#icon guard pass

[mymanymerrymuses]

He's so pretty actually

[majestyeverlasting]

the moments in between

Pairing: Joel Miller x Fem!Reader 

Summary: When Joel and Ellie arrive at the Jackson commune, his strong frame and intense gaze captivate you. But as the days pass, you lose hope that he might be drawn to you as well. That is, until the walls come crashing down and the truth finally reveals itself.

Word Count: 7.3k [slow burn]

A/N: I put a lot of love and time into this one. It's my longest fic so far but it didn't feel hard, which I like to believe is a good thing. Hope it resonates, hope you feel the feels and the yearning between these two—let me know! Hope you're well.

A breeze follows Tommy as he saunters in through the doors of the Tipsy Bison, the soft click of his boot heels echoing off the wood with each easy step. The cowboy hat on his head casts a shadow over his eyes until he takes it off, his dark hair cascading down over his ears. There’s a small smile playing on his lips that makes you narrow your eyes.

Cleaning the bartop suddenly loses its appeal, but you don’t stop, only slow down. The fresh, tangy scent of lemongrass continues to waft up from the motion.     

“We close early on Sunday’s, officer,” you tease as he climbs onto a stool. 

He frowns as he sets his hat aside. “I don’t look like a cop, do I?” You shrug, and he chuckles as his gaze roves over to the pool room. “Nate back there? Yo, Nate!” 

“Evening, Tom,” the older man calls back as he polishes a cue ball. 

“Joel’s made it into town.” There’s no overt emotion in the way he shares the news, but you can see that it’s all in his eyes as he waits for you to react.  

“Joel, Joel? As in your brother?” He nods, still in disbelief himself. “Oh my gosh, that’s amazing, Tommy—right? What the heck.” He used to talk about him all the time. 

His exhale makes way for a shaky smile, “I know. Made it in not too long ago with a young girl he’s looking after,” he tells you, voice thick with a mix of emotions. “He’s outside. Wanted to come in and see if you’d let us grab a drink.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Know it’s late. Promise I’ll make up for the trouble.” He knows it’s no trouble. Not when it comes to him. 

He turns around, barstool squeaking, and waves Joel in through the window. 

You move to start working on their whiskies. “Make it up by letting me be the baby’s godmother?” The glasses clink as you set them onto the bar and begin pouring the caramel colored liquid, smirking when you meet his gaze.

Tommy isn’t completely opposed to the idea. You’d been in Jackson since the beginning, a friend to him and Maria in every sense of the word. Arguably family. “If you can manage not to tick me off until the little one gets here.” Despite his words, his eyes are fond. 

The door creaks open, and Joel strides in, scanning the room. There are pictures on the walls of American icons and landmarks, and old Polaroids of commune members. There’s a guarded confidence to the way he walks, an intensity. 

Tommy quickly leans in and whispers, “He means well. It’s been a long day.” 

Joel takes a seat beside his brother and acknowledges you with a curt nod, tugging on the collar of his shirt.  

“Welcome to Jackson,” you greet, introducing yourself afterwards.

“Joel,” he says, taking you in with a steady gaze. 

“Tommy’s told me a lot about you.” You push their glasses closer to them in an encouragement to start drinking.

Joel takes his first sip and fights back a reflexive grimace. It’s been a while, but it's good. Good enough to make him feel pleasantly warm as it glides down. Tommy drinks off his brother’s lead, and you realize just how alike they look. Joel’s hair is a little shorter and accented with streaks of gray, but they both have those same dark, telling eyes. 

They fall into light conversation, but it’s clearly not what they'd talk about if they were alone. That’s when you sense the distance. The slight edge to the space between them. It’s why Tommy resorts to drawing you in, the two of you ripping off each other as Joel listens, fine with not having to speak until this whole little ordeal was winding to an end. However, he does sit up a little straighter whenever you laugh. You pour them more whiskey when their glasses get empty.     

Eventually, the remaining light outside fades away. Tommy hisses at the sight, standing. “I gotta get home to Maria,” he says, stretching his back. Joel moves to get up too, until, “At least finish off this glass, man. You’ve earned it.” Tommy squeezes his brother’s shoulder. He means it genuinely, at least. “I’ll catch up with you tomorrow, Joel. Thanks again for this,” he tells you. 

“Bye, sheriff,” you call after him. Tommy scoffs.  

Joel realizes just how quiet it is when you move aside to tinker with a bison trinket sitting on the counter, unsure of what to say with Tommy gone. He knows you can see him looking at you. “So, are you here by yourself?” he finally asks. 

A playful smile tugs at your lips. “That’s not a creepy question at all,” you tease, quickly gathering that he doesn’t find the implication funny. “Uncle Nate?” you call. 

“Busy!”  

You raise your brows at Joel. “Not alone.”

Nate was chosen family. The man taught you everything you know about shooting, fishing, and survival even though you gave him a hard time for it when you were younger. He was also the founder of the Tipsy Bison. He only came into the bar on the weekends when he wasn't on patrol. His time in the military all those years ago made it hard to step away from a life of service. 

“We were cleaning when Tommy came in,” you tell Joel. He takes in that information wordlessly. 

“You aren’t much for talking, are you?” Joel takes a sip from his glass. “Nothing wrong with that. Must mean you don’t miss much. Really observant.” When he doesn’t respond, you smile shyly, realizing he probably just wanted to relax after a long day. “Guess I won’t stand here and talk your ears off.” 

The floor creaks as you disappear into the recreation room with Nate, rounding the corner. Joel exhales, shoulders dropping from being drawn up. He almost misses your company. 

Nate sits hunched over a word search puzzle, using the pool table as if it's a normal desk. He doesn’t look up at you, even when you give an affectionate tug to his curly gray ponytail. It was something you’d been doing since the days you both were out on your own and had to stay quiet all the time. Back when there was no safety, no security, no commune. 

“Ouch,” he drones, unphased. 

“Are you gonna come out and meet Tommy's brother?” you ask, low so Joel can’t hear. “I feel like you guys have a lot in common: brooding and grumpy.” Pride flutters in your chest when the man’s lips twitch. 

“I’ll meet him… eventually. Gotta finish this puzzle.” You realize there’s a small hourglasses going, the sand swiftly filling the bottom portion. “There ya are—serendipity.” He circles the letters. 

Word searches were something he recently started doing. When you have a past as extensive as his, it’s always chasing after you in one way or another. Especially in those quiet moments that sneak up on you. He claimed that seeking out words from amid an ordered chaos keeps the racing thoughts at bay whenever they come rushing in. 

Joel is finished by the time you join him again, and you realize he’d waited instead of calling out. Already standing, ready to go. 

“Anything else I can get you?” 

He shakes his head. “I appreciate your hospitality.” 

Joel turns to leave but you keep talking, “So I reckon Tommy already squared you away with a house and a tour of the town?” 

He stops. “I’m across the street from him. Gettin’ the tour tomorrow.”  

“That’s great, I’m really glad you found us.” You sound so genuine that there’s a flutter in his gut. “We’re a pretty crazy bunch, but I think you’re gonna like it here.” 

“Hope so.” Those are the words he leaves you with.

Your eyes stay trained on his back as he makes his way towards the door, stride the same as when he first arrived. Perhaps a little looser. Before he exits the bar, his eyes catch a glimpse of one of the decorative license plates secured to the wall: Austin, Texas. 

Shortly after he makes it outside, his heart rate ticks up in that impending way he wishes wasn’t so familiar, breath catching in his throat as if he’d forgotten how to breathe. There’s no escaping the panic as it sets in, surging through him. A few staggering steps allow him to brace a hand on a wooden directory board. 

You see it all from inside. At first, you think he’s trying to read the sign, but then he hunches over more and grips his chest. Without thinking, you jog towards the doors. 

“Joel?” You call once you’ve broken outside. 

It’s a cool spring night, a crescent moon shares its pale glow from above. Most of Jackson is already tucked away inside or at least halfway there. But in this sliver of time, it feels like it’s just the two of you outside. Joel doesn’t let on that he’d heard you, but the moment you’re close enough, you recognize what’s going on. You press your palm to his back to let him know you’re there. That he’s still here. 

“Concentrate on your breathing. In and out, just like that,” you encourage, settling on rubbing his back in measured passes. Then you go quiet on the off chance he needs that. 

In your newfound silence, Joel is forced to focus on the shaky breaths rising from his lungs. That’s when he accepts he’s not in control. Not in the grand scheme of things. There’s a whole big fallen world just outside the gates of this haven. A world that had taken people he loved and was cruel enough to let him be the one who lived to tell the tale. The heat that rises to his cheeks is made up of frustration more than distress, crackling like pop. Like coals. 

The ground takes on a vignette as he stares at it, his vision briefly closes in. You never withdraw your touch. 

When his breaths eventually begin to steady, you remember how to breathe yourself. With a tired exhale, he straightens back up to his full height, and you take a few small steps away. Maybe this wasn’t new, but a fact of life for the man who’d rode into Jackson in an air of mystery and a young girl by his side. Maybe he never wanted you to get a glimpse at this side of him. If he feels that way, he doesn’t make it obvious. He almost looks appreciative that you’d bothered enough to care. 

“Sorry to scare you,” he rasps, not meeting your gaze even though he can feel it. You want to tell him that there isn’t much that scares you anymore. At least that’s what you like to believe. “I’m usually alone.” 

Except, tonight, he wasn’t. And maybe that wasn’t such a terrible thing. 

•••

Howdy Stranger

This is Jackson Hole

The last of the Old West 

Joel reads the painted wooden sign as Tommy and Maria show him and Ellie around. There are people everywhere. Children playing outside, adults fluttering in and out of shops. All while the Teton mountains loom and watch over it all with their snow-capped peaks. He looks over at the girl when she nudges his arm, pointing to a Calico lounging on a porch. Despite her beaming smile, all he offers is a low hum. 

It was hard to be in the now when his thoughts were split between the past and future. Up until Jackson, there was no such thing as stability, and he couldn’t help but think about the day that the rug would be pulled from beneath the commune as well. Ellie’s smile fades when she notices the harsh squint of his face. He kicks himself for it.   

“Cat hater,” she mumbles under her breath.

Joel grunts and directs his attention back to his brother. 

When the tour comes to an inevitable end, Ellie sings Jackson’s praises after Tommy and Maria go their separate ways with a promise to reconnect later that day. He lets her talk as they make their way back to their new house, idly agreeing every once in a while. A few curious eyes fall on them as they walk, but Joel doesn’t pay them any mind. 

“Dude, are you even listening to me?” Ellie stops walking to give him a flat look. 

“I hear you,” he insists. “Been hearing you for the past ten minutes.”

There’s no snark in his tone, but Ellie still feels the slight sting of offense. “Well, sorry for being excited about having a nice place to live for once. It’s not like I was born into hell or anything—I mean the Boston QZ.” Sarcasm drips from her voice as she starts walking again, faster so it looks like they’re not together.

Joel swallows down guilt like it’s just another pill. His legs are long, so it doesn’t take much to catch back up with her.

“Hey…Kid…Ellie.” She keeps ignoring him. “This is new for me too, okay? Everybody’s got a different way of processing, can we agree on that?” It’s a fair enough proposal. He never had been forward when it came to sharing his thoughts. “Wasn’t trying to hurt your feelings.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” she murmurs, deciding to take a break from her rambling for his sake. The mutual silence isn’t so bad. 

Someone he isn’t expecting to see is you. You’re wearing a backpack and ushering a line of young kids into the community center. One of the little girls stops and stretches her arms up towards you, earning a playful eyeroll before being lifted onto your hip. Joel doesn’t miss the way the afternoon sunlight catches your face. 

•••

The next day, a faint thump against the door startles Ellie as she sketches in the dining room. Rather than getting up from the table, she remains still, pencil in hand and brows furrowed. Upstairs, the spray of the shower continues as Joel lets it drown out everything else. Three light knocks eventually sound, and she musters up the courage to scurry to the front. 

She peeks out the window first, spotting you. Someone she hadn’t seen around. An amused smile pulls at her lips at the way you’ve seemingly wrestled the big basket you’re holding into a better grip than before. 

When she opens the door, you let out a relieved sigh. “Special delivery,” you say before introducing yourself. 

“That’s a really pretty name,” she compliments, already warming up to you. “I’m Ellie—is all that stuff for us?” When you nod, she excitedly steps aside and ushers you in. 

“I’m not gonna say you shouldn’t have because that’d be a lie,” she shamelessly admits. “You can put it right over here.” You follow her into the living room and place the welcome basket on the coffee table. 

A few of the ladies you volunteer with helped you put it together after your shift counseling for the spring break camp. There were cookies, seeds, natural soaps, feminine hygiene products, and even a knit blanket that looked particularly soft and cozy. Ellie wastes no time reaching out to run her fingers over it. A laugh bubbles up your throat when her jaw drops. 

“This is literally what clouds feel like.” She haphazardly pulls the blanket out the basket, wrapping it around herself like a cape. “If Joel says anything, this was specifically included for me.” 

“I’m sure it wouldn’t hurt to share if he asked nicely,” you reason, amused. Ellie’s nose wrinkles. “But to be fair, we did think you’d be the one to really appreciate it.”

She smiles at being considered. “Who made it? This is, like, next level.” 

“A woman named Emilia,” you tell her. “She actually made me one back when Jackson was first being built up that I still have,” you tell her, taking a seat on the couch and looking around. The evening sunlight pours in through the windows, casting golden streaks onto the floors. “Now she’s always got a few on standby.” 

Ellie sits beside you, reaching out to dig through the other contents in awe. “They told us the commune's only, like, seven years old on our tour yesterday,” she recounts. Think you’ll have your blanket forever?” 

“Forever’s an awful long time. It might hold up,” you think aloud. Ellie nods, contemplative. “I can take you by to meet her sometime, if you’d like. She’s the resident seamstress, so you’ll probably end up crossing paths anyways.” 

“What about you? What do you do?” she asks, giving you her full attention. 

“I mainly help coordinate community events. Been stepping in to assist with the youth spring break camp for the last couple days, though,” you say. “Also bartend on the nights that I feel like it. Just for fun, you know?” 

Ellie's face lights up. “I’ve had whiskey before.” She puffs out her chest when she says it, and you play into her pride by raising an impressed brow. The first and last time you had a sip was when you snuck it from Nate as a teen. “But that’s really cool, though. The community stuff and all that.” You can tell by her tone that she means it. In more ways than one, you’re reminded of your younger self. 

“Joel’s gonna join the patrol. He says I’m too young, but that’s just bullshit.” She says the last part lower as if he’s somewhere listening. “I’ll figure out a way to make him cave.” There’s an air of confidence to her voice that suggests she’s done it before. The thought warms a tiny portion of your chest.

“I’ve gone out with my uncle Nate a few times. It can be a lot,” you admit. “He just wants you safe, Nate’s the same way.” 

As Joel stops at the top of the staircase, freshly showered, he catches those last words. He’d know your voice even if it’d been forever. His footsteps are quiet as he descends the stairs, but you hear him coming nevertheless. Ellie’s too busy sniffing the pine soap as you straighten up and glance his way. Joel’s eyes are as observant as you remember when they land on you, seeing into you, it seems. His damp hair is combed back in a way that makes him look more distinguished. 

“There you are.” You stand up with a smile. You’d been wondering how he was doing since the panic attack.

He wishes your warmth wasn't so compelling.  

Ellie whips around to look at him. “I know you said not to open the door to strangers—which is practically everybody at this point—but she’s really nice and brought us gifts so you can’t be mad at me,” she rushes out. He clocks the blanket around her shoulders. 

He hmphs. “That’s how they get you.” He’s not being serious, but Ellie frowns, trying to read through his eternal poker face. “Treats and a friendly smile.” Your lips twitch in amusement as Ellie narrows her eyes. 

When Joel starts walking your way, she consoles herself with the fact that he would've already asked you to leave if he sensed your intentions were off. The commune wasn’t filled with questionable people like that anyways. The two of them didn’t have to be apprehensive of every soul they came across anymore. 

He’s close enough now that you can smell the cedar soap on his skin. “I’m not a stranger,” you lightly defend. “Not entirely.” You look from Ellie to Joel. 

A wall rises in real time, shutting you out right along with the night you met. It happens in his eyes just like everything does. He hadn’t mentioned you to her, and it was your mistake for believing he would’ve at least passed on a name. 

You swallow back a small lump in your throat that may not be entirely just. “Anyways, hopefully you guys will be able to put this stuff to use.” 

“Of course we will,” Ellie pipes up. “Are you leaving already?” She hadn’t missed the finality that had crept into your tone. 

You nod. “Don’t wanna take up too much of your evening. I actually meant to come by sooner.” 

“Well, are you going to the dining hall for dinner?” Her gaze flicks to Joel. “Maybe you can come with us.” 

Joel knows he’s in trouble when he hears the fondness in Ellie’s voice. It’s the same sentiment he was straining to tamper down within himself. Every time he opened his mouth or looked at you, it tried to claw its way to the forefront. The last thing he needed was another person getting close enough to see that he was a million tiny pieces being held together by the glue of whatever god was keeping him alive. 

You decline her invitation, expressing plans to go to your uncle’s place. But you give her a rain check. When you go to leave, Joel allows his eyes to flitter down the rest of your body. 

That wouldn’t be the last he saw of you. But it was always from afar, lingering on the outskirts. Wishing there was a seamless way he could fall into your orbit without sending everything spiraling out of control. 

You were always looking right back at him with hope in your eyes, holding space. Waiting for your world to be shaken. 

•••

Laughter, chatter, and music drown out the insects that usually take precedence at night. Weeks of planning had finally come into fruition. All of Main Street is lined with fairy lights that cast their warm glow down on the summer festival. There was no shortage of entertainment, games, and food. It was a time to let loose and relish the sweetness in the air along with that of life. 

