#because she cares about me sure but it wasn’t the way I needed her to

[jarofstyles]

Pierced Through The Heart

Hello my ducklings! Welcome to Pierced Through The Heart (I’m writing a second part it’s okay 🫶) friends to lovers, piercing artist h, artist Y/N, fluffy and smutty and all the fun stuff!

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WC- 8.7k

Warnings- smut, oral (F receiving), unprotected sex, h has tongue and lip piercings

“Finally! Hey.” An easy smile lit up his face as he watched her walk into his flat. It was always welcome to see her enter like she owned the place- she very well could, if she wanted to.. Looking her over with what he hoped were at least slightly concealed heart eyes, he lifted his hand for her to sit next to him on the well loved sofa. “Where have you been, gorgeous? Off hiding away?”

It had been a bit since they’d gotten together so when she had texted him asking if he was busy tonight, he had scrambled to make sure his place was clean and he could appear as nonchalant as possible when he texted her when he texted her to come over- even if his heart had been in his ass when she gave her ETA. 

“Ugh.” Y/N groaned, stretching her legs out as she took a seat right next to him as he so graciously offered. “I got a huge fucking commission and it’s taken me ages. M’happy about it, don’t get me wrong, but I feel a bit over my head a bit. I needed to get a head start on it so I didn’t fall behind.” Sometimes she did get in her head about work so it made sense, though it didn’t make him miss her any less. 

Harry nodded, tapping his fingers against his thigh. “I get it, babe. S’important and you've got to take care of your work. I just missed having you around.” He pouted playfully, putting his arm around her “But hey, you're here now.”

“Exactly.” She smiled tiredly, leaning her head on his shoulder. His cologne was a comfort she hadn’t realized she needed- as well as the simple concept of human touch. Being locked up in her studio as she chipped away at the commissions often had her forgetting how much both her body and mind actually craved a cuddle or two. “Where's the roommate tonight?”

Harry shrugged, his hand tracing lazy circles on her shoulder.  “He's out. Some party or another. You know how it is with Kev. Always living life on the edge.” He chuckled, but there was a hint of worry in his voice. It wouldn’t be long before he went off the deep end- but that wasn’t a discussion for tonight.

“Yeah...” It was hard. His roommate was a bit much, so it was better they were alone, but she felt bad for feeling that way. “Did you order the food yet? Or were you waiting for me?”

Harry smiled, his fingers tightening slightly on her shoulder in a little squeeze. It felt so good to have her close to him again. Thankfully she was just as happy to be cuddly with him and didn’t seem to be weirded out by her friend’s overt clinginess- or didn’t show it- because he felt slightly pathetic with how much he’d missed her presence. “I ordered already, love. Should be arriving any minute now.” He took a glance down at her, his eyes soft with… something. She couldn’t tell quite what it was, but she’d seen it a few times. “I've got everything set up just the way you like it.” 

“Ugh. You’re a godsend.” Wrapping her arms around him she hugged him tight, feeling a little bit of pressure roll off of her shoulders. He was always so good at things like that. taking care of her, making her feel relaxed, always being one step ahead. “You are the absolute best. I hope you know that.”

Harry chuckled, wrapping his arms around her in return and relishing in the feeling of her initiating the embrace before pulling back. It wasn’t that he wanted to, nor did he fully, but he needed to attempt some semblance of normalcy. “I do my best, babe. Just want to make sure you're taken care of, that's all.” The man smiled down at her, his fingers trailing through her hair. Just couldn’t fucking help it, could he? “And honestly, I love doing things for you.”

Harry had never considered himself much for taking care of people prior, tending to be more of a lone wolf in most aspect of his life, but when he met Y/N it had all… just come out. He loved being the one making sure she was smiling.  Making sure she was well fed, warm, feeling comfortable in his presence. It gave him a sense of purpose, he thinks. The smiles were reward enough, but making her feel comfortable in his company was the ultimate goal. It's why he made sure his roommate wasn’t going to be here tonight. Y/N was too polite to say he made her a little uneasy, but he was attentive to her and receptive to her feelings. Her body language never seemed at ease when he was around-‘so he eliminated that sort of issue

“And that’s why you’re above everyone else.” Y/N mumbled, keeping her eyes closed as he ran his fingers through the hair at the nape of her neck. “That feels incredible, by the way.”

Harry blushed to himself, grateful she couldn’t see it right now. It was weird, feeling such a sense of pride wash over him over something so simple. He loved being the one she turned to, the one she felt most comfortable with. Hearing her praise him made him feel like he was genuinely doing something right. “Ah, yeah?”

“Mhm.” The girl nodded. “Tell me about work, though. Any interesting piercings? Anyone pass out? Had that one weird guy come in again? I want to know it all.” She kept her cheek pressed to his shoulder as he continued the motions.

Harry let out a soft laugh, settling into the comfortable rhythm of running his fingers through the silky locks as he tried to think of something interesting enough to tell her. “Well, actually, there was this one guy who came in for his first ear piercing and he freaked the fuck out when he saw the needle. He started shaking and sweating and just about passed out cold on the chair.”

“For an ear piercing?” Y/N let out a choked laugh. “I try not to judge people but… that’s kind of an overreaction, isn’t it?”

Harry couldn't help but chuckle at her reaction. It was like her to be sweet about it and not judge, but he did sometimes. She was the only one who knew he really rolled his eyes at shit like that. He leaned down, pressing a small kiss to the crown of her head before pulling back to continue his story. “Yeah, I thought so too. But you should've seen the look on his face when I finally got the needle through.”

“Oi.” She winced. “Yeah, M’sure that was a joy to deal with.” Sarcasm laced her tone. “You have loads more patience than me. It’s why I work with as few people as possible.” Retail and service has never bode well with her, and when she had fallen into her own artwork she had counted her blessings that it meant she didn’t have to work with people day to day. 

Harry smiled, feeling a sense of contentment wash over him as he listened to her voice. He loved her sarcasm, her wit, her everything, but he tried to keep that sort of fondness off of his face the best he could. “That's part of why I like bein’ close with you, actually. You're low-maintenance and always so easy to be around. A little grumpy, but s’cute.”

“Grumpy?” Her nose wrinkled, but she couldn’t deny it. The girl did her absolute best to be as sweet as she could but one of the things that made her tick was stupidity, and that was something people had to deal with in abundance when they worked in those industries. She was a little bit grumpy when it came to people. “I…wish I could deny those allegations, but I can’t. But in my defense, people shouldn’t be asking so many stupid questions. I worry more and more that people lose common sense as the days go by.”

Harry laughed, pulling her a little tighter against his side. "Grumpy and worried about the loss of common sense, huh? That's my girl." He paused, his fingers still gently fiddling with the ends of her hair. "But even with all that, you're still the most comfortable person for me to be around."

“Really?” She looked at him in surprise. Her guess would have been maybe Mitch, or Connor. Not her. “How come? I mean, not that I’m not extremely flattered and have to calm my ego at this moment because I can literally feel it growing out of my ears.” 

Harry smiled, feeling his tummy twist slightly as he looked down at her, "Because you're just... you, ya know? You're honest, and a bit grumpy-which we already established as cute-, and you don't put up with any of my shit." It was refreshing to have someone who cared about you enough to call you out on shit, and that’s what he needed. It was an interesting juxtaposition to see her soft doe-like eyes looking up at him with her head tilted, telling him that he’s absolutely ‘full of shit’. Harry had been known to be a bit arrogant at times and she had taken that level way down, in a good way. "And you're the only person who can make me laugh without even trying."

“H… you’re gonna make me blush.” She playfully batted at his chest, but felt the swirl of warmth in her tummy. It was a true compliment all things considered. Harry seemed open, but he kept people at an arm's length usually. She had noticed that he didn’t do it with her which she had always special, but hearing it out loud made her feel even more so.

Harry's eyes softened slightly as he looked at her. "You're the only one who can see past all the layers and shit and just get me, you know?" He leaned in just a bit, pressing a gentle kiss to her cheek. "And I fucking love it." 

It was that moment, she would come to reflect, where the tension started. The kiss to the cheek, the compliments. It had started the loaded tension, the sexual undertone for the rest of the night. 

Later on, after the food had been eaten and settled in their bellies and the second episode had ended and the third had begun, she realized how close she had gotten to him through the night. Her legs over his thighs, his thumb tracing over her knee. His eyes were on the screen giving her a chance to observe his beautiful fucking face for a moment without feeling the normal intimidation she would from him staring right back at her. The lip ring, the sharp curve of his jaw, his pretty mouth, the slope of his nose- a modern Apollo. It had been no secret that he was good looking but it was harder to ignore tonight. It was always hard to ignore just how beautiful the man was, but feeling it now, seeing it up close and personal felt like a privilege. Her body flushed when she noticed his eyes on her- he caught her staring, his eyebrow raised at her, but didn’t say a word.

Harry moved his hand from her knee, tracing his fingers up her thigh slowly before resting it there again. He leaned in closer, his lips curling as he whispered to her. "You like what you see, love? Wanna take a picture? I’ll pose for you, even. Let the pretty artist do her thing. Think I’d be a good muse?" The hint of tease was in there but he was waiting for her reaction. Feeling his own want for her bubbling over, simmering under his fingertips.

“You’re really handsome, H. I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you that, but you are.” Ever the blunt person, Y/N didn’t shy away from telling him that he was beautiful. That was the god’s honest truth. Harry was factually gorgeous and she had always thought so, as did most human beings whenever they went out. He commanded a room without even trying, attracting eyes like magnets- only his being the opposite pole. 

Harry's smirk grew wider at her words, his hand still resting on her thigh. "Handsome, huh?" He repeated, his voice huskier than she had heard it before. It sent a bit of a zing to her tummy because- that was hot. There was a quick glance at the TV before looking back at her, his eyes locking onto hers. "You're pretty fucking stunning yourself, you know that?"

The air between them was static, the tension thick and palpable. Harry's hand on her thigh was a constant reminder of his presence, of his touch. Her legs were draped over his, their bodies close, touching in a way they had before a million times but it felt… different. The charge was there. He could feel it and he was sure she could too. What exactly changed, he wasn’t sure. Perhaps the heart had grown fonder over their bit of time apart, or perhaps the dam was finally overflowing and breaking against the weight of trying to hold back desires hidden behind the walls- either way, he was going to find out. The sound of the TV in the background was barely audible over the pounding of their hearts, but he could feel it in his throat.

Harry had been pining for her for what felt like an eternity. He'd watch her from afar, his heart aching with every smile she shared with someone else. The only true explanation he could come to was that he loved her, he realized. He had loved her for a long time now. He ached for her, his heart hurting every time she mentioned dating apps or hookups in the past because fuck, he wanted to be the one she was talking about, the one she was laughing with. He wanted to be her world, her everything. No one would expect the man to be a romantic, but he was. Maybe she’d brought it out of him, but he felt completely at her mercy and she had no idea just how tightly wound he was around her tiniest finger.

“You think so?” She felt a little shy with that compliment. It wasn’t often that she got like that, but Harry had a way of pulling it out of her. “Stunning is a big word, but thank you.” Licking over her lip, she looked down to his tattooed wrist, running her finger over the ink. “I’m glad you invited me to hang out tonight.”’

Harry's heart flipped at her shy reaction. Damn, she was so fucking cute. He wanted to lean in, brush his lips over hers and take a taste of her. The way she was looking at his tattoos, running her finger over them was driving him crazy. The sensation was something he’d dreamt about, post coitial bliss with her hands all over him in the best way. He wanted to feel all of it, all of her, everywhere

"You're more than fucking stunning, you know that?" Harry's voice was raspy as he spoke, volume low as if trying to keep it private for them even if they were already alone. He shifted in his seat, his hand on her thigh flexing a little as he leaned in closer to her.

Her heart stuttered in her chest as she looked at him, throat tight. She had an idea what was happening but she hadn’t anticipated it actually being any reality, let alone one that would be happening tonight. Part of her wanted to shy away but she couldn’t. Her body wouldn’t let her. Eyes curious and round, her head tilted in question as he looked right back at her.

Harry noticed the way she was looking at him, head falling back slightly as he let it a light groan. "Fuck, don't look at me like that, please." He begged. He couldn't take it, seeing her so nervous and shy. 

“Like what?” Her eyes widened slightly but she made no move to shift away from him. What was she doing? What was happening? And why did she want him to keep going, keep touching her, why did she feel like she was lightheaded from the attention he was paying to her? Had he always looked at her like this?

Harry's eyes were locked onto hers, his gaze intense. "Like you're confused. Like you don’t know how fuckin’ gorgeous I find you." He admitted, his hand on her thigh trembling slightly. "I don't know how much more of this I can take, you're fucking killing me."

Warm fingertips trailed over his wrist and down his hand, brushing over his wrists and back up as she waited for him to react. The anticipation was killing her, sitting perfectly still as she decided to wait. to let him take the lead. “Why am I killing you?” She was playing dumb. The sexual tension had risen up, her skin hot from it, but she wanted to hear it from him.

Harry sucked in a breath as she trailed her fingertips over his wrist, his heart racing in his chest. He couldn't take it anymore, he had to tell- had to show her. To let out everything that was building up inside of him. "Because I want you so goddamn bad." His voice was hoarse, laced with fervor, his eyes pleading with her to understand. He couldn't help the way he felt, the way he had always felt about her. "I've wanted you for so long, been pining for you.. it's driving me insane."

“You have?” Her head tilted, hair falling over her shoulder as he dropped that bomb on her. Y/N hadn’t had any real idea that he had wanted her, had always sort of thought maybe he just liked that she was easy to hang out with and that they’d meshed together really well, but the knowledge that he was pining over her sent the hoard of butterflies into her stomach. “How.. for how long?”

Harry's jaw clenched, knowing it was time to confess. There was no use in hiding it anymore, even if she was going to reject him. It was about to burst from his seams, leak from his lips regardless. "Since we’ve met," He admitted, his voice rough with emotion. "I’ve been fucking useless over you. Used t’watch you, wonder what it would be like to have you, to hold you, to kiss you." He looked at her with desperate eyes.

"I'd see you talking to that asshole ex of yours, and I'd just want to fucking rip him apart and keep you all to myself. Knew I could treat you better, make you feel better, give you all the shit he couldn’t. Heard you cry too many times over people that aren’t worth it and I can give you all the shit you need. I know I can." He admitted, his face flushing with anger and jealousy. "I've tried to ignore it, to move on, but I can't."

"You have no idea how many times I've imagined telling you, but I didn’t want to fuck things up between things up between us. You’ve felt safe with me. I didn’t want you to feel like I’ve been friends with you as some fucking attempt to get into your pants because that isn’t it. I’ll be your friend regardless, but I just need a shot. Please. Just give me one chance t’see." Harry felt a little pathetic for his approach but he didn’t have much control over it. It was all in her hands now.

Her breathing hitched as she listened, her cunt getting slightly wet at the way he looked at her, at how he spoke. losing that bit of a veil he had over him, showing her how he had felt. Finally, It felt like that part she couldn’t figure out was coming to the light. “Harry…” she breathed, feeling his hand reach for her jaw. It was welcomed, his warm fingertips tilting her head up.

She didn’t know he had that in him, but she really fucking liked it. 

Gripping her chin firmly, his thumb brushing over her pouted lower lip as he looked into her eyes. "Shut up and kiss me." He commanded, leaving no room for argument. Harry didn't wait for her to respond. Leaning in, his free hand came up to wrap around her waist, pulling her close to him as he crushed their lips together. It was rough, passionate and intense, a hunger she hadn't sensed from him before- and she strangely loved it.

Harry’s lips were demanding, claiming hers as if she belonged to him. His tongue pushed past her lips, tangling with hers in a heated kiss that left her gasping. He kissed her like he was starving for her, like he hadn't eaten in days and she was the only thing that could satisfy him. His lips were bruising, hungry, insistent, molding against hers with a fierce intensity that took her breath away. The tip of his tongue delved into her mouth, probing, tasting, owning, his moan vibrating against her lips as he deepened the kiss.

She melted into the kiss, her arms wrapping around his neck as she returned it with equal fervor. Her hands fisted in his hair, holding him close as she surrendered to the overwhelming hunger he stirred within her. She whimpered into the kiss, her body trembling with need, her heart racing in her chest.

Y/N could feel just how much he meant it, how much he had yearned for her. She could taste it on his tongue as he held her to his body, resting her on his thighs. He was greedy with her, taking and taking and taking- but she didn’t mind at all. If anything she flowed into it, melting into the feeling.

The way she fed into the kiss, so willingly and completely, made his heart race and his head spin. He could taste her surrender, her desire, her longing for him and he drank it in eagerly, as if he could never get enough of her. Her body melted into his embrace as her lips parted further, inviting him in deeper. He could feel her heart racing against his chest, her hands gripping his hair almost painfully, but he hardly cared.

Her body was pliant, her breathing uneven, as he continued to delve into her mouth. He could feel the way she shifted on his lap, her legs bracketing his hips as she slowly began to move herself against him.

A low groan rumbled in his chest, the sound almost primal as he felt her shifting on his lap. It was the most beautiful thing he'd ever heard and it only served to drive him further into madness. He wanted more of her, all of her, every single part of her. “Baby…” The nickname fell out of her mouth as a breathless sigh. “You’re gonna fuckin’ kill me.”

He pulled back from the kiss slightly, his breath coming in ragged pants as he stared down at her. Her eyes were glazed over with desire, her lips swollen and so prettily puffy from the intensity of their kissing- he wanted this to be the state of them every fucking day. Why was this only the first time he’d gotten the privilege of getting to see this? "I can't... I can't think straight when you're like this,"

Uneven breaths filtered the room, the TV show long forgotten behind them. She, too, was unable to think straight as she looked into his eyes. It was gorgeous, he was fucking gorgeous, looking fucked out just from a kiss alone. “Huh?” Y/N was hazy herself. This wasn’t what she had expected from coming over tonight but she had no complaints. Her mouth felt like it was buzzing and her clit was throbbing as she sat against him, his large hands keeping her still otherwise she’d continue her ministrations on top of him.

Harry reached out, his fingers brushing against her cheek in a gentle touch. "Just looking at you, baby, makes me lose my damn mind. I need you to focus on me for a second, okay?" He swallowed hard as he tried to calm himself down. "You're fuckin’ stunning. Driving me crazy, really fucking crazy. The way you move against me... I need more of it." The man sighed out, his fingers trailing down her throat gently, petting her.

Harry's mind was swimming with need, a deep and intense desire to have her, to make her his and his alone. He wanted to feel her body pressed against his, the heat rolling off of her in waves. He wanted to kiss her, to touch her, to taste her. “But I don’t want t’just fuck you. I want you. Want you to be my girl.”

Holding her eyes with his own, he thumbed over her swollen bottom lip and watched as it snapped back to place as he released it. “I want t’do the whole thing. The dates, the flowers, everything you want. I don’t want to ruin this friendship but fuck, darling… I just want you to be mine.” He swallowed thickly, watching her reaction. “I’m willing to work for that title… but I can’t hold back anymore. Can’t keep pretending that I’m not dying t’hold you and kiss this perfect fucking mouth.”

She looked up at him, eyes wide and lips parted. Her cheeks were hot under the skin, chest rising and falling with every deep breath she took. It felt like he’d stolen her breath and her thoughts as he confessed to her, making her blink at him a few times. She looked completely lost in his words and the way he looked at her as he spoke them. The air around was thick with tension and desire.

There wasn’t a thought that needed to be had to confirm that she wanted him back, though. She always adored him, but he’d never seemed like the relationship type. Never showed his interest in the way she had anticipated. It had taken her by surprise, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t happy about it.

Without thinking, she reached up and cupped his face, her thumb brushing over his berry hued lips and running over the piercing as she searched his eyes. She could see the raw emotion in them, the way he was barely holding on to his control. And it broke her heart, in a way, because she was so completely aware of how painful it could be to hold back emotions for someone. “I wish you hadn’t hidden it for so long.” Softly, she used her other hand to push back his hair. “I can’t lie and say this isn’t a surprise… but I am more than willing to give it a shot.” Indulging in him, she leaned forward and placed a chaste kiss to his lips. “Especially when you kiss me like you just did.”

She deepened the kiss, parting her lips for him and wrapping her arms around his neck in a desperate attempt to get closer to him. Harry groaned against her mouth, pulling her flush against him as he slipped his tongue into her mouth.

That was the answer he needed. He had imagined her rejection a million times, her acceptance a few times more, but nothing could compare to the actual feeling of it. Having her in his lap and the overwhelming giddy feeling working its way through his limbs as he tried to show it through his actions.

The kiss was needy, full of the  longing and passion that had been building up over the months. He was rough and gentle at the same time, leaving her dizzy as he trailed kisses from her lips to her jaw. “Good. So it’s settled… no more silly dates with useless boys. You’re gonna give me a shot to show you just how much I can appreciate you.”

“Mhm.” Y/N nearly purred, rolling her head to the side as he kissed over her skin and down to her throat. It had always been sensitive for her, but feeling the cool brush of his lip ring, and then the metallic ball of his tongue piercing brush her hot skin had her shiver in his arms.

Harry smirked, knowing he was getting to her head. His hands roamed her body, pulling her in even closer as he sucked on a soft spot right under her ear. God, she was fucking soft wherever he touched her, he couldn’t get enough of her. He sucked hard on the spot, his nose brushing against her skin as he inhaled her scent deeply. His other hand came up to wrap around her throat, applying just a bit of pressure as he tilted her head to the side, giving him better access to her neck.

“Fuck.” Y/N felt her second heartbeat between her thighs, the strong hand and thick fingers holding her still. Positioning her where he wanted her. His rings added a similar sensation to his piercings, the mix of hot and cold working her up.

He hummed at her response, his hand tightening around her throat just slightly as he moved down to bite at her collarbone. A low growl rumbled in his chest, feeling the way her body trembled under him as he pressed a kiss over the racing pulse on her neck. Harry pulled back just enough to look into her eyes, his own dark and intense as he spoke in a low, rough tone. "M’gonna mark you up, m’love. Every inch of your skin is gonna have my fingerprints, my bites, my kisses. You're gonna be my girl, and everyone's gonna fuckin’ know it."

“Yeah.” She hummed, grinning as his hand loosened slightly on her throat. As toxic as it may be, she ate up the possessive words, wanting to let him do that very thing.

Harry let out a low, pleased noise at her words, his hips rocking forward as he pressed against her heat. He kissed her deeply, his tongue invading her mouth as he gripped her hip with one hand and reached down to undo his pants with the other. His poor cock needed to breath, aching with need as he finally got her exactly where he wanted her.

"How do you like to be touched, baby?" He whispered into her ear, before sucking on the lobe gently and nipping it, smirking to himself as he felt her shudder in his arms. He pulled back to look at her, his eyes shining. “Hm? I want t’know. Want t’make you the happiest fuckin’ girl. Can do anything y’want.”

“I…” She had trouble finding her words. This was not at all the sort of thing she’d anticipated coming over tonight, but she was loving every second of it. Harry… wanting her? It seemed like it was one of those dreams, one of those things that sounded nice in theory but would never happen- and yet here he was. Asking how she liked being touched because he wanted to be the one doing it. “I like when you held my throat… and when you bit me. And when you held my jaw.”

Harry's lips quirked into a half grin and he nodded. He pulled back to look at her, his thumb tracing over her jaw where he had just held it so gently. He leaned down and bit the skin there lightly, feeling her shiver under him. Her reaction was immediate and visceral. The moment his teeth sank into her jaw, she let out a soft, needy whine, her eyes fluttering closed as her body relaxed into his grip. Her leg tightened around his waist, her free hand reaching up to gently touch the spot where he'd bitten her.

Her whole body seemed to melt against him, her back arching as she pressed herself closer, seeking more of that delicious pain. A soft, high-pitched noise escaped her lips, somewhere between a whimper and a sigh, as she tilted her head to the side, offering him better access to her neck as she felt his nose drag down the side of it.

She was completely lost in the sensation, her mind going blank as all her focus shifted to the feeling of his teeth on her skin. Her fingers curled into his shirt, her nails digging in slightly as she held on for dear life, her other hand still resting on the spot he'd bitten, gently massaging it. “That feels so good.” She exhaled, the feelings washing over her. “I love how you touch me, H.”

Harry smiled against her skin, his teeth grazing over her jaw as he spoke. "I love touching you too, sweetheart. You're so fuckin’ responsive, for me.” He kissed the spot he'd bitten, soothing it with his lips before pulling back to look at her again.

His bulge rocked between her thighs, his hand moving to cup her face. She could feel his want for her, his affection. Harry hadn’t been joking in the slightest that he wanted to be hers, and that was something she hadn’t experienced before.

"You still haven't let me make you mine, properly," Harry said, a hint of a pout on his lips. "I want all of you, Y/N." He moved himself against her again, the cock in his pants rubbing against her aching cunt. "Are y’gonna let me have you?"

“Y-Yeah.” She nodded, shy smile on her face. There was nothing she wanted more in the moment, actually. 

 “Don’t want you to regret it, though.” Harry murmured, face sobering. As much as he wanted her, he wanted to make sure this was what she truly wanted above anything else. “We don’t have to go too far if you don’t want to.” 

“I wanna.” Y/N hadn’t been fucked in a while, no, but she trusted him. Hell, he’d waxed near poetry about how he wanted to be hers and vice versa. There was no one night stand needed to get off. Harry could do it- and if the things she had heard were true, he could do it very well.  “Want you to fuck me.”

Harry's eyes widened at her confession, his hand lingering on her cheek for a moment before he let go. "Well," he said, swallowing thickly. "I can certainly do that."

He was practically vibrating with excitement, his heart racing in his chest as he held her close. The thought of finally being able to claim her as his own, to be the one to make her feel good and cry out his name, was almost too much for him to handle. "I've wanted to be with you for so fuckin’ long." Harry murmured against her skin, his breath warm against her. "I've thought about you every night as I've fallen asleep, imagining what it would be like to finally have you, Y/N. You’ve got no idea"

“Then have me.” Y/N could hardly believe it, but she needed it just as badly now. Her body was hot and achy and her cunt was wet and felt so empty- Harry would fix it. He was the only one that could. “Touch wherever you want. I trust you.”

The declaration of trust meant more to him than she would probably ever realize. It gave him the confidence to go for it. Harry's hand immediately moved between her legs, rubbing her through the fabric of her pants. The man groaned as he felt how wet she was, his fingers tracing over her cunt as he breathed against her lips. "Oh, fuck, baby." he whispered in awe.

“Take them off.” her plea was a little whiny but it seemed to make him happy with how he smiled against her lips. “Please… I want to feel you touch me with nothing stopping it. Need it.”

Harry's smile was wicked as he reached for the waistband of her pants, quickly adjusting her so he could tug them down her legs along with her underwear. There was very little time to waste when it came to getting to have her. This had been his wet dream, his fantasy, and he wasn’t going to waste it. He sat back up and looked at her, his eyes roaming over her bare pussy before he knelt down in front of her with a husky groan.

“What?” She felt shy with him staring at her, the most vulnerable she had ever felt in front of him. The hunger in his eyes was visible and she knew he liked what he saw, but his quiet observation was unnerving. She watching the silver glint of his piercing glint as he ran his tongue over his bottom lip, strong, ringed hands gently pressing her thighs open and black polished fingers digging into her skin.

“M’sorry, baby.” he crooned. “Don’t mean to stare, but…. I’ve been waiting so long. M’not even sure this is real.” Any bit of control was completely gone. He leaned forward, pressing his face against the plush of her lower tummy, inhaling her scent before he looked up at her with those starving eyes again. "Fuck, you smell so good. You’ve no idea." he murmured before placing a kiss to her mound. “Wanna eat you up.”

Where she found the nerve, she had no clue- but the moment she had it, she let it go. “Do it.”

Her words were the last thing he needed before he gave into her- happily. Harry's hands gripped her thighs greedily as he buried his mouth between her legs, indulging in what he’d been wanting to taste for ages. He lightly kissed over her clit and nuzzled her as her felt her jolt at the feeling, letting her settle into it for a moment before getting into it. The cool metal ball of his tongue piercing tapping over her clit had her shivering, a shaky gasp leaving her swollen lips as her eyes fell closed. 

It was overwhelming, to say the least. Harry's tongue felt hot and slick as it lathed over her pussy- the contrast in temperatures between him and her sensitive flesh making her squirm. He explored her, leaving nowhere untouched as she gripped the cushion next to her, taking full advantage of his permission to taste before he settled into a slow, gentle rhythm of lapping at her cunt. The man was good- almost too good.

She could feel herself sinking into the cushion beneath her as he ate her out, his tongue dipping into her pussy and licking at her entrance before swirling around her clit. His hands were gentle on her thighs, rings cool to the touch and fingertips digging into her skin as he pushed them open wider for him. He groaned against her, eyes peering up at her.The vibrations against her pussy sent tremors through her body.  “Look at me, baby. Let me see your pretty eyes.”

The view was something else completely. Looking down at him, she felt herself nearly lose it altogether. It didn’t seem fair to have someone look that good doing such a filthy act, but it only seemed to make perfect sense for him. Harry exuded sex, and his sensual nature had always made her a bit curious in the past- but this was other worldly. His nose rubbed against her clit, his breath hot against her sensitive flesh, hair a mess, as hazy, dark green peered up at her from where they were so comfortably buried between her legs. Like they were made to be there.

Her hands fell to his hair, back arching as his tongue brushed her entrance again, breathing hitched as he nuzzled into her cunt, not caring about any mess as he pressed his tongue into her, nose brushing her clit with every movement. “Oh, fuck.” Her voice was a choked mess as she looked down at him in shock, not at all expecting this out of him. She should have, she should have known he was a filthy fuck, but she’d apparently unleashed something in him.

His hair was a wild mess as she gripped it, pulling him closer as he devoured her. He made happy noises against her, moving up to momentarily suck on her clit before plunging his tongue back inside her. She could feel his scruff scratching against her inner thighs, a rough sensation that made her clench around his tongue. It was animalistic, desperate in a way she had never felt before.

Harry hadn’t felt this deprived in his life. He hadn’t liked a woman this much before either, hadn’t wanted her this badly. He needed some relief, especially with her rocking her damn cunt against his face. A low groan rumbled in his chest as he pulled his sweats down, tugging his embarrassingly hard cock out and started to stroke. His hips rocked in time with the rhythm of his tongue, hand moving faster as she arched her back, pulling him closer. He could feel her getting closer, body trembling beneath him.

