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matchaelette · 6 months ago

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gif by @yoongi-bts

when jungkook is a vessel of love, and love is as beautiful as the poets said it was

summary: idol!jk and oc!ash, established relationship, the first time 'I love you' was spoken out aloud. the more earlier stages of their relationship. yearning, tenderness, fluff, it's all sickeningly full of love.

genre: fluff

warnings: none.

word count: 3.4k

notes: life updates. one: i'm back. obviously. two: jung hoseok is back and ksj 1 is coming (!!!) three: I am officially a uni student and majoring in civil engineering. classes start from the first week of december. four: I have decided to officially name this drabble series *drumrolls* the hopeless romantic series. so, without further ado, welcome back, our hopeless romantic couple!

you’re in love with jungkook.

no, you’re not allowed to say that.

fuck what you’re allowed and not allowed.

you’re desperately, helplessly, hopelessly in love with jeon jungkook. your gorgeous, gorgeous boy.

yours.

then why are you not allowed to be in love with him?

because you’ve been dating him for three months. three months.

only three months, since you decided to stop pining after him, decided it was enough, after god knows how long. three months since that decision led you to be extremely nonchalant around him, calm and collected to a point where it almost looked fake (you’re a terrible actor), and the next thing you knew, you were heavily making out with him in the chilly air of a fall night. calm and collected, indeed. three months since you learned that jungkook was pining for you in the same manner, if not more, and three freaking months since both of you decided to date, being head over heels for one other ever since.

it's too soon to say ‘I love you’. even if you know deep down that you were in love with him even before dating him– but there’s no way you’re treading that water. the realization of being in love with him right now is enough to freak you out. no, it’s definitely too soon to declare ‘I love you’.

because you don’t know whether jungkook feels the same way. although it’s not like you need or expect him to feel the same way you do. just because you’re in love with him doesn’t mean he has to be. you can happily wait until he’s ready and feels the same way.

you’re just scared that he doesn’t want to feel that way. that you’ll scare him away.

look at him. does he look like he feels the same as you?

jeon jungkook looks like a slow-motion daydream, standing in front of you. tight-fitting jeans, snug around the well-defined muscles of his thighs, and a black checkered shirt, sleeves rolled up, displaying the protruding veins of his arm. his curly hair covers the vein in his forehead, almost reaching down to his lips which were pouting in distress.

yeah, you don’t care how he feels. you’re in love with him.

but you are a graveyard of all the people you ever loved.

you can’t have jungkook join those ghosts of the past.

“this thing–”, the boy of your dream grumbles out loud in real life, breaking your thought train, “–hates me!”

oh, that.

“three hours now. we’ve been trying to fix it for three hours.”, you shake your head, frustrated. you’ve been out all day today and the last thing you wanted to do when you got back home was your laundry. but the lack of fresh clothes compelled you to do it anyway. and everything would’ve been fine had you not entered your laundry room to discover the whole floor flooded with water. panicked and disoriented, your first instinct was to call jungkook, despite it being past midnight. when your boyfriend heard what had happened, he immediately demanded you step aside and that he was already on his way over to your house.

now, it’s four in the morning and you’re both dripping wet, absolutely drained, standing in a puddle of water and soap. all you could do is to stare dejectedly at the washing machine. it was a losing battle.

“oh my god!”, jungkook cries out in indignation, “a minute ago it was sprinkling water in my face, now it’s sprinkling soapy water!”

“jungkook, move away”, you hurriedly pull your boyfriend away from your washing machine. he rebels under your grip, the patience he displayed half an hour ago was now transformed into rage.

how can someone be so cute when they’re mad?

“let me go, ash”, he points a threatening finger at the washing machine, “you wanted a fight, buddy? I’ll give you!”

“jungkook!”, you laugh and wrap your arms around his waist, “it already won! look at us!”

jungkook stares down at your attached bodies, soaked from top to bottom, while the washing machine looks like it is having a field trip.

“okay, I give up”, he sighs and rests his chin on the top of your head, “unless–”

“no unless.”

“hear me out first”, he smooches your hair, “you smell amazing by the way. anyways, unless– wait, what was I going to say? I was supposed to say something amazing.”

“I’m sure it was amazing, babe”, you chuckle with fondness, “but that thing is a lost cause. I’ll call maintenance in the morning. let’s take a shower and go to sleep, okay?”

“mhm. yeah”, he replies in affirmation but only tightens his arms around you.

“I’m sorry for calling you so late. I should’ve just– I don’t know. I mean, it was just a minor inconvenience. not a big deal. I don’t know why I freaked out–”

“princess, ssh”, jungkook coos, “you have a problem, you call me. doesn’t matter how small or big it is.”

“kook, I literally called you at one in the morning.”

“and I am very glad that I am the first person that crossed your mind. even though I couldn’t help you. I swear to god, this washing machine has a personal grudge against us.”

“thank you anyways”, you mumble against his chest.

“hey, this is what boyfriends are for.”

how is it possible not to love him?

you wake up to the humming of a honey-caramel voice in the distance.

you yawn and grab the crisply folded silk robe from the foot of your bed. the clothes haphazardly tossed on the ground last night were nowhere in sight, and neither was the person who did so. yet you could hear his hums, feel his warmth.

you smile.

the clock on the wall reflects a bright 11:10, and it’s safe to say that you’ve just woken up. after staying up with your rogue washing machine till four in the morning, you can’t really blame yourself. you feel very well-rested though, for the first time in a while.

jeon jungkook’s presence has that kind of power.

you make an effort to stay silent in your own house. your bare feet tiptoe against the icy floors, carrying you to the sweet melody you’re fairly certain is your boyfriend in the kitchen. and undoubtedly it is. jeon jungkook has his back turned towards you�� white tee clinging to his physique, his hair damp and disheveled, singing softly to himself while doing the dishes.

you hold your breath and hug him from the back, resting your cheek against his spine.

jungkook, momentarily confused, laughs when he realizes it’s you.

“good morning princess.”

“good morning jungkook”, you inhale him in. he smells like peaches and baby soap. and fresh laundry. “you smell heavenly.”

“I just came out of the shower–”

“–hey!”, you cut him short when he gently peels you off him, unexpectedly devoid of warmth, but jungkook hugs you back in an instant; your ear against his ribcage, his chin on the top of yours.

“mmm, that’s better”, you mumble, “did you do the laundry? you smell like detergent.”

you can almost reach out and touch the outlines of his smile. “you couldn’t do it last night so I thought I’d take some work off your shoulders. I folded your clothes as well!”

“aww, you didn’t have to do– wait, the washing machine is fixed?”

“yeah, I called the repairmen in the morning and they said they were coming over. I was pretty surprised at how quickly they arrived.”

“what happened?”

“one of the pipes got leaked somehow. I think I also did some damage when I tried to fix it. but don’t worry, it’s as good as new.”

“not worrying”, you let go of jungkook and let muscle memory guide you to the coffee machine, “why did you wake up so early?”

“it’s one p.m. in the afternoon. what’re you talking about?”, jungkook laughs.

“it’s one p.m.?!”, you choke on your coffee, “the clock– but it was eleven–”

“it’s out of battery. I got new ones though”, jungkook points at the bags sitting on your counter.

“you went grocery shopping? you spent an entire lifetime while I slept!”, jungkook chuckles at your awe, “tell me from the beginning. what did you do?”

“well, I called the repairmen as soon as I woke up and then I went to take a shower. they were here by the time I was done. I made us breakfast while they fixed your machine, went grocery shopping afterward, came back and did laundry, here I am now”, jungkook kisses your forehead, “all while someone slept like a baby.”

“oh my god. thank you so much.”

I love you.

“you’re welcome, babe”, he smiles, “I gotta leave now. but listen, I got you ice cream, popcorn and those salty chips you seem to love so much. call me if you need anything else.”

“huh? why though?”, you peer in confusion. you’re usually not very big on snacking. and jungkook knows that. unless it’s your–

“your period is supposed to start tomorrow, genius”, he rolls his eyes, “you don’t remember, do you?”

you clearly didn’t.

apparently, he did.

you tiptoe forward to hug jungkook, too stunned to form any coherent word. you hope jungkook doesn’t notice the tears filling your eyes but when he lifts your face to gently kiss your eyelids, you realize that he knew you were gonna cry.

yeah, I definitely love you.

“hello, jungkookie’s girlfriend!”

kim taehyungs’s visibly enthusiastic face beams at you through the screen of your phone. your initial reaction is to wave brightly at him, despite the slight confusion of whether you accidentally called him when you picked up the phone to facetime your boyfriend.

“hi, tae!”, you say heartily, “gosh, it’s been a while since I saw you.”

“and whose fault is that, huh?”, taehyung’s voice is a warm breeze on a spring evening, “jungkookie tells me you’ve been like… hella busy”

“I was. I mean, I am. it feels like I am always busy these days”, you sigh, “but never busy enough for you guys! how are you?”

“good. busy as well, but good.”

“kook told me last night. you guys work way too hard.”

“wait”, taehyung exploded into laughter, “jungkookie was at your place last night?”

“...yeah?”

“our manager was looking for him and jungkookie was going on and on about how he was in his room all night and manager hyung didn’t knock loudly enough!”

“oh my god, he wasn’t supposed to be at mine yesterday?”

“no, I mean, he was done working but he didn’t tell anyone before leaving the dorm!”

“that might be my fault”, guilt fills your eyes, “I was doing laundry last night and my washing machine started leaking water everywhere. I panicked and called kook. I’m sorry”

“hey, it’s okay, no harm was done”, taehyung looks amused, “so you were doing laundry at midnight? no wonder jungkookie is obsessed with you.”

“obsessed with me, huh?”, you smile playfully, concealing the tiny somersault your heart does.

“he literally never stops talking about you”, taehyung grins widely, “bro is whipped”

“hmm, I did call bro’s phone, right? or did I accidentally call you?”

“how do accidentally call taehyung instead of jungkook? one starts with t and one starts with j”, taehyung suddenly looks disgusted, “unless you saved him as something weird, in that case, I don’t wanna know–”

“kim taehyung.”

“or you can just tell me that you missed me, you know”, taehyung flips his phone camera and you spot a dancing jeon jungkook in the middle of a huge practice room, “but since the only person you care about is jungkookie–”

“kim taehyung–”

“–you called him, okay?”, you hear taehyung’s laughter, “I was playing games on his phone. he’s practicing extra today.

“practicing extra?”

“he said you guys made plans to hang out tomorrow.”

“we– we did”, you’re puzzled. jungkook continues to dance furiously, his quick and precise movements almost defying gravity, completely unaware of his surroundings, “wait, we planned to meet tomorrow because both of us had a clear schedule. why is he practicing extra today?”

“hobi hyung was asking him the same thing”, taehyung nods his head in mock disappointment, “we don’t really have a free schedule tomorrow. but he said that if you couldn’t meet tomorrow it’d be a while before you did. right?”

“y-yeah”, you blink.

“soooo, yeah. as I said, bro’s so whipped.”

oh god. be still my wild heart.

“this boy”, you finally exhale after a pause; feeling bad that he’s overworking himself to meet your needs, feeling grateful that it’s worth it to him.

“this boy, indeed. no, actually, we’re kinda proud of how amazingly we raised him.”

“you really, really did. ya’ll should give out parenting lessons.”

taehyung chuckles, “okay, I’ll give the phone to him.”

“tae, don’t”, you smile, quickly stopping him from calling jungkook, “just tell him to call me whenever he’s free, okay? I’ll be up.”

“okay, then. take rest, okay? don’t overwork yourself.”

“look who’s preaching”, you shoot him a stern look, “the kings of overworking themselves. take care, okay?”

taehyung laughs, “yeah. come over to the dorm whenever you’re free. we all miss you.”

“I will. bye!”

“kook– stop it–”, you say in between a few puffs of breath, “you’re– god– tickling me!”

“am I?”, jungkook wiggles his eyebrows, and smothers his face on the exposed skin of your tummy once again, causing you to almost choke with another round of laughter. the sensation of his lips against your tummy has the butterflies inside going frenzy, but a part of you is scared shitless that it has nothing to do with him and everything to do with yourself.

you want to laugh; you want to cry. you wanna twirl into a knot and fly up in the sky. jungkook has no idea of the power he has over you– his body molds into yours, one his hands have shaped, a design he has drawn, kissed it into a sculpture.

you love him, you love this human being staring at you from between your legs with all the love in this whole fucking universe, kind and whole and happy and real, jeon jungkook, you love him so fucking say it.

I love you. I love you so much that I can’t deny it any longer, the promise stays silent on your tongue.

you wanna cry.

at least, you think you do.

“your heartbeat is going crazy”, jungkook calms down once he’s done tickling you out of your wits. he moves between your thighs and presses his ear against your heart space while gently laying his head on your chest.

yeah, do you know that is because I love you and not because you tickled the living lights outta me?

“princess?”, he asks quietly.

say it.

