#black tea australia

[bumblebeeappletree]

Millie plants up a shady corridor beside her house.

On the narrow strip between the fence and the northern side of Millie’s house is her Treasure Garden, with food plants, flowers and lots of other treasures. But along the southern side of the building, it’s a different story; it’s cold and dark most of the year, with a blast of sun in the middle of summer and lots of service connections that need to be kept clear.

But Millie plans to try some experimental plantings to fill these tough conditions, offer views from the bathroom, and create some habitat.

She’ll use some groundcovers, climbers and tall, thick shrubs. She will include some local species such as strappy dianella that might not be visible but will offer habitat for local fauna.

Another challenge is to incorporate some interesting containers, such as the top of a rotating ventilation pipe cover.

A base structure for climbing plants is a pair of old gates that Millie has already attached to the side timber fence. The fence has been painted a dark colour so that it shows off the plants well but also makes it appear more distant.

She creates a window-like shelf for more container plants by sanding and oiling four pieces of cypress timber that she screws into place against the fence.

The soil in the area is very compacted so Millie loosens it with a fork, adds some compost, and then positions the plants into place, checking the view from indoors.

Shrubs can be trained to suit narrow spaces and can be lower maintenance than climbers – Millie uses a tea plant, Camellia sinensis, and a cool-climate corea, Correa baeuerlenii.

The pathway is finished off with a layer of crushed brick.

Plants featured:

Black-anther Flax-lily - Dianella revoluta var. revoluta

Evergreen clematis - Clematis armandii

Purple apple-berry - Billardiera longiflora

Tea plant - Camellia sinensis

Chef’s Hat Correa - Correa baeuerlenii

Necklace fern - Asplenium flabellifolium

[teandhealth]

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Steeping Instructions

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[autobahnmp3]

im hooome im filled with sugar and espresso

[timmurleyart]

Chai down under. ☕️😋❤️

[feralforfrank]

simon riley x fem!reader

simon gets hit by an umbrella like three times, sorry for not knowing proper british and scottish slang, i'm greek and trying my best 👍🏻 implied age gap (reader is in uni)

holidays in Edinburgh, part 1/?

the 141 is home for the holidays. home being all over the uk, with gaz and price spending their time somwhere in the country with their partners and simon accompanying johnny and his partner in Edinburgh. johnny insisted he come along, Edinburgh is full of bonnie birds, you never know, you might meet your match, lt.

you're miserable. spending yet another holiday in a foreign country, isolated in your flat with only your cat, warm tea, and a book to pass the time. you couldn't go back home due to finals starting soon, and your parents decided to spend Christmas in warm weather down under (Australia).

it's not half as bad, you try to convince yourself. your flat is quiet, as are the neighboring ones and the building in general. your bedroom window overlooks a busy street, and you envy those who flood them with shopping bags and smiles. you haven't made that many friends, and the ones you have are already visiting their hometowns. the upside is that you're in a warm, comfortable space while others are freezing their pinkies off.

even johnny is gone. the loud scot from next door, a guy you had disliked at first without having officially met him - thin walls was the only bad thing this building has, and you were forced to listen to him do everything, from weight lifting, to watching tv, to having sex - but when you bumped into each other your opinion changed drastically. a gentleman, funny and light-hearted. he hadn't taken to heart your complaints about the noise, only promising to take it down a notch.

without the muffled sounds of his tv to annoy you - his partner had apologised for the volume, saying he's partially deaf in one ear from having been too close to explosions way too many times - you were left reading your book in silence. maybe you'd go to the grocery store later, stock up so you won't need to leave your house - the weatherman said it's going to get colder, heavy snow expected.

johnny hands simon the keys to his flat. him and his bird are going to the supermarket, there's nothing in the fridge or the cupboards for the next few days. the scot told him to take a shower, relax and make himself at home until they come back, and he didn't have to be told twice with the biting cold making his nose stuffy.

johnny's building is freshly painted to look new on the outside but old on the inside. he's been here before, and he remembers mactavish struggling to open his front door sometimes, for the lock got stuck.

he tries to reenact the technique his best friend uses to get in, trying his hardest to open the door gently instead of pushing with his shoulder like he does back at his own flat. he turns the key one, two, three times and pulls forward softly, trying to turn the key for the fourth and final time.

fuck. you gotta be fucking joking.

"fuckin' hell."

he tries again. and again, this time throwing his bag on the floor. the door rattles as he uses a bit more force, frustration building steadily and quickly.

you press play on spotify, the familiar voices of joe and frank from the basement yard podcast filling your ears. your headphones are pushing the hair out of your face and also act as ear muffs. you check your coat pockets for your phone and keys, nodding to yourself before kissing your cat goodbye. you promise her treats from the grocery store.

at first, you don't notice the hunk of a man at the door next to yours. the podcast is on full volume and your securing your scarf around your shoulder. it's when you turn to shut your door that you freeze mid-step.

in front of you, with is back turned to you, there's a giant guy pressing all his weight to johnny's door. he's wearing all black, hood drawn up, which makes this situation much much scarier.

fuck fuck fuck fuck. what the fuck. he's tryinf to break in the flat. oh fuck fuck fuck, what do i do? has he noticed me? he hasn't turned around yet. what the fuck. shit fuck. FUCK. what the fuck?!

your body reacts a few seconds later. with wide eyes and pursed lips, you hold your breath, and take a step inside your home. half your body is outside, facing him incase he decides to turn around and your arm is blindly reaching for your big umbrella.

once you have a stready hold on it, you don't hesitate to take two big steps forward and hurl it on the intruder's neck. your headphones for on your shoulders, and you hit him again, and this time he physically recoils.

you hit him another time, not quite as hard, and flinch at the sound the plastic makes against his jacket but you're gaining confidence as he grunts in pain. you shout something at him, something about this being karma for trying to break into somebody else's house, and he yelps something in response, but the blood rushing in your ears is louder than your voices.

you swing the umbrella back to hit him again, gathering all the courage you can muster for a final blow. you take a millisecond more to do so and he has time to move before it can connect with his back. unfortunately for the guy, the umbrella hits the side of his face.

he yelps and you drop it with a gasp, hands covering your mouth in shock.

his face is still hidden under his hood, but his ungloved fingers reach for his cheek, where the tip of the umbrella connected.

there's a moment of silence. your eyes are wider than before, as wide as saucers, and you're breathing heavily like him. you're scared beyond your mind, the fear having paralysed you once again. you stand there watching him rub his face witha grunt.

"you fuckin' crazy or wha', lady?!" he finally speaks with gritted teeth. his accent is hot. "'m not a fucking intruder."

oh shit.

"...you're not?"

"no, the fuck 'm not," he says calmly, and your heart rate picks up. "would an intruder have keys to the bloody flat?" he shows you the keys and you gasp softly, recognising johnny's scottish flag keychain.

"i'm—oh," your hands reach out as you try to approach him. "i'm so terribly sorry, i just—mactavish isn't home and you're huge and you were throwing yourself at the door and you have your hood up and you're so. fucking. big, i thought you were trying to rob the place—" you take a deep breath, trying to calm your racing thoughts - you just beat a guy with an umbrella for no fucking reason!!!!!! ‐ "here, let me help you." you signal for him to enter your flat.

simon watches you for a moment. flushed cheeks, eyes glassy and overflowing emotions, hands waving frantically as you open your own door wider for him to walk in.

he should refuse. flat out say no. you just attacked him with an umbrella for fucks sake. it's still in your trembling hands. he should refuse. but you said mactavish. you know johnny. and he knows himself. he must've looked terrifying to you, back hunched over the lock, shoulder pushing on the old wooden door.

you look genuinely sorry and worried, very willing to let him into your home, even though he hasn't given you any information about himself. for all you know, he could've stolen the keys from johnny or his bird, he could be a proper burglar.

he should shake his head and turn your back on you. it doesn't even hurt. he's had worse. he thinks his cheekbone might have a scratch, but he's fine. ghost has been through torture before - your hits are nothing compared to that.

but you're pretty. extremely so.

so, he nods slowly, removing his hand from his cheek and grabbing his duffel bag from the ground. you wait by the door, watching his every move as he walks in.

you point to your kitchen chair, he sits - he's so imposing, your kitchen seems smaller with him in it - and you immediately rush for a pack of beans from the freezer and a towel.

"put this on your cherk," you instruct and disappear somwhere further inside the flat. he watches you.

when you come back you have rubbing alcohol, cotton pads and a packet of band-aids. simon begins to stand.

"'s not necessary. 's barely a scratch, ma'am."

you don't even look at him as you set the stuff down. he stares at you. "no, no, i feel terrible - the least i can do is fix your face."

"you sayin' my mug is ugly?"

you pause, head snapping to the side to meet the stranger's eyes. you frown, another apology ready to escape your lips.

he's smirking. right corner of his lips tilted up. he's joking. your shoulders sag and you exhale with a smile.

"no, your face is quite nice, stranger."

it is. strong features, long nose - looks to have been broken a hundred times - some scars here and there, long eyelashes and pretty brown eyes.

"simon. simon riley."

simon. nice name - suits him. friend of johnny's, you remember. probably military, judging by the width of his back. and the unintenional scrutinising and intimidating gaze.

you introduce yourself, breath hitching when he repeats your first name slowly.

"pretty name." you shrug, grabbing a wet cotton pad and slowly moving it towards him. he doesn't pull away, and you press it against the small scratch on his cheek as he speaks. "suppose a pretty girl deserves a pretty name."

you chuckle, heat rising up your neck and spreading to your cheeks as you move on to the pack of band-aids.

"so, you know johnny?" you ask.

"saved his ugly mug a coupl'a times. we're spending christmas here."

your smile falters as you stick the small band-aid on his cheek (only now realising it has anakin skywalker printed on it). you're once again reminded of how lonely you'll be during christmas. simon notices it, but hesitates asking if you're okay.

"sorry for the uh, band-aid. uh, i don't have any normal ones." he brushes it off with a shake of his head. "you're good to go, now. i'm sure you have things to do."

simon silently gets up and grabs his things, all while watching you put your coat and scarf back on. whatever light you had on your face moments before is gone, and he's trying to figure out what he said wrong to cause this.

he follows you out of the flat, mind forming different ways to ask if something's wrong. he can't help but ask when he hears you sigh heavily, almost defeated.

"you okay, love?"

"huh—what?" you look at him once and then continue locking your door.

"you alright? did i say something that upset you?"

your smile returns with his words, but it doesn't quite reach your eyes.

"no, i'm all good, don't worry. just don't want to go for groceries in the freezing cold, ya know?" he nods, jiggling johnny's keys in his hands. "anyway, it was nice meeting you, simon. and i'm really sorry for thinking you're an intruder and hitting you with my umbrella and whatnot. i hope to see you around - have fun!"

and before he can ask where you're spending your christmas, or why you're going to the supermarket instead of packing to go back to wherever your home is - your accent clearly indicates you're not from edinburgh, as if the books, pens, and scattered notebooks at your home were not enough - you're walking down the stairs and dissappear from his eyesight.

simon stands for a moment before turning to the door again. you're interesting, to say the least, and you said his face was...nice - he doesn't get that often. and you have band-aids with Star Wars characters, and you laughed at his joke. and you were brave enough to attack him when you thought he was a burglar.

yeah, he hopes to see you around too.

[coco-loco-nut]

High Stakes

pairing: lando x reader

summary: Lando can’t help but to fall for his teammates elusive childhood friend

masterlist requests open

————————————

You strut out of the casino eyes locked on your phone as you change your flight back to Australia. The casino threw a few perks at you, and who are you to say no to free stuff. You don’t even notice as you walk into a brick wall, or someone built like a brick wall.

“I’m so sorry,” you quickly stuff your phone into the black Birkin on your arm. The bag is a contrast to the champagne dress that glitters under the city lights.

“No that was my fault,” you look up, the sound of another Australian voice piquing your interest.

“Australian?” You ask, watching the man study your face.

“Y/n? Oscar,” he says, your face lighting up.

“Osco, I didn’t realize you were in Vegas. What are you here for?” Oscar was your best friend when you lived down the street from him. You moved to a different town a few years later, losing touch quickly.

“I’m a race car driver, what are you doing here?” Oscar notes the clothes your wear, the same designer brands he sees WAGs wear in the paddock.

“Oh, you still race? That’s so cool. With, um, Daniel Ricciardo?” you try to pull a name from the back of your mind.

“I actually replaced him, he’s retired now,” Oscar spares the messy details since it’s pretty clear you don’t have a vested interest in motorsport.

“Oh, that’s sad. Hey, it was nice seeing you again,” your goal is to hit the club you frequent in Vegas, and you only have so long before the line gets too long and won’t let you in.

