#i bow down to my queen
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figsbass · 6 months ago
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nobody and i mean NOBODY does mother-daughter relationships in dnd like emily axford does
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livelovecaliforniadreams · 5 months ago
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yousayusei · 1 year ago
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the best most relatable scene in utsukare eternal tbh
like hira's so careful of his kiyoi altar that it took kiyoi some time to actually discover it for the first time
the way kiyoi jumped back LMAO that uchiwa with his face being the first one he saw
hira's hurried footsteps (TM)
hira's scream is so relatable lmao kiyoi is not only a non-fan but the idol
"why the hell are you collecting all of these?!"
"because they are kiyoi's goods! i don't need any reason to do this!"
so relatable i cant even
hira perfectly channeled the idol fan in me wanting to collect every merch of my fave and displaying them in an altar :')
the best line ever: "DON'T DENY MY MY FAITH IN GOD"
kiyoi's "the real one is right here!" oh jelly babie :')
i just love this scene so much
theyre so silly
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tippenfunkaport · 11 days ago
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One of the prompts for the AUctober event in the SPOP Flex was "Never Been Done Before" and I had a vision.
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industrations · 1 year ago
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Madame pomfrey kinda 👀
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commanderwindy · 1 year ago
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Zelda my beloved
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quccninchains · 23 days ago
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have you thought about how powerful and sexy alicent would look on the iron throne
no me either 👀
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cupidskissx · 2 years ago
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You asked for headcanons? Well, these are a few entries from my google doc that's titled "deranged Lestappen fic ideas":
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Well they were labelled "deranged" for a reason, okay??
🤩🥰 Oh my dearest Elle, if you ever have a vacancy in your brain please let me know! I’d pay top dollar to move in and live out the rest of my days sunbathing in your deranged, utterly glorious thoughts!
I love all of these ideas they’re hilarious, and unhinged, and scrumptious!
2. All I can say is chefs kiss 👩‍🍳💋 it can’t be Charles driving if his pista is parked between the lines 💀
3. I’ve not seen Freaky Friday 🫣 but the body swap idea has been drooling, and them being able to understand and appreciate each other on a whole new level 🥹
4. Sounds like it could be riddled with miscommunication and angst and I’m spiraling at the mere thought of it 🌀
5. Is truly iconic lestappen material, and my favourite one from your headcanons! 😍 the “ex-fiancé” makes me want to scream, it is just so Max 🫠
You make me so happy and giddy, I pass along my endlessly gratitude to you for making my day! ❤️
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romajuliettesupremacy · 2 years ago
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HAPPY BIRTHDAY ALISA, HAPPY BIRTHDAY LOVE, YOU WOULD HAVE LOVED YOU’RE ON YOUR OWN KID <3
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scrollypoly · 1 year ago
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Did . . .
Did link and sidon just get married??
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a-slut-for-smut · 2 years ago
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You gotta walk in rooms like God sent you
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acourtofquestions · 14 days ago
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KINGDOM OF ASH (by SJM)
Chapter 48
THE FAMILY REUINION🥹😆😭🫶& MY SOULLL
But when they reached Princess Hasar's battle tent, when they had all gathered around a map of Anielle, they had only a few minutes of discussion before they were interrupted. By the person Chaol least expected to walk through the flaps.
A moment later, Chaol was glad he was sitting down.
Nesryn breathed, "Holy gods."
Chaol was inclined to agree as Aelin Galathynius, Rowan Whitethorn, and several others entered the tent.
They were mud-splattered, the Queen of Terrasen's braided hair far longer than Chaol had last seen. And her eyes ... Not the soft, yet fiery gaze. But something older. Wearier.
Chaol shot to his feet. "I thought you were in Terrasen," he blurted. All the reports had confirmed it. Yet here she stood, no army in sight.
Three Fae males-towering warriors as broad and muscled as Rowan—had entered, along with a delicate, dark-haired human woman.
But Aelin was only staring at him. Staring and staring at him.
No one spoke as tears began sliding down her face. Not at his being here, Chaol realized as he took up his cane and limped toward Aelin.
But at him. Standing. Walking.
The young queen let out a broken laugh of joy and flung her arms around his neck. Pain lanced down his spine at the impact, but Chaol held her right back, every question fading from his tongue.
Aelin was shaking as she pulled away. "I knew you would," she breathed, gazing down his body, to his feet, then up again. "I knew you'd do it."
"Not alone," he said thickly. Chaol swallowed, releasing Aelin to extend an arm behind him. To the woman he knew stood there, a hand over the locket at her neck.
Perhaps Aelin would not remember, perhaps their encounter years ago had meant nothing to her at all, but Chaol drew Yrene forward. "Aelin, allow me to introduce"
"Yrene Towers," the queen breathed as his wife stepped to his side.
The two women stared at each other.
Yrene's mouth quivered as she opened the silver locket and pulled out a piece of paper. Hands trembling, she extended it to the queen. Aelin's own hands shook as she accepted the scrap.
"Thank you," Yrene whispered.
Chaol supposed it was all that really needed to be said.
Aelin unfolded the paper, reading the note she'd written, seeing the lines from the hundreds of foldings and rereadings these past few years.
"I went to the Torre," Yrene said, her voice cracking. "I took the money you gave me, and went to the Torre. And I became the heir apparent to the Healer on High. And now I have come back, to do what I can. I taught every healer I could the lessons you showed me that night, about self-defense. I didn't waste it-not a coin you gave me, or a moment of the time, the life you bought me." Tears were rolling and rolling down Yrene's face. "I didn't waste any of it."
Aelin closed her eyes, smiling through her own tears, and when she opened them, she took Yrene's shaking hands. "Now it is my turn to thank you." But Aelin's gaze fell upon the wedding band on Yrene's finger, and when she glanced to Chaol, he grinned.
"No longer Yrene Towers," Chaol said softly, "but Yrene Westfall."
Aelin let out one of those choked, joyous laughs, and Rowan stepped up to her side.
Yrene's head tilted back to take in the warrior's full height, her eyes widening-not only at Rowan's size, but at the pointed ears, the slightly elongated canines and tattoo. Aelin said, "Then let me introduce you, Lady Westfall, to my own husband, Prince Rowan Whitethorn Galathynius."
For that was indeed a wedding band on the queen's finger, the emerald mud-splattered but bright. On Rowan's own hand, a gold-and-ruby ring gleamed.
"My mate," Aelin added, fluttering her lashes at the Fae male. Rowan rolled his eyes, yet couldn't entirely contain his smile as he inclined his head to Yrene.
Yrene bowed, but Aelin snorted. "None of that, please. It'll go right to his immortal head." Her grin softened as Yrene blushed, and Aelin held up the scrap of paper. "May I keep this?" She eyed Yrene's locket. "Or does it go in there?"
Yrene folded the queen's fingers around the paper. "It is yours, as it always was. A piece of your bravery that helped me find my own."
Aelin shook her head, as if to dismiss the claim.
But Yrene squeezed Aelin's closed hand. "It gave me courage, the words you wrote. Every mile I traveled, every long hour I studied and worked, it gave me courage. I thank you for that, too."
Aelin swallowed hard, and Chaol took that as excuse enough to sit again, his back giving a grateful tinge. He said to the queen, "There is another person responsible for this army being here." He gestured to Nesryn, the woman already smiling at the queen. "The rukhin you see, the army gathered, is as much because of Nesryn as it is because of me."
A spark lit Aelin's eyes, and both women met halfway in a tight embrace. "I want to hear the entire story," Aelin said. "Every word of it." Nesryn's subdued smile widened. "So you shall. But later." Aelin clapped her on the shoulder and turned to the two royals still by the desk. Tall and regal, but as mud-splattered as the queen.
Chaol blurted, "Dorian?"
Rowan answered, "Not with us." He glanced to the royals.
"They know everything," Nesryn said
"He's with Manon," Aelin said simply.
Chaol wasn't entirely sure whether to be relieved. "Hunting for something important."
The keys. Holy gods.
Aelin nodded. Later. He'd think on where Dorian might now be later. Aelin nodded again. The full story would come then too.
Nesryn said, "May I present Princess Hasar and Prince Sartaq."
Aelin bowed—low. "You have my eternal gratitude," Aelin said, and the voice that came out of her was indeed that of a queen. Any shock Sartaq and Hasar had shown upon the queen bowing so low was hidden as they bowed back, the portrait of courtly grace.
"My father," Sartaq said, "remained in the khaganate to oversee our lands, along with our siblings Duva and Arghun. But my brother Kashin sails with the rest of the army. He was not two weeks behind us when we left."
Aelin glanced to Chaol, and he nodded.
Something glittered in her eyes at the confirmation, but the queen jerked her chin at Hasar. "Did you get my letter?"
The letter that Aelin had sent months ago, begging for aid and promising only a better world in return. Hasar picked at her nails. "Perhaps. I get far too many letters from fellow princesses these days to possibly remember or answer all of them."
Aelin smirked, as if the two of them spoke a language no one else could understand, a special code between two equally arrogant and proud women. But she motioned to her companions, who stepped forward. "Allow me to introduce my friends. Lord Gavriel, of Doranelle." A nod toward the tawny-eyed and golden-haired warrior who bowed.
Tattoos covered his neck, his hands, but his every motion was graceful. "My uncle, of sorts," Aelin added with a smirk at Gavriel. At Chaol's narrowed brows, she explained, "He's Aedion's father."
"Well, that explains a few things," Nesryn muttered.
The hair, the broad-planed face ... yes, it was the same. But where Aedion was fire, Gavriel seemed to be stone. Indeed, his eyes were solemn as he said, "Aedion is my pride." Emotion rippled over Aelin's face, but she gestured to the dark-haired male. Not someone Chaol ever wanted to tangle with, he decided as he surveyed the granite-hewn features, the black eyes and unsmiling mouth.
"Lorcan Salvaterre, formerly of Doranelle, and now a blood-sworn member of my court." As if that weren't a shock enough, Aelin winked at the imposing male. Lorcan scowled. "We're still in the adjustment period," she loudly whispered, and Yrene chuckled.
Lorcan Salvaterre. Chaol hadn't met the male this spring in Rifthold, but he'd heard all about him. That he'd been Maeve's most trusted commander, her most loyal and fierce warrior.
That he'd wanted to kill Aelin, hated Aelin.
How this had come about, why she was not in Terrasen with her army ... "You, too, have a tale to tell," Chaol said.
"Indeed I do." Aelin's eyes guttered, and Rowan put a hand on her lower back. Bad— something terrible had occurred. Chaol scanned Aelin for any hint of it. He stopped when he noticed the smoothness of the skin at her neck. The lack of scars. The missing scars on her hands, her palms. "Later," Aelin said softly. She straightened her shoulders, and another golden-haired male came forward. Beautiful. That was the only way to describe him. "Fenrys ... You know, I don't actually know your family name."
Fenrys threw a roguish wink at the queen.
"Moonbeam."
"It is not," Aelin hissed, choking on a laugh.
Fenrys laid a hand on his heart. "I am blood-sworn to you. Would I lie?"
Another blood-sworn Fae male in her court.
Across the tent, Sartaq cursed in his own tongue. As if he'd heard of Lorcan, and Gavriel, and Fenrys.
Aelin gave Fenrys a vulgar gesture that set Hasar chuckling, and faced the royals. "They're barely housebroken. Hardly fit for your fine company." Even Sartaq smiled at that. But it was to the small, delicate woman that Aelin now gestured. "And the only civilized member of my court, Lady Elide Lochan of Perranth." Perranth. Chaol had combed through the family trees of Terrasen just this winter, had seen the lists of so many royal households crossed out, victim to the conquest ten years ago.
Elide's name had been among them.
Another Terrasen royal who had managed to evade Adarlan's butchers.
The pretty young woman took a limping step forward, and bobbed a curtsy to the royals. Her boots concealed any sign of the source of the injury, but Yrene's attention shot right to her leg. Her ankle. "It's an honor to meet all of you," Elide said, her voice low and steady. Her dark eyes swept over them, cunning and clear. Like she could see beneath their skin and bones, to the souls beneath.
Aelin wiped her hands. "Well, that's over and done with," she announced, and strode to the desk and map. "Shall we discuss where you all plan to march once we beat the living shit out of this army?"
#NO SPOILERS PLEASE (though warning for the chapter in post & tags) this is my first read along with me & more reacts in tags etc#Chaorene Rowaelin Elorcan MOONBEAM this chapter has EVERYTHING so it needed its own post mark-if only it had Dorian than it would be PERFECT#A PROPER MAASVERSE REUINION-FULL CIRCLE-& me squealing in wivern happy in sappy like🥹 crying giggling & kicking my feet in excitement#Aelin Sardothien&HER CADRE/Court; her calling them all that — MOONBEAM finally lol how has this not come up or Lorcan tease or Rowan cheerin#she really nails these scenes-break my heart make my day-like QoS but ow&healingX100-my bbs are happy-TAB REFS-THE DYNAMICS-the wives meet!#Ivory horsehair for times of peace; the Ebony for times of war. — significance in tiny details-It was holy-the gold couch lol-SHES PREGGERS#To sit down even for a few minutes would be a blessed relief. — the difference from TOD - lol only Hasar could get interior design rn#to be the first piece of furniture in the home he'd build for his wife. For the child she carried.—shewastheoneheleastexpectedtoseeomg#holding hands even in blood-the ruler but wished to know-close to disaster-flood?that’s bad for fire/maybe she can steam-HOLY GODS INDEED#a moment later Chaol was glad he was sitting-as Aelin Galathynius Rowan Whitethorn and several others entered. Mud splattered. Too long hair#And her eyes ... Not the soft yet fiery gaze. But something older. Wearier.-the young queens gaze again-but a queen nonetheless-HE STOOD#Not at his being here as he took up his cane and limped toward Aelin But him Standing Walking-my soul needed this back-the core tale trio#The young queen let out a broken laugh of joy-broken but still joy-and flung her arms around his neck-the fact she wanted to hug him—#the ache & healing they both felt-but Chaol held her right back every question fading from his tongue.-Fire lance?-she’s shaking again#The way she gives him belief-then there she is-she remembered-her core-no one does anything alone-to say I’m happy for you & mean it vibes#hand over the locket-Yrene Towers the queen breathed as his wife stepped 2 his side The women stared at eachother-YRENE WESTFALL-notCelaena#I knew youd do it-goes both ways-Thank you-those words in this book-it was all that really needed to be said-smiling through tears#Aelin closed her eyes smiling through her own tears and when she opened them she took Yrene's shaking hands-choked joyous laughs-MY SOUL#Rowan stepped up to her side-Aelin said Lady Westfall my husband Prince Rowan Whitethorn Galathynius-the my wife we deserved#emerald mud-splattered but bright-she sure got those emeralds dropping hints literally in EoS-pine green-Nesryn Aelin friendship core#My mate Aelin added fluttering her lashes Rowan rolled his eyes yet couldn't entirely contain his smile-next quote why I luv books/TOG#May I keep this?She eyed the locket.Or does it go in there?Its yours as it always was.A piece of ur bravery that helped me find my own#It gave me courage the words you wrote. Every mile I traveled every long hour I studied and worked it gave me courage. I thank you#A spark lit Aelins eyes&both women met halfway in a tight embrace I want to hear the entire story Aelin said Every word of it#They know everything-Ok WELL MANON lol-The keys Holy gods-the story would come then too-true queen-she bowed for them#the voice that came out of her was indeed that of a queen-THEY BOWED BACK-the portrait of courtly grace lol-the letter worked well#Aelin smirked as if the2of them spoke a language no one else could understand 2equally arrogant&proud women-hell yes I needed them#My friends-uncleLOL-my pride-AelinswinkLorcylol-how had this come about?-guttered-Rowan put a hand on her lower back Bad#gestureHasar😂-only civilized Lady Elides name had been crossed out-the1sthat escaped-CunningClear-she could see beneath to the soul#I am sworn2uWould I lie-cursedAs if he'd heard of LorcanGavrielFenrys-where to march once we beat the living shit out of this army-Vher
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washeduphazbin · 9 months ago
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Hi, I would like to ask for a smut from Adam x fem Reader, his dear wife is going to pay him a visit at his work and in the end they almost get paid for lute
New Eve (Adam x Fem! Wife! Reader)
-SMUT AHEAD MINORS DNI-
Other warnings: Adam Being Adam
I hope I wrote this ask and understood it correctly! Adam is my guilty pleasure. I love men who are dumb as rocks and who are going to be absolutely leashed by even stronger women.
REQUESTS OPEN
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
There's a saying that all good things come in threes, Lilith, Eve, and you. Adam's final wife, who physically couldn't be swayed by Lucifer because Adam had met you in Heaven. When you passed through the pearly gates, you were greeted by none other than the first human himself. You were in awe for about two seconds until you quickly gathered the first man was a complete and utter dickhead. He seemed to falter when you walked past him to greet an angel named Lute, Adam's second in command. She tensed a little as you introduced yourself, ignoring Adam's protests that dubbed you a Queen Mega Bitch.
