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charles-leclerizz · 8 months ago

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EPISODE 01 : Start your engine

🏁 EPISODE AGE RATING : U/A 16+ [contaings swearing]

🏁 GENRE : Drama, Action, Sports, Romance

🏁 WORD COUNT : 10 K [ 10 , 366 WORDS ]

🏁 MUSIC SUMMARY : THE GREATEST BY SIA, PUMPT IT - BLACK EYED PEAS

🏁 CREDIT [S] : "BEHIND THE SCENES" BANNER, NETFLIX PLAY BAR BY ME [@charles-leclerizz], TEXT DIVIDERS BY @cafekitsune

🏁 TAGS : MUTUALS GET INSTANT TAGS [@vroomvroomcircuit, @disneyprincemuke, @verstappen-cult, @starkwlkr, @sailing-with-100-ships, @foreveralbon], OTHERS [@weekendlusting, @woozarts, @mellowarcadefun, @paintedbypoetry, @33-81, @kazuha-pista-badam, @inejghafawifesblog,d3kstar], IF YOU WANT TO BE TAGGED, PLEASE SEND IN AN ASK !

DIRECTORS CUT : first episode children, better get soome snacks and a drink, and i highly reccomend looking at the masterlist, aisha's profile and the porsche f1 team links, since they will explain everything. It is also recommendeed you first read the trailer, which is once again found on the masterlist below.

Masterlist · 🪷 Aisha · 🪷 Porsche F1 Team · 🪷

The opening credits of the series begin to play, revealing bold block letters reading,

“Bahrain 2025”

And in the background, the black fades to reveal an aerial view of the landmark circuit, a staple of the history that defines Formula One. As the shot zooms in, we see the morning mist rolling over the grey, freshly re-laid tarmac of the track leading up to the garages of each of the 10 teams, most of them shutdown and blocked away from prying eyes. Though, as the camera moves forward, the view widens and we can see at the very end of the line, the Porsche garage emitting a yellow glow.

The acrylic entrance leaks hues of gold whilst we finally approach the opening where we see Aisha jumping in place, a set of Bose x Porsche headphones sat on her ears, the white body and metallic automobile logo on the muffs bouncing with her movements.

She looks up from her focussed point beneath her, facing the camera that zooms in and captures the determined flare within the pools of her eyes.

The music, already beginning its powerful bass bursts, dims and briefly we can hear her laboured breathing as she stretches her hands above her and unzips the tight athleisure jacket that she had worn previously for warmth. The adidas logo crumples as she throws it away, revealing a cropped sports bra, white with grey stripes at the sides containing an embroidered Porsche logo on her left breast.

Soon enough, the music comes blaring back and the camera merely turns to follow her body as she begins to run away from the safety of her team enclosure. The scene ends with her exiting the shot, running down the initial straight of the first ever track she will race as a formula one driver.

“Aisha, what drives you in the world of Formula One?” A deep, cryptic voice off camera asks the driver sitting in shot. She smiles menacingly and leans back against her seat, her hands planted on her elegantly crossed legs as she adjusts the low cut, ‘V’ collar of her waistcoat, the colour matching the iconic Porsche guards’ red, of the rest of her risqué pantsuit.

“What drives me?” She chuckles, a low, raspy amusement that reverberates against the stormy backdrop behind her, “The competition, the domination, it runs in my blood;” She leans forward, as if the camera crew were privy to her obvious need to achieve. Aisha’s thin, golden bangles on each of her wrist’s jingle as she goes to adjust her volumous hair, “it’s not about the winning, it’s about obliterating the finish line.” She shrugs nonchalantly, despite the aggressive competitiveness that crackles in the air.

The voice chuckles at her threatening demeanour, yet continues, “Some media outlets commented on your driving style, since F2 and F3. They say it’s violent. What’s your response?”

Aisha bites her lip, thinking on the best way to diplomatically answer the question, despite her need to curse the people who doubted her.

Instead, she sighs with faux disappointment and her wide, mascara rimmed eyes move down to her rouge and gold nails whilst one of her fingers comes to slip beneath the platinum stud that sits comfortably on the left of her nose.

“Violent?” She asks, her voice barely above a murmur, “They could’ve been more descriptive.” She rolls her eyes once before inhaling, “Try...relentless. When I’m on track, behind the wheel, it’s war. And I aim to be the last one standing, if you can’t get with the program, move out the way. Cause I’m here to win.”

Her promise of no mercy is palpable as she shifts minutely in her seat, tapping her nails against one another whilst waiting for next question.

“What about the rest of the grid?” The interviewer prompts, treading carefully with his words, “Any words for them?”

Aisha scoffs under her breath, uncrossing her legs and flipping over the golden dainty necklace that rests within her exposed cleavage, the glinting logo of her team catches the light whilst she adjusts herself.

“Why words? They’ll know what I’m here for when I pass them. They’ll feel it, the fear, the resignation. I’m a whirlwind, all they can do is get swept up in it, this season, I am not racing against them, their teams or even their car; I’m racing against their hatred of losing to me.”

She smiles at the camera, eyes crinkling at the sides as her nose scrunches, a pure juxtaposition to the threat that peeled out of her mouth like scalding, hot water.

“Before we end. For your fans, what do you want them to know?”

“Hold on for your life, they’re about to witness history on the track. Cause I’m not here to make friends, I’m here to fuck shit up.” Aisha grins wickedly and laughing loudly at the flurry of reactions off camera from the crew that stood behind the myriad of wires.

Three different scenes are overlayed one another, the first being of Lewis Hamilton, giggling at someone off screen before focussing his large doe eyes onto the interviewer who also sat behind the large camera.

The second being 3X world champion Max Verstappen, who sits heavily onto the provided stool and sips at the can of the sugary energy drink in his hand, Max stared at the camera, a bored sheen coating his crystalline blue irises as the third, and final driver’s scene overtakes his.

This time Charles Leclerc enters the identical set, the Ferrari golden boy had narrowly escaped his fans-who’s screams of joy could be heard in the background as he waved a final time and pocketed a bright red, branded Ferrari pen whilst sighing, glancing around haphazardly.

“Lewis”

Hamilton perks up at his name, smiling serenely, prompting the interviewer to continue.

“The world of Formula one is ablaze about new entry, Aisha Patel. Do you think, as a seasoned professional, she has what it takes to compete?”

Lewis whistles lowly, leaning back against his seat and wraps his arms around himself, “Damn- starting strong huh?” He snorts once before re-adjusting his posture, “Y’know, we’ve heard of her up here. And she’s talented, but obliterating F3 and F2 does not directly auto-translate to domination on our track.”

“Is that scepticism that I hear?” The interviewer chases after the hesitation in the driver’s voice, like a dog after a juicy bone.

“Call it...” Lewis arches an eyebrow as he mulls over his words, “Healthy cautiousness. I’m waiting to see how she handles the pressure after the lights go out.”

“Max”

Max hums lazily, as though he had one too many bubbling seltzers that sat, pristine on the refreshments table, “Yeah?”

“Aisha Patel.”

Max clenches his jaw at the sound of her name.

“She’s said to rival your aggressiveness on track, what are your thoughts on her joining your world?”

Max scoffs at the seemingly preposterous statement, “What about her? She’s aggressive, so what? It’s skill that matters here in the big leagues. Give a baby a steering wheel to a supercharged car, that’ll be aggressive. I’m not holding my breath for her. “

“That sounds like someone who’s threatened?” He probes the already on edge driver.

“A threat?” Max chortles as if someone had offered him a mere penny for his thoughts, “I haven’t been threatened since kindergarten. I’ll let her have her try at the status quo, take one for the team and all.”

“Charles”

The alarmingly red adorned man tilts his head inquisitively at the interviewer, his gentle smile popping his dimples.

“Miss. Patel has been said to be relentless on track, throwing caution to the wind. Your thoughts on her violent debut?”

Charles hums as he nods his head, “It’s nice to see fresh blood on track, bonne, she’s certainly caught people’s attention. Let’s see if she’s all bark and no bite.” He mummers the French praise before shrugging at the end of his sentence.

“You’re excited to compete against her?”

“Of course- who wouldn’t be? New team, new driver. The more varied the sport, the more interesting.” He answers neutrality laced into his words, despite the excited glint in his eye.

“Thank you for your insights.” The interviewer thanks the men in their tapes, each of them reciprocating with equal politeness.

“Of course,” Lewis grins and claps his hands, turning to start chatting once again as he dismounts from the chair, already walking away.

“No problem,” Max nods his head once, stepping down from his seat whilst receiving a fresh can of Red Bull.

“Cheers mate,” The camera captures Charles leaning forward to shake the interviewer’s hand whilst patting his shoulder, before detaching to go and talk to the gaggle of Ferrari personnel who had gathered within the filming shed.

The 2025 drivers had gathered onto the Bahrain track, the relentless mid-day sun beating down on them as a few of them had the pleasure of black umbrellas being held above them, whilst other’s held small hand-fans in the large palms, basking in the cool breeze that the battery powered trinket provided.

Aisha walked out, her racing shoes tapping against the tarmac as she made her way towards the others. A few Porsche employees trailed behind her, one of them stayed closer behind her, offering her a metallic, grey hand-held fan along with a chilled bottle of water.

“Thanks,” She murmured, brushing the hair that managed to escape her ponytail, “It’s fucking boiling.” Aisha complained, tugging at her fireproofs whilst another employee came up to her, patting her face with a setting powder as an attempt to dry her skin.

“Can’t really help it, love.” The media admin, Sarah, pointed out removing her focus from one of the jittery interns to the driver, “Now- you’re going to walk out, fans are going to see you. Are you sure you don’t want to hide your face right now?”

Aisha cracked open the bottle in her hand, having pressed the condensation coated plastic against her forehead long enough. She faced away from 2-3 people surrounding her to peak past the acrylic barrier, onto the track, where the rest of the drivers stood haphazardly scattered around the starting position boxes that had been freshly painted onto the concrete polymer.

“It’s fine, I think I’ve already heard all their opinions on me.” Aisha groaned, fanning her face again as she kicked a non-existent pebble beneath her toe, “What could go wrong?”

She peaked out again, like a tense meerkat, only to be surprised with her teammate, Pierre chatting with his former partner, Esteban Ocon. His racing suit was already zipped up fully as he basked in the fan’s unintelligible shouts and squeals, the thick, grey fabric stretched over his body nicely as the different sponsor logos morphed to the wrinkles and dents of the cloth.

“He’s already out there.” She hissed, “Making me look like shit.” Aisha banged the back of her crown against the wall that provided her with the much-needed shelter, from both the sweltering rays and the assessing gazes of the crowd above.

“Nonsense lovey.” Sarah assured her, picking at the hem of her fireproofs and pressing a few of the sweaty, stray strands of hair back into position, “Pedro’s just catching up with some friends.”

“Pierre.” Aisha corrected, pulling up her identical suit from hanging lowly from her waist to her shoulders, thankfully she still had time to leave it unzipped.

“Whatever.” She flapped her hand dismissively, “Baguette man isn’t doing anything you won’t have to.”

“Okay,” Aisha breathed out, keeping her lips taught and still as her rouge lipstick was touched up by another Porsche jersey adorned worker, “My helmet?” She looked around, patting herself, as though it would appear out of thin air.

Sarah looked around her surrounding, panicked, before snorting and pointing to the ledge behind the group, “There ya go babe.” She leaned past Aisha to knock on the head gear.

“I’m a mess,” Aisha whined, picking up her helmet whilst rubbing the glossy exterior with an open palm, she runs her fingers over her last name that’s printed on the back.

“A hot mess.” Sarah corrected her, hooking their elbows together whilst ushering forward the teenage interns next to them- their hands shaking with apprehension as they gripped the phones in their hands, the gadget recording each moment.

Aisha stilled slightly as her foot contacted the tarmac, the crowd already hushing with undivided interest on her mere shadow. She could feel anxious sweat begin to build up on the nape of her neck, flushing her face and glistening against her skin.

Finally, after a few minutes of inner turmoil, she allowed Sarah to guide her out within the crowd of other team’s media escorts and her fellow drivers. The grandstands erupted with chaos, the rushing of footsteps- scrambling to take the first photos of her in her debut, the unravelling of flags, the patriotic colours burning against the pristine plexi-glass barriers and multiple little girls shouting happily at her image.

Aisha forced a smile onto her face, the unexpected praise soothed her blushing ears as she waved up at the viewing boxes.

“Well, well. Nobody’s ever screamed like that for me.” A voice creeped up behind her, causing Aisha to whip around with a cautionary hand on her chest.

A cheeky grin greeted her, “Lando” Aisha breathed out, leaning to the side of his stature to acknowledge the rabid paparazzi behind of them with a tight-lipped nod.

“Hey,” He greeted her, bouncing on the balls of his feet and tapping the top of his helmet that sat squeezed between his arm and waist, “You nervous?” Lando tipped his head boyishly, his curls falling over his forehead, hazel eyes softening as he watched her.

“Not really,” Aisha lied, “do you need to pee?” She looked at him anxiously, watching as he stopped bouncing like a full bladdered toddler, and stood still. Lando chuckled under his breath and opened his mouth to answer, until he lurched forward under the weight of a heavy arm that hung from his shoulders.

“Little Lando Norris.” Daniel chuckled, rubbing his knuckles over the younger’s head, and snorted when Lando pushed his hand away stumbling out from his hold, “Already chatting up the newbie?” Daniel looks at Aisha with a smirk, “I think his pubes finally grew in.” He faux whispered, his voice gritty as he winked.

“I’m not chatting up anyone,” Lando smacked Daniel between the eyes before walking backwards, next to Aisha, “Just catching up.” He shrugged, side-eyeing her, gauging a reaction from her steely expression. Luckily, he got one, Aisha’s eyes widened slightly, her eyelashes fluttering to match her hearts faster pace as she slowly turned her head to meet his eyes.

“Catching up?” Daniel inquired, suddenly interested, “You guys know each other from before?”

“Yeah, we karted together.” Aisha crossed her arms over one another, before accepting a cold can of thumbs up from a staff member, “Still remember how he shit his pants.” She mumbled.

“I did not!”

“What the fuck.”

Both men exclaimed at the same time, Lando blushing a furious red and Daniel cackling loudly- leading to not only the attention from the other drivers that stood in a 200m vicinity but also Aisha snorting out her drink from her nose.

“I did not shit my pants.” Lando gritted out the last part, to stop prying ears of the other men approaching to become privy to his humiliation.

“You did though?” Aisha arched a brow at him, “I passed by you on the last lap, therefore winning-“ She poked her outstretched pinkie from her can into his puffed up chest, “And that made you so mad, that you shit your pants.”

“Oh god,” Daniel wheezed, taking support on his shorter teammate who had trotted up to join the conversation. Yuki scrunched up his face, tilting away from the force of the elder before looking at Aisha sympathetically,

“You excited?” He grinned slightly, showing off the gap between his front teeth.

“Definitely. How could I not be?” Aisha looked down at Yuki, shifting her weight slightly as an attempt to lower herself, “The crippling pressure? The thousands of viewers? The weight of both of my country’s on my shoulders?” Aisha blew a nonchalant breath from between her lips whilst waving her hand in front of her face, “No biggie.”

The three men stared at her, blank expressions on their face, one of them pressed their lips together, smacking them and creating an equally awkward “popping” noise for the group to bask in.

“I meant more like, the race and stuff..” Yuki mumbled, scratching the back of his head before yelping when Daniel smacked the nape of his neck, “But yeah, what you said works too, fo sho, no doubt, no doubt.” He corrected himself hastily.

“Fo sho?” A fourth voice chimed in, this time with a French lilt to his words, “Who’s got yuki talking like that?”