“princess?”, jungkook raises his head and looks at you, mildly concerned “are you okay?”

say something.

instead, you stare at him. you stare at his eyes. if eyes are actually a mirror of people’s souls, jungkook’s eyes perfectly represent his– filled to the brim with tenderness, tranquility, and mirth. a few years ago, you had read somewhere that humans were created from the burned-out embers of stars. you never believed it. the same folks who start wars, spill blood, stealing lying deceiving and doing everything evil, cannot be created from something so divine.

however, jungkook, over and over again, contradicts that belief. you have no doubt he’s born out of stardust. and fiery comets, northern lights, solar eclipses, everything magic.

“why are you crying?!”, jungkook’s anxious voice snaps you out of your reverie. without realizing you find yourself getting pulled up to sit on his lap, straddling his thighs. “is it me? did I do something?”

“itsh nn-not”, you utter weakly but the words come out as a stifled sob. when jungkook doesn’t understand what you’re saying, he completely loses his composure. he lets go of you and attempts to pry himself away, fairly convinced that he must’ve done something stupid. but you dig your fingers in his arms, trying to communicate with your firm grip that he did nothing wrong. it’s you, you’re the stupid one.

it takes him a few more seconds to realize that you’re crying for something else altogether, and only then does he relax. he wraps his arms around you, letting you break down in his little protective bubble.

what is wrong with me? why does every feeling of mine come out as tears?

“it’s okay, it’s okay”, jungkook coos, “breathe. breathe with me.”

“inhale with me”, he holds eye contact and carefully guides your breath, “good. now exhale. in. and out. it’s okay. I love you. you’re okay, princess.”

and

everything

just

freezes

for a moment.

for a moment?

seems like a lifetime.

you never realize how many types of ‘I love you’s there are until they’re spoken out aloud. most ‘I love you’s are expressed as a confession, while there are some which are born out of panic. I love you. do you love me back? these ‘I love you’s are full of anxiety, and a desperate longing for reassurance, for arms that’ll keep them safe. some are born out of anger and frustration. I’m doing this for you, because I love you, why don’t you understand? then there are those which are born out of pure terror because I love you but I’m afraid that all I’ll ever do is hurt you.

jungkook’s ‘I love you’ sounded like it was nurtured, a flower that bloomed inside a long time ago. like a blanket woven from your favorite human on the entire planet and falling asleep with someone inside your heart no matter how alone you feel outside; a promise.

not that any of you were in the right state of mind to realize that.

you and jungkook realize at the same time. the words that have been spoken out to existence.

he stares at you; you stare at him. devastated, mouth hanging, eyes bulging. none of you breathing.

jungkook closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and opens them again.

“that was not a mistake”, his voice is deep and low. you hold your breath, afraid to miss a single sound that comes out of his mouth, “I do. I will if you allow me to. not that I can help it– I mean, even if you don’t allow it I can’t help myself. I love you. it’s not like I can just un-love you! wait, why do I need your permission anyway? it’s my feelings we’re talking about! okay, but it does concern you”, jungkook looks mortified, “but still, you don’t have to say it back. it’s great if you do but like, there’s no pressure. just don’t tell me to un-love you because that one is none of your business, oka–”

you kiss him. you kiss the living lights out of him. jungkook doesn’t even register what’s happening, he just accepts everything– the way your lips smashes against his, the way your tongue envelops his, finding you in every corner of his mouth, feeling you in every inch of his skin; a drunkard clinging onto every last drop of alcohol yet never having enough.

jungkook is literally panting when you let go of him.

“I was crying because I am in love with you. I have been in love with you for a while now and I didn’t know how to say so”, you confess. only a few words are enough to make realization flash in his eyes. after all, he knows you. he knows you well enough to know everything, even the things he doesn’t.

“I must’ve been a saint in my past life to deserve this”, jungkook closes his eyes and rests his forehead against yours.

“I think this is your first life. you’re like the sugar in a cookie.”

“what? I thought I was the cookie!”, jungkook furrows his eyebrows, offended, “also, sugar isn’t good for you. what are you talking about?!”

you giggle in response.

“hey! take it back”, he overpowers you in a swift motion. he reels your bodies backward to hover over you, pinning your hands down on the mattress, smirking. “otherwise you’re gonna regret it.”

“regret? nah, I think I will enjoy it”, your smirk wipes off the one on his face.

“oh boy”, he sighs.

“jungkook?”

“yeah?”

“say it again”, you whisper.

“I love you.”

“again.”

“I love you.”

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wol-fica · 2 months ago

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-Bliss PT 11-

summary - reader would do anything, anything, to protect wednesday…

warnings - punching, blood, nose broken, SAPPY

an - missed wednesday and r, (mostly wednesday), so i thought id get back into bliss before season 2 comes !!

—————————

It was a beautiful Monday afternoon in New Jersey, golden rays of sunlight bathing the mansion floor in a beautiful blanket of bronze. The windows were open to the outside world, a warm breeze flowing through the house and invading the walls with the scent of pine and apple pie.

You were in the kitchen, humming along to one of your favorite songs while you stirred ingredients together to make a sugar glaze. Your pie was in the oven, almost ready to be taken out and admired for how damn talented you were at baking, but it needed a few more minutes to reach perfection. It’s crust was a delicious looking light brown, dusted with a bit of salt for flavor, that covered the mouth watering apple filling that was crafted from your great grandmothers secret recipe.

Your cooking and baking skills were a great blessing, especially since your wife has a bit of a sour tooth when it comes to entrees. You always made sure to craft each dish to the exact perfect condition of what she was craving in that moment, and every time, without fail, she would praise you in her gothic ways about how delicious each meal was.

Speaking of your wife, she was currently typing away on her typewriter in the office, working on a new book series since finishing her last collection. Becoming such a well respected writer had boosted her confidence a lot, which in turn helped open more doors to new plot lines and perspectives of storytelling and imagery for her to explore. You had been her biggest supporter throughout her journey and definitely earned the title of “#1 Wednesday Addams Fan” after showing up to every conference and book signing wearing her face on your shirt.

She scolded you for it every single time.

“Doing okay, babe?” You called out, whisking the icing gently.

The ‘tap tap tap’ of the typewriter abruptly stopped, and the sound of footsteps ranges out softly in the house as your partner approached the kitchen. You turned your head just in time to see her round the corner, your breath catching in the back of your throat from the sight of her.

Wednesday Addams was a glorious view, and just so easy to look at for you even after all these years. Her skin was supple and pale, almost ghostly white from lack of melanin in her cells. Her eyes, black as ever, were filled with a sense of warmth that to others, would be discomforting; to you, it was home. She was dressed in a knee-length black skirt that held her checkered sweater tucked in at her waist, with a thin silver chain hanging loosely from the front of her hip to the back. She had white, shin-length socks on that hugged her calves in such a way that it was almost hypnotic to stare at her. Her hair was in her usual duel braids paired with her beautiful bangs that you loved oh so much, and she wore an expression of admiration on her face when she spotted you.

“Hey you.” You said, setting your whisk down to fully turn to her, “Finished the third chapter yet?”

“Not yet.” Wednesday replied, stepping into your personal space and tilting her face up to you, “I am stuck in the torturous prison of what the people call ‘writers block’.”

You chuckled, taking her chin in your hand and leaning down to kiss her. She stood up on her toes to meet you, her hands resting on your hips while you cupped her jaw. She tasted divine, her lipgloss flavor consisting of black cherries and dark chocolate with a hint of eucalyptus to complement the sweetness.

“Hi.” You murmured to her after pulling away, staring into her dark eyes.

“Hello.” She whispered back, her hands slithering around your waist, “I missed you.”

“We live together.” You teased, smiling when she undid the tie of your apron.

“You have been baking all morning.”

“Could’ve joined me.”

“And suffer with the nauseating effect of home life and domestication? I’d rather be nailed to a post.”

You giggled, moving around her to hang your apron on the pantry door hook before coming back over to the oven to peak at your pie. It seemed to be done, so you grabbed your black mittens and carefully took the hot dish out and placed it on the stove. The aroma of apple hit you like a warm pillow to the face, and you felt your whole body physically relax from the touching smell.

“I hope to get a slice later.” Wednesday said, sliding her hand into yours once you took the mittens off, “It looks divine.”

“I thought Wednesday Addams didn’t like sweet things?” You asked, scrunching your nose at her.

“I like you, isn’t that enough proof?”

You hummed, pressing your lips to her forehead as a loving gesture. The radio sounded light static before Foolish Girl by Marjorie filled the room. Your unoccupied hand slide to rest on your wife’s waist, gently beginning to sway to the music with her. She let her head rest against your chest, her eyes falling shut at the sound of your heartbeat.

“Twenty-five years old and you still dance like you’re fifteen.” You mumbled, smoothing the wrinkles out of her sweater.

“I need to perfect my skills, I just haven’t had the time.” She replied softly, burying her nose into your hoodie, “Fifteen year old me would be devastated.”

“No.” You said, lifting her head and reaching to cup her face, “She would be so proud to see what you have achieved; you’re incredible, baby”

Wednesday blushed, shamelessly letting her eyes run over your features with pure admiration. You both stayed like that for a while, content in swaying in each other’s embrace whilst occasionally sharing little kisses here and there. The moment was perfect, until a sharp knock at the front door startled you.

“Who could that be?” You wondered aloud, knowing you weren’t expecting anyone today.

“A spokesperson maybe.” Wednesday grumbled, turning and heading towards the front door, “I’ll tell them to leave.”

“It’s not like we get solicitors.” You said, knowing it’s a pretty long walk from the road to your front door, “Be nice, please!”

She waved you off, rounding the corner out of sight but not of earshot. You heard the front door open, and a male voice respond to your wife’s question of his presence.

“I’m here for you, actually.” The person said, his words slightly slurred.

“Sorry, not available, please leave.”

“Seem pretty available to me; pretty cute too.”

“Use the word ‘cute’ to describe me again and i’ll remove your finger nails with my pliers.”

“No need to get attitude with me, gorgeous. How about I come inside and we chat a little?”

You tensed up, dropping the plate you were drying onto the counter and briskly walking to the front door. There was a tall man in the entrance, holding the door open with his hand so Wednesday couldn’t shut it on him. He was scruffier looking, his greasy hair long and his wiry beard unkept on his bumpy skin. He had a smirk on his face that was unsettling and gross looking, like something that came out of a shitty thriller from the 60’s or something of the sort.

“Who the fuck are you?” The man drawled out, seeming to size you up when you approached.

“Her wife.” You deadpanned, standing to slightly in front of Wednesday to block him from entering your home, “And I’m pretty sure she asked you to leave.”

He laughed, his breath reeking of scotch and beer when it hit your nose. You recoiled slightly, mistakingly taking a step back in disgust. The man saw that as an opportunity to strike, and shot his hand out to grab Wednesdays arm.

It felt like everything happened in a millisecond; one minute you were pinching your nose to block the smell, the next you were swinging your fist into his face, his nose breaking with a satisfying ‘crack’. He fell backwards onto your concrete front porch, his hand immediately covering his injury. You breathed heavily, your chest heaving up and down from the adrenaline pumping through your veins. Not many things angered you, but if someone ever put their hands on Wednesday, you would see red.

Call it your wifey instinct.

“OW! What the fuck?!” He screamed, cradling his face, “Son of a bitch!”

“Never, ever, touch her again.” You growled, squaring your shoulders to make yourself appear bigger, “Now get the hell off of my property before I call the cops.”

With that you slammed the door once he retreated down your steps and to the street, locking the deadbolt with a grunt of annoyance. Blood coated your knuckles from the impact of the man’s nose breaking, but you could honestly care less as your focus was on the women standing in front of you.

“Are you okay?” You asked, reaching for her arm to make sure she wasn’t scratched or bruised.

“I am fine.” Wednesday reassured, a glint of love in her eyes as she stared at you, “That was the most attractive thing I have ever seen.”

“Wednesday, I just punched a man in the face.”

“And it was divine.” She replied, biting her lip in a teasing way, “The way you spoke to him; impressive.”

You sighed with a smile, wrapping your arms around her and kissing her softly. She responded with leaning into you, titling her head to the side to welcome you in as much as she could.

“I’m glad to have you.” You whispered against her lips, “Truly.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” She whispered back, tugging you forwards with her as she walked backwards.

“The pie is still on the stove.” You reminded her as she began to run her hands down your chest, “Didn’t you want a slice?”

She pulled back from your embrace, nodding in the direction of your shared bedroom. There was a mischievous glint in her eyes, a small smirk coming to her face.

“I can think of something sweeter to eat.”

—————————

🫦

taglist: @cartierdreamx @tundra1029 @red1culous @vorsdany @andsoigotabutterfly @theafterofnevermore @yomomisgay @house-of-lovin @dunohilly @somekindofpoet @alexkolax @cinffy23 @pedrosprincess0 @amberfreemansburntface @myfturn

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absolutebl · 25 days ago

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This Week in BL - Korea Is Back, Baby

Organized, in each category, with ones I'm enjoying most at the top.

March 2025 Week 4

Ongoing Series - Thai

Perfect 10 Liners (Sun YT) ep 22 of 24 - Faifa is a natural flirt. He just flirts with everybody. I think it’s an essential part of his personality. I hope Wine is okay with that. I wish we got a little bit more about Wine’s past and history and why he is the way he is.