“H…” she panted, gently tugging him away from her cunt. “Inside me. I want to cum with you inside me.”

Harry groaned, a whine slipping from his lips as he pulled himself away from her pussy, a string of saliva connecting his tongue to her entrance before breaking away.

“M’not done with that. You taste so fucking good.” He mumbled, leaning himself up. His hands were gentle as he adjusted her to make them both comfortable. “Gonna make it good for you, baby. I promise.”  Another time he would take his time, make love to her properly. Spend hours with her in a bed when they both had patience- but right now? He knew the both of them needed relief, and they needed it now. Taking a shaky breath, he positioned the tip of his cock at her entrance, the head pressing against her soaked lips. He looked up at her, eyes wild as he pushed forward, the tip popping inside her. He let out a satisfied groan as he sunk himself in to the hilt, her tight pussy squeezing him the way he knew she would. 

She gasped, the way her walls closed in tighter on him as he sunk to the base was a small slice of heaven for him. He closed his eyes, riding out the pleasure of it for a moment. He could feel her body reacting in kind, legs trembling. “It’s okay, yeah? You’re okay?” He looked down at her, making sure she didn’t have any discomfort on her face. 

“I’m okay.” She sighed, gripping onto his forearm. “I’m so okay. I want it all. You can give it to me.” Lightly dragging her nails down his skin, she knew she could handle it. It’s how she liked it- how she wanted him to give it to her. Y/N wanted Harry exactly how he wanted to give it because she had full confidence he was going to give it to her good. 

“Alright, sweetheart. Jus’ hold on t’me then.” He pulled out barely, just the head remaining before thrusting himself back in, making her jolt under him. Deep- he was so deep, making her gasp as the pleasured fullness was felt to its extent. This was exactly what they needed. His hands grabbed her hips and he started moving in earnest, every thrust baring his need for her to cum around him. “Don’t have to hold back with me, sweet girl. Gonna make sure you feel good all night.”

She was a vision of beauty, legs spread wide as he fucked into her, the sound of their skin thudding together echoing through the room. Tears of pleasure slowly pooled in her waterline as he fucked her deep, his balls slapping against her ass with every thrust. Slow, deep, passion. It was palpable. 

Not overly rough, no. Not at all. It was hot and heavy in the best possible way, making her eyes roll back. He wasn’t using her as a toy, but showing her how much he wanted her with his body. There was no mistaking it. Harry meant what he said. He wanted her, and he was speaking through his body. She heard him loud and fucking clear. Hopefully, he was listening back. 

The room was filled with the sounds of their sex, the slap of skin, the wet squelch of his cock sinking into her over and over. She was shaking, her nails digging into his biceps as he pounded into her, the force of his thrusts making the aged sofa squeak. If it was any other scenario, he’d be cautious- but he was finally getting the woman he had been dreaming of around his cock.

Her whole body was a trembling mess, her breasts bouncing with each thorough thrust. Her back arched off the couch as he hit that sweet spot inside her, her walls clamping down on him like a vice. She let out a mewl, a saccharine call of his name as the intense pleasure washed over her. “Harry- Harry if you keep going M’gonna cum.” It was a frantic warning. Her mind couldn’t figure out if it was too much or not, but she didn’t want it to stop.

He couldn't help himself, his thrusts became even more urgent as he felt her walls fluttering around him, signaling her impending orgasm. He grabbed her face, his thumb pressing against her lips, shushing her as he fucked into with a blissed out smile. "Shh, m’dream girl, let it happen. Cum on my cock. Been dreaming of you for ages.

Let me have it." 

She tried to speak, but all that came out was a strangled moan of his name as her orgasm hit her. White hot pleasure hitting her blood as the tears left her waterline when her eyes squeezed shut, she dug her nails into him with a garbled whimper. Her body shook, her pussy fluttering around his cock as he continued to fuck her through it, prolonging her pleasure.

Harry leaned down, resting his forehead against hers as he felt his own climax building within him- especially with the feel of her nails digging into him and her own orgasm. "Fuck.. You're so fuckin’ perfect, so good, I'm gonna cum.." He whispered his final warning, groaning against her skin.

“Please.” Y/N whispered, dragging her nails up his arms and over his shoulders. “Give it to me. M’on the pill.” Her lips brushed his ear. “I want to feel it. You’ve been so nice to me tonight and I love it. Cum for me how you want. Anywhere you w-want.” 

Harry was a mass of frayed nerve endings as he neared his release. His entire body felt like it was buzzing, his heart beating fast against his chest. The build up of pleasure in his balls and the slick feeling of her pussy made him feel as if he was on cloud nine.

His muscles tensed, and a low groan rumbled in his chest. He was so close. He could feel his orgasm building, coiling in the base of his spine, ready to explode- but her sensual coos into his ear and fingers down arms had been the breaking point. "I'm gonna cum so fucking hard," he gritted out, his voice strained with effort. “M’cumming for you, baby. G-Gonna give it all t’you and make you m-mine.” His words stuttered as he felt it start. His vision started to blur and his breath hitched in his throat as he thrust into her one final time, holding himself deep inside her as his orgasm ripped through him. His vision went white, his mind going blank as he emptied himself into her, his cock pulsing with each spurt of cum.

Catching his breath, he let himself sag into her as he felt her hand dragging up and down his back. Mutual comfort as she held him, helping him through his own orgasm as she wrapped a leg around him, making sure he felt steady as he checked in on her. His ears were sorta ringing in a good way, but he was chuffed. “Okay?” He cupped her cheek, stroking her heated skin. At her nod, he grinned widely. “Yeah? Okay- okay, good. Jus’, need to make sure you’re good. Hold on. Need t’make us more comfortable. I’ll clean up in a second.” 

Ever so carefully, Harry pulled out of her, his softening cock slipping from her sensitive pussy. He cooed at the slight hiss she let out, apologizing as he grabbed a few tissues clumsily from the coffee table and wiped her the best he could as gathered her close on his lap, cradling her in his arms as he kissed her forehead, her cheeks, her nose, anywhere he could reach without breaking the tender moment. “That’s my girl. Fuck… you’re everything I want.”

Y/N had pushed away her crush on him when they’d first met, especially when they started to become closer friends- but this had been beyond her expectations. Harry had given her the fuck of her life all while claiming his devotion to her- something no one else had done before. She was borderline giddy as his hands stroke her, the rushed sex leaving their tops on and a true nod to the frantic passion they’d felt once the kissing had started.

A giggle left her throat as she peeled her eyes open to look at his flushed face and swollen lips, his eyes burning with an emotion she couldn’t place as she ran her hands over his shoulders. “We probably look so silly.” Harry’s pants around his ankles and hers off completely, both with just a shirt on.

Harry chuckled softly, his breath ghosting along her cheek as he spoke, his voice low and raspy from the intensity of their just-past fucking. The way she was looking at him was almost better than her moans had been.

“Silly, hmm?” Harry’s eyes took on a mischievous edge as his fingers traced the curve of her waist. He sat up on the couch, dragging her with him so she was straddling his lap. His roommate be damned, he wasn’t too concerned about the mess on the couch right now.

“Mhm.” Her smile faded into a soft grin. “We were a little eager, huh?”

Eager was an understatement, but Harry loved how cute she looked in this moment. The way she was sitting on top of him, all breathless and relaxed—it made him want to do it all over again, if only to see that look on her face.

Harry’s hand wandered to the back of her neck, his thumb gently tracing circles against her skin as he spoke. “I am eager.” He sobered slightly. “I meant what I said. I want you. I promise I’d be the best person you’ve ever dated. I’ll worship you every day and make sure you know how much you mean to me.”

He leaned in to press a soft kiss to her lips, his eyes still locked on hers. “I’ll make you laugh every day, be there for you through everything. And when it comes to the bedroom,” Harry paused, grinning slyly.

“Hush.” Y/N giggled, placing their lips back together for a longer kiss, slow and smooth as she pulled back. their lips made a soft clicking sound as she rubbed her nose against his. “So if you want to be my boyfriend…. does that mean you’ll give me free piercings?”

Harry let out a chuckle, his arms wrapping around her waist as he hugged her close. “Free piercings, exclusive attention, really bad jokes, and a love that’ll make your heart skip a beat. That’s the deal, love. But you have to promise me one thing in return.”

“Hm… what’s that?”

Harry would give her the world if she asked for it, probably, but he did have one stipulation. “No more waiting between commissions t’see you. You can set up here, or I can come see you after work. M’a little clingy, if you couldn’t tell. Deal?” “Deal.”

[thepersonnamedsam]

grin to win - the genz!driver

pairing: the genz!driver x 24!grid (pre and during singapore)

summary: it’s the gzd first ever win, but getting there was a bumpy road

word count: 4.3k

warning: not proof read and some angst, talks about not feeling enough and all that

note: i am so sorry for not having updated in such a long time, i do hope you still like my stuff :)

masterlist / taglist

it has been weeks since our beloved gen-z driver has had a positive experience. silly season started earlier than she thought - daniel was rumoured to be dropped soon. max hasn’t won for a long time, she wasn’t sure if that’s positive or negative, but she feels sorry for her favourite dutch. carlos finally announced he’s signed with williams.

oh, and logan’s been dropped.

oliver is driving for haas next year. mclaren overtook redbull in the constructors championship. lando has started his transition to mad-lando (get it? because he’s starting to drive like mad-max? anyway). kimi signed with mercedes.

but there weren’t any news surrounding y/n. nothing negative, but also nothing positive. no rumours of her signing with a new team, or staying at her current team. her contract will run out at the end of the season.

she hasn’t heard from her team ceo or principal yet. she wasn’t underperforming, no she’s just performing as expected. but also not doing better.

she needed that something. that something that reassured her, that she’s in the right place. she needed at least a podium this season. that’s what she was telling herself for the last weeks. beating herself up, every time she didn’t perform well enough (in her eyes, we have to say. because if you looked at it from a neutral view, she was doing more than fine).

the stress has been eating her up. she was staying longer at the gym, eating less, seeing the guys less, not seeing her friends or family. even her boyfriend broke up with her, because she’s been ignoring him and focusing too much on her racing.

lewis was the first one to suspect something, knowing this behaviour all to well from himself. but he didn’t know what to do. should he ask her about it or say something to someone professional?

the first thing he did was tell george. george usually knew what to do. except this time.

„lew, im sorry man, i don’t know what do do“, he sighed and looked over to his teammate. „we could just tell the principal, but i don’t know if we‘ll brake her trust this way.“

„she just needs to see, that she’s good enough, i know that that’s the issue she’s having right now“, said lewis to george.

the taller one just shrugged, „maybe we should just, you know, talk to her“, he suggested.

lewis agreed, but he was sure, that he was the wrong person to talk to y/n. that’s why he called seb.

and as her phone started to ring and her favourite picture of her and seb appeared on her screen, she instantly knew, that someone noticed her weird behaviour. why else would sebastian call during race week?

with a heavy sigh she picked up her phone and tried to sound as happy as possible as she said: „hi seb! what’s going on?“

the german scrunched up his face as he heard the rather happy voice of the young girl. „hi there, pretty lady. i heard you’ve been absent lately“, he said softly.

the moment y/n heard her current situation from someone else, her tears fell. she didn’t think that it’d effect her this much, someone knowing what’s been going on lately, but it did.

„how do you know?“, she sniffled. her cries broke sebs heart, he could only imagine how his daughter’s future teenage cries would take him out.

„a birdie noticed and told me, hun.“ - „who was it? tell me it wasn’t my ex, because that bloody pig told me, if i couldn’t care enough about him, he wouldn’t care about me and if he called you, that means he’d still care about me and that would only make me feel more guilt over the whole situation“, y/n started to ramble.

„hey hey, no, it wasn’t him“, seb stopped her rambling. „i won’t tell you who, im just gonna tell you, as someone standing on the sidelines, you’re doing more than fine, okay?“

she shook her head no, even though the retired driver couldn’t see her. „no im not, everybody’s getting to sign their new contract or has been rumoured to be let go, but nothings happening with me“, she sighed.

seb told her, that this wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, that teams usually like to torture their drivers to see how far they’re willing to push. and that she just had to let the team get to her and not assume anything.

„but what if it’s like the situation with daniel? or logan? what if it’s the same with me?“

„then so be it, you can come to switzerland for a few weeks, we‘ll forget the whole thing and organise something new, it’s as easy as that“, seb told her.

„and honestly, y/n, you’re not being dropped, or rumours would have already been going around. as i said, just go with the flow.“

that’s what she tried. she tried to engage more with the other drivers. she tried to enjoy little things like eating chocolate.

she started to regularly talk with seb and talk about her feelings and worries - which helped her a lot.

and as time flew by, she got back into her zone. back into that racing mode, back into the fight.

it was singapore, hot and humid, but she was ready to fight. right before qualifying lewis visited her garage. looking relieved to see her spirits back where they belong.

„kiddo, you ready?“, he asked. y/n grinned at him and threw two thumps up. „good“, he murmured.

„good luck!“, he shouted. „you too, you’re gonna need it with my pace“, she laughed back.

„i hope so“, whispered the mercedes driver. „i really hope so.“

y/n sat in her car, she felt that something good would be happening. she never felt this ready for qualifying before.

q1 and q2 went by as a breeze. her lap times were phenomenal, she’s done better, but they were still great. easing into q3 with a good feeling and good lap times.

„y/n, you’ve been doing great out there, don’t push yourself too much, okay? i’ll tell you when to give it your all. we’re going for the front row“, her race engineer told her.

front row, that was really something.

„you think we can do it?“, she asked nervously. „i think that you can do it.“

with that statement she drove out of the garage onto the track. driving some laps to warm up her tyres. feeling the track and the car. she took a deep breath in and let it out and waited for her race engineer to giver her their sign.

tears stained her cheeks as she got out of the car. everything was blurry. confusion was written on her face. qualifying just ended and she will start the race from p2 on sunday.

she couldn’t believe it, neither could her team or to be honest, every other driver on the grid.

journalist started to surround the garage, friends of the young girl had trouble getting to her. the first one who made it through the masses, was oscar.

as soon as she saw him, she started screaming; „oscar! can you believe it?“

the aussy looked at the girl, or rather young woman, and only grinned at her. „you’re giving me the creeps with that smile, os“, y/n giggled. „you look like the joker, who are you about to murder?“

„the one who’s been making you feel worthless, but that’s a different story“, he half whispered half sighed.

the young driver had to sigh, she knew the other drivers had caught on her emotions. but she didn’t think, that they’d know in this detail.

y/n grinned through the pang and hugged the australian. „thanks for being there for me“, she whispered.

the moment oscar wanted to say something sentimental, his teammate barged through the journalists and jumped on them both.

„i cannot believe it! my best friend, starting front row, my goodness“, he exhaled and inhaled again: „together! we’re starting front row together!“

y/n giggled once again, she felt, that this wasn’t the last giggle of the day. „will you let me pass?“, she asked jokingly.

lando looked shocked: „are you kidding me? nuh-uh, no way in hell will i let you pass, now that im a race winner, you’ll have to earn it fair and square!“

„fair“, oscar laughed. y/n shoved oscar outraged. „you’re on his side?“ - „i am a race winner too, you know?“

„indeed he is“, carlos called from the end of the garage. „oi, this isn’t your garage“, a mechanic of her team shouted, „this isn’t all of you guys‘ garage“, he said, as he realised two more drivers were present.

„let’s go, we‘re going to some hospitality or something“, y/n suggested. with an apologetic look towards the mechanics, the drivers left the garage.

„i’ll update the groupchat and tell them where we are“, lando mumbled. oscar’s and carlos‘ phone dinged, but y/n‘s was left out.

„wait, what groupchat did you text?“, she asked confused. „the one about you’re crisis-“ lando just saw carlos‘ and oscar’s head shacking no, as he slowly finished his sentence, realising his mistake, „-without you in it.“

„what?“ - „lewis and seb created a groupchat, to discuss some tips on how to lift your spirits, s‘all“, oscar slowly explained.

„okay“, said the female driver slowly. „thanks, i guess?“

„wait, so you all knew? i mean i kind of suspected you knowing, but you all knew? and what did you discuss?“

the three drivers thought carefully about their next words. carlos was the first to speak out: „nothing really. lewis just told us, that your behaviour reminded him of himself when he first joined mercedes and seb just told us, that he was talking with you about it and just kind of updated us.“

„y/n you’re very important to all of us, we love you and want you to be well. if somethings going on, we worry about you and want to fix it“, oscar supplemented.

„why didn’t you tell us?“ lando was the last to speak. his voice full of hurt. „oh lando, im sorry, i didn’t want to bother all of you with my shit“, she admitted.

daniel could see the falling tears on her face from far away. he could also see the many cameras realising their existence. he sprinted over to the four, to mainly shield them from the media, but his weird running drew more attention to the drivers.

„hi there, don’t cry, cameras“, he huffed. the little smile came back to y/n‘s face, as she looked at daniel’s red and out of breath face.

„hey i thought you were a high performance athlete?“, she smiled and wiped away her tears. „i am, athletes sweat, baby“, daniel said.

„i heard that that’s your last race, is it true, danny?“, she changed the topic from herself to the smiley australian.

„don’t change the topic, girly“, he smiled sincerely. „there’s no truth, until you get that breaking post on insta.“

„hey, but front row, huh? how nice does it feel?“, he asked her. still on the move, she nearly tripped, not only over her next sentence, but also over a curb; „very good but also kinda scary.“

„i got lando here in front of me and max behind me, just a little bit scary“, she elaborated further.

at the mention of the dutch, he appeared in front of the group suddenly. „i heard my name, what’s going on?“

„i get it, max is scary“, oscar whispered more to himself. „dude, how’d you do that?“, lando asked impressed.

„magic“, max waved his hand in front of his face and laughed. he high five’d y/n next and smiled at the other drivers.

„max is scary when he smiles“, said oscar slow and quietly towards lando, who agreed soundlessly. „hey, watch it“, max then pointed out.

on the other side, daniel was standing close to y/n, studying every twitch on her face. looking at carlos they silently communicated. the older two each grabbed a hand of hers and pulled her towards the next hospitality.

as usual, lando, max and oscar didn’t notice the other three‘s disappearance.

the two mercedes drivers, fernando and charles were already waiting. as soon as the female driver noticed lewis‘ braids, she sprinted towards him.

he though that she would gleefully hug him, but thought differently. with an angry step she stood in front of him. „how dare you make a groupchat about my feelings!“, she pointed a finger at his chest.

although she was small, she was fearful. her finger digging painfully into his chest, twisting every other second.

the older driver caved under her touch and slouched: „i’m so sorry, i just wanted to help.“

„by creating a groupchat? you could’ve just talked to me“, she sighed. „i know, but i thought i wasn’t the right person“, he admitted. „lew, you’re always the right person to talk to me“, she smiled lightly, „don’t ever do that again though!“

„okay“, he agreed, „but front row, love! how excited are you?“

and then she explained her thoughts all over again. noticing max not being here to make a scary entrance again. she explained happily, how the dutch suddenly appeared in front of her and how he reminded her of the flying dutch.

george and nando stood there listening to their favourite driver and grinned at her expressions and exclamations. her arms were up in the air, face twisted to match each of her words.

if that young woman would not be like this ever again, they swore to change the whole world for her.

„i’ll miss her“, daniel whispered to lewis. „oh buddy, it’s official then, this your last race?“

daniel nodded: „they have to recruite liam or he’s free to whichever team signs him.“ lewis looked at his friend, they’ve known each other for so long. it‘ll be weird without the australian on the grid.

„does she know?“, he then asked. „no, wouldn’t want to jinx anything and take her spirits away“, daniel hummed. „i get it, you have to tell her after the race though. wouldn’t be fair if she found out through insta.“

oscar, lando and max then trailed in with pierre, alex and charles. looking at the scene in front of them;

y/n telling some sort of story with fernando and george watching them and lewis with daniel standing on the side talking with hushed voices.

„we should celebrate“, lando said out of the blue. the female driver gasped upon hearing the random suggestion and turned around to face her best friend.

„yes, oh my god, that is such a good idea“, she excitedly said. „what should we do?“

charles said, that they could order pizza. pierre disagreed and said, that they should rent out a restaurant and eat authentic food. oscar thinks, that they should treat themselves with some spa time (they think, that lily really has a grip on that man).

lando suggested they’d go to the cinema. carlos said, that they should just go back to the hotel and do a relaxing movie night. lewis suggested they take a stroll with roscoe and leo. max thought some laps on the sim would be enough to celebrate.

george thought, that exploring singapore would be fun. fernando was just happy to tag along. daniel wanted to go swimming somewhere. and y/n, she really wanted to bury her face in ice cream and enjoy the time with her boys.

so that’s what they did. bought loads of ice cream, rented some movies at her hotel, turned her room into a home cinema and ordered some pizza too, just for fun. and of course roscoe had to stay there too.

after all that celebration, y/n was so tired, she fell asleep on fernando. he gushed and ushered the others to take some pics.

after tucking her in, setting the alarm for the next day, they all bid their goodbyes and left y/n alone. except lando - he stayed.

he was her best friend after all and he had to talk about all of the stuff with her. but it could wait until the morning, he was pretty tired himself.

as the alarm clock rang, y/n jolted up, confused as to where she was. seeing her hotel room, she remembered yesterday and what they did. she then felt someone moving beside her, turning around she saw a head full of curls and knew not to worry.

„lando, what are you doing here?“, she giggled. the mclaren driver groaned and stuffed his face into the pillow. „i have to talk about the stuff with you“, he then said.

„and you had to stay here why?“ - „because i knew i wouldn’t catch you before you would leave for the paddock, only logical solution was to stay here with you“, he finally lifted up his head and grinned at his best friend.

she laughed a little and ruffled up his hair. „you’re cute, but we don’t need to talk.“

he shook his head and made some grunting noises, disagreeing with her statement. „but we do, i need to talk about it.“

she told him everything he wanted to know. from the first time she thought she was not enough, to the phone calls with seb and to her feeling better over time.

„just promise me you’ll talk to me next time, okay?“, he begged her at the end of their conversation. she nodded. „say it, say that you’ll talk to me.“ - „i will, i will talk to you, lando, i promise.“

„good, but now, let’s get ready to race“, he grinned and changed the subject. y/n almost forgot, that they had a race to drive. and that she was starting from p2! „let’s go“, she excitedly said.

the day almost went by like a blur. the two arrived at the paddock, parted ways at her garage, bid good luck to each other.

she started her training session? warmed up with her trainer, ate some food, went to the toilet, that’s important. and then she already had to attempt the drivers parade.

she has never felt this nervous before. standing on that wagon, waving to the fans, not wanting to let anyone down, but mostly not herself.

the compulsive thoughts were coming back and she tried to remember what seb taught her. she breathed in for eight seconds, held her breath for seven, breathed out for eight again and held for seven. she repeated the box breathing method and tried to focus on the here and now.

lando saw her struggling to maintain a happy face and went over to her. „s‘all good?“, he asked in a hushed voice.

she nodded softly; „just trying to stay in the moment and not drift too far into the future.“

lando nodded, kind of understanding what she meant and just stayed by her side until the parade was over. as they parted ways for the second time that day, he hugged her and wished her only the best of luck.

her pre-race-ritual was listening to music, so she whipped out her headphones and blasted her loudest music on her playlist.

she almost jumped as her race engineer tapped her shoulder, to inform her that it was time to get into the car.

even though the first half of the day felt sped up, now everything was moving in slow motion.

she felt like james bond or any other action movie hero. her headphones still blasting music, she imagined herself looking total badass getting into her car.

step by step, nodding her head along to the music. arms flung up into the air to squeeze herself into the car. she mouthed some of the words as a mechanic gave her her steering wheel.

slowly she placed it into the socket and clicked it into it. still, everyone was moving in slow motion. she closed her eyes for a second, just trying to find her inner peace.

the music faded, she concentrated on her heartbeat. feeling it slow down, beat per beat. as she opened her eyes, the world was back to normal speed.

she took off her headphones, handed them to someone standing around the car. she lifted up her gloves, put them on and clapped her hands together.

„let’s get going then, ey?“, y/n then said to her crew. no clear answer came back, just some reassuring noises from around.

her helmet was laying in front of her, she looked at her drivers number, traced it with her finger and swiftly put it on.

the car was then rolled on to the track, everything was buzzing. she heard her race engineer checking the coms. hustling around her were all of the mechanics.

y/n went over the track once again. she knew every corner, she felt every bump on the road. her body knew when to turn, when to slow down or speed up. she knew what to do, this was her race.

she proved it by overtaking lando on corner one, lap one. right after the start there was a new race leader and they were called y/n l/n.

a woman was leading a formula one race.

she took off, she didn’t have to think about it, it was all muscle memory.

little did she know, lando was cheering behind her. even max was grinning like a mad man. for once both of them were content with not winning.

history was made on that day. as y/n crossed that finish line she couldn’t believe what was happening.

„y/n l/n, you are a formula one grand prix winner!“, she just heard her race engineer through her coms.

„and there it is, the first woman to win an f1 race, can you believe that we’ve just witnessed history?“

„i cannot, oh this is just fantastic! y/n proved that she could win, even with a mediocre car, just imagine her in a redbull or ferrari. this is beautiful, unbelievable.“

the female drivers head was spinning. what does she have to do now? in her whole career she only had one podium. but she was pumped with adrenaline that moment, she really just can’t recall what she has to do now.

she figured she’d just follow lando in her car and behold, she ended up at parc fermé. parking her car in front of the stand with the number one on it, she climbed out of it.

fuck, what cool pose was she gonna do? she hadn’t thought about that. just, improvise, she thought.

i’d will be embarrassing either way, she thought next. she took out her steering wheel, disconnected her helmet from the car and coms and jumped out of the car.

and then she just fell to her knees. at first sobbing into her helmet and not believing everything that has happened so far.

but the sobs quickly turned into laughter. she bowed, just like sebastian did, in front of her car.

sighing with happiness she stood up from the ground. lando came running to her, scooping her up and basically throwing her around.

„my god, you did it! you really did it!“

that was the actual moment, y/n realised what just had happened. that she had just won a grand prix. that she had just written history. that she had just done it.

max was coming from the other side, almost skipping. when have you ever seen max verstappen skipping?

„oh wow, this must feel so great, huh?“, he asked. „like a mountain falling from my shoulders actually“, she said.

she wanted to say so much more, but she was pulled aside to weigh. that procedure she knew. and then, there was her team, ready to celebrate the young driver.

just like lando, she sprinted towards them and jumped into the team. she was lifted up, chants were heard throughout the whole parc fermé.

„congratulations y/n, i knew you’d write history one day“, her team principal congratulated her.

from the side of her eye she saw christian horner giving her two thumps up. the next moment he mouthed: „let’s talk.“

does this mean? oh my god.

her chain of thoughts were broken, as lando pulled her along in to the cool down room.

she laid her helmet on the pillar and took the pirelli hat from the stand. her heart had finally time to calm down.

max and lando were grinning like crazy, as they approached the young girl woman. „congratulations, y/n, well done, perfect driving, couldn’t have done it better myself“, max told her. „ahhh, we’re both race winners!“, lando then shouted.

„that’s true! oh my god, i can’t believe it, and in the same season, high five!“

„who do i spray with my champagne, you or max?“, she suddenly asked. both men laughed at her question. „you spray whoever you want.“

so that’s what she did. before that, she closed her eyes at the national anthem. quietly sang along. never felt this much pride before. received the trophy and placed it far, far away from lando and shook that chanpagne bottle to spray all of the people present at the podium.

she took a swig of the god awful champagne, she remembered from last time how nasty it tasted. and she held her promise she once had with daniel.

at her first win, she would do a shoey, without any hesitation. she took of her sweaty shoes, sat down on the podium, filled the shoe up to the rim, hopefully the first sip would have the least amount of sweat and just started chugging it.

if you were present that day, you heard daniel ricciardo shouting and yelling at her from parc fermé. his whistling may have been recorded by the cameras, but who knows, the whole world was whistling for her in that moment.

nothing would ever beat that feeling ever again. drenched in sweat and champagne, chugged the mix of it and a heart full of love in that moment. she grinned at her win.

°°°

taglist: i feel like, im not gonna tag anyone for this, bc i haven’t posted in such a long time and i don’t wanna bother anyone…

so if you’re on my taglist and don’t want to be on it anymore, just post a comment under this and i’ll remove you :)

[nervoushottee]

it happened quiet | daryl dixon x fem!reader

Summary: [1.5k] What you and Daryl have is a soft quiet love.

Big Bald Ass Note: I’ve always had a love for Daryl Dixon. He was one of the first “older man” crushes I ever had many years ago. I’ve always loved his character and the way Norman Reedus has and still does portray this character is like no other. My favorite thing about him that I didn’t understand when I watched twd when I was young but grew into adulthood was his introverted character. And how his care for others was soft, quiet and subtle yet strong and profound all at the same time. As a person who has a quiet love, personally prefers it and deeply cherishes that quiet love. I had the sudden urge to write this. I’ve been getting back into my Daryl Dixon phase recently and I just couldn’t get this out of my head. Thank you to @moonpascal for giving me that little push I needed to just go for it while the juices were flowing despite my other fic waiting outside waving her hands hoping to be seen, This is a long author’s note but this piece is truly something that means a lot to me. Which is funny because this is literally fanfiction but it's still writing and it's still art and it's mine. 

Enjoy.

Daryl wasn’t an affectionate person. It’s never been something that just came easy to him. He never received it as a child and didn’t think anything of it once he got older. 

There was one time when he was really really young. He was waiting for Merle after school, his older brother’s school building a few blocks away, and he watched his classmates greet their parents. He saw the parents with bright eyes and wide smiles. Mothers kissing their sons on the cheeks and fathers rubbing the top of their heads.

 A strong deep feeling within his belly grew from the sight of it and it got bigger and bigger as the two Dixon brothers walked back home.

And when they got to their home, Daryl saw their mom had been exactly in the same spot where the two boys had left her. Face down into the pillow, an arm hanging off the side of the bed where a spilled bottle of Jack Daniels had stained seeped into the carpet. 

Daryl cried for the first time ever. He cried for something he never had. 

He didn’t cry when he saw kids on the streets with new bikes and scooters. Didn’t cry when his mom and dad would yell until the sun went down. But he cried for this. That deep strong feeling that he couldn’t name poured out of him and he cried. Standing in the hallway as he watched his mother sleep. 