Aisha looked away amusedly from the smaller driver to the voice, her eyes widened at the blaring red that adorned the man in front of her.

“My period wasn’t due until after the race.” She commented, meeting the man’s intense gaze, “Are you here to ask if I’d like to continue watching?” She tilted her head innocently.

“Ah, I see.” He scrunches his nose at her, “You’ve got our baby Yuki talking like that.”

“Hey, fuck you man.” Yuki protested, throwing his arms up with a huff.

“I know you want to,” The seemingly french-man retorted back with a shameful wink,

“You wink like you’re trying not to cry.” Lando pointed out.

Aisha clapped her hands at her revelation, “That’s what it looked like!”

Lando shrugged, as though it was obvious.

“Okay I’m sorry, I’m not here to start the next French revolution or whatever-“ She mumbled, holding out a polite hand as a civil greeting.

Though, she was not met with his acceptance immediately, instead the three men surrounding her grimaced and hissed through their teeth- Daniel shook his hand out like he had just burned himself. Aisha looked around, oblivious to the reason for their reactions and jolted her hand out to the man.

“I’m from Monaco,” He snarked, accepting her hand begrudgingly, “Not France.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” She shrugged in reply.

“Charles” he gritted out, squeezing Aisha’s hand tightly- a poor attempt to veil his distaste, “Charles Leclerc, Ferrari driver.”

“Really?” Aisha squeezed harder, taking a step back to roll her eyes over his bright red suit, “Couldn’t tell.” She snorted.

“Right, well” Lando coughed, reaching forward to peel away both of their hands simultaneously, “This was fun. Meeting new people.” He took Aisha’s hand in his but dropped it quickly when she looked down at their conjoined fingers. Lando coughed, the tips of his ears blushing a furious scarlet, before he shifted to glance at his oh-so-interesting boots.

Luckily, the situation was saved by one of the administration workers clapping their hands and speaking robotically into a megaphone, “drivers, please make your way to your positions.”

The seasoned drivers around her began to exit their conversations and walk towards the bleachers style setup at the start line of the circuit. At least 12 black, metallic chairs sat in a row behind a small plaque, displaying bold white font that detailed the circuit name and the iconic formula one logo sprawled along the edges of the display board.

“Didn’t need this fucking helmet.” Aisha hissed to herself, jogging to one of the Porsche employees that stood at the edge of the camera shot, handing off the piece of equipment, before making her way back to the crowd.

She zipped up her suit and removed the piece of elastic from her hair, letting the noir waves fall down her shoulders as she scanned the already in place men in front of her, thankfully Pierre waved at her and ushered for her to take place next to him, standing behind the pair of Mercedes drivers who were snickering at some joke the other had just told.

Aisha huffed, clasping her hands behind her waist whilst jerking her head side to side due to odd strands of hair tickling her eyes and nose, before she could exasperatedly wipe her face with her hand, a pair of fingers had come and brushed against her nose. Aisha minutely followed the soft pads across her cheek before trailing her gaze up to the origin, Lando met her eyes, his own irises blown out as his hand lingered by her cheek- his thumb twitching across her skin before he coughed and re-took his position.

“Thank you,” She murmured beneath her breath, neutralising her face against the onslaught of obnoxious camera shutters and piercing sun rays.

“No problem,” Lando nodded slightly, his eyes flicking back to her face, tracing her features with his shy stare, “You did great in qualifying, yesterday.” He hastily complimented.

Aisha tried to fight against the blush that made its way up her neck, “thank you,” she snipped, pressing her lips together as a futile attempt at hiding her girlish smile.

Lando huffed out a laugh, turning his neck to grin at her, “anytime.”

Finally, the pictures had come to a stop, and the long-barrelled cameras were packed away and the grid were herded to a large, open roof truck. Another admin worker trailed behind the last driver into the pen-like vehicle, stepping up the stairs to hang back from the railing after locking the gate, “everyone’s here?’ she asked, giving a once over the flocked in men, and woman.

“Aisha, you’ll be first to talk to Lawrence,” She met eyes with Aisha, who was already waving to the rowdy fans who had collected at the banisters of the grandstands, “And then it’ll be whoever’s closest.”

The lady nodded once when the drivers thanked her, then she caught Aisha’s gaze again and she smiled reassuringly, “See you guys around.” She waved and dismounted from the railing with a jump.

The large platform began to move as the truck silently hummed to life, Aisha moved from her comfortable position at the back of the area-leaning against the matte, black railing towards Lawrence who smiled excitedly at her approaching figure. As she knitted through the small groups of 3 drivers littered in her path, she continued to wave at the fans who shouted and screamed at each subtle view they managed to glimpse of her.

“Aisha! Hi!” Lawrence greeted her, offering his hand for her to shake and swivelled around to collect a microphone.

“Hello, hello.” Aisha grinned back, accepting the long piece of tech from him, comically rotating it in her hands observing the porous black material that had been painted with a flaring red to create the F1 logo.

“So, you’re finally here! The big leagues, and yesterday’s qualifying must’ve been very exciting. We’ve all been so blown away with Porsche’s car, and your performance. P5 ! Amazing. Walk us through what you’re feeling right now?”

“I mean, it’s a confidence booster of course, qualifying top 5- but I think that along with that it’s proving to myself and other little girls like me that it isn’t about who you are, but what you can do, regardless of gender or background.” Aisha nods once, leaning her elbow against the railing to crane her neck around and take in the track that lay ahead of the speedily moving vehicle.

“It’s great that you can showcase your talent and inspire young minds, but with that said- there’s obviously a pressure that comes with entering such a male-dominated sport.”

Aisha stilled slightly, her eyes wide and unblinking for a beat, “I mean, there’s always going to be extra expectation on you when you’re breaking barriers. The way I see it, this is an opportunity to pave the way for future generation, so really, its fuels my success and goes to show that gender or race, doesn’t correlate to your ability on track.”

“Well said, and while we’re on the topic of your determination, whilst being in the spotlight almost 24/7 and the battles on track, how do you maintain focus? It must be overwhelming.”

Aisha chuckled, turning to look at the other drivers, a few of them had tuned into her interview not-so-subtle whilst others were still deep in conversation, “I mean, when you’re battling against jumbo sized toddlers, and then being put under the loving spotlight of the media, I agree, it can be pretty overwhelming sometimes. But then I remind myself, why am I here? What am I here to do? And at the end of the day, it’s just me, the car, and the track, so I really don’t mind it too much.”

She shrugged at the end of her sentence, flipping her hair over her shoulder before unzipping the thick race suit. Revealing her tight, fireproofs beneath, the Indian flag sat proudly on her shoulder whilst her team logo lay sprawled across her chest along with the sponsor logos littered across the rest of her front.

“You make it seem so easy Aisha,” Lawrence laughed, oblivious to the tension that had gathered in the young woman’s shoulders and the tightness of her eyes that had increased tenfold throughout their conversation, “Last question before I let you go, to all of your young fans gathered here today-“ he pointed up to the bleachers that came into view on the straight that the truck was approaching, where multiple younger children stood, jumping in their spots as their Porsche hats bobbled on their heads, “-what would you tell them? Especially those who are most likely facing challenges in their racing journey?”

Aisha smiled serenely, imagining herself in the seats that sat so far away from her, what her younger self would long to hear to make her racing career just a little bit easier, “To all the younger dreamers, never let anyone else tell you your limits. They may say to stop, but you need to believe that you can keep going. Chase your passions relentlessly because if you do, then the only barriers will be the ones we allow ourselves to see. Keep fighting, because one day, you’ll see that you’re right where you need to be.”

“Wow” He sighed, hand on his heart, “That inspired me.” Lawrence laughed heartily, “Finally, maybe just a few words in your native language, now from what I know you spent at least 3 years living in India? For your education?” He looked at her questioningly, waiting for her response.

Aisha nodded happily, “Yes, I did! so you want a message in Hindi? There are so many languages in my country, but sadly I’m only fluent in Hindi, despite being Gujarati myself.”

“That would be great, please do.”

“Sabse pehle, main apne sabhi fans ko bahut saara pyaar dena chahti hoon. Aap log mere liye inspiration ho, aur main hamesha aapke saath hoon. Aap sabka support mere liye bahut important hai, aur thank you kehna chahti hoon.”

[First of all, I want to give a lot of love to all my fans. You are an inspiration for me, and I am always with you. All your support is very important for me, and I would like to say thank you.]

“Amazing, thank you so much Aisha,” Lawrence gently took the microphone away from her and offered a grateful smile before looking towards Fernando who had made his way towards the pair.

“No problem,” Aisha stepped away, patting the eldest driver’s back once before turning away and making her way towards Lando, who had already been looking towards her, waiting for her to approach him, along with Oscar and Logan who were engrossed in conversation.

The scene fades away from the three seasoned drivers and in the blackness another title appears, “RACE DAY” and following this the Porsche garage is finally revealed for the first time, much like the other teams the hard acrylic surfaces were decorated with the team colours and many engineers, technicians and workers were rushing around whilst other’s begaan to detach the hydraulic tubes from the cars in preparation for the first race of the season.

Before the first car revved up with anticipation, the halo was shown displaying the driver number and surname, “GASLY 10” and with that, the tubes were removed and the driver’s engineer pulled away, removing the iPad from Pierre’s gloved hands, allowing him to speed off towards his starting position.

The camera pans over to the second car that is yet to exit the garage, the driver within seemed to be hurriedly re-reading the car statistics, consuming that data over and over again, the scene rotates from the back of the car towards the front, where from beyond the middle column of the halo we get a glimpse of the large helmet following her heads sporadic movements, the Indian and British flag printed onto the front side of her head gear, peeped in and out of view as she handed away the tablet and she pulled on her gloves that lay waiting on the chassis in front of her.

With a confident thumbs up, she followed one of the Porsche employee’s guiding movements towards the other racers who sat in their cars, waiting for the start. Maintaining an even pace, she passed by the other cars, the exposed carbon fibre of Esteban’s Alpine in P10 and bright orange of Oscar’s McLaren in P7. She found her box waiting for her car as she pulled in and slowly removed her foot from the acceleration as she joined the grid in waiting for the formation lap.

The music faded away, to allow Aisha’s monologue to play over the still of the onboard camera, “This is it, I thought to myself, all the years of hard work and sacrifices have led up to this moment. This isn’t like F3 or F2-“ the live replay of the sleek interior of her F1 car is replaced by exhilarating moments of on track battles from her previous racing leagues, “- this is F1, where dreams are trampled on and shattered if you can’t keep up.” Her voice trembles slightly as we hear her take a deep breath in and the cars are overtaken with a new scene.

We see Aisha, in the same deep red sultry pantsuit, her side profile contrasted in the shadows as her chest rises and falls, “I remember the moment exactly, I told myself ‘Aisha, soak it in, the cheers and the feeling of other’s dreams, their expectations, cause it can make or break you.” She laughs incredulously at herself, “dramatic I know.”

“But it was electrifying, the whole thing, the thrum of the engines, the anticipation. I have never felt anything like it. But it’s everything I’ve trained for and everything I’ve wanted since I was little and racing go-karts.” Snippets of the raging, overwhelming sound of spluttering go-karts overtake the screen as one after another, we see young Aisha, drowning in an oversized sponsored uniform cut through the chequered ribbon.

“To the other drivers on the grid, it’s just the first race of the season, but for me, it’s my debut, it’s the first and only chance to prove that I’m meant to be here.” Aisha claps her hands, and the bursting flashes of her karting days cease, and we’re brought back to her, sitting in the tall stool, legs crossed over elegantly as she waves her heel back and forth, “The countdown began, and it’s lights out and away we go.”

The red lights above the Bahrain track fade away one by one, Crofty’s voice is matched with hers, and just as the sound of the engines crescendo, the scene ends.

“Right Lando- “

The young British man makes his way into the stool, wobbling slightly as he flails his hands before rocking back to stability. He lets out a relieved breath and crosses his arms over his chest, his fingers absent-mindedly playing with the golden, volt bracelet on his wrist the Luis Vuitton logo glinting in the light from his absent-minded movements.

“Hi, yes, I’m here.” Lando looked up at the interviewer, his eyes bouncing between the 3-4 different camera’s capturing him from odd angles, “Which-“he pointed at one of them, “-which one am I looking at?”

The interviewer laughed before leaning forward and tapping the lens of the middle-most camera, “This one.”

Lando breathed out, “great” before adjusting the pillowing fabric of his hoodie and stared straight into the glass barrel in front of him, “I’m Lando Norris, and I race for McLaren Formula one team.”

“We ehm we didn’t need that. It- it’s different from Drive to Survive,”

Lando cringed and rubbed the back of his head, causing the bracelet to ride up beneath the sleeve of his hoodie, “My bad- “

“Don’t worry about it, Now-“The sound of cue cards being shuffled could be heard, “Onto the first question, we’ve heard rumours about you and Aisha, especially during your karting days, care to elaborate?”

Lando sucks air through his teeth as he smirks, “Me and Aisha…” He looks down to his hands, fingers finding purchase on the angled charm of his bracelet, “We go way back, I mean, it was either me or her who were winning the races, she was,” He sighs heavily, his eyes starry as he looks back up to the camera, “She was, no, she is everything.”

“Can’t help but notice the bracelet that you have on, anything significant?”

“It’s symbolic, I guess?but nothing too big.” He shrugs it off, hiding away the jewellery from prying eyes.

The interviewer presses their lips together, humming whilst shuffling the cards once again, “Right, of course, but some fans have already started to notice that you and she are…close.”

“Close? We’ve always been close, it’s like electric with her, it’s hard not to be attached to her talent.” Lando smirks playfully, winking at the camera, “Karting with her was so intense, we pushed each other to the limit, and I will always hold her and those memories close to my heart.”

“Seems like obsession,” They laugh.

“Oh, it most definitely is, I mean, have you seen her?” Lando flourishes dramatically with his hands, as though the woman was sitting right next to him.

We are brought back to the first driver’s briefing of the season, mere days before the Bahrain Grand Prix, Aisha had just sat down next to Pierre and began to chat amicably with her new teammate, bouts of laughter erupting from the pair momentarily.

The camera pans from the bonding partners to Lando, still hiding his head between his palms in embarrassment, though from between his ringed fingers we see his emerald irises peeking through the gaps, staring thoughtfully at the enrapturing driver who was currently fiddling with the van clef, indigo bracelets that shimmered around her wrist.

Oscar, who was also curiously watching the woman jogged Lando, snapping the man out of his trance, “Mate- you’re drooling,” He poked his teammate’s cheek.

Lando slapped away the finger that prodded his face, “I am not.”

“Whatever you say,” Oscar hummed, turning his attention back to the administrator who was flipping through a few data filled papers, bringing their mouth closer to the bendable microphone. Oscar leaned into Lando, bumping their shoulders together, “Just be careful.”

Aisha breathed out a sigh, capping the black, matte Bulgari pen, slipping it into the awkwardly small purse that hung from her shoulder. She slammed the driver’s door of her car, having just finished a load of signing and smiling with fans, her main objective was to get through the security scanners peacefully.

“Hey stranger,” A voice came up behind her, tapping her arm.

“Lando,” Aisha tried to contain the quiver in her voice, “I thought you already got in.” She adjusted the neckline of her top, the tight sleeves hugged her shoulders and left her skin exposed to the warm sun.

“I did, I just needed something from my car and then I saw you,” He grinned at her, tapping his key card against the scanner, walking seamlessly through the rotating barrier, “You look like you’re about to walk a runway.”

Aisha laughed, tucking a straightened lock of hair behind her ear, “Thanks, you look…” Aisha assessed his outfit, a pair of light blue baggy, Levi’s and one of his own merch hoodies, “normal.” She cringed at her unnecessary honesty.