Ohm is our super hot P’Tor? Glorious! GREAT spot casting. Also a nice sweet character - direct and honest. I liked everything about this cameo.

All in all a nice ep. Lovely execution of the rooftop assignation trope. (It's an OLD one, was in Takumi-kun)

Top Form (Thurs WeTV) ep 2 of 10 - ep 2 and we are already on dub con and a stolen kisses? Charming. Frankly, I found this second installment a little dull. But I’m still enjoying the show.

My Golden Blood (Weds iQIYI) Ep 3 of 12 - is that the same house as Win’s family home in Between Us?

Sweet Tooth Good Dentist (Fri iQIYI) ep 2 of 12 - no ep this week.

Lost in the Woods (Weds Gaga) ep 2 of 7 - Meh. I’m DN-effing this one. Effing indeed.

Flirt Milk (Sat YT) ep 10 end - I just want the photography club pres to get a boy. Could he have his own BL please?

Summary

An insipid story of a boy who likes another boy at a university photography club. One of them is dim and the other is a jerk and that's it. Side couples are BL and GL, with the back-up gays the only good thing about this whole show and there isn't much of them. 4/10

Ossan‘s Love Thailand (Mon YouTube) ep 12 END - finally it's over. I will say that the actress they got to play Mo’s sister does look like she really could be Mix’s sister.

Summary

Was this punishment for how fantastic Cherry Magic Thailand was? WHY DID THIS HAPPEN?!! I never liked this IP. It's a terrible story based entirely on a love triangle, the viability of the whole show hinges on the boss character being likable, because the lead is an unsympathetic looser (and user of people), and the roommate/love interest has no personality. With better optics, better kisses, and better chemistry than the original this Thai version STILL managed to be worse with more workplace harassment. A true feat of, well, something that ended up the visual equivalent of smelling like feet. Save yourself from the pong. 4/10

Finally… where tf were my ladies? The female characters were the best thing about the original.

Ongoing Series - Not Thai

Heesu in Class 2 (Korea Fri Viki) eps 1-2 of 10 - Adaption of the comic by Lily, about a shy unpopular boy with a secret crush on best friend who somehow also ends up his school's relationship counselor. This was my most anticipated BL of it's original year (2022) and I am so glad it's living up to expectations (I worried about how long it was in dev hell).

It is both painfully cute and painfully awkward and I love it. Giving Light on Me vibes. Sex Ed but a KBL is basically made for me. I love all the characters. I love the friendship group. I love the poor lonely super studious actual love interest. Everything. Thank you Korea.

Secret Relationships (Korea iQIYI) ep 5 of 8 - episode five, and I’m starting to just feel so sorry for poor Da-on. Aw linguistic negotiation my love! I still enjoy it but things are getting dark for our hero.

Exclusive Love (Taiwan Fri Gaga) ep 8 of 12 - my love affair with our new blond boy continues. He is best boy.

Checkered Shirt (Korea YT) ep 7 of 8 - I’m enjoying this. In that cautious way I have with this particular production house, since they don’t always stick the landing.

Fight for You (Taiwan Fri Gaga) ep 1-2 of 12 - I liked premise of the show, but I’m not loving the execution. It’s the same company that does the robot stuff. And it’s got that same awkward tone and lackluster aura. I absolutely hate the nosy grandmother character, and she may be a dealbreaker for me continuing to watch the show if she shows up regularly. This is the character (and personality type) I find the most intolerable in the world.

It's airing but......

Sashes and Hearts (Pinoy YT) 13 eps - Philippines is doing Drop Dead Gorgeous only all gay boys queening their asses off. Doesn't interest me, not sure if it's BL.

Last Meal Universe (Thai ????) 8 eps - An alien who has come to destroy earth instead falls in love with Thai food and then the Thai boy who cooks it - realistic, actually. I got a link to watch but it still wouldn't work for me, so I guess I'm waiting to see what happens.

In case you missed it (I did)

I never caught Marahuyo Project when it was airing but I recently binged it and it is charming. Not BL really (no trope et al), more a kind of 90's style Big Eden or Shelter early queer cinema thing. Made me very nostalgic for those bad old days. Definitely worth a watch if you like that kind of QL, it's 8 eps on ANIMA Studios YT channel.

Next Week Looks Like This:

COMING IN APRIL

4/3 Business as Usual AKA Eul's Love (Korea Thurs Viki/Gaga) 7 eps - trailer on Twitter Kim Min Jun, a 30-year-old office worker, is stuck in the repetitive cycle of his 9-to-5 job and can’t shake the feeling that something is missing from his life. Things take an unexpected turn when his ex-boyfriend Jin Hwan, whom he hasn’t seen in 8 years, suddenly reappears at his office as a new colleague.

4/25 My Sweetheart Jom (Thai Fri YouTube) - trailer Saint is back in a BL? Who knew that would ever happen? When he gets tangled up with a mafia boss's son's girlfriend and ends up in a scuffle, young Yothin needs to find a safe place. Instead of sending him overseas, his father decides to send him to the countryside. There, he stays in Bang Pho under the care of subdistrict headman, a close friend of his father. He's also under the watchful eye of the village headman who happens to be the subdistrict headman's grandson and is overseeing his probation. As Yothin spends more time with Jomkhwan, his perception of the village headman begins gradually to change.

4/26 The Bangkokboy AKA Bangkok Boys (Thai Sat ????) trailer - messy gays

2025 Line Up

BL Announced for 2025 - PART 1

BL Announced for 2025 - PART 2

20 BLs Announced for 2025 That I'm Really Excited About

GMMTV 2025 Line Up - My Totally Biased and Wildly Flawed Feels

THIS WEEK’S BEST MOMENT

Everyone loved the rooftop kiss but I adored that cuddle.

(last week)

The tag BLigade: @doorajar @solitaryandwandering @my-rose-tinted-glasses @babymbbatinygirl @babymbbatinygirl @isisanna-blog @mmastertheone @pickletrip @aliceisathome @urikawa-miyuki @tokillamonger @sunflower-positiiivity @rocketturtle4 @blglplus @anythinggoesintheshire @everlightly @renafire @mestizashinrin @bl-bam-beyond @small-dark-and-delicious @saezurumurmurs

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tumblerislovetumblerislife · 11 months ago

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she who became the sun

including but not limited to:

1) monk zhu who is DEFINITELY above worldly desires 2) there are many benefits to having a hand made of light (gee i sure wonder who's holding the knife?) 3) guys i think they used ye olde photoshop on zhu's emperor portrait

zhu kicking their feet & giggling @ ma (unfortunately no hair to twirl)

some modern zhus!

(image description below the cut because it got super long!)

[ID: digital art of the character zhu chongba/yuanzhang in the radiant emperor series in the first image, and then nine close-ups. the background is yellow and imitates rays of sun, dividing the image into sections, from the center of the sun, counter-clockwise.

section 1: zhu's head and neck. she is a chinese person with dark-brown eyes, shaved hair, and moles on her face and neck, looking down and smiling slightly. there are two slits in their eyebrows, and they are wearing a gold nose ring and various black and gold studs and rings in their ears.

section 2: two simple drawings, an arrow between them, labelled above with *OUYANG POV*. the first is zhu's face, drawn cartoonishly so that the cheekbones are very wide and the chin is very narrow, creating a triangle. the second is a cicada's face that looks very similar to the cartoonish zhu (the eyes replace zhu's ears and its mandibles replace zhu's chin).

section 3: three drawings of zhu, inspired by canon. the first is zhu as a monk, wearing orange robes and with ordination scars on her scalp. her head is angled down, but her eyes are raised. the second is zhu in he who drowned the world, her hair slightly grown out with a gold hairpin and wearing golden robes. someone is pointing a knife at her and she is smirking like the cat meme, her mandate of heaven illuminating her missing hand, which is showing the middle finger. the third is zhu as emperor, looking more masculine and attractive than the other images. she is wearing blue and gold robes with a dragon embroidered on them and a gold hair crown and pin.

section 4: zhu's profile, smiling after a flash of brown hair. they look modern, wearing a light-blue sleeveless turtleneck with an ace flag and she/they pin as well as a gold nose ring and multicoloured jewellery in their ears. her hair is shaved, but growing out slightly and there are two slits in her eyebrows, and two lipstick kisses on her cheek and corner of her mouth. they are surrounded by pink light, hearts and sparkles, and there is a heart reflection in their eye.

section 5: five drawings of modern zhu. the first is her eyes and thick eyebrows in greyscale, wearing yellow eyeliner that imitates the sun. the second is from the waist up, zhu smiling with their eyes closed, wearing a patterned white and green button-up and leather belt, along with multicoloured pieces of jewellery. the third is zhu's whole body, folded up in a seated position. she's wearing a yellow shirt with white flowers on, grey and brown checkered pants with a green belt, black and gold socks, and purple sneakers, along with jewellery and a gold choker. the fourth is zhu's nose and mouth, showing their nose ring and smile. the fifth is zhu from the knees up. she's looking sideways, right arm held to her head and wearing a bright multicoloured shirt and clashing striped pants over a black crop top, along with a nose ring and sun earrings. /end ID]

#the radiant emperor #tre #she who became the sun #swbts #he who drowned the world #hwdtw #zhu yuanzhang #zhu chongba #art #my art #tltl art #general ouyang #ma xiuying #mazhu #emperor zhu #modern au #this one is for the radiant emperor girlies (gender-neutral) you know who you are!#i think modern zhu should have the most colourful and terrible outfits ever. as a treat <3

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 3 months ago

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Sparkle in my Eye 1

Warnings: non/dubcon, stalking, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Captain Syverson

This AU is called Watcher Anonymous and will include different series for different characters. This is our introduction to Syverson and Gem.

Summary: there's more growing in the garden than flowers.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

“Oh, I’m just getting ready—yeah, yeah, we can go tonight.” Her voice trickles down from the open doors of her balcony.

Sy wipes a sheet of sweat from his brow and snips another thick stem with the pruners. He nearly catches the fingertips of his thick gloves. He’s working off of instinct rather than focus. He’s entwined in her conversation, though the other side he only catches pieces.

“Ew, Margo, please, you know I'm not doing that. The kind of guys that take you home aren’t what I’m looking for,” Gem scoffs and sets something down. “Oof, I cannot get my hair to behave!”

“You look fine,” the muffled response comes from her phone speaker.

He knows she does. She always looks perfect. He pulls away a dried out stem and drops it in the clutter. It’s a nice day out but the sun is burning through his shirt. It’s like fire on the back of his neck. He pauses to adjust his hat and looks up.

He sees her shadow looking off the balcony. The house is just as immense as the yard. His work takes at least a day but he can’t complain; her father overpays him for what he does. Who wouldn’t? With a house like this? A family? You’d want it all to be kept just so.

“Ugh, don’t be a bitch,” Gem sneers. “It’s my car, I can take it when I want--”

“Yeah, but daddy--”

“Do you even want me to come over?” She snips.

He laughs but not loud enough to be heard. She has some fire and her friends deserve that. They're all spoiled. She is too but she’s not like them.

She closes the doors. Good. She forgets to do that sometimes and from the right angle, anyone could see in. If they knew the gate code, they could even get in.

He shoves the snipped ends and dead bits in a compost bag. As he rolls the edge, she comes out. He keeps her in his peripheral but doesn’t look directly at her. She waves.

“Is my dad gone?” She asks.

“Em, yeah, think he left a while ago,” he peeks over at her. He takes off his cap and wipes his face on his arm.

“Oh, it’s very hot. I should’ve brought you some water,” she tuts. “Anyhow, I’m on my way out. Looks nice out here.”

“Thanks, miss,” he says.

She smiles at him, “Sy?” She asks, hands on her hips.

“Yes, miss?”

“How does my hair look?” She turns to show him all of it. His eyes dart down to her checkered skirt. Quickly, he lifts them back to her face.

“It looks very nice,” he assures her. It always does.

“Aw, thanks, Sy,” she shimmies. “Well, have a good day. I’ll see ya next week.”

She dances off in her platform heels and digs in her purse to find her keys. The white mercedes beeps and unlocks and she takes her time getting everything sorted. Purse in the passenger, pink leather knapsack in the back.

She’s finally in. She backs up and the gates open at the push of her button. She swerves around and drives through. He watches until she’s gone. He just needs to clean up anyway.

He leaves an hour later. He leaves his truck at home. It’s too obvious. He takes the pontiac in his garage instead. The pet project put together from his fruitful business and scavenging in junk yards. He drives past Margot’s and parks a block down.

There’s a place around here where he does the hedges. They have a nice tree in the back too. It’s not exactly cozy and a bit of an effort but he gets to the top and perches between the branches. He’s been trying to cut weight but he’s always been on the thicker side.

He can see almost right into Margot’s room. Gem is there. She has a glass bottle with bright pink liquid inside. He doesn’t think she should drink so much or so early but that’s why he keeps an eye on her.

The girls eventually head out. He follows them to the mall. He eats while they waste time at that makeup shop. They come out and he gives them a bit to get ahead of him. He’s tired but he doesn’t have any other jobs to do.