All this to say, it took about three months before Lute caught Adam sticking his tongue down your throat with you latched onto him like a koala. You made a distressed sound at being caught while listening to Adam laugh above you. You distinctly heard him call your mouth as good as a vagina while pressing a kiss to your hairline. "Adam!" You hissed, pulling on the horns of his mask as he let out a defiant sound, "Inappropriate."
"Ugh yeah, that's kind of my thing, sugar tits."
"You need to not make it your thing, or this thing doesn't happen." You drew your line in the metaphorical sand before marching out of the room, faintly hearing Lute argue about Adam's behavior behind you.
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
Two years later, you were Adam's new 'Eve' in heaven with two golden rings to prove the love that formed between the two of you...somehow. Did the both of you fight constantly? Yes. Did you want to wring his neck every time he opened the gaping hole he called a mouth? Also Yes. But did you love him...unfortunately. Even though he had a laundry list of bad habits, a vulgar mouth, and gross hobbies, he had his moments. He was protective, fiercely so, and despite his fuck boy personality, he only had his sights set on you. Lute often asked you what you saw in Adam, and you'd reluctantly sigh and give a tired grin, "He makes me laugh. Plus, with proper motivation, he's putty in my hand." Lute made a sound of understanding, nodding her head,
"Ah, yes. Use your feminine wiles to control those weaker than you, even if they may be physically stronger. We must use what we are given as women. Well, you must. I'm very strong without using that to my advantage."
"Yes, exactly," You snickered as Lute stopped outside Adam's office. "Which is exactly why Sera put me in charge of convincing Adam to meet with The Morningstar's daughter." You groaned, rubbing the bridge of your nose, "I'll see you back here later, then?"
"Yes, ma'am." Lute bowed, "I wish you luck...you'll need it. He's in one of his moods." before taking off into the sky and down the hall. You reached up with a stretch of your arms, fluffing up your wings to look extra pretty before knocking on Adam's door,
"Adam." You hummed, knocking on the grand marble door once before opening it. You leaned against the entranceway, wings brushing against the floor, as his head shot up.
"Sugartits!"
"Not my name!" You dodged Adam's hug with a flurry of your wings; he grinned, shoving the door closed with his hip. "Adam," you said in warning as he used his angelic magic to fly towards you and trap you within his arms.
"and what would you prefer I call you? My Bitch? Wifey?" He mused, peppering sloppy kisses against your cheek and down your neck. "We could go with Queen or Goddess, preferably." You shot back, dragging Adam down to sit in his chair; you hummed gently, removing his mask from his face. He leaned back, kicking his legs up on the desk as you slid down into his chest, straddling his hips. You hummed, running your fingers through his brown hair, and he melted into your touch, "My name works, too."
"I guess we can settle on Queen. Does that make me your King?" Adam preened as you scratched under his chin,
"Without a doubt...but we must talk about the Young Morningstar."
"Who?" He made a faux confused face which you raised an eyebrow back at in response, "Ugh, Lucifer's cunt daughter. What about her?"
"She's been begging for a meeting. I suggest you meet with her." Your lips began to trail down his neck, nipping at his skin as his body flushed.
"But that's so much work, sugar." He groaned, running his clawed hands through your hair, "Can't I just say fuck off back to hell we're gonna exterminate all of you regardless."
"Sera wants you to at least meet with her one time; she's giving you a lot of trust to handle this on your own."
"And if I do what you ask, what'll you give me?" He mused, eyes sparkling. You huffed, hitting him with the back of your wing, and he laughed, "Come on, you gotta sweeten the deal for me, mama."
"You're such a bastard." You huffed, moving to pull your hair out of your face. He moved his legs to the ground, and you could slide between his knees. "Robe off unless you want dirty," you commanded as Adam fumbled out of it quickly.
"I love you~" He leaned back with a sly grin, hand reaching up to move your head closer to his lip. Your fingers spread across his thighs, and you huffed softly, looking up at him.
"I love you more. If I do this for you, you promise to meet with young Lady Morningstar?"
"You can't just fuck me because you love me?"
"Bite me." You sneered, but there wasn't any malice in your voice as he stood up, picking you up off the ground and pressing your back against his desk.
"Oh, it would be my pleasure. I can't say your robes will survive, though I might need to get you some new ones." Adam popped the buttons on your robe, allowing your body to be laid bare for his eyes. He watched your breathing hitch as his long claw trailed down your neck to your chest. "Fuck I love these puppies, you know that?" Adam grinned, grabbing fistfuls of your breasts, squeezing and kneading to his heart's content. Your husband was like an oversized golden retriever. When he sees something he likes, he obsesses over it like a man deranged. His favorite playthings of yours were your tits and ass. "Any meetings?"
"None. I'm yours for the rest of the day. You can mark me how you'd like; I'm yours, my husband. Well, until you meet with the Princess."
"Fuckkkkk yeah, baby, come 'ere." Adam dove between your breasts, and he felt you suck in air through your teeth. He began to bite and suck on the supple flesh of your chest; you keened, arching into his mouth, hands tangling in his brown hair. You could tell from the way his teeth would graze against your nipples and your flesh he was doing everything in his power to leave marks on the skin.
"Adam...ngh." You panted, feeling his hand move down from your breast to slide down your stomach and between your legs. "Shit," You squeaked, feeling him tease your clit with his thumb and forefinger with a dopey grin on his face.
"There's my favorite girl," He flicked your nub skillfully; for being a massive asshole, this prick sure knew where to find your clit. One finger slid between your folds, and you tossed your head against the cold marble desk. "Damn, only one finger has you acting up? I must not be treating you good enough," He purred as another finger entered you, stretching you out to be big enough for, 'the first ever man god created.' Adam watched with delight as your wings spread out and trembled, glowing with a soft golden glow. "That's it, you're being such a good girl for me. Are you ready?"
"Yes." You panted, "Adam, please."
"God, you beg so nicely, you little slut," His hand reached up to grip your throat, causing you to let out a desperate whine, hips bucking into his fingers. "Beg Harder," He demanded, moving your hand to palm him through his trousers, stiff and aching. "Look at how hard you make me. How desperate. I need you to worship your god."
"Yes, sir." You purred, "You're my God, Adam. I need you, I'd worship for your love, your touch, your dick." You dragged your hand up your chest, playing with the swell of your own breast, "Don't you want to make me happy, baby?"
"More than anything." Adam's eyes lit up in elation, "Stay with me. Don't go to Lucifer. You're mine." He snarled, hands around your throat, "Say it."
"I'm with you. Only you. Forever Adam." His entire body seemed to relax when you said that, pressing gentle kisses to your cheek and lips. "I love you, you annoying Dickweed."
"Love you more, Sugartits." He grinned cheekily before lowering himself to you with a hiss-like laugh. "Tight as ever, and that's why I love you,"
"If you keep talking nonsense while you're literally inside me, I'll cut off your dick,"
"Sounds kinky."
"Adam."
"Fine, Fine, you're so vanilla." He mused, albeit his tone was much softer, fonder than his earlier teasing. His hands grabbed under your knees and pressed you close with a snap of his hips. You both let out a moan, yours higher pitched and needier, bucking your hips, searching for more friction than he was currently providing. You always savored the way he was able to fill you up, he wasn't the longest but god was he thick filling you in all the right ways. Every time his hips snapped into you, you could feel just how deep he kissed your cervix. "Yeah, you like that?" He panted, "Like how deep I'm getting? From the way you're dripping, you're practically soaking through my table. Your vag is like a vice, babe, so tight for this big cock."
"Hm. Your words always know how to turn me o-ng-ff." You moaned out this end at a particularly sharp thrust of his hips. "Fuck you," You panted as he grinned down at you,
"Good news, wifey, that's exactly what we're doing-"
"Sir!" You let out a scream as Lute slammed the door of his office open, you climbed against Adam's body like an embarrassed Nun. He groaned, still inside you but having the decency to cover you with his wings.
"What do you need, Lute? I'm a little busy getting it on with my sexy ass wife." Adam complained, motioning to the top of your head, to which you made an embarrassed sound of mortification. "Can this be rescheduled or-"
"The Princess of Hell is here, Sir. She just showed up-"
"Are you for real telling me that the bitch Princess of Hell is seriously cucking me right now?!"
"...Yes."
"(Y/n) If I killed her for interrupting us, would you be pissed?"
"Beyond Adam."
"Fuck."
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targaryen-dynasty · 8 months ago
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ENCOURAGEMENT.
Daemon Targaryen x little sister!Reader
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It's 105 AC. Your brother, King Viserys, wants to throw a feast in honor to announce his wife's pregnancy. You want to attend—if it weren't for the rising doubts about your changing body. But it's good your husband knows a way to ease your worries.
WARNINGS: SEXUAL CONTENT—MINORS DNI; canon typical incest/targcest (brother & sister), mirror sex, vaginal fingering, praise kink, female and pregnant reader, lactation, lactation kink, nipple play
WORDS: 2.5 K
NOTES: Thank you for betaing this sweet thing, @happilyhertale! 🤍
❗️𝐚𝐝𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐲 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭!
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Frustration brings you to the point you stand completely bare in front of the large mirror that’s been brought into your chambers by the servants, looking at your reflection. To the right hangs a black gown, and to the left a more reddish one. And neither of the two will fit over your swollen curves, you just know by looking at it.
You’ve scared off your ladies-in-waiting a few minutes ago, usually soft-spoken you experiencing an emotional outburst that just called for you to be left alone.
Nearing the six moon mark of your first pregnancy has left your body with scars and marks around your rounded belly and swollen breasts, some even teetering down the insides of your thighs. And yet, when you look at your husband strolling into your martial chambers with not more than a large cloth hanging around his hips, his scarred chest on full display, you can only admire him for wearing them with so much confidence.
But not even your own doubts can stop your eyes from stealing glances, his toned physique managing to put your mind at ease for once. Trailing your eyes over the expanse of his scarred chest down to the dark trail of hair that ends deep below the cloth that conceals most of it. However, it only poorly hides the way his half-hard member prods against the linen with each step he makes towards you.
He makes no secret out of the way his lilac eyes all but devour your body and its curves, although your belly is not yet as swollen as Aemma’s was when she was with Rhaenyra. The pregnancy has made you even more of a woman, and knowing he’s the one responsible for it makes him feel proud but also quite possessive.
“What is it?” he asks, his gravelly voice sending a chill down your spine.
Daemon eventually comes to a stop with his tall frame looming over yours from behind, fingers trailing over your side in an uncharacteristically tender and gentle manner. Every inch of your reflection is devoured by his greedy eyes. “We do not have to attend the feast, you know,” he says. “I wouldn’t dream of depriving myself of the pleasure of spending time with my wife.”
As he bows his head forward to press his lips to your shoulder, the soft strands of his silver hair tickle your skin, making you lean into his embrace and him reaching around you to splay a hand over your swollen belly.
“But I want to go. It’s the feast in honor of the queen announcing her pregnancy, and our brother will be cross with us if we do not attend,” you pout at him. “I just… I just don’t know which dress to choose.”
Daemon, however, knows full well that you’re being less than honest with him about your reluctance to go to the feast, becoming obvious when he starts to trace his fingers over the marks running across the underside of your bump. “That truly is a conundrum,” he says.
Sighing loudly, you try to escape his fingers by leaning further against him. But the friction your rear causes against the cloth is enough to loosen its tie, allowing it to fall to the ground.
The both of you are completely bare now, and he wastes no time in pressing his hard cock snugly into the crevice of your arse, making his desire for you more than clear.
“Let us forget the dresses for now. You know you’ll look ravishing no matter what you wear,” Daemon drawls, running a hand along your side. “Besides, why not allow me to appreciate every inch of you… no dresses involved.”
It sounds far too tempting… if you were in the mood. But with you struggling with your changing body for quite some time now, the thought of unraveling for him discourages you even more. “We do not have time,” you try to protest.
Much to your surprise, your usually insolent husband listens to your words.
“I think you’ll find that we have plenty of time, my love,” he mumbles, taking a step back with his hands raised in defeat. “The time we spend together would be much better than the time spent amongst a bunch of prudes at a feast.”
Not paying a mind to his words, you just nod appreciatively, and bring your attention back to the two gowns still hanging next to the mirror. Perhaps you can make the black one work with the laces tied extra loosely, and you only present at the feast for no longer than two hours.
Daemon stalks around you to stand next to the mirror, shamelessly dragging his eyes over your naked form and watching you inspect one of the dresses.
“Do you not have to dress yourself, husband?” you ask, pinching the fabric of the black dress between your fingers, trying not to pay too much attention to him. But his gaze is intense, burning straight through your skin, and making your body heat up.
You meet his eyes, cocking an eyebrow.
“There is a more important matter for me to tend to,” he objects.
“What are you–” you’re interrupted when your husband grabs the sides of the mirror and hoists it up, bringing it closer to your marital bed.
Turning on your heels, you watch him adjust it and eventually sit down on the bed with both feet planted firmly on the ground. The confusion must be evident on your features, because without a question uttered, Daemon pats his sturdy thigh and parts his legs, silently beckoning you over with a come-hither motion of his fingers.
The sight alone is alluring, his thick cock resting hard and heavy between his thighs, covered in an angry red and aching to be buried inside of you. But wanting to find out what he’s in mind is what brings you closer to him.
You move to climb his lap, wanting to sit astride him like you sit on Silverwing, but Daemon beats you to it. He scoots back slightly and brings his paws to your hips, turning you around. He pulls you back to sit down in the space between his parted legs.
When his hands hook beneath your knees to drape them over his thighs, inevitably exposing yourself to him, you instinctively lean back against him to adjust to the position.
You want to squeeze your thighs together, to hide from him, but his legs stop you from doing so. He brings a hand up to cup your full breast, squeezing lightly and testing the weight and shape of it. They’re full of milk by now, providing for your unborn child, and hard and heavy to the touch.
Pressing his lips to the curve of your shoulder, you tilt your head to the side, not daring to watch your fully exposed reflection in the mirror. You’ve been bare around him the whole time, and he’s fucked you in ways that would bring a blush to certain people’s faces, but something in the current position and your growing insecurities makes you more vulnerable right now.
Daemon adjusts his fingers so that your taut bud pops up between them, and just a bit of pressure is already enough to coax droplets of your milk to spill from it. Your breathing grows heavy, more so because it’s already enough friction to ease some of the tormenting tension.
“I want to see you full and lovely and large, swollen with my seed and carrying my child,” he mutters against your skin. His other hand comes up to cup your chin, pushing your head forwards to all but force you to look at yourself. “And I want you to watch as I worship that precious body of yours.”
The hand on your chin settles at your throat, not squeezing it but tight enough for it to be a warning for you not to move. The other hand releases your breast and trails down to the apex of your legs. It all happens agonizingly slowly, tracing and following every scar that runs along the curve of your bump, until it finally finds your cunt.
As his fingers drag through it, even your husband can’t seem to stop himself from moaning. “You’re weeping for me, my love,” he rasps, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck. “So beautiful.” Withdrawing his fingers, they’re glistening with your arousal, connected by faint strings of it as he spreads his fingers.
You whimper, and dip your head back far enough for him to capture your lips. The kiss is sloppy, matching the rhythm he sets up as his fingers trace your cunt.
Daemon hums in approval as you pull away from him to look into the mirror, watching the exact moment his deft fingers ease into you. You gasp at the motion, and put all your weight back against him, melting into his embrace with his muscular arms around you.
There’s a pout on your lips when the pressure of his fingers leaves you again, used to spread apart your folds instead. In the reflection you see his dark blown eyes fixed on nothing else than what lies between your legs, his hard cock throbbing against your lower back as you clench around nothing. “Look how beautiful you look all spread out and ready for me, my love.”
Trying to squeeze your thighs shut, his hand comes from your throat to clasp around one, keeping you spread open for him. “Oh, don’t you dare,” he warns, causing a shiver to run down your spine.
With the heel of his hand pressing snugly against your pearl now, you can’t help but whimper as his fingers enter you again. The pace is slow and languid, making clear that neither of you is in a hurry tonight. It’s all about you.
“Seven hells, just look at you,” he coos against the side of your face, tip of his nose nudging your cheek. He clearly enjoys the confidence you slowly start to muster as his praises go straight to your head, coaxing you to rock your hips against his hand. “You truly have no idea of how much I desire you. Always.”
His words bring another wave of crimson to your cheeks, running down your neck and chest. It’s heaving with all the heavy breaths you inhale, and your taut buds have not softened since he touched them. If everything, his words and gestures have coaxed a few beads of milk to ooze from both, running down the curve of your breasts.