Nate plays his harmonica for a group of children around the bonfire, all clapping and stomping along. A smile graces your face as you walk by, waving at him. The fullness of your heart almost overrides the ache that has settled in the arches of your feet. You’d barely sitten down since earlier that morning when preparation began. There was a sense of responsibility that came along with the orange vest you were dawned in. The pressure to assist, and guide, and answer questions wasn’t all on you, but the other volunteers were better at taking breaks. 

Tommy’s grainy voice breaks into the air through a megaphone, “Thirteen-and-up three-legged races starting in five minutes, this is your last call. Grab a partner and make your way over to the east lawn,” he says. “Again, this is the last call.”

Joel and Ellie already happen to be seated at a picnic table that gives them a perfect view of the race setup and Tommy facilitating in an orange vest of his own. Ellie had already worked through her first honey cake and was eyeing Joel’s. He pretends not to notice until she looks up at him all wide-eyed.  

“Can I—” he slides his plate over to her. “Thanks.” 

“Your eyes are bigger than your stomach,” he lightly accuses, shaking his head. 

“What does that even mean?” She takes a bite. “Weirdo.” 

Joel just grumbles and tosses a napkin her way. She wipes her mouth and keeps staring at him. Not because she’s waiting for an answer, but because there’s amusement sparkling in his eyes. Which happens more often now that they’d had a couple months to settle into Jackson. A laugh was coming, she could feel it. 

“Quit gawking at me and eat.” There’s a tell-tale waver in his voice. 

“No.” Ellie lightly kicks his shin beneath the table and that’s what sets him off. 

He tries to bite back a chuckle, but he gives in when it doesn’t work out, shoulders shaking. Ellie starts grinning at him from across the table, and he kicks her back with the tip of his boot. 

“Hey!” She breaks into giggles and retaliates. He lets her have the little victory. 

A small smile lingers on his face when he regains his composure. They sit in a comfortable silence as Ellie finishes the rest of her dessert, taking in the festivities around them. 

It isn’t long before a girl with dark hair approaches their table. She’s a ball of masked nerves. “Hi,” she greets. “Ellie, right?” She says it as if it’s possible for her to have forgotten. As if after they sat together at last week’s movie night, she hadn’t been thinking about her since. 

Ellie get’s uncharacteristically squirmy. “Oh. Hey, Dina.” 

Joel can’t believe it.

Dina tucks a flyaway behind her ear. “My old partner bailed, so I was wondering if you’d maybe wanna do the three-legged race with me. I think we’d make a better team anyways.” Then she glances at Joel. “If you wouldn’t mind me stealing her away for a bit.” 

“Take her,” Joel quips, making Dina laugh. 

Warmth rushes to Ellie’s cheeks as she stands. “Sure, let’s go.” 

The two of them jog over to get prepped for the race. Joel watches the whole while, warmth kindling in his chest at the fact that she was slowly finding her tribe. The race doesn’t start for another couple minutes, and when it does, Ellie and Dina burst off into first. It’s intense. The whole ordeal is a mess of laughter, stumbling, and flailing limbs. In the end, the duo end up placing second, crossing the finish line only to fall into a heap of giggles with their legs tied together. 

Joel stands from the picnic table with a grunt to throw away all the empty plates. He has every intention to sit back down, but notices a few frazzled volunteers carrying mops and towels. Then his eyes rove over to the long line standing at the drink stands. Adults check their watches, children fidget. A woman in an orange vest is talking to another woman managing the stand. He doesn’t realize is you until you turn away from her and beeline towards the community center, looking stressed. 

“Hey,” he calls out to a stout man wearing an apron. “Do you know what’s going on?” 

He’s surprised Joel caught on. Everyone else was carrying on as usual, carefree and unaware. “There was a spill at the community center. You know Mr. Robertson’s special Summer Fest punch?” he asks in a thick Brooklyn accent, Joel nods because he’d heard the rave. Apparently it was made especially for the festival. “Kitchen’s flooded with it. I didn’t have time to build an ark,” he jokes.  

Joel wrestles with himself. “I’ll go see if I can help.” 

By the time you exit the community center, gaze fixed over your shoulder, you crash into Joel. He instinctively reaches out to steady you, touch firm but gentle. “Whoa, easy there.” The low timbre of his drawl is enough to draw your mind away from all the noise. “You alright? Here, let’s get out of the way.” You let him pull you aside by your elbow. 

When you look into his eyes, there’s so many things you wish it was the appropriate time to say. It’s been cordial between the two of you, but it always seemed like he was in a constant state of backing away, like an animal scared of giving into a primal craving.  

There was always a reason why he couldn’t stay in your presence longer than he did. He had to get back to Ellie, or turn in early for his patrol shift the next day, or some other excuse. Even during the game nights you hosted, he would always leave before his belly was full and the real fun was about to begin. When everyone was finally free of the day’s worries and truly ready to talk, laugh, and let everything ride on the toss of a dice. 

He’d resigned himself to enjoying you in the little here and there, the moments in between. So much so that even Ellie had begun to notice. It was in the way he never allowed himself to lean in too close whenever you were at his side. Or never fully crawled out of his shell no matter how many times you smiled sweetly or let your fingertips brush his forearm. 

“Does anything hurt?” He asks more intently. As he scans you over, he notices your clothes. The lower portion of your vest and the thighs of your flared jeans are stained with a wet, dark substance. 

“I’m fine, Joel.” You pull away from him with more force than necessary, feeling guilty for the way he swallows and takes a step back. “Sorry.” You release a heavy exhale, tears welling in your eyes with a dull sting. “I’m ruining everyone’s night.” 

Joel frowns. “No you’re not. Tell me what happened.” 

“I was trying to transfer the extra beverage dispenser onto the wagon so I could wheel it out to the drink stand, but it slipped out of my grip,” you explain. “The lid came off and the punch spilled everywhere.” You wipe your tears away quickly, as if they’ll stain too. 

“Accidents happen,” Joel’s tone is steady like scripture, tenderness peeking through just enough to cling onto. “Everybody’s fine. The world's still turning.”

Nobody had reacted in an extreme manner. There were gasps and startled jumps, but assurances came rushing in as the janitorial volunteers insisted that they’d get everything cleaned up. Everyone in that kitchen knew that there were worse things in life than spilled juice. Sure, it was upsetting, considering the time Mr. Robertson spent and the people looking forward to drinking more, but it was a small mistake in the grand scheme of things. But when your heart is already heavy and your mind is tangled with other concerns, those little mishaps feel like the most devastating ones. 

There was a directness about Joel, though, that eased away the guilt crawling beneath your skin. It was like he understood what screwing up truly was and this was many light years from it. 

Dina spots Joel in the distance and points him out to Ellie. “There he is over there.” 

Their smiles fall from their faces when they get closer and realize you’re crying. “Holy shit, what happened?” Ellie looks between you and Joel, worry etched onto her face. 

“I just made a stupid mistake.” You sniffle, trying to regain your composure, not wanting to worry them.  There was always something unavoidably daunting about seeing adults cry. 

“You girls stay here with her for a second. I’ll be right back,” Joel instructs. 

A new song starts up by the live band that’s playing. It’s an instrumental rendition of Every Breath You Take. A decent crowd has gathered, nibbling on sourdough and nodding to the melody. Some people are wrapped in each other’s arms. Joel soaks it all in as he navigates back to the racing lawn. 

Tommy claps him on the back when he makes it and Joel returns the gesture. “You enjoying yourself, man?” Tommy asks. 

“Yeah,” he says distractedly. “There was a spill at the community center, so no more punch. You think you can get everybody on the same page?” 

“Copy that.” 

Tommy’s voice carries through the megaphone as Joel makes his way back to you, the announcement fading with each step. 

“Howdy, folks. Some of you may have already heard, but in case you haven’t, there’s been a little spill and we are unfortunately all out of Mr. Robertson’s world famous punch for the night. We apologize if you didn’t get the chance to try it, but I promise we’ll figure out a way to make it up to y'all. In the meantime, I heard the lemonade and ice tea ain’t half bad.” 

His words blur into the background as Joel makes it back to you. There are a few disappointed groans, but nobody is completely devastated by the news. They keep carrying on just as he knew they would. 

Tears no longer streak your face when Joel makes it back, Ellie and Dina seeming to have lifted your spirits a little more. 

“Do you wanna go get cleaned up?” Joel suggests. 

Now that you’re thinking about it, the feeling of your clothes sticking to your skin is beginning to grow uncomfortable. You take a deep breath at the thought of walking home, away from Summer Fest, all the energy, all the fun. Joel sees the disappointment on your face. 

“I can go with you,” he offers.

•••

The walk to your house is quiet, the sounds of the night's festivities now distant. The porch steps creak gently under your weight as the two of you ascend them. Joel watches as you unlock the door, but finds himself cemented as you step inside. Confusion, appreciation, frustration, and want are all amalgamated into one look directed right his way. Without saying a word, you head further inside, leaving the door open. 

Joel’s hands twitch at his sides like he’s a live wire wrought with energy. Bugs would fly in if he didn’t do something—that’s the justification he creates. You’re halfway to the laundry room when you hear the front door shut behind him as he follows after you. 

The living room is illuminated by dim lamplight as he walks through. A quick glance into the kitchen gives him sight of one of Ellie’s more recent drawings stuck to the refrigerator door with a smiley face magnet. It's a portrait of your face that you agreed to sit for one lazy afternoon while Joel was away on patrol. 

The air smells like you. Understated and sweet, floral and earthen. Small plants line multiple windowsills despite how convinced you were that you couldn’t keep anything alive. The whole commune would be worse off without you and he’d be the first to wilter away. 

At the sound of a zipper and clothes brushing against skin, he stops his pursuit of you. Miles away even though you’re mere yards apart. All he has is your shadow, dancing in the dim light pooling out of the laundry room and into the hall with him. He backs himself into the cool wall and closes his eyes, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. Up and down and up again. An SOS in the middle of a sea when salvation was right within reach. It gets quiet after a while. No more running water, or cabinet doors, or shuffling around. 

“You can let me in, you know?” comes your voice, so light it’s almost nothing. Joel releases a shaky breath and opens his eyes to the sight of you, dawned in old shorts and a graphic tee. You wish he would say something, anything. Share a fraction of what’s going on in his mind. “I’m right here, Joel.” 

“I know. I see you.” There’s a defensive edge to his voice that’s wounded around the edges, as if he’s trying to accommodate the truth that burns within his ribcage, his stomach, beneath the entirety of his skin. 

“So now what?” You swallow your nerves, studying his face, his neck. “We’re just gonna keep seeing each other for the rest of our lives and that’s it? No knowing, no feeling, no experiencing?” You ask. “No loving?”  

One by one, the walls close in, until it feels like you’re standing toe to toe with nothing but words as weapons and honesty being the only way out. It’s not a fight he’s ready for. He can trek through the harshest winters, fight off monsters and all manner of men, but he’s defenseless in front of you.

There will be no victory, no rising from battle with a bloodied fist or blade, or immediate relief akin to the coming of spring. The only way out is to dig within, and he already knew what resided there. It was a matter of carving it out and laying it on an altar for you to see as you did the same. It’s not a fight at all, it's a sacrifice. All risk with probable reward. 

“I don’t want that to be all that we do.” You’ve never heard Joel speak so quietly. It’s as if there’s Infected lurking nearby and he doesn’t want to be devoured. “Think about you too much.” 

“I was starting to think you didn’t like me at all. Not like how I like you,” you say. 

Joel swallows thickly, warm all over. “How do you like me?” 

You push out of the laundry room doorway to step closer to him, placing a gentle hand on his chest, feeling the warmth beneath his shirt, the beating of his heart. You let it thrum against your palm until a shallow breath slips past his lips, then you move to cup his stubbled jaw, lightly brushing your thumb over his lower lip. The urge to touch you back grows so great that he finally gives in and lets both of his strong hands settle on your waist.  

Joel can hear his heartbeat in his ears as he leans in towards you, studying your face, searching for any sign that this might be some elaborate ruse. Instead, he finds something so poignant that he doesn’t have the words to define. It’s as terrifying as it is wonderful to, for once, be unable to size up what he’s up against. 

You close the space in between you with a softness that takes his breath away. Bared heart meeting bared heart. Joel’s lips are gentle and unhurried, every second savored and not a single one missed. You try to focus but it feels like you’re falling and flying all at once. Then his fingers dig into your waist a little harder, a silent plea to stay there with him, the warmth of his kiss, the firmness of his body as he pulls you closer. 

Your hands find their way to the back of his neck to play with the hair curled at his nape. The kiss deepens not in urgency but a shared understanding. A promise sealed in the way your bodies fit together. And then, slowly, deliberately, Joel eases back, lips lingering on yours for a heartbeat longer until there’s a slight space in between again. Your breaths mingle as he rests his forehead against yours, thumb stroking tender circles on your waist. 

When you open your eyes, he’s already looking at you, wondering if you can feel that two worlds having converged into one, buzzing with a newness that’s as beautiful as all the words you’d kept bottled inside. 

•••

It hadn’t taken much. Just a hug and a few soft kisses pressed to the underside of his jaw. When Joel’s grumbling finally subsided, it made way for the soothing ripple of the river. You’d settled along the bank and stretched out a few blankets when you first arrived. An hour seemed to pass in the matter of a few seconds, laughter, conversations and all. Now the sun creeps closer and closer to the horizon up in the ombre sky. 

It wasn’t any fault of your own that you’d asked Joel if the date could extend a little longer. It’d been a month of getting to see him in this light, open and unguarded, generous with giving those slow, easy smiles. Willing to lay down across your lap like this when you asked sweetly enough. 

The small mouth of a fish breaks the surface of the water as you trace along his hairline, disappearing by the time you run the pad of your finger down his nose. His lips twitch as he continues to ward off sleep. This time, there’s no stopping a soft laugh from rising up your throat. That’s all it takes for his eyes to flutter open, blinking until they’re able to focus on the soft upturn of your lips. No sooner do they avert to the sky, assessing the fleeting light. 

“We gotta head back now,” his voice is gruff. When he moves to sit up, you place a delicate hand on the center of his chest and he settles back down with a sigh. “C’mon, sweetheart, the sun’s setting. I don’t want you out here in the dark.” 

Packing up and riding back to the commune meant this moment would be resigned to a memory. “A few more minutes won’t hurt,” you insist. 

Before Jackson and before you, every second was about enduring to the next. Life was an endless onwards, onwards, onwards reverberating through his veins. Slowing down was always a risk until you showed him that sometimes life’s most worthwhile moments were in the stillness. Somedays that was easier to remember than others, but he sure did put in an effort. 

“I think you’re enjoying this more than I am anyways,” you tease. The corners of his lips quirk upwards before he can stop them. 

You continue on like that, tracing his face, occasionally glancing up at the snow-capped peaks of the mountains. Then an animal catches your attention across the way, lean and tall with short antlers protruding from its head. You suck in a breath of pleasant surprise, and Joel startles upright thinking the worst. His shoulders relax when he sees the creature. It bends its neck down to nibble at something in the grass until deciding to gallop away. 

“Just a mule deer.” He gives you a look. 

“I know, sorry. I get excited.” You offer an apologetic smile and he's reminded of how beautiful you look in the light of the setting sun, features aglow. He doesn’t say anything, just soaks you in here and now. An airiness fills your chest. 

He stands with a groan, extending a helping hand back down to you. When you’re steady on your feet, he takes your chin in one gentle hand and tilts your head back so he can align his lips with yours. The kiss is brief, and he follows it up with a soft peck.  

“Will you let me take you back home now?” he questions. “Ellie’s gonna have our heads if we’re late for game night. Especially when she’s choosing the line up.” 

•••

No heads roll that night. Plenty of dice do, while Uno cards are slapped onto the coffee table, and Jenga blocks fall. Tommy, Maria, Dina, and your uncle Nate, eventually file out of Joel’s house, leaving the three of you alone. Ellie feigns sleep on the couch as soon as it’s time for cleanup, and dozes off for real as you and Joel start taking care of everything yourselves. 

He steps up behind you as you’re standing at the kitchen sink, snaking his arms around your middle. A curious hum rises up your throat as you lean back into him. 

“I think somebody cheated during Jenga tonight,” he hushes against the shell of your ear, relishing the way you shiver at the warmth of his breath.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”  

Joel noses at the back of your head. “So you weren’t the one touchin’ me during that last round?” he asks. “Scratching my back, squeezing my thigh.” 

“It was innocent,” you insist. “It's a stressful game, I was just trying to ease your nerves. How was I supposed to know your hands would get all shaky?” 

A sudden chuckle shakes his chest, sending a ripple of warmth through you. “Ease my nerves? We weren’t even on the same team.” His fingers squeeze your hips in quick, gentle pulses, making you arch into him in a spell of helpless giggles. Joel evades your attempts to grab his wrists, but shows you mercy when you turn around, looking up at him through your lashes like you could do no wrong. 

“You’re lucky I happen to like you an awful lot.” He places both hands on the counter behind you, effectively caging you in. 

You smooth your hands up his chest, admiring the soft lines by his eyes, the handsome bump of his nose. “I know. I’m the luckiest person alive.” 

“No, that’s me,” Joel whispers. 

He’s certain of it. 

- 

Thank you so much for reading. I’d love to hear your thoughts, it’s my favorite thing.

[gottencents]

15 Minutes- Sophia Laforteza

pairing. actress!sophia x ceo!reader

synopsis. At a star-studded YSL Oscar After Party, actress Sophia shares a passionate kiss with secret girlfriend, CEO Y/n, sparking rumors and media frenzy as everyone wonders about Sophia's iconic lips and the true nature of their hidden relationship.

the night was young, but the YSL Oscar After Party was already buzzing with excitement. It was the most anticipated event of the year, drawing Hollywood’s brightest stars into one glamorous, glittering space. Champagne flutes clinked, celebrities mingled, and the air was thick with the scent of expensive perfumes and the promise of celebration. The room was alive with energy, but Sophia couldn’t shake the feeling of unease as she stood at the edge of it all.