Dinner at a fancy place that demands ties and jackets sees him scrolling on the Discord. A few of the other men say they made progress, whatever that means. Some of those guys are a bit off. Especially that Cole fellow. Clumsy, to boot.

After, the girls go down the street to a flashing marquee. They head into the bar without being stopped. The pretty ones never have trouble. He waits an hour, restless, then goes in after them.

He trawls the place. He finds her. She’s got another drink. A bad habit. He nearly drowned in the stuff after he got back from serving. She’s young, she’ll learn.

A man approaches her and Margot. He’s up on Gem before she even notices. She grabs his hand and moves it away from her hip. The other girl giggles. It’s obvious her friend is uncomfortable but she just thinks it’s amusing.

Gem deserves better. She deserves people who care about more than labels and credit cards. She just needs that bubble popped. One day she’ll see.

#captain syverson #dark syverson #dark!syverson #captain syverson x reader #sand castle #series #drabble #watchers anonymous #sparkle in my eye

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oddlydescriptive · 1 month ago

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Reset, Chapter Six

A/N, temporary: I will edit the formatting on this more shortly, just wanted to get it posted. :)

Series Masterlist

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August 28, 2022- Belgian Grand Prix, Checkered Flag

You give yourself exactly one moment. One breath. One single, fleeting second to feel it- to really feel it- as you loosen your grip on the wheel and lift your hand, barely higher than the halo, fingers wagging in a shy, almost embarrassed wave.

It’s nothing. Barely a gesture. You haven’t waved at a crowd since you were sixteen, when it was easy to wave because you knew exactly who you were waving at. Back then, it was your mom, your dad, your brother. People who knew you before the helmets and the fireproofs and the endless fight to be taken seriously. They waved back like idiots, hooting loud enough for you to hear through the engine scream.

Since then, you’ve driven every lap like the wheel was something you had to strangle to survive. There was no waving. No softness. Not when your body vibrated with a rage you didn’t know how to kill, not after all the things they did to you- hands where they didn’t belong, whispers in garages, jokes over radios that didn’t stop when the car shut off. Not after every fight you had to pick just to exist in the paddock. And definitely not when every drive in IndyCar felt like a penance, like you were grinding your bones to dust just to haul a shitbox onto the grid.

There was never a reason to wave. Never a reason to be happy about finishing.

But today- today, the crowd waves back.

They don’t know you. Nobody owns a LeChriste 66 t-shirt. Nobody showed up for you. You were just the girl they read about in a headline two days ago, just a last-minute curiosity. And still- there are fans in Dutch orange, in Williams blue, in Ferrari red- some on their feet, waving, clapping, celebrating you like you belong to all of them at once.

Because today, you are something bigger than yourself. You’re the first woman in a Formula 1 race in decades. You’re the first woman to score points since Lella fucking Lombardi. You are living proof that impossible things still happen in this sport.

It catches in your throat, sharp and unexpected, and you swallow hard, force your hand back to the wheel, shove your visor up just enough to drag in a breath that doesn’t catch on the knot in your chest.

It’s just a moment. One stupid, fleeting moment.

But it’s yours. And you let yourself have it.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

Female Driver Secures P7 in Hard-Fought F1 Debut at Spa

Sky Sports F1 | By James Donnahan

Alpha Tauri’s #66 driver kept eyes in the midfield on Sunday. The twenty-two year old American’s Formula 1 debut was expected to be a brief experiment- but after a P7 finish in Belgium, it’s unclear what happens next.

The AlphaTauri stand-in delivered a scrappy, aggressive drive, defending fiercely against seasoned competitors and clawing her way back into her qualifying position after falling to P10. Her prolonged battle with Fernando Alonso showcased sharp racecraft, and while the car’s outright pace was limited, she maximized every opportunity.

“She was never going to settle,” David Croft had noted during her final lap. “She’s been hunting, all the way to the flag.”

Six points for AlphaTauri is significant, but the bigger question looms- what does Red Bull do now? With their driver pipeline already crowded, her future remains uncertain. Was this a one-off adrenaline-fueled performance, or is there real potential here? One thing is certain- 66 will not be ignored.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

It’s a tidal wave. A relentless, crashing wall of press, of microphones shoved toward your face, of cameras flashing too bright through the haze of helmet hair and adrenaline crash. You’ve barely left weigh-in before you’re caught in the swell, pulled under by a hundred hands, a hundred voices, a hundred stories all converging on you at once- grown men with tears in their eyes telling you they need a picture for their daughter, teenage girls sobbing as they hug you like you’ve just personally rewrote their futures, reporters delicately rewording the same question over and over, What does this mean for women in motorsport?

You know what this moment is. You know what it means. You know what it’s supposed to mean.

You wanted this.

You wanted to be undeniable. You wanted to be historic. You wanted to take this moment and shove it in the face of every person who ever sneered at you, who ever said girls can’t drive, who ever called you a gimmick, a PR stunt, a waste of a seat. You wanted to prove them wrong, to plant your flag so deep in the soil of this sport that no one could ever erase you.

And you did.

But your mind is somewhere else entirely.

Because everything was perfect in the car.

And now it’s over.

You hug girl after girl after girl, holding them tight, murmuring thank you and you can do this too and anything is possible, and your hands are steady, your voice is warm, your smile is bright. You do all the right things, you say all the right things, because perfection is survival and this- this is what they need from you right now. You are a symbol. A steward of something greater than yourself. A woman breaking a barrier that has remained untouched for decades.

But inside? Inside, you are hollowed out.

You sign another hat, another AlphaTauri flag, another program, but the motions are mechanical. You hear your own voice giving the perfect answers- yes, it’s an honor, yes, it’s incredible, yes, the car was fantastic, yes, you hope this opens doors- but you aren’t really here when you say it. You’re still in the cockpit. Your fingers still feel the weight of the wheel, the brakes still bite under your foot, the engine is still thrumming through your bones. Your body hasn’t caught up to the fact that it’s over.

And the worst part?

No one can promise you it will ever happen again.

This was a stand-in seat. A one-time deal. A temporary patch in a machine that will keep moving long after you’re gone. And you know how this works. This sport is ruthless. If you’re not already locked in, you’re locked out.

The walk from the media pen to the energy station is a blur, your ears still ringing with the white noise of celebration, of voices calling your name, of hands grabbing at your fireproofs, your gloves, your time. It’s everything you wanted, everything you fought for- but right now, it feels like you’re drowning in it. You need to get out. You need to breathe.

Security is tighter in here- fewer cameras, fewer people pressing in on you from all sides. The doors close behind you with a soft click, and for the first time since you crossed the line, the tidal wave recedes.

You inhale, steady, measured. It doesn’t help.

There’s nothing left to do.

The thought slams into you like a punch to the sternum.

All week, you’ve been desperate, sure, but there was always something to manage, a game to play, a move to make- working media, perfecting your posture in meetings, biting your tongue in the right places, pushing just enough in the car to be undeniable but not reckless. But now? Now there’s nothing. You have driven the race. You have done the press. You have played the game to the very end.

And now, for the first time since you took that phone call, your fate is entirely out of your hands.

You don’t know what to do with that. You don’t know how to do nothing.

Your feet move on their own, taking you somewhere familiar, somewhere you can at least pretend to have control. Your little driver’s room is exactly as you left it- a makeshift home for a weekend that was never supposed to last this long.Your bag is still in the corner, half-zipped and overflowing with laundry, a reminder that when you packed for the Indy race last week, you hadn’t planned on being gone an additional seven days.

It’s a little thing, really. A small annoyance, you’re not even sure why it feels like a big deal in the wake of the week. You’ve worn and re-worn laundry a million times at home- it was almost pointless to wash jeans back at the ranch until they reeked or were covered in oil or mud. Hell, even in your little apartment in Illinois you know there’s a pair of sweats in the corner of your bedroom that you’re not sure have seen soap since you moved in.

Yet. You’ve delivered the best performance of your life, and you don’t have a seat, you barely have a paycheck, and you don’t even have a clean set of clothes. There’s a small, gnawing part of you that can see past the rush, the religion, the broken records, the longing- and wonder if your mother was right to be mad at you.

God, just- you grind your palms into your eyes so hard you see static and let out a deep sigh. Just control the controllables. Just fucking reset.

“Reset,” you mutter to yourself as you rifle through the bag, pulling everything out piece by piece. No, no, absolutely not- you almost gag when your hand touches the underlayer you had worn on the flight in. You��re not sure if it’s the Dale Coyne logo or the half a day of stress sweat it mopped up, but you nearly gag before continuing your quest, grabbing the least disgusting pair of jeans you have left.

The real issue is a shirt- because two X chromosomes or not, it’s August, and athletes fucking stink, and you’re no exception. Most of these smell. The ones that don’t are wrinkled beyond respect or - you hate that you actually hold it up to consider it- a ten year old junior racing club shirt you had packed to sleep or workout in.

A crumple of white catches your eye. Ah, yes. The fireproof top you had worn when you suited up for FP2 and proceeded to fling against your wall the second you had a minute to yourself. It hadn’t seen a lap. It had barely seen your body at all- it’s clean. It fits. It’s team branded. Bingo.

Once you actually have something to wear, it takes you all of fifteen seconds to change, grab your laptop, and get out the door, because if they’re going to dismiss you, they’re going to do it to your face. All of them. You’re not going to let them get away with sending a sniveling little intern to your room to give you a pat on the back and plane ticket.

You reclaim Friday’s spot outside the boardroom- your own personal purgatory tucked into the corner with your laptop open, the faint glow of the screen washing over your face in the dim evening light of the paddock. A party is getting into motion somewhere in the sponsor suites, music and laughter floating faintly through the walls, but you’re not part of it. You’re here, cross-legged, dissecting every second of your onboard, like maybe if you focus hard enough, you can still taste it, just a little.

It’s all you know how to do.

Work.

You go over every sector, every line, every fraction of a second you could have done differently. You build a full workup of the car’s behavior over the race distance- tyre degradation rates, how the aero felt in traffic, where the rear started to lose grip toward the end. You catalogue everything you can think of, notes stacking up with ruthless precision.Not because anyone asked you to. Not because you think you missed something critical.

But because you are desperate.

See? I’m useful.

See? I’m smart. I’m diligent. I work harder than anyone. Please keep me.

Please let me drive again.

You’re not naïve. You know this opened a door for you, somewhere. Some junior formula team, some sports car series, hell- maybe even a full-time Indy seat with a decent team if you wanted to spit at Dale Coyne from further up the grid. Some respectable teams, probably even a respectable paycheck. You’ve proven yourself.

But this?

This is the only door you want right now.

This team. This car.

It was magic. Driving it was nothing short of religious, something that lit every nerve in your body on fire in the most addictive way imaginable. You didn’t know racing could feel like that. You didn’t know driving could feel like that. It’s the same realization you had the first time you came with a man- that moment of ‘Oh shit, I’m never going back.’

It was beyond speed, beyond performance. It felt like the car knew you, like it was alive and responding to every thought you had before your body could even act on it. You want it back so badly you feel sick.

But you also know the grid is full. It’s the middle of the season. Pierre’s seat is spoken for. Yuki’s seat is spoken for. Liam is still here, they’ll dust him off and try to reset him, let him fight another day- because he’s a product of the system and the system protects its investments.

You watch the boardroom door like it might suddenly crack open and offer you salvation.

It doesn’t.

Franz didn’t stop to talk to you after media duties- just walked straight in and shut the door behind him.

Then Helmut. And Mattia. Then legal.

You work through it, forcing your focus onto the telemetry, the onboard footage, the data. Anything to avoid the rising pressure in your chest, the certainty building like a thunderstorm on the horizon.

Then Christian appears, still smelling faintly of champagne, Max beside him, fresh from celebrating his own victory. The man peels off with barely a glance in your direction and disappears into the boardroom too, the door sealing shut with a heavy finality.

You swallow hard.

You knew this would happen. You knew. You’re not part of the plan. You were a necessity, a stopgap, a feel-good story they could milk for PR before sending you on your way. You were never meant to be part of the long-term equation. Your fingers tighten on the edge of the laptop, breath a little too shaky to pass off as calm.

You don’t hear him approach- again.

One second, you’re watching Christian disappear into the boardroom while Max peels off to go do whatever champions do. The next, there’s a shift in the air, a subtle but unmistakable change that prickles at the back of your neck before you even turn your head.

Jos.

You blink hard, willing your nerves to settle, but it’s impossible to ignore the way your pulse ticks up just a notch. You’ve never once heard his footsteps, never caught him approaching- he just appears, sliding into the seat across from you like he’s been there the whole time.

"Working hard?" His voice is a shade too pleasant, too smooth, like he already knows the answer.

You sit up automatically, shoulders squaring, but you don’t bother lying. "Always."

His expression barely shifts, but there’s a new air about him- like he’s pleased, not in an obvious way, not in the way that someone beams when they’re proud, but in the quiet, satisfied way of a man whose expectations have been met. Not exceeded- no, Jos Verstappen doesn’t strike you as someone who gets impressed- but met. As if he already had you pegged, and now he’s confirmed it for himself.

