, strikingly beautiful with long sleek back hair that cascaded down in soft waves.

When it was her turn to ask, Kenji leaned forward to give her a dazzling smile. “Why don’t you ask me a question?” he said, ignoring the list of pre-approved questions you handed him before the interview started.

Kenji was holding court with this journalist longer than he should. You noticed that the others in line were starting to murmur in annoyance.

You stepped forward, maintaining your professional demeanor. “Excuse me, Mr. Sato, but we need to move on,” you said. “Other journalists are waiting for their turn.”

“I’m not done here,” he said arrogantly, not bothering to look your way.

You took a deep breath, wanting to handle this situation diplomatically. “I understand,” you said. “But we’ve exceeded the time limit, and it’s only fair to give everyone a chance.”

Whichever agency’s plan was it to send her here to get ahead of other journalists, it’s working. She gave you a polite smile, clearly enjoying the extra attention.

Kenji frowned and turned to you. “Can’t you see I’m in the middle of something important?” He asked. “If you can’t manage your job properly, maybe you should reconsider.”

Your eyes widened. You could feel others’ on you, their stares almost cutting through your professional facade.

Swallowing your pride, you nodded and stepped back, keeping your expression neutral. But as neutral as you looked, deep down you felt a mix of anger and humiliation.

From that day on, you remained silent around Kenji, only speaking when necessary. You remained professional though, and you made sure that your job was not compromised.

During meetings, you no longer offered insights unless directly asked. When you did speak, your tone was strictly professional. Well, it has always been, but the warmth that characterized your interactions was now gone.

Like that one time during a team strategy meeting. Kenji asked for input on a new play. The room fell silent as everyone waited for your usual insightful suggestions, but you simply looked down at your notes, saying nothing.

The coach glanced at you, surprised. "Any thoughts, (y/n)?" You shook your head. "No, Coach. Nothing to add."

At first, Kenji was oblivious to all of this. He was absorbed in his own world and the adulation of his fans, as always. But as the days turned into weeks, your silence grew too loud to ignore that even he finally noticed it.

A month later, the team planned on celebrating a recent major win. This time, they have decided to invite other athletes as guests of honor. The organizers wanted to have a mix of established stars and up-and-coming talents from the sports world.

You decided to take this as an opportunity to have yourself pampered. You have been working hard, after all. Despite the obvious tension between you and Kenji, you were still able to do your job well.

That’s why at the party, you were stunning. Drop dead gorgeous, as the team said. Though the lights were dim, it seemed as if a spotlight was following you as everyone you passed by turned their heads to look.

You decided to settle by the bar for drinks. “Hey there,” came a familiar voice. You turned to see Jake approaching. He was one of the promising young athletes and a rising star in the sports world who was invited to this party.

He plays as a forward for a popular soccer team and has recently garnered attention for his impressive performance in the league. This wasn’t the first time you met as Jake and Kenji ran into each other a couple times before at different events.

He leaned against the bar, signaling the bartender for a drink. “It’s nice to see you again and this time, enjoying yourself,” he said. “You looked like you needed a break at the last event we were at.”

You chuckled softly, appreciating his observation. "Yeah, it's been a bit hectic lately."

Jake's drink arrived, and he took a sip, his eyes studying you with genuine interest. “Well, you look incredible tonight,” he said. “Have you been hearing what the others are saying?”

Jake turned to glance at the crowd, then back at you. “They were all asking if you were a model or something,” he said. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think the same.”

“Thanks, Jake,” you replied, smiling. “You clean up pretty well yourself."

He laughed, a warm, infectious sound that put you at ease. "So, how's work been treating you? Still managing the chaos that is Kenji Sato?"

You hesitated, the memory of Kenji's recent behavior still fresh. "It's been… challenging," you admitted. "But I manage."

Jake's expression softened with understanding. "I can imagine. He's got a reputation for being difficult."

Unbeknownst to both of you, the baseball star you were talking about has finally arrived. His presence commanded attention as he navigated through the crowd, exchanging greetings and handshakes.

As he made his way deeper into the club, his eyes caught sight of you. At that moment he froze. Or was it time that froze? He didn’t know. All he was sure of was that for a little while, he couldn’t breathe.

You were stunning. Your outfit, a sleek, form-fitting dress that accentuated your every curve, made you look like you had just stepped off a runway. Your hair was styled to perfection, your makeup highlighting your natural beauty.

Suddenly, he noticed the man you were talking to, Jake. “That rookie soccer player,” he thought. Gosh, you deserved so much better. At that moment, with firm resolve, he declared upon himself that he would work to be the better that you deserved.

Kenjl's jaw clenched as his own possessive instincts flared up, a mix of jealousy and protectiveness surging through him. He made his way over to you, his eyes never leaving your form.

On your end, you noticed the crowd parted slightly, and you saw Kenji making his way towards you.

Turning slightly, you met Kenji’s gaze with a cool, indifferent look. "Kenji," you acknowledged, your tone polite but distant.

"Can I talk to you for a moment?" he asked, his voice tight with barely restrained emotion.

Jake looked at you, his gaze asking if you were fine with it. You smiled at him, a genuine and warm expression, something you haven’t given Kenji in a while. “I’ll go on ahead,” you told Jake. “See you around.”