“Right, yeah, enjoy your night,” Oscar watches you walk away, looking like the opposite of the girl he used to play in the dirt with.

“Miss L/n,” the bouncer smiles, taking your tip as you bypass the line. Taking your phone out of the purse, you leave the purse at a bag check, the staff knowing to take care with it and they get a nice reward. You only come here after winning big anyway - and you ALWAYS win big.

You slide onto a stool at the bar, catching the bartender’s eye. He’s the reason you frequent this one in particular. He makes a mean drink and is quite pleasant to look at. He picks up a liquor bottle, winking at you down the bar.

“Welcome back, this one’s on me,” he slides a cocktail to you before going to serve another customer. Maybe tonight you will actually give him your number, but the cat and mouse game you have going is too much fun.

The cocktail is fresh, something you haven’t tried before. It’s like a mix of some of your go to’s. You finish it quickly, craving the pulse of music.

“Going so soon?” the bartender asks as you slide a five to him.

“I need to dance. I’ll be back,” your sly smile makes his eyes follow you as you exit to the main club.

You find the bar once again. The one with the shitty liquor that serves everyone’s main goal. Getting shitfaced. You order two green tea shots, the familiar set of the local dj calling you to the floor.

“Your shot is on me,” a British man, or boy based on his height and struggle to grow facial hair, says as he slides beside you. You raise your eyebrow, passing one of your shots to him. You can sacrifice the buzz you are chasing for an adventure.

“Cheers, but I think you owe me another round now,” your eyes sparkle like the dress you are wearing. The man’s eyes rake your body as you throw the shot back. He quickly follows suit before ordering another round.

“Anything for a beautiful woman like you. I didn’t expect to see an Australian in the States. What’s your name?” he says, filling the time as you wait for the shots.

“I didn’t expect to see a Brit, but here we are,” you smile, unwilling to give your name until he gives his.

You take the next round quick, itching to dance.

“Lando, mate, the team is waiting on you to do the round- Y/n?” a familiar face appears beside you once again. Lando, the boys name is Lando.

“Twice in one night, are you stalking me Piastri?” you tease.

“No, we are here celebrating with the team. This is where you were in a rush to be?” Oscar asks and you nod. Lando looks between the two of you confused. Of course his teammate knows the Australian he just met.

“I always come here when I’m in Vegas. What’s next, Osco? You’ll be in Monaco next week?” you laugh. Oscar realizes how little you really know about racing or him.

“Not next week, no,” Lando answers. For a minute you forgot about him.

“We need to get back to the team. Want to join us?” Oscar asks you, a little disappointed when you shake your head.

“I need to get on the floor and dance. I’m sure I’ll see you soon,” you walk off towards the crowd of moving bodies.

“How the hell do you know her?” Lando watches you leave.

“Old friend, we were best friends for a few years before she moved away,” Oscar explains. Maybe third time will be the charm in getting your number so you can actually stay in touch. Lily has asked about you when looking at old childhood photos.

“She’s hot,” Lando comments, following Oscar back to the team.

“I couldn’t tell you the first thing about her anymore. I looked her up on the way over here and nothing came up. No socials or anything,”

“Odd,” Lando shrugs. An hour later you are back at the bar, and Lando strikes again.

“Do you travel a lot?” Lando asks and you nod.

“Yeah, when I’m not in Australia I travel for work. About a month ago I was in Singapore, around Marina Bay, and before that Macao. London, Paris, and Sydney are other places I frequent,” you tell him, shame letting your eyes roam his body, the top buttons of his shirt undone.

“I travel a lot too,” Lando takes a step closer. one goal in mind.

“I should start visiting new places. You know, I’ve never been to the middle east,” you wave your hand, thinking it would make your statement bigger.

“You should come to Abu Dhabi, Osc and I will get you a paddock pass. You’ll be in Monaco for a couple weeks, right?” Lando asks and you nod.

“Yes, but I was planning on going back to Australia after,” your eyes narrow, unsure at what he’s getting at.

“I’ll be flying to the race from Monaco, why don’t you join Oscar and I on the flight there and fly back to Australia with Oscar?” Lando offers. You turn your attention to your phone, Lando fears he lost you.

“Give me your number, I’ll let you know tomorrow once I am sober,” you hand your phone to him, allowing him to enter his details.

“Everything ok?” Oscar asks, startling Lando as he returns your phone to you.

“Yeah, Lando just invited me to Abu Dhabi,” you turn to Oscar, extending your hand to him. “I’m going back to the casino hotel, let’s stay in touch this time,” you watch Oscar quickly make a contact for himself, sending a text so he has your number as well.

“Do you want me to walk you back?” Oscar asks, concerned.

“Enjoy your party, I’ll be fine,” you let your drunk impulse take over, hugging the shy man before strutting away to get your purse.

“I wish I knew more about her. She’s so different from the girl I grew up with. I’m sure my sisters or mom could tell me,” Oscar says, watching you leave. You don’t even stumble, despite mixing heels and alcohol.

“I think she works for casinos. She mentioned traveling for work and everywhere she goes there are a lot of them,” Lando guesses. Oscar shrugs.

“I’ll ask around,” Oscar replies, turning your words over in his mind.

You thought about moving to Monaco, you love it when you are in the small country,but you can’t seem to permanently leave Australia. Monaco always treats you well, yacht parties mixed with rides around the city in expensive cars, not to mention all the money you win. It really is a tempting move. Maybe one day.

Lando picks you up outside the hotel, his chauffeur takes care of your luggage while you slide into the back. Oscar and Lando were very helpful in planning the last minute trip, despite the racing and team meetings.

“I got you a gift,” Lando hands you an orange bag. You open it and pull out a shirt and hat.

“Thank you so much. Orange isn’t usually my color-“

“Papaya,”

“But I will definitely wear it during the race. Thank you,” your brow furrows at the interruption as you carefully place the clothing back into the bag.

“It’s not orange, it’s papaya. McLaren is very insistent on that. It’s my hat and Oscar’s jersey,” Lando says, watching you tuck the bag beside your feet.

“I see,” an easy conversation falls between you as you approach the airport. The private jet awaits. Oscar is already inside when you arrive.

“Welcome aboard,” Oscar greets you as you settle into a seat. Some more people who you don’t know join the flight.

“Carlos, this is Y/n. She’s Oscar and I’s friend,” Lando says as the man extends his hand to you. You shake it, examining him.

“Nice to meet you,”

“How do you know them?” The Spaniard asks you.

“I grew up with Oscar and ran into him in Vegas. Lando invited me to Abu Dhabi,” you simplify the story.

As soon as you reach cruising height, Lando pulls out a case from a closet.

“Do you like playing cards?” he asks you, setting the black leather case onto a table.

“Occasionally, I love solitaire,” you sit down beside Lando.

“Name of the game is Texas Hold‘Em,” Lando sets it up as the group buys in. You look at your cards and the people around you.

You fold early despite your very good hand, needing to tank yourself.

“Let me take a look at that,” Lando says at the end of the round, checking your cards. “You had a straight, you should’ve stayed. It would’ve won,”

“It would? Silly me, I guess I’ll have to learn as I go,” you bat your eyes. A little lying to get some action never hurt anyone.

“I can teach you,” Lando wraps an arm around your shoulder as Oscar clears his throat.

“That would be unfair, don’t you think?” Oscar says, unsure why he’s feeling protective over you. Maybe it’s because of Lando’s womanizing reputation and you being an old friend.

“It would, we can’t do that,” you agree. You easily win the next three rounds.

“What a comeback, quite impressive,” Carlos says as you collect the money at the center of the table.

“Beginners luck,” you shrug coyly. You purposely lose the next two, going all in on a pair of three’s, an awful hand. It kills you to sandbag, but it would be very suspicious if you were annihilating the group. Then the game comes to a small break for drinks and for Oscar to use the restroom, you quietly flirt with Lando. Carlos declares himself out, choosing to nap instead.

“My offer for lessons still stand,”

“Oh? How would we go about those,” you ask, brushing your leg against his while you gently set your hand on his bicep.

“You, me, and a game a strip poker in my room tonight,” Lando suggests, eyes darkening a little as you lean closer.

“Sounds marvelous.” your devilish smile sets Lando’s mind racing as you turn towards Oscar to talk.

“Why are you pretending to not know how to play?” Oscar arches his brow at you. Slowly but surely, it’s like the two of you never moved away from each other.

“It’s fun. I don’t know how to play that well anyway,” you smile, playing off your lie.

“He’s my teammate, you know,” Oscar’s voice has a tone that warns you not to fuck up.

“I know, Osc. It’s harmless flirting. Besides, I’m not in the right place to start anything serious,” you shrug, knowing Lando’s reputation.

“Does he know that?” both of you glance at Lando who stares like a lost puppy dog.

“I’ll make sure he knows, don’t worry,” you promise as Lando calls both of you back into the game. Fifteen minutes later, Oscar folds.

“It’s just you and me now,” Lando says, both of you with an even amount of earnings.

“Don’t hold back on me,” you bat your eyes innocently as you get your hand. Oscar peeks over your shoulder, watching the cards.

“Don’t you dare fold,” Oscar hisses, you feign confusion and nod.

“Let’s see your cards,” Lando says, laying his down first after your final bets. You checked him, not wanting to discredit your lie.

“Is this good?” you ask as his eyes go wide.

“Holy shit, yeah. You won, four of a kind,” Lando pushes the money towards you.

“No, I couldn’t. You keep it. I’m well enough off anyway,” you give him the money, not really interested in the winnings of a one hundred euro buy in.

Lando starts to protest, but you move from the table to your seat before he can get a word out. You put on your headphones and pull out a book. Oscar follows Carlos in the pursuit of sleep. Two hours down, six more to go of the flight.

You feel a presence beside you and look up from your book.

“What’s up?” you ask, pulling an earbud out, marking the page of your book and setting it down.

“Everyone’s asleep,” he whispers. You glance around the plane as he inches closer to you. You feel his hand brush against your arm.

“Lando,” your breath hitches, his face close to yours.

“Let me kiss you,” he says, your head tilting up against your better judgment.

“We can’t do this,” you whisper, lips almost brushing his.

“Why not?” you get the sense that he doesn’t care as your head starts to spin and there is a strange pull between you.

“I’m not looking for a relationship,” you state.

“Good, this is just a bit of fun, right?” his hand runs up and down your leg as you fight your body from getting closer.

“Right,”

“So kiss me,” Lando’s voice is breathy as he connects your lips. You pull back as you feel yourself losing control.

“Lando, we can’t, not here,” you shake your head, trying hard not to be pulled in by his puppy dog eyes and curls.

“Ok, what if we talk instead?” he sits back in the chair. You let him ramble, feeling yourself start to drift off. Lando notices you yawn as you try to carry on the conversation.

“Sorry, I don’t know why I’m so tired,” you apologize, shifting in the seat to a more comfortable position.

“It’s okay, planes always put me to sleep too,” Lando doesn’t take your sleepiness to heart.

“Wanna listen to music?” you ask, pulling out your headphones. Lando simply nods, taking an earbud from you.

He feels a light weight on his shoulder a few minutes later. A quick glance tells him that you fell asleep. Lando can’t stop the butterflies in his chest. A beautiful woman is unintentionally using him as a pillow, it’s natural. He will never admit that he has a crush, but he wishes that you didn’t insist it is all for fun. Lando knows that Oscar doesn’t trust him with you, despite your recently rediscovered friendship. He will just have to prove it.

Unfortunately for Lando, you see more of Oscar and less of Lando during the weekend. You also left earlier than planned, citing a family thing that needed you back in Australia.

Oscar talks to you frequently, but you don’t show to a race. Lando asks questions, and even finds your social media, but it’s private and Oscar gives vague answers. It is nearly a year until Lando sees you again in Singapore.

Oscar and Lando are exploring Marina Bay when a casino advertisement catches Lando’s eye.

“Osc, is that-“

“Y/n,” Oscar finishes Lando’s sentence.

“Play where champions play. Poker champion? I thought she didn’t know how to play,” Lando reads the ad and your description. You started playing some public tables and tournaments in the past year, the sponsorship and casino money was alluring. You play private tables most of the time, but a tournament or two never hurts.

“I guess we were wrong,” Oscar stares at it.

“She lied to me,” Lando is shocked, he thought you had some natural talent, but you let him teach you. He feels a little stupid.

“She lied to all of us. It kinda explains why she never told me how she got rich or what her job is,” Oscar frowns, watching as security exits the casino to escort a guest in from the black SUV.

Without thinking, Lando moves towards the entrance. “Y/n!” he calls out to you, watching your head snap over in surprise. Oscar approaches Lando, staying a few steps behind.