Merle, barely a teen and was bitching about spilled liquor, thought he was crying because mom looked too still. His older brother checked her pulse and felt the faint thump, thump, thump. “She’s jus sleepin’ Daryl.”, he explained to him. But Daryl didn’t stop crying. He hunched over, clutched his chest like his heart had been twisted and shoved down into his stomach and cried.

When Merle finally found out why he was crying, the older brother placed his hands on each of Daryl’s shoulders, stooped to his level and looked directly into his eyes. 

“Dixons don’t cry. Not over that or anything else. We just weren’t made for that stuff.” 

Daryl never cried or wanted it again. 

Until now. 

Until you. 

When the world’s gone to shit and the dead are walking. You gotta learn how to start trusting the living. Well,  to learn how to trust your group. They don’t just become a group of people you survive with. They become your family whether you like it or not. 

And in the beginning, Daryl sure as hell didn’t like it. 

He tried to force it away. To keep himself on the outside like he’s always done. Still did even when his brother went missing when they went back for him on that roof. But when time goes on and people die you build something, you find something and you learn something. He warmed into being more into the group. To being something of importance to Rick and the others. More than just Merle’s younger brother.  

He remembers Carol telling him that he was meant for a leadership role but he’s never thought that about himself. And never will.

And getting closer to them came with affection. Came with a bond. With awkward hugs from Carol when he had spent day and night looking for Sophia. Her cropped hair pressed against his bandaged ear. It came with pats on the back from Rick and looks that meant something a lot more brotherly than he’s ever felt with Merle. With you and your small smiles and lingering eyes. 

He had to learn to accept it. To learn that it was okay and wasn’t out of pity. That it was something he was actually allowed to have. It took him a long time to and he still only takes it in doses. Giving Carol a Cherokee Rose or the brief massage of her sore shoulder. Patting Rick’s shoulder,  hoping he knows how much his brotherly bond means to him through it. Nodding his head at you with the tip of his ears a bit red as he turns his head away from you. 

You’ve been a part of the group for as long as he could remember. And the two of you didn’t become something immediately. Daryl was an ass to you when all of this first started. He was an ass to everyone. But when he would small smiles from the courtyard, he would feel something that had never stirred inside of him before.

You were a touchy person. 

Always within arms reach of someone. Giving Lori a reassuring squeeze of the hand or hug when she seemed like she would just break down in tears from the stress of being pregnant in this world. Kissing the top of Beth's head when she came to you with her anxieties over the group's safety. Or playfully slapping T-Dog’s shoulder when he used to make you laugh.

But when it came to Daryl you never touched him. And he felt off about it. Thankful but off.

 When the two of you were starting to become something more, he had subtly brought it up when the two of you were on watch. It felt like pulling teeth when he asked you. And he would rather have done that with a rusted wrench than do this.

“I know you Daryl.” you said to him with a shrug. 

That was the only thing that you said to him when he had asked but it was all that he needed. As your eyes never left his, he watched you smile softly. The moon giving your skin a light glow. You knew that he doesn’t respond well to physical affection. To hugs or kisses on the cheek (except from Carol who does it despite the awkwardness she laughs through). You knew it was something he just wasn’t used to. Or even maybe never had.  It was only four words but it meant more to Darly than he could even say in a lifetime. 

And if you ever told anyone that he was the one that made the first move and kissed you at the top of the prison tower. He will lie until he’s blue in the face and say he doesn’t know what you’re talking about. 

After that you became more affectionate with each other. More touchy than before. Not touchy like Glenn and Maggie. Kissing each other goodbye when the other would go on a run or a quick kiss good morning. Or hugging after a run gone bad and they almost lost the other. Public display of affection to his partner, to you, is something Daryl could never really get on with. 

But what the two of you had was a quiet love. A word Daryl still had a hard time saying and rarely ever said but knew deep in his heart that he felt it whenever he looked at you. 

It was a quiet love filled with small glances and innocent touches. His hand against the small of your back or a quick tap on your arm or thigh. Your small smile to greet him and the nods that greets you.  Holding his hand underneath the table. Feeling his calloused thumb rub against your hand once or twice. Checking on eachother during the other’s watch shift. Him adding some of his food on your plate as he walks past you. You giving him a snack of whatever random thing you have on hand in the evening. Placing your head on his shoulder very briefly when there's not many people around. A mutual meaning of a hug when it's late at night and you won’t see him for a while.   

It was a silent bond the others knew about by name(ish) and feeling  but not as much by action. Those actions were yours and yours alone. And you both preferred it that way. 

Tender kisses and tight hugs. Soft caresses on the cheek and tracing fingers across bare chests. Whispered stories of childhood that turn into bedtime stories throughout the night. Expressing moments of doubt, fear or anger. Tears that would fall on your face and the feeling of his lips pressed against the top of your head.  

Even in moments when you were sleeping next to him. Your head on top of his chest or his arm curled around your stomach. Daryl would feel your wrist, his thumb against your pulse to make sure it's still beating. Or hold as still as he can like he’s tracking a buck in the forest to feel the up and down of your body to ensure you’re breathing. 

You became a big part of his life. This group (his family)  became a big part of his life. Who knew that it would only take the end of the world for him to feel something more than just anger for the first time in his entire life.  

Daryl wasn’t an affectionate person. But he learned how to be. For the good of the group, for himself and for you. 

dividers by @saradika

[l-starsz]

a/n: this is gonna mention trouble eating, self harm, and throwing up, so if you can’t read about that please skip this and take care of yourself. ily.🩷

why is this how i feel almost every day?

this had been going on for weeks now. i’d been avoiding food and if i had to eat i’d have little amounts before refusing to have anything else for the next few days. billie seemed to be catching on but she hadn’t said anything much to me about it yet. i knew she’d say something soon though. i wasn’t gonna get away with it for long.

i just struggled so much. looking or thinking about food made me feel physically sick. i just couldn’t do it. nothing sounded good anymore except losing more and more weight. i was already skinny, but i needed to be skinnier. i don’t know what made me think like that. i’d never think that about anyone else, i saw everyone’s bodies as perfect, but as soon as i saw mine, the negative thoughts flooded my mind.

it was as if i couldn’t escape. the only thing that made me feel better was not eating. because then i knew for sure i’d stay the same weight. or even better, lose more weight. hurting myself helped too. it silenced the thoughts just for a few minutes, giving me something else to focus on. but since billie caught me doing it, she would often make sure i hadn’t been harming myself.

she didn’t do it in an invasive way, she just wanted to be sure i was okay and was doing anything she could to help me and distract me from it. although she already knew about my struggles with self harm when we met, i was too nervous to tell her when the struggle came back. she only found out when she caught me. i felt so guilty for not telling her or asking for help but i just couldn’t.

i knew that after a while she’d notice i was struggling with food, so maybe i should’ve told her, i didn’t want to bother her though. i honestly felt guilty for being in her life because i thought she deserved someone who didn’t struggle with these problems. she didn’t need to be wasting her time worrying about me, but she seemed to really care. more than anyone else ever had or ever could.

so when i was barely eating, of course she noticed. she always payed attention. and she made sure to keep an eye on me. not long passed of me getting away with it. the conversation came up one evening when i was just laying on her chest, my whole body felt tired and pretty weak as i just watched her scrolling through apps on her phone. i was wearing a hoodie and fluffy pyjama bottoms, cuddled up in billies arms, yet i still began shivering.

the room suddenly felt icy cold as i shivered against her, reaching down to pull the thick blanket over both of us. this made her look down at me before speaking.

“you’re cold angel?”

i nodded and answered, “i’m freezing cold.”

“it’s boiling in this room.. are you sure you’re okay?” she looked concerned.

“i’m good bil don’t worry, just a bit cold.” i slightly smiled and curled up farther against her.

“okay baby..” she wearily accepted my answer, continuing to scroll through her phone.

one of her hands was wrapped around my waist, slowly moving up and down as she was placing gentle kisses on the top of my head every so often. we stayed like this for a while until something happened that i wasn’t expecting. my stomach growled and this made billie avert her gaze back to me once again.

“you hungry angel? i can go make you something to eat. maybe some pasta?” she quietly spoke as she looked into my eyes.

“umm..” i was hungry, but still, nothing sounded good. i didn’t want to eat. i was better off without it. “im not really hungry bil i’m okay. thank you though.”

“can i ask you something?” she gently replied, turning her phone off before chucking it somewhere on the bed and sitting us both up.

i whined as the blanket fell off me when we sat up, still cold. i pulled it back up to wrap around my body before nodding.

“go ahead.” i smiled a little bit.

“well.. i mean i’ve just noticed that you haven’t been eating much recently. you’ve just kind of been avoiding it and i’m worried about you. and don’t even try to tell me that you have been eating because i know you’ve barely had anything lately. i’m not mad at you. not one bit. i just want to help you my love. i care about you and have so much love for you. please just let me help, i haven’t seen you eat a single thing today, or yesterday.”

i looked down at my fingers, not knowing what to say at all. i didn’t want to tell her i was struggling, but she already knew. i couldn’t deny it any longer. i needed to let her in. let her help me. i just nodded, not even looking at her. i was nervous to see how she’d react. what if she got mad?

i felt her pull me onto her lap as i hid my face in her neck. her hands gently ran up and down my back, calming me down and making me realise that she wasn’t mad. she was just worried. she wanted to help.

i felt her place gentle kisses on top of my head before moving me back from her neck and kissing all over my face. this made me smile a little bit.

“angel i know you’ve been struggling lately but i’m gonna help, okay? i want to help. you’re not gonna bother me before you even start with that. you’re not a burden. i want to keep you safe. i want to make sure you’re okay. i care about you so much.”

“are you sure?” i whispered.

“of course i’m sure baby. you mean everything to me. i’d do anything for you.” she kissed me between her sentences. “let’s start with something small. yeah?”

“right now..?” i mumbled.

“right now. something small, just try for me please. i’ll be right here to help you.”

i nodded and we stood up, beginning to walk downstairs whilst she held my hand tightly in hers. she could tell i was nervous about it. i didn’t know if i could do it. eating made me feel sick to my stomach. my appetite had gotten worse since i stopped eating. i couldn’t eat much without getting full straight away and feeling sick extremely quickly.

we made it to the kitchen and billie lifted me up onto the counter with ease. her hands stayed on my waist as she leaned forward a little and began to speak again.

“what do you want to eat?” she was looking into my eyes, making sure i was still okay.

“uhmm. i’m not sure. i don’t know if i can do it..”

“you can do it for me. even if you just have a few bites of something. i’m gonna help you, i promise. do you want me to have something with you? you think that’d help?”

i nodded and mumbled, “can we have pasta? i don’t want anything on it though if that’s okay..”

“of course that’s okay, i’m proud of you for putting the effort in. and i’m proud of you for talking to me about it and letting me help. thank you for letting me help.” she whispered and held me in her arms for a minute or two as i answered.

“thank you for caring.” a few tears rolled down my cheeks.

when we pulled away from the hug she wiped my tears away, then i hopped off the counter and began getting the stuff out that we needed to make the pasta whilst bil filled a pan up with water and put it on the stove to boil. once it was boiling, i added salt to the water before billie poured some pasta in. after a while of listening to music and dancing around the kitchen in eachothers arms, just messing around together, we’d dished the food up and gone upstairs with our bowls.

this was the part i wasn’t looking forward to. part of me didn’t want to do this, but the other part of me wanted to do good for my girlfriend. i knew she really cared and she’d been so worried. her hand found its way to my back and rubbed up and down before grabbing my fork. she got some pasta onto it and looked up at me, holding it up near my mouth.

i hesitantly opened my mouth as she fed me the bite. then she got some pasta out of her own bowl and had some with me. we were doing it together. after a few more bites, i was really struggling.

“billie- i don’t.. i don’t feel good.”

“you’re almost done baby. you’re doing really good for me.” she held my hand in hers.

“i think i’m gonna throw up.” i mumbled.

she didn’t even say anything, just quickly took me to the bathroom and tied my hair back. i was kneeled on the floor when i almost immediately threw up. gross. billies hand soothingly rubbed up and down my back, helping me get it all out. she’d seemed to be helping me a lot today. i still felt guilty.

when i was done, i stood up and brushed my teeth, before we headed back to our room. i got in bed as billie took our bowls downstairs, soon enough returning with some water and crackers.

“can you try to have these for me please? just one or two since youre not feeling good.” she stroked the baby hairs away from my face.

i slightly nodded and reached out to grab her hand urging her to get into bed with me as i carefully pulled her over, laying on her chest before having a few crackers and water.

“good girl. i’m so proud of you for trying. i know you didn’t want to and i know you were struggling but you still did really well despite all of that. you’ve done so good for me today. i’m gonna help you each day, alright? i’m not gonna leave you to do this on your own.”

“thank you billie. you’re the best girlfriend in the world i honestly don’t know what i’d do without you.”

we talked about why i hadn’t been eating and why it was difficult for me. she also asked if i’d been hurting myself again to which i told her the truth and said no, obviously. i hadn’t for a while. and i made sure she knew this.

after a long while, billie had helped me so much that i was able to eat without her asking me. obviously there were still difficult days where i really struggled, but bil was always there to help me and pick me back up when i had bad days. she’d always been there no matter what. and i was so grateful.

[garciaasfluffypen]

just be here

pairing: jennifer jareau x fem!reader word count: warnings: jj had a rough case but nothing is mentioned, alcohol consumption, jj just needs comfort

2am. it was 2am and your phone was ringing. and emily prentiss’ name was on the screen.

fuck.

you shot up in a fit of horror, accidentally throwing your phone across the bed in the process. grabbing at it you answered it, putting it on speaker with shaky hands. 

“em?”

emily could hear the fright in your voice just from that one word. “everythings okay. she’s okay. i just wanted to let you know we had a really bad case.” 

“oh.” you let out a sigh of relief. “what happened? can you tell me?”

“it involved kids.” 

“when is she going to be home?”

“i’m sending her home in five with a strict rule to not do any paperwork this weekend. luke is gonna drive her, she’s not in a state to drive right now. take care of her tonight. please. ”

“yes ma’am.”

you practically jumped out of bed and made your way to the living room, grabbing your favorite cardigan as you did so. you knew she’d crawl right into your arms when she got home, so it was probably better for you to be out in the living room so she’d be able to get to comfort as fast as possible. even if it meant you’d fall asleep on the couch waiting for her. everyone on the team knew where you kept the extra keys, you told all of them as a safety measure when scratch started targeting the team last year in fear that he would come for you. you hoped that luke would know to go for the extra keys in the case jj wasn’t able to grab hers and you fell asleep. which if you were being real, was probably about to happen. you curled up into the couch, pulling a blanket over your lap and leaning up against the back, hoping that you’d be able to stay awake until jj got home. the ride wasn’t too long from what you remembered, but it was 2am and you were tired as hell. 

you must have dozed off since you were awoken yet again, this time by the sound of keys jangling in the door. jj shuffled into the apartment, searching for you immediately. wordlessly, jj kicked off her shoes and came over to the couch, laying on top of you and digging her head into your shoulder. you rubbed your hand up and down her back in a soothing motion, your other hand going to cradle the back of her head. you don’t know how long you sat there, but you waited until jj was ready to talk before saying anything. sometimes, all she needed was some silence and to be in your arms until she felt ready to talk. 

“are you in the headspace to talk about it?” jj shook her head no. “what do you want me to do?”

“just… be here?” 

her voice was quiet and raspy from holding back tears all night, not entirely sure if she could let herself break down. she just felt… numb. so much had happened in the past week that she didn’t want to talk about, not even think about it. but she couldn’t help it. the faces of the girls affected by the unsub flashed across her vision every time she shut her eyes. she had made herself stay awake to avoid the horrors that threatened to haunt her dreams, and she felt like a dead girl walking. there wasn’t any possible way she would have gotten home by herself if it wasn’t for emily forcing luke to take her home roughly an hour ago. she was so strong, cases shouldn’t be affecting her like this. yet here she was, needing anything but to be strong. 

she was better than this, she knew how to face the horrors of the modern world. she knew how to stare some of the evilest people down and get them to share their twisted fantasies. so why was she so bent up over the cases that involved kids? was it because she saw herself in the kids, seeing the same patterns she went through with the horrors? was it because she wanted to keep them sheltered from the scary things of the real world? knowing what was out there, what was at stake for the children if they went down the wrong path… she didn’t want these kids to turn out like she did. 

so why was it when they got cases like these, she felt so small and helpless?

you could tell she was slipping out of her normal facade of being strong and independent from the second jj walked in the door. admittedly, it had been a long time since you saw jj give away all control. it was rare that she let you take the lead, but you knew tonight she needed it. she needed to empty her brain and just be. to relinquish just for the night, to let you tell her what to do. you didn’t have many chances to be the guiding light for her, but there were nights like tonight where she needed you to be her brain. when the cases got too tough, or hit too close to home, she would need you to be there for her. and you always were, even before you started dating. you had the same routine that you had started back in 2003 when jj began working for the bau, when she let her submissive side take over more often. and tonight, she needed it. you pulled jj back into your arms, letting her squeeze herself into the smallest form she could possibly muster as the two of you sat together on the couch. 

“are you okay to get up and move to the kitchen?” jj silently nodded. “do you want a drink?” 

“please.” 

carefully, you maneuvered yourself off the couch and held out your hand to jj, pulling her up after you. the two of you shuffled into the kitchen and towards the fridge, knowing exactly what jj needed. you grabbed her favorite beer, twisting off the cap and throwing it in the jar you kept on the counter before handing it to her. she took it from you silently, coming to lean up against you as you stood with your back to the counter. you took jj into your arms as she quietly sipped at her beer, images of the case haunting her every time she shut her eyes. your fingers danced up and down the sliver of skin at her hip, placing a small kiss at the top of her head as she let you take most of her body weight. you hated seeing her like this, hurting so bad from cases that she was handed. you knew she couldn’t control it anymore, she hadn’t been able to control it in years, but it still hurt you every time you saw her come home so drained from the cases that hurt her the most. 

a thick yet comforting silence filled the apartment as jj set her now empty beer bottle down on the counter, debating for only a second before going over to the fridge to grab another bottle. her eyes were getting heavy, you could tell she was tired. but per usual, she was fighting sleep because she didn’t want to be haunted by the images she saw from the past week. wordlessly, you grabbed a pan from the cupboard and put it on the stove before making your way to the cabinet, grabbing the ingredients to make some pastina. it was one of the meals that got you through both undergrad and your masters, and unintentionally got jj through the academy. while you were in different branches of psychology, you knew how hard it could be on the brain and how the comfort of the little stars could mend even the smallest of things. 

you felt a pair of arms wrap around you from behind, a half empty beer bottle in one of the hands. it was hard for you, knowing how much jj was hurting but not being able to fix it. not being able to stop the horrors that she dealt with on the daily, while you spent all day in a clinic with your biopsychology buddies, studying the lighter side of how the chemicals in the brain interacted with the biology of the human body. you turned slightly to place a kiss on her temple, knowing that all she needed was the comfort that she got simply from being in your arms. you wrapped one of your arms around her, shifting her so she could place her head in the crook of your neck while you cooked. 

by the time the pastina was ready, jj was practically falling asleep while standing. the almost empty beer now sat on the counter, forgotten as jj took the bowl from your hands and made her way to the bedroom, knowing exactly where she wanted to go. you followed her closely, making sure she didn’t spill anything or hurt herself in the process, considering how tired she was. you made sure to grab the pajamas you set out for her before you had gone to bed, waiting patiently for her to shimmy out of her work clothes and sit on the bed. you helped her into her sweatpants, not even attempting to grab her shirt seeing as she fell straight back into the pillows, the light blue pillowcases practically engulfing her. 

you got back into bed next to jj, letting her curl into your side as she held the bowl of pastina as close to her chin as she could muster without spilling anything. you were planning on washing the sheets in the morning anyway, so if they got messy it didn’t really matter to you. as your phone screen flashed, the numbers showed it was now 5:12am, and knowing the type of person she was, jj had most likely been up almost twenty four hours. you were about to say something to her before realizing she had gone limp, small snores coming from her. you smiled to yourself, grabbing the half finished bowl of pastina and setting it on the nightstand, pulling the covers over the two of you. jj subconsciously curled into you, holding you close as you wrapped your arms around her. 

sometimes, all you could do was just hold her. and that was okay.

[e-nonsense]

DAD I’M FROM THE FUTURE

pairing. bruce wayne x daughter!reader

warnings. time travel shenanigans, canon typical violence

summary. reader is Bruce’s daughter from the future.

a/n. i was watching the batman trilogy last night and this came to me. doesn’t follow the dark knight timeline, gonna do a battinson one later.

You’d gotten yourself in quite the situation, messing around in Central City helping out the speedsters with their problems and then accidentally getting yourself thrown back in time. You landed somewhere familiar at least, Gotham City just.. older, less advanced.

From when you were younger, lucky for you the people of Gotham tried to mind their business, nobody spared a glance at the girl in a batsuit, dark purple and a gold orange. Despite the streets looking different the path wasn’t.

You worked your way across the rooftops, swiftly and agile. You made it to Wayne manor in a matter of minutes, going through an open window on the highest floor and creeping through the halls quietly and down to entrance of the cave.

Pressing the three notes on the piano in the centre of the room the hidden door behind the glass shelves swinging open, you step through into the old elevator, going down.

What you don’t know is that Bruce is already waiting for you down there, watching on the cameras. “Who is that?” He asks Alfred, who merely shrugs in response. “Not a clue, Master Bruce.”

The elevator hits the underground floor, before you twist to the side out of the way of a batarang coming your way. “What the hell?” You scowl, dodging when you’re lunged at, you move to hit back but are stopped by Bruce’s hand catching your wrist.

“Let go,” you mutter, he doesn’t budge. “Bruce!” You shout, the name foreign on your tongue.

You see his eyes widen behind the mask and he steps back, “how do you know my name?”

“Let go and I’ll explain.” You retort, his eyes scan your suit, hardened Kevlar plates on titanium-dipped tri-weave fibres, just like his suit.

“Fine,” he releases your wrist, crossing his arms and watching as you pull your mask off. “I’m from the future,” you say, “a future where you’re my dad.”

Alfred chokes on the tea he was drinking and Bruce shoots him a look. “You don’t believe me, i get it. No proof, but dad— Bruce you gotta believe me. Everything i know is because of you.”

Bruce stares, “why’d i take you in?”

He almost smiles at the look that flashes through your eyes, hope, care, pride. “You saved me, you saved all of us. We were like you, orphaned, well me and Dick at least. You didn’t want us to go down the same path as you did, so you taught us.”

Something about you reminded Bruce of himself, a version of him that was happy, younger. “Why’re you here?” He asks, hesitantly taking his mask off, you know better it’s a show of trust, he’s giving you a chance.

“You know Flash? I got mixed up helping out speedsters, got into a fight and thrown back in time. Not sure how long I’ll be here until they figure where in time I’m stuck.” You say, “but shouldn’t be too long.”

“Hm,” he hums gruffly, you don’t take offence to his lack of response, it’d be more concerning if he gave you actual words. Your eyes flicker to the array of screens behind you, case files on the desk, pictures of bodies. “The Riddler case?” You ask, Bruce raises a brow at you.

“You know about it?”

“I’m a little rusty on the details but i can help?” He doesn’t say no as he turns away, despite this not being your Bruce, you could still read him.

MEANWHILE

Barry grunts as he’s slammed into the wall, Bruce scowling down at him. “What do you mean you lost her?” Bruce hisses.

“I mean she’s gone, Bruce. Thrown through time,” Barry groans, breathily due to the way Bruce’s forearm is pressed to his neck.

“Bruce, cmon. We need him to get her back,” Dick, ever the voice of reason.

“We have other speedsters,” Bruce scoffs, his signature glare present. Despite wanting to break every bone is Barry’s body, Bruce lets him go. “How do we find her?”

“Thats easier, magic.” He hears from behind, Zatara.

“This isn’t a league mission,” Bruce mutters.

“But you need us,” Dick adds, Bruce doesn’t deny it, he’s not a speedster or a sorcerer. Dick takes his silence as a ‘good to go’, motioning for the rest of them to begin. “This is hers,” Dick says, handing Zatara a fluffy blanket with the Flash logo on the back.

Barry can’t help the little smile that crosses his lips, you’ve always been one of his biggest fans. he remembers the first time he met you, you were at least seven years old, and you just stared at him silently. eyes wide with adoration, and later you mentioned the Flash being your hero.

His smile drops when he sees the glare Bruce throws his way.

—

“So dad— Bruce, sorry man. Keep forgetting,” you grin sheepishly at the Batman, he doesn’t reply per usual.

“What’s the story here?”

“Nothing,” he replies dryly as you spin in his chair, he seems unamused but sighs and keeps his mouth shut, letting you enjoy the little things. Alfred steps in, setting a plate of cookies and two glasses of milk down on an empty spot on the table trashed with stacked up files and strewn papers.

“We’re not children—” Bruce complains before cutting himself off when you eagerly reach for a glass and a cookie, Bruce cracks an amused smile, before nodding a silent thanks to Alfred. The butler chuckles before making his leave.

“How long until I— your dad comes for you?” Bruce questions, with a raised brow, taking a glass for himself.

“Should be soon, you’ve probably got everyone busting their asses to get me home.”

Home. It’s a strange concept to him, that anyone else, let alone a dozen children think of his manor as a home, let alone him as one too.

“You’re a good dad, B.”

You pause for a moment before continuing, “i mean you have your moments of… less good dad moments but overall. You do great with us, you’re gonna doubt it a lot a times. But you gotta remember in the future you’re not alone anymore.”

He stays silent, “I’ve enjoyed this,” he admits.

“The idea of having a daughter, let alone more kids. I like it, I can see why i adopt all of you in the future, especially you. I know I’m doing right if you’ve turned out like this, you’re a good kid, and a great hero.”

You want to cry, you always do when you hear him praise you. But the moment is cut short when Barry is suddenly in the middle of the cave.

You shoot up, “Barry?”

“Kid!” The speedster grins, he’s at your side in less than a second. “You had me worried, i thought Bruce was gonna kill me— oh hi Bruce.”

Your father — past father? future father? — seems unimpressed, glaring at the man in red. A hole rips through the air, and through it you can see your father, current dad, you can see the worry in his eyes, the sight of his greying hair all too familiar, comforted by the sight of him.

Beside him you see Zatara in some soft of trance, you don’t question it as you rush forwards towards the portal to get to your dad. Before you can pass through you turn back around rushing back to past Bruce’s side.

Bruce’s arms wind around you when you topple in his arms, hugging him tightly, “thank you.” You whisper, your dad watches from the other side of the portal, his heart twisting, he knows how much this would mean to past Bruce.

“How do i find you?” Bruce asks softly, he holds you tightly, not wanting to let you go.

“Don’t worry, I’ll find you.” You reply, pulling away. “I promise.”

He lets you go, with the promise that you’ll find each other. You’ll find your way home, you know that much. You’ll find your dad, whether he exists in whatever universe you’re in or not. You’ll always find Bruce Wayne, whether its his memory or a picture of him, whether he’s real or fake.

You and Barry make your way through the portal as it closes, past Bruce can see the relief in his future selfs eyes once you’re back with him.

Nobody sees how later that night your dad doesn’t leave your side, the fear of ever losing you settling in.

He’ll savour whatever moments he can get with you now.

© e-nonsense. do no copy/steal/translate. do it and I’ll bite your toes off

[cyb-by-lang]

Cascade (part 4)

And here we have the internship beginning.

(Kei notes some divergences from what happened in Shell Game in her narration as we go. For the most part, these can be attributed to having way less time to meet up with her teammates and get them acclimated to Japan.)

Sorry, Ingenium.

After saying goodbye to the other students at the Musutafu train station, neither Kei or Iida talked during the trip to Hosu City. 

While it wasn’t that uncommon for Kei to zone out completely on public transit, Iida would’ve said something out of politeness at the very least. There wasn’t that much of a crowd on the late morning train compared to either rush hour. They’d even both managed to find seats rather than clutching the overhead handles or the various vertical handholds. 

Instead, Kei dug a book out of her non-regulation backpack and read with her forearms leaning on her costume’s carry case. Every once in a while, she’d either shoot a deadly glare at someone trying to approach the more-recognizable Iida or look at her classmate in concern. The former scared off interlopers, while the latter had no apparent effect. 

Iida just sat there, like a super-tense robot. 

Kei wasn’t even as close to him as Midoriya and Uraraka were, so directly asking how Iida felt…didn’t quite work, in her head. She didn’t have the kind of rapport where she could just say what was on her mind. Or punch it out of him and remain friends after. That was a Gai thing. 

And we would not want that. 

Though guess being genuinely me could still go worse. With a sigh, Kei turned her attention back to her light novel. Hopefully, some fictional violence would take her mind off some of the impending actual violence for a while. 

Before she knew it, they were walking out into bright sunshine in a city Kei had patrolled once. Just not as herself.

Manual, the Normal Hero, turned out to be a plain-faced man with a generic ocean theme to his costume. His visored helmet even had a fin top, though nothing functional. Practical white boots, yellow gloves, and a skintight shirt divided evenly between blue and white rounded out the look. He greeted his case-toting interns with a smile and a wave and didn’t seem at all awkward about it. Manual didn’t seem to mind that Iida’s behavior and countenance was a little terse or that Kei tried to stay in Iida’s shadow all the way from the train station to his pro agency. 

While Kei’s counterfeit Quirk was stronger than his by orders of magnitude, Manual was really no weaker than the average Kiri-nin. Like most shinobi, he relied on water already present in his environment to do his work, but in a city, he was never that far from a fire hydrant. More importantly, operating in an urban environment usually gave him a lot of pro hero allies within shouting distance. 

For all intents and purposes, he was an ordinary pro hero with ordinary responsibilities in a city with a serious serial killer infestation. 

Kei felt kind of bad for him, because both of his interns brought ulterior motives along with their literal baggage. Not bad enough to confess to anything, of course, but the thought lingered.

“Well, now that you’ve both arrived safely, let’s get you situated.” Manual didn’t have the same kind of winning smile as, say, All Might, but he didn’t really need it. He beckoned them to follow him into the building. “To cut down on the commute somewhat, my agency will provide room and board for the week. We also have locker rooms so you can get changed quickly for our first patrol. Meal breaks may vary a little depending on what’s happening in the field, but we’ll take good care of you.” 