Kenji led you away from the crowd, finding a quieter corner of the club. As soon as you were out of earshot, he turned to you, his eyes dark with jealousy.

"Why didn't you come with me?" Kenji asked, his frustration evident.

You scoffed. “First of all, you didn’t ask me to.” You crossed your arms, fixing him with a hard stare. "And you made it very clear where I stand with you. Or rather, where I don't."

He winced, the memory of his hurtful words coming back to haunt him. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice softer now. "I was wrong. I was an idiot."

You remained silent, waiting for him to continue.

“I've been a jerk, and I know it,” he continued. “I was arrogant, dismissive, and I took you for granted.”

You watch him, seeing the sincerity in his eyes. Yet you looked away, the hurt still fresh. "You hurt me, Kenji,” you said. “You made me feel worthless and unimportant."

Kenji steps closer, his voice filled with regret. “I know, I'm so sorry. I was so focused on myself, on my career, that I didn't see how much I was hurting you. Your silence has been killing me. I miss your insights, your presence.”

He paused for a while before continuing. “I miss you.” He reaches out, gently taking your hand.

“You're more than just my assistant,” he said. “You're the reason I can do what I do. You make everything better, and I've been too blind to see it. Please, give me a chance to make it right. I want to earn back your trust.”

You met his gaze, searching for any sign of insincerity. All you saw was genuine regret and a longing to make things right. "This isn't something that can be fixed overnight, Kenji."

"I know," he said quickly. "I'll do whatever it takes, for as long as it takes. I just... I can't lose you."

You took a deep breath, the weight of his words sinking in. "We'll see," you said. "But it won't be easy."

He nodded, relief flooding his features. "I understand,” he said. “Thank you, (y/n)—for giving me a chance.”

As you walked back to the party, Kenji stayed close by your side, protective and possessive. arm subtly wrapped around your waist, a clear signal to everyone around that you were with him.

As the night came to an end, Kenji offered to drive you home. To which, you agreed. The drive home was quiet, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. If anything else, it was rather hopeful.

One evening, after a particularly grueling day, Kenji found you alone in the office. “Hey," he said softly, "I was thinking we could grab dinner. Just the two of us."

You looked up, surprised. "Dinner?"

He nodded, a hopeful smile on his face. "Yeah. To thank you for everything. And to make up for being such an idiot."

You smiled at him for a moment before nodding. "Okay. Dinner sounds nice."

Taglist is open! Comment if u wanna be tagged on future Kenji oneshots

@eternallyvenus @puppyminnnie

[pizzapottah]

the future queen

summary: Sources say that the Wandering Princess was downright brutal to her uncle Vaemond Velaryon during the trial for his petition, despite having shown fondness of him in the years before. When he himself made her notice that, she laughed in his face, "Oh, dear uncle, did you hope to receive a kinder treatment than the others that come in this room and demand some fleeing claim over some land just because I hold your brother dear in my heart? Then you shall know at your own expense that everyone who tries to harm my brothers harms me and, by consequence, the Throne."

pairings: cregan stark x velaryon!reader (no use of y/n), platonic (familial) relationship between the targs/velaryon and reader

word count: 7.0k

warnings: aegon is not a rapist not because he didn't rape dyana in the series but because I don't want her to suffer, mommy issues, i support women's rights and wrongs, vaemond is killed, my girl reader is going THROUGH it, aegon and princess' shenanigans (they hate everything and everyone)

author's note: rhaenyra when i catch you rhaenyra... but also aemond. AEMOND WHEN I CATCH YOU AEMOND THIS WAS ALL YOUR FAULT

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As always, you enter to find the tapestries back to a boring green. “Ugh,” you huff, “not again.” 

“Again?” Oscar asks, confused. 

“Happens every time I’m away for more than three days,” you mutter. “The wench changes the tapestries and hides the paintings. Like it’s named the Green Keep.” You bark at the first servant that passes, making him yelp, “You! Find the steward and tell him that the Princess is calling for him. I want these horrendous tapestries burned once and for all.”

The servant nods, trembling, and promptly runs away. “Aren’t you a bit too harsh?” your friend asks. You shrug. “If you think I’m harsh, then you should see the way Daemon treats the servants. Besides, I don’t treat them badly. It’s just one of the bad days. I make sure they get paid plenty enough for the trouble.” 

As you keep walking, lords and ladies of all kinds briefly stop to greet you, but you move on quickly, barely thanking them back — there’s no reason for them to make such greetings for you, when you’ve been away for barely a sennight. You figure they’re mostly happy to see you because it means the Queen and the Hand will be getting off the Throne soon. 

A month or so ago, your grandsire fell ill. The Maester wasn’t sure he would make it, but he did — he was just… weak. Too weak to attend court, to hold the councils and settle the Kingdom’s matters. 

And so his responsibilities were passed down to you. That was because he didn’t want his vicious wife as regent nor his Lord Hand on the Throne, after the various accidents that had happened when he had let them do it. I want you to understand what it’s like to take care of the Kingdom, he had said, wheezing. To learn who you should support and how to do it. 

There is no manual to learn how to rule. You could listen to the lords all day while they give you their advice, and you would wake up the next even more confused than before, so — as your mother said — there’s no other way to do it but to understand it yourself. 