“Lando? Osc? What are you doing here?” you ask, the security silently encouraging you to keep walking.

“We have a race-“ Oscar starts, but you cut him off.

“Don’t stand there, follow me in,” you tell them before saying something to the security. Whatever you said, it lets Lando and Oscar get near you.

“You have better security than we do,” Oscar says.

“Well, the casino wants to protect its assets,” you shrug.

“I think you have some explaining to do,” Lando seems off, colder than usual. You glance around.

“Not here, in my suite,” you say, leading the way to one of the best rooms available.

Lando and Oscar gape at the opulence, it’s nicer than their rooms.

“You are here for a race?” You ask as you pour a glass of water.

“Yeah, do you want a pass?” Oscar asks without a second thought.

“Sure, maybe I’ll bet on you to win,” you smile, crossing the room to take a seat.

“Why are you here?” Lando asks, first Vegas an Monaco, now Marina Bay.

“Work. I’m playing a few tables and a tournament for sponsorship purposes,” you lean back in the chair, not sure of how much you should say.

“I thought you didn’t know how to play?” Oscar looks between you and Lando, curious at the standoff and tension between you.

“I lied. I only recently started playing public games,” your eyes narrow a little, gauging the room.

“Why?” Oscar asks, bringing himself into the conversation.

“Why I lied or why I only just started playing publicly?” you don’t get an answer so you choose to answer both. “I lied because I wasn’t comfortable with my career and I didn’t want to be judged,” your arm raises to scratch your neck, an emotional cue that you haven’t been able to stop yourself from doing. “I also didn’t want to embarrass you. I only just started playing publicly for more money and casino sponsorship,” you watch their reactions, crafting your words carefully based on the small cues they give you.

“So what do you do exactly?” Oscar pries.

“I play card games and casinos invite me to play worldwide. It attracts regular people to have high caliber players in house, and the expensive tables are lucrative for me. It’s simple marketing,” Lando looks at you, the wheels turning in his mind.

“So you do work for the casinos?” he asks, wondering if his first guess from when he met you was right at all.

“You could say so, yeah, in a way,” you look between both of them. “Any more questions?”

“How did you start?”

“I just kinda fell into it. Picked up a lot of games quickly and had natural luck and talent,” you answer, you seem so nonchalant about it.

“How rich are you?” Oscar knows he probably shouldn’t ask, but he’s curious anyway.

“I am not answering that,” you laugh, almost affronted that he would ask. “Let’s just say, I could retire right know and live very comfortably for the rest of my life,” you answer. It helps that you’ve made some very good investments over the year to build your net worth. Even if you lost money on an expensive buy in, you’d be well off.

“Holy shit,” Lando whispers, glancing at Oscar who meets Lando’s eye. There’s a subtle shift in the air. The way they look at you now is different. It’s like even though they knew you were rich from how you dressed, they didn’t know how so it was pushes aside. Now it matters to them. This is the reason you don’t tell people. Not because they are likely to ask for money, it’s the judging. Like the way you earn your living makes you a bad person.

“Look, if you guys want to judge, that fine. I made my money legally and that’s what matters to me. Now, if you will excuse me, I am contractually obliged to make an appearance and play a public table,” you stand up, resolute in yourself and the choices you’ve made with your life. If they judge you or want to act like they don’t know you going forward, that’s their prerogative. Lando and Oscar watch as you leave, one security guard remaining by the door to escort them out.

“Should we follow her?” Lando asks, feeling like they’ve fucked up. They didn’t have to say a word, the way they reacted told you enough.

“Yeah,” Oscar stands, a pain in his chest at how quickly you turned cold. “There’s a reason she keeps people at an arms length, I think we are that reason,” Oscar murmurs, the shame setting in.

“Can we watch her play?” Lando asks the guard as he brings them back to the main floor.

“Yeah, check the map over there,” the guard points to a wall, leaving Oscar and Lando to fend for themselves. They stay silent as they walk through the casino, finding the poker tables. A small crowd is near yours spectating.

“Why didn’t she tell us from the start?” Lando asks quietly as they approach.

“I assume she doesn’t want people to ask for money, same reason we don’t always disclose our career,” Oscar shrugs, he knows he’s wrong but doesn’t want to admit it.

You are sitting at a 1,000/2,000 no-limit game of hold'em. Typically you would be at a super high roller table, in a fancy room, schmoozing with execs and other professional players. But this is a business appearance, and all you have to do is win a few hands then you can leave the table.

“Maybe. Maybe she thought that because we were rich, we would understand and wouldn’t judge. We are her friends,” Lando’s voice cracks slightly, they stay silent as they are within earshot of the table.

They lean against a railing, separating the few people near them from you and the table.

Oscar feels bad for the people brave enough to play you. Your eyes are cold and calculating, not one muscle on your face moves as you observe. You slowly build a depth of knowledge about your opponent’s, balancing poker strategy with the emotional game. It’s impressive.

“She’s like a strategist and driver combined,” Oscar murmers, barely loud enough for Lando to hear. Lando simply nods in agreement as you toss a coin into the pot, calling the bet. You are not only doing the strategy that a team would do for Lando and Oscar, but the emotional game that Lando and Oscar do when driving.

“This is so hot,” Lando whispers as you seem to win with ease. Luck seems to naturally fall to you, but it’s just skill. You glance up from the little bubble of the game, noticing Lando and Oscar watching, but you make no indication of it.

“There’s been rumors that she is going to join a professional tour,” someone beside the two drivers says, quiet enough that it doesn’t disturb the game, but loud enough that it catches Lando and Oscar’s eye. So you were serious about being more outward about your career.

Lando and Oscar are gone by the time you leave the game, and you aren’t surprised. You don’t stick around, you just collect your money and retreat to your room. Typically you would indulge in the amenities that the casino has to offer- the bar, restaurants, spas, etc. When you get to your room, there is an envelope near the entrance. You open it and find paddock passes for the weekend. Your hand shakes slightly as you pull them out, a frown settling on your face.

Despite your better judgment, you show up to the first free practice. You don’t wear the gear that the boys got you, opting for a neutral outfit.

“Y/n L/n! I’m Zak Brown, CEO of McLaren Racing,” a man extends his hand out to you. “I’m a huge fan so I was thrilled when your agent reached out to request paddock passes,” your eyes narrow slightly in confusion. You don’t have an agent. He does look like he would follow the poker world though, and your emergence into the public tables has been a hot topic recently.

“Thank you for having me,” you shake his hand. He turns and waves a hand, your eyes follow his motion.

“These two are our drivers, Lando and Oscar,” Zak introduces you but you don’t offer a hand to shake, keeping them folded in front of your chest. Oscar’s heart hurts, a year of rebuilding the friendship washed away.

“We will show her around,” Oscar offers, having some free time.

“Thank you, Oscar,” you ignore Lando, finding it harder to forgive him. You’ve known Oscar for longer, which makes it easier, even if it shouldn’t.

“Right, I’ll see you later,” you don’t dare to look at him, his dejected voice tells you enough.

“I’m really sorry, I was just stunned. It’s not really a career you think about,” Oscar starts, knowing you’ve already had a tour of the McLaren area.

“I take it you are my so-called agent?” you ask, ignoring his apology.

“Guilty. I’m sorry if I overstepped, I just wanted to give you the option of acting like you don’t know us, in case you needed space,” you nod at Oscar’s words, processing them with every step around the paddock.

“I talked to Lily. I’m sorry for storming out on you abruptly. I realize that it was a complete one eighty from how I was moments prior. You weren’t the one judging, and I overreacted a bit,” you take a deep breath, offering an apology of your own, one specific to Oscar.

“You think you overreacted because you were scared of being in that position already. You had a right to remove yourself from the situation, and I’m sorry I had a part in it. You are my friend, and that is more important than anything else,” Oscar bolsters you, and reiterates his apology.

“Thank you, it means a lot to have you as a friend,” you open your arms slightly, inviting your typically stoic friend in for a hug. Oscar carefully wraps his arms around you, not much of a hugger.

“Should we talk about the other elephant-“

“Nope,”

“Gotcha. Want ice cream?” Oscar asks as you stand outside of Ferrari.

“Always,” you tentatively follow him inside.

“I was jokingly adopted by Charles, now I get to come in and get ice cream,” Oscar shrugs, explaining as if it’s no big deal. You are out as quickly as you went in, but you acquired your target.

“Some fans posted photos of Lando and I leaving the casino, we got asked if we had gambling addictions,” Oscar tells you between bites.

“Really?” you choke back a laugh. “What did you tell them?” you ask, curious as to how they played it off.

“We said that wanted to see if it was like the casino in Percy Jackson,” you shake your head, taking another bite of the ice cream.

“Well, that’s one excuse. By the way, are you even allowed to have ice cream right now?” you ask, realizing that he’s probably on a diet.

“No, but it’s worth it. You’d be surprised how often drivers break their diets. It’s not like major, just a little cheating,” Oscar waves it off. By the time you return to McLaren, it’s like nothing happened between you. “I’ll be back in a minute, wait here,” Oscar says, leaving you at a couch while he disappears into another room. Lando takes the opportunity to pounce, sitting in the chair closest to you.

“Y/n? Can we talk?” you feel your heart freeze. You turn your head away from him slightly, staring out the window. “Please?” his voice breaks, and you silently look at him. You don’t say a word, but he takes the bit of attention you’ve given him.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I judged you when you offered your trust. I hurt you in a vulnerable moment, and I know that it’s hard to forgive in moments like that,” Lando shifts closer, but still keeps some distance.

“I expected more from you,” the words sting as you look back towards the window. Lando looks down at his hands for a moment before he looks at you again.

“Yeah. I know. I never wanted to ruin what we have,” your head snaps over to stare at him.

“There is no we. We kissed once, and it didn’t mean anything. I don’t know where you got that idea from,” you practically seethe and Lando is afraid he poked the bear.

“Right,” Lando whispers. He knows his reputation. One he’s wanted to change since meeting you, but you don’t know that. “You’re right, I misspoke,” Lando says even if it kills him to. “I just meant that we had a friendship starting and I was excited to get to know you more,” he covers his butt, telling you what he thinks you want to hear. You don’t expect it to hurt, but it does.

“It takes more than that. It will take time and effort,” you don’t know why you are making him work for it, but the words feel right. Lando’s eyes light up a little, there is a chance. Maybe he can find a way to win you over, but there is one big obstacle in the way. The one standing in front of him. Oscar.

“We have to get ready for our first practice session. Feel free to take food or drinks,” Oscar tells you, silently telling Lando to leave. You give Oscar a nod, letting him know you are okay.

Surprisingly, it’s you who finds Lando next. It does take until after the second free practice, Oscar and Zak kept you busy. You can’t help but feel a little guilty after sitting with your thoughts. He’s in a quiet spot, leaning against a railing. You wouldn’t have known it existed without Oscar unintentionally giving it away. The secluded spot is invisible to the rest of the paddock and cameras, perfect for being alone. It’s odd, seeing him so quiet. You stand beside him, a decent amount of space between you.

You can tell he knows you are there, but neither of you speak. It’s an odd comfort, standing in silence with someone whom you admittedly don’t know that well. Your silent standoff, like a game of chicken, ends when Lando unintentionally steps closer and you take the first metaphorical step.

“One chance. One shot to earn a fragment of my trust back,” you murmur into the darkness, eyes trained on the night sky above. You didn’t think you would care, that you could dismiss him like every other guy who hurt you before. You didn’t expect to feel guilty.

Lando doesn’t hesitate, pulling you into a kiss. It’s different than the one shared on the plane. This is tender, unrushed, nearly a year of yearning being poured into it. His hand finds your neck, fingertips in your hair as you melt into the kiss. The other hand finds itself on your waist. You may not know where you stand with him or your readiness for any semblance of a relationship, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

Lando gently pulls away to breathe, his eyes searching yours as his hands keep you close.

“I’ve spent the last year trying to be better, to strengthen my relationships and working on myself to be worthy of you. You made me want to be better, even if you didn’t want me. I don’t know where you stand as compared to last year, but I want you,” he stresses his last word, driving it into your soul and it hits you. He doesn’t care what you do for a living, if you are rich or poor, or even that Oscar is likely your closest friend. He likes you enough to want to better himself.

“Lando, I-“ the words leave your mouth before you begin to think.

“Shh, don’t say anything unless you mean it,” he stares into your eyes, igniting a fire deep inside. Something shifts with that fire, a stone building your resolve.

“Fuck it,” you whisper, allowing yourself to be pulled back into Lando’s orbit. His soft lips kissing you once more - this time with more passion yet just as soft as before.

“We can take this slow, at whatever pace you need,” Lando promises against your lips. He feels like if he lets you a step further away, you will disappear for another year.