“Thank you, Manual-sensei,” Iida managed with a third of his usual bombast.  Still, he bowed. 

Kei clasped both hands over her costume case and mirrored him. “We’ll be sure to learn a lot from you this week, Manual-sensei.” 

“I have no doubt!” 

Kei’s borrowed room was smaller than her apartment’s bedroom, but it didn’t need to really be more than a cot and bathroom access to make her happy. Manual’s agency even had on-site laundry service, so the backpack she’d brought along would suffice for the entire week. Locking the door behind her, she quickly stripped out of her UA uniform and made the change to her “hero” costume. 

Unlike some hero students who a) thought out their requests and b) chose a company that could take criticism, Kei dreaded looking at what she’d be wearing for most of this week.  Even now, the design was a short, sleeveless kimono in dark blue wave patterns, long (unarmored) gloves that reached her biceps and only covered one finger apiece. It’d taken a round of angry revision notes to even get ultra-lightweight armor incorporated into the torso keep her vital organs covered. 

Maybe they’d only given ground because Kei destroyed the first iteration “by accident” during the USJ incident. She’d probably never know. It fell on the cot with a faint rattle, though, so at least the nano-whatever weave chainmail component was still there. 

Might as well get it over with. Kei took a deep breath and checked on the rest of the costume. 

While the boots included shinguards, the designers went with a tabi look for the actual shoe component. The pants appeared to be basically skintight swimming trunks, probably because her listed Quirk incorporated so much water manipulation. And for some fucking reason, there was an obi with a massive bow on the back, trailing behind her as she walked. Kei was going to trip and eat pavement because of that thing someday. 

Overall, what Kei pulled out of the case had barely been changed. She just got an extra belt with some pockets for stowing things like utility knives and little adhesive bandages for civilian boo-boos. 

When Kei inevitably did an about-face and started her career of villainy as Cascade, the City Drowner, she’d start with the support company and knock their building down brick by brick. Yes, a safer bet would be to go to UA’s Support Department and demand revisions from people who weren’t so obstinate, but it would be so satisfying. Vindictively. 

Still, she put it on. Including the hitai-ate that wasn’t Konoha’s. And the makeup to downplay her scar. The goal here was to appear as normal as possible—as a hero hopeful—to anyone observing her and not rock any boats. Certainly not literal ones, either. No matter how much looking at her reflection in the provided mirror felt wrong. 

“All right.” Kei clapped her hands together to shock herself awake. She closed her costume case and took a deep breath. “I can do this.” 

Kei emerged from her temporary quarters feeling as awkward as she had during the Sports Festival, but no longer concealed by her official gym uniform and a whole crowd of similarly-dressed kids. There was no more camouflage to be had. 

“Ah, Gekkō-san, right on time.” Manual got up from his desk and waved. “Once Iida-kun is ready to go, we can take on your first patrol as young hero-hopefuls.” 

“Thanks, Manual-sensei.” Kei crossed her arms as they settled in to wait for Iida in the agency’s lobby. It didn’t really help cover her discomfort, but it did make her feel slightly better. 

“Hm, that reminds me—what’s your hero name? I don’t remember seeing it on your paperwork.” 

“Oh. It’s, um, Cascade. The Mist Hero.” Ugh, I sound like such a fake. Kei managed to mutter a rather lackluster explanation involving deadlines, not really enunciating any of it. 

Manual gave her a thumbs-up likely meant to inspire confidence in the downtrodden.  “That’s all right, Gekkō-san. I’ll just be sure to use it so you can get used to how it feels. I’m sure you’ll live up to the aspirations embodied by that name!” 

More like live down to them. Heroes like Manual were so painfully earnest it made Kei’s hair want to stand on end. What did she do with that? “That’s…nice of you to say…”

“Well, here’s one more nice thing then: I think your hero costume looks good.” 

Kei winced. She felt her whole body lean into that scrap of honesty and hated it just a little. 

“I take it you don’t?” 

“…No, Manual-sensei. It doesn’t feel like me.” Because it wasn’t. Not really. 

“Maybe one of the goals you can work on for this internship can involve that, then.” Manual suggested it like it wasn’t a big deal. “Feeling comfortable with yourself.” 

To be fair, it probably wouldn’t be an important issue once Kei got into an actual fight. Most of the distractions faded away once her blood was up and there was someone who needed a beatdown. 

But in the meantime? Uuuuuugh. 

Thankfully, there was a shiny and chrome option right there. Manual also noticed, then waved, “Oh, Iida-kun! Over here.” 

Iida’s full-on Ingenium look was so much more complicated—visually and emotionally—and storied than Kei’s ongoing fight with support companies. He got to look like either a sentai villain or a turbo mecha, and his armor theoretically deflected attacks before he had to see if they’d bounce of his bones. It was one of the reasons that Iida was completely jacked, apparently. Besides, well, the whole running lifestyle. His hero outfit also came with a helmet that almost entirely concealed his face—except for his eyes—and made his voice echo in a simultaneously cool and kinda creepy way. 

Iida really should’ve taken a better internship somewhere else. Anywhere else. 

“Manual-sensei, I’m ready for duty,” Iida said firmly, despite Kei’s doubts. He was so serious about this that he didn’t even swing his arms for emphasis. “Please lead the way.” 

“Of course. Come along, you two.” 

Patrol as a concept was…fine. 

Mostly boring. 

Kei didn’t exactly mind walking all over cities. A lot of what Hosu citizens wanted out of their local heroes was a token showing. If that meant they also got help taking in their laundry or rescuing cats from trees, so much the better. She did a lot of the same things in Konoha when just starting out as an adorable little genin. There was little expectation of violence in broad daylight. Even petty criminals—those stubborn or uncreative enough to strike without any stealth consideration—were lying low for the moment. 

Basically, the point was deterrence. Though the Hero Killer had earned that title, he didn’t attack groups of heroes. No, he hunted solo operators. Or maybe just whoever separated from the pack, regardless of specifics. Now the city was crawling with potential fights and potential victims. 

Kei mostly hoped Iida didn’t plan to shove his way into the ring. When Ingenium was attacked, he’d been running ahead of his sidekicks and fought a guy specialized in close combat in a blind alleyway. Obito barely managed to get him to the hospital afterward, and if not for Kakashi’s tracking abilities, they might never have found him at all. From what Kei’s teammates said about it, there was a real chance Iida Senior would never get the full use of his left arm back. And the engine in it was probably beyond repair. 

“We’ll mostly be patrolling the local area so you can get a feel for how this works,” Manual said, living up to his name. “Later, we’ll branch out.” 

“Yes, Manual-sensei!” 

Still, Kei did miss running across rooftops with her friends. Her job today, though, was to stay firmly bound by gravity and societal expectations. And not hunt down Stain like the slippery bastard he was. 

So, Kei patrolled. Mostly, this entailed following Manual like a duckling while making sure Iida didn’t stray. Though that last part wasn’t said aloud. 

Broken up by meals, breaks, and gentle encouragement from their pro mentor, the first day passed peacefully. Almost too peacefully for Kei to sleep soundly that night. 

But the next day was similar, despite her worries. The absolute highlight of the entire eight-hour stretch was when Manual asked her to create water for him to manipulate and put out a car that had hit a light pole and caught fire. Iida managed to keep the victims calm while alerting emergency services, who then had to cut the driver out of the vehicle. Overall, it was a good deed and only ruined progress during rush hour for twenty minutes more than usual. 

And then, the third day. Honestly, Kei would’ve called it superstition if trouble had waited one more day into their internship, but it wasn’t to be.

On the third day, the patrol shift split between a morning and afternoon set. While Manual did lead Kei and Iida around until lunch, the next few hours after that involved a little bit of training and a lot of paperwork. According to Manual, almost everything pro heroes were responsible for involved forms in triplicate, and they’d be lucky if computers got involved at all. A lot of the smaller agencies loved their carbon paper. Even snagging the time for a nap amid the flurry of bureaucracy didn’t really improve Kei’s opinion of the whole thing. 

Suffice to say that when it was time to head out just before sunset, Kei was happy to see the sky again.

“We’ll be patrolling Kyoto a little later tonight,” Manual explained as they went. “Sorry this is so monotonous.” 

“No, it’s better this way,” Iida replied. 

Kei nodded along, taking a moment to yawn and stretch before a potential third night of nothing much. 

Instead of just continuing to walk until their feet all fell off, Manual drew up short and turned toward Iida. An unusually serious look was on his face. “Hey, Iida-kun. This is kind of hard to ask, but you’re after the Hero Killer, aren’t you?”

Iida startled. “How did you…?”

Manual’s expression went sheepish and self-deprecating laugh popped out of him. “I couldn’t think of any other reason you’d come to my agency.” Then his brain seemed to catch up with his mouth. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. I’m glad you did, but…you shouldn’t be pursuing personal grudges.” 

Good thing someone wants to talk about that. 

“We heroes don’t have the authority to arrest people or punish them. The only reason we’re allowed to use our Quirks is because of the regulations put on them,” Manual pointed out. 

…Though that part’s still bullshit. 

“That’s why, no matter what their reason might be, a hero must not use their Quirk for themselves.” Manual actually glared at Iida. “If a pro hero used their powers solely for their own ends, it would be a very serious crime.” 

Iida lowered his head just the slightest bit, as though shamed. Just a bit. 

Conscious of the awkward atmosphere, Kei coughed to remind them both that she was still present. 

With that tiny reminder, Manual’s seriousness cracked. Using the kind of choppy hand gestures that Iida normally did, he stumbled his way through his attempt to downplay how serious he’d been. “I’m not saying the Hero Killer isn’t incredibly guilty! You just seem like the really earnest type, you know? I’d hate for you to focus on one goal and ignore everything else.” 

Like Iida doesn’t have tunnel vision fit for a train. 

“Thank you,” Iida said, giving nothing away. “I appreciate your concern.” 

Yeah, that wasn’t an actual concession. That was a very careful sidestep. 

“Oh, it’s fine as long as you get what I’m saying.” Manual turned to lead them onward. “So, we good?” 

He totally missed the way Iida’s fists clenched at his sides, the tension in his shoulders, or the weight still dragging him down. Or, if he did notice, Manual didn’t have the tools necessary to deal with Iida’s bellyful of vengeance before the Hero Killer finally put in an appearance. 

Kei tapped Iida’s armor with her knuckles as she passed, since he was falling a little bit behind. 

“Gekkō-san, what is it?” 

“Let me know before you do something reckless,” Kei told him, pitching her voice carefully enough that Manual’s helmet wouldn’t let him catch it. “Don’t just run off.” 

Iida didn’t say anything in reply. It was like he couldn’t acknowledge her concern without exploding, and thus needed to keep his focus entirely on putting one foot in front of the other. If it made him rude, maybe he’d be able to apologize for it later. When he felt better. 

But Iida also didn’t notice the tracking seal she'd just pasted to his black bodysuit, which Kei figured made up for that. 

[zazidot]

Too Late To Love You

a/n: finally a one shot that isn’t rushed, might edit later cause the ending pissed me off

—————————————————

The first time I saw Mattheo Riddle with her, I thought my chest might cave in. She was everything I wasn’t. She glided through the corridors of Hogwarts as if she were floating, her laugh light and musical, her hair always perfectly falling into place. Callista. That’s what she was named. A vision of beauty so delicate, so untouchable, it hurt to look at her.

And Mattheo? He seemed utterly bewitched.

I had been harboring feelings for him since fourth year. Of course, I never told him. Why would I? Mattheo Riddle, the boy with the devil-may-care attitude, sharp wit, and dangerous smirk, could have anyone he wanted. And, apparently, he wanted her.

I still remember the day I saw them together for the first time. I was walking to the library when I turned the corner and froze. There they were, leaning against the stone wall, her hand on his arm as she giggled at something he said.

My stomach twisted painfully.

“Y/N,” a voice called, snapping me out of my daze. Blaise Zabini was walking toward me, his expression unreadable.

“What?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.

“You’re staring,” he said simply, his dark eyes flicking toward the scene in front of us.

I felt my cheeks flush. “I wasn’t staring.”

“Sure,” Blaise replied, his tone laced with amusement. “You weren’t staring at Mattheo and Callista. Not at all.”

I shot him a glare, but it lacked any real heat. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t,” he said with a shrug. “But you should probably stop before they notice.”

With great effort, I tore my gaze away and hurried past Blaise, heading straight to the library. My heart pounded in my chest, and my mind raced with thoughts I didn’t want to have.

Over the next few weeks, Mattheo and Callista were everywhere. In the Great Hall, they sat close together, their heads bent as they whispered to each other. In the corridors, they walked side by side, his arm slung casually around her shoulders. In Potions, he helped her with her assignments, something he had never done for anyone else.

I couldn’t escape them.

It wasn’t just the sight of them that hurt—it was the way Mattheo looked at her. Like she was the only person in the room. Like she was his entire world.

It killed me.

One evening, I found myself in the Astronomy Tower, staring out at the night sky. The cold air bit at my skin, but I didn’t care. I needed to be alone.

“Y/N?”

I turned, startled, to see Mattheo standing behind me.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, my voice sharper than I intended.

He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “I could ask you the same thing.”

“I needed some air,” I said, turning back to the stars.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked, stepping closer.

“Why would you want to?” I muttered under my breath.

“What was that?”

“Nothing,” I said quickly, forcing a smile. “Go ahead.”

He leaned against the railing beside me, his dark curls falling into his eyes as he looked out at the sky.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said after a moment.

My heart skipped a beat. “I haven’t.”

“Yes, you have,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact. “Did I do something to upset you?”

I laughed bitterly. “Why would you think that?”

“Because you’re not exactly subtle, Y/N.”

I turned to him, anger flaring in my chest. “You want to know what’s wrong? Fine. What’s wrong is that I have to watch you parade around with her like she’s some kind of goddess while the rest of us don’t even exist.”

His eyes widened in surprise. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about Callista,” I snapped. “You’re so wrapped up in her that you can’t see anything else. Or anyone else.”

For a moment, he said nothing. Then, he sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I didn’t know you felt that way.”

“Of course you didn’t,” I said bitterly. “Why would you? You don’t notice anything unless it has to do with her.”

“That’s not fair,” he said, his voice low.

“Isn’t it?”

He opened his mouth to respond, but before he could say anything, we heard footsteps approaching.

“There you are!” Callista’s voice rang out, light and cheerful.

Mattheo straightened, his expression softening as she walked toward us.

“I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” she said, wrapping her arms around his.

My chest tightened painfully.

“I should go,” I said quickly, turning to leave.

“Y/N, wait—” Mattheo began, but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t.

After that night, I did everything I could to avoid him. I skipped meals in the Great Hall, sat at the back of every class, and buried myself in the library during my free time. It was easier that way—less painful.

But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t escape the ache in my chest.

A few weeks later, everything changed.

It was a Hogsmeade weekend, and the castle was buzzing with excitement. I had planned to stay behind, but at the last minute, Blaise convinced me to come along.

“It’ll be good for you,” he said, dragging me out of the common room.

I wasn’t convinced, but I went anyway.

We ended up at the Three Broomsticks, where most of the students had gathered. The place was loud and crowded, and I found myself wishing I had stayed behind after all.

“Y/N!”

I turned to see Mattheo making his way toward me, a strange look on his face.

“What do you want?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.

“Can we talk?” he asked, his voice quieter than usual.

“Why?”

“Please,” he said, his eyes pleading.

With a sigh, I followed him outside, the cold air biting at my skin.

“What’s this about?” I asked, crossing my arms.

He hesitated, running a hand through his hair. “I broke up with Callista.”

The words hit me like a punch to the gut. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because…” He trailed off, looking away. “Because I realized I was wrong. About everything.”

I stared at him, my heart pounding in my chest. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about you, Y/N,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I was so caught up in Callista that I didn’t see what was right in front of me.”

Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. “You can’t just say that now, Mattheo. You don’t get to mess with my head like this.”

“I’m not messing with your head,” he said, stepping closer. “I’m being honest. I care about you, Y/N. More than I ever cared about her.”

“Then why didn’t you see it sooner?” I asked, my voice trembling. “Why did you have to hurt me first?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice filled with regret. “But I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

I shook my head, tears spilling over despite my best efforts. “It’s too late, Mattheo. You made your choice.”

“Y/N, please—”

“No,” I said, cutting him off. “You don’t get to do this. Not now.”

Without another word, I turned and walked away, leaving him standing there in the snow.

In the days that followed, Mattheo tried to talk to me, but I avoided him at every turn. I couldn’t let him back in—not after everything.

It hurt, but I knew it was the right thing to do.

Some wounds were too deep to heal.

And some chances were simply missed.

[aemondsbabygirl]

This part broke my heart :

« Those initial moments had been filled with quiet frustration on his part, a stifled sigh when his hand grazed an unexpected object, the faintest wince of embarrassment at the slightest misstep. At first, she hadn’t noticed it. Like so many things with him, it had crept up slowly, revealing itself in the small, unguarded moments. But then she began to see it–the way he moved, the subtle sweep of his hand in front of him, his fingers brushing the air as he felt out the space. It was a gesture so careful, so practiced, born of his singular vision, a habit ingrained deeply from years of compensating for what he lacked. »

I can’t believe that I had never deeply thought about this in regards to Aemond. This makes what Luke did, and the fact that he went YEARS without any consequences for his action, even crueler 💔 while aemond had to re learn everything, Luke went on to be a normal child, receiving love and praise. No wonder Aemond never forgave him and moved on. I’m not gonna lie, i personally would have killed Luke even earlier than that. I find that people, even Daenera, completely disregard the trauma Aemond went through and expect Aemond to simply « grow up and accept it ».

‼️Poor Patrick!!! It is a mercy but I can’t imagine how difficult it must have been to Daenera to come to this decision! And to see him beg !!

Im curious about how the green will react to his death, especially because Dae wasn’t very secretive about her visit. I am sure they’re going to guess she poisoned him. What will they do to her? Even Larys saw her 😨 but I mean with that bitch Mertha following her every move, it would have been known even without Larys being there.

Speaking of that bitch I CANT WAIT TILL SHE DIES!!! God knows how much I HATE HER ! I commend Dae’s patience, really. I never could have managed to wait so long to kill her. Given the hints you’ve given me, I know it is going to be EPIC and so satisfying! I cannot wait for it!

I loved Dae and Aemond’s interaction in the courtyard, and im so curious about the letter she gave Fenrick. I hope he arrives safely to Dragonstone and doesn’t betray her again 😬

Also, I cannot wait for the pregnancy reveal!! And the fluff. IM CLINGING TO THE FLUFF!!!

You’ve done such an amazing job with season 1! I want to wait till December and do a full reread while I wait for the next part. Take the break and rest you need, you’ve deserved it 💗💗💗💗

And I’ll be (im)patiently waiting for the second season in 2025!

A Vow of Blood - 98

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 98: Think of Home

AO3 - Masterlist

The night seemed endless.

A dense, stifling silence filled the room, hanging in the air like an executioner’s blade poised to descend. Daenera lay curled in bed, her eyes fixed on the dying hearth, watching as the flames sputtered and waned, each flicker growing weaker until they left only a bed of glowing embers. The fire had burned itself out, leaving her nothing but shadows and an oppressive weight that pressed against her chest. Beneath her ribs, a tight, sickening knot had formed, burning low and deep like molten lead.

The tears she had shed had long since dried, their salty remnants lingering on her skin, and within, a hollow ache remained. She’d spent the night tossing and turning, seeking sleep that refused her, unable to silence the whirl of thoughts crowding her mind. 

A memory surfaced, unbidden–of her mother’s gentle hands smoothing over her hair, whispering promises of a brighter future, a time when they would all be safe. Now, that warmth felt like a distant dream, lost in the haze of all that had happened. Her throat tightened further, a raw, stinging sensation prickling her eyes, but she forced it down, refusing to give in.

Her mother was still searching, clinging to the threadbare wish that her son might somehow return safely, that the fates might yet be kind. She could imagine her mother’s face, etched with sorrow, growing weary with each passing day, eyes empty as she searched the waves. The image tightened something within her chest, a pang of guilt mingling with sorrow, for she knew the truth that hope could not mend but only postpone. 

Her thoughts drifted to Jace and Joffrey, to Baela and Rhaena, to Aegon and Viserys–her siblings, her brothers and sisters, each of them woven deeply into the fabric of her life. Her family. She wondered what they would think of her now, if they would understand the choices she had made, or if they would look at her with the same shame and disappointment she felt blooming within herself? Would Jace, with his unyielding sense of duty, ever forgive her for binding herself to the man responsible for their brother’s death? For having loved him? And Aegon and Viserys–would they remember her or would she be a stranger to them? 

It felt foolish, almost painful, to hope they might forgive her, or even recognize her when they saw each other again–if they ever would. Her heart twisted at the thought of returning to them, stripped and changed by everything she had endured here, only to find them looking through eyes with unfamiliarity–with resentment. She wondered if they would see her as someone else entirely, a ghost of the sister they had once known, haunting them. 

Her hands curled tightly around the edges of the covers, pulling them closer to herself, as if they could shield her from the sharp edge of her own thoughts. The uncertainty gnawed at her, the notion that she might lose them in more ways than one.

She thought of Daemon. She wondered if he would look at her with scorn or pity, if he would even understand the depths to which she had fallen, if he would forgive her for it. 

And then her thoughts turned to Luke. 

Every time his memory rose in her mind, a wave of shame washed over her, filling her chest with a hollow ache that threatened to consume her. She could still see him, her younger brother with his earnest eyes and devotion, always so quick to defend her, so eager to prove himself. The thought of his smile, his voice, twisted painfully inside her, and yet it was nothing compared to the shame that came when she remembered what she had allowed to unfold between herself and Aemond.

The very man who had ended Luke’s life had become the one she had, against all reason, allowed between her legs–allowed into her heart. It felt like a betrayal so deep that her soul recoiled from it, as if she could cleanse herself through sheer force of will. But no amount of denial could erase the truth: she had wanted him, had let her heart and body betray her brother’s memory. 

What kind of sister was she, to feel anything but hatred for Aemond? To feel her pulse quicken at the sight of him, to betray Luke with every stolen glance and whispered touch. She had seen her reflection in the mirror that evening, and she barely recognized the woman staring back–a woman tangled in a web of desire and grief, a woman who loved the one she should despise.

She drew her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them tightly as if to contain the guilt that seeped into her very bones. There was no one she could confess to, no one who could understand. She was utterly alone in this torment, bearing the unbearable weight of loving a man who had torn her family apart.

She wanted to convince herself it had only been desire–that it had only ever been lust, a fleeting need she could cast off as quickly as it had come. But deep down, in the hollowed, ravaged remains of her heart, Daenera knew this was a lie she could no longer cling to. Desire did not leave scars the way love did; it did not tear through a person, leaving them raw and exposed, the way love could. Lust didn’t destroy, didn’t reduce one’s world to ruins the way love did.

She had loved him once. Before.

Before he had taken to the skies on Vhagar, before he had set his sights on her brother, before he had chased him through the clouds and torn him from this world. Before he had become the hand that struck Luke down, the one who wore his guilt like a twisted badge of pride, savoring the bloodshed he’d brought to her family.

The knowledge of it lodged deep within her like a needle, sharp and unrelenting, piercing the tender, frayed edges of her heart over and over again. She could feel each one of those needles now, like her heart had been made a pincushion of, each memory of him driving the agony deeper, each fleeting thought of her love a betrayal too raw to bear.

Black though it may be, wretched with sin and monstrous as it is, it belongs to you. My heart is yours. The words clung to her like a half-forgotten melody, pulling at her in the dark.

He had spoken those words as if they could hold meaning, as if he believed she could accept them. He had let her feel the steady thud of his heart beneath her hand, burning and pulsing against the scar on her palm. But whatever beat within him wasn’t a heart. She knew that now. What he carried inside him was something dark and hollow, a festering wound that masqueraded as humanity.

She wanted to erase those words from her mind, to strip herself of their lingering weight. They were poison, festering within the wounds he had left on her heart.

She hated him. 

She hated him more deeply, more fiercely, than she had ever hated anyone. She hated him for the murder of her brother, for the lie he’d woven so seamlessly as he looked into her eyes, only to then take pride in the blood that stained his hands as if it were a mark of honor. She hated him for trapping her in this gilded cage, binding her to him with vows she had no choice but to take–hated him for the vows he had given her, the lies they were. She hated him for the treachery against her mother, for supporting his brother’s claim to the throne that should never have been his. 

But more than anything, she hated him for making her love him. 

And worst of all, she hated herself for allowing it–for every stolen glance, for every moment of weakness, for every flicker of her heart that betrayed her resolve. Her fingers dug into her palms as she laid there in the dark, her own self-loathing a blade she had yet to pull free, twisting ever deeper with each reminder of her weakness. 

He was a kinslayer. A monster. Perhaps, she thought, he had always been so—and she had simply refused to see it, blinded by the gentleness of his touch, by the way he had embraced the darkness that lurked within her own soul. He had never flinched from the shadows within her; instead, he had drawn closer, coaxing them out as if they were something precious to him.

And she had loved him–a monster.

“I loved the monster,” the tale begins, whispered to young girls as they grow, a caution wrapped in shadows. And, as all stories go, the monster eventually devours her, or she finds herself undone, breaking upon the rocks of her own ruin. For as soon as one speaks of love, the monster’s shadow lingers, waiting.

Daenera had heard these stories before, tales of the beast in a lover’s skin, of love’s teeth that bit down with a force stronger than the heart could bear. And yet, in her own foolishness, she had loved him, had crossed that threshold and willingly taken the monster’s hand.

Now, as she lay alone in bed, the weight of her own story settled upon her like a curse she had unwittingly invited, each whispered word from those old stories haunting her as if they had always been meant for her.

The realization twisted within her, sharp as a blade, as she wondered what that made of her. What kind of person could love a man capable of such cruelty, of spilling her own brother’s blood and reveling in the ruin he had left behind?

And in the cold silence of the room, the question echoed endlessly, haunting her: What was she, to have loved a monster?

It was a thorn embedded deep within her, a sharp, bitter sting lodged too far to pull free. No matter how she tried, it twisted and festered, reminding her of its presence with each breath she took. In the hollow of her chest, she felt a heartbeat that wasn’t wholly her own–a relentless, pounding rhythm belonging to something furious and vengeful. This darkness prowled the ruins of her heart like a caged beast, bristling with anger, seething with bitterness, and aching for vengeance. 

This darkness had guided her hand, had pressed the blade into her palm with grim determination, reopening old wounds as if by shedding her own blood, she could bind herself to some unbreakable vow. She had felt it compel her to hold her hand over the flames, the searing heat a twisted kind of ritual, the fire licking at her skin as she spoke her curses aloud, her words spilling into the shadows, desperate and forceful, as though her voice alone could give life to the retribution she craved.

In that moment, it was as if her very soul had darkened, like ash scattering in the fire’s glow, driven by an impulse she could not control. The room around her had felt thick with her own resolve. 

She had known, even then, what she would do–and what it would cost her. 

Aemond’s presence pressed upon her, even as he lay out of sight, shrouded in shadows on the distant chaise. He was as wakeful as she was. She could feel him, his silent watchfulness creeping under the very blankets she clutched to her chest, as if his mere presence could invade her thoughts and burrow into her heart–he would find he was already there. Frustrated, she rolled to her other side with an irritated sigh, hoping to calm the unsteady rhythm of her heart.  

The boy with the stars in his eyes.

And then, like a whisper in the dark, the witch’s voice slithered through her mind, taunting her from the shadows of her thoughts: “The human heart is a devious thing, little princess. In the heart of your enemy, there lies your love.”

In the end, it seemed that love would make a monster of her as well. 

If it hadn’t already. 

Daenera let her eyes flutter shut, her lids having grown too heavy for her to resist. She forced herself to breathe through the tightness that clung to her throat, the ache in her chest swelling with each heartbeat. Weariness weighed heavily upon her, seeping into her bones and settling there like molten lead. It was a kind of exhaustion that crept under the skin and clawed at the very thoughts. She could feel the days behind her–each one marked by sorrow, bitterness, and the lingering sting of betrayal–pressing down on her. 

And still, in some distant corner of the ruins that were her heart, she felt his presence lingering–a decay that clung to her, a whisper of longing she could not fully banish. It was a rot, a deep-seated yearning for the comfort of his arms around her, for the warmth of him to seep into her, for the ease and safety that had once seemed so simple. This desire gnawed at her, a reminder of what she could never have without sacrificing a part of herself, yet it remained, stubborn and haunting, buried within the rubble of her fractured heart.

The silence was thick, broken only by the occasional crack and hiss of the embers and the faint rustle of her shifting against the sheets. Every inch of her felt heavy, her limbs sinking into the mattress as though it were pulling her under. She felt him there, as though an invisible thread connected them, strained and taut. 

Her fingers curled around the edges of the blanket, clutching it tightly as she brought it over her shoulders, settling more determinedly into the bed. The room felt like a prison, the shadows pressing in around her, and she felt trapped between the warmth of the memories that haunted her and the bitter truth of the present. Even the air seemed weighted, carrying a faint chill that seeped through her nightgown, wrapping around her like a reminder of everything that lay beyond this silent room.

In the dark, Daenera lay there, trying to ward off the memories, the fears, the fatigue that felt as though it were slowly consuming her. But the ache persisted, throbbing in her chest like an open wound, a constant reminder that there was no escaping what lay ahead.

Gradually, Daenera felt her mind begin to slip away, the darkness wrapping around her like a heavy shroud, pouring into her thoughts and pulling her down into a fitful, restless sleep.

In this murky space, there were no dreams to guide her–only a formless, shifting darkness that her mind drifted in and out of, like a ship lost at sea. Her body felt oddly distant, weighed down, as if she were no longer fully anchored to it. She floated somewhere within herself, loosely tethered, unable to reach out or reclaim control. Her limbs felt heavy, foreign, a dull ache reminding her of a presence she couldn’t quite inhabit.

Her mind floated aimlessly, caught in currents of shadow, suspended between awareness and oblivion, carried along into a darkness that offered no comfort, only an endless, disquieting emptiness.

Slowly, warmth began to seep into her, chasing away the lingering chill and pulling her gently from the depths of sleep. She floated just on the edge of wakefulness, somewhere in the distance, she heard a dull thump, a sound that ripped through her awareness. 