Sophia, a well-known actress with stunning performances under her belt, had spent years building a career based on both talent and beauty. Tonight, though, it wasn’t her acting that had people’s attention—it was her lips. Full, plush, and undeniably captivating, they had become her trademark. Fans and beauty enthusiasts alike speculated endlessly about the lip gloss she used to achieve that perfect pout, but Sophia had always kept the details a closely guarded secret.

The only thing more famous than her lips, perhaps, was Y/n.

Y/n was the enigmatic CEO of a tech empire, a woman with power that seemed to radiate from her very being. Tall, composed, and effortlessly cool, Y/n was the kind of person who didn’t need to say much to make an impression—she simply had it. When she entered a room, people took notice, drawn to her magnetic presence, her sharp suit, and her confident demeanor. And tonight, Y/n was no exception.

Sophia had always admired her from afar—respectfully, of course—but tonight, something felt different. She found herself watching Y/n more than usual, her eyes following the way people gravitated toward her, laughing too hard at her jokes, trying to get her attention, maybe even hoping for a moment of closeness with the unreachable woman. And each time Sophia saw someone move toward Y/n, a strange pang of jealousy stirred within her.

Why was she feeling this way? Was it because Y/n was so damn alluring? Or was it something more?

Sophia wasn't sure, but the answer seemed to grow more apparent with each passing minute. Her stomach tightened as she watched a well-known actor—someone Sophia had worked with in the past—move toward Y/n, leaning in a little too closely and laughing a little too hard at something Y/n said. The actor’s hand brushed against Y/n’s arm, and Sophia’s heart clenched, an unexpected wave of jealousy rising in her chest.

“Hey, you good?” a voice called from beside her, pulling her from her thoughts.

Sophia turned to find Daniella, one of her closest friends and a fellow actress, standing there with a concerned look.

“I’m fine,” Sophia said quickly, forcing a smile. “Just... long night, you know? Too many people.”

Daniella raised an eyebrow, not convinced. “You sure? You’ve been staring at Y/n all night.”

Sophia froze, her cheeks flushing slightly. She hadn’t realized it was that obvious. "I wasn’t staring, I just—"

“I know you, Soph,” Daniella cut her off with a knowing smile. “It’s okay, we can talk about it later. But, seriously... have you seen the way she looks at you?”

Sophia blinked, taken aback. “What do you mean?”

Daniella shrugged casually. “I mean, the woman’s basically trying to undress you with her eyes. It’s pretty obvious to anyone with eyes. Trust me, I’ve been watching her watch you all night.”

Sophia could feel the heat rising to her cheeks. She wasn’t sure if Daniella was joking, or if she really had been watching Y/n like that, but the idea of Y/n looking at her in that way made her stomach flip.

"I don't know about that," Sophia muttered, shaking her head.

“You’re not fooling me, Soph,” Daniella laughed, raising her glass in a mock toast. “Just saying, if you're interested, I think she might be too.”

Before Sophia could respond, she noticed Y/n standing alone by the bar. The crowd seemed to have shifted around her, and she now had a rare moment of peace. It was her chance.

Taking a deep breath, Sophia excused herself from Daniella, who gave her an encouraging smile before disappearing back into the crowd. As Sophia walked toward Y/n, she felt a rush of anticipation fill her, her heart beating a little faster with each step.

When Y/n saw her approaching, her lips quirked into a smile that sent a shiver down Sophia’s spine. It was a slow smile, one that seemed to suggest a secret—something they shared that no one else knew about.

"Sophia," Y/n greeted, her voice smooth and calm as always. "I didn’t expect to see you here. I thought you might be hiding somewhere from all the chaos."

Sophia couldn't help but smile back, though there was a nervous edge to it. "I don’t like parties like this," she said, offering a half-smile. "But it seemed like the right thing to do after tonight's... events."

Y/n’s eyes softened, and she took a small step closer, closing the distance between them. “You don’t have to pretend to like it, you know. I can tell you're not enjoying yourself.” There was a subtle teasing tone to her voice.

Sophia chuckled nervously, glancing around the room before returning her gaze to Y/n. “It’s not that. I just... There’s so much attention on you tonight. It feels like everyone wants something from you."

Y/n tilted her head slightly, as though intrigued. "And you don't?" Her voice lowered, and Sophia could have sworn there was a hint of challenge in her words.

Sophia swallowed, caught off guard. “I don’t know. Maybe I do,” she admitted quietly, her eyes searching Y/n’s face for any sign that this was some kind of game.

Y/n’s lips parted slightly, as if considering something. “It’s okay to want something from me, you know.” Her voice was softer now, more intimate.

Sophia felt her heart rate quicken. Something about the way Y/n was looking at her made her feel exposed, like they were standing alone in a world that had suddenly gotten much smaller. “Maybe I want something from you,” Sophia murmured, leaning in just a little, her fingers brushing against Y/n’s hand as they spoke.

Y/n smiled, but there was a playful glint in her eyes. “What if I told you that I’ve been wondering about your lips all night?”

Sophia blinked, surprised by the unexpected turn of conversation. “My lips?” She laughed nervously. “What about them?”

“I’ve been wondering what lip gloss you’re wearing,” Y/n replied, her voice low and almost teasing. “You know, the one everyone talks about. The one that makes your lips look... perfect.”

Sophia felt her cheeks flush. It was true that her lips had become something of a signature, but the thought of Y/n noticing them made her feel almost shy. Almost.

“You’ll never know,” Sophia teased, a playful smile on her lips. “It’s a secret.”

Y/n's expression shifted from playful to serious in an instant, her eyes darkening. “I don’t think it should be,” she whispered, stepping even closer to Sophia. She raised her hand, her fingers gently brushing against Sophia’s lips, tracing the curve of her bottom lip before lingering there.

Sophia’s breath hitched at the contact. The way Y/n’s fingers lingered on her lips sent a jolt of electricity through her body, her pulse racing. She could feel the heat between them, the weight of the moment.

“Maybe I’ll find out for myself,” Y/n murmured, her voice thick with desire. And before Sophia could react, Y/n’s lips were on hers.

The kiss was slow and deliberate, each movement drawing Sophia further into the moment. She felt Y/n’s fingers slide into her hair, pulling her closer as the kiss deepened, turning hungry and desperate. It was everything Sophia had been waiting for, everything she didn’t know she needed. The world around them seemed to blur and fade as they moved together, the only thing real in that moment was the heat between them, the way their lips met with a perfect familiarity.

Sophia’s hand traced the line of Y/n’s jaw, her fingers brushing over her lips in return. She could taste the champagne on Y/n’s breath, feel the warmth of her skin, and for the first time that night, she felt completely alive.

When they finally broke apart, both of them were breathless, their foreheads leaning against each other as they tried to catch their breath.

Y/n’s voice was barely a whisper. “That’s what I wanted to know.”

Sophia’s lips parted, still stunned by the intensity of the kiss. “What?”

Y/n smiled, a little mischievous. “Your lip gloss. I had to find out for myself.”

Sophia chuckled softly, her fingers lingering on her lips. “I think you’ve found out more than you bargained for.”

Before either of them could say anything more, the flash of a camera caught them off guard. They turned in unison, only to find a photographer from the party snapping a picture of them, their faces still close from the kiss. The moment was caught in an instant—a headline in the making.

Sophia’s heart dropped into her stomach as she realized what had just happened. Within minutes, the pictures were everywhere. Tabloid sites had picked up the story, the headline reading:

“Y/n Tries to Find Out Sophia’s Lip Gloss Secret—And Gets a Whole Lot More.”

The gossip was relentless. People were buzzing about the kiss, wondering about the nature of their relationship. No one knew that Y/n and Sophia had been dating in secret for months—no one except for a select few.

Later that night, Sophia was scrolling through her phone when a text from Daniella popped up.

Daniella: So... how does it feel to have your lips trending on Twitter?

Sophia couldn’t help but smile at the message. She traced her fingers over her lips, the feeling of Y/n still lingering on her skin. She knew this was just the beginning of something much bigger.

Sophia: It feels... exciting.

And deep down, she knew it was only a matter of time before they would no longer be able to keep their secret.

[pucksandpower]

Pretty Woman Moment

Max Verstappen x wife!Reader

Summary: you have your very own Pretty Woman moment in the glittering shops of Monaco

You take a deep breath of the fresh Monaco air as you walk hand-in-hand with Max down the cobbled streets. He gives your hand a little squeeze and smiles at you. Even after all this time, his smile still makes your heart skip a beat.

You’re both dressed casually — just simple jeans and t-shirts, with caps pulled low over your faces. It’s one of the things you love most about your life here. The two of you can blend in and just be yourselves, without the glare of fame and fortune.

As you pass a small cafe, the smell of freshly brewed coffee wafts out. Your mouth waters.

“I’m dying for an iced coffee,” you say longingly. “Do you mind if we stop for a quick drink?”

Max chuckles. “Of course, schatje. You stay here and keep browsing. I’ll go grab us something.”

He gives you a peck on the cheek before heading into the cafe. You watch him go, your eyes drifting down to admire his cute butt in those jeans. Yup, you’ve definitely still got it bad for him.

Humming to yourself, you continue down the street, peering in shop windows at the latest fashions.

Up ahead you spot the iconic red awnings of Cartier. On a whim, you decide to browse the opulent jewelry shop.

As soon as you enter the store, you can feel the receptionist’s eyes sweep over you, no doubt taking in your casual outfit. Her gaze lingers on your much-loved sneakers. You pretend not to notice as you begin looking at a display of gem-encrusted watches.

Moments later, a saleswoman approaches you. “May I help you find something?” The saleswoman asks in a frosty tone.

You give her a polite smile. “Just looking, thanks.”

The woman’s eyes flick to your sneakers again, and her lips press together in disapproval. Still, she gives a curt nod and stands stiffly nearby like she is waiting for you to leave.

You feel a flare of annoyance at her judgmental attitude, but brush it off. You don’t have anything to prove to her. You know who you are, sneakers and all.

As you admire a display of delicate tennis bracelets, you feel the saleswoman’s eyes on you. She hovers over your shoulder, as if worried you might steal something. You bite back an amused laugh. If only she knew the size of your jewelry collection back home. Max loves spoiling you with extravagant gifts just because.

You wander towards the case of Panthère de Cartier rings, their tiny emerald eyes glinting up at you. As you lean down to admire them, the saleswoman swoops in.

“I’m afraid those particular pieces are off limits to handle without intent to purchase,” she says crisply.

You straighten up slowly. “Of course. My apologies.”

You turn away, irritation prickling. The other salespeople eye you suspiciously too now. Pretentious snobs, you think.

Just then, the glint of your own diamond tennis bracelet catches your eye — the one Max gave you for your anniversary last year. It’s slipped partially down your wrist unnoticed. You nudge it back into place just as the first saleswoman appears at your elbow.

“Excuse me, but I believe you’re attempting to steal that bracelet,” she hisses.

You gape at her. “What? This is mine, I’ve been wearing it since I came in.”

“Likely story,” she snaps. “Jacques, could you please call security?”

A bulky guard steps forward, eyeing you distrustfully. “Let’s just take a look at that bracelet, miss.”

Mortified anger rises in you. “Absolutely not, I don’t need to prove anything to you,” you say heatedly.

The saleswoman’s expression hardens. “If you make a scene, we’ll be forced to restrain you until the police get here.”

Just then, the door opens and Max strides in, caramel-drizzled iced coffee in hand. His eyes instantly take in the situation. He steps forward, eyes blazing.

“What the hell is going on here?” He demands, voice dangerous. You’ve never seen his racing temper directed at you, though you know it lurks beneath his calm demeanor.

“It’s fine, Max, just a misunderstanding-” you start gently.

He silences you with a look, then turns his glare on the cringing salespeople. When he speaks again, his voice is lethally quiet.

“This is my wife, Y/N, and I suggest you treat her with the utmost respect. She is the most important person in my world.” Though his words are soft, they crack sharply like a whip. “Now apologize. Immediately.”

The saleswoman who accused you blanches paper-white. “M-Mr. Verstappen, I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize-”

Max holds up a hand, cutting off her stammering. His sharp features are carved from stone. “Save it. Your behavior was unacceptable. We’ll be taking our business elsewhere and you can be assured that I will be speaking to corporate.”

But the security guard blocks your path. “Just a moment. I still need to verify this bracelet did not come from our store.” He reaches out towards your wrist.

Quick as a flash, Max grabs the man’s arm, halting him. “Don’t touch her,” Max says in a low, dangerous voice. You feel a shiver run down your spine at the ice in his tone.

The security guard tries to yank his arm away, but Max holds firm. “I suggest you let us leave right now, before I call my lawyer.”

He drops the offending arm as the security guard takes several steps back, then takes your hand gently. “Come, schatje. Let’s get you home.”

Once outside, Max halts and turns you gently to face him. His handsome face is creased with concern.

“Are you okay?” He asks, brushing a lock of hair tenderly from your face. “I’m so sorry that happened to you.”

You lean into his touch, letting it soothe away the sting. “I’m okay now that you’re here. But Max … the way she looked at me, treated me like I was garbage just because of what I was wearing …” You trail off, throat tightening.

Max’s jaw tightens, a storm brewing in his beautiful eyes again. “She had no right to talk down to you that way. No one has the right to make assumptions and treat you like anything less than the amazing woman I know you are.”

Despite everything, you feel yourself smile slightly. No one can make you feel better like Max can but furious tremors in his fingers tell you his wrath still simmers below the surface. You squeeze his hand. “I’m okay, really. Don’t let them ruin our day.”

His expression softens as he looks down at you. “Of course. I just can’t stand to see anyone disrespecting you.” He smiles ruefully. “I may have overreacted.”

You laugh. “Just a bit. But it was gallant of you to come to my defense.” You lean up on tiptoes to kiss him sweetly.

Max wraps you in his arms. “I’ll always protect you, Y/N. I love you.”

“And I love you.” You take his hand again. “Come on, let’s go for a walk. I saw the most adorable baby swans in the harbor earlier.”

The tension eases from Max’s shoulders as you stroll together along the glittering marina. You chat and laugh, the unpleasant scene at the jewelry store already forgotten. Because nothing can touch the happiness you’ve found here, in the sun-drenched streets of Monaco, hand-in-hand with the love of your life.

***

The next evening, you and Max stride arm in arm into Cartier, looking every inch the glamorous millionaire couple that you are. You’re dressed in a slinky black gown with diamond earrings while Max cuts a sharp figure in an Armani tuxedo. The salespeople gape as you saunter in, not recognizing you as the girl from yesterday.

You head straight for the saleswoman who accused you of stealing. “Remember me?” You ask breezily.

She flushes, stammering apologies. You silence her with one manicured finger.

“Let’s start fresh, shall we?” You extend a hand. “I’m Y/N.”

“S-Suzanne,” she manages.

“Suzanne, my husband Max and I are looking to make a significant purchase tonight.” You gesture around the lavish store. “You have some beautiful pieces. Why don’t you show us some options?”

“Of course, right this way.” Suzanne leads you to a private viewing room. Hands shaking, she brings out diamond necklaces, tennis bracelets, rings — tens of millions of dollars in jewels laid across velvet.

You and Max pretend to consider each item seriously, before waving it away. “Oh no, that won’t do … this one’s not quite right either …” With each rejection, Suzanne’s smile grows tighter.

Finally you turn to her, feigning disappointment. “Well Suzanne, I’m afraid nothing here has caught my eye. It all seems a bit … subpar.”

She gapes. “S-subpar?”

“Mmhm. I think we’ll try Bulgari next. Their quality is much more superior.” You pause, tapping a finger against your chin thoughtfully.

“You know, now that I’m thinking about it, I realize this just isn’t going to work out between us.” You gesture around the store. “It’s not you, it’s me. I’m sure this is a fine jewelry store for some people with lower standards, but for me ...” You trail off, shaking your head sadly.

Suzanne is white-faced, swallowing hard. “Please, give us another chance. I’m certain we can find something to your satisfaction.”

You pretend to consider it. “Well … I suppose we could take another look.”

For the next hour, Suzanne desperately shows you their most elite pieces, diamond necklaces worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. You and Max have a gleeful time trying them on, admiring yourselves, but ultimately waving each one away.

Finally, after rejecting a spectacular €500,000 art deco diamond choker, you say airily, “You know what, Suzanne? I just don’t think Cartier is right for me. It’s been … educational, but I believe Max and I will be going now.”

As you saunter out, Suzanne calls desperately, “Please come again soon!”

You pause, looking back with a dazzling smile. “I would … but you made a big mistake. Big. Huge.”

And linking your arm through Max’s, you sashay into the balmy Monaco night, leaving the frantic saleswoman behind.

[the-record]

☀️ i see the light ☀️

summary: ellie is just trying to hide from the guards when she stumbles apon a tower and a girl with really long hair.

pairing: flynn ryder!ellie williams x rapunzel!reader

warnings: non me things

a/n: i want to thank the oh so lovely @meowmeowtimw for sending me their gorgeous art, and also everyone who anticipated this fic. thank you so much for the love. also, first time doing a taglist, but let me know if you’d like to be added!

this is going to be done in parts bc my tumblr glitches and i dont want to lose any writing and delay this anymore! i have changed it up a bit from the movie to attempt to fit ellie as a character and not feel like im writing out the script but all the iconic moments will be included

you’re not quite sure how she ended up here. knocked out and stuffed in your wardrobe.

earlier, it had just been you and pascal. your mother out fetching ingredients for dinner, your birthday dinner.

she’d shut down your hopes and dreams of seeing the lights you saw every year for your birthday. she called them stars, made you feel fragile and weak. left with a half hearted goodbye.

thats when the girl showed up.

short auburn hair, climbing the tower with arrows. before you knew it, she was passed out on the floor, a frying pan in your hands.

in her bag though, that was the interesting piece. something gold and shiny, crystals decorating the circle. too big to be a bracelet, too beautiful to be a magnifying glass.

you and pascal jumped as your mother called up the tower, a surprise apparently. when you tried bringing up the lights once more, she’d simply laughed, brushing it off. you tried again, but gave up when she yelled, asking for paints.

she left, leaving you alone again. until you weren’t.

a girl, in your window.

now in your chair, tied up with pascal on her shoulder. he licked her ear, once, twice, three times before she jolted awake with a yell.