Reaching behind you, your hand rests at the back of his head, entangling into his long, silver hair. “Daemon–” you whimper, but he’s quick to silence you.
“Shush now,” he rasps. “Just enjoy and observe.”
And you certainly do, watching his fingers pump in and out of you as if it’s the most enthralling thing you’ve ever seen.
When he’s sure you’ll keep your legs spread for him, he brings his hand to your full breast again, groping and squeezing it, pinching the little bud to tease even more milk to spill from it.
It’s so much coming together at once. His praise goes straight to your head, making it hazy and longing for more, while liquid fire courses through your veins, ignited by the skilled ministrations of his fingers.
Daemon seems to sense your impending peak, and is determined to work you toward the sweet relief you so desperately crave.
The pace of his fingers increases now, fingers repeatedly brushing the sweet spot inside of you that makes your vision blurry. Pleasure soars through your body, and eventually is enough to snap the familiar knot inside of your belly. And that’s also the moment you can’t watch yourself any longer. The pleasure grows to the point you have to close your eyes to be able to thoroughly enjoy it. But your husband doesn’t seem to mind.
“There you go,” he coos, not slowing down the pace of his hands. “Such a good girl.”
Your walls convulse all over Daemon’s fingers, and with you releasing the sweetest and most desperate sounds your husband has heard in a while, he’s sure he could’ve peaked on spot, more so with the vice-like grip you have on his long hair.
His hand works you through the waves of euphoria, just slightly slowing down, and while your mind doesn’t process some of the praises he mumbles against your skin, your body does; with a renewed wave of arousal dripping out of your cunt.
It’s surprising that the pleasure doesn’t get replaced by overstimulation, especially with just how little time he gives you to recover until he starts pumping his fingers in and out of you at a harsher pace again.
“Gods be good,” you whimper, tipping your head back against his shoulder. Your hand releases his hair and instead you grab his forearm with both, clinging onto it for dear life.
“One more for me, you’re doing so good.”
You have barely time to process the first peak and its repercussions when the second washes over you in an ambush, striking you like lightning. It’s not as intense as the first, but prolonged with his other hand now frantically rubbing your pearl.
“Shh, just let it happen,” he purrs, pressing sloppy kisses to your cheek as you struggle against him.
It takes just a few more pumps of his hand until the pleasure subsides, only leaving a wave of bliss in its wake. Daemon’s hands both stop their ministrations, and you finally feel as though you’re able to breathe again.
As you open your eyes, you see him lick the remnants of your arousal off his fingers, before they tease your buds again, gathering some of your milk to lick off of them as well.
Whimpering and whining at the touch, you just slowly catch your breath. He soothes you by snaking both arms around your form, cupping your swollen belly, and presses gentle kisses to the side of your face.
“You’re an absolute vision in this state, and I do not wish for you to ever doubt that,” he mutters against your skin. “You look more desirable carrying my child, than any other woman does in their most provocative dress.”
Releasing a soft chuckle, you turn your head and capture his lips with yours. A chaste peck is not what he has anticipated, but he’s still happy that he was able to lift your spirits.
“Kirimvose, ñuha jorrāelagon,” you whisper. “Care to help me with the black dress?” Thank you, my love.
“Oh, I will,” Daemon says with a teasing lilt in his voice. He grabs you by the waist and carefully hoists you up, but when he lies you down on your back, you know you won’t be getting into the dress so soon. “But I think I need just a little more time to get fully into the spirit of the occasion.”
The moment he climbs on the bed to kiss his way over your marks and curves, you squeal and squirm, entangling your hands into his hair again.
Viserys can never be angry with you two for long anyway.
4K notes · View notes
solxamber · 24 days ago
Text
Making Up After an Argument with: Overblot Gang + Rollo
part 2 with vice housewardens + kalim
on this day, i offer you some hurt/comfort
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It’s been two days. Two long, awkward, and uncomfortable days of silent treatment between you and him. The argument had been petty—something so small that you can’t even remember what sparked it. But pride, stubbornness, and a little bit of frustration had taken over, and now, here you are, locked in a stalemate.
You’ve been tiptoeing around each other, avoiding eye contact, pretending not to care. But in reality, the silence feels like it’s stretching forever, and you hate it. You hate the feeling of distance between you, the weight of unspoken words hanging in the air.
You miss him. Even with him just a walk away, it feels like miles.
The realization hits you hard as you sit there, staring at your phone, hoping for a sign—any sign—that he’s willing to break first. But of course, nothing comes. He’s just as stubborn as you are. Maybe even more.
You let out a long, dramatic sigh, slumping back in your seat. Ugh, fine. I’ll be the one to give in this time. It’s not the first time you’ve done it, but it doesn’t make it any easier. But deep down, you know you love him too much to let this go on. And you know he loves you too, even if neither of you will say it right now.
Riddle Rosehearts
You sigh dramatically, dragging your feet as you head towards Riddle’s dorm. The argument was dumb—you know that now. And if anyone could hold onto stubbornness like a grudge, it was Riddle Rosehearts. You, on the other hand, are way too tired of the silence, so it’s time for drastic measures.
As you approach his door, you pause, a silly idea forming in your mind. What’s the best way to apologize to someone like Riddle? With a flourish, of course. You rummage through your bag, pull out a red rose you happened to pick up earlier—totally coincidental, you promise yourself—and start plotting.
A few minutes later, you knock on his door, taking a deep breath. You hear footsteps, and then the door creaks open, revealing Riddle’s ever-serious face. His eyes flick up to you, then down to the rose in your hand, then back up again. He doesn’t say anything, though the faintest hint of curiosity flashes in his eyes.
Time to execute the plan.
You drop to one knee in an exaggerated, overly dramatic fashion, holding the rose high above your head like you’re a knight pledging allegiance to his queen. “My dearest Riddle, Queen of the Rose Garden, I come bearing an apology for my grievous offense. I’ve come to beg for your forgiveness,” you say, loud enough for the whole dorm to hear.
Riddle's eyes go wide, and for a moment, his face goes completely red—not from anger, but from pure, unfiltered embarrassment. He glances around, hoping no one else is witnessing this absolute spectacle you’re making.
"Please," you continue, voice wobbling as if you're on the verge of tears, "Grant me one more chance to bask in your presence! Your mercy, oh merciful ruler!" You bow dramatically, forehead almost touching the ground.
He sputters, clearly flustered beyond belief. "W-What are you doing? Get up! That's completely unnecessary—!"
"No!" You hold up the rose like a peace offering. "Not until you talk to me again! I will stay here on my knees if I must! Forever! Or until I get a cramp, whichever comes first!"
He’s torn between laughing at the ridiculousness of it and dying from second-hand embarrassment. “This is ridiculous! I—” He looks at the rose, then at you, eyes softening just a bit. “Fine, fine, just… stand up already.”
You spring to your feet, grinning triumphantly. “So, we’re good?”
Riddle sighs, rubbing his temples. "You're impossible."
“Does that mean yes?” you ask, batting your eyelashes at him playfully.
“Yes. But stop being so dramatic. The whole dorm probably heard you…”
You don’t care. You throw your arms around him in a spontaneous hug, and for a second, Riddle freezes, stunned by the unexpected affection. Then, hesitantly, he returns the hug. He’s still embarrassed, but there’s a softness to his grip, a sign that he missed this closeness just as much as you did.
He pulls you into his room, and as soon as the door clicks shut, the embarrassment on his face fades, replaced with a quiet vulnerability. He avoids your eyes, walking over to his desk, his voice quieter now. “I… I was afraid,” he admits. “That maybe you were getting tired of me. I know I’m difficult sometimes, and—”
“Whoa, whoa,” you interrupt, stepping closer. “Where is this coming from?”
He sits down, staring at the floor. “You could be with someone more… easygoing. Less rigid. Someone who doesn’t argue over every little thing.”
You blink, surprised. “Riddle, I knew what I was getting into when I started dating you. I chose you, remember?”
He looks up at you, eyes filled with uncertainty, and you notice his hands trembling just slightly. “But what if I drive you away? What if one day you just… stop trying?”
Your heart aches at the vulnerability in his voice. Before you can think, you step forward, kneeling in front of him. Without hesitation, you cup his face in your hands, gently brushing your thumb against his cheek. “That’s not going to happen. Ever.”
His eyes glisten slightly, the tension of the past few days unraveling as he leans into your touch. “But—”
“No buts,” you insist softly, leaning in to press a kiss to his forehead. “I love you. Stubbornness, rules, and all. And honestly, I think the petty arguments are kinda fun. It keeps things… interesting.”
He lets out a shaky breath, and you feel a few tears slip down his cheeks. “You don’t know how hard it is for me,” he whispers. “To balance everything, to try and be perfect all the time… I don’t want to lose you because of my shortcomings.”
You smile gently, brushing away the tears with your thumb as you lean in and kiss his cheek softly. “You’re not going to lose me. You don’t have to be perfect, Riddle. I didn’t fall in love with perfection, I fell in love with you.”
He stares at you for a moment, tears still threatening to spill over, but his grip on your hand tightens as if he’s holding on to your words. “I… I don’t deserve you.”
“You deserve the world,” you whisper, pulling him into a tight hug, cradling his head against your shoulder as he allows himself to cry softly into your neck. You run your fingers through his hair, gently whispering reassurances as he finally lets go of the weight he’s been carrying.
“I missed you,” he mumbles between sniffles, his voice fragile in a way you’ve rarely heard before.
“I missed you too,” you say, kissing the top of his head. “Let’s never do this silent treatment thing again, okay?”
He nods, still clinging to you, and you feel his lips press a soft kiss against your shoulder, a wordless promise.
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Leona Kingscholar
It’s been two long days of silence. And if you know one thing about Leona Kingscholar, it’s that his stubbornness rivals your own. You’ve been circling around each other, neither one of you willing to be the first to admit defeat. But the silence is eating away at you, and, well… you miss him.
So, you hatch a plan. A very dramatic, ridiculous, and completely unnecessary plan.
Armed with a large bouquet of sunflowers—because roses are too obvious—you march into Savanaclaw with all the confidence of someone who is absolutely not going to be embarrassed by this. Nope. You pass by several confused students on your way to Leona’s room, each one giving you strange looks as you carry the huge bouquet.
You stop in front of his door, take a deep breath, and knock. No answer. You knock again, louder this time.
Still nothing.
Sighing, you decide to just barge in—because what’s a grand gesture without a bit of dramatic flair? Pushing open the door, you find Leona lounging on his bed, arms behind his head, eyes closed.
Perfect.
You march up to him and stand by his bed, holding the bouquet in front of you like a shield. “Leona Kingscholar, hear me out!” you declare, in a tone that’s probably more suited for a court jester than someone in an actual relationship.
One of his ears twitches, and his eyes crack open, glancing at you. You stand tall and proud, despite how ridiculous you feel, presenting the sunflowers like they’re some rare treasure. “I come bearing these humble sunflowers as an offering to ask for your forgiveness, O Great King of Beasts.”
He snorts. Actually snorts. “What are you on about, herbivore?”
You drop to one knee dramatically, holding the flowers up to him as if you’re a knight swearing fealty to his king. “Please, Leona! Forgive my transgressions! I was wrong to argue with you, and I cannot bear another moment without your esteemed company!”
Leona raises an eyebrow, staring at you with what can only be described as amusement. “You’re really going all out, huh?”
“I am but a humble servant, groveling for your mercy!” you continue, refusing to break character. “Please, take these sunflowers as a token of my undying affection and devotion!”
By now, Leona is fully awake, sitting up and resting his chin in his hand, clearly trying to hold back laughter. “Sunflowers, huh? How thoughtful of you.”
“Of course!” You stand up dramatically, thrusting the bouquet toward him. “They represent my radiant affection for you!”
Leona finally lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “You’re ridiculous.”
“But do you forgive me?” you ask, batting your eyelashes at him.
He rolls his eyes, but the grin on his face betrays his amusement. “Yeah, yeah, you’re forgiven. Just stop with the theatrics, would ya?”
You grin, knowing you’ve won him over. But there’s something still lingering in the air, some tension that hasn’t quite disappeared yet. Leona might be laughing, but you can tell he’s still a bit on edge, still a little distant.
Setting the sunflowers aside, you walk over to the bed and sit next to him. “Leona, I know it was a dumb fight, but… you know you’re the only one for me, right?”
He glances at you, his smile fading slightly as he considers your words. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you say softly, scooting closer. “I mean it. I’m not going anywhere.”
For a moment, he’s quiet, and you can see the tension in his shoulders start to ease. Then, without a word, he shifts, pulling you down onto the bed with him, his body practically draping over yours like a big, heavy, warm blanket. His arms wrap around you, his tail curling possessively around your leg, anchoring you to him.
He nuzzles into the crook of your neck, letting out a low, contented sigh. “You better not,” he mumbles against your skin. “I don’t feel like dealing with anyone else’s nonsense.”
You smile softly, running your fingers through his hair, scratching gently behind his ears. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Leona presses closer, his body relaxing fully against yours as if he’s been waiting for this. His weight is comforting, and you can feel the way he melts into your embrace, his tail tightening just slightly around you as if to say, mine.
You wrap your arms around him, holding him as close as you can, feeling the rise and fall of his chest against yours. “You okay now?” you ask quietly.
“Yeah,” he mutters, his voice softer now, almost vulnerable. “Just don’t pull that silent treatment crap again. Hate it.”
You chuckle softly, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “Deal.”
He grumbles something under his breath, but the way he snuggles even closer to you tells you that all is forgiven. You hold him tight, and in that moment, with him lying on top of you like a big, lazy cat, everything feels right again.
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Azul Ashengrotto
It’s been two long, dreadful days of silence between you and Azul. And for someone like him—someone who thrives on words, on negotiation, on control—it’s been absolutely agonizing. But his pride won’t let him be the first to crack. He’s stubborn like that.
And you? Well, you’re not much better.
But enough is enough. The tension between you both is suffocating, and while you’re both great at the silent treatment, it’s clear this little game of emotional chicken has to end. You’ve had enough of this cold war, and after mulling over how to make amends, you come up with the most absurd, ridiculous plan that just might work.
You stand outside the Mostro Lounge, a grin on your face, feeling more than a little proud of yourself. In your arms is the biggest, gaudiest, most unnecessary floral arrangement imaginable—an explosion of blues and purples that makes it look like you’ve picked half of the Coral Sea to present to Azul. There are seashells, ribbons, and even a tiny fake octopus plush dangling from the bouquet, like the cherry on top of your ridiculous masterpiece.
You march into the Lounge, catching the attention of several customers, who stop to stare as you make your way toward Azul’s office. Ignoring their looks, you throw the door open dramatically, the bouquet nearly tipping you over with its weight.
“Azul Ashengrotto!” you declare, bursting into his office. He’s sitting at his desk, and the second he sees you and the monstrosity of flowers in your arms, his eyes go wide. “I have come to beg for your forgiveness!”
He blinks, clearly caught off guard by the sheer audacity of the display. “W-What…?”
You march up to him, practically dropping the bouquet on his desk with a flourish. “These flowers represent my sincere regret for my terrible behavior during our argument. As you can see, they are over-the-top and completely unnecessary, much like my stubbornness.”
Azul stares at the bouquet, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. “Y-You…” He pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to compose himself, but there’s a telltale twitch at the corner of his lips that suggests he’s seconds away from laughing. “This is absurd.”
“I know,” you reply with a dramatic sigh, throwing a hand to your forehead like a tragic figure. “I have been plagued with guilt these past two days, Azul. I couldn’t bear another moment without your lovely company.”
He finally cracks, letting out a soft chuckle. “You’re insufferable.”
“Only for you, darling.” You lean over the desk, waggling your eyebrows, and he sighs, shaking his head. His laughter is light, but there’s a vulnerability in his eyes that pulls at your heartstrings. He may be smiling, but something’s still weighing on him.
With a small smile, Azul stands from his desk and walks around it until he’s standing right in front of you. He reaches for your hand, running his thumb over your knuckles before looking up at you with a much softer expression than before.
“I’ll admit… I wasn’t sure if you’d come,” he murmurs, his voice quieter now. “But I—” He pauses, his gaze dropping to the floor, as if debating whether or not to say the next words. “Did you… only come back because you thought you had to? Or do you still… want me?”
His voice cracks, just a little, but it’s enough to make your heart break. You blink in surprise, your breath catching at the rawness in his question.
“Azul…” you say softly, stepping closer, cupping his face gently in your hands. His eyes dart to yours, filled with a mix of uncertainty and hope, and it almost shatters you. “Of course I want you. Always.”