Yet, Lando just laughed and nodded his head in agreement, “Yeah- compared to you.”

Aisha continued to walk through the paddock, the British driver at her side whilst she waved to those personnel that passed by. She looked down at her own clothes, a neat, navy, off-the shoulder top that hugged her chest in all the right places was tucked into a grey mini-skirt, compliments of one of the many brand ambassadors of her team, the item was paired with a thin brown, gold buckled belt along with knee-high go-go boots.

“You could say that” She conceded, adjusting the golden Porsche chain that clung to her neck, “I was wondering…”

“Yeah?” Lando pocketed his hands.

“I you wanted to get dinner. For old times’ sake?” Aisha leaned forward on one foot, tilting her head hopefully before coming to a stop and waiting for his response.

Lando beamed widely, his eyes sparkling, “Definitely, I would be an absolute idiot to turn you down.”

Aisha blushed and looked down at the bracelets on her wrist, multiple layered golden chains which reflected light against her face in the most euphoric way, “Great, I’ll ju-“

“AISHA, oh my god it’s really her, AISHA!”

A shrill, young voice erupted from behind the pair, and a group of 3-4 young girls came running up to the pair. Aisha laughed to herself, plucking out the pen once more.

“Hello,” Aisha greeted the pre-teens who surrounded her, two of them dressed in a signature papaya orange whilst the other two sported metallic, silver Porsche merch, “You guys look so good!”

She accepted the hats and odd poster that the girls shyly handed her, “We’re so excited to see you race! You’re the only one who looks like us.” One of them spoke, her copper toned, youthful cheeks bobbed up with her smile as her long, black ponytail weaved with her excited movements.

“That’s so sweet, I think I might just win the race for you.” Aisha opened her arm for the girl to step into as they took a photo.

“Ehm, Lando, could we get an autograph as well,” Another one asked, already unfurling a second poster along with presenting the enraptured male with a sharpie.

“Absolutely! How could I resist?” Lando accepted the pen and began to sign the poster along with some newly presented items that the other two girls had produced.

“Thank you, guys, so much!” Aisha waved off the girls and turned back to Lando, already handing over her phone for him to enter in his number.

The young fans were squealing on their way back to their parents, who were just as excited for their young daughter’s interaction, “Did you guys see the bracelet?”

“What bracelet?” Another one asked, carefully rolling up her poster and handing it to her father, who tucked it under his arm and offered his hand for her to take.

“Lando’s, the one he wore for the whole of last season…” She adjusted her cap, looking confusedly at her three friends.

“Oh…I didn’t.”

“Neither did I.”

The screen faded away from Lando, sitting with his teammate whilst gawking at Aisha and we’re brought back to the present, the on-board camera of the Porsche is aimed at the lights that have just gone dark and all at once, a symphony of rubber against concrete fills the scene.

Aisha navigated turn one with ease, emerging from the throng of cars still in P5, her grip tightened on the steering wheel as she focussed every ounce within her body on the track ahead. The bright spotlights above her cast a blinding hue over the grandstands, illuminating the eager fans from around the world, their flags waved in their air as they watched with anticipation when she approached Lewis from behind, pressuring the world champion ahead as they weaved into the next turn.

Aisha aimed for the apex, seeing the slightest gap for her to slip past, as she pointed the head of her car towards the opening, she held her breath and pressed on the throttle. Aisha lurched backwards as she could feel the crackles of her under-board hit the track with each increase in speed she made, yet she managed to dodge the Mercedes car and fly down the straight, maintaining her tyres as best as she could.

The radio thrummed to life in her ear as her race engineer, James, began to speak, “Great work with Lewis, already around 1.15 behind you. Take care of your tyres for now and defend.”

Aisha breathed heavily as she continued to meet the corners and walls with barely an inch to save herself as a highly effective attempt to prevent more overtakes, “Got it.”

She continued her pace throughout the laps, the continuous build up over 20 rounds had inched her closer and closer to Carlos who was struggling in P3, his braking getting worse and worse with each sharp turn.

“James- how much closer do I need to overtake?” Aisha gritted out, flitting her eyes to the large, white metallic DRS sign that entered her limited field of vision.

“Only a bit more Aisha, it’s time to push.”

Aisha stepped harshly onto the gas, her engine thrumming all around her as she charged closer to the bright red Ferrari ahead. She could see the rubber of the tyres in front burn and smoke with every swerve. The roar of her engine filled her ears, drowning out the noise of her own heartbeat as she braced herself for the challenge, “Here we go,” she murmured, voice firm and steely with determination.

She surged her car forward, pushing her machine to the limit as she matched Carlos’ pace with precision and determination, the desert heat bore down in mirage-like waves as the two drivers danced on the razor’s edge of competition. One by one measly lap, the distance shortened until they were wheel to wheel, and all Aisha could do was grit her teeth until she could taste the tangy calcium as she continued the precipice of a wipe-out, the promise of a podium too good to lose.

Aisha’s heart pounded with exhilaration as they hurtled down the straight once again, soon enough the pair were met with the sharpest corner yet, Aisha pushed further and Carlos relented, edging away meekly to allow her to slip by. The crowd’s cheers washed over her, a wave of euphoria crashing over her senses as her heart swelled with triumph.

“WOO! P3!”

“Amazing work Aisha, halfway there. Get some distance between you two.”

“I can take on Checo,” Aisha promised, her aggressive spirit burning deeply within her core as her eyes narrowed into the back of one of the red bulls.

“Go for it, but be careful, your tyres aren’t that good.” James warned her, his voice crisp with caution.

“I got this.”

Aisha revved up once her power had flashed a promising green on the screen in front of her, “It’s time to pounce.” She promised herself whilst flicking the DRS button with her thumb, letting the flap behind her quiver open, the force launched her forward like never before as the lap count leached into the 40’s, Checo hadn’t yet pitted, neither had she, and suddenly, it was a battle of the wills.

She tried all that she could, nudging her nose into the smallest of gaps and backing out when he had angled himself predatorially, grazing her front wing enough for her heart to jump into her throat, “What the fuck is he doing? Fucking cocksucker, he wants to kill me or what?” Aisha had to remind herself to lower her voice.

“It’s within regulation, keep pushing you’re approaching DRS again.” James assured her.

The car trembled beneath her, like a jaguar waiting to pounce again after one failure, she pressed again. This time she nipped Checo’s wheel, causing for him to quickly move out of the way, narrowly missing a spin-off and allowing Aisha to speed into P2.

“FUCK YES! HOLY SHI-“

Aisha’s celebration was cut short when a dangerous thrum approached her rapidly, she attempted with all her might to duck and weave into and out of his path, but Checo was relentless, continuously rubbing against her wheels and forcing her to utilise her power.

“Fuck, fuck what the actual shit?” Aisha screeched as she continued to sloppily defend, her anger bubbling up like hot water.

The red bull growled and pounced in front of her, clipping enough of her front wheel to send her spinning. Aisha shouted with malice, throwing up her hands as her wheels began to rotate rapidly, “BASTARD!”

Her vision blurred as the world around her continued to haphazardly shift, the fans above stilled with trepidation as they watched her strangle her wheel with both hands and wrangle the car back into position.

“Okay, so that’s P5- P5, Piastri, Sainz, Perez and Verstappen in front of you,”

“Copy.” Aisha grumbled darkly, manoeuvring the vehicle so that she could continue to viciously speed down the final lap, murderously defending her position as her stomach finally settled and head stopped pounding with adrenaline.

The race ended with Crofty heartily congratulating her over the commentary,

“And Verstappen has won the Bahrain grand prix! with Checo in P2 and Sainz in the Ferrari in P3. Now the fans have spoken, and new-comer Aisha Patel has been voted driver of the day, rightfully so, securing a solid P5 finish after a challenging battle on the track. it's fantastic to see her scoring valuable points in her debut race. And let's not forget the incredible debut of the Porsche F1 Team! It's clear that they're a force to be reckoned with in the championship.”

A view of Max passing through the finish line is shown, sparks flew behind his car as he speeds through and turned into the parc ferme. Aisha is also shown, her eyes steely from within her helmet and as she stops her car she clambers out of the cockpit and rips of her headgear, a scowl evident on her usually cool face.

She pushes open the gate to the media pen, narrowly avoiding Max, who spared her a dark glance from over his shoulder before turning back to the interviewer.

“Yeah, people make stupid decisions sometimes,” She heard him answer the unintelligible question. Aisha could already feel the anger burn her throat as she whipped her head around and met Max’s eyes, he stared back, an inferno raging within his blue iris’. She opened her mouth to speak but was stopped by her Media manager, pulling her away gently, Aisha followed tearing her eyes away from the Dutchman. Yet, she could still feel his heated gaze on her.

Aisha scoffed passing by Carlos and Checo, who were conversing in fast Spanish, and headed towards the common media area, where eager and ravenous reporters began to clamber on top of one another as they caught sight of her sweaty face and stringy hair.

“Aisha! Aisha!” They called, loud voices breaking through the microphone and blowing through the audio.

Aisha huffed and went towards the tell-tale white microphone, the sky sports logo sprawled all over the foam cover,

“Hi Aisha, congratulations on the P5 today,” Mark started, holding the microphone out for the visibly annoyed driver.

“Thank you,” She snipped, but blinked a few times before forcing herself to continue, “Y’know could’ve been a P2 finish for Porsche today, but I’m happy with both Pierre and I’s finish, at least we scored some valuable points.” Aisha robotically recounted her PR training.

“Definitely a tough break for you out there,” He nodded solemnly, “Care to walk us through what happened with Checo on lap 43?”

Aisha sucked in a breath, looking behind her where her PR person stood, arms crossed over her Porsche shirt as she shrugged, “Yeah, of course, it’s disappointing end to my race, P2 would probably be a dream, but Checo made a-“ Aisha bit her tongue momentarily, looking into the few dozen camera’s pointed at her, until she noticed Checo’s reflection walking behind her, heading to the cool-down room, “-a dickhead move absolutely dangerous, there was contact because he couldn’t use his eyes, and that caused me to spin out. It’s racing, I know, but you don’t see race winners or legends making moves like that.” Aisha hissed.

Mark stared at her, mouth agape before he recollected himself and forced a flabbergasted laugh, “Well, that’s one way to put it.” The other surrounding reporters were close to drooling at the mouth, their own mics pushed further through the gaps as they imagined the debaucherous headlines they could create from her outburst.

“How were you feeling during that moment?”

“Truthfully?” She tilted her head, “Pissed, but you probably didn’t you marky-moo, my radio probably told you that. But after I managed to regain my original position, I was more determined to just finish the race with a solid end.”

He laughed at that but stilled when Checo emerged once again from the cool-off room, “Checo!” Mark called, oblivious to the thunderous haze that overtook Aisha. She checked behind her shoulder, and her upper lip curled with malice,

“I’ll let Checo say his bit- “She murmured, “Excuse me.” And left the pen, heading towards the Porsche garage whilst avoiding eye-contact with Lucy, her fuming PR manager.

“Hey! Checo!” Aisha called out, throwing down her headphones, leaving her race engineer in concerned confusion as she approached the red bull driver, amid his team, oblivious to the storm about to hit him.

“Oh, hey Aisha-“

“Do not, hey, me.” She snarled, “What the fuck was that on track? Were you trying to kill me back there? You could’ve overtaken me in so many other ways.” Aisha approached him, prompting Checo to take a simultaneous step back, hands raised.

“It’s racing Aisha, I had to make a split-second decision.”

“We all make decisions, Perez,” She snarled, hands balling up into fists, “You don’t see Charles or Carlos or anyone with half a brain doing what you did? You messed up my race!” Aisha’s voice begins to raise, drawing attention of the red bull personnel, since the pair had manged to slowly move up to the entrance of the garage, and prompting a few camera men, who were following around Lando and Oscar to pan over to her.

Aisha groans, smacking her palm against her head a few times as a display of aggression before turning back to a very sweaty, nervous driver, “Never mind my race- you had fucking so many other options, why? Why did you decide to clip my wheel? Is it because being overtaken by a woman was so embarrassing, for red bull’s number two, you couldn’t handle it?” Aisha mocks him, before starting to approach his frozen form, a violent fire burning in her eyes and spreading to her limbs, igniting them with her fury.

Just as there was merely a centimetre between the two, a pair of strong arms hooked themselves around her elbows, holding her hand away from Checo, who had started shouting about his “personal safety”.

“Are you fucking stupid?” A gruff voice whispers into her ear.

Aisha kicks out, a futile attempt to free herself, “Let me go,” She whips her head around, her hair flying,

“Can you stop? I will literally knock you out.” The voice continues, grunting when her foot narrowly misses his groin.

“Fine-“ She huffs, going limp as she shoots daggers into Checo’s retreating back being escorted by a flurry of blue clad workers, “Fine, let me go,” She mumbles.

The man drops her onto the floor instantly, allowing her to stumble over her feet. Aisha finds her footing once more and spins around to meet his eyes, “Max?”

Max stares down at her, his eyes squinted with annoyance, “Who else? You’re in front of the red bull garage.” He rolls his eyes and steps a large stride away from her.

Aisha blinks once. Twice. Before scoffing and crossing her arms, “Yeah. Thanks.” She snarks before walking away from him, leaving the dutchman standing, fuming in his spot. She manages to skip over the McLaren crowd but had attracted almost half a dozen cameras on her, the large intimidating lens’ were pushed into her face haphazardly, narrowly missing her face a few times.

Aisha had to hold herself back from stealing the cameras from their holders and smashing them onto the ground. She could feel a self-depreciating throb begin to build in her head, the memory of all the idyllic children watching her, and those who had felt represented by her made tears prick at her eyes. In that moment, with too many lens’ focussing on her quivering lip, she hoped that they wouldn’t catch the salty sadness that threatened to stream down her face

The post-race interview scene fades away, and a familiar red bull jersey is announced into the scene, the dark blue merging pleasantly with the dark grey background. We’re introduced to Checo’s frame, a placid smile on his face.

“Hi checo,” The interviewer greets the driver, who nods in acknowledgement, “Well, Bahrain was an intense time for you, especially the on track accident with Aisha, would you care to talk us through the whole thing?”

Checo clears his throat briefly, “Yeah, uhm, it was a tight battle with her, and she was holding her ground y’know, but I saw an opportunity to make a move and I took it.” He shrugged once, reverting his gaze away from the camera, “And, as an unfortunate by product, she ended up spinning out, but it’s racing, these things happen.”

“I think everyone knows that she seemed quite upset about the incident, did you have a chance to speak with her afterwards?”

“uhm, people say things when they’re angry, and Aisha was frustrated but I’m here to win races, that’s what I’ve been hired to do. Once again, it was a choice that I had to make, and it’s hard to consider everyone’s emotions while I do it.”

“Max, we recently interviewed Checo, and he had some…words to say about the situation in Bahrain, specifically with Aisha after the race. Now, we saw that you had intervened just in time, what was going on during that moment?”

Max shifted in his chair, slipping down slightly, and crossing his arms over his chest, “Yeah, I could see that the situation was escalating, with Aisha getting increasingly angry, it would’ve ended pretty badly.”

“You sound so sure about that.”

“Trust me, I know anger when I see it, and I know that races can get heated especially when avoidable occurrences aren’t avoided, but I also think that emotional regulation is crucial to compete.” He distractedly runs a thumb over his bottom lip.

“Does this change your initial views on Aisha entering the sport? Since you were pretty, pessimistic.” The interviewer cringes just as the words escape their mouth.

“I wouldn’t say I was pessimistic,” He quickly rejects, “But I think she had something to prove, just like any of us, she isn’t exempt from it. And she, raced like any of us would’ve in the moment, so do I suddenly think of her as a saint? No, but do I think that she’s building up to something? Maybe.”