“what the hell?”

you took a deep breath, still hiding in a shadow.

“struggling… struggling is pointless.”

she looked around, taking in what was holding her down. was it, hair?

“i know why you’re here, and im not afraid of you.” slowly, you stepped into her view. “who are you, and how did you find me?”

“am i wrapped in hair?” the girl gawked at you, struggling under the wraps. “who am i? who are you? this is insane. this is kidnapping, just so you know.”

your face dropped. “you broke in first.”

“and you knocked me out and tied me up! with hair! who even has this much hair?” she groaned as she struggled.

“so you dont know who i am?” you whispered as you stepped closer.

she looked at you incredulously, “are you joking? of course not. can you let me out now?” you nodded as you stopped in front of her.

only now did you really notice her. short auburn hair, tied up at the back. green eyes that matched yours. freckles lining her nose and cheeks. lips slightly cracked and parted.

“ill let you out, if you promise me one thing.” she rolled her eyes but nodded. “every year, on my birthday, there are these lights. my mother told me they were stars, but ive tracked the stars for years.” you turned away and pulled back the curtain to your most recent painting. “they’re floating lights, and you are going to take me to them.” she hesitated but you quickly jumped in. “and if you don’t, say goodbye to your satchel.”

she sighed and relaxed into the chair. “alright, fine.” she smiled as your eyes lit up and you ran to her. “ill take you. but, we’re going my way.” you nodded excitedly as you untangled her from your hair. “and, im ellie by the way.”

“rapunzel.”

she shook out her limbs before standing. “rapunzel? pretty.”

“so you’ve really never been outside the tower before?”

ellie walked slightly ahead with her hands in her pockets, a small smile on her face. she said she knew a place to stop on your way to the kingdom.

you nodded as you took in everything. “she said it was too dangerous for me out here. that id get eaten alive.”

ellie frowned a bit as you spoke. you were definitely a bit ditzy, but smart. you weren’t naive but you noticed the good in everything you’d seen.

“so,” you pulled up beside ellie, nearly bumping her. “how did you find me?”

“i didn’t actually intend to.” she said, looking at you. “i was running, from… some very bad people, and i stumbled apon a pass in the woods. totally by accident. and when i went through it, there it was. the tower.” she watched as you nodded. “i figured id just, go up. i wasnt really thinking someone might be there.”

“obviously.” you teased.

she rolled her eyes, “alright whatever. i just needed somewhere to wait everyone out. and then you came out of nowhere and tried to maim me.”

you gasped, hitting her arm as she laughed. “i thought you were gonna hurt me! what was i supposed to do?”

“okay, fair enough.” you walked in silence for awhile, side by side, hands grazing.

ellie couldn’t help but feel a pull to you. you were kind, and funny. she hadn’t known you very long, but she knew she wanted to know more. and she couldn’t deny your beauty.

she was knocked out of her thoughts as you pointed to a sign in the distance.

snuggly duckling.

taglist: @urcherrr @onlinelesbo @diddiqueen @pedropascalsbbg @dinaismyfavmilf @madislayyy @ellieswilliamsgf @williamellieslilho @iove-bbb @swxxtbnny

[eldritch-spouse]

https://www.tumblr.com/eldritch-spouse/780205955545776128/kalymirs-reaction-to-me-the-old-icon-of-wraths?source=share

Kalymir thoroughly fucking and rubbing the Queen's clit up to the highest point of the fortress to so everyone can hear it.

[Swoon-worthy for the average wrathful demon. Fem reader.]

TW: Exhibitionism; Squirting; Fear play; Passing description of past gore; Kalymir's caps lock

You never could have guessed this is what he'd pull.

The Ring is going through bizarre times, truly. But if there's one thing you've always prided yourself over, through thick and thin, it's your ability to adapt quickly. To survive. When your previous husband got effectively dethroned by the new King of Wrath, you discovered that your life was not in peril, but actually secured.

The newcomer desired you as his own.

What luck, you merely have to learn to live with another unrequited husband.

Kalymir is quite different than the previous monarch, namely in his energetic nature and resilience. You're not at all surprised he took the throne so swiftly, when faced with an aging, much too overconfident Icon. And although King Kalymir can be unpredictable at times, you thought you were getting the general gist of his modus operandi.

For example, when Kaly laughs during intimacy, it's usually either because you made a particularly pathetic noise, or he's gotten an idea- Most likely to bring a toy, or a weapon, into the occasion. Something that'll be as pleasurable as it'll be painful.

You could never, in a million years, have guessed that he would sling you over his shoulder and march outside with your naked body.

Not that he's anymore clothed than you are.

No, Kalymir stomps out the fortress interior with nothing but his bare crimson hide and a swollen cock bobbing between his legs, unbothered by the passing stares of desensitized guards and mildly curious staff. Some snicker at the way you scream and angrily attempt to tear some of the spikes off his back.

" Just what do you think you're doing?!? "

" SHUT YOUR TRAP. "

A clap to your ass effectively achieves just that, the sting of your flesh distracting you from the heat in your face.

" HOLD TIGHT OR CRACK YOUR SKULL. "

It's all the warning you get before this beast of a creature launches himself at the rubbled walls of his own fortress and begins scaling it.

The shriek that left you was pure frightened reflex, tiny human nails fruitlessly digging into his back for all the support you can get. Dangling legs attempt to encircle anything while you grip around his crown of horns and the bone spikes coming from his lower shoulder blades. Instinct makes you bite the back of his neck, hoping to stay as anchored as possible.

Judging by the steaming grunt he let out, Kalymir doesn't mind at all.

The sound of dense claws scraping against harsh stone follows every frantic lift and impact of his climb. You dare not open your eyes and gouge the distance he's already put between yourself and the ground. Impossibly strong muscle mass shifts and coils beneath you, he doesn't even break a mild sweat from this.

The air in your lungs freezes along with every limb in your body when Kalymir hastens, climb seemingly endless, making you realize what his goal is.

This complete lunatic wants to fuck you on the very top of his fortress!

" You're fucking insane! " Is all you can spit through the shock and dread coiling around your throat.

" DON'T GIVE ME SHIT. YOU'RE WET ENOUGH I MIGHT SLIP. "

The possibility, no matter how crudely worded, is paralyzing.

He has a point however... Shamefully.

Just as Kalymir innovates Wrath, he innovates in your bed chambers, something the previous ruler hardly cared for. He's effective, overwhelming. To this demonlord, domination isn't merely subduing you for his personal use, it's wrenching all the pleasure out of you he can get, forcibly, pushing you past your limits, until you cry and hurt and collapse. An all-encompassing type of fight you had never experienced.

Compared to the dull and trivial acts of before, is it any wonder Kalymir can easily make you wet?

In less time than you'd ever bet on, the King has scaled up to one of the high points of his own fortress. A somewhat conical shape of hard, clawed rubble- Marks of demons who had previously perched upon it. You dare take a peak into what lies below, and the sight is dizzying in its grandeur.

Various zones of Wrath reveal themselves to you, a miasma of mahogany patterns and endless moving shapes. You never thought of how much blood was spilled on the streets daily until you got to see it from above, like now. The arenas stand out, decorated in engravings of glorified slayers and tormentors from ages ago. Your vision blurs for a slight second, moving figures becoming no more than blurred blobs as you grip harder onto Kalymir, so afraid of falling.

He would tank such a fall, shaking it off. You, on the other hand, would paint the fortress like an ripe tomato.

" D- Don't set me down. "

Your threat stutters past intensely grit teeth, more of a pathetic plea than anything.

" NOT PLANNING ON IT. "

In a series of movement that would make any standard human nauseous but do hardly anything to someone as used to bruthisness as you, Kalymir has flipped you over against his front. The motion does little to jostle his perfect sense of balance. It's as if you weigh less than feathers to this demonlord.

The ensuing position has your back to his front, held tightly by unrelenting arms which your poor heart hammers against.

" HANDS AROUND MY NECK! SUPPORT YOURSELF. "

You don't need to be told twice.

Scrambling, shaking digits dart upwards for any inch of safety. Nails claws against a hard chin and defined cheekbones in their panicked efforts, before finally latching around the corded muscles in question. You think some might have chipped in the process, but he doesn't complain, holding your lower body up by the meat of your thighs.

It's a strange position to be in.

You are now spread open and exposed to the burning wafts of Wrath's winds, the adrenaline in your system allowing you that much more sensitivity to every stimulus. The slightest changes in the air make your nipples pebble and your cunt twitch against nothing.

Your mind empties for a fraction of a blissful second where all that exists is mild confusion, your heartbeat and Kalymir's steady breaths inflating his chest.

Then, abruptly, you imagine what might happen if your hands' strength falters, slipping to an ungodly fall, a screaming, wailing death.

" ... I'm gonna fall. " You warn him, gasping.

For as careless as Kalymir often is, you don't think he plans to get rid of you anytime soon, so it would be in his best interests to not let you die in such a horrid way.

Broken nails dig harder into his hide, subpar anchors that only succeed in making the King groan, teased to satisfaction.

" QUIT FUCKING WHINING AND SQUEEZE MY COCK LIKE EARLIER. "

You're now suddenly reminded of the activities interrupted only mere minutes ago. The throbbing length resting beneath you has hardly flagged a bit, in fact, you're willing to bet scaling around his fortress with you over his shoulder has only made Kalymir hornier.

It should have taken longer for him to successfully hook the tip of his cock to your entrance, but truth of the matter is he had stretched you prior, and you're really just as wet as he had taunted you over.

Kalymir leans back against one of the merlons of his fortress and curves forward a certain amount, just enough to allow the penetration to be that much deeper. You get to feel every inch of his barbed shaft force its way inside, letting out a mute, trembling sigh.

There's no doubt you're clenching around him hard. If not from pleasure, then surely how much tension this dangerous position is exerting all over your body. He chuffs like a gratified bull and rocks to grind his cock further into you, a gesture that has your toes curling and eyelids fluttering as it crushes all manner of sensitive spots inside you.

" Hhnrh- "

" HAHAHA, YOU'LL CHOKE MY DICK OFF AT THIS POINT, YOU HUNGRY WHORE. "

You bet he'd like that.

The demonlord finds a rhythm far too fast for someone that's standing in such heights. Entirely unbothered by the surroundings and never faltering, he bends his neck and bounces you on an unrelenting girth, letting gravity and momentum screw you harder onto his wet dick.

Even though you're so high up, neither of you seem to get enough air in your lungs, panting like a pair of animals in a frenzy, perhaps putting some rutting gargoyles to shame with your beastly display.

Every loud cry you release triggers a trickle of laughter from the King, eager to rip out more of them.

" HOW DOES IT FEEL, RUNT? DID HE EVER DO THIS TO YOU? "

Terrifying. You opt not to tell him that.

" N- No. "

" OF COURSE NOT. " He grinds out, snarling. " BECAUSE HE WAS FUCKING WORTHLESS. "

The Icon halts his bruising pace, a pause that finally allows your poor brain to stop rattling around your skull and pay attention, even if your body writhes for more.

" YOU KNOW WHAT YOU'RE GONNA DO NOW? "

Uh oh.

The side glance you give him is both vicious and mortified.

You may be considerably weaker, but you'll make the next few days torturous to him if he decides to truly harm you.

" YOU'LL HOWL FOR ME. " Kalymir grins wolfishly. " LOUD ENOUGH FOR THE WHOLE RING TO HEAR. "

Before you can think too hard on what he's implying, Kalymir has already shifted positions again.

He now squats on the very edge of the crenel, the claws of his feet hooking onto the stone. You're compressed, folded in two almost, one of his arms holding your knees up to your chin while the other creeps between your legs.

You have no idea how he's managing to stay perfectly balanced throughout all this, he doesn't so much as sway in any direction.

The view you get, although partially obscured, is horrifyingly large. Embers of instinctive anxiety flaring as you realize that you might die before you even hit the ground. You know you're squeezing around his dick again because he moans openly.

As if to make it worse, he tilts forward a bit and you shriek instantly.

" Ff-Fuh-Fucking stop! "

" HAHAHAHA- "

There's no semblance of shame or mercy to be found in the King.

" LET'S HEAR IT THEN. "

You didn't know what to expect, until his hand started moving.

The Icon begins, jarring and harsh, finding your clit and using the pads of his fat fingers to roll it incessantly, with a pressure and speed you have never had used on you.

All of this comes together to create stimulus of such intensity that, for a second, all you can do is try to twist and writhe in Kalymir's iron grasp, desperately gulping air while your eyes blur again.

Sure enough, the noises that begin belting out of you are nothing short of bestial, whines and strained moans shifting to clipped yelling and grunts. No one put into your shoes right now would give a flying fuck about keeping noises palatable. All you want to do is hold on and survive your husband's bizarre fetishes, honestly.

Kalymir quietly pays attention to what elicits the loudest reactions, shifting a leg back to spread you further.

The closest thing to a warning that he gets from you is a babble of loose vowels followed by an overstimulated sob.

" THAT'S IT- LOUDER. "

You couldn't hold back the thundering orgasm that rolls through your entire body even if you tried your damndest. It short-circuits your mind for a good moment where you can only feel the ringing in the air caused by your own wanton cry, followed by the force with which you erupt all over Kalymir's cock.

" MAKE IT FUCKING RAIN! " He cackles, barks with laughter, flicking fingers torturing you to prolong the overwhelming climax.

Admittedly, the way you flutter around him has the Icon finally starting to huff and puff, his already hot figure overheating further. It won't be long before Kalymir is filling you, the thought making your tormented clitoris twitch painfully.

You wonder if there's people around, below the fortress, watching. What are they thinking right now? This'll be the talk of the Ring for a while, possibly other Rings.

" HEHAHAHA, LOOK AT THOSE FREAKS- EAT UP YOU FILTHY FUCKS. "

Oh yeah, there's definitely perverts crowding around then. Were they just... Waiting for you to cum so they could... Taste it? Gross. Demons are so disgusting.

" BECAUSE THERE'S MORE COMING RIGHT UP. "

Your eyes bulge.

His hand starts moving again.

" I'm gonna f-fucking kill you! You son of a bitch, you motherfuck- "

And he just laughs.

[sighmurderbot]

Are you, like me, suddenly obsessed with COD and want to write fanfic, but you don't want to always follow the canon missions?

Introducing: the mission generator. Pick one thing from each catagory and write away. Assembled from various resources and my head.

Objective:

<air strike / aid / arm / assassinate / assault / bombard / breach / build / bypass / capture / clear / contact / contain / control / defend / destroy / disarm / disaster relief / disengage / disinformation / distract / escort / extract / guard / identify / infiltrate / interrogate / isolate / investigation / lead / liberate / medical assistance / neutralize / occupy / patrol / propagandize / recon / recruit / repair / rescue / sabotage / seize / supply / surveillance / train>

Target:

<ship / dictator / informant / army / navy / armor / missile / chemical gas / estate / financial institution / airplane / organization / religious icon / subject matter expert / terrorist cell / journalist / rebels / airforce / drug trafficker / intelligence agency / factory / general / supply chain / submarine / enemy base / hostage / safe house / WMD / monument / leader / deserters / militia / research center / lab / bridge / mountain pass>

Unforseen Complication:

<old rival / dependant / redundant cell / transportation problems / competition / blown cover / legal trouble / old enemy / natural disaster / love interest / old friend / wounded / illness / journalists / bad weather / civil unrest / emergency election / civilians in need / double agent / weapon malfunction / team separated / betrayal / mistaken identity / regime change / deserters / ambush / bad Intel / false flag op / sabotage / traps / hacking / capture / setup>

Location:

<city / town / village / estate / mountains / abandoned house / military base / port / desert / forest / plains / river / ocean / tunnel / caves / swamp / jungle / coast / volcano / ruins / arctic / tundra / hills / canyon / mountain pass>

[iamgonnagetyouback]

THEY DON’T KNOW IT’S CHRISTMAS AT ALL.⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ●ㅤㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ SKITTLES

SUMMARY ৎ୭ being a muggleborn in slytherin is already weird enough, but when christmas rolls around and you start ranting about movies, mulled wine, and plum cake? yeah, they’re lost. so now, you’ve made it your mission to educate them—powerpoint presentation and all

WARNINGS ಇ. barty being barty, excessive christmas enthusiasm, regulus slander (affectionate), purebloods being utterly clueless ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ REQUESTED BY ಇ. by @leeny-leens ➺ here ♡ A/N ಇ. thank you so much for the request, leeny! love ya! ‹𝟹

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ᡣ𐭩 words.ᐟ 1,104

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤ ౨ৎㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

It all started on a chilly December morning in the Slytherin common room, where you, the lone Muggleborn among a brood of purebloods, found yourself stuck in a conversation about Christmas plans.

“Father’s hosting the annual gala, of course,” Regulus drawled, looking like he’d rather jump into the Black Lake than attend. “It’s a tedious affair. Wine, polite chatter, more wine, and some distant cousin inevitably gets hexed.”

“I’ll be in France,” Barty chimed in, lounging on the emerald-green sofa. “Mother insists we spend Christmas at the villa. Snow-covered vineyards are apparently very ‘in’ this year. Never mind that I despise snow.”

Evan, sprawled on the armchair like a cat, added, “We just exchange gifts and drink until someone passes out. Classic Rosier family bonding.”

Dorcas shrugged. “I’m just here for the food.”