He swallows hard, and you can see the tears welling up in his eyes, ones he’s desperately trying to hide. But you won’t let him. You pull him close, wrapping your arms around him tightly, holding him as if you could shield him from the insecurities swirling in his mind.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper, pressing your lips to his temple. “I love you. I’ve always loved you since I met you, and I always will. No matter what.”
Azul clings to you, his arms wrapping around your waist, burying his face in your shoulder as his breath hitches. The tears come slowly, quietly, and you feel them soak into your shirt as he holds you like you’re his lifeline.
You kiss the top of his head, brushing your lips against his hair, then down to his tear-streaked cheeks. “I’m here,” you whisper between each kiss, your voice soft and soothing. “I’m right here. You’re not alone, Azul. You never were.”
He squeezes you tighter, as if afraid to let go, and you can feel the tension slowly leaving his body. You keep kissing away his tears, gentle and patient, letting him take all the time he needs. Eventually, his breathing steadies, and he pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes red-rimmed but filled with so much affection it makes your heart swell.
“You’re ridiculous,” he murmurs again, though there’s no bite to his words. He leans in, resting his forehead against yours, his lips brushing yours in the lightest of touches.
“Ridiculous, but yours” you reply, grinning, and he huffs a quiet laugh.
“Yes… you are,” he whispers, and this time, when he kisses you, it’s slow and tender, his lips soft but firm against yours, filled with all the love and relief he’s been holding back. You kiss him back with just as much affection, your arms wrapping around him as you both lose yourselves in the moment.
When he finally pulls away, you rest your forehead against his once more, both of you breathing a little heavier but feeling lighter than you have in days.
“No more arguments, okay?” you murmur, smiling softly.
“No promises,” he teases, but there’s a warmth in his voice now, a comfort that reassures you everything will be just fine.
And as you hold him close, with his head resting against your shoulder, you know it too. Everything will be just fine.
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Jamil Viper
After two long days of silence, the weight of the unresolved argument with Jamil has become unbearable. You’re done waiting for him to make the first move, especially knowing how he can be—cautious, calculating, always one step ahead but never one to make the first emotional leap. You miss him, and more importantly, you want to make things right, even if it means doing something absolutely ridiculous.
Which is how you find yourself standing outside his dorm, holding a tray of… pancakes. Not just any pancakes, though. These are heart shaped, perfectly arranged to spell out “I’M SORRY” in big, syrup-drenched letters. You’re not sure what possessed you to make pancakes an apology tool, but hey, everyone loves pancakes, right?
With a deep breath, you knock on his door. After a moment, Jamil opens it, his expression neutral, but the second he spots the tray, his eyes narrow in confusion.
“What... is this?”
You grin sheepishly, lifting the tray up like a peace offering. “An apology. In pancake form.”
Jamil blinks at the sight, clearly trying to process this ridiculous gesture. “You… made pancakes to say sorry?”
“Yes. And they’re shaped like hearts. See? I even used syrup to write it out so there’s no confusion.” You point to the pancakes proudly. “You can’t stay mad at me after this, right?”
For a moment, Jamil just stares at the tray, his expression unreadable, before a slow, reluctant smile tugs at the corner of his lips. He lets out a quiet huff of laughter, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Maybe, but I’m yours.”
He shakes his head, but there’s no denying the amusement in his eyes. “You could have just apologized with words, you know.”
“I could have,” you agree, “but where’s the fun in that?” You give him your best hopeful grin, offering him a plate. “Come on, at least eat one. They’re good! I even made them heart-shaped.”
Jamil sighs, taking the plate from you with a resigned smile. He grabs one of the heart-shaped pancakes and bites into it, giving you a side glance. “I suppose I can’t stay mad after this.”
You watch him closely, noticing the faint blush creeping onto his cheeks. You know him well enough to see through his calm facade. Beneath it all, he’s still embarrassed—mostly about the argument, but also because he let his temper get the best of him. You can tell that’s what’s really bothering him, even now.
“You know,” you say softly, stepping closer, “it’s okay that we argued.”
Jamil looks at you, his brows furrowing slightly. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, you don’t have to feel bad for losing your temper. You don’t always have to hold everything in around me. It’s okay to let it out, to be angry, to argue. We’re not always going to agree, and that’s fine.” You place your hand gently on his arm. “I’ll always come back and fix things, even if you feel like you can’t. That’s what we do, right?”
Jamil stares at you for a moment, his expression softening as your words sink in. There’s a vulnerability in his eyes, one that he rarely shows, and it breaks your heart just a little. Slowly, he sets the plate down and reaches for you, pulling you into his arms.
“You’re too forgiving,” he murmurs, resting his chin on top of your head.
“And you’re too hard on yourself,” you reply, wrapping your arms around his waist, hugging him tightly. “I meant it. You don’t have to be perfect with me, Jamil. You can be yourself, temper and all.”
He lets out a quiet sigh, his grip tightening slightly around you. “You’ll regret saying that one day.”
“I doubt it,” you tease, pulling back just enough to look up at him. “But if I do, I’ll make more food.”
That earns you a small, genuine laugh, and before you can say anything else, Jamil leans down, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. His lips linger for a moment, and when he pulls back, his expression is softer than you’ve seen in days.
“You’re serious about that promise?” he asks quietly, his hand cupping your cheek. “That no matter what, you’ll always come back?”
You nod, holding his gaze. “Always. Even if we argue, even if things get tough, I’ll be right here. I’ll come back and fix it, even if you can’t.”
Jamil’s eyes flicker with emotion, and before you know it, he’s kissing you—soft and slow at first, but there’s a desperation behind it, a need for reassurance. You kiss him back with the same intensity, your fingers threading through his hair as you pull him closer, trying to pour every bit of love and understanding into the kiss.
When you finally break apart, you’re both a little breathless, but the tension that had been there for the past two days is gone. He rests his forehead against yours, closing his eyes as he exhales slowly.
“I’ll hold you to that promise,” he whispers, and you can hear the relief in his voice. “Just don’t make me wait this long next time.”
You smile, reaching up to brush your lips against his again. “Deal. But only if you agree to eat more pancakes.”
He chuckles, pulling you back into his arms. “Fine. But only because they’re heart-shaped.”
And just like that, everything feels right again.
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Vil Schoenheit
After two days of tense silence between you and Vil, you know you need to go all out if you’re going to get him to forgive you. Apologies are one thing, but Vil is someone who values effort, refinement, and, of course, aesthetic appeal. You can’t just go in with flowers—no, you need to apologize in a way that matches his standards.
So naturally, you end up outside his dorm with a full-on spa set-up. A luxury at-home facial kit, to be precise, complete with rare, imported skincare masks and the finest essential oils. You may or may not have spent more on this than you’ve ever spent on yourself before, but desperate times call for desperate measures.
When Vil opens the door, his eyes immediately narrow at the sight of you holding a basket filled with beautifully arranged skincare products. “What… is this?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.
You smile, trying to play it cool. “An apology. In skincare form.” You thrust the basket toward him. “I thought maybe you’d like to, uh, pamper yourself and—look! I even got the organic lavender serum you were talking about last month!”
Vil stares at the basket, then at you, his lips pressing into a thin line. “You’re bribing me with skincare?”
“Technically, I’m apologizing with skincare,” you correct, flashing a sheepish grin. “I know I messed up, and I know you like to unwind with your beauty routine, so I thought this might help smooth things over. Literally and figuratively.”
For a long moment, he just stands there, gazing at you with an unreadable expression. You’re starting to think you might’ve miscalculated when, suddenly, a soft chuckle escapes him. “You are… absolutely ridiculous.”
You blink. “So… that’s a yes on the skincare?”
Vil shakes his head, but the faintest smile is playing on his lips. “You’re lucky you’re my sweet potato.”
Relief floods through you at his words. “I’ll take that as forgiveness, then.”
He sighs, taking the basket from you and setting it on the table. “Yes, I forgive you.” But even as he says it, there’s a hesitation in his eyes, a flicker of something deeper that makes you pause.
You step closer, gently reaching for his hand. “Are you still mad?”
Vil glances away for a moment, and you can see the tension in his posture. When he speaks, his voice is softer, more vulnerable than usual. “No, I’m not mad. But… I was afraid. So, so afraid that I’d pushed you away too. That I’d lost the one person who could tolerate me.”
Your heart clenches at his words. You can feel the weight of all the pressure he’s put on himself, the fear of losing someone important. Without thinking, you pull him into a tight embrace, wrapping your arms around him as if you could shield him from that fear. “Vil, listen to me. I’m not here because I tolerate you. I’m here because I love you.”
He stiffens in your arms for a moment, but slowly, he relaxes, his hands coming to rest on your back. “You say that now, but—”
You cut him off, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. “No, I mean it. Loving someone isn’t about tolerating them. It’s about being with them because you can’t imagine being anywhere else.” You brush a strand of hair from his face, your thumb gently tracing his cheek. “I’m here because you’re everything to me, Vil. Even if you’re mean sometimes. Even if we argue. I’m not going anywhere.”
His eyes soften at your words, and for a moment, he just looks at you, like he’s trying to memorize every inch of your face. Then, without a word, he leans in and presses a soft, tender kiss to your lips, his hands gently cradling your face. The kiss is slow, almost tentative, as if he’s still afraid you’ll disappear.
When he finally pulls away, you can see the unshed tears in his eyes, though he quickly blinks them away. “I don’t deserve you,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper.
“You do,” you whisper back, kissing him again, softer this time, lingering against his lips. “And I’m staying. Forever, even if you’re a diva sometimes.”
Vil lets out a soft, breathy laugh, resting his forehead against yours. “Forever?” he repeats, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
“Forever,” you promise, pulling him closer until his arms wrap around you fully. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, holding him tight, and for the first time in two days, everything feels right again.
And as he hugs you back, his grip a little tighter than before, you know he believes you.
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Idia Shroud
You stand outside of Idia’s room, holding a stack of video game cases in one hand and a ridiculously oversized plush of his favorite game character in the other. This might be the dumbest idea you’ve ever had, but it’s not like you could just waltz in and hand him a flower. Idia isn’t exactly the flowers-and-chocolates type. No, he needs something bigger. Geekier. Something so outrageous that it’ll leave him flustered beyond belief—something that only you would dare to pull off.
So here you are, wearing a custom-made cosplay of the main character from his favorite RPG. And if this doesn’t get him to forgive you, you don’t know what will.
You knock on his door, bracing yourself for what’s about to come next. At first, there’s no response, so you knock again, louder this time. After a few seconds, you hear shuffling inside and the telltale sound of something crashing to the floor—classic Idia. Finally, the door creaks open just enough for you to see a pair of glowing eyes peeking through the gap.
“What… are you wearing?” His voice is barely audible, and you can already tell he’s regretting opening the door.
With a dramatic flourish, you throw your arms wide and hold out the plush. “Oh, mighty Idia, Lord of the Underworld and Master of All Games, I come bearing offerings to beg for your forgiveness!” You strike a pose, holding the plush in front of you like it’s some kind of magical artifact.
Idia’s eyes go wide, and you swear his hair flares up a notch, turning into a bright pink. He blinks, clearly stunned, before his hand shoots out to yank you inside his room, slamming the door shut behind you.
“W-What are you doing?!” His voice cracks as he looks at you, then the plush, then the video games. His hair is now a brilliant shade of neon pink, a sign that he’s absolutely mortified. “Are you trying to kill me from embarrassment?!”
You can’t help but grin at how flustered he is. “Hey, I had to go big! You were ignoring me for two whole days!”
“I wasn’t ignoring you!” He fidgets, avoiding eye contact as his hair flickers pink. “I just… thought maybe you were tired of me or something…”
Your grin fades, replaced with surprise. “Tired of you? What are you talking about?”
Idia sinks into his gaming chair, nervously picking at the hem of his hoodie. “I just figured… you know, you’d realize you could do better. I mean, c’mon, I’m not exactly ‘catch of the year’ material. You’re always out there, living in the real world, and I’m… well, here. Playing games and… avoiding people.”
You take a deep breath, moving closer until you’re standing right in front of him. “Idia,” you say firmly, “if you seriously think I’d ever get tired of you, you’re out of your mind.”
He glances up at you, clearly unconvinced, so you kneel down, placing the plush in his lap before grabbing his hands. “You mean the world to me. I’d literally fight God in a 1v1 death match if it meant keeping you.”
His eyes go wide again, his hair flaring even brighter. “Y-You’d what?”
“I mean it,” you continue, squeezing his hands. “I love you, okay? Whether we’re sitting in here gaming or you’re talking to me about your latest game binge, or even when you’re convinced that you’re somehow not enough. You are enough, Idia. You’re more than enough.”
For a moment, he just stares at you, processing your words. Then, slowly, he leans forward, wrapping his arms around you in the most awkward, yet endearing hug imaginable. His face is buried in your shoulder, and you can feel the heat radiating from his hair as it flares even pinker. “You’re… too good for me,” he mumbles against your shoulder, his voice small.
You chuckle softly, wrapping your arms around him and holding him tight. “Nope. You’re stuck with me.”
He pulls back slightly, his eyes meeting yours, and you can see the vulnerability in them. “You really mean that?”
“Of course I do.” You lean in and press a soft kiss to his cheek, watching as his hair flickers with warmth. “I’m not going anywhere. Ever.”
Idia blinks a few times before he wraps his arms around you again, pulling you closer this time. “You’re ridiculous,” he mutters, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips. “But I guess… I forgive you. Not that I was really mad in the first place.”
You laugh, nuzzling into his neck. “Good. ‘Cause I missed you.”
His grip tightens around you, and for a moment, you both stay like that—wrapped up in each other, the tension of the past few days melting away. Finally, he pulls back, his eyes flicking toward his gaming setup. “So, uh… you wanna play something?”
You grin. “I thought you’d never ask.”
The two of you settle onto the floor, your back leaning against his chest as he hands you a controller. He wraps his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder, his hair still glowing a soft pink at the ends as the game starts up.
As you start playing, he presses a quick kiss to your temple. “Thanks. For, y’know… everything.”
You smile, leaning back into his warmth. “Anytime, Idia. Anytime.”
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Malleus Draconia
The wind howls as you trudge across the campus, dragging a massive stone gargoyle behind you. It weighs approximately as much as a baby elephant, and if anyone else saw you right now, they’d think you’d completely lost it. But you know exactly what you’re doing. You know the storm swirling above Night Raven College is because of him, and if there’s one thing Malleus Draconia loves more than you (or so you like to tease), it’s a well-crafted gargoyle.
So here you are, yanking the poor stone creature across the wet grass like you’re on some kind of mission. Your arms ache, your back is screaming, and you’re about to regret this grand gesture entirely—until you finally see the towering spires of Diasomnia in the distance. Almost there.
You pause for a second to catch your breath, leaning on the gargoyle like it’s an old friend. “You’d better work,” you mutter to it, “because if I have to drag you all the way back, I swear—”
A gust of wind nearly knocks you over, reminding you why you’re out here in the first place. You shake off the rain, grit your teeth, and resume your march toward Diasomnia’s courtyard.
Once you arrive, you park the gargoyle right underneath Malleus’s window. Perfect placement. You could be a medieval decorator at this point.
You pick up a few rocks from the ground, size them up in your hand, and start tossing them at his window, each one making a soft thunk against the glass. After the third throw, the window creaks open, and Malleus leans out, looking down with a mixture of curiosity and confusion. His eyes land on the gargoyle first, then on you, soaked to the bone and holding a rock like you’re about to reenact some ancient ritual.
“Huh?” is all he says, blinking at the sight before him.
“Malleus!” you shout dramatically, “Come down! I brought you a peace offering!”
He stares at the gargoyle, then at you, before disappearing from the window in a blur. Within seconds, he’s outside, standing in front of you, his expression unreadable but his eyes glowing faintly with that magical storm swirling around them. The weather above you rumbles ominously, thunder echoing across the sky.
“Malleus, I—”
Before you can even finish, he pulls you into a tight hug, wrapping his arms around you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. You freeze for a second, surprised, then feel his body trembling slightly against yours. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs into your hair, his voice low and filled with regret. “I didn’t mean for this to happen. The storm… I didn’t know it would affect you too.”
You realize then that his hands are shaking, gripping onto you like you’re his lifeline. Your heart softens, and you return the hug, pressing your face into his neck. “No, I’m sorry,” you mumble into his skin. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I should’ve come sooner… with or without the gargoyle.”
He lets out a shaky breath, and you feel the tension begin to fade from his body. Slowly, the storm above you starts to calm—the wind softens, the rain turns into a light drizzle, and the ominous clouds roll back as if they were never there to begin with.
You pull back just enough to look at him, his glowing eyes now gentle as they meet yours. “So, uh… do you like the gargoyle?” you ask, grinning a little.
Malleus chuckles softly, his eyes flicking to the stone statue behind you. “It’s… impressive. Though you didn’t have to go through such lengths.”