You think that in the end, you worked pretty well as regent. You were the only one who dared speak back to the Queen and Lord Hand, so the councils went pretty smoothly, and court was held without too much of a hassle. But then you had to go to the Riverlands to help Oscar, and the Red Keep was left in the hands of the green wench and her vulture of a father. And as it always happened, you returned to find it changed: the tapestries of your ancestors were replaced with portraits of the Seven and the dragon statues with towers, seven-pointed stars and so on. 

It’s really incredible how in a sennight they've managed to turn the Keep upside down. Shivering, you briefly wonder how the castle would be if it was completely in their hands. 

“Princess!” someone calls behind you. It’s the steward, who pants and bows before taking a napkin from his pocket to wipe away the sweat from his forehead. “It is good to see that the Riverlands have treated you well. I hope your travels went without any problems.” 

You nod briefly, pointing at Oscar. “Yes, they were fine. Could you show Ser Oscar Tully the guest rooms while I go talk to my grandsire? He’ll be staying for a while. And, most importantly, tell the servants to bring back the old decorations; take the new ones to the Dragon Pit, Nādrēsy will take care of them.” 

The steward nods, unphased; it’s not the first time you make him burn the Hightowers’ decorations, so he must not be surprised at all. “Will do, Princess.” He bows to Oscar, showing him the way. “If you’ll follow me, my lord…”

The way up to the King’s chambers feels like forever. Before you departed for Riverrun, you made sure that the guards assigned to his rooms were ones you could trust — so that no Hightower page or servant could enter and poison the King, as they have already tried numerous times. You made sure the only one who was allowed in the chambers was Grand Maester Orwyle — and Mushroom, when your grandsire needed a cheer-up — who you paid generously to make sure that the Hightowers couldn’t get to him. 

“Lord Commander, Ser Erryk,” you greet the guards, right out of your grandsire’s quarters, They bow their heads, murmuring their own greetings, opening the doors for you. The smell of burned wood and the warmness of the room engulfs you as the guards quickly close the door behind you, your grandsire barely raising his head from the pillow. 

“–’Nyra? Is that you?” he rasps. 

“No, Grandsire,” you reply gently, taking a chair and sitting down beside his four-poster bed. You murmur your name, “It’s me, I have returned from Riverrun.” 

“Ah,” he murmurs, letting his head fall back down into the pillow, raising his hand for you to take. “It all went well, I hope?”

You squeeze his hand, barely nodding, “For now, the matter has been settled. What about you? What has the Maester said?” 

“That I need to rest,” he coughs, “did you know Rhaenyra has arrived, too?”

“I figured out as much; when she wrote to me, she was already on the boat to King’s Landing.” 

He hums. “She has shown me the boys– oh, they have grown so much. And little Aegon and Viserys…”

Ah, yes: he had never seen them before. Your mother hasn’t come back to the Keep since Joffrey's birth, and she only ever allowed you to sometimes bring Jace, Luke and Joff to the capital, insisting that Aegon and Viserys were too young — as if you weren’t almost a dragon rider by Aegon’s age. 

“They are so cute, aren’t they?” you chuckle, “They don’t look like Daemon at all, thankfully,” he adds. “They look a lot like Rhaenyra when she was little– a lot like you, too.” 

You are happy to see that he remembers when you were little — he has been forgetful as of lately, calling the Queen ‘Aemma’ and referring to Otto as ‘Lyonel’. Sometimes he slips with you too, calling you Rhaenyra, asking you when you plan to do the tour to find a husband. You haven’t heard him talk about Aegon, Aemond and Helaena in ages, and when you bring Aegon or Helaena to visit him with you, he seems to be hardly recognising them.

“It pains me that we were all reunited because of Vaemond’s petition,” your grandsire says, voice strained. “I would like to keep your mother closer to me, closer to the court– but the only idea seems to repel her.”

“I’ll talk to her,” you reassure him, “you know I have my ways. Besides, I can’t always be here. The Hightowers…”  

“I don’t trust anyone in this castle more than you and your mother,” he seethes, “how can I change Lord Hand, if you already have your own matters in the Seven Kingdoms and my own daughter won’t stay with me? This trial, the petition– it would’ve never happened if I hadn’t married Alicent and Otto wasn’t my Hand.” 

You press your lips into a thin line. “What has happened can’t be changed, my King. After these matters are dealt with, with your permission, I would like to… clean the court, so to say, from all the snakes that have made it their nest in these last few years.”

“Of course, of course,” he coughs violently, trying to scoot enough to lean his back against the headboard. You hear a clutter outside, but ignore it for the most part, focusing on the heavy breathing of your grandsire. “Do of Vaemond what you think it’s best for the Realm.” he coughs again, trying to straighten up, “Could you pass me my quill and paper? Otto’s started to become more and more meticulous, and I suspect that without my word, he won’t leave you to handle the petition…” 

You do as he asked you while the rumble outside is getting louder; if earlier it was only a few whispers and angry stomping, now it’s turning into what seems to be a full-on argument between the guards and… Oscar? Is that his voice?

Your grandsire continues writing the delegation, handwriting shaky, and you’re horribly reminded yet again of how much he’s aging. ‘Tis a wretched thing, watching someone you love slip and slip and slip until only the Stranger can catch them. You wonder when the last time you’ll be able to talk to him with him recognizing you will be. 