“What about you, sweetheart?” Pandora asked, perched cross-legged on the carpet, her eyes sparkling with curiosity as she looked at you. “What do Muggleborns do for Christmas?”

The room went quiet. All eyes turned to you. You blinked, caught off guard by the question, but then your face lit up with an enthusiasm so un-Slytherin it almost made Regulus flinch.

“Oh, it’s amazing,” you gushed, leaning forward like you were about to unveil the secrets of the universe. “We watch Christmas movies, bake cookies, drink mulled wine—”

“Mulled what?” Barty interrupted, raising a brow.

“Wine, but it’s warm and spiced! Like… liquid Christmas,” you explained.

Barty squinted. “Sounds cursed.”

“It’s delicious!” you insisted. “And then there’s plum cake, gingerbread houses, carols…”

“What’s a gingerbread house?” Pandora asked, tilting her head.

You gasped audibly, clutching your chest. “You don’t know about gingerbread houses?!”

“Why would anyone live in a house made of bread?” Regulus muttered, looking genuinely baffled.

“You don’t live in it, you eat it! It’s a house-shaped cookie! Decorated with icing and candy!”

“So it’s a building you eat?” Evan asked, pen and parchment suddenly in hand. “How structurally sound is it? Is there a charm involved?”

You stared at him. “It’s not real architecture, Evan. It’s… it’s just fun!" you said, throwing your hands up. “Fun. You’ve heard of it, right? Or do purebloods have a ‘no joy’ clause in their family crests?”

Barty let out a bark of laughter. “I like Treasure’s energy today. Keep going.”

“Sounds inefficient,” Regulus sniffed, though he didn’t look away from your animated expression.

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” you groaned, throwing your hands in the air. “I can’t believe this. How can you lot be so deprived? Do you even know about Christmas movies?”

“I’ve seen A Christmas Carol,” Pandora offered helpfully.

“No, no, no,” you said, shaking your head furiously. “That’s just the tip of the iceberg. There’s Home Alone, Elf, Love Actually, Grinch…”

“What’s ‘Home Alone’?” Barty asked, sounding both skeptical and intrigued.

“It’s a masterpiece!” you exclaimed, your voice echoing slightly in the cavernous common room. “A kid gets left behind when his family goes on holiday, and he outsmarts burglars with booby traps! It’s iconic.”

Regulus’s brows furrowed. “Why didn’t the parents use a locator spell?”

“It’s Muggle,” you sighed. “No magic. Just wit and… household objects.”

“Sounds dangerous,” Dorcas commented, but her interest piqued when you added, “Also, he eats a ridiculous amount of pizza.”

Pandora clapped her hands together. “Darling, you must show us all of this!”

“Show you?” you repeated, an idea already forming in your mind. “Oh, I’ll do better than that. I’ll educate you. Prepare yourselves for the most Muggle Christmas experience of your lives. I’m taking you home for the holidays.”

“Oh, treasure, you’re inviting us home?” Barty grinned mischievously. “How sweet.”

You ignored him. “PowerPoint presentation. Slides. Visual aids. You’ll see.”

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤ ౨ৎㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

Your cozy, fairy-light-strewn living room was a far cry from the grandeur of the Slytherin common room. The gang had been skeptical about “Muggle festivities,” but after hours of your enthusiastic explanations, their interest had piqued.

You stood before them with a literal PowerPoint presentation projected onto the wall.

“Slide one: Christmas Movies,” you announced, pointer in hand. “This is The Grinch. He’s green, he hates Christmas and people, and he’s iconic.”

“Relatable,” Regulus muttered, sipping mulled wine with far more sophistication than necessary.

“Slide two: Food!” you exclaimed. “Behold: mince pies, Christmas pudding, turkey with all the trimmings—”

Dorcas leaned forward. “You made all of this?”

“Some,” you admitted, “but most of it’s from the bakery down the road.”

“I love your Muggle bakeries,” Evan said under his breath, scribbling in his notebook.

“Slide three: Ugly sweaters,” you said, holding one up triumphantly. It was garishly red with a Rudolph nose that lit up.

Barty snorted. “You actually wear that?”

“Not only wear it,” you said, grinning, “but we have competitions for who wears the ugliest one.”

“This is ridiculous,” Regulus muttered, but he was watching with unnerving focus.

“Last slide!” you announced. “Mistletoe! Hang it in a doorway, and if two people stand under it…”

“They duel?” Barty asked, eyes sparkling.

“No, Barty. They kiss.”

“Oh,” he said, smirking. “Much better.”

As you launched into an enthusiastic explanation of Christmas traditions, complete with visual aids and holiday snacks, the reactions were… mixed.

“Wait, so you hang socks over a fire?” Pandora asked, horrified. “Why?”

“Stockings!” you corrected. “And Santa fills them with gifts!”

“Who’s Santa?” Evan asked, taking meticulous notes.

“A magical man who delivers presents to every child in one night,” you explained.

“That’s absurd,” Regulus muttered. “He’d need to Apparate faster than…”

“Regulus, it’s not about logic!” you exclaimed. “It’s about magic… the non-wand kind.”

Dorcas, meanwhile, was utterly focused on the food slides. “Do you have these… sugar cookies? Right now?”

Pandora was already halfway through decorating a gingerbread man. “This is delightful,” she said, adding tiny buttons with a concentrated frown.

Regulus, trying to appear disinterested, kept glancing at the screen as you explained Christmas movie plots.

“And in Elf, the main character…”

“Wait,” Barty interrupted. “You’re telling me a grown man thinks he’s an elf?”

“Yes, and it’s hilarious!” you insisted.

Regulus’s lips twitched as if suppressing a smile. “Ridiculous,” he muttered, but didn’t look away.

By the end of the evening, the room was littered with crumbs, icing, and half-decorated cookies. Evan was still taking notes, Pandora was humming a carol, and even Barty admitted he’d try mulled wine if you made it again.

Regulus lingered by the fireplace as the others left, staring at the stockings hanging there. “It’s… quaint,” he said quietly.

You grinned. “Muggle Christmas wins, admit it.”

Regulus didn’t look away from the stockings. “It’s tolerable.”

But the faintest flush on his cheeks said more than words ever could.

©iamgonnagetyouback౨ৎ please refrain from copying, translating, or reposting any of my work

[valkyriexo]

You have the Flu | Felix

ᑉ³pairing; Felix x Reader

ᑉ³genre; Sickfic, Comfort, Fluff,

ᑉ³warnings; use of pet names

ᑉ³Authors Note; Other members coming soon!

Part of the "He helps you when.." collection. Other members parts: Chan | Minho | Changbin | Hyunjin | Han | Felix | Seungmin | Jeongin

As you leave the office, the weight of the day begins to lift. You're looking forward to heading home, maybe even curling up with a good book or binge-watching your favorite show. It's been a long week – Thursday afternoon, the anticipation of the impending weekend is palpable, yet one more day of work still looms ahead.

The rain catches you off guard, a sudden onslaught that seems to mirror the weight of the week you've just endured. Dark clouds hang low in the sky, casting a somber shadow over the bustling streets below. The sound of raindrops hitting pavement fills the air, drowning out the usual cacophony of city life.

You hadn't expected rain today – hadn't bothered to check the weather forecast, too consumed by the demands of work to think about anything else. Now, you find yourself standing on the sidewalk, unprepared and unprotected against the elements.

The air is thick with the scent of wet asphalt and the sound of rain hitting the pavement is a constant, soothing rhythm.

With a heavy heart, you reach into your pocket for your phone, hoping to call for a taxi and escape the downpour. But as you bring it out, you notice the battery icon blinking ominously – a glaring red warning that it's about to die.

You curse under your breath, frustration mounting as you realize the extent of your predicament. Without a working phone, you're stranded in the rain, with no means of summoning help or seeking shelter.

Reluctantly, you tuck the phone back into your pocket, resigned to your fate. The cold seeps into your bones as you huddle beneath the feeble shelter of an overhang, watching the world pass by through a curtain of raindrops.

Minutes stretch into what feels like hours as you wait, the anticipation of a taxi's arrival your only source of hope amidst the relentless downpour. With each passing moment, your patience wears thin, your spirits dampened by the relentless assault of rain.

Finally, a taxi pulls up to the curb, and you practically leap inside, grateful for the warmth and shelter it provides.

As you settle into the backseat, you let out a long exhale, feeling a chill creep into your bones. The sound of rain against the windows is muffled now, replaced by the hum of the engine and the soft patter of droplets on the roof.

You give the driver your address and sink back into the seat, closing your eyes for a moment of peace amidst the chaos of the storm. The gentle rocking of the taxi lulls you into a state of calm, the tension in your shoulders slowly melting away.

Outside, the rain continues to fall, a steady rhythm that serves as a backdrop to your journey home. But inside the taxi, you're safe and dry, cocooned in a bubble of warmth and comfort. And you watch as the city lights pass by in a blur of color.

But as the night wears on, you start to feel worse. Your head throbs, your throat feels scratchy, and your body aches all over.

As you stumble through the door of your apartment, you can't shake the feeling of exhaustion that weighs heavily upon you. But you're grateful for the familiar surroundings of home.

Dragging yourself to the bathroom, you strip off your wet clothes and step into the warm embrace of the shower. The hot water soothes your aching muscles, but it does little to ease the pounding in your head or the scratchiness in your throat.

After what feels like an eternity, you emerge from the shower and clumsily towel off. You're too tired to bother with your nighttime routine, so you simply crawl into bed, shivering despite the layers of blankets.

After what feels like an eternity, you emerge from the shower and clumsily towel off. You're too tired to bother with your nighttime routine, so you simply crawl into bed, shivering despite the layers of blankets.

You glance at the clock on the nightstand, its glowing digits informing you that it's now 9:26 PM. Your phone, now charging, sits on the nightstand, but you can't summon the energy to check it. Instead, you drift off into a fitful sleep, the fever burning through your body like wildfire.

--

As you slowly awaken from your fever-induced slumber, you're greeted by the persistent pounding on your door. Every muscle in your body feels heavy, and the thought of moving seems impossible. You try to call out, You try to call out, but your voice comes out as nothing more than a raspy croak, barely audible even to your own ears.

The persistent pounding on your door feels like a distant echo, a sound from another world intruding upon your fragile consciousness. With each thud, your heart beats a little faster, a sense of unease creeping into the edges of your mind.

The pounding grows louder and more urgent, reverberating through the room like a drumbeat. Then, above the din, you hear the unmistakable sound of keys jingling in the lock, sending a jolt of adrenaline coursing through your veins. Your heart skips a beat as anticipation and anxiety intertwine within you.

Suddenly, the door bursts open, and Felix rushes into the room, his face a whirlwind of emotions – concern, relief, and something else that you can't quite place. His eyes lock onto yours, searching for reassurance amidst the chaos of your fevered state.

"Felix," you manage to croak out, your voice barely above a whisper. Relief floods through you at the sight of him.

"You didn't answer any of my messages or calls," Felix says, his voice tinged with worry as he rushes to your side. "I got really scared when I went to check up on you at work and you weren't there, so I came straight here. Are you okay?"

"Felix," you whisper. "What time is it?"

"It's 3 PM," he replies. "I've been so worried about you. Are you okay? How are you feeling?"

You manage a weak nod, reaching out to grasp his hand. "I... I think I caught the flu. I feel awful."

Felix's expression softens with concern as he feels your forehead. "You're burning up. Let's get you some water and medicine, okay? We'll make you feel better."

You nod gratefully, letting Felix guide you to sit up as he hurries to fetch a glass of water and some fever-reducing medication. As he fusses over you, you can't help but feel overwhelmed by his care and concern.

Felix's brow furrows with concern as he settles beside you, his worry evident in his voice. "How long have you been feeling this way?"

You sigh. "Since last night. I... I think it's because of the rain," you admit reluctantly. "I got caught in it on my way home from work yesterday, and I didn't have an umbrella or anything. By the time I got home, I was already feeling sick."

Felix's expression darkens with concern and a hint of frustration. "You were out in the rain without proper protection, and you didn't say anything?" he asks, his voice tinged with worry and reproach.

"I didn't think it was a big deal," you mumble, feeling ashamed for not taking better care of yourself. "I thought I'd be fine, but... I guess I was wrong."

Felix's features soften as he reaches out to cup your cheek, his touch gentle. "You should have told me, sweetheart," he says softly. "I would have come to get you, or at least made sure you got home safely. I hate seeing you like this."

You nod, feeling tears prickle at the corners of your eyes. "I'm sorry, Felix," you whisper, feeling overwhelmed. "I should have said something. I won't do it again, I promise."

Felix pulls you into his arms, holding you close as he presses a kiss to your forehead. "It's okay," he murmurs, his voice warm and comforting. "Just focus on getting better now, alright? I'll take care of you."

With a tender smile, he rises from the bed and heads to the kitchen, returning moments later with a steaming mug of his favorite tea. Its aroma fills the room, carrying with it a sense of warmth and comfort.

"Here," he says softly, offering you the mug. "This always makes me feel better when I'm under the weather. Maybe it'll help you too."

You take the mug gratefully, the warmth of the tea seeping into your hands.

As you slowly try to drink the tea, your hands trembling slightly from weakness, Felix notices the sadness etched on your face. then, he suddenly disappears into the other room.

A couple minutes later he returns with BbokAri cradled gently in his arms, a soft smile gracing his lips as he approaches you.

"Here," he says gently, placing the plush toy in your hands. "This little guy never leaves my side, but tonight, I want him to keep you company. I thought he might help cheer you up too."

Taking the plush toy into your hands, you can't help but marvel at its softness and the love that emanates from it. As you hold it close, feeling its comforting presence, you notice Felix's gaze lingering on you, filled with concern and tenderness.

Seeing your body tremble with chills, Felix's heart wrenches with concern. "You're so cold," he murmurs. "Let's get you warmed up."

He quickly rises from the bed, leaving you momentarily bereft of his comforting embrace. However, he returns moments later with an extra blanket, which he wraps snugly around you. Then, he retrieves a heating pad, placing it gently near you.

As you shiver from a combination of fever and cold, Felix notices your discomfort. Returning to your side, he slips under the covers beside you, wrapping his arms around you in a gentle embrace. He holds you tightly, his own body heat radiating against yours, as he murmurs soothing words of comfort.

You snuggle closer to him. Felix holds you close, his steady heartbeat a reassuring rhythm against your ear. You hold BbokAri close to your chest, feeling its softness against your skin. Felix wraps his arms around both you and BbokAri, and you feel a sense of safety and security wash over you, banishing the cold and the fear that had gripped you moments before.

Felix presses a kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering as if to convey all the love he holds for you. "I'll do whatever it takes to see you smile again," he murmurs, his voice a gentle caress against your skin. "You mean everything to me, and I can't stand to see you like this."

"Do you want more medicine, or is there something else I can do to ease your discomfort?" he asks gently, his voice filled with a desire to help.

"Having you here, holding me like this," you say softly, "is all the medicine I need."

Felix's smile is tender and full of affection. "I'm glad I can provide some comfort," he replies, brushing a strand of hair from your face. "But if there's anything else I can do, just let me know. I'll bring you more tea, medicine, anything you need. Or we can go on a walk? Get some sunshine and fresh air."

"You already bring the sunshine with you, right here in this room," you say, your voice soft with love.

Felix's eyes shimmer with warmth at your words, a soft glow of affection enveloping him. Pressed against each other for warmth, you drift off into a peaceful sleep, the sound of Felix's steady breathing lulling you into a sense of calm.

ઇଓ M.LIST | Ko-Fi | Taglist | Thank you for your support ♡ | Consider leaving a comment, reblog or like ♡ | © 2024 Valkyriexo 

[eighttens]

Imagine: Gymcrush!San x pilatesgirlie!reader

Synopsis: Imagine finally working up the courage to go up to Gymcrush!San, after weeks of semi-creepily watching him across the stuffy gym.

It’s not your fault that he‘s somehow always there when you do your sessions, even less so that your eyes keep finding him and his tiny waist. Him and his thick arms, him and his muscular chest, him and thunderous thighs. Not your fault that he wears those skin-tight tops, paired with the iconic grey sweats, or on days where you thank the lord, workout shorts. No, not your fault at all when he looks like sex on a stick after running cardio on the treadmill, even more so when deadlifting, a belt cinching his waist in deliciously.

So, after a particularly successful gyming session for you (you had completed a new Pilates routine with increased weights, and held your yoga stretches for a whole 20 seconds longer than usual, and even the 15-minute warm up run seemed easier than usual), you finally manage to walk up to him.

You’re regretting it the moment you start walking towards him, only now noticing that he isn’t here alone fuck fuck fuck what do you mean he’s got his bros here?!. You almost make a 180 to turn to leave, but decide to kick yourself in the ass you’re going to die anyway, why not take the chance?. Your Yolo attitude carried your feet across the gym hall, and by some miracle the two guys standing with San start drifting towards a machine, probably to start the next set.

Taking deep breaths you try to hype yourself up, you look down at your clean shoes and revise what you’re going to say. Once your confidence if built up enough (and your short trek across the gym is complete), you muster up the courage to speak to him, lightly tapping his shoulder to call his attention.

He pulls the headphones off his head completely, and turns to look you in the eyes. His eyebrows raise slightly once he takes in your appearance, and you can feel your face heating up at the way his eyes scan your figure. He remains silent but nods his head to you once his gaze returns to your face, bidding you to say your piece.

You collect your scrambled thoughts and practically squeak out the semi-confession „Hi, sorry to disrupt you but I find you really admirable, I hope this doesn’t come out of the nowhere but could I have your number?“ Your eyes are hopeful, and by now you’re sure that a blush has crept its way onto your face- you can feel it down your neck.

You‘re fidgeting with your phone a little, watching his eyes widen and his mouth drop open a little, tongue coming out to dart at his lips before he speaks. „Yeah, sure. No problem.“ His voice is gravely but kind, and you can feel your heartbeat pick up at the success you’ve garnered from the interaction. A little too giddily you open your phone contacts and select a new contact.