You shrug. “Well, it worked, didn’t it?”
He smiles, a genuine, relieved smile, and before you can say anything else, he tugs you back toward the castle. “Come inside,” he murmurs, his voice softer now. “You’re soaked, and you brought a guest. We should both dry off.”
The two of you (and your new gargoyle friend) make your way to his room, and as soon as the door closes behind you, Malleus pulls you onto his bed, wrapping himself around you like a possessive dragon hoarding his most precious treasure. His arms curl around your waist, and his body presses snugly against yours as he buries his face in your neck.
You stroke his hair gently, the warmth of his embrace chasing away the last bit of chill from the storm. “You know I love you, right?” you whisper, pressing a soft kiss to his temple.
“I know,” he replies quietly, his grip on you tightening slightly. “I just… sometimes, I worry.”
You pull back enough to kiss him properly, your lips brushing against his softly, reassuringly. “You don’t have to worry,” you murmur between kisses. “You mean everything to me. And if I have to drag a hundred gargoyles across campus to prove it, I will.”
Malleus chuckles against your lips, a low, warm sound that rumbles through his chest. “Please don’t. One is more than enough.”
You laugh softly, nuzzling into his neck as you both settle into a comfortable silence, the storm outside completely gone now, leaving only peace and quiet—and a very satisfied, if slightly confused, gargoyle standing guard outside.
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Rollo Flamme
The argument with Rollo had left a strange tension in the air, but knowing him, it was probably accompanied by a quiet storm of overthinking and guilt on his end. Rollo Flamme wasn’t one to voice his frustrations loudly, but his brooding could be as heavy as the weight of the world.
You figure it’s time to fix this, and, because you can’t just do anything the normal way, you decide on something special—something that’d be just the right mix of thoughtful and ridiculous to get his attention.
That’s why you find yourself in the Bell Tower, with a bundle of parchment paper in your arms. Not just any parchment, though—carefully selected handwritten notes of every philosophical thought, poetry piece, and historical fact you know Rollo’s obsessed with. You’ve even bound it like a book, with a dramatic title on the front: “An Ode to Perfection: Why Rollo is Always Right (Sometimes)”. It’s sarcastic enough to make him smile, but sincere enough to show you care.
Climbing the stairs of the bell tower is no small feat, but you’re determined. Once at the top, you glance out at the courtyard, where you know he’ll be, and with a deep breath, you shout, “ROLLO FLAMME, I HAVE CLIMBED THE HEIGHTS TO OFFER YOU THIS SYMBOL OF MY UNDYING RESPECT AND HUMILITY!”
Your voice echoes dramatically through the courtyard, and sure enough, you see Rollo down below, startled out of his brooding. He looks up, eyes widening at the sight of you, but it’s hard to tell if he’s more confused or horrified by the spectacle.
“I OFFER THIS—” you hold the makeshift book high, “—AS A PEACE TREATY BETWEEN US, THAT WE MAY NEVER AGAIN BE SEPARATED BY MERE MORTAL PETTINESS!”
Rollo stares for a long moment, before he suddenly breaks into a full-on sprint toward the tower. He’s halfway up the stairs before you know it, and when he reaches the top, his face is a mix of red embarrassment and panic.
“What are you doing?” he half-hisses, half-pleads, his cheeks flushed from both the running and the mortification of what you’ve just done in full view of the school. His voice lowers as he grabs your arm and tries to pull you away from the edge. “Are you insane? You could’ve fallen, and—”
“I wasn’t going to fall!” you grin, holding out the “book” triumphantly. “I came to apologize.”
He stares at the bundle of papers in your hand, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. “What… is this?”
“An apology. Written in beautiful calligraphy and filled with all the reasons why you’re wonderful, overthinking, but still somehow right most of the time.” You wiggle the book in front of his face. “It’s all for you.”
Rollo’s face, already red from exertion, turns an even deeper shade of crimson. His lips part, but no words come out for a second as he glares at the book, then at you. “You… climbed the bell tower. Yelled in front of everyone. And wrote a whole book to—”
“Get you to forgive me, yeah,” you finish for him, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I figured you’d appreciate the effort, Mr. Perfectionist.”
He looks at the book again, his hands shaky as he takes it from you, carefully cradling it as if it’s some kind of sacred artifact. His voice drops to a whisper. “You… didn’t have to go this far. I was never angry at you.”
You blink, surprised by his words. “What do you mean?”
Rollo glances down, his fingers curling tighter around the book. “I thought… maybe you’d realize you didn’t need someone like me. That you’d see how much of a burden I am.”
Your heart clenches at his words. Without hesitation, you step closer, reaching out to cup his cheek, forcing him to meet your gaze. “Rollo Flamme, if you think for a second that I’d leave you, you’re wrong. I’d get into a fistfight with God for you, and win.”
His eyes widen, and a nervous chuckle escapes his lips. “That’s… quite dramatic.”
“You inspire drama,” you reply with a grin, but then your tone softens, and you pull him into a tight hug. “You mean the world to me, Rollo. I don’t care about your overthinking, your brooding, or your perfectionism. I care about you.”
He tenses for a moment in your embrace, but then slowly, almost hesitantly, he wraps his arms around you in return. His hands still tremble slightly, but he buries his face in your shoulder, his grip tightening as if he’s afraid to let go. “I don’t deserve this,” he whispers, his voice barely audible. “I don’t deserve you.”
You shake your head, pressing a soft kiss to the side of his temple. “You deserve all of it. And more.”
For a moment, he just holds onto you, breathing deeply as if trying to calm his racing thoughts. Then, after a long silence, he pulls back slightly, his eyes glistening with unshed tears as he looks at you. “I… apologize as well. For doubting… for everything.”
You smile, brushing a stray lock of hair away from his face. “We’re both forgiven then.”
He nods, his face still flushed with embarrassment but now softened with relief. Without another word, he pulls you back into his room, where you spend the rest of the afternoon curled up together—Rollo resting his head against your shoulder, still clutching the book you made him, while you hold him close, reassuring him with soft kisses and whispered words of love.
The tower bells toll softly in the background, but for the two of you, there’s nothing but the warmth of each other’s presence.
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Masterlist
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pucksandpower · 9 months ago
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The Princess and the Piastri
Oscar Piastri x Princess of Denmark!Reader
Summary: in which you follow the time-honored tradition of Danish royalty falling in love with Australians
Note: dedicated to my favorite Dane, @struggling-with-drivers, who had to put up with me taking months to finally get the proper inspiration to write this
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“And if you’ll just follow me, Your Majesty and Your Royal Highnesses, I’ll take you to meet Kevin now,” the overly peppy Haas PR representative says as she gestures down the garage.
You force a smile, trying not to physically recoil as you take in the assault of garish Haas branding surrounding you. The white, red, and black color scheme is far too harsh on the eyes this early on a Saturday morning.
“Oh goody,” your younger sister Josephine says flatly, eliciting a snort from your younger brother Vincent.
Your mother, Queen Mary, shoots the two a reproachful look before turning back to the PR rep with a polished smile. “We’re very excited to meet Kevin and support Denmark’s driver.”
The PR rep beams and starts leading you further into the Haas garage, rattling on about Haas’ ambitious goals for the season as you pass mechanics in matching black Haas polos barely paying you any mind.
You internally groan, already dreading the interaction ahead. As the Crown Princess, you’ve long perfected the art of feigning interest, but this weekend has tested even your limits.
“And I know meeting the future queen will just make Kevin’s day!” The rep continues enthusiastically. “He was so honored when King Frederik reached out about you all coming this weekend to support him.”
You resist the urge to snort. More like the royal communications secretary reached out when they realized the Australian Grand Prix overlapped with your visit to your mother’s family in Australia. Nothing like conveniently timing a royal appearance to drum up positive press.
Your younger sister, Isabella, sidles up next to you, linking her arm through yours commiseratingly. At 16, she’s already mastered your family’s signature skill — conveying boredom through a pleasant facial expression.
“I have some fresh sets of Haas merch we would love for you to wear when you meet Kevin,” the rep says, holding out stacks of Haas emblazoned caps and shirts insistently. “It would mean so much to the team for you to showcase your support.”
You force a smile, already shaking your head. “Oh, I’m afraid we can’t wear anything with advertisements or sponsors per royal protocol.”
The PR rep’s face falls slightly before she plasters the smile back on. “Of course, Your Royal Highness, I understand. Shall we?”
She gestures further down the garage to where the Haas drivers are standing with team personnel. Kevin Magnussen spots your approach, nudging his teammate before they turn towards you.
As you reach them, Kevin steps forward first, offering a short bow. “Your Majesty, Your Royal Highnesses, it’s an honor to meet you.”
You offer your hand, which he takes, bowing again as he brushes his lips over your knuckles. “The honor is ours, Mr. Magnussen. Denmark is proud to have you representing us in Formula 1.”
Kevin smiles bashfully as you drop his hand. “Please, call me Kevin.”
You return his smile politely. “Very well, Kevin it is.”
The rest of your family exchanges pleasantries with Kevin before the PR rep guides you towards the pit wall to observe the action on track. Practice is getting underway, and you’re grateful for any chance to extract yourself from the oppressive Haas environment.
As you exit the garage into the sunlight, you breathe a sigh of relief. Two bodyguards fall smoothly in step behind you as you start down the paddock, taking in the buzz of activity.
You smile softly, the excitement infectious despite your general disinterest in motorsports. There’s something about the frenetic energy at a race that gets your blood pumping.
Your eyes light up as you spot the unmistakable papaya motorhome of McLaren up ahead. Now that’s a team you can get behind. Cool retro appeal and a driver line-up you’ve heard is full of young talent — what’s not to love?
You pick up your pace, eager to get a closer look at the iconic livery, when suddenly you collide headlong into a firm, muscular body.
You gasp as strong arms wrap around you, stopping your momentum abruptly. Your hands brace against a solid chest as you glance up, prepared to stammer out an apology.
But the words die on your lips as you find yourself staring into warm brown eyes set in an unfairly handsome face. The eyes widen in surprise, clearly not having expected the Crown Princess of Denmark to go careening into his arms.
His mouth opens, no doubt to ask if you’re okay, but you stand frozen as the hustle of the paddock fades into background noise.
In this moment, it’s just you and this beautiful stranger. A stranger who hasn’t let go of you yet, one hand still pressed gently against your back.
You know you should pull away, apologize for your clumsiness and be on your way. But something about his eyes makes you want to stay right here, wrapped safely in his arms.
You stand frozen, lost in the stranger’s mesmerizing brown eyes. You vaguely register your bodyguards stepping forward on either side of you.
“Your Royal Highness, are you alright?” Henrik, your lead bodyguard, asks urgently.
You blink, the spell broken as Henrik’s hand lands on your shoulder, gently tugging you back.
The stranger’s eyes widen further as understanding seems to dawn. His eyes flick over the royal crest on Henrik’s suit jacket before moving back to your face, a hint of panic in his gaze.
Before you can offer any reassurance, a voice calls out sharply from behind the man.
“Oscar! What are you doing, mate? We’ve got the strategy briefing in five!”
You watch as the man — Oscar, apparently — glances reluctantly over his shoulder to where a thin harried man bearing a McLaren team pass stands tapping his foot impatiently.
Oscar’s hands slip from your waist as he takes a small step back. “Sorry, I—”
But whatever he was going to say gets lost as the man strides forward, clapping a firm hand on Oscar’s shoulder.
“C’mon, let’s go. No time for chatting up fans when we’ve got quali coming up.”
Oscar allows himself to be steered away, casting one last, almost wistful look back at you before the brisk man hustles him around the corner.
You stare after them for a long moment before Henrik’s voice breaks through your daze once more.
“Your Highness, are you injured at all? Shall I call for a medic?”
You blink, shaking your head quickly as heat floods your cheeks. Honestly, they must think you a simpleton, standing here gaping after a man you collided with.
“No, no, I’m fine,” you assure him quickly. “Just a bit clumsy this morning it seems.”
You force out a breathy laugh, hoping your flaming cheeks can be explained away as embarrassment from your blunder.
Henrik eyes you skeptically for a moment before nodding. “Very well. But please be more careful, Your Highness. Next time we may not be so lucky.”
You nod contritely before allowing Henrik to usher you back towards the Haas garage, your other bodyguard falling smoothly back in step behind you.
As you near the garage, you spot your family gathered by the pit wall, watching as a group of track marshals examines a particularly suspicious drain cover. Your younger siblings all turn as one to look at you, eerily in sync.
The knowing looks on their faces make you shudder. Of the many curses of growing up in a big family, the inability to keep secrets ranks near the top. You’re sure they’ll have the truth out of you before long.
“Nice of you to join us, Y/N,” your younger brother Christian remarks wryly as you reach them. “Have a nice stroll?”
You resist the urge to stick your tongue out at him. Barely.
“Lovely, thank you,” you reply breezily instead, moving to stand between your mother and Isabella.
You determinedly avoid meeting any of your siblings’ gazes, focusing on the timing sheets instead. But you can feel their curious stares boring into you.
“You look a bit flushed, darling. Are you feeling quite alright?” Your mother murmurs, pressing a hand to your forehead in concern.
“Just peachy!” You chirp in response, internally cringing at the unnatural brightness in your tone.
From your other side, Isabella leans in, voice sly. “You do seem rather … distracted. Anything you want to share with the class?”
You glance at her sharply, taking in her knowing smirk. You narrow your eyes in warning, but Isabella just smiles innocently.
“Oh leave your sister be,” your mother chides. “I’m sure Y/N is just overwhelmed by the excitement of experiencing her first Grand Prix.”
You make a noncommittal noise of agreement, turning your focus back to the timing sheets. Isabella elbows you subtly and you pointedly ignore her, keeping your gaze fixed ahead.
You’re immensely thankful when the Haas PR rep appears again, ushering you towards the back to “give the team space to prepare for qualifying,” and drawing your family’s attention away from you.
You trail after your family to the cordoned off hospitality area, gratefully accepting a bottle of water from the proffered cooler.
As the mechanics spring into action around you, Isabella sidles up next to you again, playful smile still in place.
“Soooo,” she drawls, bumping your shoulder with hers. “Who’s got you all flustered then?”
You nearly choke on your water, whipping your head to face her. “What? No one! I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Even to your own ears, the denial sounds feeble. Isabella merely arches one perfect brow, clearly not buying it.
You huff out a breath, scanning the room quickly to ensure none of your other family members are in earshot before hissing under your breath. “I may have accidentally careened into a McLaren crew member during my walk.”
Isabella’s grin turns positively feline. “Oh, do tell ...”
“There’s nothing to tell!” you insist, face flaming once more. “We collided and his reflexes were quick enough to catch me before I fell. That’s all.”
“Mmhmm, I’m sure that blush is just because you’re so very embarrassed by your clumsiness and nothing else.”
You scowl and take a long swig of your water.
Isabella chuckles. “So was this mystery McLaren man at least handsome?”
You nearly choke again. “Isabella!” You admonish under your breath.
She holds up both hands innocently, still grinning. “What? It’s a perfectly reasonable question. No judgment here, promise.”
You narrow your eyes, considering her carefully. Before you can think better of it, you mutter reluctantly, “He … wasn’t entirely unfortunate looking.”
“Aha!” Isabella crows triumphantly. “I knew it!”
You shush her frantically, glancing around to make sure her outburst didn’t draw any unwanted attention.
“Do you know his name at least?” Isabella asks, slightly more quietly this time.
You hesitate before admitting, "... Oscar, I think. His colleague called him that.”
Isabella hums thoughtfully. “Very mysterious ...”
You roll your eyes, shoving her shoulder. “Oh stop it. Can we please just drop this?”
“Of course, of course,” Isabella relents, though the impish twinkle remains in her eye.
You’re prevented from further interrogation by the start of qualifying. You rejoin your family, studiously keeping your gaze away from your siblings’ knowing looks.
You determinedly put the morning’s events from your mind, focusing on Kevin’s qualifying efforts. Though you can’t help the occasional wish that the handsome stranger from McLaren — Oscar — was the one flying around the track instead.
The session proceeds fairly predictably, with the top teams claiming the top spots and the backmarkers bringing up the rear.
As Kevin pulls into the garage after qualifying 17th, you paste on an encouraging smile.
“Excellent job out there, Kevin! You and the team should be very proud.”
Kevin smiles wryly back at you. “You’re too kind, Your Highness. But I think we all know 17th is nothing to celebrate for a team with our aspirations.”
You nod sympathetically. “Of course, there’s always room for improvement. But you showed admirable pace given the circumstances.”
Kevin inclines his head gratefully at your measured response. “You have a bright future ahead as queen with such judicious words.”
You thank him sincerely for the compliment before your family takes their leave, the day’s obligations finally complete.