The rest of the weekend passes by with stolen glances, quick kisses in hidden corners, and the thrill of brushing hands. You feel like a school girl, but this time you and Lando agree to keep in touch and already have dates planned.

Keeping it quiet only lasts until the end of the season. You couldn’t hide it from Oscar or keep it a secret, so you were upfront with the truth - things are starting to turn serious.

You are in Monaco when Lando returns from Abu Dhabi. You spent the week setting up your new apartment, choosing a cheaper place. It helps you feel like you aren’t wasting money when traveling.

A knock on your door prompts you to pause your music, rushing towards the door while trying not to hip check one of the boxes in your living room.

“Surprise!” Lando grins holding takeout bags in his hands.

“You weren’t supposed to arrive until tomorrow!” you throw your arms around him, taking in the moment.

“I got an earlier flight, didn’t feel like partying two nights in a row,” he says into your shoulder before stepping out of the hug and into the apartment. He looks around, setting the bags on your wooden dinner table. “This looks so much nicer than when we tour it,” Lando compliments your hard work. The lighting is soft and inviting, plush rugs adding a coziness that makes him want to snuggle under a blanket on the couch that looks perfect for a nap.

“Thanks, it’s really coming together,” you smile, there are a lot less boxes, most just decoration that need placed. You help Lando with the dinner, settling in on the couch to eat. Lando was right, the couch is incredibly comfortable and soft.

“So I was thinking, my friends do this card game night a couple times a year, and I want you to join me, if you’d like,” Lando proposes between bites, locking eyes with you.

“You want me to meet your friends?” you nearly choke on your food. Sure, Oscar knows that you and Lando are seeing each other, but that’s it.

“Well, I’d really love for you to meet them as my girlfriend,” Lando studies your reaction. The way you instinctively school your face to not give a reaction before your brain reminds you who you are with, then a smile creeps onto your face.

“I would love to meet your friends as your girlfriend, but this isn’t you bringing me with you as an advantage?” you ask just to be sure and because you are still processing that he asked you to be his girlfriend.

“Well, it is a plus, but I just want them to know how awesome you are and rub it in their faces,” Lando sets his food on the coffee table and moves closer to you so your knees are brushing.

“Lan,” your voice is soft, overjoyed at the thought. You set the food aside and lean in to kiss him.

“So, what do you want me to do first?” Lando looks around the room at the boxes, ready to help with whatever you need.

“Lando, you just finished your season. Don’t worry about the apartment,”

“I want to help my girlfriend set up her new home,” he insists.

“Well, in that case, let’s start… in the bedroom,” your sly smile turns to a grin as Lando chases you into the bedroom, his arms wrapping around your waist to pick you up and carry you to bed.

You lay under the sheets together, bodies pressed against each other, the darkness of the room inviting for deep conversation.

“Why weren’t you ready when we first met?” Lando asks the question that he’s wondered since seeing you in Singapore.

“Every guy who I got close to, every friend I made, always did one of two things: try to use me for my money, and or ghost me because they thought I was a criminal,” you admit, allowing yourself to come to terms with it. You answer a question Lando never dares to ask aloud - why Oscar and Lily seem to be your only friends. His heart hurts for you, you don’t deserve that treatment, even if he hurt you in a similar way before.

“There is nothing wrong with your career. You play legally and honestly, no one has a right to judge,” Lando reassures you, you whisper thanks and savor the comforting silence of the room.

Lando rarely leaves your apartment those few days, only going to retrieve the essentials. Now you sit in his friends apartment, liquor flowing as you are deep into the card games.

Lando whispers in your ear, a mixture of flirting and telling you to stop sandbagging yourself. His leather jacket covers your shoulders, he claimed to be too warm with it on while you were a little cold in your t-shirt.

“Read it and weep,” you show your hand, grinning as the boys groan and Lando laughs. He wishes real money was being spent, you already ran a couple of his friends out of the game - including himself.

“Where did you find her? She’s much better than you,” one of the guys teases Lando, who wraps an arm around your chair. Your cheeks flame a little as you nod in agreement.

“It isn’t hard,” you laugh, swatting Lando’s hand away as he lightly pinches your shoulder.

“Didn’t any of you do a background check on my girlfriend? You need to learn from every girl group ever,” Lando shakes his head, placing a soft kiss behind your ear.

“Hm, we do tend to know everything about a guy our friend is seeing,” you hum.

“Detectives, all of them,” one of the guys agrees as another is furiously google searching you.

“Holy shit. You are so much cooler than he is,” another tells you, making your cheeks even more red. Lando captures the moment in his memory, how adorable you are when you blush.

“I make more than him, so he’s my WAG,” you tease as an outlet for the mix of embarrassment and flattery.

“And I’m proud of it,” Lando doesn’t lie, he would rather be your WAG than have any other girl by his side. Another round gets dealt and you hone in on the game.

“You’re so sexy when you play wearing my clothes,” Lando whispers in your ear and it takes every bit of willpower in you to not react. It’s like a game to see how far he can push your limits. “I can’t wait to take you home,” he says before resting his chin on your shoulder, his hand moving down to rest on your hip.

The alcohol in your veins makes it hard for you to control yourself. His jacket weighs heavily on your shoulders, as he continues to whisper his plans for you later that night. Your skin is alight as his fingers trail the bit of exposed skin at your hip.

You fold, having a bad hand and your mind spinning with desire. A fake yawn gives Lando a cue to cut in.

“I am afraid it is past our professional’s bed time,” Lando’s eyes shine playfully as you avoid the smirks on his friends faces, the ones that tell you they know why you are leaving.

“Well, this isn’t a casino, no need to be up this late,” you yawn again, playing along as you stand. Lando gives his goodbyes as you exchange the always awkward ‘nice meeting you’s’.

You hand is warm as your fingers interlock with Lando’s. He leads you down the stairs and out to his car, giggling as you tell him to slow down before he breaks an ankle. Pure bliss is how Lando would describe it. Just the two of you in the empty street, stars twinkling in the night sky, Lando pinning you against his car with your hands around his neck. You would give anything to stay there forever.

[pardonmydelays]

i was tagged by @jumpsuit-jumpsuitcoverme to answer these random questions (thank you sm violet!). sorry for making a brand new post for this. anyway:

questions:

: ̗̀➛ what’s ur fav color

: ̗̀➛ how long have u been on tumblr for

: ̗̀➛ wheres a place u always wanted to travel to

: ̗̀➛ what’s ur fav clothing brand(s)

: ̗̀➛ what’s ur fav singer/band(s)

: ̗̀➛ what’s ur current phone lockscreen

: ̗̀➛ most recent/current hyperfixation

: ̗̀➛ what’s ur relationship status

: ̗̀➛ what’s ur dream job

: ̗̀➛ outside of tumblr, fav social app

: ̗̀➛ do u have pets

: ̗̀➛ if u do have pets, what kind/how many

: ̗̀➛ do u prefer tea or coffee

: ̗̀➛ whats ur fav ice cream flavor

: ̗̀➛ tag at least three other tumblr accounts

answers:

pink and black

five years i think

the usa (especially new york), iceland, india, australia

don't have one, as long as it's oversized or black it's good lmao (my sister always says i look like a gangster)

twenty one pilots (everybody shocked), but i also listen to a lot of musicals (especially lmm and dave malloy) and some pop girlies (right now mostly gracie abrams), my music taste is amazing as you can see

current lockscreen: happy boys (i change it so often tho i just have too many pics that i love)

twenty one pilots and right now also warriors i'm afraid (new lmm's album)

have you seen my blog single

broadway actress but i have no talent lmao

probably insta but i am mostly just lurking and discord if that counts

nope :( my apartment is too small to have a pet

again, i do not, but i want a cat (i would name him clancy)

coffee, but i drink a lot of tea now that it's autumn here

chocolate or mint with chocolate

npt: @wagingmywarsbehindmyface @thepaladinstrait @xproskeith @redwidow616 @mymuses-acquiredlikebruises @noproof-youjustknow @anixknowsnothin @soupiiiie @missmultipleaffairs @reverseblackholeofwords @phantaloon @thefootnotes @the-paladin-gay (that's more than three i'm sorry)

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

In The Gloomy Depths [Chapter 2: Tiger's Eye]

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

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

Word count: 5.7k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Tagging: @arcielee @nightvyre @mrs-starkgaryen @gemini-mama @ecstaticactus, more in comments 🥰

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

The taxidermied tiger head hangs above the fireplace in the sitting room, its jaws agape in a perpetual roar and its eyes polished spheres of metamorphic rock the color of dusk. Daemon shot it in Burma years ago���valleys of saturated green earth, mountain ranges like a crooked spine—shortly after opening his third black opal mine in Australia. You stare at the disembodied creature and she stares back, a silent scream, a doomed eternal terror in her tiger’s eye gaze: Help! A man is killing me. A man is taking me from where I belong. A man is nailing me to a wall so all the world knows he is the one whose bullet severed my aorta, filled me with hemorrhaging blood until I sank down, down, down.

You say, still looking at the slayed beast: “Did we really have to bring that with us?”

Daemon glances over as he fastens his cufflinks, onyx with red beryl in the shape of a three-headed dragon, the Targaryen family crest. “I’m sure you’d prefer a finger painting from that Italian tosspot you’re so enamored with. What’s his name, Pizarro?”

“Picasso. And he’s Spanish.”

“Even worse.”

You turn to Daemon, and you can feel yourself wilting, becoming pitiful, vulnerable, needy. “Where are you going?”

He smirks as he stalks past you. “Wherever I want.” Then he passes through the doorway and out into the hall, flanked by the ever-grim Edward Rushton, black suits and polished leather shoes.

It’s midday on April 12th, and you and Fern are now alone in the Targaryen staterooms. Laenor is down on F-Deck enjoying the Squash Racquet Court with his new Parisian companions, Rhaenyra is in the Reading and Writing Room with a group of ladies led by the Countess of Rothes, and Dagmar has taken Draco…somewhere. Meanwhile, your sweet-tempered maid is flitting around making beds and collecting empty cups and soiled linens. “Fern?” you call.

She peeks out of Draco’s bedroom. “Yes, ma’am? Do you need something?”

To leap overboard and swim back to Ireland. “Would you like to take a stroll around the Promenade Deck with me? Breathe some fresh air, look for dolphins and whales, have lunch at the Verandah Cafe?”

Fern is apologetic in that soft, skittish way that she has. “I’m so sorry, ma’am. I have to finish cleaning the rooms before Dagmar comes back.”

She doesn’t say why—that would be insubordinate—but you know. Just like on the family crest, the dragon has three heads: Daemon, Draco, Dagmar. All must be appeased lest their fire turn you to ash. And Fern lives in terror of the gaunt Scandinavian tyrant. “Right. I understand.”

“I should be done in an hour or two. When you return from your walk, I’ll make you tea.”

“You’re too kind.”

She is confused. “It’s my job, ma’am.”

“Still, I’m glad you’re the one doing it.”

Fern smiles, small and hesitant. “Thank you, ma’am. Enjoy your walk.”

Outside on the Promenade Deck, the sun is bright and the wind brisk, just warm enough to forego a coat, black mink or white ermine or grey rabbit or reddish fox, pelts harvested, creatures butchered. Your dress is a cheerful yellow, as if attempting to conjure the golden-haired magic of the Targaryens, their willfulness, their invincibility, their habit of bending the world’s truth in their hands until it snaps. Yet none of them are here with you; you are alone, you are unnecessary. As you walk, you pass women reading novels on teak deckchairs, children playing with spinning tops and dominoes under the watchful eyes of fathers and governesses, men smoking cigars as they debate business and politics and which gemstones they should purchase for their sweethearts. You have to get away from them.

You take the Grand Staircase up to the Boat Deck, the highest level of the ship, and to distract yourself you count the covered lifeboats that are stowed there. This does not assuage your anxiety; you see only twenty, and while you have made a practice of avoiding sailing and therefore are no expert on the issue, this does not seem like enough. You go to the railing—about as tall as your waist—and lean over it as you stare, thoughts troubled and brow furrowed, into the wild, uninterrupted blue of the North Atlantic, five hundred miles from the coast of Ireland. To your left is a man painting a sheet of paper clipped to an easel, a palette held in his hand, viscous globs of color from small silvery tubes. Seventy feet below where you stand is the sea, thrashing against Titanic, a wood-and-steel intruder. You lean a little farther over the side of the ship. The water is cold, you imagine; cold, deep, dark, silent.

If I fell in, this would all be over, you think. No more Daemon. No more anyone. The only people who would miss me are my parents, and they’ll never see me again anyway.

But no; you cannot abandon Draco. He’s a piece of you, even if he doesn’t know it. You cannot allow him to become a monster.