Holding out your phone for him to take, you’re caught off guard by his grumbling voice again. „You do Pilates, right?“ your breath halts for a second. Never in your life had you considered it a reality where he would perceive your existence, too. It really didnt occur to you that just as much as you watch him, he could be observing you as well.

„Uh- yeah, yeah i do Pilates. Im usually in the open space though.“ you reply once you found your voice again. He nods thoughtfully in response, „yeah, thats right.. Ive seen you do your routines once or twice. Impressive as hell, i couldn’t do that stuff to save my life.“ a small smile tugs at the corner of his lips as he finishes typing on your phone, passing it back to you and looking into your eyes again.

You bite back a smile and look down at your phone to avoid his eyes, shy from the compliment. „Oh, thanks…“ you hear him chuckle. „Hey, lemme get your number too, ill reach out first since you beat me to taking the first step.“ your eyes flick up to meet his again, wide in surprise. „Huh?“ you look down to his hands where he holds out his phone on front of him, eyes expectant and warm.

He sighs and gestures for you to take the phone, which you do almost reflexively as he explains: „Well, you’re braver than me for approaching first, I’ve been noticing you for a while now, never had the confidence to go up to you though. I was worried I’d scare you away.“ You look at him in disbelief, your mind racing with thoughts as your gaze shifts to the heavy phone in your hand.

„Oh…“ your voice is quiet as you numbly type in your number, filling the contact as your name. A smile that mirrors his crosses your face when you look back at him, and you both end up giggling as you stare at another in silence, smiling like teens.

Once you’ve calmed down you avert your gaze again and shrug. „So… see you around??“ he nods almost immediately, arms flexing as he reaches up for his headphones again. „Yes! I mean- yeah sure.“ he corrects his overzealous tone and coolly coughs to cover it up, cringing a little at himself, and you laugh a little. „Okay, bye then!“ you send him a little wave and turn around to collect your things and head to the changing rooms to leave, a little pep in your step.

Glancing into the contacts of your phone you notice that not only did San leave you with his number, but he added a note into the contact itself: „Meet me tomorrow in/after gym, same time as today? Maybe i can spot you, and maybe you can help me stretch? And maybe we can grab some food afterwards???“ you almost die right then and there, head floating in the coulds as your cheeks hurt from how hard you’re smiling.

What you dont see though, is the way his friends rush over to him once you’ve left, bombarding him with a million questions and clapping him on the back in congratulations. „Wow! Sannie!!! The cute little Pilates chick? Fuckin‘ score man!“ Mingi claps his hands in approval, nodding hard as he watches your form leave the gym. „Who knew that San had this kinda game, damn good on you.“ Wooyoung still has his hands on San‘s shoulders, rubbing them up and down roughly.

San doesnt say anything, just standing there, soaking in the moment, chest warm and stomach fuzzy as he thinks back to your interaction. From one moment to the next however, his face falls. „Fuck.“ he curses, voice flat. Both Mingi and Wooyoung look at San‘s face, and then one another. „What do you mean? You just bagged all that, and you’re worried about anything??“ Wooyoung looks at him incredulously, expression almost comical. San shakes his head with a blank face his eyebrows ever so slightly furrowed. „Where do i take her to eat? And how the hell do i become flexible by tomorrow?!“

[atopvisenyashill]

king bran

so i’ve lined up my theory on how bran will be king in harrenhal but i was a little lax on details about king bran foreshadowing. there’s the “bran in harrenhal” stuff i’ve outlined which includes-

bran’s connection to the weirwoods & the magical connection the isle of faces has

the whent connection

bran being a metaphorical heir to robb by ruling over the lands robb was born, fought, and died in

the importance of harrenhal as a symbol of both the wasteful excess and hope for the future

but why king bran specifically? well…

ATTEMPTED SLAYING BY THE KINGSLAYER

for one thing, bran is our introduction to the entire series (barring the prologue, rip to 3 icons). he introduces us to the brutality of this world, to the themes of justice, kingship, leadership, to the Others, and to magic. that very important lesson about how the person to pass judgement must swing the sword, and must be sure that the life they're taking is one that deserves to be taken? That comes to us not through Jon, or even Arya, but Bran:

Yet our way is the older way. The blood of the First Men still flows in the veins of the Starks, and we hold to the belief that the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. If you would take a man’s life, you owe it to him to look into his eyes and hear his final words. And if you cannot bear to do that, then perhaps the man does not deserve to die.

That last sentence in particular is a belief that really sticks in all the kids heads as they go about their journeys, and it is through Bran that we learn it.

But in his second chapter, Bran also introduces us to jaime, cersei, and the main plot twist of the first book which kick starts the war of five kings. before he's pushed from the tower, this is all we know about Jaime-

He’s blonde, he’s named Jaime, and he killed the king.

Then the first thing he does is attempt to slay Bran.

AEGON VI AND THE PISSWATER PRINCE

What’s most interesting to me regarding King Bran foreshadowing is that the story of how Bran survives the sack of Winterfell is very similar to Varys & Illyrio’s story of the pisswater prince. Here is Tyrion’s summary of it-

"And when the pisswater prince was safely dead, the eunuch smuggled you across the narrow sea to his fat friend the cheesemonger, who hid you on a poleboat and found an exile lord willing to call himself your father. It does make for a splendid story, and the singers will make much of your escape once you take the Iron Throne…

and some reminders about Bran, helpfully color coded-

It was not Bran we killed. It was not Rickon. They were only miller's sons, from the mill by the Acorn Water. "I had to have two heads, else they would have mocked me… laughed at me..."

Three times he had sworn to keep the secret; once to Bran himself, once to that strange boy Jojen Reed, and last of all to Coldhands. "The world believes the boy is dead," his rescuer had said as they parted. "Let his bones lie undisturbed. We want no seekers coming after us. Swear it, Samwell of the Night's Watch. Swear it for the life you owe me."

“Hodor must stay with Bran, to be his legs," the wildling woman said briskly. "I will take Rickon with me." “We'll go with Bran," said Jojen Reed. "Aye, I thought you might," said Osha.

Another interesting thing about Bran, the Reeds, and Aegon VI here-

“He has a song," the man replied. "He is the prince that was promised, and his is the song of ice and fire."

I swear it by earth and water," said the boy in green. "I swear it by bronze and iron," his sister said. "We swear it by ice and fire," they finished together.

BRAN, THE REEDS, AND THE FISHER KING

Now first of all, quick rundown with more color coding. The Fisher King is a character in Arthurian legend, involved in a story with Perceval and the Holy Grail (so you know we’re already cooking here bc Holy Grail stories are baller). The Fisher King is the last in a long line of kings tasked with guarding the Holy Grail. He is injured at some point, usually in the groin, and is rendered barren by the wound, and his land is a barren wasteland where nothing will grow because he is connected to the land. Only when a prophesied hero comes seeking him will the Fisher King be healed. Perceval, of course, comes seeking him, heals him, and gets the Holy Grail.

Now some of the beats of that story should sound familiar-

Thousands and thousands of years ago, Brandon the Builder had raised Winterfell, and some said the Wall. Bran knew the story, but it had never been his favorite. Maybe one of the other Brandons had liked that story. Sometimes Nan would talk to him as if he were her Brandon, the baby she had nursed all those years ago, and sometimes she confused him with his uncle Brandon, who was killed by the Mad King before Bran was even born. She had lived so long, Mother had told him once, that all the Brandon Starks had become one person in her head.

He was going to be a knight," Arya was saying now. "A knight of the Kingsguard. Can he still be a knight?" "No," Ned said. He saw no use in lying to her. "Yet someday he may be the lord of a great holdfast and sit on the king's council. He might raise castles like Brandon the Builder, or sail a ship across the Sunset Sea, or enter your mother's Faith and become the High Septon." But he will never run beside his wolf again, he thought with a sadness too deep for words, or lie with a woman, or hold his own son in his arms.

The stone is strong, Bran told himself, the roots of the trees go deep, and under the ground the Kings of Winter sit their thrones. So long as those remained, Winterfell remained. It was not dead, just broken. Like me, he thought. I'm not dead either.

What was he now? Only Bran the broken boy, Brandon of House Stark, prince of a lost kingdom, lord of a burned castle, heir to ruins. He had thought the three-eyed crow would be a sorcerer, a wise old wizard who could fix his legs, but that was some stupid child's dream, he realized now. 

No," said the pale lord. "That is beyond my powers." Bran's eyes filled with tears. We came such a long way. The chamber echoed to the sound of the black river. "You will never walk again, Bran," the pale lips promised, "but you will fly."

Now what’s interesting is in twoiaf we learn about some ancient rulers called the Fisher Queens-

From such we know of the Fisher Queens, who ruled the lands adjoining the Silver Sea—the great inland sea at the heart of the grasslands—from a floating palace that made its way endlessly around its shores.

The Fisher Queens were wise and benevolent and favored of the gods, we are told, and kings and lords and wise men sought the floating palace for their counsel.

And what do you know look at who Bran is traveling with-

“My father taught me. We have no knights at Greywater. No master-at-arms, and no maester.” “Who keeps your ravens?” She smiled. “Ravens can’t find Greywater Watch, no more than our enemies can.” “Why not?” “Because it moves,” she told him.

Jojen Reed was thirteen, only four years older than Bran. Jojen wasn't much bigger either, no more than two inches or maybe three, but he had a solemn way of talking that made him seem older and wiser than he really was. At Winterfell, Old Nan had dubbed him "little grandfather."

When they died, they went into the wood, into leaf and limb and root, and the trees remembered. All their songs and spells, their histories and prayers, everything they knew about this world. Maesters will tell you that the weirwoods are sacred to the old gods. The singers believe they are the old gods. When singers die they become part of that godhood.

I like to say this about Theon, when he sees Bran's face in the weirwood and thinks, "The old gods, he thought. They know me. They know my name." that this is partially true - Theon is beloved by the gods but what he doesn't realize is that the old god he is beloved by is in fact Bran Stark. When the old gods weep for Theon and Jeyne, it is Bran weeping for them! So similarly, the way the Fisher Queens in their moving castle were thought to be beloved by the gods the Reeds in their floating castle are beloved by the gods because they are beloved by Bran. This reinforces Bran's connection to the Fisher King imo - just as the old greenseers and singers/cotf are quite literally connected to the land because they have become part of the the weirwood hivemind, Bran has this same connection to the land.

AND what’s more is that the Fisher King story is likely to trace itself back to a Welsh story, of a magical King who gives his sister's hand away, only to learn that she is being mistreated, and musters a host to go save her. During a battle, the King is mortally wounded by an injury in his foot, and as he dies he tells his men to cut off his head and take it to London so he can protect their people from invasion, and for several years after he "dies" his head continues speaking. If that also sounds familair, do you want to know what that man’s name was?

Bran the Blessed.

MELISANDRE'S VISION

Now staying in the realm of magic, we also have this very interesting passage from Melisandre, emphasis mine-

Show me Stannis, Lord, she prayed. Show me your king, your instrument. Visions danced before her, gold and scarlet, flickering, forming and melting and dissolving into one another, shapes strange and terrifying and seductive. She saw the eyeless faces again, staring out at her from sockets weeping blood. Then the towers by the sea, crumbling as the dark tide came sweeping over them, rising from the depths. Shadows in the shape of skulls, skulls that turned to mist, bodies locked together in lust, writhing and rolling and clawing. Through curtains of fire great winged shadows wheeled against a hard blue sky. A face took shape within the hearth. Stannis? she thought, for just a moment … but no, these were not his features. A wooden face, corpse white. Was this the enemy? A thousand red eyes floated in the rising flames. He sees me. Beside him, a boy with a wolf's face threw back his head and howled.

THE REGENCY OF AEGON III

So warning this is part parallelism and part prediction

The Dance of the Dragons was done, and the melancholy reign of King Aegon III Targaryen had begun.

As he was still but ten years of age, the new king’s first act was to name the men who would protect and defend him, and rule for him until he came of age.

This was a council of which Septon Eustace heartily approved, “six strong men and one wise woman, seven to rule us here on earth as the Seven Above rule all men from their heaven.” Mushroom was less impressed. “Seven regents were six too many,” he said. “Pity our poor king.” Despite the fool’s misgivings, most observers seemed to feel that the reign of King Aegon III had begun on a hopeful note.

So many lords, both great and small, had perished during the Dance of the Dragons that the Citadel rightly names this time the Winter of the Widows. Never before or since in the history of the Seven Kingdoms have so many women wielded so much power, ruling in the place of their slain husbands, brothers, and fathers, for sons in swaddling clothes or still on the teat.

The smallfolk of the Seven Kingdoms speak of King Aegon III Targaryen as Aegon the Unlucky, Aegon the Unhappy, and (most often) the Dragonbane, when they remember him at all. All these names are apt. Grand Maester Munkun, who served him for a good part of his reign, calls him the Broken King, which fits him even better. Of all the men ever to sit the Iron Throne, he remains perhaps the most enigmatic: a shadowy monarch who said little and did less, and lived a life steeped in grief and melancholy.

There is also a big focus on the “tax policies” aspect of the story through these two child rulers. Much of Aegon’s regency centers around him butting heads with his guardians while Bran’s ACOK arc sees him as the ruling Stark in Winterfell and learning how to lead with mentors in Maester Luwin & Ser Rodrik Cassell. EYE also think it’s interesting how both Aegon & Bran get some focus on having a lil gaggle of companions around. Aegon has Gaemon, Jaehaera, Viserys, Daenaera, and Larra Rogare, while Bran has the Big Walder, Little Walder, Rickon, Jojen, and Meera. They both feel like very similar groups of kids that are thrown together & running amok with adult supervision that is more lax/not coming from their parents.

There's also just like, a lot of parallels between Baela, Rhaena, Jacaerys, and Aegon with Arya, Sansa, Jon Snow, and Bran. There are several good breakdowns of the Sansa/Arya parallels as well as the Jace/Jon Snow ones, so I won't dig into that here, but I think when you put all this together what you have between Bran and Aegon III is-

Two boy kings who will have a long regency

Both orphaned due to a brutal succession war

Both referred to as "broken" - aegon by munkin, and bran referring to himself

Younger - but not the youngest - brother coming into his seat after his older brother is killed

Both have names that are important in their families & frequently re-used - and in fact both share a name with their uncle

A very rare "winter of widows" where most of the houses are ruled by women due to all the men being dead and their heirs being babies is coming up in the main series

This anti parallel of Aegon being a very melancholy person & Bran being known to be “quick to laugh and easy to love.”

As for his relationships, we have-

His bastard born brother With Some Secret Paternity Going On, who is likely not going to be in the running for King at the end of the war (hopefully um, Jon Snow actually lives unlike poor Jacaerys)

His oldest brother dying at 16 during the war

One sister who is more adventurous and "tomboy"ish, who is associated with ships and travel

Another sister who is more ladylike, who has a largely political arc in the Vale

Both sisters are likely to take leading roles as political players in the aftermath of the war - I do suspect we will get some sort of “Hour of the Wolf” parallels here, just before or after Bran is crowned

SOME CHOICE QUOTES TO LEAVE OFF ON

Bran could perch for hours among the shapeless, rain-worn gargoyles that brooded over the First Keep, watching it all: the men drilling with wood and steel in the yard, the cooks tending their vegetables in the glass garden, restless dogs running back and forth in the kennels, the silence of the godswood, the girls gossiping beside the washing well. It made him feel like he was lord of the castle, in a way even Robb would never know. - Bran II, AGOT

Ahead he glimpsed a pale white trunk that could only be a weirwood, crowned with a head of dark red leaves. - Jon VII, ADWD

[dracomalfoy7]

Looks Better On You

Draco Malfoy x Slytherin!Reader

Summary: Iconic POV: when Y/N spots Draco and admires his rings

Word Count: 1.3k+

Warnings: Fluff, Teasing?

A/N: I know we've read this a thousand times but one more time won't hurt. PS. Picture from Pinterest!

Draco Malfoy sat languidly in his usual spot at the back of Potions, where he could watch and observe, always maintaining an air of superiority. His fingers absently tapped against the wooden desk, each of his rings glinting under the dim light of the dungeon classroom. Rings had always been a part of his look, subtle symbols of his status, wealth, and heritage—silver bands that wrapped around his fingers like they belonged there, catching the eye of anyone who cared to notice.

And you noticed.

Draco’s gaze drifted across the room, settling on you, Y/N. He often saw you at the front, close to Professor Snape’s desk, a place where most people who were interested in learning—really learning—tended to sit. Normally, he wouldn’t have paid much attention. You were clever, but not attention-seeking like Granger, and certainly not as loud as Pansy. You were one of those students who preferred to fade into the background.

Except today. Today, he noticed something different about the way your eyes occasionally darted back to where he sat. Not toward his face, but his hand.

He smirked to himself, leaning back in his chair with that trademark Malfoy arrogance. So, you were admiring his rings. Draco couldn't deny the satisfaction that came with it. There was something thrilling about catching someone in an unguarded moment, about knowing that beneath your composed exterior, you were drawn to something about him—something material, yes, but still him.

As Snape droned on about the properties of Belladonna, Draco’s gaze never left you. You must have sensed it at some point, your back straightening as if you were caught doing something you shouldn’t. He watched as you shifted in your seat, trying to focus on the lecture, but your eyes still flicked, ever so briefly, to the silver glint of his rings when he moved his hand.

“Malfoy.” Blaise’s voice cut through Draco’s thoughts. “What’s so fascinating over there?”

“Nothing,” Draco drawled, his smirk widening as his fingers curled into a loose fist. Blaise followed his gaze toward you, his eyebrows raising slightly.

“Ah,” Blaise said, understanding dawning in his expression. “Y/N, huh?”