As you all pile into the waiting cars, Isabella leans over and whispers, “Do you think Kevin would’ve qualified higher if Haas wasn’t so slow?”
You have to smother your snort of laughter into your hand.
“Without question,” you whisper back. “I think a snail could qualify ahead of Haas at this point.”
Isabella dissolves into muffled giggles next to you as the cars pull away from the circuit, leaving the chaotic world of Formula 1 behind. At least until tomorrow.
***
You stare contemplatively out the car window as the city lights of Melbourne streak by in the darkness. Despite your family’s teasing, you can’t seem to remove a certain McLaren crew member from your thoughts.
Oscar. Even his name sends a flutter through your stomach.
You know it’s foolish to get caught up over a brief collision with a stranger. And yet … those eyes. You can’t shake the connection you felt in that moment, however fleeting.
The car slows to a stop outside your hotel and you make a split-second decision. Turning to your mother, you adopt your most winsome tone.
“Mor, I was hoping you might allow me to go out for the evening. To experience the Melbourne nightlife before we depart.”
Your mother’s eyebrows raise in surprise. “Go out? Alone?”
You rush to reassure her. “Oh no, I’ll take Henrik and Simone with me of course. I would just love the chance to explore the city a bit, like a normal young woman.”
You see a flash of understanding on your mother’s face and press your advantage. “In fact, didn’t you and Far meet during a pub crawl?”
Pink stains your mother’s cheeks but her lips quirk up. “I suppose we did. But those were different times ...”
“Please Mor?” You plead. “When will I have a chance like this again?”
Your mother regards you shrewdly for a long moment before sighing. “Oh very well. But Henrik and Simone must accompany you at all times. And I want you back by midnight at the latest.”
You beam, leaning over to smack a kiss on her cheek. “Thank you, thank you! I promise I’ll stay safe.”
As you exit the car, your younger brother Christian pipes up from behind you. “Hey, can I come too?”
“Absolutely not,” your mother shuts him down swiftly, leveling a quelling look at his crestfallen face.
You hide a smile as you sweep into the hotel to change, giddiness rising in your chest. A night out is just what you need to clear your head from a certain handsome distraction.
An hour later you slide into the backseat of one of the discreet royal security vehicles, now wearing jeans, heels, and a silky camisole, your long hair spilling over your shoulders.
Henrik raises his eyebrows at your outfit but doesn’t comment as he pulls away from the hotel, heading for the club district.
When you arrive, the bouncer’s eyes widen at the royal crests adorning your bodyguards’ suits. But a few quick words from Henrik and you’re granted access without a fuss.
The heavy beat of the music washes over you as you enter the fashionable club. Bright lights flash hypnotically over the crowded dance floor. You glance back at Henrik and Simone stationed near the entrance, allowing the music to carry you further inside.
You weave your way to the bar, excitement simmering in your veins. Tonight you’re just Y/N, anonymous clubgoer. No titles, no expectations, no watching eyes judging your every move.
Well, except for your bodyguards of course. But they’re discreet enough to give you space.
You’re so lost in the heady freedom of anonymity that you don’t notice the nearby figure doing a double take. But as you step up to the bar, waiting to order, a now familiar voice sounds behind you.
“Y-Your Highness!” He stammers, nearly dropping the drinks he just received. “I mean, Princess, uh Crown Princess? Sorry, I’m not actually sure—”
You whirl around to see Oscar standing there, looking devastatingly handsome in a button-down and jeans.
“Oscar!” You gasp, a smile breaking across your face unbidden. “What are you doing here?”
Pink stains Oscar’s tanned cheeks. “Ah, well my mates from the team wanted to go out and blow off some steam before the race tomorrow.” He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “But what brings Denmark’s future queen out to the clubs?”
You shrug lightly, grin turning impish. “Can’t a girl just want to dance and have some fun?”
Oscar’s eyes gleam with understanding. “Suppose she can. Well then, may I get you a drink … er ...”
He trails off, clearly unsure how to address you in this unusual context.
You take pity on him and lean in conspiratorially. “Tonight, I’m just Y/N. No need for fancy titles.”
Relief flashes across Oscar’s face and he smiles. “Y/N it is.”
Soon you’ve got drinks in hand and are chatting easily at a tall table beside the dance floor. Oscar is witty and charming, and laughs freely at your sarcastic commentary about Formula 1.
You’re amazed by how at ease you feel in his presence, the crown’s ever-present weight lifted from your shoulders. With Oscar, you’re not an heiress apparent, but just a girl talking to a boy she really really likes.
When he asks what you think of McLaren, you perk up eagerly. “Oh yes, what is it exactly that you do there? Are you an engineer or mechanic of some sort?”
Oscar’s eyes shutter briefly and he clears his throat. “Ah, something like that. Mostly just tinkering to try and make the car faster.”
He steers the conversation to safer waters before you can inquire further. You make a mental note to look up the full McLaren staff list later and figure out his specific role.
The night flies by in a blur of laughter and stolen glances. Oscar gamely joins you on the dance floor, his hands resting lightly on your waist as you sway together.
When at last you note the time, disappointment sinks heavy in your gut. Oscar’s face mirrors your own regret as he insists on walking you to meet your bodyguards.
Outside the club, you turn to him reluctantly. “I wish this didn’t have to end. Thank you for a wonderful evening.”
Oscar shuffles his feet, looking uncharacteristically uncertain. “Would … would you want to meet up again tomorrow? Maybe outside the McLaren garage before the race?”
Your face lights up. “I’d love that.” Overcome by boldness, you lean in and brush a feather-light kiss to his cheek.
Oscar’s hand drifts up to his cheek, eyes dazed. “Brilliant. I’ll see you tomorrow then.”
You bid him goodnight before allowing Henrik and Simone to usher you into the waiting car, unable to keep the giddy smile from your face the entire ride back.
***
The next morning, you awake with a smile stretching across your face. The memory of Oscar’s brown eyes gazing into yours as you swayed together in the club fills you with warmth.
As you dress and prepare to head to the circuit, an idea strikes. There’s no rule saying you have to spend the entire pre-race hours cooped up in the Haas garage after all.
You slip into the hotel dining room, grabbing a piece of toast. “I’m afraid the petrol fumes in the garage were giving me a dreadful headache yesterday. I think I’ll take a walk around the paddock this morning for some fresh air before the race.”
Your mother’s brows furrow in concern. “Oh dear, that won’t do at all! Yes, a nice walk sounds wise.”
You thank her profusely on your way out, hiding your triumphant smile until the door closes behind you. Phase one complete.
You hold yourself back from rushing through the paddock once at the circuit, maintaining a sedate royal pace. But inside, excitement bubbles through your veins at the thought of seeing Oscar again.
As you make your way to the McLaren garage, your steps falter at the larger-than-life image emblazoned on the wall. Oscar beams back at you, brown hair just barely poking out from under his McLaren cap. The block letters beside the photo proclaim OSCAR PIASTRI #81.
You press a hand to your mouth to smother your gasp. Oscar is a driver? Your Oscar?
Speak of the devil, you spot him emerging from the garage, already dressed in fireproofs with his race suit half hanging around his waist. His face lights up when he sees you, lips curving into that boyish grin that makes your knees weak.
“Good morning!” He chirps, moving in for a brief hug.
You return the hug distractedly, still grappling with this new discovery. As you pull back, you arch a questioning brow at him.
“So … you’re a driver. Funny, I don’t recall you mentioning that last night.”
Pink stains Oscar’s cheeks and he rubs the back of his neck. “Ah, right. I may have omitted certain details about my role here.” His eyes turn pleading. “I hope you can forgive me? I just liked talking to someone who didn’t already know everything about me for once.”
You regard him thoughtfully before allowing a teasing grin to emerge. “Well, I suppose I can understand the appeal of a fresh slate. And it’s not as if I was fully forthcoming either.”
Oscar’s shoulders sag in relief. “Too right. Quite the pair we make, Princess.” His eyes dance playfully.
You open your mouth to respond but are interrupted by a shout from the garage. “Oscar! Debrief in two minutes, let’s go!”
Oscar smiles apologetically. “Duty calls. But let’s continue this later?”
At your nod, he squeezes your hand briefly before jogging back inside. You make your way back to Haas, butterflies still fluttering wildly.
Once the race starts, you have to work to restrain your enthusiasm as Oscar quickly moves up the field. More than once, you catch your lips curving upward as he deftly overtakes a competitor, and have to rearrange them into careful neutrality.
A discreet glance sideways shows your family members focused intently on Kevin’s efforts in the Haas. You allow yourself a small smile. Watching Oscar race with no one the wiser feels like getting away with something deliciously secretive.
The checkered flag finally waves after 58 intense laps. Your heart leaps as the McLaren crew begins celebrating Oscar’s podium finish. You have to force yourself not to join the applause as he climbs from his car, settling for clasping your hands tightly to contain your glee.
Meanwhile, Kevin finishes in 18th position while his teammate Nico suffered a mechanical retirement. You paste on an encouraging smile, tamping down your excitement over Oscar’s podium.
“Nice recovery there at the end, Kevin. Surely the team can build on this result in the next race.”
Privately, you think Haas would be lucky to keep a wheel attached long enough to make it to the end of a full race, let alone fight for points. But you keep that thought to yourself for now.
As your family rises to congratulate a dejected Kevin on completing the race, Isabella leans in close to whisper in your ear. “Not a great showing, I dare say. Perhaps you are considering transferring allegiance to a certain papaya team instead?”
You press your lips together to contain your smile. Trust Isabella to have guessed your conflicted loyalties.
“Indeed,” you murmur back. “One must be open to supporting all teams in the spirit of global unity.”
Isabella’s eyes dance with mirth, but she simply links her arm through yours, giving a sage nod. “Spoken like a true diplomat.”
As the celebrations kick off for Oscar’s first home race podium, you sneak glances over your shoulder, hoping for another glimpse of him through the chaos.
Someday soon, perhaps you’ll be able to cheer for him openly. For now, you hold the image of his smiling face in your mind as you reluctantly follow your family back out of the disappointing Haas garage.
If nothing else, this surprise-filled weekend has shown you that your heart will not be so easily commanded. And it seems to have rather fixated itself on a certain charismatic McLaren driver.
***
You hover near the paddock exit, half hoping to catch one last glimpse of Oscar before your departure. Your family made their polite farewells to the Haas team and you seized the opportunity to slip away.
You’ve just resigned yourself to missing him when hurried footsteps sound behind you.
“Princess! Wait up!”
You whirl around to see Oscar jogging towards you, face freshly showered but still flushed with elation. He draws up before you, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet.
“I’m so glad I caught you before I had to leave,” you smile brightly. “I had to come say a proper congratulations for your podium first!”
Oscar ducks his head bashfully even as his eyes shine. “And, well, I hoped maybe you were cheering me on out there today?”
Heat floods your cheeks as you let out an embarrassed laugh. “You know I can’t answer that. But I will say you drove brilliantly and I’m so pleased for your result.”
Oscar’s grin widens, clearly reading between the lines of your diplomatic answer.
“Well I’m glad I could end your weekend on a high note after the woeful introduction to Formula 1 from Haas.”
You groan good-naturedly. “Ugh yes, I think Kevin was grateful when I finally made myself scarce from that garage of doom.”
Oscar chuckles before his expression turns wistful. “I suppose this means you’ll be heading back to Denmark now though?”
You shake your head, curls spilling over your shoulders. “Oh no, we’re spending a few more weeks visiting my mother’s family in Tasmania first.”
At Oscar’s look of surprise, you elaborate, “My mother is originally Australian. Her family is from Tasmania.”
Understanding dawns on Oscar’s face. “Well how about that! Danish royalty certainly seems to have a taste for us Aussies.” He winks playfully.
Heat blooms in your cheeks but you rally to return his banter. “I suppose we do. Though from what I hear, McLaren seemed rather keen on Danes once upon a time as well.”
A rather in-depth Google search earlier that day taught you that Kevin Magnussen once raced for the papaya team. You rather wish he never left, if only so you did not have to suffer through the tedium of being in the Haas garage for the past two days.
Oscar barks out a laugh, eyes dancing with mirth. “Too right, you’ve got me there.” His laughter fades to a soft smile. “But I can’t say I blame my predecessors in the slightest.”
The tender look in his eyes makes your breath catch. Before you lose your nerve, you hurriedly dig out your phone.
“I should give you my number. So we can keep in touch.”
Oscar’s face lights up as he scrambles for his own phone. You quickly swap devices, inputting your contact info and trying not to notice how his name looks lighting up your screen.
Once you’ve traded phones again, an awkward silence descends. You clutch your phone tightly, unsure how to say goodbye when this thing between you feels so new and delicate.
Oscar clears his throat, scuffing his shoe against the pavement. “Well, I suppose I should let you get on your way ...”
“Right, yes ...” You trail off, searching for the right words. Because as silly as it sounds, the thought of not seeing Oscar’s smile for who knows how long makes your chest unexpectedly tight.
Acting on impulse, you step forward to wrap your arms around his shoulders in a hug. Oscar’s arms immediately curl around your back, clutching you close.
You breathe him in, imprinting this moment in your memory. The noise of the paddock fades away until it’s just this — the two of you suspended in time.
Far too soon, Oscar pulls back reluctantly. His eyes search your face like he’s trying to memorize it.
“Travel safely, Princess. I’ll see you soon.” His voice holds a promise.
You nod, not trusting your voice. With a final squeeze of his hand, you turn and walk steadily towards the exit. Your bodyguards fall in step behind you.
You don’t look back, though you can feel Oscar’s gaze on you until you disappear from view. As your car pulls away, you finally chance a glance backwards, just in time to see Oscar still watching wistfully after you.
Your breath escapes in a shaky exhale and you clutch your phone like a lifeline. Everywhere else suddenly feels much too far away.
***
You collapse back onto your bed, phone already pressed to your ear before the first ring even finishes. Oscar picks up on the second, voice warm and teasing as always.
“Eager today, are we Princess?”
You roll your eyes even as your lips quirk up. “Oh hush, you know you wait just as anxiously for my calls.”
Oscar’s answering chuckle makes your heart skip a beat. “Guilty. I’ll gladly admit your voice is the highlight of my day.”
Warmth floods your cheeks as you get comfortable against the pillows. “Flatterer. Now distract me from the drudgery of royal life with some F1 gossip. How go things in the glamorous world of racing?”
“Oh where to even start!” Oscar launches eagerly into the latest paddock drama — teammate clashes, contract disputes, and salacious hookups. You listen eagerly, living vicariously through his tales.
“Meanwhile Lando has been his usual chaos gremlin self ...” Oscar continues, recounting his teammate’s latest antics.
You laugh until your sides ache, picturing the outrageous scenes. “Honestly, I don’t know how McLaren copes with you two!”
“We keep things lively, that’s for sure,” Oscar agrees, audibly grinning. “Although we’d love an even livelier paddock with a certain Danish princess around again ...”
He leaves the statement hanging tentatively. You chew your lip, heart racing as you gather your courage.
“Funny you should mention that … I’ve been thinking lately that it would be nice to attend a race again soon.”
Oscar’s sharp inhale crackles through the phone. “Really? You’d come to another race?” His voice turns playful. “Any particular reason for the sudden interest?”
You laugh, hoping he can’t hear the breathlessness in it. “Oh you know, miss the atmosphere, the excitement ...” You pause before adding softly, “Getting to see a certain Aussie driver again.”
Oscar makes a pleased little noise that sends butterflies swirling wildly. “Well I’m sure that driver would be absolutely thrilled to see your face in the paddock again.”
Warmth spreads through your chest, emboldening you further. “As it happens, my godmother is the Queen of Belgium. So it should be easy enough to arrange an appearance at the Belgian Grand Prix.”
“That’s perfect!” Oscar enthuses. “Spa is one of my favorite circuits too. Say you’ll be there?”
His boyish eagerness melts your heart. “I’ll speak to our communications secretary this week. I’m sure they can make it happen.”
“Brilliant.” The tender hope in Oscar’s voice finds its mirror in your own thudding heart. A new chapter is beginning.
You chat longer about lighter topics until Oscar reluctantly says he should get some rest before practice tomorrow.
“I suppose I should let you go then ...” He trails off reluctantly, neither wanting to be the one to end the call.
You clutch the phone tighter, casting wildly for an excuse to keep him on the line. “Wait, you haven’t told me what ridiculous outfit Lando is wearing today!”
Oscar huffs out a laugh. “Trust me, words don’t do justice to the monstrosity. I’ll send pictures so you can experience it fully.”
“It’s a deal.” You know you’re only delaying the inevitable, but the thought of hanging up is unbearable.
Just then, the bedroom door crashes open and your younger brother Christian strolls in.
“Hey Y/N, Mor wants to know if … is that Oscar you’re talking to?” He raises his eyebrows knowingly.