The viola player peeks out from behind his easel. “Not thinking about jumping, are you?”

You gasp, startled, and then cover your face as you groan. “Why are you always out here?!”

“Aw, fancy rock lady needs a member of the perpetual underclass to malign,” he says as he adds brushstrokes to his painting. He has procured a suit somehow—black, slightly too big for him, likely stolen—to better masquerade as a first-class passenger. “What’s the matter, rock lady? Did your servants not put enough sugar in your tea this morning? Did they tug a little too hard as they brushed your hair?”

“You’re not well mentally. You need a straightjacket.”

“I’m not the one about to throw myself into the Atlantic Ocean.”

You glare at him, bitter, defensive. “I wasn’t going to jump.”

“Then what were you doing?”

You can’t answer; you wring your hands and press your lips together so tightly they ache, watch dark smoke billow from the nearest funnel, coal shoveled into blazing furnaces, treasures of the earth extracted like teeth and consumed.

“Hey, I didn’t, um…” The viola player lowers his paintbrush, repentant. “It wasn’t my intention to upset you.”

You ask to change the subject: “What are you painting?”

“People,” he says, grinning, then turns his easel to show you. It’s a father holding his daughter so she can look over the railing and pointing to show her something out in the waves, dolphins, perhaps. His work is excellent, you are surprised to see: wispy curls of hair, irises alight with emotion, shadows and wrinkles and cheeks ruddy from gusts of wind, imperfections of reality.

“It’s good,” you manage once you’ve gotten your bearings.

“And of course you’re shocked.” He points to a scuffed brown leather portfolio resting against one leg of the easel. “I have plenty more, if you’re interested.”

You open the portfolio. There are men worriedly counting coins, women waiting on park benches, children beaming as they feed ducks or tend to their dolls, people giggling and scowling and burning up with clandestine longing, people sipping drinks in smoky pubs. In the bottom right corner of each painting is a moniker for the subject: Crystal, Big Red, Sunshine, Baron, Carnation, Tiny, Mars, Archer, Harpist, Pennies, Henry VIII, Belfast Belle. Unwittingly, you smile to yourself. “You give them names.”

“I watch people, but I don’t usually talk to them,” the viola player explains as he dabs thick oil paint on the paper clipped to the easel, treated to resemble the texture of linen. “I like to catch them unawares. Keeps the moment genuine, truthful. Otherwise they start acting for me.”

“Why paper instead of canvas?”

“Easier to travel with. Lighter and less bulky.”

You recall what he told Daemon at O’Connell’s Bar back in Galway: Well I’ve played all over Ireland, sir. All over Europe, in fact. You gingerly slide his paintings back into the portfolio and tease: “Who do you think you are, Picasso?”

He chuckles and shakes his head. His sand-colored hair trashes in the wind that blows off the ocean, salt and mist. “I am under no such delusion. I’ve met him, though.”

You gawk at the viola player. “You’ve…you’ve met Pablo Picasso?”

“Yeah,” he says casually. “In Barcelona. I love his Blue and Rose Period stuff. Now he’s doing some weird cubism bullshit.” The viola player shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s his art, he can paint what he wants. But I prefer something a little more…real.”

“I do too,” you confess. “I went to Paris once with my parents. I saw some of Picasso’s work in a gallery, but he wasn’t there at the time. I bought a few paintings.”

“Which ones?”

“Mother and Child from 1905. Flowers from 1901.” You hesitate. It’s a bit scandalous. “Blue Nude.”

But the viola player neither cringes nor makes a joke. “I remember that one,” he says softly, watching you. After a moment he asks: “Are they hanging in your rooms?”

“They’re in a trunk. Daemon doesn’t like them.” And the animosity in your voice is an act of treason, however small. You glance around for Daemon, Rush, Dagmar, Rhaenyra, Laenor, and thankfully find none of them. You avert your eyes, ashamed. A husband you hate, and fear, and obey, and lie awake at night conspiring how to please.

There is something that ripples across the viola player’s face—sympathy, distress—and then he resumes putting the final touches on his portrait of two unnamed passengers. “Do you paint?”

You laugh. “Very badly.”

He offers you the paintbrush, saturated with a reddish-gold color like dusk. “You can help me fill in the man’s scarf. That’s hard to fuck up.”

Your jaw falls open.

“That’s hard to mess up,” he amends.

Smiling shyly, you take the paintbrush and add a few tentative strokes to the scarf. The viola player accepts the paintbrush when you forfeit it.

“So besides making awful paintings, how did you spend your time back in Galway?”

Reminding my father who he is. Taking long walks through the fields with my mother. Sitting in the garden wondering how my life went so wrong. Trying to stop my only child from becoming a demon like his father. “I read a lot. Mostly Edgar Allan Poe, Jane Austen, and Shakespeare.”

“Shakespeare?” he echoes, amused. “Recite some for me.”

You take a moment to decide on a passage.

“Not for the world: why, man, she is mine own,

And I as rich in having such a jewel

As twenty seas, if all their sand were pearl,

The water nectar and the rocks pure gold.”

“The Two Gentlemen of Verona,” the viola player says, much to your amazement. He’s a thief holding a third-class ticket, and yet he’s learned. This is rare outside the blue-blooded aristocrats and the titans of industry. Fern can barely read and write.

“Where were you educated?”

“The world,” he replies, grinning.

“And the world included lessons on Shakespeare?”

“Sure, sometimes.”

“Alright then, let’s hear an excerpt.”

He considers this, tapping the handle of his paintbrush against his lips. Then he says:

“My crown is in my heart, not on my head;

Not decked with diamonds and Indian stones,

Nor to be seen: my crown is called content:

A crown it is that seldom kings enjoy.”

“King Henry VI,” you say, admittedly impressed. “I didn’t know poor people read Shakespeare.”

“Shakespeare’s plays were written for everyone, fancy rock lady. Standing tickets at the Globe cost pennies.”

You study the viola player as he paints, feeling a bewildering combination of curiosity, amusement, fondness. “What’s your name?”

He pauses as if he’s not sure what to say, then gives you a sly, crooked grin as he replies: “Picasso.”

Now a steward is approaching, and the viola player is alarmed, perhaps anticipating being revealed as a fraud and dragged back to the third-class accommodations; but the steward is only passing by with a tray full of champagne flutes, offering them to illustrious passengers as they stroll the decks. You take two glasses and he continues on his way. You down one flute in just a few gulps and offer the other to the viola player. He smiles politely but does not reach for it.

“Thank you, but I don’t drink.”

“Really?” Have you ever met a man who doesn’t? You can’t think of one. And you are suddenly aware of how quickly you finished your champagne—unladylike, improper, but surely no great disgrace in front of this audience—and how yearningly you’re already glancing at the second glass, carbonated amber, fool’s gold.

“I’m not someone who can stop at just one or two,” the viola player says. “I’ve learned that about myself. Tried to fight it for a while, turns out acceptance is easier. I hardly even miss booze anymore.”

“How long did you fight it?”

“Ten years.”

You are caught off-guard. “What? How old are you?”

“Twenty-three.”

Since he was thirteen? Can that be right? “We’re about the same age,” you say instead, taking a distracted swig from the glass that would have been his.

“Yeah,” the viola player agrees thoughtfully.

You finish the champagne and hand both glasses to a passing steward. “I should go,” you tell the viola player. “I don’t know where Daemon is on the ship, and…” I don’t want him to see us. I don’t want him to hurt me.

“Sure. I get it.”

“Good luck with your painting.”

“I’ll make one of you next,” he promises, and you’re certain he’s joking.

You smile and turn to leave. “Whatever you say, Picasso.”

You walk towards the Grand Staircase that leads back down to the Promenade Deck. As you pass the Gymnasium, you steal a glimpse through one of the windows and see them inside: Draco giggling as he rides the electric horse and yanks gleefully on the reins, Dagmar beaming as her gnarled, arthritic hands hold him by the waist so he doesn’t slide off.

You lay your palm against the cold glass, separated by a few steps that might as well be miles, wreckage peering up through the darkness from the bottom of the sea.

~~~~~~~~~~

Fern helps you dress for dinner: a glittering gold gown, a tiger’s eye amulet from Burma. Laenor has brought a companion, one of the Parisians he’s become so well-acquainted with, a count’s son named Hugo. As Laenor is preoccupied, Daemon escorts Rhaenyra to the First-Class Dining Saloon down in D-Deck. They meander together, her arm linked through his, murmuring gossip about the other passengers and snickering contemptuously. You trail behind them, feeling invisible, a sun that casts no warmth.

All around you are other first-class passengers descending the Grand Staircase: Benjamin Guggenheim and his mistress two decades his junior, John Jacob Astor and his pregnant eighteen-year-old wife, railroad tycoons Charles M. Hays and John B. Thayer, steel industrialist George Dennick Wick, the glamorous Countess of Rothes, the newly-wealthy Margaret Brown, the eminent journalist W.T. Stead, the White Star Line’s managing director J. Bruce Ismay. But your gaze keeps drifting to Macy’s department store owner Isidor Straus and his wife Ida, neither young, neither beautiful, and yet so evidently devoted to each other. You wonder how that feels; surely nothing like a bruise, a reproach, a back turned to you in the marriage bed.

On the A-Deck landing of the Grand Staircase is the viola player, his horsehair bow gliding over four thick strings to loose an energetic, jubilant song, standing there in his suit that no one else notices is too big for him because they don’t really see him at all. He is less than a fixture of the ship; the first-class passengers marvel at the glass-and-wrought-iron dome overhead and the Neoclassical clock on the wall and even the bronze cherub statue at the base of the steps, but the flesh-and-blood machinery of Titanic wears a sort of camouflage, unremarkable and interchangeable, uncomfortably human. The viola player gives you a wink and a quick, subtle smile as you pass by him, and you smile back. And for a moment, it is like you have a friend aboard the ship, a groundswell of fleeting joy, gratefulness, peace.

Dinner is oysters, salmon with hollandaise, corned ox tongue, chateau potatoes, asparagus soup, Waldorf pudding, other things that you pick at without much interest. You miss Lough Cutra Castle, you miss your parents, you miss Ireland, you miss your life before Daemon Targaryen stalked into it with his ever-glinting green eyes and his talent for making you so desperate to satisfy him. Instead of eating, you mostly drink champagne, draining glasses of it until your cheeks are warm and your thoughts hazy. You look around for the viola player, but he never appears in the First-Class Dining Saloon. Instead, the five-piece string ensemble that welcomed you aboard Titanic yesterday is playing Alexander’s Ragtime Band.

Daemon has invited a guest to share your table, chief designer of the ship Mr. Thomas Andrews. He is gracious and even-tempered, exactly the sort of man Daemon likes to entrap and enchant and have his way with. As you drown in champagne, Daemon tells Mr. Andrews about surviving a hurricane while mining Larimar in the Dominican Republic, domesticating a ring-tailed lemur in Madagascar (Daemon had named it Aegon and kept it on a leash), getting lost for three days in the Australian Outback and resorting to eating snakes and dingoes, bludgeoned to death with rocks and roasted over campfires. Rhaenyra observes all of this with a proud, radiant smile, encouraging Daemon with nods and oddly girlish giggles. Laenor, meanwhile, is chatting with Hugo and paying little attention to anything else. He and Rhaenyra have three young sons back in England, though they resemble Laenor Velaryon far less than they do Harwin Strong, Viserys the Duke of Beaufort’s former Master of the Horse and Rhaenyra’s rumored lover. The virile, dark-haired Harwin Strong was killed last year in an unfortunate riding accident, whereupon Daemon rekindled his previously strained relationship with Rhaenyra in the interests of helping her cope with the loss. As it turned out, Daemon’s niece had grown up to be much the same as he is—daring, sarcastic, charismatic, incorrigible—and as if you didn’t have enough difficulty winning his affection before, now you must compete with his kindred spirit, a golden-haired wildfire only a few years older than you and who Daemon can delightedly torment his estranged brother with by capturing her in his orbit.

Daemon is saying, his elbows on the table and miming clutching a massive gemstone in his palm: “As a famed French fashion critic once wrote, The jewel, which is so well adapted to a woman’s adornment, is a combination of the riches of nature and art.”

“Not just any fashion critic,” you say without thinking, the champagne parting your lips before you can reconsider. “Charles Blanc. And I’m the one who gave you his book, remember? It was one of my wedding presents to you.”

Everyone turns to stare at you, as if abruptly being made aware of your existence. Laenor and Hugo appear puzzled. Rhaenyra is frowning with disapproval. Mr. Andrews nods politely. Daemon, after a moment, chuckles in that low, rolling, sardonic way that he does.

“Yes, dear, you certainly did. Clearly it made an impression.” He looks to Mr. Andrews. “You’ll have to forgive my wife, good sir. I’m afraid she has a weakness for champagne.”

“Don’t we all?” Mr. Andrews replies diplomatically.

“The truth is,” Dameon says as if he’s confiding in the shipbuilder; and yet there’s an exhilaration he can’t entirely disguise, a malicious triumph, proof of the power he has over you. “She’s petrified of sailing, has been for years. And this journey…well…it’s been quite an ordeal for her. But under no uncertain terms was I leaving Ireland without my family. Where I go, we all go.”

“I’m so sorry to hear about your rattled nerves, Lady Targaryen.” Mr. Andrews’ eyes are soft with pity for you, a neurotic and illogical woman, tortured by her own nature. “Is there anything I can say to alleviate your fears? Have you been on a ship that’s run into trouble before?”

“No, no sir, I just…” You push through the warm, amber-gold fog of the champagne to explain. “I’ve never been able to stop thinking of all the water beneath us, and a ship…even one as large and luxurious as Titanic…it seems too vulnerable to me. One puncture and we all go straight to the seafloor.”

“That’s why I built Titanic with watertight bulkheads that go up to E-Deck,” Mr. Andrews says, smiling reassuringly. “There are sixteen total, and the ship can stay afloat with several of them flooded. This is meant to contain any possible breach in the hull.”

“Oh, how ingenious!” Laenor exclaims. “Hugo, isn’t that extraordinary?”

Mr. Andrews continues: “Truly, Lady Targaryen, I have built you an unsinkable ship. You have nothing to worry about here on Titanic.”

“Of course she doesn’t,” Daemon agrees.

“And there are lifeboats, I suppose,” you say. “Although…I didn’t see very many up on the Boat Deck. What is their total capacity, I wonder…?”

“Over 1,000 souls, ma’am,” Mr. Andrews replies.

You are horrified. “That’s half the people onboard.”

“Yes,” he concedes. “But as I said, Titanic cannot sink.” Again, he smiles blithely. “Besides, in the event of an evacuation—engine failure or damaged propellers or some such thing—the lifeboats would only be needed to ferry passengers from Titanic to the vessel we’d hail to rescue us with the wireless telegraph machine. The lifeboats were never intended to be able to hold all the passengers at once, that would be absurd.”

“Impossible,” Daemon concurs. “What on earth would necessitate a swift and total evacuation?”

“What about an iceberg?” Hugo says as he eats a heaping spoonful of Waldorf pudding, vanilla custard mixed with nutmeg, apples, walnuts, and raisins.

Mr. Andrews titters patiently, as if this is the most ludicrous thing he’s ever heard. “No iceberg could damage Titanic enough to flood more than three bulkheads. And we have lookouts employed to spot them and sound the alarm so we can turn in time. Icebergs are not a concern whatsoever.”

“Très bien!” Hugo declares, redirecting his full attention back to his Waldorf pudding.

Mr. Andrews looks to you, his voice kind but patronizing. “Do you feel better now, Lady Targaryen?”

“Much better,” you lie.

“Good. Then no more worrying. And no need to drink yourself under the table either.”

Daemon says with a derisive snort: “Well, she is Irish.”

Everyone laughs; everyone but you.