“Keep your voice down,” Draco muttered, not that Blaise ever listened to anyone but himself. His friend merely chuckled, leaning back in his own chair, clearly amused by Draco’s newfound interest.

Draco’s eyes shifted back to you. This time, you caught him looking directly at you, and for a brief moment, your eyes locked. You blushed, immediately glancing away, but not before Draco caught the flicker of embarrassment mixed with curiosity in your expression.

Interesting.

The rest of the class passed in a haze. Draco wasn’t paying attention to Snape’s lecture or to Blaise’s occasional remarks. His mind was focused on a single question: How should he play this?

By the time the class ended, Draco had already made up his mind. He gathered his things leisurely, waiting for the perfect moment as everyone began to file out of the classroom. You were one of the last to leave, carefully tucking your notebook into your bag, still trying to appear as though you hadn’t noticed Draco’s stare burning into your back.

But you had.

Draco stood, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve in a casual, almost lazy motion as he approached you. He made sure to walk with his usual swagger, the heels of his expensive shoes tapping lightly against the cold stone floor. You hadn’t seen him coming, so when he stopped directly beside you, your eyes widened slightly in surprise.

“Y/N,” he drawled, his voice carrying that familiar, aristocratic lilt.

You looked up at him, startled, but quickly composed yourself. “Malfoy,” you replied, your tone polite but guarded.

His eyes flickered toward your hand, and he noted how your fingers briefly twitched, as if you were resisting the urge to adjust something that didn’t need adjusting. His smirk deepened. “I couldn’t help but notice you admiring something of mine,” he said, voice soft yet sharp. “Care to tell me what caught your attention?”

Your blush deepened, and you opened your mouth to deny it, but nothing came out. Draco raised an eyebrow, enjoying the moment far too much. He slowly raised his right hand, the one you had been admiring in class, displaying the rings on his slender fingers.

“They’re just rings,” you said finally, averting your eyes.

“Just rings?” Draco echoed, feigning hurt. “You seemed quite fascinated by them. I think you were paying more attention to these than to Snape’s riveting lesson on Belladonna.”

You gave a small, almost imperceptible roll of your eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself, Malfoy.”

“Oh, I don’t need to,” he said, stepping just a bit closer, invading your personal space in that way only he could—deliberate, confident, and with an edge of challenge. “But if you like them so much, perhaps I should give you one.”

You blinked, clearly caught off guard. “What?”

Draco reached for the smallest of the rings, a sleek silver band etched with an intricate snake design, and slid it off his finger with ease. He held it out to you, dangling it between his thumb and forefinger like it was the most natural thing in the world to gift someone something so personal.

“Take it,” he offered smoothly, his tone low and teasing. “A little keepsake.”

You stared at the ring, as if unsure whether to accept it or laugh in disbelief. “Why would you give me one of your rings?”

Draco’s smile widened, sharp and knowing. “Because I can.”

You hesitated for a moment longer, but then your hand reached out, fingers brushing his as you carefully took the ring from him. The brief contact was enough to send a shiver down Draco’s spine, though he masked it well. He watched as you studied the ring in your palm, your expression caught somewhere between surprise and suspicion.

“Do you just hand out your things to anyone?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Only to those who deserve it,” he said, his voice dropping just a fraction, his eyes locked on yours. There was a weight to his words that hadn’t been there before, a subtle shift from teasing to something else—something more serious.

You met his gaze, the playful banter from before fading slightly as the two of you stood in a silence that felt charged with unspoken meaning. For a moment, the bustling noise of students in the corridor outside the classroom faded away, and it was just the two of you.

The ring rested in your hand, small and cold against your skin, but somehow it felt heavier than it should have. You weren’t sure if it was the ring itself or the weight of the gesture behind it—Draco Malfoy, heir to the Malfoy fortune, offering you something of his own.

Finally, you slid the ring onto your finger. It was a little loose, but it fit well enough.

Draco’s eyes flicked to your hand, satisfaction curling through him as he saw his ring on your finger. “Looks good on you,” he murmured, the smirk returning to his lips.

You looked down at the ring, then back up at him, your expression unreadable. “Don’t expect me to wear this forever,” you said, though there was no real bite in your words.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said smoothly. “But who knows? You might get used to it.”

You rolled your eyes again, but there was a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips this time. “You’re insufferable, Malfoy.”

“So I’ve been told,” he replied, the smirk never leaving his face. He took a step back, giving you space once more, though his gaze lingered on you a moment longer. “See you around, Y/N.”

With that, Draco turned and walked away, leaving you standing there with his ring still on your finger, his presence lingering like a shadow long after he was gone.

As he strolled down the corridor, Blaise caught up with him, raising an eyebrow as he noticed the absence of one of Draco’s signature rings. “Gave her one of your rings?” Blaise asked, sounding impressed. “That’s a bold move, even for you.”

Draco shrugged, a smug smile playing on his lips. “I like to leave an impression.”

And he was certain he had.

My request are open!

[darkita11]

Found some time to finish these :^) Carol Cóndor speculative gameplay (Wii & SNES)

Details here ↴

1. Pathways leading after Carol's fake kick. There's a small window to land a star punch, you can land the hit and earn it or wait until he drops his leg. Landing a late hit or dodging will trigger a fast punch. Trying to counter or not doing anything will end in a hit by Carol. Dodging and countering right after opens a stun opportunity

2. [SNES] Once Carol's health bar reaches about 30% he will step back, remove his mouth guard and smile showing his teeth. He keeps this smile for the remainder of the match and will throw punches more frequently

3. LMAO a proposed time out animation for Carol. It's referencing the Chilean viral video Pisco a lo macho (there's gagging so maybe don't watch if that triggers you or something + esto es pa la audiencia chilena ok sé q es ridículo). Never got the pass for being gross and inappropriate for an E rated game. Doc Louis quote: "Let's go Mac, erase that cocky smile from Cóndor's face!"

4. Carol Cóndor Title defense entrance animation. The camera shows a man walking into the ring wearing all black accompanied by a metallic sound on each step he takes. Focus on the man's head reveals Carol's eyes with smudged eye makeup. He then removes the hat and the poncho showcasing the whole character. Floor angle shows him stomping the floor twice making the spurs jingle, camera goes up and focuses on Carol's upper body.

5. KO animation. mmm idk if I'd add a short punching sequence at the beginning but As Carol takes Little Mac's last punch the camera switches to slow motion showing his iconic smile fade away as he passes out. The camera seems to shake or "quake" as he falls to the floor landing on the ropes and his head bounces back and forth a couple times resembling headbanging slightly.

[y2xnjn]

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ racer!taehyun (nsfw 18+)

— a/n: this look will forever be iconic 😖 also i barely know anything about racing or cars, i'm so sorry if this is inaccurate

✧ racer!tyun x fem!reader, wc: 1.8k

✧ warnings: smut— MDNI! tyun is lowk cocky, car sex, unprotected sex, grinding, fingering, pet names, creampie

your heartbeat speeds up when you see the row of cars, each one at a different pace than the other but all so fast that the sound of the friction between the fast tires and the concrete road makes you wince for a split second. they all look like colors passing you by as you wait on the sidelines, cheers and screams on either side of you, people nearly toppling over each other to get a closer look. you watch as each carl crosses the finish line, so close to one another you’re unable to identify which one placed first until you hear your boyfriend’s name being announced on the megaphone, and your friends are cheering by your side.

catching taehyun’s eyes as he exits out of the black and red-striped car with an obnoxious slam of the car door and a cocky smile on his face as if he thinks he’s the best–cause he is–you attempt to run up to his side, sliding by the planted post, but a guard stops you, his large figure blocking your view.

“excuse me, miss. you can’t go up there,” he says, a snarky smirk on his face as he puts his hands right above your breasts to push you back, clearly delighted by the touch of your cleavage. you try to push his hands off of you, your friends also clearly disgusted by the sight as they try to pull you away, but he doesn’t budge, using the excuse that he’s just making sure the racers are safe from any ‘threats’. lucky for you, taehyun ignores the calls of his name by the judges who are ready to present him his award and makes his way towards you instead. he comes up behind the guard and pushes him out of the way, his body being significantly smaller in height, but still dominated by muscle, a result of his time at the gym.

"she's with me, dipshit." he glares at him, and he gladly moves to where he was standing before with an apologetic look on his face. taehyun takes your hand in his and leads you up to the podium with him. you roll your eyes at the way your girlfriends giggle and 'ooh' as he gives you a quick peck on your cheek. you reciprocate, squeezing his hand tighter, a way of saying your congratulations; of course there will be more later, but for now, this will do. he steps up on the podium, you wait at the bottom insisting this is his moment, and you don't want to intrude. taehyun says to come up with him almost every time he wins—many many times—claiming that the two of you are partners, and he can't do any of this without your support, but you know he should be given the chance to be his own entity in front of the world, and you're happy at the sidelines.

he grins when the award is placed in his hand, looking directly at you, and you show your look of endearment back until you see a cameraman waiting for him and gesture at him to look forward. he does, and many photos are taken with many people, many words of pride and cheers from his supporters, until he's finally free and leading the two of you away to his car. his own car is a beauty, a stunning blu abu dhabi ferrari 296 gtb, a gift to himself after winning a special race, and also, your favorite car of his because you love the way he gets relaxed and confident when he drives it.

the garage is dark, dimly lit by a few suspended light fixtures throughout, mostly emptied out due to the time, so taehyun takes this chance to press you against the door of his car. he places the trophy on the hood in a position where it won't fall—not that he cares if it does, he has many more— and tangles one hand in your hair while the other rests on your hip, his lips making their way to yours. he kisses you a few times until he travels down to your neck when you open your mouth to speak.

"tae, you did so well today," you breathe out, eyes fluttering shut when his thigh presses directly against your crotch.

"i always do well, baby." he speaks against your skin, breath warm and minty. "it's nothing new." you roll your eyes and sigh playfully, taehyun was always confident, and you admired it.

"i know, but i'm just—" he flexes his thigh cutting you off, and you feel his grin against your neck when you struggle to find your words. "i'm so proud of you—shit, you worked s-so hard, and you—you looked so, i can't— fuck, tyun."

the way he grinds his leg against you has you throwing your head back, eyes clenched shut because the muscle has somehow found the exact spot that has you whining and throbbing against him. your cotton panties barely covered by your miniskirt leaving you exposed to him, your arousal leaking on his leather pants. "aw, baby," he coos, but he sounds evil as he says it, "i know, and i appreciate you so much. my girl is always there for me, hm?"

the kisses on your neck halt as he looks up at the way you're already so fucked out, just from kissing and a few rocks of his thigh. taehyun grins at the sight, licking his lips and holding your face when you don't respond. "answer me." you nod eagerly, widening your doe eyes, wanting to show your full support. "wanna show me how proud you are?"

he moves away from you, a whine leaving your lips at the loss of his touch, but he opens the door to the front passenger seat and sits himself down, patting his thigh, his boba eyes looking up at you, waiting for you. you take a seat on his lap, somehow closer than before, and he closes the door, locking the door. you can barely see taehyun in the darkness of it all, but you can definitely feel him underneath you.

his lips return to yours, catching them in a quick breath, and his fingers trace up from your thighs to prod at your entrance. you gasp against his lips, and he groans at the wetness of the cloth at his fingertips before tugging it to the side and slipping two fingers inside you. you grab at his jacket and tug him closer, gripping it tightly while he thrusts his digits into you relentlessly. "tyun, please— can i ride you? wanna feel you."

"of course baby, lemme just— fuck, need you to cum on my fingers first," he watches the way you grind against his hand in mesmerization, obsessed with the way your arousal drips in between your legs on his expensive leather. taehyun tugs at your low cut top, revealing your breasts, and he hangs his head low to nip at the supple skin. he pumps into you faster, finding it a necessity to have you cum, and you finally do not long after, a whine of his name falling from your lips.

you find yourself unbuttoning his pants quickly, in a rush to have him inside you, as he finds his way back to your mouth, sinking his teeth into your bottom lip. struggling to get his tight leather pants down his hips, wailing in desperation, he grabs your hands, putting them around his neck, and does it himself, pulling his cock out, hard as it slaps against his stomach. he throws his head back in relief, having been constrained in his underwear but snaps back up when he feels your folds rub at his tip, dripping down his shaft. he pulls your hips down, slowly taking him inch by inch as you wince at the stretch of his length filling up your walls. taehyun groans, a grip on your hips as you sink onto him. "fuck, my girl is so tight. so wet and warm—shiitt."

once he bottoms out inside you, his hips tightly pressed against your, he sighs loudly, bucking his hips up into you. you nearly topple over, having to grab his shoulders to balance yourself until you're able to move. you roll onto him, a slow grind contrasting with your hurried movements from earlier. the angle, the intimacy, the expensiveness of it all has you enjoying it all more, loud moans slipping out with every movement. his eyes zone in on where the two of you meet, loving the wet sounds that are produced. "baby’s so proud of me, she's leaking all over my seats,” he shakes his head, “how dirty."

you frown, knowing he paid a lot for this car, and you’re spoiling it, tears well up in your eyes, and you mindlessly sniffle out apologies. “don’t worry, baby. i would buy a thousand cars just to fuck you in each one,” his words are spoken against your chest, and your back arches when his hips thrust into a certain spot, his teeth scraping your and adding to the stimulation. his jacket being clawed at by your fingers, needing something to maintain the rise and fall of your body on his length.

"soso full tyun, i— fuck, s-so good—you're fucking me so good," you cry out, spurring him on. he lifts you up and lays your head on his dashboard, taking over and pounding into you with a new angle that has you losing your mind. his hand crawls up your back, and finds its way in your hair pulling it back to reveal your flushed neck, filled with his marks. he leans forward to make more, the zipper of his jacket brushing against your hardened nipples, making you squeal.

"you know i think about you when im racing? thinking about how good i get to fuck you when i'm done. how fast i'd give it to you, and it just makes me go faster." you whine at his words, getting close to your climax.

"i'm close, tyun. please fill me up."

"yeah? want me to make an even bigger mess? " he lets go of your hair, reaching down to circle your clit, pushing you over the edge as you tighten around him. "gonna smell you all over my car, baby." he twitches inside you, the feeling of you clenching unable to ignore, and releases, his fluids leaking out to join yours on the chair. taehyun pulls your limp body back up against him, pulling out with a wince and tucking himself back into his pants. "we should make this a ritual."

his words bring you back, and you look up at him with sleepy eyes and a tired smile. "what, you fuck me every time you win?" he nods, delight on his face, and he gathers tissues from the center compartment and cleans the two of you up— starting with his seats. "no thanks, tyun. you almost always win, my legs will give out one day." he gives you a sweet kiss, a giggle attached to it.

"that's okay, i'll just drive you around everywhere myself."

[thezombieprostitute]

Tech Tuesday: Steve Rogers

Summary: It's only your first day on the job. That's way too soon to have an office crush. Right?

Warnings: None at this time. Please let me know if I missed any!

A/N: Reader is female. No physical descriptors used.

Tech Tuesdays Masterlist

Don't stare at his ass. Don't stare at his ass. Don't stare at his ass. Your internal mantra had changed from this morning as Steve from IT helped you set up your work laptop. It didn't help that he was currently plugging everything in underneath your desk, his ass just begging to be smacked. It's not like he'd see you ogling him, but your coworkers would.

Then again, some of them had definitely given appreciative looks so maybe they wouldn't judge if you let yourself stare a little?

Steve is suddenly out from under desk and on his feet, cancelling any further moral dilemmas about staring at him. Now you're wondering how such a large man can move as quick and graceful as an acrobat.

"That should be all the network, power and accessories plugged in," he tells you. "Would you please log into the laptop and we can double check?"

You nod as you sit in your chair. You type in your credentials and start testing things out.

Steve leans in close to you, looking over your shoulder, "would you be willing to right click on this icon here?"

His words barely register because you're caught up in feeling the heat emanating from him. You try to take a calming breath and do as he requested.

"Are you okay?"

"Umm...yes?" Your voice sounds shaky even to you.

"Oh, geez," he blushes as he backs away. "I'm so sorry about that. I'm...I'm not always the best judge of personal space." His hand rubs the back of his head and you're practically melting at how adorable he looks with reddened cheeks.

"It's okay," you're quick to reassure. "It just caught me off guard, is all." There's an awkward pause between the two of you before you turn back to your laptop, "so it was this icon, right?"

"Yes," Steve eagerly jumps on the change in topic. "I just need to check some connection settings, make sure you're connected and that the VPN isn't interfering."

Steve gets back to the cubicle he shares with Bucky and lets out a dreamy sigh as he sits. Bucky looks at him with a furrowed brow and he feels himself blushing again.

Before he can get back to work, Pine knocks lightly on the cubicle wall. "Steve, how did setup for the new employee go?"

"It was pretty standard," Steve nods. "I double checked that all of her systems were working and she was able to log in to the needed programs."

"Excellent," Pine nods. "I know it was very unexpected, so thank you for being willing to take on the task."

"Not a problem," he smiles.

Pine leaves and Steve turns back to his computer. He tries to get back to work but is stopped by Bucky.

"That explains all the blushing," Bucky teases, a small smile at the corner of his lips.

Steve feels the heat rushing to his face again. "I don't know what you're talking about," he grumbles.

"Sure you don't."

"It was nothing but doing my job."

"Whatever you gotta tell yourself."

A minute of silence passes before Bucky asks, "so when are you asking her out?"

Steve scoffs, "when you ask out the barista you keep visiting."

Bucky glares at him, "I just prefer their coffee to the swill they have in the break-room."

"Oh?" Steve raises his eyebrows comically high. "For someone who watches their budget, you're sure paying a lot of money to the latte tax."

"I watch my budget so that I can indulge in it," Bucky growls.

"So we're agreed," Steve says. "There's no romantic interest for either of us."