“Aisha!” A voice calls from behind her, Aisha smiles at the fans who had offered her a notebook to sign, she watched them walk away before responding,

“Yeah?” She tucks away her pen into the silver, Porsche gym bag that hung from her shoulder.

Lando jogs up to her, tapping his card against the scanner before pushing through the gate and reaching her side, “Great race, you handled it...well…” He trailed off, unsure of how to spin off his compliment.

Aisha laughs at that, throwing her head back, ”It’s okay Lando, you don’t have to say anything” She tugs at the sleaves of her tight black jacket, the hugo boss label stretched over her chest as she pulled at the fabric, “I- I can get pretty mad,” Aisha shrugs, kicking an imaginary pebble with her shoe, rustling her oversized tracksuit bottoms, the three parallel lines on both her legs fluttered with the airy clothing.

“Yeah, that probably didn’t go down to well on camera,” He itches the back of his head, “I actually came to ask if you’re staying at the same hotel as the rest of us, Oscar took my car and I’m stranded.”

“Lando…” She sighs, adjusting the strap of her bag, “If you wanted to ride in my Porsche, you could’ve just said so.” Aisha gestured to her silvery 918 Spyder, the high-end sports car shimmered beneath the spotlights of the private car park.

Lando hissed through his teeth and grinned, “You caught me.” He held his hands up, “It’s the only way I can be photographed in the car without causing an uproar.”

Aisha tilted her head at him, “Oh, so nothing else is convincing you?”

“Hmmm, that, and maybe the very beautiful and scary woman who drives it?” Lando offered, holding out his hand for her to take.

She looked down at his open palm before searching the area around them, the rest of the grid had departed long before, leaving just her car and another in the parking. Aisha squinted her eyes at the remaining automobile, a Honda NSX, the only owner being none other than a certain grumpy blonde, who was more focussed on his back seat than on the couple who still stood in the middle of the concrete.

Accepting his hand, she revelled in the feeling of her fingers intertwined with his, soft skin against coarse knuckles, a warm aura enveloped her being as she guided them towards her car, pulling out the flat fob to click open the expensive machine.

Yet, as she watched Lando retreat into the passenger’s seat with an amazed, “oh damn.” and went to unlock the trunk to slip her duffel bag into, she felt an icy gaze glued to her back.

Aisha turned once behind her to where Max was sitting in his driver’s seat, eyes glued at first on Lando, an unrecognisable expression painted on his face before he slowly slid it up to her face, and his once oddly neutral gaze turned into an annoyed squint.

With that, the dutchman tore his eyes away from a now, slightly agitated Aisha, towards the open road and pulled out of the car park, speeding away to what she assumed would be the hotel.

“Hey,” Lando leaned over the dash, reaching for her hand that rested on the headrest of her seat, the other braced on her car door as she watched the retreating Honda, “You okay?”

Aisha jumped out of her disturbed haze, and back to where Lando was now rubbing his fingers over hers that had tensed enough to turn her milky brown skin into a pale white, “Yeah- I’m fine, just checking for reporters.”

“I’m that embarrassing?” He teased, watching her intently as she fastened her seatbelt and smiled at the sound of the purring super engine.

Aisha snorts, “No- not at all, just making sure that McLaren’s golden boy isn’t photographed inside a Porsche- with the grid’s certified crazy woman.” She pressed on the gas.

“Yeah, but…what if I want that?”

“What?” Aisha’s eyebrows knitted together; eyes still glued to the unfamiliar roads ahead as the GPS stopped squawking at her for a brief moment.

“I don’t care if you’re the crazy woman…You’re just, you. I don’t care about the rest.” Lando smiled lazily, his eyes studying her quickly flustered face.

“You’re a horrible flirt Norris.” She grumbled.

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petalsthefish · 4 months ago

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James Potter had Lily Evans figured out since they were eleven years old. From the very beginning, she stood out to him. She was, without a doubt, the most dramatic woman he had ever encountered. Her passion and intensity in everything she did were unparalleled, making every argument they had both infuriating and exhilarating. She was also the loudest woman he had ever argued with, her voice always strong and clear, never backing down. But beyond all that, Lily was the prettiest person he had ever kissed. Her beauty was undeniable, but her kind soul is what captivated him completely.

Now, as James sat with Lily, he couldn't help but wish he were kissing her. He missed the softness of her lips, the way her eyes sparkled when she smiled, and the feeling of her arms wrapped around him. Every moment without her felt like an eternity, and he longed to be with her more, to hold her instead of just holding her hand, and to tell her just how much she meant to him.

“I heard he got you a penthouse on the west side,” James said, watching as her creamy shoulders, dotted with summer freckles, slowly slumped.

“Who told you?”

“Mary.” James tilted his head, not daring to tell her Mary always came to him when she was worried about Lily.

“Yeah,” she replied, trying to steer herself away from sadness with a joke. “The penthouse, with huge windows. I hate looking down at the city from so far up, so naturally I covered them all with curtains. Eric pulls them open every chance he gets.”

James didn’t offer her more than a shrug from his shoulders as the same searing pain shot through his gut. He wondered when her jerk of a west-end producer boyfriend would finally learn that Lily was afraid of heights. James knew. He knew the way her knuckles turned white the second she even considered flying on a broomstick, or the way she used to hold onto the edges of the Astronomy Tower for dear life.

James could instantly see from Lily’s expression that she wasn’t fond of her haughty boyfriend. Her discomfort was evident in several subtle ways: the slight tightening of her waist as if trying to brace herself, the bluish tint under her eyes hinting at sleepless nights or stress, and the restless drumming of her fingers on the table, betraying her irritation. Her body language spoke volumes, making it clear that this relationship was wearing her down.

Lily cleared her throat at his silence and muttered, “How’s, uh, what was her name? Rachel? That Daily Prophet reporter?”

James lifted his coffee to his lips before lowering it to say, “That was just casual sex, Lily, that’s all.”

“Casual,” she had the audacity to smirk and lift her own cup to hide it. “Gotcha.”

“You don’t believe me?” James shot back, daring her to argue with a raised brow.

“Well, I figured since you told me you don’t do casual—”

“Yeah, and you told me you don’t like men buying you nice gifts.”

James glanced at the side of the café patio where her brand-new Benz with the white wheels sat, looking atrociously clean. She had exited the car in her tight pantsuit, her red hair cut short to her shoulders, and James had been forced to do a double take. Lily looked so out of place next to the car, missing her hand-embroidered robes and long red hair.

James’ heart was on the edge of breaking as he realized she was slowly choosing the Muggle world, his brilliant best friend, because of some jerk who didn’t even realize what he had in the palm of his hand.

“Is that Sirius’ bike?” Lily quickly changed the subject and nodded toward the motorcycle she had seen James get off to meet her at the café.

“Mm-hmm.” James ruffled his curls as he glanced back at the old bike. “He got it to fly, you know, and it’s been fun to test it out.”

“Fun for you,” she said, tapping her fingertips on the coffee cup she held between both palms. “You couldn’t pay me to get on a flying motorbike.”

“I couldn’t even pay you to get on my broomstick.”

At the table across from them, a woman coughed, and James sent her a half-hearted salute. She grabbed her coffee and went back inside, eyes wide. Lily kicked him under the table.

“You’re deplorable,” she said, but she was chuckling, that familiar sparkle in her green eyes.

“I know.” James winked. “She’s the one who took is as an innuendo. Don’t blame my broomstick.”

Lily rolled her eyes as a longer laugh erupted from her lungs. “James Potter, I love you.”

No, she didn’t.

But she could’ve.

James felt a pang in his chest, knowing the words were spoken in jest. Her laugh was genuine, her eyes sparkling with the same warmth and humor he cherished, but he couldn’t help but wish she meant it. He wanted her to see him as more than just a friend, to feel the same way he did every time he looked at her, but it was like the second they’d taken a break—she’d taken a total one eighty.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, trying to keep his tone light. “You love me, who doesn’t?”

Lily shook her head, still smiling. “You’re an idiot sometimes, did you know that?”

James leaned back in his chair, the smile on his face not quite reaching his eyes. “Takes one to know one, Evans.”

As they continued to banter, the ache in James’ heart grew stronger. He wished he could tell her how he truly felt, how every moment with her made him want more. But for now, he would settle for her laughter and her company, even if it wasn’t the kind of love he longed for.

He hated that she didn’t love him, hated that those pink cheeks were kissed by someone else. He could love Lily Evans with his eyes closed, kiss her wearing a blindfold, and still know it was her. But here they were, sitting and talking with their hands metaphorically tied, knowing they’d chosen the wrong people at the wrong time.

“Thanks for the coffee,” she said as they stood up from their table in sync. “But I’ve got to get back. Rehearsals are in an hour.”

“Thanks for fitting in time to see me, Evans.”

“Anything for my Head Boy,” Lily teased.

James forced a smile, watching her lift an expensive heart shaped purse over her shoulder, his heart aching for the love that wasn’t his. He wondered what she would do if she were blindfolded, and had to be kissed by all her lovers, past and present. Would she choose him? Would she still know his lips from everyone else’s?

He’d know hers.

James swung a comfortable arm around her shoulders as he walked her back to her ostentatious car, half parked on the sidewalk. She looked up at him with a soft smile as he opened the driver’s side door for her. James’ stomach flipped at her pretty, angelic aura that seemed to radiate like golden waves off of her.

“This was nice.” She said, her hand patting his arm tenderly, “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ll see you again,” he promised, “no more disappearing for three months until I see your name on a billboard again, deal?”

“Promise you’ll come to the show this weekend,” she asked, tilting her head, looking particularly sneaky with a look in her eye that used to get him undressed in seconds. “You can bring whoever you like, even one of your new friends, just promise to come.”

“Who said I have new friends?” James dropped his arm from her shoulder as she started getting into the driver’s seat. “I have exactly five friends.”

“Please,” she snorted, “Mr. Big Time Quidditch Player. I know you have way more friends than me.”

“And what about you, breakout West End star of ‘Grease the Musical’?” James leaned on the door of her car. “I expect all those parties are just teaming with strangers who want to know more about you.”

“I have Eric,” she said, and James felt sick to his stomach at the mention of her boyfriend. “He’s not a stranger, and he always makes sure I’m—not alone.”

James blinked sourly, and Lily spotted the look. Her expression dimmed.

“James,” her voice warned, “we both chose this.”

“I just—” James put his chin on his knuckles as he watched her watch him. “Does he even know you’re a witch yet?”

“I don’t need to tell anyone,” Lily said, pulling her hair back, though it was so short it just fell forward again. “Least of all Eric, because those days are behind me.”

“So, you’ll keep pushing away your magical friends and family,” James noted, “in favor of this?”

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” she said, her hand gripping the door handle as her expression hardened. “See you later, Potter.”

She yanked the door open, her face a mask of icy resolve, and slammed it behind her as she started the car. With a screech of tires and a near collision with the curb, she sped off. James watched, a snort escaping him as he realized she was just as reckless behind the wheel as she was on a broomstick. Despite everything, his feelings for her remained unchanged.

After wrestling with his decision over the weekend, James finally made up his mind to attend her show. The situation with Eric had made it impossible for him to owl Lily directly, so he resolved to surprise her in person. On the day of the matinee, he arrived at the theater bearing a bouquet of pristine white roses and a box of her favorite jellybean flavors.

Using his invisibility cloak to slip past security and avoid detection in the winding corridors, he finally reached the door marked with her name. The space outside was already adorned with flowers, a few gifts, and several letters taped to the door. He made a conscious effort not to read any of them as he gently knocked while stuffing his cloak into his bag.

“Hold on a sec!” Lily’s voice called out from inside, her tone a mix of nervous impatience mixed with genuine apology.

When she opened the door, James was met with a dazzling sight. Lily, already in full makeup and wearing a stunning blue dress, looked momentarily taken aback. Her green eyes widened with surprise as she quickly stepped aside to let him in.

‘Hey Lily.”

“How did you get in here?” she asked, her astonishment clear in her voice.

“Snuck past security with my Invisibility Cloak,” James shrugged as he shoved the flowers forward for her. “I decided to take you up on your offer to come see you perform.”

Lily grabbed the flowers, but within seconds, she had tossed them onto her vanity. “How did you manage to get a seat? We’re booked up two weeks in advance.”

“I was planning on standing in the wings while wearing my cloak,” James explained, “so I wouldn’t miss a thing.”

“You were going to sneak in just to watch me?” Lily brushed her hair back, clearly surprised. “Really?”

“Yes, why?”

“I didn’t think you cared that much, to be honest,” she admitted.

James took her hand, looking earnest as he said, “Evans, it’s you. Of course, I care.”

He brought a showing hand up, brushing her jaw with the back of his hand. He wasn’t bold enough to suggest what he wanted, but he knew if anyone could read his mind, it was Lily.

Her cheeks flushed a delicate pink as she spoke quickly, “James, I’ve been thinking…”

“About what?” His heartbeat quickened with anticipation and hope.

She took a shaky breath as his lips drew closer to hers. “I’ve been thinking—thinking.”

“About me?” he murmured, his nose barely grazing hers. “What about Eric?”

The mention of Eric made her pull back slightly, her eyes flashing with intensity. “That’s what you’ve been missing.”

“I haven’t missed anything about him,” James replied firmly. “Of all the little things I could be missing, your lack of affection for that prick is the least of my concerns.”

She took a step closer, shutting the door behind him and locking it before whispering, “Do you have any idea how hard it’s been to pretend to care about Eric at all, when all I do at night is think about you?”

James stared at her, taken aback. “No. Why do you think you have to pretend to love someone for the sake of me?”

Lily shook her head softly, her eyes filled with a mix of frustration and yearning. “When will you learn?”

James stepped into her body, his heart pounding. “Learn what, Lily?”

“That I’ve always loved you,” she confessed, her voice barely above a whisper. “I thought distancing myself would make things easier, because I didn’t know how I would be able to handle all your traveling for quidditch, but it’s only made me realize how much I need you.”

“Oh God, Lily.” James reached out, gently cupping her face with his hand. “You know I never wanted to take a break, right? I only suggested it to try and give you some space. I never wanted this much space…not now…not ever.”

Tears welled up in her eyes as she leaned into his touch. “I’ve missed you so much, James.”

“I’ve missed you too,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “More than you can imagine.”

She kissed him, and he closed his eyes, savoring the sensation. Her lips parted against his, and he felt her deepening the kiss with the familiar stroke of her tongue against his. James cupped her face, tilting her head up, and pulled her closer by wrapping his arms around her. She tasted like peppermint, the same kind of tea he knew she loved, and he couldn’t get enough of her. Reluctantly, he broke the kiss but continued his way down her chin, his lips trailing until they reached her ear.

“You’ve wanted it to be me this whole time, haven’t you?” he murmured, his hands digging into her skin as they trailed down her body. She nodded her head between them, and he chuckled, a deep, satisfied sound. "That's my girl."

Yeah, he had Lily Evans figured out, and this time he was never letting her go.

#prompt fufillment #jily #james potter #lily evans #jily fic #jily fanfiction #jple

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helaenatargaryencore · 7 months ago

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𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐈 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐞𝐧/𝐇𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐢𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐧 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝

(This is just my opinion feel free to disagree but please be respectful!)