“The seal,” he murmurs, passing the letter to you, “forgive this old man, I don’t think I should be trusted with wax as of now, or I’d spill it all over the letter.”

You shake your head, “Never apologise to me for such a trivial thing ever again, grandsire.” you smile at him tenderly, caressing his hand. “I’d be glad to seal every one of your acts and letters for the rest of my life, if it meant having you by my side.” 

You are preparing the hot wax for the royal sigil, when the doors slam open and the guards yell curses as they try to keep out a panting, screaming Oscar. “The trial!” His voice is so shrill that for a moment, you wonder if it’s just a maid dressed up as him. “They’re making it start now! And your grandfather–” the guards push him back, closing the doors with a loud bang!, making your grandsire blink in confusion. “What was that about?”

You hurriedly pour the wax, only half-melted, over the parchment, blowing air upon the sigil in hopes to fasten the making. “Sorry, grandsire, I fear this was my call for the Throne room.” You press a kiss onto his forehead, leaving even more confused than before as you dash out of the chambers. “Oscar! Oscar!” 

You find him outside, right in front of the doors, arguing with the guards, insisting to be let in. “The Princess’ orders were specific,” Ser Erryk reiterates, “no one, besides very few, are to be let in–”

They stop at your sight, and you wave them away, hurriedly marching down the stairs while being followed by Oscar. “So, I guess the trial is starting now?” you muse, not actually amused at all. He pants, shaking his head. “The steward– he, he was showing me to the rooms, aye? And then a guy wearing the Hightower signet came and asked him for a fine pillow for the Lord Hand so that he could sit more comfortably on the Throne during the ongoing trial. And then– gods, I looked for you everywhere, I have no idea how you manage to live in this castle– I heard some maids talking about the arrival at Driftmark of Lord Corlys, who apparently is on the verge of dying.”

Your what?! echoes through the hallway and makes a few maids flinch and some guards straighten up, but your steps don’t slow down. “You mean to tell me Vaemond called this petition because my grandfather is deadly injured and nobody thought of telling me? And even worse, that right now Otto Hightower���s arse is sitting on the Iron Throne with a pillow? My ancestors have burnt down entire cities for far less!” you gag, “Oh, forgive him, Aegon, he doesn’t know what he’s doing… sitting on the throne he forged with his fallen enemies’ swords out of dragonfire– with a fine pillow no less!” 

The guards that are stationed outside the throne room clearly have no intention of blocking your way in, opening the doors for you with no fuss and bowing their heads, “Princess, Ser Tully,” 

A page jumps at your sight, interrupting Vaemond’s speech by yelling out, “The Princess, ambassador of the Crown and the Seven Kingdoms and– uh… Ser Oscar Tully, accompanying her.” 

Murmurs spread across the room; your mother smiles at you, moving forward but then stopping — you know she has just stopped herself from hugging you — and Vaemond tries to smile, too, but it ends up being more of a grimace than anything else. You try to think more of your mother rather than him, or else you’re going to strangle him right now, in front of all these witnesses. 

“Princess,” Otto Hightower gloats from above, sitting on the Throne with his stupid, horrendous green pillow. “You’re awfully late — unusual of you.” 

“Well, Lord Hand, I would’ve been on time if only anyone had told me that the trial’s time had been moved,” you hiss, “and I think that’s probably why you didn’t bother sending anyone to call for me. Now do me a favor and get your smelly and sensitive buttocks away from my Throne.” 

He raises both eyebrows, forehead wrinkling. “Pardon me?”

“I am not going to repeat myself twice, Otto,” you say, harsher this time. “I am the wielder of Blackfyre, which is the royal scepter. No one can hold court or trials without it, unless they’re the King.” he moves to open his mouth, but you don’t let him talk — he doesn’t deserve that privilege. “Besides, if you need a pillow to sit on the Iron Throne, were you really made to sit on it?”

Daemon laughs openly; besides him, everyone tries to keep their chuckles as silent as they can, even if you’re sure Mushroom’s going to combust soon if he doesn’t laugh out loud. “The Throne is made out of swords, nobody would ever be comfortable in it,” Alicent butts in– you had hoped she had called in sick today. Of course not. The sight of Aegon still holding in laughter from your remarks to Otto lightens your mood a bit. “But that does not matter. He is the Lord Hand, and unless the King has given other instructions, he is to replace the void left by the regnant.”

You snort. “Yes, grandsire said that you would have given me trouble about that. In fact, he did leave special instructions.” you pass the delegation to one of the public notaries present. He nods at it, confirming to everyone in the room the truth of your words, “Well, I guess the matter is settled then.” you squint at Lord Hand dearest, “Off of my Throne, and be quick with it.” The proud expression of your mother fills you with more happiness than it should. 

To say that you’ve had a rough relationship with her in the last few years would be an understatement to say the least. 

For the sake of your brothers, you try your best with her. You still love her dearly, but in the years your resentment towards her has grown immensely, and even if you would still die for her, that doesn’t mean that sometimes you just don’t want to kick some sense into her. You hope that after this, she fucking wakes up. You hope that she finally acknowledges that she stole what should have been your careless years and used them as her own. 