It was not long after she was yanked abruptly from her slumber. The heavy curtains were thrown open, flooding the room with a harsh, blinding light that stabbed at her eyes. The sharp sound of metal scraping against metal needled at her nerves, jarring her fully–and groggily–awake. She winced, the sudden brightness forming an ache behind her eyes as she wearily pushed herself up, one arm bracing her weight as she pressed the heel of her other hand to her temple, trying to block out the assault of morning. 

“It is time to get up!” Came Mertha’s shrill voice as she moved across the room, tugging another curtain open with a determined yank. Sunlight streamed in with even greater intensity, filling every shadowed corner. “There is much to do today, and you cannot lie in bed all day, try as you might. Up, up, up!”

Daenera blinked, her eyelids heavy as she squinted against the sudden flood of daylight pouring into the room. Mertha flitted around the room with a clatter, pulling the thick curtains aside with unnecessary vigor and  little regard for Daenera’s state, allowing the morning sun to banish any lingering darkness. Sleep had been elusive, and now it clung to her stubbornly, her limbs feeling leaden and uncooperative. Her skin tingled unpleasantly, protesting the abrupt transition from restless slumber to wakefulness.

Daenera’s gaze drifted to the chaise, a faint frown tugging at her brow, as though she half-expected to find him still lounging there. She knew, of course, that he was gone–the hollow feeling in her chest confirmed it well enough. Yet the chaise seemed unnervingly empty, stripped of the warmth of his presence, the only trace of him left in the form of his ruined shirt, neatly folded atop the cushions.

Her eyes wandered to the small table beside it. A crumpled cloth lay discarded there, its once-white fabric now marred with patches of dried blood, blooming like rust against the pale linen. A few stray shards of glass glinted in the morning light, scattered across the wooden surface like slivers of ice. And then, her gaze fell upon a small ceramic jar. Recognition struck her, and her chest tightened, an uneasy twist roiling in her stomach. She knew what it contained–ointment for his wound, something she made once, long ago. 

She swallowed against the tightness in her throat and cast a withering glance at Mertha as she moved towards the hearth, watching as the woman bent down to add another log to the half-burnt remnants in the fire already. The warm light flickered and caught the scowl that settled over Mertha’s face as a faint crunch sounded beneath her shoes as she shifted. She stopped in her tracks, lifting the hem of her skirt carefully, revealing shards of glass scattered across the stone floor, glinting faintly in the firelight. 

Mertha’s gaze shot up, sharp and accusatory, her eyes narrowing as they settled on Daenera, suspicion clear in every deep line of her expression. There was a hardened reproach in ehr stare, the kind that left little room for explanation–that said that she’d already decided that she was to blame. 

“What did you do?” Mertha sneered as she carefully sidestepped the shards of glass scattered across the floor, her gaze fixed on Daenera. Her brow creased, her lips twisted into a disapproving frown.

“Me?” Daenera glared back at Mertha in exasperation. “I didn’t do anything–”

Mertha’s eyes narrowed, and she gestured towards the mess. “Then why, pray tell, is there glass all over the floor? Care to explain that, cursed child?”

“Because,” She continued pointedly, “Aemond dropped the wine glasses when he tripped over a chair. It seems a single eye isn’t enough to catch sight of a simple chair in his way.”

It was a lie, of course. 

She’d been the one to knock the wine goblets from his hands–she had been the one to make him kneel in front of her. The memory stirred within her–the intensity of his gaze when he had looked up at her, the warmth of his hands pressing against her thighs, the way he had leaned into her with the reverence of a tamed beast. 

A tightness bloomed in her chest at the thought, a lingering ache she could not quite name. She wasn’t sure if it was shame or something else–something she dared not fully examine, something she refused to acknowledge. It settled there, heavy and unsettling, a whisper of emotion that crept in uninvited. 

She recalled his early visits to her chambers, how he had first navigated the unfamiliar space with caution. He would slip into her room under the cover of darkness, moving almost silently but for the occasional scuff of his boot as it caught on the foot of a chair or brushed against the bedframe. 

Those initial moments had been filled with quiet frustration on his part, a stifled sigh when his hand grazed an unexpected object, the faintest wince of embarrassment at the slightest misstep. At first, she hadn’t noticed it. Like so many things with him, it had crept up slowly, revealing itself in the small, unguarded moments. But then she began to see it–the way he moved, the subtle sweep of his hand in front of him, his fingers brushing the air as he felt out the space. It was a gesture so careful, so practiced, born of his singular vision, a habit ingrained deeply from years of compensating for what he lacked.

After throes first months, his steps became surer, his movements looser as if he had mapped every corner and curve of her chambers into his mind. He no longer groped in the dark but moved with an assuredness that sometimes caught her off-guard. 

They should have made her chambers their marital quarters, she thought sourly. She would have much preferred the familiarity of her own room, smaller though it was, over these chambers. At least there, she would feel a sense of grounding, surrounded by what was hers. And, she supposed, Aemond wouldn’t have to map out new surroundings.

The thought of his comfort, so unexpectedly mingling with her own frustration, lodged within her bitterly, catching her off guard. She bristled at the feeling, hating that she had thought of him at all. 

Mertha clicked her tongue in disapproval, sweeping through the room with practiced efficiency. She strode to the archway leading into the common room, snapping her fingers sharply at a nearby servant who happened to be within earshot. “You there,” she ordered briskly, “see that the floors are swept at once.”

Within moments, two servants entered the chamber quietly, heads bowed as they moved toward the hearth. Without a word, they began gathering the shards, their brushes scraping across the cold stone floor. The soft, scratchy sound filled the room, punctuated by the occasional chime of glass fragments clinking against one another. As they swept, the brittle shards glinted faintly in the morning light, fragile reminders of the night’s forgotten indulgence.

Finally, one of the servants gathered the shards carefully into a small metal pan, tilting it into a bucket with a hollow clatter that rang louder than before, echoing briefly through the chamber before fading into silence.

Mertha appeared at her side, breaking the moment with a loud, disapproving huff. She eyed Daenera critically, her hands fussing at the bed linens. “Would you put your teat away,” she muttered, her tone edged with irritation, as though Daenera were some errant child caught in a state of disarray.

Daenera glanced down at herself, noticing the state of her nightgown. The wide neckline had slipped down over one shoulder, exposing a fair portion of her chest to the warm morning air. Her dark curls spilled loosely over her skin, but they did little to shield her, framing the bare curve of her shoulder instead. She frowned, more out of mild irritation than any sense of modesty, tugging the thin fabric up slightly.

“What are you wearing?” Mertha’s tone dripped with disapproval, her familiar scowl deepening as she tried, unsuccessfully, to avert her gaze while still glaring with all the force of a reprimand. 

Daenera raised an eyebrow, her voice dry. “A nightgown.”

“That is not a nightgown,” Mertha retorted loudly, sweeping across the room with an indignant huff. She snatched the discarded robe from the floor, shaking it out with the exaggerated zeal of someone driven by moral outrage. “That scrap is more suited to the Street of Silk than to a lady’s chamber. It’s barely fabric at all.”

Daenera’s frown deepened, her eyes following Mertha with a mixture of exasperation and amusement. “You don’t think whores wear nightgowns?”

With a sharp exhale, Mertha returned to her side, her patience visibly thinning. “Oh, I’m sure they do,” she replied with a dry huff. “And something like that, no doubt.” With a swift motion, she tossed the folded robe onto Daenera’s lap, clearly expecting her to use it to cover herself. “Cover yourself up.”

But Daenera didn’t move. Instead, she leaned back, her gaze fixed on Mertha with an almost childlike defiance. “Why should I?”

Mertha stared at her, her mouth tightening into a thin line. “Because it's indecent.”

Daenera rolled her eyes, a hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips as she watched Mertha continue her fussing. The older woman marched over to the chest of nightgowns, her expression settling into a look of profound disapproval as she regarded the collection of pale fabrics inside, each one seemingly more offensive to her sensibilities than the last.

“These… garments,” Mertha began with a disapproving click of her tongue, “these scraps you call nightgowns, are hardly fit for a lady’s chamber. There’s barely enough fabric in them to use for cleaning rags.” She shook her head, casting Daenera a sidelong glance that was more cutting than respectful. “Perhaps it would be wiser to use them as cleaning cloth–if, of course, there’s even enough cloth to make them worth the trouble.” She made a disgusted sound, “A proper lady might prefer a nightgown with a bit more… dignity.”

“Aemond seemed more than pleased with it,” Daenera replied smoothly, her voice a careful blend of casual indifference and a pointed challenge. A memory flickered in her mind, unbidden–the way his gaze had lingered on her, consuming every inch of her as if nothing else existed. Gooseflesh spread across her skin, trailing up her spine to prickle at the back of her neck and she shifted uncomfortably, pushing the feeling aside. 

“It would be a shame,” she continued, holding Mertha’s gaze, letting each word fall deliberately from her tongue, “if he discovered you’ve had them discarded without much thought.” Her words were thick and cloying like honey, though carried a poisoned undertone. “I’d hate to see how… displeased he might be with you, Lady Mertha, if you were to remove them.”

The older woman stiffened, a flicker of irritation flashing across her face as she tugged sharply at the wrinkle in the bedsheets. Her jaw tigened and she gave a small, frustrated huff as she tugged at an imaginary wrinkle in the blankets, her lips pressed into a thin line. Her hands found the edges of the bedding, and, without a moment’s hesitation, she yanked the covers away from Daenera, tossing them aside with visible irritation, as if dealing with a stubborn child rather than a princess. 

“Up with you now, Princess,” Mertha said, her tone clipped and tinged with the impatience of someone who had long since lost her patience.Daenera cast a slow, dismissive glance toward the window, noting how the early light spilled softly across the sky, painting it in delicate shades of pink and gold. The sun was barely beginning its ascent, the horizon still hushed and gentle, yet here was Mertha, already bustling as though midday had passed. 

“There's much to be done,” Mertha continued briskly, her hands moving in swift, precise gestures as she tugged at the linens from the bed. “You cannot languish here all day, try as you might.”

Daenera shot a fierce glare at Mertha, the morning air prickling her bare legs as she shifted grudgingly to the edge of the bed. Mertha, undeterred, fussed over the disheveled covers with an obsessive persistence, tugging them back into place even as she sat in the way. With each sharp tug and adjustment, the old hag edged closer, her movements brisk and invasive, until she was practically hovering over Daenera, her presence pressing and unyielding.

“The only people who can afford to spend their days sprawled in bed are down on the Street of Silk,” Mertha muttered, her voice tinged with an exasperated scold. As if to punctuate her point, she nudged Daenera with her elbow, pushing her firmly off the bed’s edge. Daenera stumbled to her feet, her bare soles meeting the cool, unforgiving stone of the floor as she instinctively took a step back, putting distance between herself and Mertha’s domineering attentions.

With a final, irritated sweep of her hands, Mertha smoothed the covers, her fingers moving with a practiced efficiency that was as much a reprimand as it was a chore. Seemingly satisfied, she straightened, turning to face Daenera with a look that was both reproachful and expectant.

“If you wish to call me a whore, Lady Mertha,” Daenera said, her voice a steely thread of challenge, “then have the courage to say it.”

Mertha’s eyes narrowed, her expression hardening. Her lips pursed as though she tasted something sour as she casted a quick, dismissive glance towards the servants who were quietly working to clean the room, collecting the shards of glass from the table beside the chaise. Her mouth tightened in disapproval before she returned her gaze to Daenera. 

“I wouldn’t dare, Princess,” she replied coolly, her tone carefully measured, almost biting. 

A faint, satisfied smirk played at the corner of Daenera’s lips. “Good,” she hummed, her eyes gleaming. “Then it seems you remember your place.”

The expression on Mertha’s face soured considerably, her scowl deepening as she turned back to the bed, her movements brisk. She reached for the robe that lay draped across the covers, gathering it up before holding it out stiffly in Daenera’s direction. 

“Please, cover yourself, Princess,” she said, tone thick with reproach. “This isn’t appropriate. A lady should be mindful of her modesty–and a princess most of all.”

“Tell me, Lady Mertha,” Daenera drawled, a slow smirk forming on her lips, “is it jealousy that makes you so sour and bitter?” 

She made no move to pull up her nightgown, allowing it to rest where it had slipped–fallen off one shoulder and hanging loosely on the edge of the other, barely clinging. The fabric dangled precariously, exposing the curve of her bare breast to the soft wash of morning light filtering through the window. The sheer material did nothing to hide her, the outline of her body clear as day, the dark hint of her nipple visible through the fabric’s delicate weave. 

Mertha’s gaze flickered over her, and a flash of disapproval creased her brow, her lips pressed in a thin line. She glared at her with barely disguised irritation, her discomfort palpable in the set of her shoulders, in the tension bristling through her stance. Yet Daenera held her ground, tilting her head in defiance, daring Mertha to do or say anything. 

She knew she was goading her, pushing the boundaries of their strained civility, but at this moment, Daenera cared little for the pretense she’d tried to maintain over the past days. Whatever punishments Mertha might consider hardly mattered to her now; the older woman’s scorn was as unimportant to her as a draft in an open hallway. Her skin prickled with tension, a restlessness coiling beneath the surface like a serpent poised to strike. She felt as if her very nerves were exposed and merely being awake in this world needled at them.

If Mertha’s patience was thin, Daenera’s was gone entirely, worn away by days of simmering discontent. 

 “Jealousy?” Mertha scoffed, her voice heavy with contempt. Her lips twisted into a scornful scowl, her expression etched with lines of displeasure that made her look older than her years, as though the weight of her own bitterness had aged her prematurely.

“Are you jealous because I am younger and prettier than you?” Daenera drawled, her voice laced with a taunting sweetness as she let the nightgown slip fully off her other shoulder. The soft, sheer fabric slid from her skin in a gentle whisper, brushing over her bare limbs before pooling in a pale, silken heap at her feet, leaving her completely naked. She stood unperturbed by the quiet movements of the servants around the room. 

The glower on Mertha’s face grew as she snatched up the robe from the bed, her hands moving in short, irritable gestures as she unfolded it. She held it out with a commanding grip, her posture rigid, as if by sheer will could she force her into it.

“Every flower wilts in time, and yours will be no different. Vanity is hardly a virtue worth clinging to,” she huffed, her words clipped. “Beauty fades, Princess. And what will you have then?”

Daenera held Mertha’s glare with a steady, faintly amused look, slipping her arms into the robe with a sense of indifference. She allowed Mertha to pull it up over her shoulders, the older woman’s movements brisk and agitated as she fastened the robe around Daenera’s waist with a sharp tug, ensuring the fabric was securely in place. She stepped out of the crumbled nightgown at her feet, her bare toes whispering against the cool stone floor as she crossed the room towards the dressing table.

“My insolence, I suppose,” she answered, her tone light, an amused edge lacing her words as she glanced back at Mertha. “Because I will always be younger and prettier than you.”

Mertha’s eyes narrowed. “The gods see all, Princess,” She scooped up the discarded nightgown from the floor, grumbling, “ when you stand before them, they will see through every veil, every vanity, every prideful thought. There will be no hiding behind your beauty or charms then. They demand piety, humility, decency–only true virtue will matter, and I fear you will be found… lacking.”

Daenera rolled her eyes, settling into the chair before the dressing table with an air of languid defiance. She swept her hands through her hair, gathering it back over her shoulders in a smooth, practiced motion, her fingers brushing beneath her wild curls and getting stuck. Her gaze lingered in the mirror, where she watched everything behind her–the way Mertha moved briskly around the room, folding the discarded nightgown with tight, irritated motions before setting it aside as if it were something unclean, something that offended her delicate sensibilities. Her lips pressed into a thin line as she snapped her fingers at the servants, directing them to strip and remake the bed.

With an air of quiet dread, the woman stepped behind Daenera, her presence looming like a storm over her. She reached for the brush on the table, her fingers curling around it with a kind of resigned determination, before gathering a thick handful of Daenera’s hair in her hands.

Mertha began working through the tangled ends, her movements rough and unrelenting. Each pass of the brush was more a battle than a grooming, the bristles scraping against Daenera’s scalp and tugging uncomfortably at her strands. The sensation sent prickles across her skin, a mix of discomfort and indignation, but she remained still, her face calm and composed, refusing to give Mertha the satisfaction of seeing her flinch.

Through the mirror, she could see the hard set of Mertha’s mouth, the tension in her jaw as if she took a certain satisfaction in her rough handling, a wordless reprimand hidden beneath the guise of dutiful care.

Daenera drew in a slow breath, allowing a faint, almost pitying smile to play on her lips. “I imagine your husband finds little warmth in your bed, Lady Mertha. A man needs more than scowls and sermons to keep him satisfied, wouldn’t you agree? One can’t help but pity the poor man,” she continued, her voice heavy with mock sympathy. “Enduring the nightly penance of sharing his bed with someone so utterly… devoid of allure. Perhaps a nightgown like mine might grant him a moment’s reprieve from his endless suffering.” She paused, her lips curving with a hint of mischief. “I shall have one of my nightgowns altered and sent to your chambers–”

“You will do no such thing!” Mertha snapped, her voice as sharp as a blade. Her grip tightened on the brush, and she dragged it forcefully through Daenera’s curls, yanking with enough intensity to jerk her head back, sending a sharp, stinging pull through her scalp. 

Mertha glared at Daenera through the mirror, indignation flaring in her muddled gray eyes, her cheeks flushed with a rising, barely-contained fury. For a tense, silent moment, it seemed she might actually strike Daenera, her hand twitching as though it hovered on the brink of abandoning all restraint. Her grip on the brush had become so fierce that Daenera half-expected the wood to crack under the pressure.

Her gaze flickered briefly to the servants, who moved quietly in the background, stripping the bed and gathering the discarded linens with practiced indifference, their heads turned down to avoid witnessing the escalating tension between the two women. As her eyes returned to Daenera, they had taken on a chill, a cold, calculated disdain settling over her expression, as if she were steeling herself against further provocation.

Without warning, Daenera felt the sting of fingers pinching the sensitive flesh at the back of her arm. The jolt of pain made her flinch, pulling her arm away with a startled, “Ow!”

But Mertha didn’t relent, her grip tightened as she continued to pinch, each squeeze carrying a punishing force that would surely leave bruises. Her voice was low and tense, almost a sneer as she feigned apology, “Oh, forgive me, Princess. Your hair is simply so unruly this morning.”

Daenera twisted in her seat, turning fully to glare at the older woman, her eyes filled with annoyance. “If it’s proving too difficult for you, Lady Mertha, then hand me the brush,” she said coldly. “I’ll do it myself. You may go prepare my attire for the day.”

“Princess,” Mertha replied tersely, her tone laced with forced decorum before she turned sharply on her heel. She strode towards the small adjacent room where Daenera’s clothes were kept, disappearing from sight. 

Daenera turned back to the mirror, her gaze settling on her own reflection with a quiet, critical stare. The pale cast of her skin seemed starker in the morning light, and faint shadows clung beneath her eyes, the lingering evidence of another long, restless night. A weary heaviness seemed to press down on her shoulders, a weight that seeped into her bones.

With a sigh, she lifted the brush, gently working it through her tangled hair, feeling each knot as a reminder of her own carelessness. She mentally chided herself for not binding it up the night before; now, the unruly strands resisted, catching the brush with stubborn snarls that took patience and effort to smooth out. It was a slow, methodical process, her motions calm but deliberate, each stroke restoring some small sense of order to the chaos of her morning.

Finally, she gathered a few strands, twisting them deftly into a small braid that she pinned back, keeping the hair from falling into her face. The simple act brought a faint, fleeting sense of satisfaction.

By the time Daenera finished taming her hair, Mertha had laid out a dress over the freshly made bed. It was a gown of soft green brocade with intricate golden trim, its fabric rich and heavy, cut in the stately silhouette favored by the dowager queen herself–Daenera thought even the fabric might be the same. The sight of it made her press her lips together. 

With a quiet sigh, Daenera slipped off her robe, allowing Mertha to guide her into her small clothes. THe woman’s hands were brisk and impersonal as she helped her into a thin cotton shift and a set of undergarments. Mertha then lifted a light blue underdress over her head, arranging it neatly before draping the green gown over her shoulders, the fabric cascading down to her feet. 

As Mertha tightened the laces along the back, her fingers tugging each one with a bit more force than necessary, she muttered, “You’re getting fat.” Her tone was barely audible but laced with that familiar hint of criticism. “It’s all those sweets and cakes you indulge in.”

Daenera regarded her reflection in the floor-length mirror, her eyes narrowing slightly as she scrutinized her figure. Her hand drifted over her stomach, feeling the slight curve there; it was likely just a touch of bloating, nothing more, yet Mertha’s comment lingered. She raised her chin defiantly, her expression hardening. “Good,” she said dryly, “maybe I want to get nice and fat.”

Mertha let out a sharp, disapproving tsk, shaking her head. “No husband wants a fat wife,” she muttered, her tone dripping with the familiar disdain.

But Daenera knew better. She could recall her first husband’s preference with vivid clarity. He had favored the company of fuller women so strongly that he’d taken a mistress of ample size, indulging himself there without restraint. It had suited her just fine, she thought with a wry smile. As long as he had spent his attention–and seed–elsewhere, she had been content.

“Is that why your husband won’t touch you?” Daenera asked, a measured thoughtfulness to her tone. She tugged at the fabric of her dress, smoothing her hand down its front. “You don’t exactly have the figure of–ow!” Her words were cut short as Mertha’s fingers clamped down on the flesh of her hip, delivering a sharp pinch that stung enough to make her wince. “Would you stop that?!”

Mertha’s gaze was cool and entirely unapologetic. “I would, if you’d stop behaving like an insolent child.” She looked at Daenera with the same familiar disapproval she always wore. “My marriage bed is no concern of yours. You’d do well to avoid speaking on matters you don’t know anything about and focus your attention on more immediate concerns.”

With practiced efficiency, Mertha picked up the waist chain laying across the bed, its delicate links catching the light as she wrapped it around Daenera’s waist. Her fingers were brisk as she guided the hook through one of the chain’s loop, fastening it with a firm click. “Women often lose their figures after bearing their first or second child,” she remarked, her tone instructive. “It wouldn’t do for you to lose yours before that time even comes. Take care not to squander your husband’s affections. Perhaps you could find some inspiration in how the dowager queen has preserved her from over the years.”

Mertha stepped back, examining her work with a critical eye, each word an implicit instruction. “It is your duty as a wife, after all.”

Daenera listened to Mertha’s voice done on, her eyes drifting up to the ceiling as she half-considered using some of the berries to silence her forever. She could grab them from their hiding place–she thought, her gaze lowering to the pillow–and shove Mertha to the ground, forcing the berries past her cracked lips as the old woman squirmed and clawed, her muffled screams filling the room. She’d clamp her hand over her mouth and pinch her nose, ensuring the sweet fruit and the seed inside would slide down her throat. It would take some time, of course, before the poison would take its effect. Too much time. 

It would be simpler, she mused, to wrap her hands around Mertha’s thin neck, to feel her bones pressing under the skin as she choked the life out of her with one decisive squeeze.

But Daenera dismissed both thoughts almost as quickly as they had surfaced. Killing Mertha would only draw further scrutiny. The consequences would be dire–stripping her of any tenuous freedoms that remained to her. For now, it was better to endure the old woman’s endless lectures and petty punishments.

When Mertha finally left the room, her voice echoing through the space as she berated the servants in the common room, Daenera moved with quiet purpose. She approached the bed, lifting the hem of her dress and planning one knee on the soft mattress, leaning forward to reach beneath the pillow. Her fingers brushed against the small pouch, and she carefully pulled it from its hiding place. Straightening up, she surveyed her small pouch with the embroidered lavender on it, the scent of the flower lingering in the air. The weight was familiar, a small comfort against the uncertainty that swirled around within her. 

With it in hand, she returned to the dressing table, selecting a pair of earrings, fastening them in her ears. She pushed aside a few pieces of jewelry until her fingers found the letter she’d tucked away earlier. Carefully, she tugged the letter away, slipping it into the bodice of her dress, where it would be safe–it seemed to burn against her skin with the words it contained. 

Daenera stepped into the common room, her gaze settling on the chaos that Mertha orchestrated with her usual shrill authority. The older woman stood in the center of the room, barking orders at the servants as they struggled to follow her ever-changing directions. She instructed them to line the chests of cloth and fabric in precise rows along the floor, only to immediately decide on a new arrangement, forcing the servants to shuffle the heavy chests once more to suit her latest whim. 

“No, not there–move them closer!” Mertha’s tone was shrill and biting, her dissatisfaction apparent in every clipped instruction. Like an agitated hen pecking at her flock, she paced back and forth, eyeing each adjustment with a scowl that only deepened as the servants struggled to keep up with her indecisive commands. “No, spread them more apart!”

It was a spectacle of unnecessary fuss, Mertha flitting from chest to chest, fussing over their placement as though the kingdom itself depended on it. And the servants scrambled to follow her every direction. 

Daenera settled herself at the long, polished table as Edelin quietly arranged the morning meal before her, each dish placed with a careful hand. One by one, bowls of fresh berries appeared–blueberries, wolfberries, raspberries, blackberries, mulberries–their colors striking against the golden light of the room. Alongside them were smaller bowls filled with a selection of nuts: almonds, walnuts, pecans, even acorns, each arranged neatly on the table. 

Edelin took two the final dishes from the servant’s tray, setting them gently on the table before her: two steaming bowls of porridge, their surfaces glistening faintly in the morning light.

A faint curl of steam rose from the surface of each, carrying a warm, earthy scent that mingled with the sweetness of the berries. She reached out for the cinnamon sugar, dusting her porridge with a generous layer until the surface was veiled in a warm, spiced coating. She took a slow spoonful, savoring the sweetness as it melted with the creamy warmth of the oats. 

The final bowl arrived–a dish of freshly sliced apples, each piece cut and arranged. Not a single seed marred their smooth, pale flesh; the cooks had taken care to remove every one of them–a precaution that had been enforced since Daenera’s conversation with Helaena about the potential uses of apple seeds, as though she could somehow manage to gather enough of them to even make the poison. 

When Edelin remained by her side, unmoving, hovering at the edge of her periphery, Daenera glanced up, catching the anxious furrow on the lady-in-waiting’s brow and the way her hands twisted in quiet distress. 

“What is it?”

Edelin hesitated, her gaze darting briefly towards Mertha before she leaned in. “It’s the prince… Aemond,” she said. “There’s been an… incident–”

“I don’t wish to hear it,” Daenera said curtly, her voice clipped with dismissal as she turned her attention back to her meal. She shook her head, her fingers resting near the lavender pouch on the table–though it did little to soothe her and the agitation stirring within her. She had no interest in hearing anything about Aemond; she did not care. 

With a quiet exhale, she scooped up another bite of porridge, the spoon hovering just before her lips as unease tightened in her stomach. Perhaps she would be so fortunate to hear that he had tripped over his own arrogance and tumbled down the castle steps to his end. If he had, surely she’d already been hauled off to some tower cell before breakfast, awaiting accusations that would come all too swiftly. 

But despite her desire to keep him out of her thoughts, the uncertainty of Edelin’s words burrowed into her mind like a thorn. It nagged at her, irritating and persistent. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, and, almost despite herself, her gaze lifted again.

“What of Aemond?” She muttered irritably, her tone thick with reluctant curiosity, and shoved the spoon into her mouth. 

“There was an incident in the tiltyard this morning,” Edelin said carefully, choosing each word with caution. “The prince…seemed to be in a particularly foul mood.”

Daenera let out a soft huff, a sound that hovered between disdain and quiet amusement. A faint flicker of satisfaction stirred in her chest as she scooped another spoonful of porridge, her expression betraying a subtle smirk.

“Of course he was,” she murmured under her breath, savoring the thought of Aemond’s ill temper souring his morning. The idea of him pacing the tiltyard, frustration simmering beneath his rigid composure, pleased her in a way she couldn’t quite name. The sight would have been something to savor, a small and petty delight amidst the bitterness of her days.

She lifted the spoon to her lips, letting the warmth of the porridge fill her mouth, a thin smile playing at the corners of her mouth as she took her time, relishing the thought. 

“It involved Ser Wyllam Lefford,” Edelin continued, her voice steady as she gained confidence in her telling. “He cross paths with the prince and… made some remarks.”

Daenera’s brow lifted with mild interest as she picked up her cup of mint tea, watching the steam curl lazily from the surface. She brought it to her lips, savoring the warmth that seeped into her hands, the subtle heat prickling at her skin as she held the cup. She could only imagine the sour mood Aemond would have been in–she knew all too well that it wouldn’t take much to provoke him.

Edelin hesitated, her mouth twitching in the faintest suggestion of a smile despite her wringing hands. “Ser Wyllam found it curious, I suppose, to see the prince in the tiltyard so early after his… wedding night,” she continued, her words carefully chosen–heavy with implication. “And the word ‘kinslayer’ was mentioned…”

Daenera’s lips curled at that, a faint and involuntary smile as she imagined the scene–a knight’s careless words, the spark igniting Aemond’s temper. She sipped her tea, letting the warmth spread through her as she thought of his reaction.

“And Aemond didn't take it well,”  Edelin continued, her tone lowered yet steady, as if revealing a secret that the whole castle didn’t know by now. “He called Ser Wyllam craven, mocked his courage, and, well… they took up swords.”

Daenera inhaled deeply, letting the steam from her tea fill her senses with mint, a soothing balm against the harshness of the tale. She almost laughed, picturing Aemond’s arrogant stance, the subtle smirk that would twist his mouth as he faced Ser Wyllam. She could see the foolhardy knight settling into position, wholly unaware of his impending defeat, convinced of his own valor but blind to Aemond’s ruthless skill.

There was a certain grim amusement in imagining it–a scene as predictable as it was brutal.

“They came to blows, and the prince bested him easily,” Edelin continued, her voice dropping slightly. “But Ser Wyllam… He wouldn’t yield. He kept pushing, hurling insults–mocking the prince’s scar and…” She shifted her gaze, her eyes giving away what she couldn’t quite bring herself to say aloud–that there had been an insult involving Daenera. 

“The prince decided to leave Ser Wyllam a scar of his own,” Edelin went on. “He cut him cheek to cheek and left him bleeding in the dirt.” She paused, letting the gristly image settle between them. “He’s with the maesters now, getting tended to… though they say the scars will remain.”

Of course they would, Daenera thought. 

Daenera pursed her lips. Aemond should have killed Ser Wyllam. It would have been cleaner, easier to explain–a tragic training accident, nothing more. Leaving him alive, disfigured with scars that would forever mark him, was particularly cruel–and that would only serve to worsen his reputation. And he should know, more than anyone, that a man left with wounds of that nature would be a fertile ground for resentment and bitterness to take root. 