Rhaenyra Targaryen

Now in the modern day I feel like royalty wouldn’t be such a big thing for the Targaryen’s so like yeah they might have the biggest business that runs Westeros and it’s seven cities but no throne would be involved so basically her and her younger siblings would not really be rivals at all, she actually is quite fond of all four of them and has her own fashion line/ or I do see her building up her own business but I see Rhaenyra Targaryen the best dressed woman in Westeros since she was a child being a huge fashion icon and designer, now in modern day she of course would neither need Viserys to choose her husband so evidently I see her meeting Harwin when she has a drunken run in with the police when she is 19 and he takes her home instead of going down to the station so we have that, they get married a few years later and have exactly 6 kids, yup six with Jace, Luke, Joff, Aegon, Viserys, and Visenya. Now I see Rhaenyra being a cool mom like allowing the kids to have friends over she would provide the best snacks and order food, clothing wise I see her dressed in wine and crimson reds, black, and I see her in maroon/dark purples, she feels comfortable in pantsuits mostly she also enjoys braiding her silver long hair extravagantly and she is totally a sip on wine and charcuterie board girlie, she also owns this cute cat named Syrax who is spoiled and lazy but serves like her owner.

Aegon Targaryen

Now Aegon is nothing like in the show (because I say so!) but he is a little immature and he cannot be trusted with his adult money at all, like he will spend it all. Definitely has a man cave and his house/apartment gives off Ken’s mojo dojo casa energy, I don’t see much of a paternal bone in his body but he is great with the kids! (In his own way) and no incest here it is not normalized in the modern world(or at all but anyways) everything he wears is definitely brand named and he is a shoe head I purely believe that, drank a lot in college but went to rehab and got better, hasn’t touched a drink in forever, got himself a golden retriever rescue which he named Sunfyre. He has never had a serious relationship, he hasn’t tried to either so I believe in him somewhat.

Helaena Targaryen

She is like a modern Stevie Nicks/fairy aesthetic like girlie, she is also a single mom to three (no man deserves this perfect girl :( she definitely is a cool momma, she owns a doggy named Dreamfyre, Jaehaerys got his own pup which he named Shykros and Jaehaera is a little different and got a small lizard (Helaena is all for a bigger reptile but Haerys opposed and Alicent said she would no longer visit if a huge reptile was in their home) and Maelor got a kitten of his own (I cannot think of a name he would give it) I see hel wearing lots of blues and yellows, whites even and she definitely wears crystal rings/ jewelry in general, she also loves to use different colored eyeshadows and liner and it just gives her an ethereal look, definitely is her thing and all of Westeros tries it because of her<3 she loves insects and has cute little insect decor in her home like cute little embroided pieces and paintings, loves going to cute cafe’s and bakeries with her babies and taking nice pictures🩵 and def uses the blue heart emoji the most. Definitely closest to Rhaenyra and Aemond (also Daeron maybe) definitely owns her own little book/crystal shop where she sells all the best books, candles, trinkets, anything to do with crystals, knitted scarfs that are so cute, needle work and knitting supplies and it definitely gives off cottage/fairy/insect core

Aemond Targaryen

Definitely has a hair care routine, I said it, also all his clothing is dark colored, dark reds and greens, loads of black clothing and grey clothing too, definitely wears a good ol sneaker (Converse/Vans) mostly the classic black and white ones, owns doc martins for sure, was the top of his classes all throughout high-school, college, and university, wears rings and chains but not excessively, knows how to style himself correctly, will either be covered in tattoos or have discreet ones no in between! Definitely runs one of the fam businesses and that’s when Viserys sees all the potential he has. He has this dark kinda aura to him and also is very serious but a complete gentleman, he did lose his eye and yes to Luke but I headcannon that they played with the family heirloom dagger and when Luke was swinging it he sliced Aemond, the family kinda separated but Rhaenyra paid for all medical costs and even wanted to pay for a prosthetic eye (she did) it took a while for the family to go back to normal but it did happen. Definitely goes to the sept (equivalent to a church) with Alicent so she doesn’t go alone or feel alone but he isn’t too close with the faith anymore. I see him owning a Doberman or Great Dane named Vhagar. Adores his nieces, Visenya and Jaehaera are his biggest prides.

Daeron Targaryen

He is def the youngest like in his teen years, is a genius academically and socially can be a little clueless but he still gets it mostly, owns a beautiful dog named Tessarion. On the school soccer team for sure and he definitely has a job in retail with friends, definitely loves video games and would walk into the kitchen with his headset and controller in hand to get chips while Alicent tells him to wait until after dinner, has a entire closet dedicated to hoodies of all colors/brands. Closest with Hel, mommas boy 100%.

Alicent Hightower

Isn’t a sibling but she is mother! Now modern wise she isn’t as intense as in the show, obviously she doesn’t hate Rhaenyra either and no they were not friends she actually was a few (very few) years older than her when she married Viserys, she hates her husband though, her frontal lobe wasn’t even developed when she married him but she formed an unlikely alliance with Rhae, she is religious but not as much as in the show, she you know wears the seven pointed star and visits the septs, definitely is a queen at hosting events and holidays. Great at sowing and alternating clothes, does fundraisers and huge donations to charities also does charity for the sept, MILF! Oh I’m sorry what who said that 😏, is a fashion icon and dresses in greens/blacks/ even reds. Has the best hair in Westeros! And she wasn’t fond of animals but made a friend in Balerion the dog Viserys has but doesn’t take care of, he rests at her feet while she sews/reads, Also speaking of reading she loves classic literature, sips wine while she cooks and does yoga and meditation you cannot convince me that she doesn’t.

So these are pretty much headcannons I have for the modern Targ/towers and I will do a part two for Hels kids and Rhae’s kids including Baela and Rhaena, hope you all enjoyed this little blurb I put together 💗

@madame-fear a little first work 💗

#modern house of the dragon #modern au #rhaenyra targaryen #aegon ii targaryen #helaena targaryen #aemond targaryen #daeron targaryen #alicent hightower #hotd #house of the dragon

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alltoounwellll · 2 months ago

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ty for the tag @angel-daydreams 🫶🏻

np tags (sorry if you’ve already done it): @hostarchaser @hxlda-hxlda @fruityindividual @jaynaverse @swiftiereg @jegulusposts @incandescentwarmth @lilyevanslvr + anyone else who wants to join <3

#tag game #alltoounwellll chats shit #mutual tag <3 #mutuals #game #take something from my room #room #cat #van gogh #le petit prince #cher #mom I am a rich man

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itstokkii · 5 months ago

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Tomato Red

in which turkey pays uzbekistan a visit. summer 2023

"It's getting hot, can't we go in for a break or something?" Sadik wiped some sweat off his forehead. He had hoped they'd spend some quality time in Nargiza's living room, watching some Turkish dramas in her living room under the merciful air conditioning.

Instead, he was out in her gardens helping her pick crops in the merciless 40 degree weather in Uzbekistan.

"Sadik, we've just started. All you have to do is fill the bucket halfway with tomatoes and cucumbers while I check on the rest of the plants and pick the basil leaves. Besides, you wanted to see me cook, right? The other foods are ready, and this is the final step," She didn't spare a glance at him, instead tending to her rose bushes. How cruel...!

He had to admit, having a whole house instead of an apartment definitely had its perks. Her house, like so many others he saw while driving to her address, had a gigantic gate, and was walled up on all 4 sides. When she let him in, he was greeted by the sight of wires holding up vines of sweet, ripe grapes. There were 2 plots of land on each side of the entranceway to her house, with pomegranate trees on one plot, and apricot trees on the other. Among her crops, she had tomatoes, cucumbers, eggplants, and bell peppers.

So she definitely saved on grocery bills, huh?

As the tomatoes and cucumbers piled up on his basket, he took a few glances at her. She was watering some plants that were beginning to shrivel a little.

It was kind of weird to see her in an informal setting. He always got used to seeing her in pantsuits. Now, she was in a matching dress and trouser set, a scarf tying her long hair back. She looked a little...cute? Domestic? He couldn't describe the feeling.

Feeling her eyes on him, he whipped his head back and picked the last crop.

‎‧₊˚✧[🇹🇷🇺🇿]✧˚₊‧

Glad to be in the kitchen, Sadik sought refuge as he watched Nargiza thinly chop the tomatoes and cucumbers he picked. He noticed a bowl of onions soaked in water next to him.

"What's that for?"

"We don't want the onion's flavor to be too strong in the salad."

He chuckled a bit at that.

After everything was chopped, she strained the onions, added them into the mix, and seasoned it with salt before plating the finished salad.

"You sit down in the living room. I'll bring the food." She affectionately?? shooed him as she focused on the plov and somsa she showed Sadik how to prepare throughout the day, plating those as well and carefully bringing them to the table.

In the meantime, he was flipping through channels and trying to make out what the news reporter was saying about the approval of a new set of apartment buildings to be constructed in Tashkent.

‎‧₊˚✧[🇹🇷🇺🇿]✧˚₊‧

"I cannot believe she just told him all that!" She gasped in shock as they both watched the climax of the Turkish drama they were watching. "You can't trust bad boys like him!"

"He literally kissed her once, that doesn't make him the bad boy archetype?" He looked at her, chuckling at her idea of what a "bad boy" was.

"Wait, they kissed? When did that happen?" She sipped on her black tea.

Oh right. Censorship. "Way back in episode 7. They were like, throwing themselves on top of each other. The broadcasters probably cut that scene out here."

"And for good reason! We can't be influencing the youth negatively like that–"

He gently grabbed her wrist and brought it to his lips.

"I–! Wha–!" Nargiza let out a string of stammers, her face becoming redder than the embroidered pomegranate cushion next to her.

She buried her face into it as he laughed. "You're as red as the tomatoes! But it's ok, 'cause red is my favorite color~"

"SADIK!" Her voice was muffled through the cushion.

He could stay here for a while. He didn't mind the Uzbek summer heat anymore.

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Notes: tagging @billowingangel since i know you wanted to see their dynamic! i hope you enjoy!

also, i suck at description, but the house and gardens are based off of close and distant relatives' homes back in uzbekistan! uzbek homes truly are something else...

#hetalia #aph uzbekistan #hws uzbekistan #aph turkey #hws turkey #nargiza yusufqizi #sadik adnan #tokki writes #idk how to feel abt this drabble but I hope it gave a good example of turkuzbek's dynamic!#turkuzbek

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spidersrightsactivist · 1 year ago

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least favorite genderbent Sherlock Holmes thing is when they make her kempt. Straight hair vamp makeup pantsuit stilettos etc. no version of Sherlock Holmes in any timeline has ever been put together she should be a disaster with unwashed hair in an embroidered bathrobe she should make like Johnny Lee Miller in elementary and eat scrambled eggs straight out of the mixing bowl

#sherlock holmes #i liked how they styled miss sherlock in the tv show but they had to make her so glossy

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jades-typurriter · 8 months ago

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Filling In for the Boss

Something I wrote for my bestie Bowsiosaurus involving my own cast of OCs. Vee enjoys the scenario of finding verself having simply REPLACED an existing character, and experiencing reality catching up with the change and making ver "fit" into that character's spot. This time vee replaced one of my characters! I hope you enjoy that process, as well as getting to see more of the Lapras Lounge =^w^=

CW: Big Lady TF

Here's a little art vee did, as an eye-catch for ny'all <3

Bowsie, not for the first time, and likely not for the last, awoke in a room that wasn’t vers.

An unfamiliar alarm clock was what roused the little sea serpent from ver slumber; the second giveaway was just how dark it was. Usually, in ver own room, there was at least some light leaking in through the window. As vee slithered out from under the covers—the mattress was a lot stiffer than vee was used to, vee noticed—and felt around the room, vee followed a tiny sliver of sunlight that traced the edge of a large windowsill. Pulling back the thick, heavy crushed-velvet curtains, vee found verself looking out at the skyline of a large city: skyscrapers in the distance, a busy street a few stories beneath ver feet, and the sun hanging low in the sky, casting a hazy yellow glow over the world.

Well, vee thought to verself, I guess that’s one clue as to whose life I’ve stumbled into this time. They must be well-off to afford a place like this. Ver eyes swept across the now-illuminated room—it wasn’t opulent, but it was spacious, and in a high-rise in what looked like a downright metropolis. The covers were thin, but quite soft, and embroidered with tasteful geometric designs that reminded Bowsie of the sorts of fabrics vee saw in movies from the 1920’s. That told them something about the owner’s tastes, but…

What kind of person sets an alarm for six o’clock in the afternoon? Vee wondered. At least vee woke up on time for whatever this person’s schedule looked like. Now the only question was, what did vee have to go and do on their behalf?

Vee decided vee would start looking for clues in the closet. Vee jittered slightly as vee approached what looked like a walk-in—yet another sign that this was somebody with a bit of money, and one who cared about looking respectable, at that. This part was always something of a thrill; it wasn’t so much that vee was invading somebody’s privacy, doing something that should’ve been “off-limits”. After all, it’s not like there was anybody around whose privacy could be violated. Once Bowsie showed up, it was only a matter of time before it was ver personal spaces, anyway!

No, more than that, it was the suspense of getting an idea of who vee was about to become. It didn’t help that vee had a knack for being transported into the lives of older… larger… very, very attractive women. The thought that vee would cease to be verself in as quickly as a few hours, and be someone much more experienced, much more confident instead… it never failed to send butterflies fluttering through ver light-scaled tummy.

Vee reached ver stubby paw toward the handle—one of the last times vee would be seeing it, vee faintly registered—and slid the door open to find a large, neatly-organized collection of professional wear. Pantsuits, blazers, pencil skirts, a handful of nightgowns—all, as vee had hoped predicted, several sizes too big for ver as vee was now. Was she some kind of executive? A politician? This was certainly modest housing for ver idea of a CEO, and not quite as secure as vee would expect for someone in a high-profile position, so vee didn’t quite think that was it. Still, it was clear that she was the boss of something, and that she not only had the cash to amass a collection of formalwear like this, but good reason for it to see frequent use. Vee was really going to have to fake it till vee made it, this time around…

Vee reached up again and unhooked one of the simpler, more modest outfits from the rack: a blouse, a straight skirt, and a pair of pumps. While most of the time, vee didn’t need to cover much to stay modest, that didn’t tend to stay true as a day like this progressed, and vee could tell by the size of this woman that there would be a lot for vee to cover. Laying it out on the bed and closing the door behind ver, vee ambled out of the room in search of something a bit more actionable as far as what vee’d be responsible for this evening.

The entryway to the apartment had a number of prominently-displayed pieces of memorabilia along the walls, as well as a few upholstered seats. Whoever owned the place, it was apparently where she hosted guests, or at least was the first thing she wanted them to see if they ever stopped briefly in. Most of them were autographed photographs of a number of people that Bowsie didn’t recognize: a stout Purugly who oozed self-confidence even from the faded glossy paper on which she was pictured; a slender, graceful Altaria featured on a framed piece of instant-development film; a Floatzel, in full color rather than the sepiatone or yellowed paper from the 60’s or 80’s, whose headshot looked like it could’ve been printed yesterday. A further look around confirmed this—their debut posters were mounted in mock marquis frames, like the advertisements outside a movie theater, and the Floatzel’s first performance was someplace called the “Lapras Lounge” just a couple years ago.

Was this woman some kind of… talent agent? It’d make sense for someone like that to live in the middle of the city, and vee supposed it would make decent money. If the Lounge belonged to her, it would also explain the scale of her wardrobe—a Lapras could get up to five hundred pounds! Though, Bowsie had dealt with enough older women to know never to bring up a fact like that to one of their faces (even if vee did find the fact to be very fun). In any case, now all vee had to do was figure out where the Lounge was! Or at least, how to get in touch with one of the employees… The Floatzel seemed like a safe bet.

A small table near the door held most of her day-to-day necessities: a purse, her cell phone (plugged in somewhere apart from her room—she must have had some firm boundaries between her personal life and her “day” job), a pair of reading glasses, so on and so forth. Vee unlocked the phone, pausing as vee realized that certain, habitual things were already slipping into ver mind. Vee really didn’t have much time to get everything in order, did vee? Of course, once everything went through and they fully took over for this woman, vee would just handle everything exactly as she would, but the both of them would be late if vee didn’t get the show on the road now. Collecting verself, vee began scrolling through the phone’s contacts until vee saw one that matched the name on the poster: Eleanor Ángeline. The phone rang a few times, then clicked through to the other end.