As for Daemon, you don’t necessarily despise him as much as you did once. Sure, he’s obnoxious and loud and a terrible man, but you can’t just continue to ignore him for the rest of your life. Your conversations these days mostly consist of sly remarks and jabs, but they are not made out of spite anymore, rather out of respect and complicity. In the end, Daemon — whether you like it or not — has seen you grow up, and sometimes, you think it could even be fondness the thing that softens his eyes when he looks at you  — something much similar to the gaze he holds exclusively for his own daughters. 

You nod to your grandmother Rhaenys and glare at Vaemond, proceeding to sit on the Throne and throw the cushion over the ends of the sheathed swords that surround the King’s — for this occasion, your — seat. You keep Blackfyre in your hand, holding onto the handle, keeping it like a scepter– like your grandsire once did. “Go on, Vaemond,” you muse, “I’m really curious about what you’ll say in your defense.” 

Vaemond’s eyebrows shoot up so high that for a moment, you think they might start flying around the room. “Pardon me– defense? I am not accused of anything. I am claiming my legitimate right for the Driftwood Throne.” 

You narrow your eyes. “If what I’ve heard is correct, you are issuing the legitimacy of my brothers.”

He blinks. “I am, Princess. Driftmark must–”

You huff, “That matter was settled long ago. The King himself said multiple times that anyone questioning Prince Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Joffrey Velaryon’s lineage was to have their tongue cut; besides that, our father, Laenor Velaryon, has always declared them to be legitimate. Did you think you were exonerated from such considerations, perhaps?”  

“I didn’t, Princess,” he hisses, and from the glare he sends Otto, you understand that they had planned not to bring that up. “But now the legacy is at stake. With my brother between the land of the dead and the one of the living, I want to set things right for the succession.” he falters, “I– I had hoped you’d understand.” there is much more behind his words, and you take immediate notice of it. 

You snarl. "Oh, dear uncle, did you hope to receive a kinder treatment than the others that come in this room and demand some fleeing claim over some land just because I hold your brother dear in my heart? Then you shall know at your own expense that everyone who tries to harm my brothers harms me and, by consequence, the Throne."  you wave your hand in the air. “My grandfather is not even dead yet and you already hover around his possessions like a vulture! Has nobody told you that during a Lord’s absence, a regent is named to make all the decisions for him?” 

He seems to be horrified. “The regent has much less of a claim over Driftmark than I do–”

“Yet my grandfather didn’t name you,” you counter. “I wonder why, uncle. Could it be that the regent holds his wishes more to her heart than you do?” You raise your eyes from his form, “Princess Rhaenys, a word?” 

Your grandmother steps up with a smile on her face. “Gladly,” From the way she looks at you, you understand that once you get out of this room, she’s going to brag about you to all her friends and every servant that is willing to listen. “It was ever my husband’s will that Driftmark pass through Ser Laenor to his trueborn son– Jacaerys Velaryon. His mind never changed, nor did my support of him. As a matter of fact, Princess Rhaenyra just informed me of her desire to marry Lucerys Velaryon to my granddaughter Rhaena to strengthen the bonds between our houses once again.” she chuckles, “And, as it is both Targaryen and Velaryon tradition to do so, Prince Jacaerys’ and Princess Helaena’s firstborn could marry Prince Lucerys’ and Lady Rhaena’s firstborn daughter.”

“Creating an engagement between kids who have yet to be born is a little tricky,” you murmur, an eyebrow raised, “But I don’t have anything against it. We can consider this matter settled once and for all– even if, I’m sure, once he wakes up, my grandfather will waste no time in stating his will once again.” you sigh, “I hereby reaffirm Prince Jacaerys of House Velaryon as heir to Driftmark, the Driftwood Throne and the next Lord of the Tides.”

“You break law,” Vaemond hisses, “and centuries of tradition that I had hoped you’d have understood by now, niece.”

You shake your head. “Don’t try that with me, uncle, you know it won’t work.” you point your finger accusingly at him, “The regent has spoken, and her word is Corlys’. Besides, what good would you do ascending to the Throne of Driftmark? You’re old and you have no heirs, no daughters, no wife. You’re just a second son who hopes in his brother’s demise to have all that he could never have by birthright. Prince Jacaerys is already betrothed to Princess Helaena; the Velaryons will be princes, Vaemond, princes!”

“The fact that I have no heirs can still be changed,” he bluntly says. “I’m still young enough to find a wife.”

You grimace, “Yes, yes, there are way older men than you that get married at their elderly ages, but it will be a great feat to find you a wife with the face you find yourself in, even for all the gold in the world.” 

“You dare tell me who deserves to inherit the Velaryon name?” he rages, “I will not allow it!”

“Do not forget yourself, Vaemond!” you state back, “I myself hold the Velaryon name, and you have no right to tell me who deserves it and who doesn’t when my own father and the man that is now miles away, fighting for his life, taught me everything I ought to know to carry it with pride!” 

He points angrily at Jace, “That is no true Velaryon, and certainly no nephew of mine!” the whole room gasps; you get up from the Throne, surely matching the tone of anger. “Continue and I’ll have your tongue cut out for this, Vaemond–”

“You all may run your house as you see it fit!” he shouts, “But you will not decide the future of mine. The Velaryons have survived the Doom and a thousand of tribulations aside– and gods be damned, I will not see it ended because of this–”

He stops in his tracks; from the look in your eyes, he knows that if he ends the sentence, he could lose much more than his tongue. But Daemon taunts him, “Say it.”