"You were good today," he says, deceptively casual. "Better than they expected." You thank him, polite, professional, wary- trying to measure out this conversation before it unfolds. But you never need to get that far, because apparently, that’s all he cared to say.

Without warning, he stands. No parting remark, no further assessment- just a glance toward the boardroom door before he brushes his hands down his jeans and walks straight for it.

The murmurs start immediately. You can’t hear what’s said, but you see the shift in body language inside- some of them surprised, some visibly annoyed, others resigned, like they already know Jos doesn’t make social calls- he comes to say things they don’t particularly care to hear. Jos presses in anyway, stepping inside and pulling the door shut behind him.

You stare at the closed door, hands still resting on your keyboard, cursor blinking in the middle of a half-written note about rear wing adjustments. The hollowness settles in your chest, sharp and unforgiving. Because you know- no matter how much you deserve it, no matter how much data you’ve compiled or how much promise you’ve shown- there might not be room for you here.

And the thought of walking away from that car after feeling what it could do?

It hurts worse than any crash you’ve ever had.

You can’t just sit here and fucking hope. That’s not who you are. Hope is for people who have time to waste, people with backup plans and safety nets and families that can afford to catch them when they fall. You have none of that. So you start drafting a memo- clinical, professional, painfully polished- outlining your availability for a seat. You list your performance metrics, your debut result, your press clippings, every shiny bullet point that might make you attractive to the other teams.

You don’t send it.

But you write it.

Because sitting here with your stomach twisted into knots, waiting for a door that might never open, is unbearable. Even if you don’t want to race for anyone else. Even if the teams that matter are already spoken for- stacked with proven talents and golden boys who aren’t going anywhere.

You don’t want a Williams or an Alpine or a Haas. You want this. AlphaTauri might be mid-field, but it fights. It has a good PU. It’s supported. It’s a pipeline. It’s the only seat that gives you even a whisper of a chance to climb into a car like a Red Bull someday. And after driving that car- after feeling what it’s capable of- you know you’d crawl over broken glass to make it happen.

You’re sick to your fucking stomach when they call you in.

This is it. The goodbye meeting. The “thank you for your service” handshake. The polite dismissal.

You square your shoulders, smooth your hair down, force your face into something resembling poise- but there’s only so much you can do when it feels like your ribcage is collapsing. The conference room is dead silent when you step inside, and everyone is already seated. Franz. Mattia. Legal. PR. Christian. Helmut. And, somehow, Jos Verstappen- leaning back in his chair like he owns the place.

They watch you cross the room like you’re a specimen under glass. You take your seat, folding your hands in your lap so no one sees them tremble. Helmut is the first to speak. The first time he’s ever spoken to you directly. “Do you know what we’ve been doing for the last hour?”

The way he says it- measured, deliberate- feels like a test. You shake your head. “No, sir.”

“Trying to figure out what to do with you.” Your stomach flips. You don’t speak. You don’t dare. He continues, voice calm but impossibly heavy. “We don’t have a seat for you.”

It’s what you expected. You knew this was coming. You brace for the next blow.

“But,” he adds, and your breath catches mid-inhale. “Tomorrow is the start of summer break. We can’t even send an email until it’s over. And we’re not prepared to send you back.”

The words settle around you, too soft and too loud all at once. “We’d like you to stay,” Helmut says. “At least until the end of the break. After that, we’ll have a proper discussion about whether and where you fit into this program.”

There’s a flicker of something- a heartbeat of relief- but you don’t let it show.

“And in the meantime,” he adds, flipping through the thick bible of data you handed over at the first meeting, the one you poured yourself into like an offering, “Jos Verstappen has offered to billet you for the break.”

You blink. What?

“If you’re willing to drive a Verstappen.com car in two rallies over the break,” Helmut says, almost like it’s an afterthought. You glance at Jos, who’s grinning just faintly, like a chessmaster who’s known exactly how this was going to go from the opening move.

“And this,” Helmut taps the edge of your bible, “is good. It shows us you’re more than just a driver. You know how to make yourself valuable. We’ll find something for you to do.”

That’s it. That’s the whole verdict. No promises, no guarantees. Just a maybe. A sliver of maybe. But maybe is still better than no.

You nod, voice careful and steady when you say, “Thank you.” And you mean it. Even if you have no fucking clue what you just agreed to.

The room is still spinning faintly around you- this whole week a surreal cocktail of adrenaline, exhaustion, and hope- but as life-changing as this fever dream has been, it doesn’t erase the truth you live with every damn day.

Your life is bound by dollars and cents. By rent and credit cards. By the slow, steady tick of interest on the loan your parents took out just to get you into that godforsaken Dale Coyne seat. It’s not even about greed- it never has been. It’s about survival. And survival, for you, means making sure you can pay for gas, and tires, and the luxury of not getting evicted, and a million little things that every other driver in this paddock doesn’t have to think about.

But the last thing you want- the last thing you can afford- is to sound ungrateful. To give them even a whisper of a reason to believe that any of this is about money, not the drive. Still, you have to ask.

Your voice comes quiet, hesitant. “Um- ”

Every head in the room lifts. Every eye turns to you.

“As much as I appreciate all of this,” you start, and your voice is steady- but only just. “There’s something I need to ask.”

You wish it didn’t make your stomach twist. You wish you didn’t have to ask at all, but reality is what it is. Your life isn’t cushioned by family money or sponsors footing the bill. Your life is held together with duct tape and IOUs and a personal race suit that’s more patch than fabric at this point. And as beautiful, life-changing, and fever dream absurd as this week has been, it doesn’t change the fact that your landlord doesn’t accept inspiration as rent payment. Neither does your credit card company. And your parents? The parents who took out a loan against fourth-generation family land to fund your first open-wheel season? They might say they don’t want it back, but you are going to repay every goddamn cent.

You’ve done the math. The $4,500 they paid you to be here- taxed to hell and back by the Europeans- might sound decent to someone who’s never had to finance their own racing career. But in your world, that barely scratches the surface. Not when it comes to living expenses, travel, repaying loans, keeping your life afloat back home. Not for a month. Not even close.

And if they expect you to stay- if they want you to park your ass in Europe for the entire break- you can’t afford to pretend money doesn’t matter. Even if the last thing you want is to come off as greedy. You’ve spent your whole career overcompensating for being the girl driver, the charity case, the scholarship kid. You can’t stand the thought of giving even a whisper of a reason for them to think this is about a paycheck.

But it has to be a little bit about the paycheck. Or you’ll be homeless.

“Um,” you start again, awkward, the flush already creeping up your neck. “If I’m going to stay, I just- um, I need to understand how compensation works for that.”

The room stills.

It’s not hostile. It’s not even surprised, exactly. It’s more like they’ve all collectively realized they forgot something very basic. The drivers they’re used to dealing with- Liam, Pierre, Yuki- come from money. Pay is a footnote to the opportunity. These boys have families with deep pockets and family offices and investments that will cushion them long after they’ve left the sport. The stipend they receive from the team? It’s gas money. A dinner bill. An afterthought.

You, on the other hand, are very likely the brokest person in this room. And now that they actually think about it, they realize that at least three of them are wearing watches worth more than your entire paycheck for the weekend.

Franz clears his throat, the first to recover. “Of course. We’ll make sure it’s sorted.”

Helmut nods beside him, making a quick note like they’ve collectively just remembered the real world exists. “You’ll be compensated for the rallies as well. We’ll make sure everything’s covered.”

You exhale, the knot in your chest loosening just slightly.

“Thank you,” you say, voice soft but sincere. “I appreciate it.”

You can feel Christian watching you carefully, as if he’s reassessing everything he thought he knew about you in real-time. Jos, on the other hand, looks amused, like he’s delighted by the reminder that you’re scrappy- that you’re not playing the same game as the rest of them.

But you? You’re just relieved. You might still be hanging by a thread, but at least now, the thread has a little more slack.

And… that’s that.

Helmut slaps the folder closed, the sound sharp in the still air, and everyone else follows his lead- papers shuffled into neat stacks, pens clicked shut, chairs scraping back against the polished floor. The meeting dissolves with the same brisk efficiency that’s governed every second of this week, and just like that, you’re dismissed.

They’ll send over a temp contract via email. A few follow-up details to finalize. Nothing urgent.

People filter out around you- Franz off to a call, the legal team already halfway through the door, Mattia catching up to the media reps with something half-joked about “getting ahead of the next headline.” Even Christian is gone before you realize he’s moved, a lingering clap on your shoulder the only indication he was ever standing beside you.

You stand there, laptop clutched too tightly against your chest, feeling small in a way that has nothing to do with your height. The hum of conversation and footsteps fades as the hallway empties, and you’re left standing in the silence, fidgeting with the corner of your laptop lid just to have something to do with your hands. You’re still rubbed a little raw, skin too thin from the sheer intensity of the last hour, the last day, the last week.

You shift your weight from foot to foot, scanning the hallway for some kind of clue- some indication of where you’re supposed to go, what you’re supposed to do next. Nobody left you an itinerary. There’s no handler waiting to shepherd you to the next obligation. You’re just… here. Untethered.

For the first time all week, you’re not running on someone else’s schedule. And it leaves you completely, utterly lost.

Someone clears their throat behind you, and you can’t catch your mouth before it slips. “Jesus- ” You nearly jump out of your skin, spinning around so fast you smack your elbow into the wall. Jos is standing directly behind you, expression flat, arms crossed, like he’s been there for…who knows how long. Watching. Waiting.

He looks at you expectantly, like you’re supposed to understand something unsaid. You blink at him, still catching your breath, heart thudding against your ribs.

“Well? Are you coming?” His tone is dry, edged with that particular bluntness Dutch people excel at. “Or do you not have things to gather?”

Oh. Oh shit.

You’d been so caught up in your own head- lost in the quiet, disoriented by the sudden emptiness of the hallway- you completely forgot. Right. You’re supposed to be leaving with him. Going to…wherever you’re going. His house, apparently. You were technically told, but in all the chaos, it didn’t really land.

“Uh, yeah,” you manage, snapping yourself into motion. “One second.”

You pivot sharply, ducking into the drivers room, you were just here- just here- but it already feels like something in the air has changed, like you’ve overstayed your welcome now that the race is over. You shove everything into your bags with frantic efficiency- headphones, notes, dirty fireproofs, race suit (are you even allowed to take it?) It’s not until you’re halfway through cramming it all back into your duffel that you realize Jos is still standing in the doorway, watching.

You glance up, expecting some comment, some impatient jab, but he’s just… there. Not exactly breathing down your neck, not exactly supervising- but it’s not comforting. “Don’t forget your passport,” he says. It’s not helpful, exactly. More like a reminder that he’s been doing this long enough to know exactly the kind of shit people forget when they’re rushing.

“Got it,” you mutter, fishing it out from between a tangle of charging cords. You’re not sure why you’re so off-balance around him- he hasn’t actually been mean, not yet- but there’s something about the way he looks at you, like you’re promising enough for his attention, but not enough for his approval, that makes your skin crawl just a little.

Bag zipped. Room empty. You sling the strap over your shoulder, exhale hard enough to blow a strand of hair out of your face, and face him fully. “Ready.”

Jos doesn’t say anything- just turns and starts walking. And you follow. Because what the hell else are you supposed to do?

He moves like a man who expects the world to keep pace with him, long strides, efficient, a complete and total disregard for whether or not you can keep up. And you, with your massive, unwieldy race bag slung over one shoulder, have to practically half-jog just to keep within a few paces of him. Man, fuck these tall ass Dutch people.

Your bag knocks awkwardly against your hip as you adjust the strap, your fingers tightening around the handle to keep it from sliding. The weight of it throws you slightly off balance, but Jos doesn’t so much as glance back. You get the distinct feeling that if you fell flat on your face, he wouldn’t stop walking. Maybe he’d slow down slightly- just long enough to be annoyed that you were making him late- but he wouldn’t stop.

It’s disorienting, the whole thing. The sheer pace of it. You’re used to being fast in a car, but this is different- this is a pace that isn’t meant to accommodate you. There’s no hesitation, no checking to see if you’re still behind him. It’s like you’re not even with him, just another moving piece in his periphery.

You barely register the parking lot until you’re standing in front of a sleek, black SUV, the doors already unlocked. Jos pulls open the driver’s side door and slides in like this is the most normal thing in the world, like you’re not still struggling to shove your massive bag into the back seat without taking out half the interior with it.

By the time you get the door shut, he already has the engine running, one hand on the wheel, the other adjusting the gear shift.

Jesus. Fucking. Christ.

You scramble to click your seatbelt, because there’s absolutely no way he’s going to wait for you to get comfortable before peeling out of here. You exhale sharply, pressing your back against the seat, trying to settle into the reality of this moment. Jos doesn’t fill the silence, doesn’t offer an explanation, doesn’t check if you’re good. He just drives, eyes on the road, a quiet, suffocating kind of presence.

You don’t know how you’re supposed to act around him. And right now, you’re not entirely sure he cares.

The car hums beneath you, the bland, generic presence of a governered rental car, but your mind is anything but steady. For the first time since leaving the boardroom, since stuffing your bags into the backseat, since practically sprinting after Jos just to keep up, you realize- you did not make this decision.