~~~~~~~~~~

Back at the Targaryen staterooms, Rush is waiting by the door to take your coats. Laenor and Hugo bid everyone goodnight, then depart; Rhaenyra, seemingly reluctantly, takes her leave as well. She and Laenor have separate accommodations as they always do while travelling, not unheard of among first-class passengers but also not helping to dispel the rumors concerning her sons’ parentage.

Dagmar is perched on one of the sofas like a falcon on a branch, her talonlike fingers knitting a forest green blanket for Draco. Your son, meanwhile, is sprawled on the sitting room floor and at war with Fern, who is trying to coax him out of his shoes and day clothes and into his pajamas.

“Draco, please, my love, it’s time to get ready for bed now—”

“I want to go back to the Gymnasium!” he screeches, wriggling out of her grasp. From the sofa, Dagmar chuckles as if this is charming behavior, a portent of superb athletic fitness, perhaps. “I want to ride the horsey!”

Fern is exasperated. “Darling, the Gymnasium is closed, no one is allowed to use it any more tonight. But I promise you’ll be able to go back tomorrow—”

“No!” Draco shrieks. “Now! Right now!”

Fern finally manages to slip off one of his shoes, and faster than anyone can stop him, Draco draws back his hand and slaps her across the face, open palm, a sharp crack in the air, and of course he’s too young and too weak to do anything but stun her, but he won’t be four years old forever.

One day he’ll be able to hurt people. He’ll be able to break them, bruise them, ruin their lives.

“No!” you shout, then bolt to Draco and drop to the floor to hold him by his frail little shoulders, firm yet careful not to harm him, no scratches, no bruises, no pools of trapped blood that will ache with violent memory. “You never do that! You don’t hurt people! You don’t hit women!”

“Mam?” Draco whimpers, his lips quivering and tears shimmering in his eyes; and he almost never calls you that, he almost never acknowledges you as his mother at all. But he knows, he must, this proves it. “I’m sorry…I won’t do it again…please don’t yell at me…”

Immediately remorseful, you embrace him, and Draco clings to you as he sobs. Fern is watching you with huge, frightened eyes; then they flick to someone standing behind you.

Rush grabs you by both arms and wrenches you away. You yelp in shock and pain; Dagmar swoops in to take Draco and vanishes into his bedroom, glaring at you over her shoulder, frigid lethal fury. Fern is covering her mouth with her hands so she won’t scream.

Rush hurls you to the carpet and backs away. When you look up, Daemon is standing in the doorway of your bedroom, orange dusk-like light spilling out from behind him.

“Come here,” Daemon says, beckoning you with his right hand.

You are terrified; you are shaking. “No.”

“The longer you wait, the worse it will be.”

“No,” you say again. You glance at Fern, but she can’t help you; she turns away, stifling a cry with her palms. The room is spinning, your thoughts are slow, your skull aches with rhythmic pulses like blows from a hammer. You peer up at Rush, blinking blearily. “Do you like working for a man who beats his wife?”

Rush doesn’t reply; his face is grave but otherwise unreadable. Fern curls up on the floor, shaking her head. The taxidermied tiger head roars silently from above the crackling fireplace.

Daemon says from the doorway: “Dear, I’m losing my patience.”

There’s nowhere else to go. You crawl towards him, then at the halfway point stagger to your feet. Daemons steps aside so you can cross through the threshold. He closes the door and locks it. You stare at him, swaying a bit, your hands hovering in front of you. You’re trying to figure out where he’s going to hit you, but he’s good at not letting on, and you’re drunk. You guess stomach, but it’s your face, just like Draco struck Fern; his open palm sets your cheek on fire and rocks your head back. You lunge for him, fingers clawing and knuckles jabbing at his ribs. Sometimes you fight back and sometimes you don’t—occasionally he finds it endearing and leaves you alone, more often it exacerbates the situation—but tonight you are overwhelmed with wrath for this man who has taken everything from you, your home, your parents, your son, your future.

You shove Daemon into his writing desk, then he pins you to the wall, slides open a drawer of the desk with his free hand, pulls out his gemstone-studded dagger and lays the blade against your windpipe. And you scream, because for all his roughness and his threats Daemon has never done this before. No one appears to rescue you; no one would dare.

“You will not correct Draco,” Daemon says. “He is my son, and I will deal with him.”

You seethe, teeth bared: “I don’t want him to be like you.”

“Think about it, dear,” Daemon hisses, the blade cold against your throat. You can feel it stinging, a thin slice like a papercut you’ll have to cover with makeup tomorrow. “We’re on a ship in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. If you were to take a tumble over the railing, who could say if it was an accident or a suicide or a crime of opportunity committed by some third-class scoundrel? There would be nothing to investigate. You would be gone, and that would be the end of it. Draco is past the fragile years of infancy, he is healthy and he is fierce. Your father’s quarry is already under the control of my managers. What do I need you for now? Why the fuck would I tolerate any further obstinance from you? Your usefulness has come and gone. You stand on the thinnest of ice. One wrong step, and you’ll find it splintering beneath your feet.”

He lifts the dagger away and strides out of the bedroom. You stand there in the tawny lamplight like a sunset, trembling all over, gasping for air, your hands flying up to your neck. When you check your fingers, they are sticky and copper-smelling with a small amount of blood.

He could have killed me. I think he wanted to.

There is a tall oval mirror by the bed, its frame gilded and glowing in the ochre lamplight. You stare at yourself, tears flooding down your cheeks, a gold dress worth more than you are. Everything you own is Daemon’s. That will be true for as long as he lives.

You flee out onto the small private deck attached to your rooms, through the back exit, and into the labyrinthian hallways of B-Deck. You run towards the stern of the ship, dodging stewards who ask if you need assistance and men sauntering back from the First-Class Smoking Room after dinner, puffing on their pipes and their cigars, nursing stout glasses of brandy to keep them warm. When you break out into the open air, it is bitterly cold. The ocean is a vast lightless void; you could mistake it for nothingness if it wasn’t for the thunderous rumble and salt spray of the waves. Your gleaming gold dress billows around you as you sprint to the metal railing that encloses the stern, grip the top rung with shaking hands, stare down into the roiling depths churned by the propellers.

Where can I go? There’s nowhere to go. There’s nowhere else to run to.

“Hey,” the viola player says; you recognize his voice immediately.

You turn away, not wanting him to see the swelling on your face, the traces of blood at your throat. You are heartbroken, you are humiliated. You agreed to marry a man and now he’s ruined your life. You wrap your bare arms around yourself and sniffle, shivering, swiping tears from your eyes.

After a while, the viola player says cautiously, realizing you aren’t in the mood for disclosures: “It’s cold tonight.”

“Obviously.”

He takes off his black wool coat, presumably stolen like the suit he wears underneath, and offers it to you. “I have more layers on.”

“I don’t want you to be cold.”

“Please shut up and take the coat, okay?” You accept it and put it on, and instantly you begin to feel better. The viola player asks gently: “Does he hit you?”

You shrug, petulant like a child. “Sometimes I hit him back.”

The viola player sighs, but he’s not just disappointed; he’s saddened, he’s pained. “Look, I know what it’s like to get knocked around. That’s why I left home.”

You remember what he told you when you first realized he’d followed you onto Titanic: I have family in New York City. I left home and haven’t been back in years, and I think now’s a good time for a visit. “Why would you ever want to see them again?”

“Things are different now. I’m older, I’m not afraid to walk out and be on my own, I’m confident that I can advocate for myself better than before. And they aren’t all bad. I have…” He hesitates. “I have two brothers and a sister in New York, and I miss them.”

“What are their names?”

“Um,” he stops to think. Clearly he’s making them up. “Arnold, Henrietta, and Dean.”

“Do you actually have siblings or is this some sort of metaphor?”

He laughs. “No, they’re real. The names might not be, but the people are. Want to see your painting?”

“You were serious?”

He carefully pulls it out of the brown leather portfolio he’s carrying under one arm. And if it’s supposed to be you, he’s failed, but still the image is mesmerizing: a young woman—too beautiful, far too beautiful—glancing over at him from where she was pondering the waves under a clear midday sky, her hair in disarray from the wind and her eyes fearful, an oil-paint snapshot of desperation, defenselessness, wonder, hope.

“It’s very nice,” you say at last. “But I don’t look like that.”

“Yeah you do.”

You examine the bottom right corner of the painting to see what he’s named you. You skim your thumbprint feather-lightly over black cursive letters, drawn with the smallest of brushes. “Petra,” you murmur.

The viola player says self-consciously, as if hoping you’ll approve: “It’s Greek for rock.”

You smile faintly. “I know what it means.”

“Oh, fancy rock lady took Greek lessons in school.”

“Of course I did.”Greek, Latin, French, Irish Gaelic. You muse softly, still studying the painting: “Petra and Picasso.”

You don’t have to look at him; you can hear the grin in his voice. “Guess we’re friends now, huh?”

“I’ve never had a poor friend before.”

“Well, firstly, you can’t call me your poor friend. That’s offensive.”

With great unwillingness, you surrender the painting and give it back to the viola player. “I can’t keep this. I’m sorry, I want to. But Daemon might find it.” And then he’ll push me overboard and I’ll be dinner for the sharks.

He tucks the painting safely into his portfolio. “I’ll hold onto it for now.”

“Forever, you mean.”

“You might not always have to worry about Daemon.”

You share a dark, horrible truth: “I’ll never be free of him.”

“We’ll see,” the viola player replies, undaunted.

We’ll see.