You frantically shoo him away but Christian swoops in and plucks the phone from your hand. “Sorry mate, gotta steal my sister back. Royal duties call and all that. But great chatting, bye now!”
Before you can wrestle the phone away, Christian ends the call with a cheeky grin.
You smack his shoulder indignantly. “You little brat! I was right in the middle of important diplomatic relations!”
Christian just cackles gleefully. “Oh yeah, I could tell. Your dopey romantic sighing was a big clue.” He laughs harder at your outraged stammers.
“Just you wait until you’re madly pining over someone, I’ll get my revenge,” you threaten.
But inside, not even Christian’s teasing can diminish your euphoria. The promise of seeing Oscar again soon eclipses all else.
***
Your heels click rapidly over the pavement as you sweep through the Spa paddock gates. Bodyguards trail discreetly behind but you barely notice them, eyes scanning the bustling crowd for one face.
And then you see him. Oscar stands just ahead, back turned as he bounces on his toes, head swiveling in search of you.
Joy bubbles up in your chest. You break into a run, calling his name. “Oscar!”
He whips around, eyes lighting up when they land on you. His arms open wide and you launch yourself into them with a breathless laugh.
Strong hands grip your waist, swinging you in an enthusiastic circle before setting you back on your feet. Neither of you make any move to step back, standing tangled together.
“You came,” Oscar murmurs, voice awed like he can’t quite believe you’re real.
You lean into him, his warmth chasing away the months spent missing him. “Of course. After all, I made a promise to a certain driver.”
Oscar’s answering smile outshines the sun. Reluctantly, he loosens his hold, keeping one hand entwined with yours.
“Well then, allow me to escort you inside properly.” He presses a quick kiss to your knuckles before leading you towards the paddock entrance.
After scanning your VIP guest pass, courtesy of Oscar, you pass through security hand-in-hand, giddy smiles fixed in place.
The paddock buzzes with activity but you only have eyes for Oscar as he guides you straight to the McLaren garage.
Mechanics glance up curiously as you enter behind Oscar. He squeezes your hand, leaning in close.
“Ready to meet the team, Princess?” At your answering nod, he steers you confidently through the organized chaos.
You run a suddenly nervous hand over your hair as Oscar approaches a genial looking man conversing with a slimmer bearded man.
“Zak, Andrea — there’s someone special I want you both to meet.”
The two men turn, eyebrows raising in polite expectation. Oscar gently tugs you forward.
“This is Crown Princess Y/N of Denmark. Y/N, meet Zak Brown, our CEO, and Andrea Stella, team principal.”
Zak’s eyebrows climb higher but he recovers smoothly, extending a hand. “Your Royal Highness, welcome. We’re honored to host you in our garage.”
You return his firm handshake. “The honor is mine, thank you. Your team has been so welcoming.”
After greeting Andrea as well, Oscar steers you further inside just as a mop of fluffy brown hair zooms by.
“Oscar, mate! There you are, I’ve been ...” The words die on his lips as he spots you, mouth falling open comically. His eyes dart between you and Oscar rapidly.
“Lando, come meet the princess!” Oscar calls out cheekily.
Lando snaps his jaw shut, looking utterly bewildered but offering you a hasty bow. “Your Highness! I mean, lovely to meet you, really.”
Amusement flickers through you at his gobsmacked expression. Oscar shoots you a playful wink over Lando’s shoulder as he scrambles to regain composure.
“But, wait.” Lando glances between you again in confusion. “You mean all those times you cooed ’good morning, Princess’ over the phone … you were talking to an actual princess!”
Oscar bursts out laughing while you press a hand to your mouth to smother your own giggles. Lando flushes but eventually joins in your laughter.
After extracting a promise to explain everything later, Oscar steers you away so they can focus on final prep.
“I’ll make sure you’re taken care of during the race before I have to suit up,” he promises, getting you settled with refreshments.
The anticipation builds until finally the cars are screaming away from the grid in a blur of color. Your nails dig into your palms as positions shuffle wildly on the first lap.
But soon Oscar settles into a rhythm, battling wheel to wheel with Lewis Hamilton. You’re on your feet with every overtake, yelling yourself hoarse.
The final laps loom with Oscar still fighting for a podium finish. But suddenly disaster strikes for the leaders. Max Verstappen and Charles Leclerc collide attempting to lap a backmarker on the Kemmel Straight.
You watch in disbelief as both the Red Bull and Ferrari limp to a stop off the track, clearing the path for Oscar to sweep through into the lead.
The McLaren garage roars in elation as Oscar maintains the gap and finally, finally crosses the line to claim his maiden Grand Prix win.
Chaos erupts as a stampede of papaya uniforms makes its way towards parc fermé but Oscar’s performance coach Kim grasps your arm urgently. “Quickly, he’ll want you there for this!”
Kim rushes you down towards the area where Oscar guides his car to a stop. He vaults out, pumping both fists and clambering atop the chassis in triumph.
Your breath catches at the sight of his windswept hair and exultant grin. As McLaren swarms Oscar, his gaze catches on you at the barrier, pressed close by Kim.
In two strides Oscar is right there, joy and adrenaline shining in his eyes. His hand cups your cheek … and then his lips find yours.
The roar around you fades away. For one perfect, suspended moment, your world narrows down to Oscar’s lips slanted over yours, his fingers tangled in your hair.
When you break apart, eyes flying open, the full reality crashes back in. But with Oscar’s breathless laugh warming your skin, the rest of the world no longer matters.
***
You pace the plush hotel carpet, nerves jangling as you await the imminent video call with your family. Since Oscar’s podium kiss yesterday, you’ve been hyper aware of your phone blowing up with notifications but too anxious to check them.
A brisk knock precedes your royal secretary poking his head in. “The call is ready whenever you are, Your Highness.”
Squaring your shoulders, you take a seat at the polished desk as the large monitor springs to life. Your family’s faces fill the screen, ranging from sympathetic (Isabella) to highly amused (Christian).
Before you can get a word in, the royal PR advisors elbow into view, expressions like thunderclouds.
“Your Royal Highness, might we have a word about this … incident from the race?” The chief advisor’s tone drips disapproval.
Ice trickles down your spine but you keep your face neutral. “Of course.”
“I trust you’ve seen the coverage?” At your hesitant nod, the advisor continues, “Then you understand what an embarrassment this is, how damaging to the dignity of the crown.”
You clench your jaw, anger rising. But he barrels on, “Such scandalous behavior, and broadcast globally! You must see how this recklessness reflects poorly on Denmark.”
The rest of the advisors murmur emphatic agreement. Your cheeks burn in humiliation even as you desperately blink back furious tears.
“The narrative has already spiraled out of control. Such associations cannot be tolerated from the future queen.”
The scorn in his tone ignites your temper. But before you can spit out a scathing retort, a commanding voice interrupts.
“Enough!” Your father’s stern face fills the screen, pinning the advisors with an icy glare. They recoil, mouths snapping shut.
Satisfied, your father turns to you, expression softening. “My dear, you’ve done nothing wrong. What matters most is that you’re happy.”
Hope flickers tentatively inside you as the advisors gape. But your father silences them with another quelling look.
“I know a thing or two about duty versus matters of the heart.” His eyes soften, finding your mother. “I’ll not see my daughter denied the same chance at love that brought me such joy.”
Your mother smiles gently, affection shining through the screen. On her other side, Isabella squeezes her shoulder in solidarity.
The fight drains from the advisors under your father’s resolute gaze. With a few grumbled concessions, they disconnect from the call.
Your muscles uncoil in relief as your attention returns fully to your family. Isabella waggles her eyebrows.
“Soooo … looks like someone had an eventful race!”
Heat floods your cheeks but you can’t suppress a giddy smile. “It just sort of happened in the heat of the moment.”
“This Oscar must be something special,” your mother remarks kindly.
Your insides turn to mush at the memory of Oscar’s kiss. “He really is. I can’t explain it, but it feels … right with him.”
Your normally stoic mother looks touched. “Then he has my blessing.”
On her other side, Christian smirks. “Yeah, yeah, we get it, you’re in looooove.” He exaggerates a swoon, cackling when you stick your tongue out at him.
“Hush dear, let your sister be happy,” your mother chides, swatting his shoulder before smiling indulgently. “Reminds me of another young prince long ago, besotted with an Australian girl ...”
Your father laughs, eyes crinkling. “Too right, darling. Clearly our Y/N takes after me.” He winks at you. “We Danes do seem to have a weakness for Aussies.”
You groan good-naturedly at the gentle teasing, buoyed by your family’s support. With their love behind you, the rest no longer matters.
You conclude the call with hugs blown through the screen and a heart full to bursting. No matter what the coming days hold, you won’t be facing them alone.
Later, a hesitant knock interrupts your contented musings. You open the door to find Oscar, eyebrows pinched anxiously.
But at the sight of your radiant smile, the tension melts from his frame. His hands settle comfortably on your waist like coming home.
“So ...” he begins, nose scrunching up adorably, “Think your family will let you keep me around?”
You answer by pulling him down into a long, sweet kiss. When you finally separate, foreheads pressed together, Oscar sighs out, “I’ll take that as a yes.”
Your answering laugh fills the space between you as he lifts you effortlessly into a spinning embrace. The setting sun gilds the hotel room in amber, basking you both in warmth and promise.
Let the world say what they will. You’ve made your choice, the only one your heart would allow. And with Oscar’s arms encircling you now, you know you’re right where you belong.
***
“Come on, it’ll be great! When’s the next chance you’ll get to come down under?”
Oscar’s pleading face fills your laptop screen, bottom lip poking out beseechingly. You try to stand firm, but your resolve is crumbling.
“I don’t know … won’t I be imposing on your family time?”
Oscar waves a hand breezily. “Nah, Mum and Dad have been hassling me nonstop to bring you for a visit. Trust me, they’ll smother you with Aussie hospitality.”
You chew your lip thoughtfully. A trip together does sound tempting. And you’re endlessly curious to see where Oscar grew up.
Sensing your wavering, Oscar presses his advantage. “There’s so much I want to show you! The beach I learned to surf at, my favorite cafes and shops ...”
His voice turns coaxing. “And just think, falling asleep under the southern stars ...”
Your heart flutters traitorously. Oscar knows your weakness for astronomy. With a defeated huff, you nod.
“Oh alright, you’ve convinced me. I’ll see if I can clear my schedule for next month.”
Oscar whoops, pumping a victorious fist. “Yes! You’re gonna love it, I promise.”
The rest of the call passes in eager planning until Oscar reluctantly disconnects to start his day. As the screen goes dark, butterflies swell in your stomach. A whole trip together!
The weeks crawl by agonizingly until finally you’re boarding the royal jet bound for Melbourne, giddiness rising with each mile.
Oscar is waiting when you deplane, sweeping you up joyfully the second your feet hit the tarmac. You cling to him, breathing in the scent of home you’ve missed so much.
As the hug extends well past proper etiquette, your bodyguard Henrik pointedly clears his throat. You spring apart, blushing when you meet his knowing gaze.
Oscar just grins unrepentantly, grabbing your hand to lead you towards where his parents are waiting.
You spot them immediately — Oscar’s smile mirrored on his mother’s face and his kind eyes reflected in his father’s crinkled gaze. They hurry over, clasping your hands warmly.
“Your Royal Highness, we’re so honored to finally meet you!” His mother gushes. “Oscar’s told us so much, I feel as if we know you already.”
You smile, charmed by her easy manner. “The honor is mine, Mrs. Piastri. Please, call me Y/N.”
She pats your hand merrily. “Of course, dear! And you must call me Nicole. Now come, let’s get you home and settled.”
The ride to Oscar’s childhood home passes quickly, filled with lively conversation. His parents’ sweet banter reminds you so much of your own.
When you arrive, Nicole loops her arm through yours, bustling you inside. “We’ve freshened up Oscar’s old room for you, I do hope it’s comfortable.”
You take in the posters of racing legends and cricketers adorning the walls, the cluttered bookshelves full of well-loved texts. “It’s perfect, thank you.”
“Excellent!” Nicole claps her hands. “Now, you two get settled. Dinner will be ready shortly.”
She disappears down the hall with a parting wink that makes Oscar flush beet red. You stifle a laugh and let him tug you further inside.
Dinner passes in a blur of delicious food and easy laughter. Chris’ eyes twinkle knowingly as he refills your wine.
“We’re just delighted to finally meet the girl who’s made our Oscar so happy.”
Oscar covers his face in exaggerated mortification, but his fingers squeeze yours under the table. You lift your joined hands to brush a kiss over his knuckles when his parents aren’t looking.
The peaceful mood continues as Nicole breaks out photo albums. You coo over baby pictures of Oscar, smothering laughter at his gap-toothed grin and wild hair.
Yawns eventually take over and everyone reluctantly shuffles off to bed. In Oscar’s room, you borrow his old karting club shirt to sleep in.
Oscar looks up from turning down the duvet, eyes darkening as he takes you in. “This was a terrible idea, you looking so cute in my clothes.”
You giggle and kiss the tip of his nose before climbing into bed and patting the space next to you. Oscar obliges, pulling you close and nuzzling into your hair.
Outside the window, the infinity of the southern skies beckons. But here in Oscar’s arms, you have everything you need.
Oscar hums contentedly, dropping a kiss to your hair as your eyes drift closed.
“Sweet dreams, my princess,” he whispers. You float off cradled in his warmth, perfectly at peace.
The rest of the trip passes in blissful domesticity — lazy beach days, intimate dinners, long talks under the stars. Meeting Oscar’s family feels like coming to a second home.
On your last night, you creep outside to sit curled against him on the back porch, committing every detail to memory.
“I don’t want this to end,” you whisper into the quiet night.
Oscar presses a lingering kiss below your ear. “It’s only the start for us.”
And basking in his touch, the infinite potential of the future unfolding before you, you know he’s right. This is just the beginning.
***
You smooth your hands over your dress, peering anxiously out the palace window overlooking the winding driveway. Any moment now, the car bringing Oscar should pull through the gates.
It’s his first time visiting the palace and meeting your family officially as your boyfriend. You know they’ll love him, but nerves still flutter in your chest.
The crunch of tires on gravel draws your gaze back outside. You watch Oscar emerge from the car, craning his head back to take in the towering palace facade.
Unable to wait any longer, you gather your skirts and hurry downstairs just as he steps inside the grand entryway.
Oscar turns at the click of your heels, face melting into a smile. In a few quick strides, he sweeps you into his arms, spinning you joyfully.
You cling to him, breathing in the soothing scent of home you’ve missed. When he sets you down, hands come up to frame your face tenderly, thumbs brushing over your cheeks.
“There’s my beautiful girl. I’ve missed you so much, Princess.”
Heart swelling, you lean in to capture his lips in a kiss that conveys weeks of longing. Oscar responds urgently, fingers tangling in your hair to keep you close.
A pointed cough interrupts your reunion. You pull back to see your brother Christian smirking knowingly.
“Well now I see why you were so eager for Oscar’s visit. Should I come back later?”
You stick your tongue out at him even as a blush stains your cheeks. Taking Oscar’s hand, you lead him towards the family wing.
“Come on, everyone’s excited to finally meet you properly.”
Voices carry from the dining room as you approach. Inside, your family looks up, faces alight with warmth and curiosity.
Your father strides forward first, clasping Oscar’s hand firmly. “Oscar, welcome. We’re delighted to have you here.”
Oscar returns the handshake graciously. “The honor is mine, Your Majesty. Thank you for the invitation.”
More greetings follow before your mother guides everyone to the table. Oscar pulls out your chair, pressing a discreet kiss to your temple as you sit. Happiness bubbles up inside at having him here with your family.
Dinner passes enjoyably, conversation flowing. Oscar charms them all effortlessly with his quick wit and humor. Laughter fills the room, the atmosphere light and intimate.
With dessert finished, your siblings seize their chance to grill Oscar playfully.
“Sooo tell us,” Isabella begins, propping her chin on her hands. “What exactly are your intentions with our dear sister?”
Oscar just grins, unfazed. “Why, to make her happy every single day, of course.”
You melt at his simple sincerity, grasping his hand under the table.
“Good answer!” Christian crows. “But know if you ever hurt her, you’ll have the entire Danish army to answer to.”
Despite his teasing tone, you know Christian means every word. Oscar inclines his head solemnly.
“You have my word such a day will never come. Her happiness means everything to me.”
Your siblings appear satisfied, moving on to pepper Oscar with questions about his career and interests. He takes their antics in stride, witty comebacks drawing fond laughter from your parents.
The relaxed family atmosphere reminds you so much of that first dinner at Oscar’s childhood home. Your heart swells with quiet joy at how seamlessly he fits here too.
Eventually Oscar politely extracts you both, citing early flights in the morning. Alone in the hall, he sags against the wall in exaggerated relief.