Vaemond’s right eye ticks. “Her children are bastards!” he bellows, causing the fainting of one of the ladies standing behind and the general outrage. “And she is a whore.” 

Before you can yell out every insult under the sun and call for the guards to bring him to the Dragon Pit so that Nādrēsy may feast on him, a sword comes behind him, slicing his head in two — leaving his tongue intact. Many scream and run out of the room, while both sides of your family stand there and watch his body fall forward. The guards are stopped by a gesture of your hand; Daemon merely grins, cleaning his sword with the dead’s clothes. “Let him keep his tongue,” he murmurs, “I’m sure the Stranger will be delighted in hearing his laments.”

Oscar is downright traumatised by the experience. “Do people often die here, during trials?” he asks you for the fifth time, anxiously tapping his foot on the ground. “Not if Daemon isn’t around,” you quietly reply, looking over at your uncle and mother chatting — or, better… discuss animatedly — about what has just happened. The room is filled with the murmurs of your family: Baela and Rhaena are whispering with Rhaenys as Jace and Luke chat quietly. 

Anybody has yet to come to talk to you, too preoccupied with their own matters — not that you care. You’re waiting for everyone to be out of this room to be finally left alone with your mother and have a decent talk. As of now, you’re just sitting in your chair with your arms crossed, brooding. Oscar taps his fingers on the table beside him, and it irks you. “Will you please stop, before I send you out of this room?”

“I shouldn’t even be here!” he counters, shouting-whispering. “This feels like a family reunion!”

“Oh, please,” you roll your eyes, “my grandmother already hates you as only family can do.”

“That’s just because she thinks I’m your prostitute or something,” he mutters, offended. Though it is true that she loathes him– you have brought him with you to Driftmark many times, and every time, her despise for him was basically impossible to hide. 

“Why, you think she doesn’t hate Daemon for the exact same reason?” 

As Oscar stays there with his brows furrowed, gears turning in his head over your last sentence, your patience runs short. “This is madness. I am going to talk to her.” you rise from your seat, every eye but your mother’s and Daemon’s turning to look at you — and everyone knows you well enough to get out of the room before the storm can hit. 

Your mother and her husband are still hissing to each other for the Seven know what reason why, so much that they don’t even notice you. “Are you finished?” you say flatly, raising an eyebrow when their heads turn to look at you, surprised. Luke is the last one to exit the room, and he makes sure to close the door. “I thought you two were adults, but clearly I am in front of children. I would’ve killed Vaemond either way; could you kindly stop arguing now?” 

Rhaenyra’s face warms. “I– sorry, of course.” she still sends a glare to her husband, relenting only because of you. “Could you kindly leave us alone, kepa?” Daemon rolls his eyes, begrudgingly heading towards the door. Before he closes it behind him, he sends a look at Oscar, whispering, “I think you may want to leave now, too, whore-boy.” 

Unfortunately, Oscar only hears a few muffled words and then the door closes. He focuses on trying to make himself as invisible and small as he can, as he hasn’t been excused by either you or your mother, and figures he can’t leave his little sad seat until one of you tells him to. 

Rhaenyra is the first to extend an olive branch. “I wanted to thank you for what you did today,” she says calmly, smiling at you. “With Otto holding the trial, I don’t even want to think about what the outcome could’ve been.”

Your face remains still, not a smile in sight and no emotions to show. “Good. You have seen how to handle such matters. From now on, they will be in your hands.”

Your mother’s eyes widen. “Excuse me?”

“Excuse me?” you mock, “You let me pick up your slack for the last eight years, mother. I’m done.” she’s about to open her mouth again, but you talk over her, “You called me here because you needed my help — and I will help when I can, you know that, but you didn’t even tell me that in the first place this godsforsaken petition was called because my grandfather could be dying as of now.” you shake your head, eyes clouded with memories: of all the swims you and Corlys had taken together, of him and your father teaching you how to navigate — the only thought of them both dead makes you want to throw up. “You think you may lose an asset if he dies, maybe a once good-father– but he is my grandfather. He is much more than just a lord to me. He taught me how to swim, how to survive out in the sea — and he is, besides grandmother, the last thing left of my father.” 

You blink the tears away from your eyes. Blinking, you notice her eyes are watery too. “We have already talked about this, sweetling,” she murmurs. 

You shake your head. “We have, but you never actually listen to me. I am tired, mother.” A tear escapes her eye at seeing you in this state — head bowed, eyes full of tears, lip trembling. She has gotten so used to seeing you act mature that she has almost forgotten that you are only six and ten; at your age, her main concerns were fighting off suitors and assuring that nobody found out that she was sleeping with her ward. Meanwhile you are trying to hold the whole realm intact by yourself while trying to keep the Hightowers as far as they can be from the Throne, handling every lord and lady that complains, and — Rhaenyra as of now doesn’t know you well enough anymore to say it, but she suspects you are having an affair too. Just in case, she glares at Oscar through the tears. 

“I want to stay here, in the castle, with little to no worries until I am to be married off– oh, don’t look at me like that, mother, we both know it’s going to happen soon.” you wave a hand in the air, sniffling, “I want to finally be able to mourn my father. I want to wear all the pretty dresses I’ve bought in the last two years. I want to have handmaidens, I want to fly on Nādrēsy for fun rather than for Kingdom matters, I want to stop worrying about the Hightowers colonizing the Red Keep everytime I’m away. But I can’t do it without you, mother.”