It had been made for you. Helmut had spoken. Jos had spoken. And you had nodded, packed your things, and followed.

The realization slithers through your chest, slow and insidious. You don’t even know where you’re going. Not really. Just some vague understanding that it’s “with Jos” for the summer break, some abstract idea of rally cars and billets and making yourself useful.

But you don’t actually know what that means. Your fingers press against the seam of your jeans, rubbing over the rough texture of the fabric as you sit with that thought. You’re in a car with Jos Verstappen.

Jos Verstappen.

The same Jos Verstappen who makes full-grown men- important men- shift uncomfortably in their seats when he enters a room. The same man who’s been watching you with that quiet, unreadable assessment ever since you first walked into his orbit. And you just followed him out of that building like a dog off-leash, without question, without hesitation.

Jesus Christ.

Your stomach twists, and suddenly, you feel stupid. Blind. You’re a grown-ass woman, an F1 driver- even if only for a weekend- and you didn’t so much as ask where you were going before stepping into a car with this man.

Your gaze flickers toward him, careful, assessing. He’s still silent, one hand draped over the steering wheel, the other resting casually on the gear shift. There’s nothing outwardly alarming about him- nothing that screams danger- but that’s almost worse.

You don’t trust men who can make people nervous without raising their voice.

You shift in your seat, adjusting the way the seatbelt presses against your ribs. He hasn’t looked at you once. Hasn’t spoken since the parking lot. Hasn’t given any indication that he even acknowledges your presence beyond the fact that you’re in his passenger seat.

That’s fine. That’s… better, probably. Still, your pulse betrays you, ticking a little faster than it should. This is fine. This is normal. Red Bull- Dr. fucking Marko- wouldn’t have allowed this if it weren’t fine.

Probably.

…Right?

You shake the thought away. Surely not. You’re being paranoid. If there was anything to be worried about, if there was even the slightest reason for concern, someone would have said something. Someone would have… warned you.

Besides, what would Jos even do? Murder you? That would be a bit much, even for Red Bull. The thought almost makes you laugh. Almost. Except it’s not fucking funny at all.

Instead, you inhale slowly, forcing your pulse to settle. You’ve spent the last week handling yourself just fine- navigating politics, contracts, media. This isn’t any different. You’ll figure it out.

But still… you wish you’d asked where you were going before you’d gotten in the car. Well, no time like the present. "How long of a drive is it?" you ask, voice soft, trying to sound casual.

Jos barely spares you a glance before snorting quietly. "In this traffic?" It’s rhetorical, almost amused, like the answer should be obvious.

Right. Cool. Okay. You fold your hands in your lap and keep your mouth firmly closed, deciding you’ll find out when you get there- wherever there even is.

It’s only when the car turns into a private hangar that you realize there’s no drive at all. There’s a plane sitting there- no, not a plane. A jet. Glossy, immaculate, obnoxiously expensive-looking. For half a second, your brain refuses to process what’s happening. You thought you were heading to some farmhouse in the countryside or some modest family estate, something fitting for a summer spent laying low. Not this. Not that.

Your grip tightens around the strap of your bag as Jos swings out of the car like this is the most normal thing in the world. It probably is for him. For you, it’s surreal. There are polished, impossibly well-dressed people standing at the bottom of the stairs, and before you can even think to protest, one of them is already grabbing your oversized race bag like it weighs nothing, whisking it toward the hold.

"Welcome aboard," the captain says, standing at the top of the stairs, hands clasped neatly in front of him. His smile is professional but not exactly warm. You can’t blame him. You’re a private jet virgin, and you’re pretty fucking certain everyone can see it.

Jos doesn’t wait for you. He just strides up the stairs like it’s his goddamn living room, leaving you to follow in his wake, your trainers scuffing lightly against the polished steps.

Inside, it’s… Jesus. It’s nicer than any hotel you’ve ever stayed in. Cream leather seats, sleek wood paneling, soft recessed lighting that feels designed to flatter rather than illuminate. You stand there awkwardly for a beat, scanning the cabin for a place to sit where you won’t be in the way. There’s an empty seat near the front, away from the others- perfect. You slide into it, setting your backpack at your feet, keeping your head down, your shoulders rounded, trying to make yourself as small as possible.

You don’t look- not directly, anyway- but you can see them in your periphery. The cluster toward the back. Max. And his girlfriend- fuck, what’s her name? The one who’s practically motorsport royalty by blood. Kelly Piquet, yeah. Nelson Piquet’s daughter. She’s stunning, even from a distance, all long legs and perfect hair and the kind of cool, effortless glamour that makes you and your sweat-dried helmet hair want to evaporate into the upholstery.

There are others, too- people you don’t recognize, probably part of Max’s team, or his friends, or both. They’re chatting quietly, laughing now and then, the kind of easy social rhythm that comes from knowing each other for years.

Jos sinks into the seat directly across the aisle from you, stretching out like he owns the place- which, given the surname on the side of the jet, well, close enough.

The door seals with a quiet hiss. And just like that, you’re in a pressurized metal tube with strange company and no clear destination. So… you do what you always do when you don’t know what else to do- you open your laptop.

The glow of the screen is familiar, comforting in a way nothing else in this cabin is. You log into the portal, fingers moving on autopilot, pulling up the footage from today’s race and queuing it up like it’s some long-haul in-flight movie. You lean back, trackpad balanced on your thigh, notebook propped open beside you. The notes you jot aren’t even proper analysis- just scattered thoughts, quick impressions, tiny pieces of the magic you’re afraid to lose if you don’t capture them now.

Because it was magic. And if you can’t have the car, at least you can replay it. At least you can live it again, even if only in pixels and pen scratches.

Somewhere up the aisle, a laugh rings out- high and clear, unmistakably feminine. You glance up, just for a second, just curious enough to see what’s so funny. And then suddenly, Kelly Piquet is standing beside you, champagne flute in hand, her smile so polished and dazzling it borders on unnerving.

"Hallo," she says, sliding into the seat next to you without a hint of hesitation, like you’re old friends and not total strangers. She extends her hand, fingers slender and perfectly manicured. "Kelly." God, she’s fucking gorgeous.

You shake her hand automatically, still slightly stunned that she’s even talking to you. "Uh… hi."

Kelly’s smile softens, just a little. "What you did today- that was very special." Her accent is light, melodic, her tone warm enough that it feels genuine. "I love seeing women in racing. I just… hadn’t imagined we would have one in Formula 1 so soon." She raises her glass slightly, as if to toast you. "And in the points! Very exciting."

You murmur a thank you, still processing the fact that Kelly Piquet, actual motorsport royalty, is casually sitting beside you, treating you like you belong here.

She sips her champagne, eyes flicking briefly to your screen, where your onboard camera is playing through your defense against a charging Aston Martin. "That was a good one," she says with a little grin. "You made him work for it."

And just like that, the conversation feels… almost normal. Like maybe, just maybe, you’re not a complete alien on this plane after all. Kelly doesn’t waste a second diving in, turning slightly in her seat so her body faces you more fully, her champagne glass balanced elegantly in her hand.

"So," she starts, eyes bright with curiosity. "Tell me everything. It’s been so long since I got to talk to someone right after their debut race." There’s a genuine excitement in her voice, the kind that’s rare from someone so seasoned in this world. "What was the most exciting part? The most overwhelming? What was fun?"

You blink, not because you’re surprised by the questions themselves- they’re perfectly reasonable- but because you hadn’t really prepared for this. For all the manufactured charm you can turn on when a microphone’s in your face, this is something different. This is personal. This is a real person asking real questions, not a reporter fishing for a headline.

And you’re… guarded. By nature, by necessity, by a lifetime of learning that the safest thing you can do is control the story before it controls you. You could lie, fluff it up with all the right buzzwords and saccharine answers- it was a dream come true, the atmosphere was incredible, the fans were amazing- but you’re too off balance to summon that version of yourself right now.

So you answer the only way you can: honestly.

"It was all really just about the drive." You shrug, offering her a small, almost apologetic smile. "That part? Incredible. Everything else? Just… fluff."

Kelly tilts her head slightly, considering you, her smile turning a touch more knowing. "You sound like Max."

You snort softly, shaking your head. "Don’t say that."

But Kelly just laughs, easy and amused, and for once, you’re not quite sure who’s in control of this conversation- you or her.

Jos’ voice cuts in from across the aisle, casual but carrying easily over the low hum of the cabin. "Fluff," he scoffs, like the word itself offends him. "It’s business. And if you’re calling it fluff, you’re underselling how good you are at it."

Your jaw tightens slightly, but you don’t rise to the bait. Of course you’re good at it. You’ve spent years learning how to thread that needle- how to smile just enough to be charming, how to sell a story without ever actually telling anyone anything real. But you’d prefer to keep that particular skillset a secret.

The world loves a Cinderella story. They love to believe that you’re just some plucky, likeable underdog who stumbled into greatness. That’s the kind of product you can sell- pure luck, wide-eyed wonder, a girl who just happened to be an interviewer’s dream. That’s an easy narrative to package and ship.

A scheming, hyper-calculating, bloodthirsty machine with a gift for weaponizing charm? Less palatable. Harder to root for.

Across from you, Kelly’s entire expression flatlines the second Jos opens his mouth. Her smile fades into something tight and thin, and she very deliberately turns her attention back to you like she’s tuning him out with surgical precision.

"So," she says, voice brighter than it needs to be, almost forcefully friendly. You can feel the air shift- like the conversation just got yanked out of Jos’ hands and tucked firmly back into hers. It’s not even subtle. It’s a full-scale, glittering act of conversational theft, and it’s clear they’ve done this dance before.

Kelly’s follow-up is simple enough. Innocent, even. “So, how did you end up here?” She gestures vaguely at the plush leather seat, the polished cabin, the fact that you are, somehow, on this plane with these people, like some bizarre motorsport fever dream.

You barely open your mouth before Jos cuts in, again, voice carrying heavy from across the aisle. “She’s staying with me,” he says, like the matter is already settled. “Through the break.”

Kelly’s smile goes sharp at the edges, like a knife slid under a tablecloth. It’s not exaggerated, not a dramatic shift- just a subtle tightening around the corners of her mouth, a flicker of something deeply irritated in her eyes. “Lucky you,” she says, voice as smooth and unbothered as glass, but it’s clear she means anything but.

You sit there, caught squarely in the crossfire of something much older and deeper than yourself. It’s not just awkward- it’s vaguely dangerous. Because you can’t afford to pick a side here, not between Jos and Kelly, not between any Formula-related factions. You need everyone to like you. Or at the very least, not hate you.

Your smile is careful, a neutral, professional curve that gives nothing away. “It’s very kind of Jos to billet,” you say, and you’re pretty sure everyone in this aisle knows you don’t have any other real options for a response, but nobody says it out loud.

For a moment, nobody speaks.

And then, mercifully, Max saunters up the aisle, a picture of casual curiosity with his hands tucked in his hoodie pockets, the barest suggestion of amusement tugging at his mouth. He looks relaxed, almost sleepy- but you can tell, in the sharpness of his eyes, that he’s walked into this conversation with full awareness of the tension crackling in the air.

“Six points,” he says, aiming for levity, “and you’re already talking to my girlfriend?”

It’s not terrible, but the delivery lands with a clunky thud instead of the easy charm he was probably going for. The joke fizzles, not enough to defuse the room, and you wince inwardly as Kelly’s brows flick up in open amusement at how bad it was.

“C’mon, Kel,” Max tries again, turning his attention fully to her. “Let her work.”

Kelly stands, graceful and glittering even when annoyed, and heads toward the back of the cabin where the others are gathered. Max turns to follow, like this was just a hit-and-run appearance, but before he can take a step, Jos speaks again.

“Max.”

There’s no bark to it- just the solid, immovable weight of expectation.

“Sit.”

He gestures to the seat Kelly just vacated, and Max freezes for a half-second, just long enough for you to catch the flicker of resignation that passes over his face. Kelly, mid-step, falters. It’s small- so small you almost miss it- but for just a breath, she looks like she’s considering turning back, saying something.

She doesn’t.

She keeps walking.

And Max, exhaling hard through his nose, drops into the seat beside you, elbows on his knees, head tilted slightly in your direction.

“Lucky me,” he mutters, and you honestly can’t tell if he’s talking about the seat assignment or something much bigger than that.

Jos leans back in his seat, stretching his legs out like a king on his throne, and you can feel him watching the two of you- like this is some sort of private theater he’s directing. “Max,” he says, almost lazily, “did you know she has a full breakdown of your last four races?”

Max’s head jerks up, blinking like he misheard. “What?”

You sit straighter, throat tightening, because what the fuck. That was for you, not anyone else. You’d started it on the flight from America, filling the hours and the ache of leaving Indy behind with something productive. Learning from the best. That’s all it was ever meant to be. You hadn’t even had time to print it for the bible you had given to the AlphaTauri team- and it’s not like you had just left your analysis lying around.

“I… do,” you admit, voice careful, measured. You have no idea how Jos even knows about it- let alone got his hands on it.