And yet, a shiver of something stirred in her chest–a thrill that curled around her heart and tugged at it. It was a strange, dangerous sensation, like standing mere steps from the gallows, witnessing the final moments of the condemned awaiting their fate–waiting for the stool to be kicked from beneath them, the rope snapping taut, bodies swaying in final, silent judgment. 

A flush of shame bloomed in her chest, coiling hotly beneath her ribs, the thrill she felt dissolving into something darker, more complicated. She shouldn’t find herself exhilarated by his violence, by the flash of fury she knew would have crossed his face. She shouldn’t be drawn to him in this way, shouldn’t feel that pull of fascination, that simmering, awful desire for him.

She took another sip of mint tea, hoping the warmth would drown out the bitterness that followed the flicker of excitement within her. But the taste only mingled with the lingering thrill, a reminder that whatever darkness lay within him seemed to find an answering shadow in her own heart.

Daenera swallowed her emotions, carefully smoothing her expression before turning to Edelin. “Thank you,” she said, her tone brisk, betraying none of the thoughts stirring within her. “Could you see if they’ve released Fenrick from the dungeons?”

Edelin nodded, dipping into a swift curtsy before she turned to leave. She moved deftly through the room, stepping around the chests and stacks of fabrics that seemed to shift positions with each of Mertha’s endless commands. The older woman was still fussing over the arrangements, her sharp voice cutting through the air as she directed the servants in her futile pursuit of order.

She nudged her half-eaten bowl of porridge to the side, its spoon lying idly against the rim, and drew the untouched bowl closer. The base of the ceramic scraped softly against the wood, a low, grounding sound amid the ceaseless clatter of the busy room. She cast a quick, sidelong glance at Mertha, who remained occupied with ordering the servants, her back rigid, one arm extended as she pointed sharply at a trunk, her voice carrying an edge of irritation as she directed them to unpack its contents. 

Her gaze drifted back to the small lavender pouch resting innocuously at her side. She slipped her fingers beneath the string at its opening, loosening it with a gentle tug and tilting the pouch just enough for its contents to tumble into her palm. A few sprigs of lavender spilled out along with the small, red berries nestled among the fragrant petals. Carefully, she shook off most of the lavender back into the pouch, setting it aside and focusing on the berries that remained. 

One by one, she placed them on the table before her, counting silently as she arranged them in a neat line. One, two, three, four… her fingers moved with deliberate precision, in a ritual of control, her heart pounding with her chest. Five, six, seven… her mind ticked along with the count, the rhythmic motion soothing her nerves. Eight, nine, ten. 

The berries lay in a neat line, small, dark, unassuming–each one a seed of death hidden in plain sight.

Daenera felt the weight of her actions settle around her, the heavy knowledge prickling under her skin. Her heart hammered in her chest, each beat a sharp reminder of what these berries were capable of–what they could, and would, do. Yet as dread curled at the edges of her thoughts, something else stirred within her: a quiet sense of ease, a strange calm that came with finally surrendering to the decision already made. The fear, the hesitation–it was as if they had been brushed aside by the simplicity of the act itself.

For the first time in days, Daenera felt in control, a power thrumming in her veins that quelled the chaos, if only for a moment. The choice had been made; the path lay before her. And with it came a stillness she had not known in a long, long time.

She brushed the lingering lavender petals from her palm, scattering their delicate scent into the air. She glanced up and saw Mertha inspecting lengths of brocade with a discerning eye, her fingers pinching the rich fabric as she ordered the servants to spread each one out across the table. The surface was already crowded, and soon the table would be overwhelmed by the sheer volume of material Mertha was intent on showcasing.

“Spread them out properly–no, not like that,” Mertha snapped, pointing towards the table. “The silver brocade there, the deep green beside it! I swear, you’re all as blind as bats!” She tapped her foot, watching as they struggled to arrange the brocade over the table to her liking. 

Returning her attention to her task, she began to peel the dried flesh from each berry with practiced care. The thin, shriveled skins resisted, but she separated them methodically, one by one, setting each seed aside in its own neat line. As she worked, she counted silently, each berry a steady beat in her mind. One, two, three... The gentle rhythm continued, quiet and purposeful. Four, five, six, seven… The act was methodical, almost meditative, each small movement grounding her, her heart steadying as she focused solely on the seeds. Eight, nine, ten.

Once she had stripped each berry down to its smooth, hard seed, she gathered the bits of dark, dried flesh and pushed them into a small, abandoned heap at the side of the table, out of her way.

The small, dark seeds rested in their precise row, undisturbed, as Daenera’s gaze shifted to the bowls in front of her. She reached for a small handful of blueberries and scattered them across her porridge. The dark berries stood out against the creamy oats, tiny bursts of color on the pale surface. She stirred them in slowly, watching as a few bled their juices, a faint swirl of purple spreading through the mix. Picking up a single raspberry, she popped it into her mouth, its bright sweetness blossoming on her tongue–a momentary pleasure amid her otherwise methodical work. 

With deliberate care, she added a few more berries, selecting a mix of blackberries and raspberries, letting them fall into the porridge. Her hand drifted to the bowl of walnuts beside her, each one still encased in its hard, protective shell, just as she had requested. 

She lined up the walnuts in a single row along the table, each one positioned as meticulously as the seeds before them. Next, she added a row of almonds, their smooth surfaces gleaming softly, followed by a line of pecans, their ridged shells dark and textured against the wooden table.

Once her rows were perfectly aligned, she selected a walnut from the line and placed it into the small stone bowl, setting it just so, her fingers lingering as if to ensure its exact placement. The pestle waited beside her, heavy and solid, fitting into her hand like an extension of her will. With a practiced grip, she lifted it, feeling its weight, and prepared to bring it down.

And without a moment’s hesitation, she brought the pestle down in a decisive, forceful motion. The sharp crack of the walnut's shell shattering rang out across the room, a sound so abrupt and resonant that it sliced through the steady murmur of the servants’ work. Conversations paused, hands stilled mid-task, and heads turned instinctively toward her.

Mertha whipped around, her expression darkening as her eyes fixed on Daenera, narrowing with that all-too-familiar look of reproach. “What are you doing?”

Daenera met her gaze briefly, unfazed, then brough the pestle down again with a second, satisfying crack, just to be sure. “Cracking walnuts,” she answered and set the pestle aside, reaching into the bowl to pry out the walnut’s tender center, ignoring Mertha’s pointed look. A faint bitterness spread across her tongue, earthy and sharp, but she chewed slowly, savoring it as if it were the most ordinary act in the world.

“Must you make such a–” Mertha began, her voice sharp with irritation. But her reprimand was cut short as a sudden clatter interrupted her. One of the servants had knocked over a stack of brocades, sending a cascade of richly colored fabrics spilling across the floor. Mertha’s head whipped around, her expression darkening with fury.

“Can none of you manage a simple task?” she snapped, her voice as cutting as the crack of Daenera’s pestle had been moments before. “Pick them up! They’re worth more than your entire year’s wages!”

The servants scrambled to retrieve the fallen fabric, their faces flushed with embarrassment as they hastily brushed off each piece, hands moving frantically to restore order. Their murmured apologies filled the air as they exchanged anxious glances, each hoping to escape the full brunt of Mertha’s wrath.

Mertha, however, was relentless. Her voice rose in a stream of criticism, picking apart their every movement, questioning their competence, and punctuating each remark with a disdainful sigh. Her disapproval settled heavily over the room, her fierce attention now entirely absorbed in berating them.

Taking advantage of her reprieve, Daenera allowed herself a small, fleeting smile. For once, she was invisible, shielded from Mertha’s scrutiny by the commotion. 

She placed another walnut in the mortar, bringing the pestle down with a controlled, steady force. The shell cracked with a satisfying snap, and she pried it open to reveal the softer kernel within, carefully dropping it into her porridge. At first, the sound earned her a scornful glance from Mertha, her mouth tightening as though to voice yet another reprimand, but soon Mertha’s attention drifted away entirely–just as she had intended.

Unbothered, she settled into her quiet rhythm, selecting from the rows she had so carefully arranged. She placed a walnut in the mortar, crushed it open, then reached for a pecan, then an almond, and then back to a walnut, before returning to an almond again. The order of her movements became meditative, a pattern she alone orchestrated as she cracked each shell, adding to the diminishing rows on the table.

The numbers shifted steadily under her hands–ten, seven, nine, eight. She continued, absorbed in her task as the counts dwindled further: five, four, three, six. The pile of empty shells grew beside her, while the porridge slowly filled with morsels of nuts.

Daenera tallied the nuts remaining on the table as she placed each back in its proper bowl, slowly clearing the space before her until only the small line of seeds remained. She gathered them carefully, letting them drop back into the lavender pouch with a faint rustle, and tucked it beneath her dress, slipping it into the pocket of her underdress before letting the fabric settle back into place.

Satisfied, she drew her bowl closer, the creamy porridge now flecked with nuts and berries. She stirred it thoughtfully, folding in the berries and nuts into the porridge, blending it all together. Reaching for the cinnamon sugar, she sprinkled a generous amount across the surface, letting the warm spice settle over the oats. Next came a drizzle of honey, its golden sweetness pooling between the layers, and finally, a few crisp slices of apple, their pale green skins a bright contrast against the hearty mixture. She plucked one slice for herself, savoring its fresh crunch as she let her gaze drift back to the room in time to see Edelin enter.

Daenera rose from her seat, catching Edelin’s gaze across the room. A tightness settled in her stomach, a mixture of anticipation and reluctance, as she picked up her bowl of porridge and walked purposefully toward him.

“Where are you going?” Mertha’s voice sliced through the space between them, sharp and bristling as she dismissed a servant with an impatient flick of her wrist.

“To see Fenrick off," Daenera replied, her tone cool and unyielding. “You’re welcome to stay here, if you prefer."

Mertha scoffed, her exasperation evident as she shooed away another servant, barking terse orders to hasten the final preparations. Yet, despite her clear displeasure, Mertha quickly fell in line, trailing closely behind Daenera. They each pulled a shawl over their shoulders as they left the room, its warmth a brief comfort as they stepped into the drafty corridor. The cool stone walls echoed their footsteps, and Daenera felt the weight of Mertha’s presence behind her, her reproach seeming to burn into the back of her head as they walked. 

The bowl of porridge radiated a gentle warmth, prickling against Daenera’s chilled fingers as she cradled it, its heat seeping slowly into her skin. The warmth was comforting, a small shield against the early morning air as she and Mertha moved through the shadowed corridors of Maegor’s Holdfast. Stepping out into the open, they were met by the crispness of dawn; the sky above was brightening, the earlier red hues of morning fading into a soft blue, streaked with a few wandering clouds. Despite the sunlight, a lingering chill clung to the air, sharpening every breath.

They walked in silence along the winding path toward the outer courtyard, the distant bronze gate visible ahead. Just as they neared the entrance to the courtyard, Daenera suddenly stopped, turning on her heel without a word. Her gaze drifted toward the Traitor’s Walk, and with quiet purpose, she redirected her steps toward it, the echo of her movements carrying her intentions without need for explanation.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Mertha’s voice rang out, laced with indignation, as she quickened her pace to intercept Daenera, stepping squarely into her path a quarter of the way across the walk. Her expression was a storm of disapproval, her brow knit tightly in condemnation.

“You said you were going to see your traitor friend off,” she hissed, her voice low and sharp. “You have no permission to go wandering off elsewhere, let alone to the dungeons!”

Daenera halted, fixing Mertha with a withering stare. “I am going to see Patrick first. I want to ensure he’s well–”

Mertha scoffed, a bitter smirk twisting her mouth. “If you truly cared for the boy, you would have chosen to release him instead of that brute of a Dornishman.”

“Fenrick isn’t Dornish–”

Mertha let out a derisive huff, shaking her head. “His skin tells me otherwise…”

Daenera’s expression tightened, eyes narrowing coolly. “I will see Patrick. Surely, you can understand why. He’s just a child–and now, he’s to face his imprisonment alone.” Her fingers curled slightly around the edge of the bowl she held, a quiet emphasis on the comfort she intended–and the mercy it would be. “Why else would I have brought this?”

Her gaze held unwavering on Mertha, cool and unyielding. "Try to find some compassion in that shriveled heart of yours, Lady Mertha. The gods might even commend you for it."

Mertha’s mouth tightened in a thin, disapproving line, but Daenera didn’t wait for a reply. Without a second glance, she stepped around her, striding past with determination, leaving the old hag to decide whether to trail after her or stay behind. She moved across the the Traitor’s Walk, a stone and wooden path flanked by pikes on one side, each bearing the grim remains of those deemed enemies of the realm–of her men. They stared down at her with their empty eye-sockets, the eyes long since plucked by crows and ravens. 

Mertha’s voice cut through the stillness like a blade, her sharp tone startling a flock of crows into flight from the battlements above. “Do you think you can just march wherever you please, Princess?” she sneered, her words dripping with contempt. “You’re not above the laws of this realm, nor beyond the reach of consequences. Traitors and criminals rot in these dungeons for a reason. Do you truly believe you can waltz in here without repercussions? That the rules don’t apply to you?”

Daenera continued forward, her posture rigid, each step purposeful as she ignored the voices behind her. She refused to look back, her gaze instead drifting upward to the looming half-round tower that housed the dungeons. The structure rose above her, its dark stone walls thick and unyielding, casting a long, oppressive shadow that stretched across the courtyard in the pale morning light.

The tower housed both the chambers of the King’s Justice and the quarters of the Chief Gaoler, as well as the barracks of the prison guards. Once, these walls had also been home to the Lord Confessor, though Larys had abandoned his residence here long ago, seemingly favoring his quarters within the Keep. The Keep and the tower remained bound by a narrow, guarded underground passage, secured by a locked iron gate and patrolled night and day.

 “Don’t you dare ignore me!” Mertha’s voice rang out, sharp and biting, echoing off the stone walls as she quickened her pace to keep up with Daenera. “I’ll see to it that you’re reprimanded for this behavior–strutting about as though you were queen herself,” she barked, her tone thick with reproach. “Mark my words, Princess, this reckless defiance will come back to haunt you, I will make sure of it. You’ll regret this, just as surely as those prisoners regret their crimes!”

As Daenera stepped through the dungeon entrance, the guards stationed there sprang to attention, rising from their posts as she approached. The heavy gate groaned in protest, its wrought iron frame scarred by rust, patches of orange corrosion bleeding into the dark metal.

“I’m here to see the boy,” she declared, her tone firm, expectant. Behind her, Mertha and Edelin kept close, shadows at her heels–watchful ones.

“She is not!” Mertha’s voice cut through the tension, sharp and unyielding, as her hand shot out, fingers digging into the soft flesh of Daenera’s arm. Her nails bit in with punishing force, a silent rebuke conveyed through pain. “She has not been granted permission to enter the dungeons,” Mertha announced to the guards, her gaze narrowing as they exchanged wary glances. Turning back to Daenera, Mertha’s voice dropped to a harsh hiss, her words laced with disdain. “And no proper authority has approved this little act of compassion of yours!”

The guards looked between the two women, uncertain, their eyes flicking to Daenera for direction even as Mertha’s grip tightened, her fingers pressing bruises into her arm, as if to hold her in place by force alone.

Daenera steadied her breath, her face a mask of calm even as she resisted the urge to shove Mertha’s head into the stone wall beside them, imagining the sickening sound it would make upon impact. Instead, her voice slid smoothly, carrying the conviction of her lie. “I’ve been granted permission,” she said, her tone unwavering as she addressed the guards.

She gave each one a measured look, her gaze piercing. “My husband himself has allowed me to see the boy,” she continued, her words carefully chosen, layered with just enough subtlety to sound believable. “He knows I worry for the child, as he is my charge and he promised that I’d be allowed to see him.” She held the guard's gaze, letting her words hang in the air before glancing at Mertha, whose grip tightened painfully, sharp fingers pressing deeper into her skin.

Daenera did’'t flinch; instead, she leaned slightly into Mertha’s hold, as though inviting her silent defiance. “You may well have heard that the prince’s temper is already.” she added, her voice dropping to a lower, more dangerous tone, “less than forgiving this morning. Do you think he would take kindly to learning that his own wife was refused entry into the dungeons on his authority?” She watched the flicker of uncertainty cross the guards’ faces, relishing it.

She let silence settle between them, thick and simmering, hoping that her carefully crafted deception–and the implied threat of her husband’s wrath–would compel them to yield.

Daenera allowed herself a small, chilling smile as she fixed her gaze on the guards, her voice laced with quiet menace. “If you choose to stand my way and hold me back at her urging”–she inclined her head subtly toward Mertha, letting her disdain show through her expression–“then perhaps we’ll all share in the prince’s displeasure today.”

The guards exchanged uneasy glances, the tension between duty and fear plain on their faces. They shifted, their frowns deepening as the weight of her words sank in. The morning’s clash at the tiltyard had left a distinct impression on everyone; the prince’s wrath had been swift and merciless, and the memory of it still lingered.

Mertha’s lips tightened, but she reluctantly released her grip, her fingers sliding off Daenera’s arm with visible reluctance. Yet before she fully let go, she leaned in close, her voice a barely audible hiss. “The dowager queen will hear of this,” she whispered, her tone brimming with barely-contained spite.

Daenera raised an eyebrow, meeting Mertha'’ gaze without flinching. “Then be sure she hears every word,” she replied, her voice as smooth as silk yet cold as winter frost.

One of the guards detached a torch from the wall, its flame sputtering in the damp air, leaving a dark, sooty impression on the stone where it had been held. The imprint lingered like a shadow etched into the rock. The guard turned and motioned for them to follow, leading them past the iron gate and through a warped wooden door, its gray planks splintered and rough to the touch.As the door creaked shut behind them, they descended deeper into the bowels of the dungeons.

Daenera turned, passing the bowl of porridge to Edelin, who took it with careful hands. The lingering warmth from the bowl clung to Daenera’s palms, a fleeting comfort in the cold, damp air of the dungeons. Free now, her hands felt strangely empty, but she flexed her fingers, preparing to offer comfort to Patrick in whatever way she could. 

The air was heavy, a thick, choking mix of stale odors–piss, excrement, the unmistakable tang of decay. Rats scurried along the walls, quick and furtive, fleeing the torchlight that threw twitching shadows across the damp, moss-laden stones. Daenera’s eyes narrowed, steeling herself against the filth and darkness, her mind focused only on the purpose that had brought her into this squalor.

Thin slivers of daylight pierced the shadows, filtering through the narrow winds set high in each cell. As Daenera and her small company  moved through the dim corridor, faces emerged from behind iron bars–men whose eyes tracked their every step, glinting with a mix of malice and hunger. Some prisoners stretched their arms through the gaps, fingers clawing at the air and brushing the hem of her skirts, their nails chipped and grime-streaked. 

Jeers and hisses echoed off the stone walls, mingling with crude laughter that curled with bitterness, filling the stale air. Yet beneath their taunts, softer voices rose, murmurs of desperation–please and fragmented prayers, slipping past cracked lips. Daenera moved steadily through the clamor, her expression a mask of resolve, her gaze fixed ahead, as if the pleas and taunts were no more than whispers of the wind–because they were no more than that. She could do nothing for them, nor was she sure she would. 

Behind her, Mertha grumbled under her breath, swatting away reaching hands, seemingly unafraid, while Edelin squeaked, clutching the bowl tighter and quickening her step to walk right behind Daenera. 

At last, they stopped before a small, dingy cell. Inside, a boy sat on a narrow cot, his thin shoulders cloaked in a ragged blanket. Grime and streaks of tears marred his face, his eyes puffy and red. At the sound of the guard halting, he looked up, eyes widening with recognition and hope. 

As the guard slid the torch into a holder beside the cell, casting a warm, flickering light, the boy sprang to his feet. He stumbled towards the door, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste, his small hands reaching through the bars to grasp at Daenera’s skirts. His cheeks were damp, fresh tears spilling down as his voice broke with emotion.

“M-my lady-princess!” He choked out, his voice tight with despair. “They took Fenrick–they said he was going to be released, but they took him like they did the others!” His grip tightened, as if Daenera alone could shield him from whatever fate lay ahead. “They…they took him!” The boy sobbed, his small hands gripping her skirts as if he could somehow pull her through the iron bars to be closer to him. “Now I’m all alone! I’m scared–Fenrick told me not to be, said you’d find a way. But I’m scared…” His misty eyes looked up at her in desperation and fear. “Did they kill him like they did the others?”

“Fenrick is fine,” Daenera replied softly, stepping forward until she was able to reach through the bars, her hand brushing gently over his matted hair, her fingers moving with a mother’s tenderness. “He’s fine.”

Patrick pressed his face against the cold bars, straining as though he might somehow push his way through to her. His fingers continued to clutch at her skirts, a frantic grip only a frightened child could muster. 

“But they took him, like the others!” He cried, his voice raw. “I heard them–I know what they did!”

Daenera’s heart twisted painfully at the thought of this boy, trapped here, forced to listen as his friends were led away one by one to meet their ends at the gallows. She imagined him curled in some dark corner, helpless as the echoes of death reverberated through the stone walls, knowing that they would soon come for him too. And how terrified he must have been when they came for Fenrick. 

“Fenrick is alive and safe, Patrick,” She murmured, her voice steady though her throat tightened with emotion. “He’s safe, I swear it. They’ve released him.” 

When the boy finally lifted his head, Daenera saw his red, swollen eyes, the evidence of sleepless nights and relentless tears–his cheeks were streaked with pale lines, revealing the boy beneath the grime. His nose was chafed and puffy, a thin line of snot trailing down to his cracked, parched lips. The sight stirred something deep and painful within her–a gnawing shame that she couldn’t bear to ignore, a sharp urge to gather him into her arms, to soothe the sorrow and fear etched across his face.

She swallowed, blinking back her own emotion as she turned toward the guard, her gaze expectant. She waited in silence, willing him to open the door that separated her from the boy. The guard hesitated, his hand moving to the ring of keys at his belt, the metallic jingle loud in the heavy silence.

But before he could act, Mertha’s cold voice cut through the moment. “Do not open that door,” she commanded, each word edged with authority. “The princess has received no permission to do so. Once you open it, I doubt the boy will willingly return to his cell.” Her gaze held firm, betraying no trace of sympathy as she surveyed the scene.

Daenera leveled a sharp, icy glare at Mertha before shifting her gaze to the guard, her expression hardening with a quiet, commanding authority that seemed to fill the space between them. She let a heavy silence hang for a moment, studying the guard with a cold, unwavering stare. Then, in a voice as sharp as a blade, she said, “Open the door.”

The guard hesitated, his eyes flickering uncertainty. Sensing his hesitation, Daenera’s voice dropped, her tone laced with a quiet, dangerous edge. “Unless, of course,” she added with a faintly raised brow, “you’d prefer that I inform my husband of your… inability to handle something as simple as a child.”

Her words hung in the air like a challenge, and a flicker of defiance crossed the guard's face before it quickly faded. Daenera didn’t need to raise her voice; she knew the weight of Aemond’s reputation–and the consequences he might face if he refused his wife. 

The guard fumbled with the ring of keys at his belt, each metallic clink echoing through the cold corridor. At last, he found the right key, turning it in the lock with a heavy click. The cell door creaked open, its rusty hinges groaning like a wounded aminal. Daenera suppressed a shiver as the sound clawed at her spine, a chill settling over her skin. She barely acknowledged the guard as she stepped forward, gently pulling free from Patrick’s fearful grip. 

The moment she crossed the threshold, the boy wrapped his arms tightly around her waist. He buried his face against her, his grip desperate, as if fearing she might turn to smoke at any moment. 

“Please–please, don’t leave me here,” he choked out, his voice frayed with grief and fear. “I want to go home. I want to go home to my mommy!” His words poured out, his shoulders trembling, each stance laced with despair. “I don’t want to stay here. I don’t want to be alone. I don’t want to die. I want to go home. When will they let me go home?”

Daenera closed her eyes, his raw, pleading voice piercing her heart, each word needling into her chest until it felt almost unbearable. A prickle of tears stung at the corners of her eyes, and her throat tightened as she fought for composure. The boy’s desperation stirred something deep within her, a flicker of fierce protectiveness mingling with guilt and helplessness. Her mouth was dry, her tongue heavy against the roof of her mouth, as she struggled to find the words that might soothe his fear, though she knew any comfort she could offer would feel hollow in the face of his terror.

“You’ll be home soon,” Daenera managed, her voice steady but strained, the words both a promise and a lie. “It’s just taken a little longer than we expected to arrange everything, but tomorrow… you’ll be on your way.”

The words cut against her throat, each syllable as jagged as broken glass, but she forced them out, offering him the fragile gift of false hope. Yet, in her heart, she knew it was less a lie and more a bitter truth disguised, a desperate attempt to give him some semblance of comfort amidst the horrors surrounding him.

From outside the cell, Mertha gave a loud, disdainful huff, her disapproval practically radiating through the bars. Daenera could feel Mertha’s judgmental gaze boring into her back, laden with scorn and unspoken reproach. But she dismissed it, casting aside Mertha’s disapproval like a distant, irrelevant noise. She had more important matters here.

“Really?” His small voice quivered, and he looked up at her, his eyes wide with a hope so fiercely it nearly undid her. The tears clung to his eyelashes, shimmering in the dim light, and he blinked, as if trying to blinked away his doubts. “I’m really going home?”

She nodded, a soft, comforting smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. “Yes,” she murmured, brushing a tear from his cheek with a tenderness she hadn’t thought herself capable of in this moment–a tenderness that pained her. “Yes, you are.”

For a moment, a calm washed over his face, and he clung to her a little less tightly, the weight of his fears lifted, if only a little. She felt her heart constrict, knowing this calm would not last–not for her at least. But for now, she held him close, letting him bask in the warmth of her presence, and hoping that, for tonight at least, he could sleep with something other than dread in his heart. 

She knelt down to meet Patrick’s gaze, gently brushing a stray lock of hair from his face as he sniffed and wiped his nose with his sleeve, inadvertently smearing his tear-streaked cheeks. Her hands, soft yet steady, rested on his small shoulders, moving in slow, comforting circles along his arms as she looked at him. 

“You’ve been such a brave boy,” she said, her voice thick with emotion, though she held her composure firmly in place. She offered him a gentle, reassuring smile. “Your parents would be so proud of you, just as I am. You’ve already done so well. Just one more night, can you be brave for me, just a little while longer?”

The boy nodded, his face lighting up with a small, fragile spark of courage. Daenera’s heart ached at the sight, but she kept her smile in place, giving his shoulders a gentle squeeze. 

She looked over her shoulder, signaling to Edelin with a subtle nod. The young girl stepped forward, her footsteps echoing faintly in the quiet, and paused at the cell’s threshold. She extended a bowl of porridge, steam rising in soft tendrils from its surface, filling the cool air with a warm, earthy sweetness. Daenera took it carefully, feeling its gentle warmth seep into her hands before turning back to Patrick, whose eyes had widened, following the bowl with an almost reverent gaze. 

“You’ll need all your strength for the journey home,” she murmured, gently passing the bowl into his small, eager hands. “I added berries and nuts for you,” she continued with a gentle smile,  “and a little honey and cinnamon sugar too. Eat it all up, and as you drift to sleep, think of home.”

Patrick’s gaze lifted to meet hers, wide-eyed and glistening with newfound hope. He nodded slowly, then suddenly threw his arms around her, clutching her tightly, his small hands pressing into her back as though she were the anchor keeping him steady. She closed her eyes, letting herself lean into the embrace for a moment, drawing a deep, steadying breath as she forced down the wave of emotion that threatened to spill over. 

“Thank you, lady-princess,” he murmured softly in her ear before releasing his grip, stepping back to allow her to rise to her full height once more. She watched as he retreated to the small, worn cot in the corner, clutching the bowl of porridge with a fierce grip as though fearing it would be taken from him. Settling himself down, he wasted no time, his eyes fixed intently on the food as he filled the spoon and brought it eagerly to his lips. Each bite seemed to bring a flicker of life back to his weary frame, and he ate with a hunger that spoke to more than just an empty stomach–it was a hunger for comfort, for normalcy, for home.

She lingered for a moment, watching him, the dim light casting a faint glow across his face as he ate. She felt a deep ache in her chest but swallowed it down, letting the quiet satisfaction of this small solace settle over her.

Daenera stepped out of the cell, the heavy door groaning shut behind her. She heard the metallic snap of the lock and the faint jingle of keys as they turned, a sharp reminder of the walls that separated her from the boy and everything else behind these cold, unfeeling bars. She held herself tall, her posture rigid, but her hands betrayed her–pressed tightly together, her nails digging sharply into her skin, the bite of pain grounding her in the weight of her choice. 

As she began to walk down the dim corridor, Patrick waved a small hand, his hopeful smile a faint glow in the shadows, lingering in her mind even as she forced herself to turn away. She moved deeper into the hall, where other prisoners awaited, their faces remaining half-hidden in the shadows. Hands reached out for her again, grasping desperately as she passed, fingers clawing through the gloom as if trying to drag her into their misery–into their cells as though she belonged there with them, as though wishing to drag her down into the pits of the seven hells with them. Their murmurs rose, hollow voices laced with bitterness and despair, following her down the hall like a ghostly chorus, urging her towards the edge of something darker and deeper. 

A rough hand shot out from the shadows, snagging the edge of her skirts and pulling her to a sudden halt. She looked down, her gaze hardening as her eyes fell upon the grim face pressed against the rusted iron bars. The man’s face was marred by a gruesome wound–half of his nose missing, as though savagely bitten off, the raw, jagged flesh a startling pink in the flickering torchlight. The shadows seemed to carve his features deeper, accentuating every harsh line and hollow, making his plea all the more desperate.

“Please, Princess,” he rasped, his voice hoarse and trembling. “‘M begging yer… I did nothing wrong! ‘M innocent! I’ll do anything–anything, just have mercy!”

The man’s eyes gleamed with a desperate hope, his words tumbling over one another, as if pouring out his last chance for salvation. The air was thick with the damp stench of the dungeons, his hand trembling as he clung to her skirts. 

“Get back, you beast,” the guard growled, kicking the prisoner’s hand away from her dress with rough force. The man’s grip broke, his fingers slipping from the fabric as he cringed back into the shadows. 