She wipes away her tears with the sleeves of her dress, “I– I thought you enjoyed being the ambassador and having so many duties.”

You laugh bitterly. “I did for the first two years. When you give a child a cup of wine, he doesn’t think of the headache that he will have after drinking it– he only sees his opportunity to finally prove himself as an adult.” you grimace, a tear slipping from your eye, “At first it was fun. Grandsire kept me mostly away from political affairs and sent me around just to make Nādrēsy clean the Kingdom’s prisons; I didn’t have to do anything. But then he started considering me for political missions.” you spare a glance at Oscar, now trying to melt into one with the seat, clearly awkward. It was during one of the missions that you met. “He kept giving me more and more power, and I found it so funny. At ten I sentenced every remaining member of Cregan Stark’s family just because. I could have sent them to the Wall — after all, it wasn’t really clear how much his uncle’s sons had helped their father usurp Cregan, and the Wall is the usual punishment for Lords. But then, as I grew, I started feeling the weight of it. Not every situation was black and white, and sometimes I just wanted to kill both parties and call it a day.”

Your eye ticks. “And I don’t know how long I can hold it until it breaks me. I just need… time. If you pick up from where I left and become Hand, I won’t have to worry about anything until I become Queen or you become Queen and name me Hand. And until that happens, I think I will have learnt how to handle the weight just fine.” 

Your mother doesn’t say anything. She opens her mouth, then closes it, then opens it again. In the end, she just hugs you and goes for the door. As she opens it, she turns towards you, eyes red. “I– I’ll send a… servant. So that you two might be… chaperoned.” 

You raise an eyebrow. You open your heart to her for this? A dry laugh escapes you as she closes the door behind her, “Whatever,” and you move back to your original seat, letting your head fall on Oscar’s shoulder. You sigh. “Do you think she understood?”

He grumbles. “I hope so. I’m not willing to sit like this through another mother-daughter talk like this ever again.” 

Supper is predictably going to be a disaster. 

As your Grandsire enters the dining hall, wheezing and leaning against the maester, you glare at Aemond, who has graciously decided to sit as far away from you as possible — that does not deter you from cursing him to all kinds of pain and suffering in your head, though. 

You told Oscar to dine in his own room, knowing that as soon as any kind of cataclysm starts, he won’t want to be around. Looking at the faces of your relatives, you ask yourself who’s going to strike first — if Aemond, Aegon, Luke or, even worse, Daemon. 

Your grandsire groans loudly as he finally sits in his chair, Alicent on his right and your mother on his left, smiling as the Maester wipes sweat from his forehead. He tries to muster up a smile, but it comes out more like a grimace. “How good it is… to see you all tonight, together.” 

His wife hums. “Prayer before we begin?” as the others move to intertwine their hands, you and Daemon stay still, sending each other amused looks. Neither of you has ever been the greatest believer, not of the Seven at least. There’s a lot of things you believe in — your mother’s right to rule, the legitimacy of your brothers, Aemond’s utter and clear idiocy… 

“May the Mother smile down on this gathering with love. May the smith mend the bonds that have been broken for far too long. And to Vaemond Velaryon, may the gods make him rest.” you roll your eyes at that; you hope they make him burn for the rest of eternity. 

Your grandsire takes the word again. “This is an occasion of celebration. My grandson Luke will marry his cousin Baela, strengthening the bonds between our houses.” he turns to your mother, giving her the biggest smile you’ve seen him make in a while. “And my firstborn Rhaenyra has asked me permission to stay here in preparation for her role as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, making her the first Lady Hand to be named in history.” 

You perk up, surprised. Looking over at Otto, you find him staring blankly at the King, no hand pin on his chest. You instead find it on your mother’s dress, pinned right above her breast. You look up at her to find her already smiling tenderly at you, eyes full of affection. “She also requested that her daughter be lifted from her duties until she is to be married, so that she may enjoy the last years as a girl that she has left. I think her reasoning is right, and with her by my side, I know my granddaughter will be able to step aside and spend freely the next few years.” he takes his goblet of wine, barely managing to raise it in the air. “So, a toast to the young prince, his betrothed and the princesses!” 

You all clank your goblets and dive into your food, as silent as ever. Aegon nudges your side, “You’ve planned this well, haven’t you?” he whispers. The smirk on his face tells you that he couldn’t care less if his grandfather has just lost his position as Hand. “We should go visit the Free Cities together now that you have no more obligations, niece. Ever heard of Tyrosh’s pear brandy?”

You roll your eyes, holding in a smile. “Always thinking about drinking, aren’t you, uncle? I’m surprised you’re still so awake this late in the evening with all the cups you down usually.” 

He huffs. “Mother kept me from drinking today because of the trial.” he shrugs, grabbing his goblet and motioning for a servant to fill it up again. “Guess I’ll have to make up for it now.”