“Donna?” came a silky voice on the other end. “You don’t usually call last-minute like this. Is the program different tonight?”

“H-hi, um, Eleanor,” the serpent haltingly replied, struggling to keep ver voice from coming out with the tone of a question. Vee cleared ver throat and tried again: “I just wanted to ask, how were you planning on getting to, to w-work? Tonight?”

“I was just going to drive. What, did so many VIPs decide to drop in on a moment’s notice that I won’t be able to fit?”

“Oh, no! I just—” vee fumbled around for an excuse, and spotted a way to kill two birds with one stone. “I just, was wondering! Would you be able to drive me tonight?”

“Are you feeling sick or something, Donna? You sound a bit different. Your voice keeps catching.”

“Uh—yes! Yes, I’m a little… under the weather, tonight,” vee said, craning ver neck up at the ceilings that were clearly built for someone at least twice ver height.

“Well, it’s not like you to ask for help, either, so it must be pretty bad. Are you sure you’re alright to open at eight?”

“Theeeeee… show must go on?”

“Ha! Now that sounds like you. Let me know if you want me to pick up some cold medicine or something on my way over.” The connection went quiet, and Bowsie’s shoulders relaxed. Either vee was changing a bit quicker than vee thought vee would, or vee was getting better at guessing how ver “host” usually acted. Either way, vee knew vee had to be ready within the hour—city traffic was never fun, and for all vee knew, Eleanor would try to pick ver up early for whatever pre-show preparation she and Donna—her name was Donna! Vee’d have to keep that in mind—usually did. Wait, she had asked whether vee could “open”... vee dearly hoped vee hadn’t gotten it backwards, and that Eleanor was the headliner to ver opening act. Too late now, though. Hopefully, if vee had to go onstage, it’d be after Donna had fully returned.

Bowsie’s confidence in ver Donna act faltered when Eleanor finally arrived. The poster didn’t do her justice—the way her dress and her fluffy tails flowed as she walked her self-assured walk made her seem as though she was always gliding through the water, right at home anywhere she went. She was pretty, too, and her voice was much nicer to listen to when it wasn’t filtered through the tinny grain of a phone line. It didn’t help that she was a head taller than Bowsie—any woman vee had to tilt ver head up to speak to was enough to kick ver heart rate up at least a notch.

The ride itself was mostly uneventful. Thankfully, Eleanor already knew the way, else Bowsie would’ve had to scramble around trying to figure out Donna’s address. Luckier still, the car was clearly made for someone Eleanor’s size. Her brow furrowed as she watched Bowsie climb into the seat—it was a comfortable fit for the little sea dragon, but surely couldn’t have accommodated Donna’s typical form. When vee was all buckled in, though, she seemed to put the thought aside, and sat down herself to start the car. The one exception to the calm ride—as calm as Bowsie could keep verself, silently hoping that Eleanor wouldn’t as her maybe-boss anything too important that Bowsie hadn’t figured out yet—was when she spoke up a few minutes away from their destination.

“Hey, Donna,” she hazarded, apparently unsure of herself. It was a strange look on her, even for someone who had only known her for a half an hour.

“Y-yes?”

“I’m gonna be honest with you: I know you said it wasn't happening, but I psyched myself out a little bit thinking about a crowd full of big names, earlier. I don’t think I’d freeze up or anything, but it’d sure be a lot more stressful to go out in front of them. Do you… do you think I’m ready for that sort of thing? Talent scouts and other artists?”

Bowsie froze. Mercifully, Eleanor could only bring herself to glance over in ver direction—it was as though she was as afraid of the answer as Bowsie was of getting it wrong. That, and she had to keep her eyes on the road. It gave the dragon a little breathing room, but it still wasn’t much time to think. Vee would have to word this very carefully.

“How much have you practiced, Eleanor?” Eleanor took it as rhetorical, but Bowsie was honestly relieved just to be able to ASK a question at this point.

“Years.”

“So wouldn’t you say you’ve prepared a whole lot?”

“Yeah, I know I have. You know I have,” she said, wrongly. “But it still feels like I don’t have it down. Sometimes I feel more like an actor than a singer, ahah.” Bowsie chuckled too, trying to sound more reassuring than awkward.

“Well, if it helps at all, I know how it feels to pretend you’re somebody you’re not.”

“Really? You? Donna?”

“Mhm,” said Bowsie. “Eventually, it’ll just… It’ll just come to you. Like you knew it all along. It’ll just click into place and you’ll feel like a whole new person, but you’ll still be the same one you’ve always been. You’ll just know who that person is.”

“You make it sound so simple. I guess you’re right, though, that it’s almost like muscle memory… Eventually, you practice so much, it’s like you can’t not have the skills you need. Like riding a bike, right? And you just gotta… have faith that it’ll be there when you need it. It’s not like it’ll go anywhere, right? Just gotta… get used to the feeling.”

“You won’t even second-guess it, soon enough!”

“Ha!” Eleanor barked another little laugh. “I sure hope not. I’m gonna have to really put my game face on tonight, I think. But thank you, Donna.”

Bowsie nodded, then turned to face the window, hoping that Eleanor didn’t notice how much ver shoulders relaxed as soon as the attention was off ver. That was certainly one of the closer calls; it was rare vee had to outright guess ver way through a conversation, let alone such a sensitive one!

When they finally pulled up to the Lounge, Eleanor circled around to the back and parked her car in the rear. They only had about 45 minutes before opening, and Eleanor had to get ready; she got out of the car and walked up a few steps into a backdoor. Through it, Bowsie could see what looked like the trappings of a dressing room: a mirror, a dresser, some clothes, and curtains along one of the walls. Best not to follow her in there, then. Thankfully, she was already gone, and didn’t see ver turning a darker shade of blue at the thought.

Instead, vee tried the other door; one of the keys in Donna’s purse opened it for ver, leading ver into an office full of chic furniture and slightly-more-dated fixtures. Several pads of paper sat beside a dusty computer monitor; a rolodex sat on the corner of the desk. Before vee could get too good of a look around, though, vee heard a distant thumping, and left to investigate. Passing through a wide-open restaurant floor, a bar to ver left and the stage and a few rows of tables to ver right, vee approached the source of the sound: an agitated-looking Snubbull woman pounding on the tall, glass double-doors.

“Excuse me,” she cried as Bowsie unlocked the door to speak to her, “are you the manager? I’ve got a flier here that says you all open at 7 PM. I’ve been waiting here for over FIFTEEN MINUTES!”

Bowsie blinked at her, still poking ver head out from halfway behind the door. Given that Donna had the keys to the place, vee assumed that she was the manager—that vee was the manager, now—but vee wasn’t quite sure what this woman wanted from ver? Vee was pretty sure she was wrong about the opening time, too. Maybe it was the wrong day of the week, or maybe the flier was just outdated, but vee was pretty sure that Eleanor knew more about the schedule than this lady did. At the very least, she knew more than Bowsie!

“Mmmmmay I see the flier?” vee asked, forcing a polite tone.

“Oh, you need the flier now? It’s your restaurant, don’t you know when it’s supposed to open?!”

“I just, thought there might have been a mistake—”

“So you’re calling me ILLITERATE now. What WONDERFUL service!” Okay, what was her problem? Bowsie couldn’t tell whether this was genuinely about the time—she seemed entitled enough or that to be the case—or if she was just looking for a problem. Vee rubbed the bridge of ver nose, trying not to show too much frustration.

“I, okay, I’m very sorry, ma’am.” She huffed and crossed her arms. Apparently, the customer service voice was what she wanted to hear, but she didn’t seem satisfied. “We still don’t open until 8 PM, but can we offer you a drink once we do open?” She opened her mouth, probably to say something about how she should HOPE a bar would offer her a drink. “On the house! Uh, of course.”

Her lip curled, showing off one of her stubby little teeth in an obstinate snarl. After a moment scowling that way, though, it seemed to be enough to placate her. She threatened to “ask for the manager again” if she wasn’t served promptly when she came back, then stormed off down the street. Bowsie pitied whoever’s business she was going to patronize—be patronizing in, really—but was glad vee didn’t have to deal with her anymore. Vee groaned under ver breath, shuffling ver way back inside and toward the office; vee still wasn’t quite sure what it was vee was supposed to be doing at the Lounge.

Across from the door to Donna’s office was a wall of shelves, capped with a file cabinet adjacent to her desk. Given the state of the PC, and the organized but intimidatingly-large piles of paper surrounding it, Bowsie figured that any indication as to recent business would be more likely written down by hand than typed out into a text file or a spreadsheet. Vee sighed; that would make it much more of a pain to track down… Vee understood why someone older would want to do things with pen and paper, between old habits and the difficulty of keeping up with the nuances of ever-changing software menus, but honestly, just having a search function makes it more than worth it compared to all this!

Still, as vee shuffled through papers, poking ver nose over the edge of one of the drawers and rifling through sheets of paper with their fingertips, vee couldn’t deny the appeal. There was something satisfying about having the fruits of your organizational work in ver fins, and sometimes it felt like ver brain latched onto things better if vee had a physical location to attach to them. Plus, something about the system Donna used just… clicked! It made it easy to find the sorts of things they were wondering about—inventory, schedules, order forms for food and drinks. Luckily, the Lounge was probably stocked for at least tonight, so vee wouldn’t have to figure all this out right away. Vee had plenty of time to keep sifting through all this and familiarizing themself with it.

Well, vee would have, if vee wasn’t interrupted by an airy voice from over ver shoulder.

“Pardon the intrusion—” she began.

“GRAWAWA!” The poor sea critter jumped, whirling around as papers fluttered from ver fins.

“Ah. Sorry to startle you.” Before ver was… something in the shape of a Gardevoir, with skin the color of the night sky, arrayed in shimmering skirts that twinkled as brightly as its smokey, wispy tiara.

“How, um! How did you get in here? I thought I was the only one who was supposed to have the keys.”

“Are you supposed to have those keys?” She asked. Her tone wasn’t accusatory; more matter-of-fact than anything. “You don’t seem like you’re from around here, little one.”

“O-oh! You can tell?” Vee paused. “Um, how?”

“Well… I’m not from around here, either. I don’t think it’s quite the same, but I can see things most people can’t.” She glided across the floor, leaning down toward Bowsie. “You happened to catch my eye.” Those eyes, burning like stars, scanned Bowsie up and down; it wasn’t the same look of confusion as had crossed Eleanor’s face earlier, but more like the way somebody appraises a painting, or ponders a puzzle. “Where’s Donna?”

“I… Hm. I haven’t really thought about that.” When the Gardevoir cocked an eyebrow at ver, vee put ver fins up defensively. “GRAWAWI didn’t DO anything to her! Just to be clear! I think I technically am her, now? Or at least, I’m in her spot. So to speak.” She squinted; one of her hands went from where it rested, crossed in front of her chest, and rubbed her chin instead.

“...That does seem to be the case,” she finally concluded. “Interesting! I haven’t seen anything like that before.”

“Do you see other strange things often?”

“Well, I don’t mean to boast, but I might be the strangest thing you run into here. I’m something of a… bedtime story. A local legend,” she giggled. “The biggest clue that you’re from somewhere else was that you weren’t immediately shocked to see me in the flesh. So to speak.”

“Who are you, then?”

“Polaris! It’s a pleasure.”

“Likewise!” vee answered, reaching up to shake her hand. “You can call me Bowties.”

“I’ll try to keep it in mind. I have a feeling you won’t be using it very much, soon.”

“Wait, how do you know about that part?”

“I’m watching space shifting around you as we speak,” the Gardevoir smirked. “Your snout didn’t have that curve to it when I came in. Your fins have gotten curlier, too!”

“GRAWAWA?!” Vee whirled around again and started digging through Donna’s purse, looking for a makeup compact or a pocket mirror or even the black screen of her cell phone. Sure enough, ver face had less of its usual roundness, now closer to the draconic shapes of a Lapras. Vee looked back at the file cabinet, and realized that vee could now comfortably see down into the drawer vee had been rummaging through. “Th… this part usually happens all at once!”

“Is that so? Well, maybe you’ll be able to enjoy the journey a bit more, this time around,” Polaris replied, a knowing tone in her voice. “I promise I’ll give you more privacy than you have so far. Evolving is a delicate matter, from what I understand! I’ll still be around, though—any Donna is a friend of mine.” With that, she simply floated out of sight. Not through a door, or even passing through a wall—she simply stepped into thin air as though there was a passageway Bowsie couldn’t see, and then she was gone, leaving ver blushing and stammering and trying to collect verself.

Maybe Polaris was right; that had been the first time anybody had been able to tell what was going on during a swap like this, and vee worried it would upset—or at the very least confuse, like with Eleanor—somebody if they saw the changes progressing more slowly than usual, too. Vee waited for a while (it was already nearly 8 PM), listening to the noise of the Lounge rising and falling. People slowly filled the restaurant—vee could hear somebody, probably one of the other employees, open the double doors properly, and the sounds of chatter, utensils clinking against porcelain, bottles being popped and drinks being poured, all drifted through the closed office door. Eventually, a hush fell over the establishment, which piqued a mixture of curiosity and concern in the sea critter.

Vee stepped quietly out of ver office and walked along the back wall. Thankfully, all eyes were on the stage; the lights had been dimmed and a spotlight had been set over a microphone in the center, drawing them all away. Vee found a place to stand by the bar, where a Shinx girl (a fair bit shorter than vee was, but vee was certain that wouldn’t have been the case a few hours ago) watched intently, patiently waiting. When Eleanor stepped out from the wings, vee watched ver eyes light up, not just metaphorically, but with every sparkle in her sequined dress reflecting in her wide, admiring eyes.

Bowsie couldn’t blame her, either: she was already a beautiful woman, but seeing her all adorned in her stagewear and moving in time with music elevated her to something that rivaled even the otherworldly Gardevoir who had just bullied ver until vee was blue in the face. Vee forgot verself more than vee already would in this situation, lost in her performance, following the flowing motions of her dress and rising with the crescendos of her voice and the house band. Vee was only shaken out of ver trans when it was the Shinx’s turn to notice how enraptured vee was.

“You all wrapped up in pride over there, Donna?”

“Oh! Well,” vee stalled, seeing how enamored the Shinx clearly was with Eleanor, not wanting to admit that vee was also admiring her. Still, a spark of familiar, maternal emotions toward the Floatzel colored ver thoughts, making it a bit easier to come up with something else to say. “Of course I am. She’s followed my advice well, don’t you think?” See? And it wasn’t even a lie! It came so naturally to ver lips.

“She really is something… I wish I had as much confidence as she did. Maybe that’d make it easier to talk to her.”

“You wanna know what I told her?” vee asked, neglecting, for Eleanor’s sake, to mention how recently it was.

“What’s that?”

“I told her,” vee began, another kernel of recollection popping inside ver brain, “you have to just make a leap of faith and go for it, trusting that you have what it takes to back it up. That’s the only way you’re ever gonna get past the ‘am I good enough’ hurdle, and once you’re over it, the doubt is never gonna slow you down again.” Of course, it wasn’t exactly what vee had told Eleanor—vee knew that Ceri needed a different kind of confidence boost entirely. Vee watched the gears turn in Ceri’s head as she mulled over the dragon’s advice, and it slowly dawned on ver that vee hadn’t found out her name secondhand, and that vee shouldn’t have any way of knowing about the Shinx’s anxieties. Whatever change was going to happen it was getting closer and closer.

“Anyway, I-I have to get back to my office and take care of a few things. You, uh, keep up the good work. I know you have what it takes every bit as much as she does!”