“Whew, your family is something else! I think that interrogation was more intense than any press conference.”
You laugh and swat his shoulder before lifting on your toes to kiss him sweetly. “You were wonderful. I’m so happy you’re here.”
Oscar’s eyes soften. “Me too, Princess. Being here with you feels like home.”
Heedless of any lingering eyes, you kiss him again under the twinkling chandelier.
A loud retching sound interrupts you. “Ugh, get a room you two!” Christian complains, dodging your swat.
Oscar just tugs you closer with a chuckle. “Don’t worry mate, I plan to.”
He silences Christian’s protests with another searing kiss. And surrounded by Oscar’s warmth, you can’t bring yourself to care who sees.
***
Moonlight filters through the curtains, bathing the room in a soft glow. You lay curled against Oscar’s chest, fingers tracing idle patterns over his heart.
The steady rhythm soothes you, but your own heart feels anything but calm. There’s something you need to discuss, but nerves stall your tongue.
Sensing your tension, Oscar’s hand comes up to sift gently through your hair. “Penny for your thoughts, love?”
You lean into his touch, gathering courage. “I was just thinking about the future. Our future.” You twist to meet his gaze. “I know it’s still early days for us, but if this continues to get more serious ...”
You trail off uncertainly, but Oscar’s eyes are warm with encouragement. Bolstered, you continue.
“There are certain expectations that come with being attached to the heir to the throne. Traditions and duties to learn.”
You watch Oscar’s face closely, but he simply nods thoughtfully. “Of course, that makes sense. I’m happy to learn whatever I need to.”
Relief trickles through you. You prop yourself up on one elbow, smiling softly down at him.
“For example, even before my mother was engaged to my father, she decided to learn Danish. The protocol and duties, the public role … it was a massive life change.”
You take a bracing breath. “I don’t expect you to make such changes overnight. But someday, if this continues on the path we hope ...”
You trail off meaningfully. Oscar’s hand comes up to cradle your face. “Hey, if being with you means learning Danish, or attending stuffy banquets, or anything else, I’m in this 100%.”
His eyes bore into yours. “I’ll do whatever it takes to build a life together.”
Emotion clogs your throat. You have to swallow thickly before responding. “Well, maybe we start small then. How about I teach you a few phrases?”
Oscar grins, pulling you back down against him. “Ja, det lyder perfekt.”
You jerk back in surprise, swatting his chest. “You brat, have you been practicing without telling me?”
Oscar’s eyes dance with laughter. “Maybe just a few key phrases. Wanted to surprise you.”
His smile turns tender. “I’d love nothing more than for you to teach me, sweetheart.”
Happiness bubbles up inside you. You snuggle closer, thinking. “Alright, let’s start simple. Like hej simply means hello.”
Oscar repeats the phrase dutifully, brow furrowing in concentration. You cover his hand with yours.
“Jeg elsker dig,” you murmur, gazing into his eyes.
“Jeg elsker dig,” Oscar echoes. “What does it mean?”
Sudden shyness has you ducking your head. “It means I love you.”
Oscar’s sharp inhale lifts your head. He grasps both of your hands, staring deeply into your eyes.
“Jeg elsker dig,” he repeats reverently.
Emotion clogs your throat. You lean in, whispering against his lips, “Jeg elsker dig, Oscar.”
The kiss starts soft and unhurried, a confirmation of feelings conveyed best without words. Oscar’s arms wrap securely around you as the kiss deepens, pouring every ounce of love and promise into it.
When you eventually break apart, Oscar keeps you cradled close, dropping kisses into your hair. “What else can you teach me?”
Happiness bubbles up at his tentative Danish endearment. You settle back against him, whispering translations as his steady heartbeat lulls you towards sleep.
But too soon, Oscar is reluctantly packing to leave, both clinging to these last private hours before he has to set off for the next race.
You wind yourself around him, unwilling to let go. Oscar holds you close, murmuring promises of next visits and calls into your hair.
As you finally part at the airport, his whispered “jeg elsker dig” warms you from the inside out. No matter the miles between you, your hearts remain entwined.
***
You adjust the diamond clips in your elegantly twisted updo, scanning your reflection critically. The deep blue gown hugs your frame perfectly, but nerves still flutter in your stomach.
Because tonight, Oscar will be attending his first official function as your partner — a lavish gala in honor of the new children’s hospital bearing your mother’s name.
A knock precedes Oscar peeking his head in, hands clapped over his eyes. “Safe to look?”
You smooth your skirt with a shaky exhale. “Yes, come in.”
Oscar drops his hands, mouth falling open. “Wow. You look absolutely stunning tonight, my love.”
He takes your hands, eyes roving appreciatively over you. “Going to have to beat all the envious blokes away with a stick.”
You laugh, swatting his shoulder lightly. “Oh hush. You look rather dashing yourself, Mr. Piastri.”
And he does in his impeccably tailored tuxedo, hair swept back neatly. You brush a piece of imaginary lint from his lapel, nerves melting away under his warm gaze.
“Shall we?” He offers his arm gallantly. You lay your hand atop it, spine straightening.
“We shall.”
The ballroom glitters under fairy lights as you make your entrance, immediately garnering interested looks and murmurs. On your arm, Oscar draws admiring glances of his own with his rakish good looks and easy confidence.
You greet various dignitaries and philanthropists, Oscar a steady, charming presence at your side. As you speak with the hospital’s key figures, his hand at the small of your back anchors you.
But as the speeches drag on, Oscar leans in subtly. “Is it terrible I’m already bored senseless? I’d rather actually meet these kids we’re meant to be helping.”
You hide a smile behind your wine glass. The same restlessness plagues you as schmoozing patrons preen and prattle.
As dessert wraps up, an idea strikes you. You catch Oscar’s eye, tilting your head meaningfully at a side exit before excusing yourself discretely.
Understanding dawns on his face and he trails casually after you. In the entry hall, you hurry to a secluded alcove, grabbing his hand.
“Quick, while we won’t be missed. Let’s actually go see the children.”
Excitement flashes across Oscar’s face. “Brilliant thinking. Lead the way, Princess.”
Adrenaline courses through you as you sneak out to the waiting car, bodyguards eyeing you curiously.
“Rigshospitalet, please. Quickly.”
At the children’s hospital, you sweep inside, Oscar at your heels. The receptionist gapes as you approach.
“So sorry to drop by unannounced. We were hoping there might be a chance for us to visit with some of the patients?”
The receptionist’s mouth opens and closes before she stutters, “O-of course, Your Highness, right away!” Clearly your boldness has paid off.
You exchange exhilarated looks with Oscar as she pages a nurse to escort you up. On the cheery pediatric ward, you peek into rooms, greeting curious families.
At one doorway, a gasp stops you short. A little girl sits up in bed, pointing.
“Mama, it’s the princess! And her boyfriend!”
You glance at Oscar to find him rubbing his neck bashfully. Clearly his fame extends beyond the F1 sphere here.
You laugh and enter slowly. “We were hoping we might visit you, if that’s alright?”
The girl — Else — nods eagerly, blond braids bouncing. Her mother rises to curtsy but you wave her off kindly as Oscar produces a small plush racecar from his pocket, to Else’s delight.
As you chat and play with Else, joy lights up her face. For a short time, she’s just a normal girl again. Your chest aches at her bright spirit despite her poor health.
All too soon, a nurse taps her watch. As you make your goodbyes, Else throws her thin arms around your waist.
“Thank you! This was like a fairytale.” Over her head, her mother mouths a tearful thank you of her own.
You hug Else gently before kneeling down. “It was our honor. You stay strong, little one.”
Her returning whisper warms your heart. “Don’t worry, I will!”
Similar scenes play out in room after room. Your cheeks ache from smiling but it’s a welcome ache. The children’s awed joy makes the real reason for tonight crystal clear.
Watching Oscar kneel patiently as a shy boy shows him a prized toy car, your heart clenches with love. Catching your gaze, Oscar’s eyes mirror the same emotion.
Far too soon, your bodyguards notify you it’s time to return before your absence draws notice. A chorus of disappointed groans follows you out.
Back at the gala, you slip in just in time for closing toasts. No one seems the wiser about your little detour.
Under the table, Oscar squeezes your hand. The contact says it all — this is what truly matters. Not accolades or commendations, but joy brought to hurting hearts.
You know you’ll be back. Both of you. Not for galas or acclaim, but for the chance to see young faces light up, if only for a moment.
Late that night, you slow dance alone in the empty ballroom, music and laughter faded. Oscar’s arms circle you from behind, chin tucking onto your shoulder.
“I think tonight was the most important royal function I’ve ever attended,” he murmurs.
You cover his hands with yours, leaning back into him with a contented sigh. No more words need be said.
The rest of the world may see events like tonight as social currency and networking. But you hold the truth in your heart — the only currency that counts can’t be bought, only given freely through love.
***
Two Years Later
You smooth your hands over your dress, pulse thrumming as you await the imminent news conference. Just hours ago, the palace formally announced your engagement to Oscar, sending the public into a frenzy.
Now, you’re about to face the media together for the first time as an engaged couple. Press stands crowd the palace gardens, cameras poised and ready.
At your side, Oscar seems calm and collected, fingers threaded loosely with yours. But you sense the storm brewing beneath his tranquil surface.
You reach up and gently adjust his suit collar, fingers lingering on the lapels as you meet his eyes. He gives you a small, grateful smile before you both turn to face the expectant crowd.
Because today also brings another announcement — one that will upend Oscar’s world irreversibly.
Your father steps forward first to formally confirm the engagement and expound on Oscar’s character. As he returns to your side, Oscar squeezes your hand and you nod in encouragement.
Oscar clears his throat, stepping closer to the microphones. “Thank you, Your Majesty. Y/N and I are over the moon at the chance to spend our lives together.”
He gazes at you softly before continuing. “I’m truly the luckiest man in the world to have won the heart of Denmark’s lovely princess.”
You have to resist the urge to kiss him senseless then and there. Cameras flash brightly as Oscar details your romantic (and heavily abridged) love story, punctuated with charming wit.
But gradually, his mirth fades. With another fortifying hand squeeze, he steels himself for the harder part.
“While I’m elated at this new chapter ahead, it also brings difficult changes. I’m announcing my retirement from Formula 1 following this season’s conclusion.”
Murmurs ripple through the crowd. Oscar’s grip tightens as he pushes forward.
“As a member of the royal family, I will no longer be able to continue racing competitively. I am grateful to have achieved my dream this year of winning the championship.”
His voice falters briefly and your heart clenches. Racing is Oscar’s passion — having to walk away is unimaginably hard.
Oscar visibly gathers himself. “But as difficult as this is, marrying Y/N is worth any sacrifice. She is my true dream now.”
He turns to you then, eyes glistening. “The honor of being your husband eclipses any trophy or medal. You are my greatest victory.”
Emotion clogs your throat and without thinking, you wrap him in a fierce embrace. The rules of propriety fade away, only your pride and love for Oscar remain.
His arms clutch you close as flashes erupt around you. But in this moment, you see only each other.
Eventually you separate and Oscar takes your hand once more, gracing you with a tender smile. He turns back to the microphones for one last address.
“Til Danmark og det danske folk. Jeg lover at tjene jer med ære, respekt og kærlighed.”
The Danish press reacts first, visibly surprised and impressed at Oscar’s speech in their native tongue.
You blink back a fresh wave of tears at his poignant promise — to serve Denmark with honor, respect, and love.
Overcome with emotion, you step forward to the microphones as well.
“Oscar’s love for me and Denmark is clear to all who meet him. I am truly blessed to have found such a selfless, caring partner.”
Your voice wavers with feeling. “Though it grieves me to see his racing career ended prematurely, I could not be more proud of the man he is.”
You reach for Oscar’s hand, gazing at him through tear-filled eyes. “He gives up much out of love for me. I only hope I can bring him a fraction of the joy in return.”
Oscar’s fingers tighten around yours, eyes shining with affection. Cameras flash furiously at your raw display of love and emotion.
But you remain lost in Oscar’s eyes, the rest of the world fading away. In this moment, all that matters is your shared devotion and the bright future stretching before you.
Questions start flying from the excited press corps but Oscar politely extracts you both, ceding the floor to the waiting palace officials.
Alone inside once more, Oscar sags against the wall in clear emotional exhaustion. You wrap him in your arms, heart aching for the pain this transition causes.
Oscar clings to you tightly, face pressed into your hair. “I meant every word,” he whispers fiercely. “You are my whole world now.”
You draw back just far enough to meet his eyes, hoping he can see the depths of your love reflected there.
“I know, min kæreste. We’ll face this new future together.”
The answering kiss speaks what words cannot. No matter what comes, your love remains constant.
A new path lies ahead now, one you will walk hand in hand, till the end of your days.
***
Five Years Later
The roar of engines draws nearer as your car nears the Copenhagen street circuit. In the seat beside you, Oscar bounces his leg restlessly, face alight with anticipation.
In the backseat, your three-year-old daughter, Margrethe (affectionately called Maise for short), mimics her father’s excitement, chattering cheerfully about anything and everything.
You reach over to still Oscar’s jostling knee, smiling indulgently. “Easy there, we’ve barely arrived and you’re already wound up.”
Oscar shoots you a boyish grin. “Can you blame me? It’s been so long since I was last in the paddock. Feels like a lifetime ago.”
Your heart swells with quiet awe once more at the sacrifices Oscar has made for your future together. While racing still runs through his veins, his duties as Crown Prince of Denmark now take precedence.
But today offers a joyous reunion, with Oscar instrumental in bringing Formula 1 racing back to Danish soil for the first time since 1962.
As the car pulls through the paddock entrance, Oscar cranes his neck eagerly, drinking in the familiar organized chaos. Before the door even opens, you hear a familiar voice shouting.
“He lives! The prodigal prince returns!” A blur of McLaren papaya hurtles towards Oscar as he steps out.
Oscar just manages to brace himself before Lando Norris tackles him in an exuberant hug. Laughter bubbles out of Oscar as he returns the embrace.
“Good to see you too, mate. It’s been way too long.”
You round the car to find Oscar’s former team already swarming him, clapping his back and jostling each other good-naturedly to greet their long-lost driver.
Oscar’s eyes shine as he falls back into easy banter, trading inside jokes and reminiscing. With Maise balanced on your hip, you hang back contentedly, letting Oscar have this moment.
As the reunion finally winds down, Lando gestures to you and Maise. “And who do we have here? Don’t tell me this little beauty is your daughter?”
Oscar beams, waving you both over. “She is indeed! Lando, meet my little girl.”
Lando pretends to stagger back in shock. “No way, our little Oscar is all grown up and domesticated now!”
Oscar shoves him playfully before sweeping Maise into his arms. “What can I say, my fast living days are behind me now.” He kisses Maise’s wavy hair, eyes finding yours. “I’ve got all I need right here.”
Your insides turn mushy at the adoration in his voice. The years have only deepened your love further.
More drivers trickle over to greet Oscar, ribbing him good-naturedly about his new royal status. But the obvious affection underlying the teasing is clear.
Zak Brown claps Oscar on the back. “It’s so good to have you back, even just for a day. You and your family should stay, watch the race from the garage!”
For a fleeting moment, naked longing flashes across Oscar’s face at the thought of experiencing race day excitement again up close.
But reality settles back in quickly, his expression turning regretful. “That’s a lovely offer, truly. But I’m afraid we’ll have to make our way to the royal box.”
He bounces Maise gently, tone wry. “Some of us have a job to do handing out trophies later.” Maise giggles and tugs at his ear happily, blissfully unaware of the wistfulness simmering beneath her father’s smile.
You slip your arm through Oscar’s, offering a comforting squeeze. His answering smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
After more fond farewells, you exit the nostalgic bubble of the garage. Oscar pauses, taking a moment to just breathe and gather himself.
You shift Maise to your other hip, wrapping your free arm around his waist. Oscar leans into you gratefully, pressing a kiss to your hair.
“Can’t believe it’s been five years already,” he murmurs. “Feels like another lifetime.”
You smile up at him sadly. “I know, my love. But look at everything you’ve accomplished for Denmark in that time. This race wouldn’t even be happening without you.”
Oscar huffs a small laugh. “Too right. Who needs driving when I’ve got you two anyway?”
He tickles Maise playfully, eliciting delighted giggles. The melancholy edge has left his eyes now, replaced by contentment.
Hand in hand, with Maise toddling happily between you, the three of you set off together towards the royal box. The Danish Grand Prix awaits, along with the bright future you continue building as a family.
This may no longer be Oscar’s world, but he now shapes the path for future generations of drivers. After the race, as Oscar graciously awards the beaming winner while Maise excitedly cheers from the side of the podium, you know this is precisely where he’s meant to be.
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