Daenera didn’t spare him a glance, her attention drawn instead to a distant, rhythmic sound–a cane tapping against stone, each tap reverberating down the hall like an ominous heartbeat. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled in response, instinctively bracing her for the arrival of the figure that sound heralded.

“Princess, I didn’t expect to find you here,” came the smooth, silken voice of the Lord Confessor, his words gliding through the dimness as he emerged from the shadows. He moved through thin slivers of pale light streaming from the narrow, high-set windows in each cell, stepping into the torch’s glow. The guard held the torch higher, illuminating the Confessor’s face, his eyes gleaming with a predatory sharpness. They were small, dark, and glittering with a false warmth, like the beady gaze of a rat–or perhaps something far more dangerous.

“Your man has already been released…” he continued, his gaze fixed on Daenera with an unsettling intensity, his lips curling in a hint of a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“I know,” Daenera replied, her voice cool and measured, her gaze unwavering as it held his. “I came to see the boy.”

“Ah,” Larys murmured, a low, unsettling sound as he tilted his head, his expression twisting into something darker than mere curiosity. “The boy is well looked after, I assure you,” he said, a hint of mockery threading through his words. “Though it’s unfortunate he must remain here…” His eyes drifted to the nearby cells, where shadowed figures leaned closer, observing with avid interest. Behind the iron bars, they shifted and muttered, faces barely visible but filled with malice or desperation, each of them carrying the burden of some crime that had placed them in this cold oubliette of despair. “It’s no place for a boy, really.”

“On that much, we agree,” Daenera replied, her tone icy, her gaze hardening as it flicked from Larys to the dim corridor around them. The smell of damp and rot hung heavy in the air, and though her voice was steady, her fingers tensed at her sides. She could feel Larys’s unblinking gaze lingering on her, assessing, as though amused by her defiance.

“To think–a mere boy deemed such a profound threat to the crown that he warrents confinement among rapers and thieves,” she said, each word a measured accusation. “One would imagine his innocence might grant him some small mercy… or is that privilege reserved only for those who serve the crown’s interests?”

“The crown can scarcely afford to be merciful to those who threaten to disrupt the peace of the realm,” Larys spoke, his voice a measured murmur, heavy with the weight of conviction. “Innocence,” he continued, “is often the first sacrifice in times like these. Yet, the realm’s safety must always come first, must it not?”

He advanced a step, his cane striking the floor with a deliberate tap, the sound sharp in the silence. His eyes, calculating and unreadable, rested on Daenera as though assessing her reaction. “It is a shame, isn’t it,” he mused, “that the boy remains here, trapped, while others walk free–and by no fault of his own. But then,” he continued, his voice a touch lower, “such choices are never so simple, are they?”

Daenera swallowed hard, forcing herself to keep her gaze fixed ahead, resisting the urge to glare at Larys–tears burned at the back of her eyes, threatening to press towards the surface. His words clawed at her conscience, twisting in her mind, a bitter taste at the back of her throat that nearly choked her. She gathered her composure, drawing herself up before replying stiffly, "Lord Confessor," her voice just steady enough to betray nothing of the turmoil within.

Without another look, she moved past him, each step a conscious act of will as her heart weighed heavily in her chest. She made her way through the cold, damp corridors of the dungeons, the air thick and stagnant, pressing down on her like the stone walls around her. Her footsteps rang against the stone floor, the echo rising, accompanied by the hurried shuffle of her escort. The guard hastened ahead, holding a torch high to cast light upon the narrow path. Shadows stretched long and dark in their wake, swallowing each step as she walked towards the stairs, her mind wrestling with each word Larys had left behind.

As they ascended the stone steps, Mertha’s voice sliced through the silence behind her, sharp and reproachful, echoing with a tone as grating as the rusty hinges on the prison gate. “What possessed you to let the boy think he’d ever be going home again?” 

The narrow, winding staircase seemed to strengthen Mertha’s shrillness, every step dragging the reprimand deeper, yet Daenera remained firm, her face set in stone as she climbed further away from the boy’s cell. “It was a kindness.”

Her words lingered in the air as they passed through the prison’s iron gate and stepped into the pale, crisp light of morning. A lingering chill clung to her skin, as if the cold of the prison had seeped into her very bones. She took a deep breath of the city’s air, trying to rid herself of the clinging stench of damp stone and despair. 

Mertha scoffed, shaking her head as she cast a disdainful look at Daenera. “A kindness?” She sneered. “You mistake cruelty for kindness. I’ve always known you to be wicked, but I never thought you could be this cruel–and to the boy no less.”

“And what do you know of kindness, Lady Mertha?” Daenera’s voice cut through the stillness of the Traitor’s Walk, sharp and unyielding as steel. She stopped, turning halfway to face Mertha, her gaze as cold and unforgiving as winter’s first frost. “You speak of kindness, yet I see none in you. It’s you who mistakes kindness for cruelty.”

Mertha’s eyes narrowed, her chin lifting with a righteousness that seemed to fuel her every word. “I am not the one filling the boy’s head with false promises,” she retorted, her voice laced with scorn. “nor am I the one who put him in this place. That was your choice, Princess. Do not forget that. He’s in that cell because of you, and because of you alone. Offering him a hope you cannot fulfill–that is a cruelty beyond measure. What will he do, come morning, when no one arrives to take him home?”

Daenera’s hands clenched, her nails biting into her palms as she fought the urge to reach, the sting of Mertha’s words landing like a fresh blow on an open wound. She held Mertha’s gaze with steely resolve, her expression set in a mask of ice. She knew the truth of what awaited him, the inevitability of dawn’s cold clarity–knew what awaited him before then. 

Mertha shook her head slowly, her voice laced with contempt and an air of self righteousness. “You belong in a cell beside him–that’s where you should be, witch.”

Daenera’s gaze narrowed as she stepped forward, measured and composed, her gaze set on the older woman’s hardened, scornful face. A sense of smug satisfaction bloomed in her chest, and a slight, almost imperceptible smile tugged at her lips as she stepped closer to Mertha. Her voice dropped, taking on a silky, condescending tone, each word a carefully placed barb meant to cut and remind Mertha of her place. 

“Take care with your words, Lady Mertha,” Daenera said, her voice laced with a quiet menace. “It would do you well to remember where you stand.” She stepped closer, her presence looming as Mertha instinctively glanced at the sheer drop from the edge of the walkway. “And where I stand.”

Mertha stiffened, drawing in a sharp breath, her chin lifting in defiance. Yet Daenera didn’t miss the brief flicker of uncertainty in her eyes, a crack in her otherwise steely façade. Her eyes darted around the walkway, searching the area for anyone who might have overheard her slip up–there was only Edelin, whose eyes remained on the ground.

Daenera continued, her tone as smooth as silk but as sharp as a blade. “And what would you do if you found your head mounted alongside my men’s?”

She inclined her head subtly towards the pikes lining the wall above the Traitor’s Walk, their gruesome display of decaying flesh turned to feasts for the maggots, the crows having long since stopped picking at them. The words hung heavily in the air, an unmistakable threat wrapped in the guise of polite conversation.

Mertha’s gaze flickered uneasily towards the pikes, each one topped with a decaying head–the same head’s she had shown her not long ago. Daenera didn’t follow her glance; she kept her eyes on Mertha, unwavering, cold. She didn’t need to look–those faces had visited her more times in the night that she cared to count, mounted on pikes, dangling lifelessly at the end of ropes, and she knew more would soon join them. 

Her face paled, her jaw clenching as she tried to mask the unease creeping over her. A flash of indignation sparked in her eyes, and she opened her mouth as if to respond, but Daenera was already turning on her heel, her strides deliberate and unhurried as she walked away, leaving Mertha to stay or follow.

Daenera made her way towards the outer courtyard, her steps steady and deliberate, each footfall crunching against the gravel path.The walls of the Red Keep rose around her, their sheer height and rough stone seeming to lean inward, casting her in a darker shade of morning. Her gaze flickered over the familiar walls–what had once been home. The morning chill lingered in the air, each breath visible as a faint puff of vapor before it faded away, much like her childhood illusions of safety within these walls. She drew her shawl closer around her shoulders as a cool breeze swept through, making the fabric billow slightly and tugging at her dark hair.

As she approached the outer courtyard, the expanse of it opened up before her, flanked by tall, imposing gates of burnished bronze that gleamed faintly in the early light. Beyond them, she could see the city’s rooftops beginning to stir with life, and a faint murmur of distant voices reached her ears. 

The outer courtyard buzzed with activity, a hive of movement and sound that echoed off the high stone walls. Clusters of guards gathered in loose formations, murmuring among themselves as they awaited the call to their posts, their armor clinking with each shift and turn. Along the walls, weary men stood watch, their gazes fixed on the horizon as they awaited the arrival of their replacements, their faces drawn with the fatigue of a long night’s duty.

Servants bustled about, arms laden with remnants from the recent wedding celebration. Baskets brimming with leftover bread, cakes, and cuts of meat were piled onto carts, ready to be sent through the gates toward the orphanages of Flea Bottom. The scent of roasted meat and fresh bread lingered faintly in the cool morning air, mingling with the earthier aromas of the courtyard.

Around them, remnants of wedding finery were being stripped away. Servants flitted back and forth, carefully removing ribbons and banners, collecting delicate glass lanterns and flowers to return them to storage. Ladders scraped against stone as they climbed up to retrieve garlands, replacing them with banners. 

Other servants tended to the daily grind, heads bent over their tasks at makeshift worktables near the kitchens. A group of women plucked feathers from chickens, their fingers quick and efficient, while nearby, others peeled piles of potatoes, their hands moving with the ease of practiced repetition. Their low conversations and laughter blended with the courtyard’s hum of activity. 

And there, in the center of the courtyard, Aemond stood, his hands clasped behind his back, exuding a quiet, formidable presence. Daenera’s steps faltered as her gaze settled on him, her heart growing heavy in her chest. She lingered, watching him from a distance, unnoticed. His hair, pale as spun moonlight, cascaded over his shoulders, catching the morning light with an ethereal glow that seemed almost unreal against the starkness of his form.

She studied the sharp curve of his profile, relieved that he hadn’t seen her yet–that she remained in the sanctuary of his blind side. He was clad in a deep green leather cloak, rich and dark, draped over his broad frame with an understated elegance. His sword hung at his hip, its polished hilt gleaming, the weapon itself imposing, too large almost. She couldn’t stop the fleeting thought of blood–whether traces still clung to the blade from that morning. A faint shudder traced down her spine at the thought, but she shook it off, forcing herself to step forward.

Daenera circled around him slowly, coming to stand quietly at his good side. She turned her gaze towards Fenrick, who was stationed beside the horse that had been afforded to him, hands steady as he checked the leather straps of his saddle.

“Will you let me say my farewells?” she asked, her voice barely above a murmur, the words lingering in the air between them. The question was met with silence, a tense weight settling in her chest as she waited. She glanced sideways at Aemond, his gaze fixed forward, but a subtle shift in his expression–an almost imperceptible flicker–told her he had heard. He was just as aware of her as she was of him.

Swallowing against the tightness in her throat, Daenera looked away, the quiet ache in her stomach twisting as she attempted to steady herself. She busied her hands, reaching to adjust the shawl draped over her shoulders, her fingers tracing along the edge of her neckline. Her fingers slipped behind the fabric, brushing over the hidden letter she’d carefully tucked away. She folded it tightly into her palm, feeling the weight of the words written there, and with a final breath, she moved toward Fenrick.

Each step felt heavy as she walked away from Aemond, yet she was acutely aware of his gaze trailing after her. It was more than a simple glance–his attention felt like a tangible force, a heat that prickled against her skin, coaxing gooseflesh to rise along her arms and sending a shiver down her spine. His gaze felt all-consuming, as though it burned into her very soul, a silent claim that lingered even as the distance between them grew.

Fenrick looked up as Daenera approached, his posture shifting as he stepped away from the horse, seeming to sense the urgency in her stride. Her pace quickened, her heartbeat drumming in her chest, and without hesitation, she closed the gap between them, unfolding her arms to embrace him tightly. He wrapped his arms around her in return, pulling her close. She felt the tickle of his hair brushing her nose, the rough texture of his cloak pressing against her chin as she held onto him the same way Patrick had held onto her. 

There was so much she wanted to say to him–words that pressed against her heart, each one aching to be released. She longed to ask for his understanding, to explain all her choices that had led them to this moment, the choices she’d made to secure his freedom–the sacrifices she’d made. She wished she could seek his forgiveness, to confess her sins to him. 

But she knew their time was short, and her voice dropped to a low murmur as she leaned in closer, speaking quickly into his ear. “Finan will have secured you a way out of the city,” she whispered, her tone steady but urgent. “I don’t know the details.”

Fenrick’s head dipped in a slight nod.

“Take this letter to my mother,” she continued, the weight of the request heavy between them. “You’re the only one I trust with this.”

He tightened his grip, his response equally low and solemn. “I won’t fail you,” he promised, his tone laced with resolve. After a beat, he added, his voice rough with concern, “Are you safe? Has he hurt you?”

Daenera shook her head gently, pulling back from his embrace, though she kept hold of his hands, folding the letter into his palm. “I’m safe,” she assured him softly, her voice steady. “He hasn’t hurt me.”

Fenrick’s dark eyes shifted past her shoulders, and she didn’t need to turn to know his gaze was fixed on Aemond. There was a darkness there, something raw and vengeful–a depth of loathing she hadn’t seen in him before. After a long moment, he tore his gaze from Aemond and looked back at her, his expression softening as he met her eyes. His hands tightened around hers, the letter hidden securely within his roughened grasp. 

She took in his face, noting how much older he looked now. Deep shadows carved beneath his eyes, and fine lines etched their way across the corners, the marks of sleepless nights. His skin seemed paler, and the faint streaks of gray threaded through his beard and temples had grown more pronounced. The beard was longer now, left untrimmed, something he would never have tolerated under different circumstances.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he murmured, his voice low and weighed with genuine sympathy. 

Daenera’s throat tightened as she swallowed back her grief, the familiar ache pressing hard against her ribs. She gave a small shake of her head, managing to murmur, “And I yours.”

“Joyce…” Fenrick’s voice broke as he spoke her name, the single word laden with grief.

“She’s been buried,” Daenera replied softly, though she knew it was a hollow comfort, a mere consolation. Yet at least she had that to offer him–she thought of her brothers, whose bodies had been lost, their resting places unknown. How much harder it was to grieve when there was no grave to mark the end, no place to lay flowers, no finality. 

Fenrick’s gaze turned sharp and cold. “Who did this?”

“The Lord Commander,” Daenera answered, pausing as she remembered the change that had occurred while Fenrick was imprisoned. When last he’d been free, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard had been Ser Harrold Westerling. “Ser Criston Cole,” she clarified.

Fenrick’s jaw clenched, and he gave a curt nod, his gaze hardening with a quiet, unyielding resolve.

“The others…” Daenera’s voice wavered, and she shook her head, unable to finish, the words too bitter to bring to her lips. She didn’t need to tell him–he would understand, but the horror of it clawed at her all the same. Their bodies had been desecrated, hung as grotesque warnings for all to see, a spectacle meant to spread fear. And even that wasn’t enough; after decay had begun its grim work, their heads had been removed, stripped of any last dignity, and mounted high above the Traitor’s Walk–a final, callous display.

“That’s enough,” Aemond’s voice cut through the air, sharp and unyielding, slicing between them with the finality of an executioner’s blade. Daenera turned her head, meeting his gaze, his expression as immovable as stone–cold, unfeeling, with no trace of sympathy or understanding. His eye were hard, steely, a silent command for her to end this exchange.

She cast her gaze back to Fenrick, who shot a defiant glare in Aemond’s direction before loosening his grip on her hand, allowing her to step back. His movements were subtle but practiced, slipping the letter into his pocket as he pretended to adjust his belt. He then reached for the saddle, gripping it firmly as he lifted his foot into the stirrup.

Daenera took a few steps back, watching as he mounted the horse and guided it around to face the gates. Their eyes met one last time, an unspoken farewell passing between them. Fenrick gave her a single, resolute nod, a promise held within that brief gesture, before turning his gaze forward. With a firm press of his heels, he urged the horse onward, moving through the gates and into the city.

In that moment, she felt as though she had been pulled back to her childhood, to the day when she’d watched Ser Harwin ride away, carrying with him a promise he would never fulfill–a promise that had turned to ashes in the wake of a fire. 

Now, watching Fenrick disappear beyond the gates, the same hollow feeling clawed at her.

She turned from the sight, steadying herself as she walked towards Aemond. She stopped beside him, close but with a deliberate distance between them, each facing in opposite directions as though they were two sides of the same coin. 

“Give him a head start before you send men after him,” she said quietly, though her heart pounded, the words laced with a plea she barely concealed. 

Aemond’s voice came soft, with a chilling edge, like the delicate glide of a blade just before it breaks the skin–it held a strange sort of tenderness, almost amused at the accusation. “I’m not sending men after him.” 

The words send a shiver down her spine, slipping beneath her defenses with the ease of a loving blade. It settled somewhere deep within the ruins of her heart, awakening something unexpected–a faint, unsteady flutter that stirred low and deep in her stomach, unsettling and inescapable.

She frowned, her gaze drawn to him despite herself, lingering on his face as she studied him with quiet intensity. Her eyes traced the controlled, unyielding lines of his expression, the cool, impenetrable mask he wore, each edge calculated, each glance guarded. Yet, as she took in his demeanor, an unfamiliar feeling stirred within her chest–a strange, fragile, and unsettling sliver of hope, dreadful in its vulnerability, daring to take root where she did not want it.

“If not your men,” she murmured, her voice edged with caution, “then others.”

“I’ve told them not to send anyone…” Aemond’s gaze shifted from where Fenrick had disappeared to meet hers fully, his stare intense and unyielding. He watched her with something that made her heart betray her–a glint of hunger and danger, possessiveness tempered by a dark softness, as if she were something precious and perilous all at once. 

“Yours is not the only message he carries,” he added, his voice a gentle murmur. He held her gaze.

Daenera tore her gaze away, feeling as though his eye had stripped away her skin, reaching into the very marrow of her being. It should have shocked her, the way he seemed to know–how he had seen through her pretense, how he’d known she would do something like this. But instead, it struck her as something far more intimate, a silent invasion that didn’t rattle her so much as fill her with a sense of vulnerability–of being known in a way she hadn’t permitted. She didn’t want him to see her like this, she didn’t want him to see her–to know her. 

And yet, in the ruins of her heart, that resistance seemed to ring hollow, fading into an ache she couldn’t quite dismiss. Somewhere, in those ruins, something primal and dark stirred within her, growled with a rumble that sounded an awful lot like laughter. 

“I suppose we’ll see who's message they’ll believe,” she murmured, her voice steady, though she could feel the tremor of something far less certain simmering beneath.

And here we go, the final, full chapter of Season 1 of the story!

This was literally ALWAYS going to be the final chapter of Season 1 of the story. It seemed fitting, some plot lines come to an end and other's have been begun. The Season started with her coming to King's Landing with all her servants, and it ends with her alone. We've begun her 'Cunt era/ruthless era' that we'll see more of in season 2--which will open literally later that day or the day after.

There's a lot you can expect of S2 of the story--so far it's divided up in Act 1; pre B&C and act 2; post B&C And in Act 1 we'll see a lot of development as well as some deterioration of relationships. We'll get Daenera being a menace and seeking to make everyone miserable in her grief and anger, we'll see some things come to fruition and we'll see that some sacrifices are futile. We'll deal with a lot of contradicting emotions and the political landscape of having to hate Aemond but also relying on him. We'll see Aemond being both ruthless, cruel and violent, but we will also see him make an effort and deal with the consequences of his actions as well as trying to be better (for Daenera), while also trying to uphold this image of his. The whole Love VS Duty comes into play. And of course, the pregnancy as well as the birth and some fluff with the child.

There will also be new POV's added, and we'll follow what is happening on Dragonstone more and have some plot lines added/altered that I feel like were either missing or just not right in the show. I have a lot to try and make up for and it's going to be… rough to say the least, but I hope you'll understand the road I'm taking the characters on as well as their development/devolvement, and try and understand where they're coming from.

There will be some plot lines in season 2 that I will either scrap entirely, or pick apart and use what I can. Some plot points will be added to BEFORE B&C and somethings will just be generally changed--it's solely to make up for the timeline changes I've made. We'll also see some new minor battles and some more effort on putting strain on King's Landing. The political landscape of alliances will be stretched so some things take more time than in canon, but again, it's solely to fill the 7 months I need filled before B&C.

I know a lot are just here for Daenera/Aemond, but this story has grown and I like to add to canon or explore canon characters, and I think it's good to get another perspective every once in a while so we know what's actually going on in the world outside Dae/Aemond.

I hope you'll be will me for season 2! I will give myself a few days off to just completely rest up before I start Season 2 of the story, so I will have a hiatus until January--I expect the first chapter of season 2 to come out one Friday in January, when I don't know but I will give updates to you.

I have also updated the first chapter of the story and changed the prophecy--it's better, I think. And I've gone through the story, but if you come across the mention of the prophecy that is the old one, please leave me a comment so I can fix it.

AND!!! There will be another small prologue out next week!!!!

[flowers-of-anise]

Daniel Seavey: 🎵nobody leaves like

✨blondes✨🎵

Me: nobody leaves like a closeted ex who never even admitted you were dating!

[theamazingannie]

One thing I’ve noticed both with parenting and with wider topics like politics is that people often don’t seem like their goal is to get their goal achieved. When you want a goal achieved, and that goal is not on track to being achieved, you need to try something new in order to get that goal achieved. Instead, some people see that their goal is not being achieved and they decide to punish the ones not achieving their goal. For example, my brother is bad at getting his homework done and perhaps I might threaten to take something away from him. If he does his homework, great it worked. If it doesn’t, then the threat was not adequate. The goal was not achieved. But I still want the goal achieved, so I find something else to motivate him. My parents, on the other hand, will go through with the punishment, and be done with it. The homework is still not done, and they no longer have their leverage, but they stop at that. The end goal was not having the goal achieved, but to inflict punishment at the goal not being achieved. This may be cathartic, but it does nothing to help in the long run. We see this now politically. We want our government to do a specific action, and we may threaten to withhold our vote if they fail to achieve said action, but if that doesn’t work, we can’t just keep going with our punishment. Because the goal is not yet achieved, and that is indeed the goal, right? And in addition, because you made a threat and went through with the punishment, the people you want accomplishing these goals don’t really want to help you anymore. It’s very frustrating, and you can wish all you want that they will want to do it anyways, but as I see with my brother all the time, they won’t. And now you have to live with the consequences because you were unwilling to adjust your methods and cared more about punishment than achieving your goals. And many people, like my parents, seem to be okay with that. But if you aren’t, if you genuinely want that goal achieved, then I suggest you change tactics before the deadline for late work passes

[littlelamy]

you were right!

a/n: okay, i know you guys might be tired of me doing these but this is my last one! i hope you all like it 😜 gifs from @rafeyscurtainbangs

The blazing Moroccan sun beats down on Rafe, its intensity mirrored by the firestorm raging in his mind. Dust hangs in the air around him, adding to the harshness of the moment as he stands over the well. Below, Groff coughs and groans, his face contorted in pain, but Rafe barely spares him a second glance. His rage overpowers everything else, even the satisfaction he should feel. He narrows his eyes, voice laced with anger and finality.

“Checkmate, bitch!” he yells down, his words slicing through the hot, tense air. The motorcycle engine he’d used to get out here sits idle a few feet away, rumbling like his frustration.

He turns on his heel, muttering a curse, fists clenched. As he stalks away from the well, he pulls out his phone and dials Sofia’s number, his chest tight with the realization that everything he thought he knew was a lie.

Sofia answers after two rings, her voice as casual as if he hadn’t just found out about her betrayal. “Hey, babe, what’s up ?”

Rafe’s voice is steely, cold. “Is it true? Is it true, what Groff just told me? Is it?”

The silence on her end is all he needs. He can practically hear her scrambling for words, but she never manages to answer. His face twists in anger.

“Pack your shit. Get out of my house,” he snarls, a final, unforgiving edge in his voice. “God, after everything I did for you? We’re done. Done.” He hangs up before she can say another word, shoving his phone back into his pocket with a bitter scoff. Betrayed, twice over—and he’d ignored the only person who saw it coming.

He stands there, baking in the Moroccan heat, his mind racing back to a month ago in Kildare, when you and he had argued over Sofia. You’d warned him that she wasn’t who she seemed. He’d brushed you off, accusing you of jealousy—knowing damn well that there was more to it. You were his best friend, but it was complicated; that line had already been crossed too many times, with late-night kisses and tangled sheets. But you two hadn’t spoken since that fight, since the way he’d brushed you off had hurt deeper than either of you cared to admit.

Taking a breath, he pulls out his phone again, fingers hovering over your name. He hesitates, swallowing his pride, before finally pressing call.

The phone rings, and you pick up after a few moments, your voice tight with annoyance. “What, Rafe?”

Your tone makes him pause, but the way you sound almost comforts him, even with the irritation clear in your voice. You’re there—back in Kildare, probably sitting cozy in your little apartment. Meanwhile, he’s out here under the scorching sun, alone, trying to piece together his pride.

He clears his throat. “Hey… princess,” he says, voice softened, the pet name slipping out before he can stop it. He can almost feel you rolling your eyes on the other end, but he presses on, the words weighing heavy on him. “I—uh… Look, I’m sorry. You were right.”

There’s a surprised pause, and he hears you shift in your seat as if you’re debating whether to hang up or let him speak. When you do answer, your tone is a bit softer, cautious.

“What happened?”

Rafe lets out a dry, humorless laugh. “Turns out Sofia was exactly who you said she was. A snake. And here I was, thinking you were just being… petty. But I guess I’m the idiot, huh?”

You breathe out, and he can picture you shaking your head, lips pressed together. “You wouldn’t listen,” you say quietly, as if the words hold more hurt than anger.

He sighs, running a hand through his hair, the frustration evident in his voice. “I know. I was so damn sure you were just jealous. I mean—” He pauses, grappling with how to say it. “Hell, I thought you were jealous because you… I don’t know. I thought you didn’t want me with her because we…” His voice trails off, but the implication lingers between you.

“Yeah,” you say softly, almost to yourself. “I get it.”

Rafe bites his lip, letting the words sink in. “Can I see you? I’m done here in a few days, and I could be back in Kildare very soon. I could stop by, explain… properly.”

A beat passes, and when you finally speak, it’s careful, guarded. “After everything you said last time, why should I?”

He laughs softly, almost self-deprecating. “Because I think you might be the only person I can trust right now. And… I miss you.” His voice drops, laced with a warmth he can’t help. “Even if you’re just going to gloat and rub it in my face.”

You chuckle, and he smiles, savoring the sound. “I don’t know if I miss you or if I just feel sorry for you,” you tease, but the playfulness is back in your tone, if only faintly.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, amusement lacing his words. “Act like you don’t care. But come on, you miss me. Admit it.”

A small silence follows, and he imagines the way your lips twitch into a smile. Finally, you relent. “Maybe a little. But you’re bringing wine. Good wine.”

“Oh, don’t worry, baby,” he says, the flirtation back in his voice. “Only the best for you.”

You scoff, but he hears the hint of a laugh. It’s the closest thing he’s had to a good moment in a long time. He takes a breath, savoring the thought of leaving this mess behind and getting back to Kildare—back to the only person who knew him well enough to call him out, and care anyway. As the call ends, he puts his phone in his pocket, a grin spreading across his face, motivating him to get that crown and go to his princess.

taglist: @namelesslosers @princessslutt @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @starkeysprincess @sixrosberg @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0 @kissrotten @rafesangelita @sstargirln @rafedaddy01 @soldesole @bakugouswaif

[fastandcarlos]

On The Mend : ̗̀➛ Oscar Piastri

summary: with your lack of presence in the paddock, fans are starting to worry, little do they know that you happen to be a little broken back at home

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

liked by landonorris, danielricciardo and 849,183 others

oscarpiastri: another successful week of racing, super proud of the whole team to get the car all the way to P2 this weekend 🏆🏎️

35,058 comments

username1: congratulations oscar, such an awesome drive!!

username2: just a shame that yn wasn’t there to see it once again 🙄

landonorris: so proud of you osc 😭😭😭

username3: surely they can’t still be together, she hasn’t shown her face in weeks…

charles_leclerc: mum is very proud that the two of us were on the podium btw

oscarpiastri: @/charles_leclerc it was all thanks to her pep talk ofc

username4: we’ll still support you osc even if yn won’t

mclaren: the whole team is so proud of you, congratulations oscar!

username5: enjoy the celebrations, I’m sure the team will be there for you at least 🥲

danielricciardo: congrats brother, always nice to see you repping for down under

username6: either something must be seriously wrong or yn really just doesn’t care anymore 😭

maxverstappen1: hell of a drive from you, great to see you back where you belong!