“Thanks, Donna,” she sighed, wistfully resting her cheek on her paw, looking back toward the stage. With the attention once again off of ver, vee scuttled back to the office as quick as vee could. It was definitely gonna cause some problems if vee finished ver changes without getting Donna’s proper clothes on!

Taking a moment to lean against the inside of the door and catch ver breath, Bowsie took stock of what was available to ver. The makeup wouldn’t really be an option; vee didn’t know how to apply it properly, let alone how Donna usually wore it. The clothes would at least be easy enough, even if vee expected them not to fit at all. Of course, vee was once again surprised by how much closer the clothes seemed to be to ver own size than they had been earlier in the evening. The sleeves were several inches too long; the skirt refused to sit snugly around ver waistline, having neither the hips nor the tummy to support the waistband; the blouse hung loosely over ver shoulders, and the chest in particular was baggy as all get-out. And yet, a mere few hours ago, none of it would have fit at all. The skirt would’ve fallen clean off, and the blouse would have felt more like a robe.

“BOSS!” came a shrill voice from the bar, interrupting Bowsie bemusedly (and more than a little bit flustered) examining verself in the mirror. With that, something in Bowsie’s mind kicked into action. Someone needed setting straight. Someone in the crew needed a problem dealt with. The only person for the job, the one with the force of personality, with the authority, necessary to run this ship, was Donna, and Donna was going to march out there and see what the emergency was.

That is, after she fixed herself in the mirror. She pulled the cuffs of her blazer down so they sat properly at the ends of her wrists. She tucked her blouse into her skirt. She adjusted her blouse, smoothing out the wrinkles and straining to get one of the buttons in place around her chest—had she accidentally grabbed one of her older, smaller tops? What a pain. She exhaled as much as she could (not that it made a major difference, with the rigidity of her shell), and pulled firmly to fasten the damn shirt. She wasn’t gonna seem very authoritative if she went out there and her buttons started flying open, now was she? She finally turned, threw open the door and marched toward the bar in the direction of Gina’s voice, the booming clack, clack, clack of her pumps heralding her approach..

“Boss,” she began, now that she didn’t have to yell across the restaurant, “this lady said she wanted to—”

“Oh,” Donna steamed. “You again.”

“I beg your pardon?” growled the Snubbull.

“Listen, miss,” Donna pushed right through her uppity routine to lay down the law. “I dunno what came over me earlier—I must’ve been feeling real generous—but if I give you an inch, that does not mean that you get to walk into my restaurant and take a mile from my staff, do you understand me?”

“The only thing I’m taking is the free drink you offered me for your incompetence—”

“What you are TAKING is an ATTITUDE, lady.” She loomed over the Snubbull, leaning down far enough that she was nearly doubled over, utterly unaware that she had had to tilt her head up to make eye contact with the bratty woman before opening earlier. “Now listen, and listen good. You can either TAKE yourself OUTSIDE, or I will TAKE you there MYSELF. Do I make myself clear?”

The Snubbull gritted her teeth, crossing her arms with so much force that Donna could see her claws digging into her shoulders through her clothes. After a staredown that lasted a good ten seconds, the woman finally buckled. She hmphed, just as she had earlier, and huffed her way right out the double doors. Derrick offered her a sarcastic nod as she passed by the two of them; Rhodney remained as stoic as ever.

“Thanks for calling me over, Gi. I had half a mind to find the bitch myself just to take the drink back from her. Glad she gave me an excuse.”

“You know I live to tell the customers to go fuck themselves, boss!” the Maractus chirped, sashaying away to tend to the next happy patron at the bar.

“Oh, Donna!” Ceri said, emerging from the kitchen. “Did you, uh, change clothes?”

“Yeah, I was feeling sick earlier, don’t remember most of this morning. I must’ve shown up in my at-home clothes, but I was handling things around here basically since the moment I got in, so I didn’t have time to slip into something nicer before Eleanor’s show. Don’t mention that to her, though, hey?”

The Shinx mimed zipping her snout shut and throwing away the key before carrying the order in her other paw out to a table. Donna turned and walked along the edges of the main room again, this time making for the entry to the backstage area rather than to her office. She knocked twice as she gently opened the door.

“Eleanor!” she cheered, spreading her arms. “Look at you, you little starlet, what did I tell you?”

“You told me to trust myself, Donna,” she said, sighing and getting up from her seat in front of the vanity to give her mentor a hug. “Trusting you made it a bit easier.”

“Well, you’re not quite there, then,” she joked, “but you’ll learn soon enough. One of these days you’ll impress yourself as much as you impress me.”

“Thank you,” the Floatzel said, stepping back again. “I mean it.”

“I mean it! Now, listen,” Donna continued, “I really hate to pat you on the back and leave, but I think I’m calling it early tonight. My head’s still a bit foggy from earlier, and I don’t think my car is in the lot. I’m not sure how I got in, but I’m gonna have to call a taxi to get out.”

“Oh, I—” Eleanor began, before abruptly stopping, her train of thought seemingly derailed. “Huh. I’m not sure, either.”

“Well, no harm, no foul, huh? You drive safe tonight, sweetheart. Tell the boys they’re in charge—no mercy!”

“You got it,” Eleanor chuckled.

“Oh, and if you know anybody who needs some 4XL women’s clothes, let me know! I gotta get rid of these,” she said, tugging very carefully on her blouse, taut like a spring. “It’s like I forgot how to dress myself today. Imagine—a girl my size forgetting just how much she grows!”

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vir-tanadahl · 2 months ago

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As the Moon Rises

Chapter 7: The Games We Play

I’m eagerly rewriting As the Moon Rises, which was originally written back in 2017, in anticipation of Dragon Age: Veilguard, channeling my excitement into refining the story. Summary: Isera Lavellan, at her mother’s behest, is sent to assist her twin brother, Banreas—the Inquisitor—in his mission to stop a force determined to bring about the world’s end. Together, they uncover long-buried secrets of their shared family history while Isera finds herself drawn to a mysterious non-Dalish elven mage whose knowledge of her heritage runs far deeper than she could have imagined. As the stakes rise, Isera must navigate this dangerous journey of discovery, where the past holds as much peril as the looming threats of the present. Solas x F!Lavellan.

[Ch1][Ch2][Ch3][Ch4][Ch5][Ch6] [Ch7]

Finally, the day had come. The Inquisition was staying in a small château a mile outside of the Winter Palace in Halamshiral. One by one, the members of the inner circle began to congregate in the foyer. Josie, Leliana, Cullen, Sera, Banreas, the Iron Bull, and Solas were the first to finish dressing, each of them bringing their own unique flair to the occasion. Josephine quickly began checking everything, ensuring that those representing the Inquisition were up to par. The air buzzed with a mix of excitement and tension, each member aware of the importance of their appearance as they prepared to step into the heart of Orlesian nobility

Vivienne followed, dressed in her signature style but with a twist. Instead of her usual pants, she wore a sheer skirt with a high slit, shimmering in silver and white, paired with high-knee boots that added an air of boldness. The high collar of her outfit was larger than normal, framing her face with an elegant authority, and atop her head rested the Hat of Majesty. Tonight, she embodied Madame de Fer—the Lady of Iron, exuding power and sophistication as she prepared to make her mark at the ball.

Cassandra steadfastly refused to wear a dress, opting instead for an ensemble reminiscent of a tailored pantsuit. Her top was a shimmering black, long-sleeved blouse that hugged her figure at the waist before flowing out and turning sheer at the hem, adorned with delicate red flowers embroidered along the edges. The pants were tight yet flexible, allowing her the freedom of movement she valued, paired with sleek black riding boots. Despite her elegant appearance, she unmistakably wore a look of displeasure at being there. Her mask, representing House Pentaghast, was a striking dark purple, adding an air of nobility to her otherwise rebellious stance.

Blackwall chose to have his formal wear crafted in the Grey Warden colors, opting to forgo a mask entirely. He believed in the Warden’s pledge to abstain from political entanglements, making a quiet statement with his appearance. In contrast, Varric donned a striking red leather jacket adorned with golden embroidery at the edges, exuding his signature flair. His mask was simple yet fitting—a red and gold Volto that added a touch of mystery without overshadowing his well-known charisma.

Dorian, as expected, donned an outfit that was distinctly fashionable in Tevinter. His robe was a rich dark green, featuring a high collar interwoven with golden threads that caught the light. His fingers sparkled with golden jewels, a nod to Tevinter custom. On the back of his coattail, a striking golden serpent was intricately embroidered, a symbol of his heritage. However, he refused to wear a mask representing House Pavus, opting instead for one connected to a rod. This choice allowed him the freedom to remove the mask easily, ensuring he could showcase his handsome features without concealment.

Isera was the last to finish, having argued frequently with the tailor throughout the process. Her dress sparkled with the enchanted fabric, featuring a sweetheart neckline adorned with embroidered roses that emitted the scent of real flowers. The deep red color was exactly what Leliana had envisioned, fading gracefully into a shimmering white. Despite the tailor's insistence on a pair of golden heels, Isera had adamantly refused, opting instead for simple golden flats that allowed her comfort and ease. As she stood in front of the mirror, she felt a mix of pride and apprehension, ready to step into the evening ahead.

Josephine began addressing everyone as they gathered in anticipation of the carriages' arrival. Meanwhile, Isera paid little mind to her words, her attention drifting as she nervously fidgeted with the fabric of her dress. She felt out of place, the weight of the evening’s expectations settling heavily on her shoulders. The vibrant colors and the elegance of her attire felt foreign, and she couldn’t shake the feeling of being an outsider in a world that was both exciting and intimidating.

Solas stepped closer to her, his presence calm and reassuring. “Nervous?” he asked, appearing more relaxed and less guarded than usual. Isera turned to look at him, her expression a mix of anxiety and honesty. “Uncomfortable, mostly,” she admitted, her voice tinged with vulnerability. The opulence of the setting and the gathering crowd intensified her feelings, making it hard to shake off the sense of being an outsider.

Solas glanced over toward Josephine as she continued her speech, then turned back to Isera. “You look beautiful,” he said, his voice quiet yet sincere. Isera met his gaze for a brief moment before looking away, her cheeks warming at the compliment. “I—thank you,” she replied, her tone a mix of surprise and bashfulness. She turned her attention to Josie as well, focusing on the familiar energy of the gathering to help ground herself in the moment.

“The advisors will arrive first, followed by the Inquisitor, and finally everyone else if you haven't made arrangements already,” Josephine said, taking a deep breath to steady herself. “All right, everyone, let's be off!” Her voice carried a blend of excitement and authority, energizing the group as they prepared to embark on the evening’s festivities. Isera felt a rush of adrenaline as the moment approached, her earlier nerves mingling with a spark of anticipation.

Banreas, Isera, and Solas were squished together on one side of the carriage, their shoulders brushing against one another. Iron Bull, massive and imposing, took up most of the opposite seat, leaving little room to spare. Sera sat comfortably beside him, her legs draped casually over his lap, a cheeky grin on her face as she leaned back. The cramped space felt lively with their banter, and despite the discomfort, Isera couldn’t help but smile at the camaraderie surrounding her.

“All right, be on the watch for Venatori activity,” Banreas began, his tone serious as he turned to address the group. “Leliana informed me that she believes there is a magical elven artifact in Empress Celene’s possession. We should be looking for that as well.” The mood shifted slightly, the lighthearted banter giving way to a more focused atmosphere as they processed the information. Isera felt the weight of their mission settle in, the stakes of the evening becoming clear as they prepared to navigate the intricate dance of nobility and danger.

"What’s with the magic elf-y things? Strange, innit" Sera grumbled, her arms crossed as she leaned back against Iron Bull. Her expression was one of skepticism, and Isera could sense her unease with the idea of pursuing an elven artifact amidst the political intrigue. The contrast between Sera's casual demeanor and the seriousness of their mission added a layer of tension.

“Boss, we don’t need another magical object in play. We have the Venatori to worry about,” Iron Bull stated, nodding in agreement. His tone was serious, underscoring the potential dangers of adding yet another variable to their already complicated situation. The weight of his words hung in the air, a reminder of the formidable challenges they faced, and Isera could sense the tension building among the group as they considered the implications.

“Perhaps the Venatori are looking for it,” Solas added thoughtfully, his expression contemplative. The implication hung in the air, drawing the attention of everyone in the carriage. The stakes were becoming clearer, and the atmosphere shifted as they contemplated the dangers that lay ahead.

Isera turned her head to look at her brother, her expression earnest. “If it is magical, I could locate it easier and get it out discreetly,” she suggested, her voice steady with determination. The idea of using her unique abilities to help in their mission sparked a flicker of hope within her. She met Banreas's gaze, silently urging him to consider her proposal as a viable option in their quest.

“If we know about it, it’s safe to assume the Venatori do as well. Our agents didn’t gather enough information to specify what it is, but they confirmed it’s elven,” Banreas explained, his tone serious. Iron Bull shifted uncomfortably in his chair, a frown etched on his face. “Then how do we find something that we don’t even know what it is?” he asked, his voice tinged with frustration. The challenge of their situation loomed large, and Isera could feel the weight of their uncertainty settling over the group.

“I can,” Isera spoke up again, her voice firm. “I’ve done it before.” The conviction in her words drew the attention of her companions, and she felt a surge of determination. The memory of her past successes in locating magical artifacts fueled her confidence, and she hoped to inspire faith in her abilities as they navigated this complex situation.

Banreas raised an eyebrow at her, a teasing smirk on his lips. “You’ve smuggled elven artifacts out of a palace?” he asked, his tone dripping with sarcasm. Isera frowned, undeterred. “I have smuggled ancient elven artifacts out of heavily guarded Circle towers before,” she argued, her voice steady and defensive.

Isera could feel the surprise radiating off everyone in the carriage. “You’ve… smuggled?” Iron Bull exclaimed, his voice tinged with genuine admiration. The unexpected revelation seemed to shift the atmosphere, transforming her from an uncertain participant to someone with valuable experience. She met their astonished gazes, feeling a swell of pride at having garnered their respect, even if only momentarily.

“She’s a thief!” Sera cackled, her grin wide as she playfully punched Iron Bull in the arm. The laughter that followed filled the carriage, lightening the mood and bringing a sense of camaraderie to the group.

Isera shrugged, her expression casual. “It was easy. I was twelve, and Mother heard a rumor that the Ostwick Circle had something she wanted. I just pretended to be a new mage, and the Templars took me in. I was there for a few months, found it, and left.” She shrugged again, as if the whole experience was just a minor adventure rather than a bold feat. The confidence in her tone intrigued her companions, revealing a glimpse of her resourcefulness.

"Banreas stared at her in disbelief, his eyebrows raised. "Mother had you… stealing?" The incredulity in his voice was palpable, as if he couldn’t quite wrap his mind around the idea of their mother orchestrating such a scheme.

“Yes?” she paused, her brow furrowing slightly. “Is that not normal?” Isera questioned, her tone earnest. “It isn’t like it belonged to them.” The conviction in her words hung in the air, challenging the group’s perceptions. “It wasn’t exactly stealing. More like... retrieving something that belonged to the elven.” The playful twist in her reasoning added to the intrigue, sparking curiosity among her companions. Isera could sense their hesitation, a mix of surprise and contemplation, as they processed her logic. To her, reclaiming what was lost felt justified, but she wondered how others viewed her past actions.

The carriages came to a halt, and a loud announcement echoed that the Inquisition had arrived. Isera quickly placed her mask on, feeling a mix of excitement and nerves. Iron Bull and Sera stepped out first, their presence commanding attention. Banreas leaned closer to Isera, his tone harsh as he whispered, “No, by the way, that is not normal!” He gestured for Solas to step out first, as he was closest to the door, the urgency of their situation clear in his demeanor. The anticipation hung thick in the air as they prepared to face the Orlesian nobility.