“Show him,” Jos says, all calm command, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Like he’s not referencing the work you wouldn’t hesitate to guard with your life.

You hesitate for a beat too long, and Jos’s brows flick up, just a hair. “Go on,” he repeats, soft but unmistakably firm.

You could say no. You could claim it’s personal study, not meant for anyone else’s eyes. But this is Jos Verstappen. And right now, you are a guest on his family’s plane, under his roof, eating from his hand. Saying no to Jos is not an option. You have a feeling he knows that.

So you open your laptop, click through the folders until you find it- the document, color-coded and tabbed, just like everything you do. You angle the screen toward Max, but Jos leans in too, uninvited, a looming presence that makes you feel like a student presenting to a panel of judges.

The silence stretches as Max reads. His expression doesn’t change much at first- brows slightly drawn, mouth set in a line- but you can see his eyes moving, line by line, digesting your notes. Lap times, tyre degradation, braking points, overtaking strategy, defensive lines. Not just the data, but your commentary alongside it. The things you’d noticed. The things you didn’t see, where you suspected there might be something beneath the surface- a mechanical issue, a mindset shift, a strategy call that didn’t make sense from the outside.

The silence starts to feel like a vacuum. You can’t read him at all, and Jos doesn’t give you a second to fill the space before he claps a hand down on your shoulder.

“Brilliant work,” he announces, loud enough for Max to hear but not so loud it feels theatrical. It’s just praise. Simple. Direct. “You don’t get this kind of analysis from most engineers, let alone drivers.”

You nod, stiffly, because what the fuck is happening.

Max finally looks up, and his expression is unreadable, but there’s something behind his eyes- a flicker of intrigue, of genuine surprise. He knows good work when he sees it, and this? This is good. Not just accurate, but insightful. Inspired, even.

“Where’d you learn to do this?” Max asks, voice low and even.

You shrug, trying to play it off. “Nowhere, really. I just- needed to understand what makes you so fast. Figured I’d work backwards until I could see it.”

Jos’s smile is razor sharp. “See? Smart girl. Knows how to do her homework.”

Max’s jaw twitches- just a flicker- but it’s enough. Because Jos, somehow, has managed to make even this feel like a slight. Like Max should be embarrassed that some stand-in rookie has spent more time dissecting his races than he has. Like Jos is reminding him who’s really in charge of understanding his driving- his weaknesses.

But even with Jos playing his game, Max can’t quite hide his fascination. “This is really good,” he says, almost grudgingly. “You…you saw some stuff even GP missed.” It shouldn’t feel like a victory, but it does.

You shrug again, too aware of Jos’s eyes still on you both. “It’s just notes.”

Jos’s smile widens, satisfied. “Notes worth reading.”

Max leans back, and you can feel the shift in him- something unsettled, something curious, something that might, under better circumstances, become something like respect.

Jos sits back too, perfectly content with the scene he’s orchestrated. You close your laptop, heart pounding beneath your calm exterior. This is a long con. You know it. You can feel the strings being pulled around you.

But if they want to play games, you’ll play.

Because all you really want- more than pleasing Jos, more than impressing Max- is another chance to get back in that car. And you’ll do whatever it takes to make sure that happens.

Series Masterlist

#f1 #max verstappen #max verstappen x reader #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #formula one #max verstappen x y/n #mv1 fic #max verstappen x you #mv1 x reader #mv33 x reader #mv33 #mv1 #mv33 fic

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ranaeley · 2 years ago

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A fancy boyo

[Image ID: A drawing of Hunter from The Owl House. He stands, smiling, with one foot crossed behind the other, and he holds Waffles in staff form.

He wears a maroon collared shirt, with brown and gold Victorian suspenders. There is a similarly colored brown witch hat on his head, with maroon lining and a maroon ribbon wrapped around the base of the hat’s crown. Two feathers are tucked into the ribbon, one red and one blue. He has checkered brown pants and a pair of greyish-brown boots.

The background of the image is pale purple, with a few maroon feathers floating in the air around Hunter. The second two images are closeups of Hunter and Waffles. End ID]

Part 1 of my witch outfit series!

Part 2

#the owl house #toh #hunter noceda #hunter toh #digital art #toh waffles #waffles #palisman #hunter noceda deamonne wittebane park clawthorne #my art #artists on tumblr #witches #witch outfits #i’m so proud of him #this was an excuse to draw him in a witch hat #drew this while listening to the new starkid show baha #the soundtrack is incredible

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ellsieee · 1 month ago

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Checkered Shirt EP 6 Uncut

Source: @seunggyu99

I wouldn't have guessed there would be an uncut based on the episode, but here we are. I'm not complaining. I'm really enjoying the flirting and sensual tension in this one.

#checkered shirt #checkered shirt uncut #checkered shirt the series #kbl

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sapphire-writes · 2 years ago

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Ch. 3: Aemond Sees A Ghost

main masterlist || series masterlist || previous chapter || next chapter

summary ~ Aemond tells you everything.

word count: 4.0k

warnings: NSFW/MDNI ~ dubcon (possession), kissing, grinding, spooky stuff, thunderstorms, mentions of death, themes of loss

note: I'd say we're halfway through our spooky adventure! smh I can't believe it! I hope you enjoy loves!

banner made by the fantastic @ewanmitchellcrumbs, ilysm ange!

“I want to know everything.”

The kettle whistles noisily before you remove it from the burner. Aemond sits in his usual spot clad in checkered pajama pants and a gray cotton t-shirt. You wonder how he isn’t cold, your bare arms are covered in goosebumps and you wish you’d grabbed a sweatshirt before leading him down to the kitchen.

There’s a constant unearthly chill in this house. You set the tea in front of him, his fingers brushing against yours as you sit beside him.

“Harrenhal,” he says softly, as a floorboard creaks overhead. You both glance up at the ceiling, watching as the chandelier trembles, the crystals reflecting the dim kitchen light.

You’ve seen it happen before when people walk upstairs; when little Jaehaera runs down the hall, when workers are moving down the hallways. The hour is late now, the workers have gone home, and little Jaehaera is tucked safely in her bed.

The floorboards above creak, regardless of the truth.

“We’re not the only ones here,” you slowly begin, eyes falling back to Aemond’s face, “We’re not the only ones in Harrenhal. Are we?”

Aemond is silent for a moment.

“No,” he says softly, “We aren’t.”

Tea turns to coffee as the sky lightens.

And Aemond tells you everything.

“Ghosts,” you breathe, “But…that’s not possible.”

“It is,” Aemond insists, “There is something here. Some energy….the locals are right when they call this place cursed. Tragedy befalls anyone who holds it.”

Your skill prickles with goosebumps. Aemond holds it. What tragedy will befall him? You think of Alys, of the sudden death of his wife.

Perhaps his tragedy has already unfolded.

“It was Harren, last night,” Aemond tells you, “And his sons, I presume. The original manor was burnt to the bare bones after they created it. With him and his sons inside of it. A terrible fire.”

A chill runs through you at the memory.

“I’ve encountered them before. They’re rather harmless,” Aemond continues, “Simply walking the halls throughout the night. Others are not as pleasant, but…harmless. For the most part.” He pauses, glancing up at you.

The hair on the back of your neck stands at attention.

“What others?” you ask, though you’re unsure if you want the answer.

“The ones I’ve encountered throughout my time here,” Aemond sighs, rubbing his eyes. The ring on his hand catches your eye; stamped with the Targaryen crest.

You’d see another just like it. Daemon’s face flashes across your mind.

“Your uncle was here,” you tell him, watching as his spine straightens, his shoulders tense, “He knows about them too I presume? He said some things---I’m sorry….it was when you were away, I nearly forgot-”

“What did he want?” Aemond interrupts, staring at you with a renewed fire in his eye.

“He just wanted to speak with you,” you tell him.

“Did he bother you? Was he inappropriate?”

“He was a bit flirtatious, that’s all,” you assure him, cheeks warming at the memory.

Aemond bristles at that, his hand clenching into a fist. Your stomach flips with embarrassment, the burning sensation on your cheeks spreading down your neck.

“I apologize for that,” he says cooly, “He’s a vile creature.”

You place your hand on top of his fist, “It’s alright.”

Aemond’s gaze softens, and he places his opposite hand on top of yours. You lose yourself in the sensation of his hand on yours for a moment, a pleasant swooping sensation in your lower stomach. You hold his gaze, desire burning hot in your belly. It’s you who looks away first, feeling embarrassed about the intense longing you feel for your employer. You shouldn’t be thinking like this.

“Who was screaming?” you ask, bringing the conversation back to the ghosts.

You can almost hear it still, the sound of screaming echoing in your mind. You’re not sure if you’ll ever be able to forget, even when Harrenhal is simply a memory. Aemond only stares.

“I don’t know,” he says finally, “I’m not…sure.”

You don’t know which answer you’d hoped for but find that the one Aemond gives brings you no comfort.

Jaehaera hates thunderstorms.

This is mostly due to the fact that the nursery has a balcony with French doors overlooking the God’s Eye and backyard. When it is sunny, warm rays light the room making it appear bathed in gold. But when it rains, water is hurled violently against the glass echoing throughout the room.

The nursery also has a closet on the opposite side of the room; the doors are made of mirrors. The room was once used as a dance studio, you could tell the moment you’d stepped inside. The wood floors are scuffed from years of use. You can’t help but wonder who danced there.

This is exactly why Jaehaera insisted on a sleepover in the main living room that night. She suggested it during dinner when thunderclouds were just starting to roll in and turn the sky an eerie gray color.

“I like it,” Helaena spoke, surprising you, “Let’s have a proper campout.”

So you found yourselves dragging blankets and pillows down the stairs into the living room, assembling a blanket fort with Aemond’s help, and sitting inside of it. The small space was rather cramped with the three of you inside; baby Maelor was already sound asleep in his bassinet.

Helaena was quiet the majority of the time, besides when she was quietly humming to herself. She seemed happy though from what you could tell. As happy as Helaena could be. She always had an air of melancholia around her.

“I have a story,” Helaena says.

It is the first time she’s spoken that evening. Jaehaera stands behind Aemond braiding his hair as she often does. She glances at her mother, giving her a toothy grin.

“A long time ago,” Helaena begins, her eyes looking somewhere far off, “There was a girl dressed in green locked away in a castle.”

“I like castles,” Jaehaera comments, continuing to braid Aemond’s hair.

“She was young and beautiful, and very, very sad,” Helaena continued, “She wed the king, and became a queen. It was everything a girl should want. But she didn’t want it at all.”

You watch Helaena as she taps her nails against the cup of tea she holds. They’re painted silver; Jaehaera’s doing. The paint is chipped around her thumbs already. A nervous habit you’d noticed.

“Why not?” Jaehaera asks, her nose scrunched as she pouts, “I’d like to be a queen.”

“She was in love with the princess, you see, and never wanted the old king. But he took her anyway because that is what men in power do. They take pretty little girls and keep them locked away.”

“Did she have children?” Jaehaera asks.

“She did. Many. She loved them all dearly. Beautiful children they were, and they were all taken from her. She outlived them all,” Helaena continues, “Mad with grief, the queen locked herself away this time.”

Helaena sips from her cup, a smile twitching on her lips.

“I never understood Daisy before having a child,” she muses, switching away from her story, “Before having a girl. I hope she’ll be a fool.”

A shiver rolls down your spine as Helaena locks eyes with you.

“That’s the best thing a girl can be in this world. A beautiful little fool,” she says softly, eyes flickering toward her brother, “Mũna said the same thing once, didn’t she Aem?”

Aemond holds his sister’s gaze, “I don’t remember.”

“I’m sure of it,” she says, mouth stretching open into a yawn, “You’d read aloud and Mũna would stroke your hair. You always liked that book.”

“I like a lot of books,” Aemond says, the top of his cheeks turning pink as he reaches behind him and lifts a giggling Jaehaera into the air as he stands, “It’s late, zaldrīzītsos. Time for bed.”

“I’m not tired,” Jaehaera insists, though she echoes her mother’s yawn.

You all exit the fort, Helaena retiring to the couch. She lays on her back, stretching like a cat.

“Mhmm,” Aemond says, depositing her into Helaena’s arms on the couch.

He tucks them both in, turning the remainder of the lights off before joining you on the makeshift mattresses on the floor. You can only see the outline of him in the darkness; the curve of his nose, the twinkling of his eye.

“Is Helaena alright?” you whisper, and he presses a finger to your lips.

“Yes,” he breathes, thumb tracing your lower lip, “Thank you, for doing this.”

“Of course,” you whisper, barely breathing as his finger traces down your chin, “Are you tired?”

“No,” he says softly, his hand sliding down the curve of your neck, “I’m a bit of an insomniac.”

Your breathing becomes labored as his thumb strokes your collarbone. You wish you’d worn something else, not the ratty old band t-shirt you’d chosen paired with some sleep shorts.

“Oh,” you say, unsure of how else to answer him.

Your thoughts scramble when he touches you, as though his touch short circuits the wiring in your brain. He says your name then, so softly you almost miss it. He’s close enough to kiss, all you need to do is lean forward and his nose will bump against your own.

His hand falls from you. Eyes adjusted to the dark, you watch as his tongue darts out wetting his lower lip.