[notahorseindisguise]

australian history lesson. when white people came and colonised australia, they had a policy of assimilation with the Aboriginal people who were here first. eventually as part of this the government tried to, quote "breed out" peoples Aboriginality. they took any Aboriginal children that they thought could pass as white from their homes, and tried to raise them white. it was an attempted cultural genocide. because of this, Aboriginal people today range from black to white. but that does NOT make them any less Aboriginal. if you call an Aboriginal person who looks white "white" youre an arsehole. and a fucking racist. and thats why nobody is called "mixed". if you have a single drop of Aboriginal blood, you are Aboriginal. theres a quote from a doco we watched once in class where they go "Aboriginality is like tea. you can add milk and sugar to it, but its still tea."

[soberscientistlife]

Saving this for me. Items possibly targeted for tariffs.

Saving this for me. Items possibly targeted for tariffs. • Bananas, Mangoes, and Pineapples (from Central and South America) • Avocados (from Mexico) • Citrus fruits like oranges and lemons (from Mexico and Spain) • Berries (e.g., strawberries, blueberries) (from Mexico, Chile) • Tomatoes, Bell Peppers, and Cucumbers (from Mexico and Canada) • Asparagus (from Peru and Mexico) Seafood (Fresh, Frozen, and Canned) • Fresh/Frozen Shrimp (from Thailand, India, Ecuador) • Salmon (from Norway, Chile) • Tilapia (from China) • Tuna (canned) (from Thailand, the Philippines) • Sardines (from Portugal, Morocco) • Mackerel (canned) (from Japan, Norway) Grains and Legumes • Rice (from Thailand, India, Vietnam) • Quinoa (from Peru and Bolivia) • Chickpeas and Lentils (from Canada, India) Nuts and Seeds • Cashews (from Vietnam and India) • Brazil Nuts (from Bolivia, Brazil) • Almonds (from Spain, Australia) • Chia Seeds (from Mexico and Argentina) Dairy Products • Cheese varieties like Parmesan, Gouda, Feta (from Italy, Netherlands, Greece) • Butter (from Ireland, New Zealand) • Yogurt (Greek-style from Greece, other varieties from Europe) Canned Foods and Packaged Items • Tomato paste and puree (from Italy) • Canned olives and olive oil (from Spain, Italy, Greece) • Canned coconut milk (from Thailand) • Canned beans (from Mexico, Central America) • Canned corn (from Canada, Brazil) • Canned anchovies and sardines (from Morocco, Portugal) • Canned fruit (e.g., pineapple, mango, peaches) (from Thailand, Philippines, Mexico) • Canned tuna and salmon (from Thailand, the Philippines, Chile) Spices and Herbs • Vanilla (from Madagascar) • Black Pepper (from Vietnam, India) • Cinnamon (from Sri Lanka) • Turmeric (from India) • Paprika (from Spain, Hungary) Beverages • Coffee beans (from Brazil, Colombia, Vietnam) • Tea leaves (from India, Sri Lanka, China) • Cocoa beans (from Côte d’Ivoire, Ghana) Oils and Fats • Olive oil (from Spain, Italy, Greece) • Coconut oil (from the Philippines, Indonesia) • Palm oil (from Malaysia, Indonesia) Alcoholic Beverages • Wine (from France, Italy, Chile, Spain) • Beer (particularly certain Mexican brands) • Whiskey and Scotch (from Scotland, Ireland) Sweeteners • Cane sugar (from Brazil, Mexico) • Maple syrup (from Canada) Condiments and Sauces • Soy sauce (from Japan, China) • Fish sauce (from Thailand, Vietnam) • Sriracha and other chili sauces (from Thailand) • Italian pasta sauces (canned/jarred) (from Italy)

[planetmimi]

decode - cl16

context: charles leclerc x black!fem!oc, some smau (cause i love those doooown)

faceclaim: @balialdn on insta

cw: none

summary: after a five-month social media break, artist Ahvi finally comes back to social media. her comeback is in the midst of dating rumors swirling around her and two of her...friends.

Italic = flashback

feedback is appreciated, this is my first one so please be nice

ahvi

liked by charles_leclerc, zendaya and 8.473.875 others

ahvi: my french is getting better, might use it in this project…maybe? (be calm yall)

f1lover: CHARLES WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?! welcome back queen (im trying to be calm, i think i might actually explode from happiness)!!!

username74: oh look the whore is back

username54: awww we all hoped you would never come back

username12: no fr! when her contract ran out i thought that we were finally done with her

username276: YOU DIDNT SAY FOR A WHOLE YEAR MAAM

lewishamilton: new music, maybe?

ahvi: maybe… if you get me paddock passes

lewishamilton: ask your boyfriend...maybe

ahvi: blocked, reported and banned from listening to my music cause OMG?! i just got back too?! like please ntm on me

charles_leclerc: teaching you french has been quite the challenge, i would like some type of credit please

ahvi: if you podium i'll think about it

charles_leclerc: and if i get P1 i want a song written for me and to be in the music video

ahvi: *gasps in étonnement* thats asking for a lot, P1 twice this season and you've got yourself a deal

username67: you should have never come back nobody wants to hear your shitty music

stanningahvi: the fact that it’s been damn near two years without any new music… and a year since we've last seen you👁️👄👁️

lew_max.444: no cause if this is a trick…imma do something heinous

ahvi: is this a threat ? cause it’s kinda feeling like a threat

ahvi4f1: i mean…we can make it one if you want us to 🤷🏾‍♀️

zendaya: as your bestfriend i have to let you know, if you don’t drop this, i will do so for you (i will leak it)❤️

ahvi: sounds like less work for me tbh 🤷🏽‍♀️

zendaya: alright yall secret project dropping next month at 4 pm PST

ahvi: ouuu d*sney dupe 🤭

tomholland2013: please, don’t check your messages mate

zendaya: don’t listen to him. go check your messages babe. go ahead.

ahvi: #CANCELZENDAYA

liked by: zendaya, tomholland2013 and 45.856 others

ahvi

liked by: lewishamilton, sza and 5.946.087 others

ahvi: why didn't y'all tell me Australia is so hot ?? oh wait.. thats just me sorry y'all

landonorris : FIRST !

ahvi: 15th actually

landonorris : ......... you think you're so funny huh

ahvisdrafts: i mean she is actually a full time stand up comedian, part time singer-songwriter.

ahvi: you get it

username2: so, you and whats his face broke up and now you're going between F1 drivers?

f1grids: wow, never expected an A lister to become a grid groupie

girly2pop: are you ready to write a song for that man?

ahvi: stooop. shhhhhh. if no one mentions it EVER AGAIN i won’t have to do it

normani: tea is she's actually written like six of em already

georgerussell63: why is it always me?!

username29: girl we've heard the rumors about you getting around miss paddock princess

username : never would i have expected ahvi to become as close as she is with the f1 grid…like i didn't even know she knew what f1 was

username9: shes sleeping her way through it lol

username: girl you need to back up off charles

username6: no for real...going to australia three weeks before race week? way to scream desperate

Over the last year Ahvi has become somewhat of a hermit, between rumors swirling of a potential relationship between her and Charles, and her break up with her ex-friend becoming known to the public. All of this buzz around her name has generated a lot of hate, whether it be from her ex-friend's fans, Charles fans or her own haters. For the last year Ahvi has just been the internet's punching bag, despite not being active on the internet.

In the year she took away from social media a lot happened, a lot changed. Before she started her break, she was just off a stadium world tour, about to drop her first proper album. She felt on top of the world, until one day, with only three months left in her tour. Just before her second day at Wembly Stadium, when she fainted during soundcheck and was sent to the hospital.

- a year ago -

Her heartbeats so loud she almost can't hear what the nurse in front of her is saying. The nurse smiles lightly "I know this is probably very shocking, so I will give you some time, but your options are a bit limited with how far along you are." Ahvi nods, trying to process the words that were said to her, "I just- I'm sorry, I know I've made you say it to me a hundred times over but just...one more time and can I see the results."

"Don't worry, this is a common response in this situation," the nurse says as she hands over the blood test results. Ahvi looks at the blood test results, there it is, in black and white, "your HCG levels are higher than normal," the nurse points to her HCG results. Aleyah's eyes follow the nurse's finger, "Your results put you at being 17 weeks pregnant." There's that word again, pregnant, the one part of this she can't wrap her head around. As the nurse was talking to her an ultrasound tech brought in an ultrasound machine.

Ahvi tries her best to truly listen and absorb what the nurses are telling her as she lifts her shirt up to start the ultrasound. When the ultrasound tech brings the wand to where the gel was put a fast heartbeat fills the room and tears swell in the young singers eyes.

The 22-year-old looks at the ultrasound screen, a small incredulous whisper tumbles from her lips, "what the fuck."

[piastree]

Take a Chance with Me | OP81

oscar piastri x reader (fc: huh yunjin)

— Part 4

Previous Part

Summary: When things aren't going well, Y/N takes a break for a while and redirects her focus to other things, spending more time with Oscar and her friends. Y/N's friends and Oscar consistently support her, ensuring Y/N is okay, even though she often insists she's fine. Disclamer: This is a story created for fun without any hate towards anyone. This work exists in a realm separate from the original canon. Characters may be divergent from their established personas. So, just enjoy the rollercoaster ride.

oscarpiastri added a story

landonorris are u proposing mate? oscarpiastri yeah mate, proposing to decide who pays the bill

yourbff

tagged yourusername

liked by oscarpiastri, user and 29,112 others

yourbff Through thick and thin, we've been laughing side by side for ten fantastic years. Wishing you endless happiness❤️

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user friendship goalsss

user they are so PRETTYYYY

user both of you are not only stunning but also funny😂

oscarpiastri reserving my spot for the next decade😁

yourbff you're claiming to be one of my best friend spot now? i'll ask y/n first for the approval

lilymhe

liked by oscarpiastri, alexalbon, carmenmmundt and 29,112 others

lilymhe nature therapy🍃💖

view comments

user lily with y/n?????

user lol y/n just casually third-wheeling Lily and Alex😂

user mother, father and their daughter

user isn't y/n outfit too fancy for hiking??😂

lilymhe she thought we were just joking about going hiking😭

alexalbon y/n seemed a bit lost without oscar

oscarpiastri well, she loves being a dork

user MOTHER SLAYING AS USUAL😍

user Y/N is literally everywhere but not on her own Instagram :(

user yeah but we love seeing how people around her being so supportive

f1updates

liked by user, user, and 25,865 others

f1updates oscar was seen at a karting track with the young karteers yesterday

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user finally we got new pics of oscar!!

user it's cute seeing the interaction between the kids and oscar

user AH OSCAR I MISS U POOKIE

user this is so lovely<3

user no y/n?

user i guess y/n isn't kind of wags who sticks to her partner all the time🤷‍♀️

user agreed, i've seen her at races only a few times

user when she doesn't need him anymore, she throws him under the bus

user lol wdym she just know what she should prioritize. Even oscar himself said she has her own life

imessage

f1wags

liked by user, user, and 10,901 others

f1wags After a brief hiatus from social media, y/n makes a cameo on her friend's IG Live today! In today's live, she spilled the beans on some questions about her christmas holiday in Australia and the short getaway in Japan with Oscar. She couldn't help but gush about the incredible experience—her first time in Australia. Oscar played the perfect tour guide, showing her around his hometown and introducing her to his family. He also told us about their short getaway in Japan. Y/N explained that they haven't seen each other for more than two weeks as Oscar is already back to work—busy with meetings, simulator sessions, and prepping for the upcoming F1 season at the McLaren Technology Centre, and she have to return to her work and projects too.