Isera shrugged and followed Solas, who graciously offered his hand to assist her as she stepped out of the carriage. “They didn’t need it,” she muttered to no one in particular, a hint of defiance in her voice. Despite her earlier nerves, she felt a spark of confidence, bolstered by Solas's steady presence beside her. She was ready to face whatever awaited them at the grand event, even if it meant navigating the expectations of the nobility.

The Grand Duke was quick to engage with Banreas, steering the Inquisitor away from the group as the rest of them followed behind. Isera could hear the whispers among the nobility, their hushed voices filled with disbelief at the audacity of the Inquisition’s company being made up of elves and a qunari. A wry smile tugged at her lips as she imagined Banreas squirming with delight at the stir they were causing; it was practically blasphemy in their eyes. The tension in the air was palpable, and she felt a mix of pride and amusement at the chaos they had brought to the evening.

Josephine and Leliana had trained Banreas for weeks on how to navigate the treacherous waters of the political game. If he felt uncomfortable, he certainly didn't show it; instead, he carried himself with confidence, engaging the Grand Duke with a charming smile. Isera watched with admiration, noting how well he had absorbed their lessons. Despite the tension in the air, he exuded an air of ease, expertly maneuvering through the complexities of Orlesian society.

As Isera and the others entered the vestibule to convene with the advisors before continuing on to be announced in the ballroom, Josephine took the opportunity to emphasize the importance of behaving appropriately. Her gaze was direct, landing squarely on Sera, who was grinning like the cat that ate the canary. The tension in the air mixed with amusement as Isera watched Sera's mischievous expression, knowing that her friend was hardly one to conform to expectations.

“Isera, you will be announced following the Inquisitor. After you, the advisors, and then Solas, Iron Bull, and Sera. Once the introductions are complete, you’ll be free to roam around,” Josie informed them, her tone brisk yet encouraging. The weight of the evening’s expectations hung heavy in the air, and Isera felt a mix of anticipation and anxiety at the thought of being introduced to the nobility. She glanced at her companions, each one preparing for the role they were to play in this intricate dance of politics.

Isera nodded as the procession began, her heart racing with anticipation. Banreas was introduced right after the Grand Duke, and he looked remarkably relaxed, unfazed by the treacherous waters surrounding him. With a confident bow to the Empress, he followed the Grand Duke up the steps, embodying the poise and charm that had been cultivated through his training. Isera couldn’t help but feel a swell of pride as she watched her brother navigate the moment with such grace.

“Mistress Lavellan, sister of Inquisitor Lavellan and a Seer of Rivain.”

Isera felt her body tense at the announcement, taking a deep breath as she began her descent down the stairs. With determination, she turned, bowed gracefully, and followed after her brother. As she moved, she heard the murmurs of approval ripple through the court, their eyes enraptured by her outfit despite her being an elf. The unexpected admiration filled her with a mix of pride and anxiety, reminding her of the precarious balance she was walking between acceptance and scrutiny.

Isera stood next to the advisors, with Iron Bull, Sera, and Solas positioned behind them. Banreas engaged the Empress in a cryptic manner that delighted the court, and Isera suppressed the urge to scoff at the theatrics. The Empress, with a wave of her hand, dismissed them to mingle, and Isera followed her brother as he began greeting those affiliated with the court. Each interaction was a dance of charm and wit, and Isera felt a mix of admiration and apprehension as she navigated the sea of unfamiliar masked faces.

Isera broke away from the group, heading toward Cullen, who looked far more uncomfortable than she felt. He was surrounded by admirers, and it was clear that the Commander was exceedingly uneasy with the attention. His back was pressed against the wall, arms crossed defensively as the crowd edged closer, their flirtations relentless. Isera couldn’t help but smirk at the sight; it was a stark contrast to the confident leader she knew him to be on the battlefield.

“Ah, Commander, if I may have a word,” Isera said as she stepped between the horde of nobles, her presence a welcome interruption. Cullen's expression shifted to one of relief as he spotted a familiar face beckoning his attention. The tension in his shoulders eased slightly, and Isera could sense his gratitude for the distraction as she offered him an escape from the relentless advances of the court.

“Oh! She’s the Inquisition’s sister!” a high-pitched, thick Orlesian voice chimed in, cutting through the conversation. “Are you two lovers?” The question hung in the air, drawing curious glances from the surrounding nobles. Isera felt her cheeks flush with embarrassment, and she shot Cullen an incredulous look, silently questioning how he would respond to such an unexpected insinuation.

“Well, that would certainly not concern you,” Isera replied sharply, her words more direct and biting than typical for Orlesian culture, especially coming from an elf. The noblewoman glared at her, visibly taken aback, and huffed as she fanned herself. “How rude!” she whispered, the offense clear in her tone. Isera felt a mix of defiance and irritation at the woman's reaction, standing her ground despite the stifling expectations of the court.

Isera walked away, glancing back to ensure the Commander followed her. He did, a look of relief washing over his features as they stepped outside onto the balcony. The air was fresh and crisp, a welcome contrast to the stifling atmosphere inside the Winter Palace. Cullen let out a deep sigh, his tension easing as he inhaled the cool air, grateful for the reprieve from the prying eyes and chatter of the court.

“They are like hounds,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck as he tried to shake off the lingering discomfort. He coughed lightly, clearing his throat before turning to Isera. “What did you need?” he asked, his tone shifting from frustration to curiosity as he focused on her, grateful for the momentary escape from the pressures of the ballroom.

Isera shrugged, leaning against the banister as she gazed at the partygoers inside. “Nothing. You looked uncomfortable and needed a break,” she replied, her tone softening slightly. She took in the lively scene, the laughter and chatter echoing through the open doors, but it felt distant and surreal from her vantage point. The contrast of the vibrant celebration with the quiet balcony allowed her a moment to breathe, away from the pressure of expectations.

“Oh!” Cullen exclaimed, clearly shocked. “You didn’t have to do that. I will manage.” His tone was earnest, though Isera could sense the underlying tension in his voice. He straightened up, attempting to regain his composure, but the flicker of gratitude in his eyes spoke volumes. Isera couldn’t help but smile at his resolve, knowing that even the strongest leaders needed a moment of respite.

“Cullen, I have no doubt you can handle a swarm of women,” Isera replied with a teasing smile. ��But you looked like you wanted to flee. As far as everyone else is concerned, I’ve taken you away to discuss an important Inquisition meeting…” She paused, a playful glint in her eye. “Or I’m your secret lover. I’m sensing the Orlesians love a bit of dramatic flair.” The lighthearted joke hung in the air, and Isera couldn't help but feel a sense of camaraderie building between them as they navigated the absurdity of the evening.

Cullen chuckled, a hint of amusement breaking through his earlier tension. “That they do,” he admitted, shaking his head slightly. He sighed and began stretching his neck, attempting to ease the stiffness that had settled in from the pressure of the crowd. The light moment with Isera offered a welcome distraction, allowing him to briefly forget the expectations weighing down on him inside.

“If you walk around more, they can’t pin you down,” Isera suggested, her tone light and encouraging. She watched him with a knowing smile, hoping to alleviate some of his discomfort. “It’s a crowded room, but that means there are plenty of opportunities to slip away and find some peace, don’t you think?” Her playful demeanor was meant to remind him that he could still navigate the evening on his own terms.

He lightly scoffed, shaking his head. “They are everywhere,” he muttered, pressing his fingers into the side of his temple as if trying to relieve the mounting pressure. Isera could see the strain in his posture, the way he tried to maintain his composure despite the overwhelming attention. It was clear that the evening's festivities were becoming more than just a social gathering for him.

“A headache?” Isera whispered, glancing toward him with genuine concern. The tension in Cullen's shoulders and the way he pressed his fingers against his temple told her all she needed to know. She shifted slightly closer, ready to offer support if he needed it, her own unease momentarily forgotten in the face of his discomfort.

“They have been coming more often,” he continued, his voice low and serious. After a brief pause, he added, “Do you know?” Cullen’s reference to his decision to stop talking lyrium hung in the air between them, a weighty subject that had clearly been troubling him. Isera met his gaze, her expression shifting from concern to understanding, recognizing the struggle he faced in navigating both his duties and his personal demons.

Isera nodded slowly. “He told me,” she replied, moving to stand directly in front of him. Her gaze was steady as she considered her next words. “May I try something?” she asked, her voice soft but firm. There was a quiet determination in her demeanor, a desire to help Cullen in whatever way she could. She sensed the weight of his struggles and felt compelled to offer him some relief.

Cullen looked skeptical, his brow furrowing as he regarded her with uncertainty. Isera took a breath, lowering her voice to a whisper. “I want to see if my magic will be of assistance,” she explained, her tone earnest and reassuring. The air between them felt charged with possibility, and she hoped to convey that her intentions were genuine. She could sense his hesitance, but she was determined to help him find some relief from his discomfort.

Cullen stared down at her, weighing her offer before finally agreeing. Isera, standing at least a foot shorter than him, rose onto the balls of her feet, her determination evident. She pressed her fingers gently onto the nape of his neck, feeling the tension coiled there. Whispering a familiar ritual, she let her fingers glide around his ears and onto his temple, channeling her magic with focused intent. After a moment, she released her touch, stepping back to observe any change in his expression.

Cullen blinked a few times, processing the sensation. “Is... it supposed to feel cold?” he asked, his voice tinged with uncertainty as he reached up to touch the back of his neck. The coolness of her magic was a surprising contrast to the warmth of the evening, and he furrowed his brow, trying to determine if it was a good sign or not. Isera watched him closely, gauging his response and hoping that her magic was indeed providing some relief.

“Yes, it will fade to being warm and then back to normal by the end of the night. Is it helping?” Isera asked, her tone filled with genuine concern as she searched his face for any signs of relief. She wanted to know if her magic was making a difference, hoping to ease some of the tension that had been weighing on him. The moment felt crucial, a bridge between their struggles and the comfort they sought.

He nodded, a hint of relief in his expression. “I believe so. Thank you,” he said, his voice warm with gratitude. The tension in his shoulders seemed to ease slightly, and Isera felt a sense of satisfaction knowing that her magic had provided him with some comfort. Their shared moment felt like a small victory amidst the chaos of the evening.

Isera smiled, her spirits lifted. “Well, come on, Commander,” she said, turning to head back inside. Leaving him to gather his thoughts, she stepped into the vestibule. The lively chatter of the gathering enveloped her, and she could hear Iron Bull's booming laughter as he flirted with a group of nobles nearby. Blackwall and Sera were tucked away in a corner, hiding out behind the Wall of Champions, their playful banter echoing softly. The scene was both chaotic and vibrant, a stark contrast to the quiet moment she had just shared with Cullen.

The elven servants stared at her longer than they would have with a human, their eyes lingering with a mix of curiosity and caution. Isera felt the weight of their gaze, acutely aware that she was an elf wearing a mask, thrust into the complexities of the Game whether she wanted to be or not. It was a strange position to occupy—both a part of the nobility’s world and yet still on the outside, grappling with the expectations that came with her lineage and the evening’s festivities.

“Drink, my lady?” an elven man approached her, bowing his head respectfully. His demeanor was polite, yet there was a subtle undertone of wariness in his eyes as he regarded her. Isera appreciated the gesture, though she could sense the unspoken complexities behind it. She offered him a warm smile, grateful for the courtesy in the midst of the swirling chaos of the gathering.

He continued to stand, a hint of admiration in his eyes. “Hallas are most beautiful, no?” he said, gesturing toward her mask with a smile. Isera could sense the weight of his words, the compliment both genuine and laced with the cultural significance of the halla in elven lore. He balanced a tray of drinks in his hands, the shimmering glasses catching the light. She felt a flutter of appreciation for the compliment, a small reminder of her heritage amidst the grandeur of the evening.

Isera stared at him, a thoughtful expression on her face. “Quite majestic,” she agreed, her voice steady as she took a cup from him. “Wild and enduring, much like the elves.” The man nodded in approval, a hint of a smile playing on his lips as if she were answering his unspoken questions correctly. “The Empress is quite fond of elves,” he continued, his tone slightly conspiratorial. “Many pieces of elven art are scattered throughout the palace, particularly in the eastern wing. Perhaps you should look.” His suggestion lingered in the air, a tantalizing invitation to explore the history and culture she held dear.

“Perhaps I will,” Isera answered with a thoughtful smile as the elven servant excused himself and walked away. She continued into another vestibule, her eyes scanning the crowd until they landed on Solas. To her surprise, he was leaning against the wall, appearing relaxed and at ease amidst the bustling atmosphere. His posture was casual, but there was a subtle intensity in his gaze as he observed the scene around him. Isera felt a warmth in her chest at the sight, grateful for the moment of familiarity in the midst of the evening's chaos.

“You look comfortable,” she remarked as she approached him. Solas turned his gaze to her, and Isera noticed a subtle brightness on his cheeks, a hint of warmth that caught her by surprise. It was a rare glimpse of vulnerability that softened his usually enigmatic demeanor. She smiled, feeling a sense of connection as they stood together amidst the vibrant energy of the gathering.

“I do adore the heavy blend of power, intrigue, danger, and sex that permeates these events,” he replied almost cheerfully, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “I have seen countless such displays during my journeys in the Fade. Only the customs have changed,” he recalled, a faint smile gracing his lips. The contrast between his relaxed demeanor and the chaotic energy of the gathering around them made Isera feel as if they were sharing a secret amidst the masquerade, a moment of understanding that transcended the superficiality of the court.

Suddenly, two Orlesian nobles approached, their presence commanding attention as they introduced themselves to Isera. Their titles and positions became a blur, the formalities lost in the rush of their eagerness. They attempted to step between her and Solas, an unwelcome intrusion that made the air feel tense. Isera noticed Solas frown at the interruption, his expression darkening slightly as he regarded the nobles with barely concealed annoyance.

“Your accent is quite beautiful, my lady. Are you from Antiva?” one of the nobles asked, his voice smooth as he grabbed her hand. He was tall, wearing a yellow mask with a pointed nose that added an air of theatricality to his demeanor. Isera felt a flicker of annoyance as she tried to pull her hand away, but he held on tighter, his grip firm and intrusive. “Rivain,” she replied, forcing a polite smile despite her growing discomfort. The playful atmosphere began to shift, and she sensed Solas's irritation brewing beside her.

“You smell absolutely delicious. Roses? Who knew a heathen country could produce such a beauty?” he remarked, his comment dripping with insincerity—a thinly veiled insult disguised as a compliment. Isera felt her scowl deepen, irritation rising within her as she recognized the condescension in his words. The encounter was quickly souring, and she was determined not to let him get under her skin.

“Why don’t you come with us? We could… show you around,” one of the nobles suggested, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. Isera scrunched her nose in disgust, her expression turning caustic. “And just where would you take me?” she retorted, the sharpness in her tone unmistakable. The implication behind his words set her on edge, and she wasn’t about to entertain their condescending offer.

“I have a key to the East wing,” the other man, shorter and dressed in blue, announced with a sly grin. “I could… show you around. The Empress has quite a collection.” Isera paused, a thought dawning on her. This might be her opportunity to explore the Winter Palace without drawing too much attention. The prospect of discovering hidden treasures within the palace intrigued her, despite the dubious intentions of her current companions. She considered her options, weighing the potential for adventure against the underlying motives of these nobles.

Isera hummed thoughtfully, a playful smile spreading across her face. “Well, do lead the way,” she flirted, her tone light and teasing. The shorter noble beamed at her response, eager to take the lead. Meanwhile, Solas looked alarmed by the interaction, his expression tightening with disapproval. He stayed silent, watching with a mix of concern and disappointment as Isera moved away from him, drawn into the orbit of the nobles.

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