The chit-chatting goes on for a while; mostly everyone keeps to either themselves or the ones beside them, keeping their eyes on the plate and eating as fast as they could to get out of here soon. Your grandsire coughs, making everyone raise their eyes to look at him wheezing. “It both gladdens my heart and fills me with sorrow to see these faces around the table. The faces most dear to me in the world… yet grown so distant from each other in the years past.” he shakes his head, making both you and Aegon grimace while looking at Aemond, who is nodding like he’s not the one who has mostly caused all of this.

“Let us no longer hold ill feelings into our hearts. The Crown cannot stand strong if the House of the Dragon remains divided. But set aside all your grievances — if not for the sake of the Crown, then for the sake of this old man, who loves you all dearly.” 

Either he doesn’t see the whole situation clearly or he keeps being a hopeless romantic, because you doubt anyone in this room will ever set their grievances aside. Even if you were to forgive Aemond for what he had done to you, your brothers would still hate him, and Baela and Rhaena would continue to resent him for stealing their mother’s dragon. Otto made your last six years a living hell, as you continuously tried to keep your grandsire from being poisoned by his stupid maesters and pages, and Alicent did the same to your mother, terrorizing her in her own home, making her walk right after giving birth to Joff and such. 

You’re about to open your mouth and protest on your family’s behalf when your mother herself rises from her seat, goblet high. “I wish to raise my cup to Her Grace, the Queen. I love my father, but I must admit that no one has stood more loyally by his side than his good wife.” The look Aegon sends you says loyally?, and you have to look straight ahead to the windows to not burst out laughing. 

“She has tended to him with… unfailing devotion, love, and honour. And for that, she has my whole gratitude — and… my apology.”

The Queen presses her lips into a thin line, getting up and raising her cup. “Your graciousness moves me deeply, Princess. We are both mothers, and we love our children. We have more in common than we sometimes allow. I raise my cup to you… and to your house. You will make a fine queen.”

You and Aegon share a doubtful glance. “Are we the problem?” He asks you quietly, concerned about why everyone’s accepting this so quickly. You shake your head. “I have no idea, uncle. Maybe we are crazy.”

Jace clears his throat, raising too. At this point, you think you might actually be the problem. Is it possible you’re the only one who’s spiteful in this room? “To Prince Aegon and… Prince Aemond. We have not seen each other in years, but I have fond memories of our shared youth. And as men, I hope we may yet be friends and allies. To you and your family's good health, dear uncles.” He sits back down, friendly punching Aegon’s shoulder. Your uncle coughs, “To you as well.”

Baela boldly gets up, and you’re starting to wonder for how long the toasting will go on. “I would like to toast to Rhaena and Princess Helaena. They'll be married soon, and even if I do not wish to marry, I am sure they’ll find good husbands in Prince Jacaerys and Prince Lucerys.”

The rest of the night goes fairly well, with bards starting the music and Mushroom fooling around, raising everyone’s spirits. Without him, you think, the family wouldn’t stand half as strong as it did. Once, Alicent tried to ban him from court, saying he was too obscene- as if your grandsire would’ve ever allowed that, with the way the fool made both you and your mother laugh. 

At some point during the evening, your grandsire leaves for his chambers, not feeling well; and as soon as he leaves the room, your fears become reality. 

Aemond gets up from his seat, cup raised, malice in his eyes. He has waited for grandsire to retire to speak– he knows the King would not have appreciated what he has to say. “Final tribute. To the health of my nephews: Jace, Luke, and Joffrey. Each of them handsome, wise… and strong.”

Jace flinches. Alicent grimaces, reprimanding, “Aemond.”

He doesn’t listen. “Come — let us drain our cups to these three… Strong boys.”

You and Jace both get up. “I dare you to say that again.”

“Why?” He laughs, “'Twas only a compliment. Do you not think yourself Strong?” 

Jacaerys strikes first, attacking Aemond with a punch on his face. Your mother is horrified, “Jace!”  Aegon whistles, laughing until you push his face into his food. “Not now, you dumb fuck!” She turns to you, eyes lost, “Not you, too!”

“S’fine,” Aegon chokes, face covered in sauce and peas and a piece of a roasted potato up his mouth. “She usually does worse.” 

Luke is on his feet the moment Jace’s knuckles touche Aemond’s face, but the guards stop him– they don’t come for Aemond quick enough to stop him from sending Jace tumbling to the ground, though, and your brother falls down only to rise up again, even more enraged– and that’s where the guards decide to step in. 

“That is enough!” Alicent yells, getting up and going to her son as your brothers struggle in the guard’s hold. She takes her son aside, raging, “Why would you say such a thing before these people?”

Aemond only snickers. “I was merely expressing how proud I am of my family, Mother.” he then turns to your brothers, still fighting the guards’ hold, “Though it seems my nephews aren't quite as proud of theirs.” 

Your mother hushers your brothers and cousins out of the room, “Go to your quarters. All of you go, now.”

Daemon goes to stand in between your uncle and your brothers, hands joined and sword on his hip. His gaze is clear: if you have something to say, say it to me. Aemond opts for the better option — the one that will allow him to keep his head steady on his shoulders — and decides to just flee the scene, exiting the chamber.

You sigh, looking at your mother. “Well,” you mumble, “I’m departing for Driftmark early in the morn to see my grandfather,” you tell her, patting her shoulder. “Good luck with everything else though. It’s rare around here that supper doesn’t end in a fight.”

if my calculations are right, the slow burn will start burning next chap