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

ynusername posted two private stories

replies

georgerussell63: thanks for reminding everyone I got a penalty yn 😂😂

oscarpiastri: make sure you’re resting, you don’t need to worry about the race sweetheart!!

ynusername: I’ve never missed a race of yours 😩

danielricciardo: why tf are you in hospital and why didn’t you tell me immediately so that I could help!!

nicolepiastri: sending you lots of love sweetheart, sorry we can’t be there to help you 💕

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

oscarpiastri: I promise to sneak you in loads of snacks as soon as I’m there 💞

lilymhe: I miss you so much, hope you’re recovering well girlie

landonorris: he’s on the first flight outta here straight back to you 🧡

carmenmmundt: sending you all the healing vibes in the world ❤️

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

liked by charles_leclerc, logansargeant and 812,948 others

oscarpiastri: wish me luck on the flight, some weird passenger keeps looking over their shoulder at me 👀

36,950 comments

username7: that poor pilot having to drive these two home lmao

danielricciardo: now you get to experience my struggle before you came along 😭

oscarpiastri: @/danielricciardo idk how you ever did it 🤦🏻

username8: at least oscar has lando to celebrate with even though others have abandoned him

alex_albon: why else do you think we offered to take you home on our plane instead?! 😂

username9: i wonder if he's going home to yn being there or not

charles_leclerc: you're incredibly brave volunteering to travel home with him 👏🏻

username10: yn should be there with him, i really hope that they're okay

username11: what would we do without these two in our lives!?

maxverstappen1: we tried to talk you out of it but you didn't listen 🤷🏻

username 12: i love how all the boys are exposing lando as a terrible travel partner hahah

landonorris: stop trying to make it sound like we're not bffs osc 💔

oscarpiastri: @/landonorris that's because we're definitely not best friends

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

liked by landonorris, alex_albon and 793,722 others

oscarpiastri: seeing as some people want to make it their business, we thought we’d share why yn hasn’t been around recently. a couple of weeks ago she had a nasty fall at home which resulted in a broken leg. yesterday I finally got to bring her home and begin helping her with recovery…just call me doctor piastri from now on 🧑🏻‍⚕️💞

57,492 comments

username13: i hope all you losers who thought they broke up are proud of yourselves 🙄

landonorris: you guys know where i am if you need anything!!

georgerussel63: we love you yn, make sure you get plenty of rest ❤️❤️❤️

username14: sending you so much love yn, get plenty of rest

ynusername: apologies in advance for the lack of sleep you're about to get because of me 😂

oscarpiastri: @/ynusername as long as you're healing idc 🥹

username15: can't believe some of you were so stupid to ever think they'd actually break up

alex_albon: glad to see you're back at home where you belong yn

danielricciardo: do i even want to ask how she managed to break her leg??

oscarpiastri: @/danielricciardo if I told you I don't think you'd believe me 😂

username16: poor oscar looks exhausted having to drive and take care of yn too

charles_leclerc: pls tell me I get to sign the cast ✍️

ynusername: @/charles_leclerc i'll save a spot just for you

username17: please make sure you take care of yourself yn and ignore what everyone has to say

carmenmmundt: sending you so many healing vibes yn, we miss you at the paddock

username18: during a time when they need privacy and instead they've been hounded by nosey idiots 🤦🏻

maxverstappen1: can't wait to see all the doctor piastri content from you! 😂

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

liked by georgerussell63, carlossainz55 and 682,058 others

oscarpiastri: the only way to get her out of the house atm is to bribe her with coffee ☕️

63,957 comments

username19: it's adorable how much oscar cares about her 🥰

lilymhe: tell her im omw with coffee as we speak to get her out again!

username20: it's so good to see yn back up on her feet and moving around again 🤩

alex_albon: i actually forgot what yn looked like stood upright for a moment

username21: why does it feel like oscar is one of those partners who is constantly checking on her making sure she's doing her exercises and following every single bit of advice

maxverstappen1: yn's injury is really making you look like the doting boyfriend rn ❤️

danielricciardo: if yn ever gets bored of being entertained on a walk by you, you know where i am!

username22: i bet yn can't wait for race weekend again to get rid of the nagging doctor 😂

landonorris: wish you looked after me as well as you look after yn

oscarpiastri: @/landonorris just a shame that we're not dating then really huh?!

username23: anyone else noticed how many drivers have been round this week to take yn out and make sure she's staying active too

username24: @/username23 i think she might just be the most popular wag on the grid

ynusername: i hate you but i love you at the same time these days 💞

oscarpiastri: @/ynusername if the doctor says you keep moving, it's my job to make you move 😂

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

liked by landonorris, carmenmmundt and 59,491 others

ynusername: I always knew oscar was secretly boyfriend coded but damn having him look after me is making me fancy him all over again 🔥

12,056 comments

username25: i think i might've just fallen in love with him all over again too 😍

alexandrasaintmleux: make the most of all of the attention you're getting girl

ynusername: @/alexandrasaintmleux oh I am, he doesn't let me lift a finger 😘

username26: soft, doctor boyfriend oscar might just be my new favourite thing

charles_leclerc: if i see many more of these posts from you i might just need a sick bucket 🤮

username27: yn you really are the luckiest having this guy in your life

carlossainz55: i always knew he was a softie deep down 🥺

oscarpiastri: you know i'd do anything as long as it meant getting you better again

ynusername: @/oscarpiastri you're an angel in disguise i swear

username28: i'd break my leg too if it meant oscar piastri was there to look after me 😂

username29: it melts my heart to see how caring oscar has been over the past few weeks

danielricciardo: even i found myself getting a bit excited when i saw these photos yn

username30: everyone needs an oscar piastri in their life

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

ynusername posted two stories

replies

landonorris: you're ruining oscar's image with every post you share these days 😂

oscarpiastri: there's nowhere else that I'd rather be

ynusername: we'll pretend you didn't complain that it wasn't race weekend first thing this morning shall we???

carmenmmundt: hope it's good news, lemme know how you get on!!

alex_albon: praying for you and hoping that it's the beginning of the end now 💕

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

danielricciardo: thinking of you guys, tell the doctor if he doesn't give you good news i'll break his leg 💞

ynusername: something tells me you might find a few challenges in doing that hahah

georgerussell63: you're so strong yn, just remember we love you

charles_leclerc: the whole family is hoping for good news for you and oscar ❤️

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

liked by oscarpiastri, landonorris and 70,238 others

ynusername: the moment i've waited for for so long, back in my second home of the garage and back supporting my love during race weekend

14,592 comments

username31: make sure you keep taking care of yourself yn!! 💕

oscarpiastri: cannot begin to tell you how happy i am to have you back with me again ☺️

ynusername: @/oscarpiastri the best feeling in the world being able to cheer you on again

danielricciardo: ik just how much this means to you, welcome back to us yn

username32: it's so good to see you right back where you belong again

username33: it feels like you've never been away, I'm so happy for you guys 🥹

charles_leclerc: on the mend at last, i hope you know just how many people can't wait to welcome you back this weekend

username34: we love our favourite #81 fan 🧡

iamrebeccad: i am hurrying over to that mclaren garage as fast as i possibly can rn ‼️

username35: so happy to see you back on your feet and back with our favourite duo again

username36: this is the content we've been waiting for, it's so good to see you back

landonorris: as much as i hate having to share oscar again, it's a joy to have you back 🙃

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

˗ˏˋ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ! ´ˎ˗

[no-144444]

Mark my words.- o.piastri

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅

summary: mark slips up about your marriage.

pairing: oscar piastri (no.81) x fem! rb!mechanic! wife! reader

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅

He crossed the finish line, and you couldn’t help the smile on your face. Sure, Checo had crashed in the last lap and Max had gotten p6. Not a good result, but then again, that’s what you had told Christian would happen if he didn’t let you build the car. 

You were Adrian’s protege. You were the next Newey. Christian was just too focused on the past. 

“Fuck!” he groaned, slamming his headset on the desk. 

“I told you so,” you sighed, leaving him at the desk and running to the parc fermé. Oscar would be coming through in mere minutes, and you wanted to be there to see him. Secretly dating another team’s driver wasn’t easy, but you two made it work. You were both lowkey about things, even though you’d been married for about a year now. You stood beside Nicole, far away from your own team, but you didn’t really care. You wanted to see the light in his eyes when he came up to his mum and you. 

Nicole wrapped her arms around you, cheering as you both relived the moment that Oscar had won. Oscar Piastri, 2 time Gran Prix winner. He’d proven himself time and time again, he wasn’t a second driver, and McLaren now had a difficult choice to make. 

But all that was for another day. Today was about Oscar. 

He ran over to the team, finally spotting his mum and you beside her. You could see from his eyes that he was smiling. She pulled him into a tight hug. 

“You did it!” she cheered, holding him close. “I’m so proud of you.”

He pulled off his helmet, smiling at her. “Thanks mum, love you loads,” he smiled, then turned his attention to you. “Not bad, eh?”

You smirked. “Not bad Piastri.”

“Not bad for you either, Piastri,” he smirked as you rolled your eyes. 

“Go get weighed idiot, I’ll catch you in the airport, yeah?”

“Wouldn’t miss you for the world,” he winked, then walked off to continue the celebrations. 

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ

You woke up the next morning, sore, with Oscar beside you. You groaned as you turned over, shutting off his alarm. “Osc,” you yawned. 

“Shush,” he whispered. “Five more minutes.”

“Oscar, we need to get up,” you reminded him, but he just tightened his grip on your waist. “Come on Osc, I need a shower.”

He smirked and you rolled your eyes, not missing his innuendo. “I could-”

“We did enough of that last night, give me time to recover,” you laughed. “Worth a shot,” he smiled. “Alright, I’ll start on some breakfast.”

He pressed his lips to yours in a sweet greeting (also short because his breath stinks in the morning) and you went your separate ways. This weekend was Singapore, and you knew how tough it was on every driver, engineer, and mechanic. Singapore was always the race you dreaded. It was unpredictable and hot. Way too hot. 

You came out of the shower to see Oscar pacing the kitchen, on the phone with a very stressed Mark. “No I understand that, but I thought they wouldn’t hear us… I-I didn’t mean to-“

“Oscar, it’s too late mate. You’d better just come out with it, or get your mum to, or something. People are getting really confused and they think Y/n is your sister or something,” Mark sighed

You burst out laughing, making Oscar laugh. 

“They think we’re siblings?” you laughed. “What the fuck?”

“You did call her ‘Piastri’ to be fair mate,” Mark chuckled.

“Well that is her second name!” he defended.

“Osc, just post our wedding photos or something,” you shrugged. “Or we could just let people speculate.”

“Sorry baby, but I don’t really love the idea of people thinking you’re one of my sisters,” he mocked, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you closer. 

You shrugged, grabbing a piece of toast he'd made you. “I don’t care, I’m just an insignificant engineer from RedBull.”

He rolled his eyes, a smile playing on his lips. “You’re so helpful,” he responded sarcastically.

“Using sarcasm as a defence mechanism because you don’t want to admit you’re the breadwinner of the family? How humble and noble of you,” you laughed, pressing a kiss to his cheek and squeezing his ass, making him jump. 

“I hate it when you do that,” he scoffed, batting your hand away. You knew he loved it. 

“Anyways, what’s our action plan lads?” Mark asked. 

“Up to you,” you shrugged. “I don’t care.”

“Will I post on twitter and act like it’s been common knowledge?” He suggested.

“Mate, no one would believe that. You’re known for keeping things secret and being nonchalant, just do that,” Mark laughed. 

“Sounds good to me,” you nodded. “Thanks Mark.”

“See you in Singapore,” he sighed and you grained as Oscar hung up the phone. 

“Fucking Singapore,” you groaned. 

“I know,” he nodded in agreement. “Hopefully this year I won’t be as ill.”

“Let’s fucking hope so,” you smoothed down his hair. “You need to start brushing your hair baby. It’s so awful in the mornings.”

His lips became a line and he nodded. “Humbling me isn’t always necessary,” he breathed out and wrapped his arms around you, grabbing your ass as he pressed kisses on your face and neck. “But it is appreciated,” he finished sarcastically, as you pushed him off giggling. 

“You’d appreciate it more if you took the advice,” you muttered, taking a bite of your toast. 

He shook his head, chuckling. “How’d I get so lucky?” he pressed a kiss to your cheek. 

You shrugged. “By using the dark arts?” you teased and he just laughed. 

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ

You walked into the Singapore paddock with Lando, deep in conversation about his upcoming birthday party. You usually weren’t photographed all that often in the paddock, and when you were, it’s usually because you were beside a driver or someone more important, mostly because you were known to ruin photos. Holding up your middle finger, threatening to flash the camera, etc, it’s what has made you a Gen Z favourite. You also refused to go up on the podium, no matter how many times Max asked. You were pretty low-key about everything, it worked well. 

“So I was definitely thinking a DJ, but what about the dress code? Should it be casual? Business casual? Black tie?” he questioned. 

You rolled your eyes. “Club attire Lando, it’s being held at a club, let people dress like they’re going to a club.”

He nodded, as if he’d never thought of that. “You’re a genius!”

“You’re a fucking idiot,” you sighed as he walked off to the McLaren motorhome. 

You walked off to the RedBull motorhome, noticing more cameras on you than normal. Most people just left you alone, it wasn’t often that the camera followed you (mostly because of your aforementioned behaviour), but tonight they wouldn’t let up. 

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ

Even as you sat in the pitlane, chatting to Daniel, you were still being recorded. 

“Do you know what this whole thing is about?” you asked Daniel and he looked at you like you were crazy. 

“Have you not seen what Mark posted?” he asked, his eyes wide. 

“What the fuck did he post?” you asked, rushing to get your phone out. 

And there it was. Mark had announced it for you. 

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ

aussiegrit

tagged: oscarpiastri , reallyy/n

Liked by pierregasly, oscarpiastri, maxverstappen and 872,928 others

aussiegrit: These two crazy kids were too busy being in love (and winning races) to tell you guys that they’re married! Love you two xxx

comments

alexalbon: oh oscar’s going to go mad.

landonorris: marks time of death: now.

oscarpiastri: I WANTED TO POST FIRST

oscarpiastri: THIS SHIT IS UNFAIR. FUCK YOU MARK -> reallyy/n: someone will be sent to the stewards if you don't stop with the language...

pierregasly: it still freaks me out that they're MARRIED and 22 and 23. like wtf. -> kikagomez: 👀 -> pierregasly: ... -> user82: SHE CLOCKED YOU I FEAR

user93: I AM SO NORMAL ABOUT THIS (no i'm not.)

user22: THIS IS SO ADORABLE WTF

sebvettel: good memories! officiating was such a blast! -> user883: SEB OFFICIATED? -> user21: it makes sense, y/n has been super close with the schumachers and seb since she was a kid because of her dads job as a mechanic in f1. he worked for ferrari from the 1980s to around 2015. -> user02: LORE DROP?????

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ

“That dickhead!” you cursed. “I’m going to go find Osc, I’ll be right back.”

He nodded and sent you on your way. You had to tell Oscar, he definitely didn’t know yet, right? He was going to lose it at Mark, he wanted to be the one to post, he wan-

And you walked into someone. Someone wearing papaya. Oscar wearing papaya. Oscar. 

“Did you see?!” “Did you see?!”

You both chuckled, then remembered the situation. 

“I’ll kill him for you if you want?” you offered and he just smiled. 

“It had to come out somehow,” he shrugged. “Though, those aren’t the pictures I’d pick.” 

“We all know what pictures you’d pick,” Lando interjected, winking at you. Oscar elbowed him. “I meant your wedding pictures!” “Yeah, right,” you scoffed. “Anyway, we can call him later and kill him together. Sounds good?” 

He nodded, wrapping a hand around your waist, the other landing on your ass. “Sounds great.” 

He quickly pressed his lips to yours, feeling all of the cameras on him, but still not caring. “Love you.”

“Love you too,” you smiled before walking away, back to your conversation with Daniel. 

Mark was going to get murdered, that was just a fact. Mark your words.

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅

navigation for my blog :) (masterlist)

[deadsetobsessions]

Sea Cryptic! Danny AU- Pt. 5

[Pt.1] [Pt.2] [Pt.3] [Pt.4] [Pt.6] [Pt.7] [Pt.8] [Pt.9] [Pt.10]

“So you’re that dead kid everyone’s talking about.”

Danny smacked a trash bag into the purple clad vigilante. “You can pick up the glass.”

“Wait, I’m just here to-”

“Bother me when I’m working? At least the litterer brings me cash. You can help clean or you can leave. Plastics go over there.”

Danny pointed at a pile of plastics, ignoring Spoiler’s bemused look. Hard to tell, really, considering her mask.

“I’ll help clean if you answer some questions!” Spoiler chirped, already moving to pick out the glass in the general trash pile Danny’s managed to gather. He nodded.

“Alright. At least you’re helping. The other one just bothers me and leaves his stuff on the beach.”

Spoiler snorted. “I’m Spoiler. Is the litterer Batman?”

“Sure. I don’t really care what his name is,” which was a complete lie, Danny was a fan. It’s just that messing with Batman (especially after he couldn’t clean up after himself, honestly!) overrode his fan behavior. “But if I catch him leaving shit in the waters again…”

Danny frowned, eyes glowing. He could feel- even with his partial tangibility, the muck of Gotham's waters seeping into his boots. It was not giving 'Live, Laugh, Love' to Danny, and he needed it gone.

“Whatever. They dropped a lot of guns down here. You can deal with those too, yeah?”

“I'm pretty sure that's evidence?!”

“If you could call it that.” Danny plucked away the Styrofoam and the hazardous (more than regular, anyways) materials away from the trash pile so Spoiler could dig through with her gloves without contracting sixteen different sorts of illnesses.

“So, what brings you to Gotham?”

Danny pointed at the water. “Came for school. Stayed because you losers polluted the water with dead bodies and gross chemicals.”

“You go to school?”

“Hey, that’s discriminatory.”

“Oops! No, sorry! I meant-”

Danny waved her off, irritably separating a bottle cap from the crushed bottle. Seriously, what’s the point of putting the cap back on if you were going to throw it in the bay anyways?

“It’s fine. How else am I supposed to learn about the advancements made in the scientific industry otherwise?”

Even if Danny wasn’t too sure that science could sure stupidity, but a halfa could dream, right?

"So... do you just... listen in on lectures?"

Danny stared at her. "What else would I do in a class??"

"Oh. I just thought since you're dead and all, you'd do something more... fun?"

"I mean, I could terrorize the local villains for kicks, if that's what you meant."

Spoiler brightened. "Actually, yeah! That would be helpful! If Mr. Freeze keeps bringing the cold during my latte Thursdays, I'm gonna snap and wring his cold little chicken neck."

Danny snorted. "Alright. I will keep an eye out for this Mr. Freeze." Danny paused. "Hey, tell your friend to come down and help us."

"What- oh. Black Bat!" Stephanie waved her partner down. Black Bat gracefully slipped down towards the bay, casually knocking out two goons gunning for Spoiler.

'Careful,' Black Bat signed.

"Thanks!" Spoiler bounced on the heels of her feet. She swept an arm out. "Wanna help?"

Black Bat tilted her head and, after placing Danny under quick but thorough scrutiny, nodded.

'You can get the salvageable stuff. Anything you can't lift, leave to me.' Danny signed clumsily, placing emphasis on can't.

"You know sign language?"

"I'm not too good at it, I just learned this version."

He knew ghost-sign first, after all.

"Chop, chop. I don't have all night."

----

Danny learned that Black Bat had the skill to knock cans into their designated piles if he threw them in the air so she could kick at them.

"You two can come back anytime."

Spoiler whooped while Black Bat leaned back, smug.

"Wait, tell the litterer he owes me $200. He was short last time."

"...Are you telling me Batman owes you money?"

"Yeah. He might be in financial straights, so I gave him some lee-way."

Black Bat and Spoiler looked at each other.

----

"Hey, so guess what I learned about sea boy!"

Bruce's head swiveled to her with startling intensity. The rest of the clan tuned in.

"He knows sign language! Maybe he even knows ancient sign language! And goes to school, but since he's like, dead, he could only listen to the lectures."

"Bruce, Bruce, do not start a ghost-education plan. Stop. We don't even know if he even-" Dick tackled Bruce, who was already writing a petition as Bruce Wayne to give partial credit to students that diligently goes to class.

"Oh, yeah!" Stephanie shouted over the unraveling chaos. "He promised to fuck with our Rogues for a bit so we can get a break! And we also got a bunch of guns!"

"Where? Gimme!" Jason demanded.

"Do not give Todd more firearms!" Damian cut in.

"Also!" Stephanie grinned as Cass shook with laughter. "Batman's a debtor! He owes Phantom $200!"

"Ain't no fucking way." Tim cackled. "Hear that Bruce? That's karma! For not defending me when he called me broke!"

[hoshifighting]

staff!jeonghan

WARNINGS: fluff, smut, fame problems, paris trip, idol!reader is a sweetheart with her staff team, teasing, hair pulling, makeup smudging hair destroying sex, face slap, paris sex.

staff!jeonghan who started way back when your career was just taking off. you were still fresh, the kind of new that had people curious but not quite sold on the idea of you making it long term. jeonghan wasn’t even supposed to be sticking around. dude was just a freelancer, floating between gigs like it was nothing. hairdresser one week, stylist the next, maybe even photographer’s assistant if he felt like it. didn’t care much either—just did his job, got his check, and dipped.

he was there the first time you came in for a shoot, thinking, oh, here we go again, another idol who doesn’t know shit about shit, and probably treats their staff like trash. honestly, he didn’t expect anything from you. he had his walls up like crazy. you’d been doing this for, what, a hot minute? and you were already getting attention, which just made him think, “yep, this one’s probably the snobby kind. won’t even acknowledge us when she’s walking by.”

but then you went and did the most surprising thing—like blew his expectations out of the water kinda surprise. you saw him—no, not just like saw him, but like saw him. took a minute to actually chat. asked how his day was, if he needed anything while he was running around fixing the stage lights or whatever. you even remembered his name by the end of the first day, which? yeah, idols usually don’t bother with that.

fast forward a couple months, and jeonghan’s still hanging around. he didn’t plan to stay, but something about you changed that. it wasn’t even the work, really. it was more like you made things different for the whole staff—hairdressers, makeup artists, stylists, all of them. you had this habit of, like, breaking all the usual rules. you’d bring coffee for everyone in the morning, none of that half-assed, "just for my personal team" bullshit, you made sure everyone was taken care of, because they take care of you as welll.

then there was that time when you randomly called up your manager one day like, "hey, i’m taking everyone out to eat after the shoot." and jeonghan was standing there, trying not to look too surprised, but inside he was like, who the hell does that? especially in this industry where staff usually gets a handshake and a “thanks for your work” at most. while you’re out here throwing cash around to make sure your team is happy. it’s wild.

he remembers the first time you handed out those holiday bonuses. it wasn’t even from the company’s budget either; it was straight up from your own wallet. like, your money. you didn’t even make a big deal about it, just casually handed out envelopes and said, “merry christmas, you guys.” you should’ve seen their faces—everyone was shook, even him, and he doesn’t get surprised that easily. it was one of those moments where the room just, like, collectively inhaled. there was silence, and then someone—probably one of the stylists—goes, “y/n, this is... you didn’t have to...”

and you? you just shrugged, all casual, like it was no big deal. “nah, i wanted to. thank you for taking care of me, you make part of all of this too.” you pointed to the stage.

jeonghan couldn’t even look at you right for a second because it was, like, damn, okay, she’s for real. that was the moment he decided he wasn’t just gonna treat this gig like all the others. working with you? yeah, it felt different. and not in some sappy, fairytale shit kind of way, but in a “maybe there are still people in this industry who aren’t complete assholes” kind of way.

“so you’re sticking around, hannie?” you asked him one day, catching him off guard while he was fixing up your jacket right before a stage performance.

he smirked, his usual cocky, nonchalant self, but there was something softer underneath it. “guess i don’t have a choice. you make it too easy.”

he was your go-to guy now, the one you trusted with everything, from making sure your hair wasn’t fucked up during press tours to giving you a reality check when you were stressing over the dumbest things. and he liked that. he liked being the one you leaned on when you didn’t wanna bother anyone else.

but it was more than that too. you were just different. the way you treated people, the way you made sure everyone around you felt seen, felt valued? it wasn’t fake. it wasn’t for show. it was you. and jeonghan? well, he wasn’t the kind of guy to stick around just for anyone. but for you? yeah, maybe he’d go the long haul.

jeonghan was always there, like a constant shadow that somehow made everything feel lighter instead of heavier. as your career blew up, he didn’t just keep pace—he matched your energy, your needs, every twist and turn that came with your fame. whether it was press tours, backstage chaos, or those ridiculous interviews where some clueless host would try to push your boundaries, he was always ready.

you’d be in the middle of a tv show, mind racing, and then there’d be a subtle shift. jeonghan standing just offstage, watching with a sharp, gaze of his. and it wasn’t like he had to do much—sometimes just a look was enough to let you know he had your back. like that time they tried to switch up your routine last minute, making changes that didn’t sit right with you. you didn’t even need to speak up, though. before you could say a word, he was already stepping in, throwing that effortless, yet somehow intimidating smile toward the team. “nah, we’re sticking with the original plan. my artist doesn’t do changes without notice.”

“your artist,” you’d hear him say that a lot, like a protective label stamped right over you, like you belonged to him—not in a possessive way, but in a way that made you feel safe. secure.

it wasn’t just about the work either, not even close. jeonghan made the loneliness that came with fame feel less suffocating. that part of fame nobody talks about—the part where you can’t make real friends anymore, where every new person in your life feels temporary, transactional. except him. he was loyal.

when you had those long, grueling days full of photoshoots and interviews and events, and all you wanted was to escape, jeonghan was the one who made sure you still had a piece of normal.

like that one time in paris. you were there for a fashion show, sitting front row with all these industry giants who couldn’t care less about anything but themselves, and jeonghan was right beside you, but afterward, when it was just the two of you, he was the one who dragged you to some random hole-in-the-wall restaurant down the street, far from all the cameras and flashing lights, ordering too much food and laughing at how terrible your french was.

“you know, you’re lucky you’ve got me,” he teased, watching you struggle with the menu. “otherwise, you’d be stuck ordering water and bread for the rest of the trip.”

you elbowed him playfully. “i’m just trying to be cultured, okay?”

“sure, sure,” he snickered, but the grin on his face was soft, like he was glad to be there with you. “leave the culture to me.”

he was there on the quieter days too. you’d be at home, no schedule to follow for once, just free. but that freedom? it felt empty when you didn’t have anyone to share it with. jeonghan got that. he’d show up at your place without even needing an invitation, like he just knew when you needed him there. sometimes he wouldn’t even knock. you’d just hear the door click open and his familiar voice, “you better not be working in there.”

you’d laugh, shouting back from wherever you were in the apartment, “i’m not, calm down.”

next thing you knew, he’d be on the floor of your pristine living room, surrounded by lego pieces because, for some reason, that’s what the two of you did on your days off. it was ridiculous, really, two adults crouched over colorful plastic blocks, but it made you feel like a kid again, like before everything got so complicated.

you’d crouch down next to him, watching his hands move, and without thinking, you’d wrap your arms around him from behind, pressing your cheek against his shoulder. it wasn’t even romaaaantic, more like instinct. jeonghan had this way of making you feel safe, like you didn’t have to be the perfect version of yourself all the time. you could just be you. and hugging him like that, clinging onto him like a koala, it was the only way you knew how to show him just how much he meant to you.

“you’re clingy today,” he murmured, but there was no complaint in his voice, just that familiar teasing.

“you’re soft,” you shot back, squeezing him tighter, feeling the warmth of his body against yours. his cologne was subtle but always the same, something that reminded you of quiet, peaceful moments, like this.

he tilted his head a little, catching your eyes “oh, yeah? not what you said last time.”

you puffed your cheeks out, crossing your arms dramatically, the sulk settling in. “i’m done being clingy with you, jeonghan.”

he grinned like he was waiting for that exact reaction. it’s almost like he lived for these moments—when you’d pout and try to act all tough, but really? he knew exactly where this was headed. you weren’t fooling anyone, especially not him.

“oh yeah?” he tilted his head, gaze dripping with amusement as he leaned in, close enough that his breath brushed your ear. “you sure about that?”

you tried to hold firm, but the way his voice dropped a little lower, teasing. you shifted your weight, crossing your legs under you on the living room floor, avoiding eye contact. “mmhmm. you’ll see.”

jeonghan let out a soft chuckle, leaning back and watching you with a glint in his eyes, like he was just waiting for you to crack. “you’re too cute when you sulk, y’know that?”

your heart fluttered, but you bit down on the inside of your cheek, determined to keep up the act. “whatever.”

he moved closer, a hand sliding around your waist, tugging you just enough so that your body leaned into his. “nah, don’t pout, baby,” he murmured, lips brushing lightly against your jaw. “we both know how this ends.”

and he was right. because, every time you tried to act like you were done with him, like you were going to keep your distance, it only ended one way—with you wet underneath him, a needy mess, begging for more.

like that first time in paris. paris had done something to the both of you. it was supposed to be a normal night, just you and him hanging out after the fashion show. nothing special, just another city on the endless list of places you’d been together. but somehow, that night went different. the second the hotel room door clicked shut behind you, you’d scarcely made it through the door before his hands were on you, grabbing, pulling, claiming.

“thought you were gonna keep your distance,” jeonghan had teased as he pressed you up against the wall, his lips trailing down your neck, making your knees weak.

you were already panting, feeling the warmness of him beaming off his body. “shut up, hannie.”

he chuckled against your skin, his tongue flicking out to taste you, making you gasp. “aww, so cute when you’re needy.”

and fuck, were you needy. by the time he’d pushed you onto the bed, tugging at your clothes, you were already whimpering for him, already soaked.

he’d dragged you to the edge, rough hands all over your body, pulling, squeezing, leaving marks everywhere. your hair had been perfect for the show, all sleek and done up, but that shit didn’t last long. the second he had his fist tangled in it, pulling your head back, it was ruined. thrusting into you from behind, his cock splitting you in half with each brutal thrust. “such a fucking mess.”

you’d tried to keep quiet, biting down on the pillow as your body rocked with every movement, but every time you let out a whiny moan, jeonghan was right there to mock you for it.

“aww, hannie’s being too harsh?” he cooed, as he tries to sound sweet. “hm? poor baby can’t take it?”

you’d only moaned louder, your body trembling as he slapped your ass, the sting making you cry out. he’d leaned down then, his breath hot against your ear as he whispered, “use your words, sweetheart. tell hannie how bad you want it.”

you couldn’t even speak, just a mess of broken moans and gasps as he kept slamming into you, the sound of skin against skin echoing through the room. and just when you thought you couldn’t take it anymore, when you were right on the edge, that’s when he did it. his hand came up to your face, smudging the glitter from the show as he slapped you—not enough to really hurt. he is a careful guy.

“fuck, y/n, look at you. such a pretty little mess,” he groaned, his grip on your hair tightening as he pounded into you from behind, relentless. “you gonna come for me? c’mon, baby, let me hear it.”

you whimpered, nodding, your mind spinning as his cock hit that perfect spot over and over, making you roll your eyes, drool, everything u had right of. but just as you were about to cum, he pulled out, leaving you empty and desperate.

“aww, no no no, not yet,” jeonghan cooed, a wicked grin on his face as he turned you onto your back, pushing your legs open wide. “hannie’s not done with you.”

your heart pounded, your entire body aching for release, but you didn’t dare move. he was in control, and you knew better than to push him.

“what’s the matter, baby?” he leaned down, his lips brushing over yours as he teased you. “too much?”

you shook your head, barely able to get the words out. “n-no… please…”

his smirk widened, that wicked glint in his eyes making you shiver. “please what? gotta tell me what you want, sweetheart.”

you whimpered, your hands gripping the sheets as you looked up at him, desperate. “please… fuck me…”

“good girl.”