“Aemond,” you say softly, and he reaches for you again, this time lacing his fingers through yours, “Will we be alright down here?”

His eye flickers around your face, his fingers tightening in your grip.

“I won’t let anything happen,” he assures, “To any of us.”

You choose to believe him. He sounds so certain, he truly believes it. There’s not a doubt in your mind that he wouldn’t do everything in his power to protect Helaena. Jaehaera. Maelor.

You.

You rub your thumb against the smooth skin of the back of his hand and soon your eyes grow heavy as sleep overtakes you.

You wake in the middle of the night, closer to morning than to midnight. The sky is still black as ink, the sounds of rain splattering against the many windows. There is no room for stars, the entire night sky is blacked out by rain clouds.

Jaehara snores contentedly next to you, wrapped up in her mother’s embrace. Helaena’s sleeping form curls into her daughter, holding her in a cocoon of warmth. Mother and daughter look incredibly alike; both share the same nose and soft pout, their fair brows relaxed in sleep. The bassinet next to them holds a sleeping Maelor, his tiny nose scrunched as he dreams.

You sit up from your spot on the floor, looking around the dark room. It’s hard to see anything before the room is illuminated by a flash of lightning. Aemond is no longer beside you. The room descends into darkness once more, and goosebumps rise on your arms as a chill enters the room. Helaena stirs in her sleep, pulling Jaehaera closer. A mother’s unconscious need to keep her daughter close.

Lightning flashes and the room is lit once more, a shadow dancing near the stairs.

“Aemond?” you half whisper, as thunder booms through the sky.

The thunder is not as loud as it was earlier that night; the storm must be moving out. You rise from the floor, letting the blankets fall to a pile at your feet. It’s cold, much colder now that you’re in your sleep shorts and T-shirt. You move toward the staircase, around the corner, and down toward the kitchen. Perhaps he’s making tea.

When you enter the kitchen, it’s empty. No kettle whistling, no lamp, and no Aemond. A noise behind you causes you to turn.

There’s that shadow again.

“Aemond?” you call, louder this time. A small smile appears on your face.

Could he be playing a trick on you? Nervousness stirs in your belly, and you decide to follow, exiting the kitchen. You walk up the stairs, watching as the shadow dips down the left hallway, towards his study.

Warmth floods through you, desire lodging in your stomach. It spreads through your limbs thick like honey, like you’re floating down the hall instead of walking. Your head buzzes, thoughts fuzzy as you reach for the handle of the door, opening it.

Aemond looks up from his papers, a surprised look on his face as you close the door, pressing your back up against it. You’ve never been here before. The room is cozy. Warm. How can it be so warm when the rest of the house is so cold?

“You were gone,” you tell him, though it's phrased more like a question.

“I told you, I’m an insomniac,” he says, the corner of his lips quirking into a smile, “Did you miss me?”

“I always miss you when you’re away,” you tell him, surprised at the words that leave your mouth, the raw honesty behind them.

Aemond’s lips part, and his lashes flutter at your confession. You walk deeper into the room, letting your hand trail across the spine of the many books that decorate his shelves.

“You’re always away,” you tell him, tingling with anticipation, “I never see you anymore.”

“What do you mean?” he asks, as you turn to face him.

“This room,” you muse, “It’s like the heart of the house. Warm…tucked away.”

His cheeks are flushed, eyes focused on your face rather than the generous amount of thigh you’re showing. You glance down at your chest, watching your breasts rise and fall as you breathe then bring your eyes back to him.

You walk towards him, still tracing the spines of the books that line his shelves. Your hand drops as you round the corner of his desk. Aemond has pushed himself from behind his desk, still seated in the large leather chair, his legs spread wide. His lips are parted, watching you in awe.

“I just want you close,” you admit, stepping forward between his legs.

Aemond tenses as you place your knees on either side of his waist and straddle his lap. He groans as you sit, resting your weight against him.

“Y/N….” Aemond says, holding his hands up in surrender; he won’t meet your eyes.

You wrap your hands around the back of his neck, lacing your fingers together.

“Don’t you want me?” you whisper, tendrils of your hair tickling his sharp cheekbones.

Aemond looks up then, eyes meeting yours and you watch his resolve crumble. He lowers his hands to your waist, before letting them rest at the junction of your hip and thighs. The air between you is heavy, your ears are ringing as you connect his mouth to yours.

Fire burns brightly in your chest, warming your whole body as he kisses you. He tastes just like you’d dreamed he would; spearmint and tea, and something else that is entirely him. Rolling your hips against him you grind against the hardness forming between his legs. Gods he feels big.

You moan into his mouth, your mind happily buzzing as he squeezes the swell of your ass. His kiss is like a drug, like pure heaven racing through your veins. Your limbs are heavy, thoughts scattered and hazy.

That’s it. “Fuck me,” you whisper, nails digging into his scalp, nipping at his lower lip before sucking it between your own.

It’s bold, it’s lewd.

It’s not you.

Aemond groans, lifting you from his lap as he stands, and places you on his desk. You continue to kiss him, to tear at his button-down like a marionette on a string. Something is wrong. Nothing is wrong, just like that.

“Gods, you’re incredible,” he breathes, and you want to scream, to tell him to wait, not like this.

Not when it's not you. Not when your body is here, but your mind is not. It feels good though, yes? The puppetmaster continues plucking your strings, making you smile coyly at him.

“My Aemond,” you whisper, hands dipping below the waistline of his pants.

Aemond freezes, pulling back from you. You tilt your head to the side as he cups your cheeks, looking deeply into your eyes. His eyes are searching, no longer clouded with lust. Your nails scrape against the smooth flesh of his lower abdomen, legs still locked behind his waist.

“Why’d you stop?” your lips form the words, but it’s not you.

Aemond’s face hardens, and he wets his lips as he releases your face. He brings his hands to your calves, unlocking them from around his waist. Gently, he places his hands on your wrists, removing them from his pants.

“Alys, we’ve talked about this,” he says softly, taking a step back.

Suddenly, the feelings of sleep are greater, and your eyelids are heavy yet they remain open. You’re aware you’re still talking, still moving, but someone else is controlling it. It’s as though you’re hearing the conversation from a different room like you’ve stepped out of yourself for a moment.

Alys. Shhhh. Alys Rivers. It’s alright. Aemond’s….Aemond’s Alys.

“But she’s perfect, Aemond,” your voice says, “And you like her, I know you do. I see the way you look at her. Touch her.”

“Let her go,” he says, voice almost a whisper, “Alys….please.”

She reaches for him, using your arms. It’s like you’re moving through molasses, though you can sense her desperation, her need for him.

“We can have a baby now,” she insists, your voice breaking as she speaks, “One of our very own.”

“You have little Jaehaera-”

“I want my own, Aemond, you promised me!”

“That was before, Alys. Now you’re…” he lets the sentence trail off, “Things are different now.”

She brings your hand to cup your breast, and you watch Aemond’s eye flicker toward the movement.

“She’s perfect,” she tells him, “And she’s so sweet, so wet for you, my love. You should feel how much she wants you.”

“Stop,” Aemond says, clenching his hands into fists.

“She aches for you. Not just physically,” Alys insists, “I can feel it all, here in her head.”

“I said enough!” Aemond yells, followed by a clap of thunder.

Alys doesn’t flinch, you can feel her unyielding strength inside of you. She tilts your chin higher, hand dropping from your breast.

“She’s different than the other one,” Alys insists, “You didn’t even like that girl-”

“You’d no right to do that to Floris,” Aemond says, running a hand through his hair, “She was a sweet girl--”

“Sweet,” Alys scoffs, “Weak. You’ve gone soft, haven’t you?” She cocks your head to the side. “Do you not love me anymore?” she asks, her voice cold as ice.

“You know that isn’t true--”

“I don’t mind sharing--”

“You’re dead, Alys.”

She’s silent then, and your chest tightens with the agony she feels at his words. Aemond’s gaze is pained, his seeing-eye glassy with tears.

“Release her-”

“I miss you,” she says, reaching for him, “That’s all. Is that so hard to believe?” She chuckles bitterly. “I just want our baby.”

“It’s not how it is supposed to be, Alys,” he says, taking the hand she offers, “I’m so sorry.”

“You’re always sorry,” she says, her voice trembling, “Just give me what I want.”

“I can’t do that,” Aemond says, “Let her go.”

Alys holds his hand a moment more. You feel a tear roll down your cheek leaving a hot stream behind. Then your limbs go rigid before all the tension in your body releases. Your head drops forward, limbs sagging into Aemond’s arms.

“It’s alright,” he says, lifting you into his arms bridal style, “I’ve got you.”

The feeling of sleep is different now; you’re groggy as though you’d just woken from a nap. Leaning into his chest, you press your face against his shoulder. Spearmint, aftershave, and tea. He smells so good. Your eyelids are heavy as he walks down the hallway. You can’t hear the rain anymore. Has it stopped?

“Aem-”

“Shh don’t speak,” he says, placing you in bed.

You’re in your room. Here already? That was fast.

“What happened?” you ask, throat raw, mouth dry.

“It’s alright,” he tells you, laying his hand against your forehead.

You welcome the heat. You’re so cold.

“The heart….” you murmur.

“What?”

“The heart of the house,” you mumble, “It’s cold…”

Aemond pulls your blankets around you, tucking you in tightly sitting beside you on the bed.

“What was that?” you ask, as Aemond’s hand strokes your cheek.

“It was just Alys,” he assures you.

You sit up then, the sleepiness leaving your body rather quickly as though someone had poured ice water down your back. The sheets fall around your waist and Aemond sighs disapprovingly as your eyebrows knit together. His hand falls from your cheek, resting on your bent leg.

“Alys,” you repeat, “Your wife.”

“Yes.”

“She made me….” your cheeks warm, “Did…did we…?”

“No,” Aemond assures, shaking his head, “No we only kissed.”

You can feel him still, the ache returning between your thighs. His violet eye watches you closely as does the sightless milky one. He’s reading every microexpression on your face like the pages of a book.

“I’m sorry-”

“Whatever are you sorry for, dōna hāedar?” he says, a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.

“That we…that when we kissed…” you murmur, looking down, cheeks blazing with embarrassment, “That it….that it wasn’t me.”

Aemond rubs circles on your knee, watching the movement. The room is silent for a moment apart from your steady breathing. There is an ache between your eyes, deep in your skull that you’ll no doubt need to sleep off.

“We should rectify that,” Aemond says softly, “If you’d like.”

Your lips part as you meet his eyes again. He’s watching you so carefully, as though you may run from the grounds at any moment never to be seen again.

But you’d made your choice. And you intended to stick to it.

“Yes,” you breathe, leaning forward, “I’d like to.”

“Then it’s settled,” he murmurs, leaning forward. Your eyes flutter shut as his nose bumps against yours causing you to gasp softly, lips parting even more, “It’s only right.”

You can feel his lips against yours as he speaks; just brushing slightly.

“I agree,” you say breathlessly, and he closes the gap, pressing his lips firmly against yours, his hand cupping the back of your neck.

Your hand fists his shirt as you kiss him, his mouth hot and greedy against yours. His lips, his perfect lips fit against yours so perfectly, and he turns his head slipping his tongue into your waiting mouth.

Gods you want him. You want him so badly you’re trembling with need. Aemond leans forward then, pressing you back against the bed, kissing you all the while. Your hands claw at him until his hands lace through yours, pressing them back against the mattress. He murmurs your name, lips trailing down the side of your throat. Yes, yes, yes.

“Aemond!” you gasp, pushing at him suddenly.

He tears his lips from yours, standing immediately as you gasp for breath. The pair of you stare at each other wide-eyed, trying to catch your bearings.

“She’s here,” Aemond says, voice hoarse.

“I don’t know,” you tell him honestly, “It felt like she may…come back.”

“Fuck,” Aemond growls, “Fuck!”

You wet your lips, wanting nothing more than to hold him. Aemond leans against the bedpost, lost in thought.

“We have to be careful,” he says, “On the grounds. She’ll try…she doesn’t know what she’s doing.” You can hear the love he holds for her in his voice, even now. “She just wanted a baby.”

“It’s alright,” you tell him, “We’ll be careful. We won’t….” your sentence trails off.

“Yes,” Aemond agrees, “Not long now. The house will go quickly once it’s on the market. Summerhal house is waiting for us.”

You force a small smile.

“No ghosts?” you ask.

Aemond’s returning smile mirrors your own.

“No promises,” he says softly, “Get some sleep.”

“What about Helaena? And the children…”

“I’ll go to them,” he says, walking forward, placing a kiss on your forehead, “You rest.”

“Goodnight Aemond,” you call as he exits your room.

“Goodnight,” he says softly, the door clicking shut behind him.

You lay on the bed, your body trembling. The rain begins once more, the sound of thunder returning. It may be the rain, you’re not sure, but as you drift off to sleep you swear you hear the soft sounds of a woman crying somewhere in Harrenhal.

note: hope you enjoyed this chapter! as always, comments, likes, and reblogs are appreciated but never expected (though you will receive a forehead kiss from me if you do any of them).

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