And can we just say, we're glad the couple is still in good terms after the recent not-so-great rumors?

view comments

user OMG, missed seeing you around, Y/N!

user she's talking about christmas in australia and their japan getaway? I need all the details!!

user she said they went to kyoto, disneyland, tried some street foods and traditional tea ceremony🥺

user i'm so happy y/n and oscar are still going strong and just ignore the haters and rumour

user their holiday stories are giving me major FOMO

user you radiate beauty and glow when you are unproblematic<3

twitter

yourusername

liked by oscarpiastri, landonorris, yourbff and 102,999 others

yourusername in 2023, my journey went from ginger to black, mirroring the different stages of my life. It's like a colorful map of my growth and transformation, representing the beautiful journey i've had. Grateful for the lessons, the love, and the incredible people i met along the way❤️

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yourbff always proud of you!!❤️

user you're the sweetest, y/n! please always be happy❤️

landonorris what's wrong with the last photo?

yourusername my reaction when u got pole in Brazil

landonorris really?

yourusername whatever makes u happy🤗

user wish you nothing but the best, y/n❤️

user caption on point💯

yourusername

tagged oscarpiastri

liked by lilymhe, oscarpiastri, carmenmmundt and 29,954 others

yourusername same with me again next year?

view comments

user would be funny if oscar reacted with no

yourusername DON'T GIVE HIM IDEA

oscarpiastri i'll take that as reference thankyou😁

user adopt me

user the second pic is adorable😭

user this is the cutest photodump ever omfg

lilymhe ❤️❤️

yourusername love u mother, xo

oscarpiastri ready for another journey with me?

yourusername 💑💯

notes: honestly, i really want to put some conflict but i dunnoooo i can't bring myself to do it because i love them so much<///3 i dont want to mess with their lovey-dovey bickering dynamic:((( Maybe in the next part, I'll toss in some drama to keep things interesting hahaha lol. Thankyou for reading this chapter and hope u like it. Anyways, what do you think so far? Share your thoughts and let's have a chitchat with me<3

taglist: @fall-bambi @minkyungseokie @neoivy1

[cyandreamzaceattorney]

✦ AA girls getting boba tea ✦

A few days ago I felt like drawing Ema, Kay, Maya and Franziska hanging out and drinking boba tea, cuz I really like the idea of these four having a friendship group :-D however, I unfortunately couldn't fit all four characters in so I (mostly) cut Franziska from the pic. Sorry Fran fans! I do love her but, I wanted to draw the other three girls a bit more (cuz that's just the mood I was in) and didn't want to stray away from this specific concept as I felt really inspired to draw them walking while chatting with boba tea.

Overall I do like how this picture came out, even if I definitely rushed it a bit (I think this was mostly because I got hyped over getting time to draw again, cuz I've been busy on and off). Unfortunately I lost my favourite brush liner before doing lineart on this and halfway threw my other liner magically dried up! So that was frustrating but, I worked around it and want to regain confidence in using fine liners so kind of a useful problem lol. I also decided to change up how I draw Kay in my art style a little and I think I like it :3 And, really like the outfits I gave the girls. Even if they are simple. They're also summer outfits because Australia is once again breaking the record for hottest summer (and it's still technically spring (⁠´⁠-⁠﹏⁠-⁠`⁠；⁠)). Fun fact, Ema is wearing a striped shirt as a reference to the stripe motifs in her aai design!

Now time for boba tea hc's cuz why not XD. Maya has a Taro milk tea with the regular black pearls, because it's purple and in my mind Taro and chocolate being her favourite flavours just makes sense. Kay has a iced tea with lychee jelly (mainly cuz I didn't feel like colouring the jelly but I see Kay liking lychee), idk what flavour her tea is, but it's probably a fruit flavour cuz in my experience ice teas are often fruit flavours. I also have the random hc that whenever Kay gets boba around Miles she gets a weird combo (e.g. chocolate milk tea with green apple pearls) just to see his upset reaction lol.

Ema and Franziska also have boba, you just can see it cuz Ema has them in a shopping bag which Kay is in front of. As for flavours, Ema's is definitely chocolate milk tea cuz her snacks in the English version of the games seem to be similar to tee vee snacks (idk if tee vee snacks are a thing in us, if they aren't they are small long cookies cotted in chocolate, kinda like pocky but much shorter, but thicker and fully coated) though I can also see her getting brown sugar with black pearls. Franziska I could see getting something like the regular tea flavour (which is called "Thai tea" or "original flavour" depending on the boba shop I go to) with no pearls or jelly because in my mind she doesn't like them :P, in general I don't think she'd like a lot of sweet flavours but that's because I hc her as not liking sweet food for no logical reason, my brain has simply decided this ¯⁠\⁠_⁠(⁠ツ⁠)⁠_⁠/⁠¯

Hope you all enjoy this drawing and my super austic ramble about what boba tea I think these fictional characters drink XD

Next traditional drawing will be in a new sketcbook as I'm almost finished this one (and the last pages won't be as fanart so I won't post them here). I'm shocked cuz I haven't finished a sketchbook in less than a year for several years now! But this makes sense because I drew a lot this year for several reasons :-P

[eleniyappz]

Hawk and 141 moments

* When Ghost is first introduced to Hawk, the first words that come out of his mouth are “Didn’t know we were employing birds now Price” and he earned a smack to the head from price later.

* “Didn’t know they employed grim reaper wannabes” Hawk retorts back, her voice matching Ghosts gruff and stern tone minus the British accent and instead a thick Aussie accent. Little did anyone know but from that very sentence started Ghosts weird and unexplainable secret obsession with Hawk. It is a weird obsession only he knows about and he plans to keep it that way.

* After Hawk got shown around base, Price and the boys take her to the pub for a drink and an introduction to her. “Where yer from Lass?” Soap asks a small smile on his face as he sips a beer.“Northern Territory, Australia” Hawk replies, her answer stern and straight to the point just like her fellow lieutenant. At first it kinda freaks out the others how similar Ghost and Hawk are to each other, even though they refuse to admit it but after a few months or even weeks Gaz, Soap and Price get used to it and they don’t even bat an eye anymore.

* The first Duo mission with just Hawk and Ghost was definitely interesting, Ghost was up on a building watching Hawks back intently despite the multiple times he threatened to shoot her (it’s part of his charm?). Hawk is doing one of the things she does best at, convincing people and persuading them. She walks up to a gate in semi casual clothes some black cargos, boots, and a t-shirt that coincidentally shows just the right amount of cleavage. She manages to convince the gate gaurd to let her into the ware house and after that she took out each enemy soldier with scary ease.

* One night when Hawks nightmares get particularly bad, half because it’s started to storm and half because she begrudgingly went to therapy the same day and talking about her demons makes them haunt her more frequently. She walks into the break room at 2:34 am to make a cup of tea to hopefully calm her nerves, when she spots Ghost sleeping on a couch. His large frame half hanging off the couch and his mask off and some drool coming out of his mouth, it’s quite the entertaining sight. So Hawk sneakily snaps a photo on her phone before making herself a tea and the kettle inevitably wakes up Ghost and he grumbles a few swears at her “bitch”, “stupid noisy fuck” and some more. But he doesn’t know about the photo as Hawk plans to use it as black mail

[pet-genius]

Excerpt from a SSHG fic that mostly exists in my head

A while ago I wrote, and then abandoned, a SSHG fic called "Soulsavers". I still think about it a lot, and so today I wrote a scene that could fit in it. The premise of the fic is that Hermione travels in time to try to talk young!Snape out of becoming a Death Eater, and they gradually develop feelings for each other. In this scene, the Slytherins at the breakfast table debate an editorial on the Daily Prophet:

Hermione would have been almost perfect, if she had not been so fucking clueless, Severus ‎thought. He shoved aside her inexplicable strokes of near-omniscience, along with the ‎knowledge that, had she been at this school since the start, she'd probably want nothing to do ‎with him, like all the other girls. “Oh, can you believe this utter bollocks,” she said, slamming ‎the Daily Prophet on her half-eaten toast.‎

"Finally, she's getting some sense into that head of hers,” Black remarked. “It's absurd to ‎think our society isn't under threat, even if most of them are just shaved monkeys.”‎ But Severus suspected that Black was merely projecting. Hermione gave Black a cold look ‎and mumbled something about “see how you talk in five months”. Regulus was too busy ‎admiring his own voice to hear her, and Severus already knew he wouldn’t get a straight ‎answer. Hermione turned to him, and asked, “Are people really dumb enough to believe ‎atomic bombs are because Muggles steal magic?! And this is how they justify all this idiotic ‎purity stuff?!”‎

Severus asked himself again, for the thousandth time, what were they teaching them in Australia, and stared into his tea. He knew Muggles, and as far as he could tell, wanton destruction is exactly what they would do with magic.

“Well?!” She demanded.

“Doesn’t it make sense, though? Suddenly, they can do this, and even they don’t fully understand how it works, innit?”

“You can’t expect me to explain how atomic bombs work! They’re the ones claiming Muggles stole magic, they can prove it! How were they even supposed to do it?!”

Severus shrugged. However the Muggles had come by atomic weapons, they still had, so wasn't it only right for them to be contained?

“And look at what this… this… Oh, the writer of this editorial is a Malfoy, of course! So how does suggest enforcing his ideas? You kill all the Muggle-borns, new ones will keep turning up!”

Severus glanced at Lily, who was giving Potter the cow eyes as he read out of the same editorial. “Dumbledore wants us to learn from them. He wants us to let their children mix with ours with nary a thought for preserving our identity,” James orated, exaggerating even his own pomposity.

Preserving our identity… Funny, that. There seemed to be nothing left of the Lily he loved so much, who could see her sister and his father for what they were: resentful, obsessed with their own weakness, believing it entitled them to treat their magical kin like the dirt on their shoes.

“Our secrets and our powers corrupted in their unworthy hands, whilst the Ministry wrestles with the minutiae of the Dark Artifacts Regulation Act,” the older Black continued, and still Lily looked at Potter with naked admiration. Such courage, such chivalry, mocking Dumbledore’s critics in Dumbledore’s own school.

“That's easy, Granger,” Regulus interjected. “You know it was Godric Gryffindor who insisted that the admissions book include every magical child. We could, you know, just have someone alert us when a new name turns up, if they're not born to a proper family. That's what the Trace was originally for, you know.”

“Not according to Hogwarts: A History,” Hermione rebutted. Another issue of hers, she could never help correcting people. Sadly, Black had deep roots in their society, and he reminded her in no uncertain terms that he had a headmaster's portrait in his living room and that she would do well not to correct her betters.

What an ass, he could hear her think, and quietly assented. Even an ass, though, was better than an inveterate criminal.

“Not everyone are as psychotic about it as the Blacks, mate,” Avery said. “Don’t scare our half-blood friend here, you know we want him to join. We don't need to kill their babies, we don't have to stoop to their level.

Severus could feel Hermione tense up, but he could not understand why. Nothing Avery’d just said was false. “We could just... have a separate school for them, to teach them respect for our ways. Then if they prove themselves, their children could study here.”

“Or we do nothing and let them blow themselves up,” a more practical minded younger Slytherin suggested. “Or take their babies and raise them like useful servants, without access to wands, of course,” Matilda chimed in.

The conversation turned to the many ways the Muggle-born question could be dealt with, and Hermione grew pale beside him.

“You can't possibly want to join them, Severus! Listen to them!”

Didn't he? He was wiser, now, than he was at 11. His desperate attempt to cling to Lily had failed long ago, not before costing him years of isolation from the other Slytherins. Of course he would have wanted for it all to be different, for the world to be simple. But it couldn't be. And Severus loved magic too much, and knew the muggles too well, to be that much of an idealist.

“It's rule or be ruled, Hermione,” he said with a shrug. “What makes you think the muggles or their children would rush to help you?”

Hermione had a peculiar (and aggravating) tendency to be very certain of herself, as regards what was right or wrong, and what Severus could or could not possibly want, and then crumble at the first sign of resistance. For all her fiery opposition, he expected her to have a better counter-argument than “But if you believe that, how is the world ever going to change?”

Who said he wanted to change the world? What if he had just–finally–understood it, and how he could thrive in it? And why did Hermione seem so convinced it was down to him how the world would turn out?

There was no use denying it, though. He liked that she made him feel important. He buttered his own toast and smiled at her, and she smiled wanly back. She was almost perfect, and it was far more than he had hoped for not so long ago.

[untrustynickel]

Flowers for Flour Gag identifying thing

First Instance: this one is VERY likely to just be a generic blue flower, but closest to what's shown (Blue with five/six? petals, yellow center) I've found are Forget-Me-Nots, Blue Flax, and (Blue Colored) Spring Starflower.

Instance Two: Okay so right off the bat these are all def tropical flowers of different kinds (possibly also generic), my best guesses for the visible flowers from left to right are

(Red) Amaryllis or poinsettia (Orange/black) Pansy (Orange/Yellow) THIS was hard to find (ty colby) but this seems to resemble specifically "Vireya Rhododendron 'Tropic Glow'" (for u Floor fans, Vireya can be found in Australia) (Pink) Resembles several kinds of Pink Lily the closest I found being a Souvenir Lily

Instance Three: Fairly certain this is Chamomile, makes sense because these are generated by the Pic-nix Table (Used for tea)

This was mostly for fun, I had noticed the Chamomile one awhile ago, but what really prompted me to make this was noticing the first ones resemble forget-me-nots (due to the symbolize they hold and how it seems to somewhat line up with Balloon and Suitcase) I think it's likely an absolute coincidence the paralleling, but still very fun and fascinating to me (Also if Suitcase or Balloon happens to permadie in movie uhh, I think this will kill me actually-)

Of course the other flowers here has their own possible associations but in general very neat to me and I wanted 2 ramble ab it :D