Next

Tech Tuesdays Masterlist

Tagging @alicedopey; @darsynia; @delicatebarness; @ellethespaceunicorn; @icefrozendeadlyqueen; @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory; @late-to-the-party-81; @lokislady82 ; @peyton-warren @ronearoundblindly

[inkolnito]

Paddock Confidential - Chapter 5: Gala Lights and Guarded Hearts

Pairing:

Oliver "Ollie" Bearman x Lira Räikkönen (Original Female Character )

Minor background pairings reflecting the real-life F1 grid (e.g., Charles Leclerc/Alexandra Saint Mleux)

Summary:

Rising F1 star Ollie Bearman navigates the intense pressure of his rookie season with Haas, juggling demanding team expectations and his close ties to Ferrari under the watchful eye of Fred Vasseur. His biggest challenge lies off-track: guarding his relationship with the enigmatic and fiercely private Lira, whose surprising motorsport knowledge and aversion to the spotlight hint at a complex past connected to one of the sport's icons. As Ollie fights for his future, their secret world threatens to unravel amidst paddock gossip, rivalries, and the ever-present Drive to Survive cameras. When exposure becomes inevitable, they must confront the consequences and find a way to navigate the relentless glare of the F1 world together.

Warnings and Notes:

Warnings: Depictions of anxiety, stress related to high-pressure environments (F1), mentions of past trauma (related to privacy/media intrusion), media scrutiny/harassment, potential minor F1-typical language.

Notes: This is a work of fiction using real people (F1 drivers, personnel) as characters; their portrayals, actions, and relationships are fictionalized for the story.

Big chapter

The descent from the Swiss mountain outcrop was quieter than the climb, yet the silence vibrated with an unspoken energy, a charge layered beneath the surface of their easy companionship. The Richard Mille watch, accidentally revealed, had become a silent testament to the truth Ollie felt with near certainty, a truth Lira knew he now suspected. Her swift deflection back to the mundane practicalities of wind and chocolate had been a clear signal

Not yet. Not now.

and Ollie, respecting the boundary as fiercely as he guarded his racing lines against aggressive rivals, had instantly acquiesced. Still, the dynamic had irrevocably shifted on that sun-drenched perch.

He knew.

And the charged glance that had passed between them confirmed that she knew he knew. The waiting game continued, but its nature had changed; it was no longer about Ollie searching for clues, but about Lira choosing the time, place, and manner – if ever – to voice the name that hovered, unspoken, between them.

Walking down the winding path through the fragrant pines, Ollie found himself observing Lira with a new, heightened awareness, a filter of understanding overlaying his already deep affection. He noticed the minute details that spoke of a lifetime conditioned by unique circumstances: the way her eyes instinctively scanned the treeline not just for beauty but perhaps for unseen watchers, the quiet confidence in her movements that seemed at odds with her reserved nature, the way her fingers, often smudged with graphite from hours of sketching, curled slightly when she was deep in thought, as if holding something precious and fragile within. He saw the fierce intelligence that sparked in her cool grey eyes, now tinged with his empathetic understanding of the immense weight she must carry, the constant, wearying vigilance required by a life lived adjacent to, yet deliberately shielded from, an intense, often predatory, global spotlight. His affection, already deep and growing daily into something that felt suspiciously like love, deepened further, now inextricably intertwined with a fierce, almost primal urge to protect her, not just from external threats like intrusive media, but from the very burden of the secret itself. He wanted, more than anything, for her to feel safe enough, trusted enough, with him, to finally set that burden down.

Lira, walking slightly ahead as the path narrowed through a dense patch of ferns, seemed introspective, quieter than usual, though not noticeably tense. The guardedness he’d glimpsed flicker in her eyes on the summit after he’d noticed the watch had eased, replaced by her usual calm, observant composure. Yet, Ollie sensed a subtle shift beneath the surface, a fractional lowering of the invisible, heavily fortified walls she kept so meticulously maintained around her personal history. When he offered her a hand to steady her over a gurgling stream that cut unexpectedly across the path, she took it without the almost imperceptible hesitation he’d become accustomed to. Her cool, strong fingers clasped his for a moment longer than strictly necessary, the contact feeling different now – less like bridging a gap between two separate entities, more like acknowledging a shared, albeit unspoken, reality.

Back in the small, anonymous, yet charmingly traditional lakeside hotel near Montreux that served as their temporary haven, the slightly charged atmosphere from the mountain dissipated into a comfortable, almost domestic rhythm. They made dinner together in the tiny, functional kitchenette attached to their room – Ollie, as usual, relegated to enthusiastic but clumsy vegetable chopping under Lira’s watchful, critical eye (after nearly sacrificing a finger to a particularly stubborn butternut squash that refused to yield), while Lira moved with quiet competence, transforming simple, fresh local ingredients into a surprisingly delicious pasta dish infused with fragrant herbs she’d identified on their hike.

The unspoken knowledge about the watch, about her likely identity, sat between them, not as an awkward barrier demanding attention, but as a newly laid, yet unacknowledged, foundation upon which their relationship was now being built. Ollie found himself unconsciously censoring the casual F1 gossip or speculation he might normally share during dinner, suddenly hyper-aware of how certain names, certain team dynamics, certain anecdotes about media intrusion might land for her. Lira, perhaps sensing his caution or simply feeling more relaxed in the aftermath of the unspoken understanding, seemed to offer slightly fewer cryptic responses than usual, her answers to his gentle questions about her solitary exploration of the picturesque lakeside town feeling marginally more open, though still meticulously devoid of specific personal history or family references.

Later that evening, curled up together on the slightly lumpy but comfortable hotel sofa, they watched an old, atmospheric black-and-white French film Lira had unearthed from the hotel’s surprisingly eclectic DVD library. Subtitles glowed softly on the small television screen. Lira leaned her head against Ollie’s shoulder, a gesture that had become more frequent, more natural, since they’d officially become a couple just before the hike.

Tonight, however, it felt weighted with a new significance, a silent offering of trust in the wake of the day’s unspoken revelations. Ollie carefully rested his own head against the top of hers, breathing in the unique, subtle scent of her dark hair – something clean, like rain on cool stone, mixed faintly with the lingering aroma of the pine forest they’d walked through hours earlier. He felt an overwhelming wave of tenderness surge through him, a fierce desire to keep her safe within this quiet bubble, away from the swirling complexities he now understood hovered just outside their door. He didn't need the verbal confirmation, the explicit naming of the name he felt certain belonged to her father. The shared understanding, the implicit trust demonstrated by her continued presence beside him, felt more profound, more meaningful, than any spoken word could be at that moment. His patience, he realized with sudden clarity, wasn't just about respecting her boundaries anymore; it was about actively protecting the Lira he knew and loved, the one who felt safe enough to rest her head on his shoulder, from the potentially overwhelming weight of the Lira defined by a famous, demanding lineage.

He would wait. He would continue to wait for her timing, indefinitely if necessary.

The weeks following their Swiss escape unfolded into the familiar, demanding rhythm of the F2 off-season. For Ollie, it meant throwing himself back into the relentless grind of preparation for what he desperately hoped would be his final year in the feeder series. The ultimate goal – a coveted F1 seat for the following season – burned brighter, felt tantalizingly closer after his strong rookie campaign, yet remained precarious, demanding absolute focus and peak performance in the upcoming championship battle. Grueling physical training sessions pushed his body to its absolute limits under the watchful eye of his trainer, Eoin. Endless hours were spent strapped into the sophisticated Prema simulator, honing his reflexes, learning the nuances of the updated car regulations, and searching for those elusive thousandths of a second that separated the good from the great. Obligatory sponsor appearances required his cheerful, polished, media-friendly persona. Factory visits involved intense, data-heavy technical debriefs with Marco and the engineering team, dissecting every aspect of the previous season and planning for the next.

Through it all, Lira remained a constant, quiet, grounding presence in his life, though often physically distant due to her own unspecified commitments and travels, which she referred to vaguely as "work" or "visiting family friends." They texted daily, their messages evolving beyond simple check-ins and logistical arrangements for their next meeting into longer, more meandering exchanges. They shared mundane details of their days – Ollie’s frustrations with a particular simulator setup, Lira’s description of a striking piece of street art she’d discovered. They sent links to articles or music they thought the other might appreciate – Ollie introducing her to some lighter indie bands, Lira countering with challenging experimental composers. They developed inside jokes based on shared experiences or observations, messages that required no explanation between them but would be utterly incomprehensible to anyone else. Lira’s replies were still often concise, sometimes frustratingly so for the naturally effusive Ollie, but the underlying connection felt stronger, more secure, less tentative with each passing week. Significantly, she never once mentioned the watch incident on the mountain again, never alluded to the unspoken knowledge that now hung between them, and Ollie meticulously followed her lead, allowing the silence on that specific, loaded topic to stand, respecting the boundary she had implicitly reinforced. He understood it wasn't about secrecy from him anymore, but about the weight of the revelation itself.

She would appear, sometimes with little warning, for short, intense visits to his UK base near the Prema factory. A text might arrive out of the blue, concise and practical – ‘Near Oxford tomorrow afternoon. Coffee around 3?’ – and Ollie would invariably drop everything, reshuffle simulator sessions, postpone meetings, invent excuses for his trainer, just to steal a few precious hours with her. They explored quiet corners of the Cotswolds, getting deliberately lost down narrow, hedge-lined country lanes; visited museums in London, Lira’s choices always leaning towards the less crowded, more obscure galleries showcasing challenging modern art or ancient historical artefacts that seemed to resonate with her old-soul sensibility; spent countless rainy afternoons in his functional but increasingly personalized apartment, reading side-by-side in comfortable silence or talking for hours about everything and nothing, the conversation flowing easily now.

During these visits, Ollie continued to notice subtle shifts in her demeanor, faint thaws around the edges of her carefully maintained reserve. Lira seemed incrementally more willing to share small opinions, fleeting observations about her day, even occasional, carefully edited anecdotes that hinted tantalizingly at a life lived across different cultures, different landscapes – mentioning a specific type of cinnamon pastry only found in a small Finnish harbour village she’d apparently visited, or describing the unique quality of light reflecting off a vast, frozen Swiss lake at dawn – though always, always stopping short of revealing specifics about family connections or formative personal experiences. She still deflected direct questions about her past with a practiced, almost effortless ease, but the deflections felt less like outright rejection now and more like a gentle, almost apologetic reinforcement of a necessary, deeply ingrained boundary he now understood stemmed from years of conditioning.

She also continued to offer her startlingly astute insights into his work, often after silently observing him analyse data or watch onboard footage from the simulator late at night. Her comments were never intrusive, never framed as unsolicited advice, always delivered quietly, almost as if thinking aloud while processing the information visually. Yet, they invariably cut straight to the heart of a technical problem or highlighted a subtle nuance he and his experienced engineers had overlooked.

"The way you're modulating the throttle through Turn 4 seems less consistent than Pourchaire's trace on this overlay," she might murmur, pointing a slender, ink-stained finger at a complex squiggle of lines representing throttle percentage on his laptop screen. "His line shows a smoother, slightly earlier application point. Maybe related to the differential locking percentage on corner entry, affecting rear stability?" Ollie learned to listen intently, valuing her unique, analytical perspective more and more, recognizing it as a rare gift born, he now fully believed, from a lifetime spent absorbing the intricate language and complex dynamics of elite motorsport from the most privileged, yet deliberately hidden, vantage point. He never questioned how she knew these things anymore; he simply accepted the input gratefully, storing it away, another fascinating layer to their unique, evolving dynamic. He sometimes wondered if she even realized how much she knew, how naturally the technical language flowed from her.

The question of introducing her properly to his wider world, beyond just the vague mentions of a "private girlfriend" to teammates and the carefully managed video call with his family, remained a complex, sensitive issue. He knew his family was curious, his mum occasionally asking gentle, probing questions in their weekly calls about the "lovely, quiet girl" he was clearly so smitten with, the one who rarely appeared on camera during their chats. He longed to share Lira more openly, to have her meet his parents properly in person, to integrate her into his life beyond these stolen moments and discreet meetings in neutral locations.

But he understood, more profoundly now after the silent communication on the mountain, the immense risk that entailed for her. Her anonymity, her ability to move through the world unburdened by her father’s colossal fame, was precious, fragile, and clearly something she guarded with fierce determination. Exposing her to the well-meaning but inevitably curious questions of his family, let alone the relentless speculation and gossip mill of the F1 paddock, felt like a potential betrayal of the profound trust she placed in him, the trust underscored by her continued silence on the one topic that defined her external identity to the world, even if not to him.

The invitation arrived via a sleek, embossed email from the FIA: Ollie Bearman was formally invited to attend the prestigious FIA Prize-Giving Gala in Baku, the glittering culmination of the motorsport season, recognizing champions from across the FIA’s various disciplines. As a top F2 contender, his presence was requested. It was an honour, a sign of his growing stature within the sport, an opportunity to network, to be seen on the biggest stage outside of a race weekend.

His first thought, immediately after the initial buzz of excitement, was of Lira. Could she come? Would she come? It was the polar opposite of their usual quiet escapes – the highest concentration of F1 personnel, sponsors, global media, and cameras imaginable, all crammed into one opulent ballroom. It felt like throwing her into the lion's den.

He broached the subject tentatively that evening during a phone call, Lira’s voice calm and quiet on the other end, likely sketching in whatever anonymous European city she was currently inhabiting.

"So, got an invite today," Ollie began casually, trying to sound nonchalant. "The big FIA Gala thing. End of season awards, fancy dinner, penguin suits required."

A beat of silence on the other end. "Ah," Lira said finally, her voice carefully neutral. "The shiny party."

Ollie chuckled. "That's one way of putting it. Anyway… I have to go, obviously. Good for the career, networking, all that jazz." He paused, taking a breath. "And I was wondering… hoping, actually… if you might consider coming? With me?"

Another silence, longer this time. Ollie could picture her frowning slightly, weighing the implications. "Ollie," she said eventually, her voice low. "You know what those events are like. Cameras everywhere. Everyone watching everyone. It’s… not really my scene." Understatement of the century.

"I know, Li, I know," Ollie said quickly, reassuringly. "And believe me, the last thing I want is to make you uncomfortable or put you at risk. But… I’d really love for you to be there. With me. We could be careful. You wouldn't have to walk the red carpet or anything! Stick together, find a quiet table, leave early? Just… be there?" He hated asking, hated putting her in this position, but the thought of navigating the glittering, high-stakes social minefield of the Gala without her quiet, grounding presence beside him felt suddenly unbearable.

He heard her sigh softly on the other end. "Let me think about it," she said finally. It wasn't a no.

A few days later, she texted him. ‘Okay. Baku. But strict rules apply. Minimum visibility. Maximum escape routes planned.’

Ollie grinned, relief flooding him. ‘Deal! Promise.’

The Gala was every bit as overwhelming and opulent as Ollie had anticipated. Held in a vast, glittering ballroom in one of Baku’s most luxurious hotels, it was a sensory overload of flashing camera bulbs, clinking champagne glasses, expensive perfume, booming announcements, and the murmur of hundreds of conversations in a dozen different languages. The air crackled with success, ambition, and barely concealed rivalry. F1 legends mingled with rising stars, team principals schmoozed with powerful sponsors, and journalists circled like sharks, hunting for quotes and candid moments.

Stepping into the ballroom felt like diving headfirst into a churning sea of noise and light. Lira’s senses immediately went into overdrive. The sheer volume of chatter, laughter, and clinking glasses crashed against her eardrums. The glare from the crystal chandeliers felt harsh, artificial, bouncing off mirrored surfaces and sequins. The air was thick with competing perfumes, too sweet, too strong. Her eyes automatically scanned the room, cataloguing faces, noting the positions of known journalists, calculating distances to exits.

She recognized a particularly persistent paparazzo who had ambushed her father years ago near the entrance – his presence sent a cold spike of adrenaline through her veins. Ollie’s hand rested lightly on the small of her back, a warm, grounding point in the overwhelming chaos, but her muscles remained coiled tight beneath the velvet of her dress. Every nerve ending felt exposed, hyper-alert. This was the world she had spent her life avoiding, the glittering cage her father had inhabited. Being here, willingly, felt like a betrayal of every instinct she possessed. Only Ollie's steady presence beside her kept the rising tide of panic at bay

– for now.

Ollie, looking slightly uncomfortable but sharp in his tuxedo, navigated the initial reception area, shaking hands, exchanging pleasantries, accepting congratulations on his strong F2 season. Lira stayed close beside him, a striking yet deliberately understated figure. She wore a simple, elegant, floor-length black velvet dress that shimmered subtly under the chandeliers, her dark hair swept up in a loose, intricate knot that exposed the delicate line of her neck. Her only jewellery was the familiar Ouroboros ring and a pair of small, sparkling diamond studs that Ollie suspected were deceptively expensive. She carried a small black clutch bag and wore minimal makeup, letting her pale skin and expressive grey eyes command attention. To the casual observer, she was simply a beautiful, elegant, yet intensely private young woman accompanying the rising British star. But Ollie, hyper-aware, saw the tension in the set of her shoulders, the way her eyes constantly scanned the room, tracking movement, assessing potential threats, her hand resting lightly, almost imperceptibly, on his arm, grounding herself.

They bypassed the official red carpet entrance entirely, slipping in through a side door arranged by Ollie’s manager. Lira politely declined champagne, opting for sparkling water, her gaze constantly sweeping the periphery. Ollie introduced her sparingly, only to people he trusted implicitly, like his manager and Marco, his engineer, who offered warm, respectful greetings without lingering.

They found their assigned table, thankfully tucked away slightly from the main thoroughfare, shared with a couple of FIA officials Ollie vaguely knew and a slightly bewildered-looking WRC driver and his partner. Conversation was polite but stilted. Lira contributed minimally, offering quiet, intelligent responses when directly addressed but mostly observing the room, her expression calm but watchful.

Ollie spotted familiar faces across the vast room. Max Verstappen holding court near the bar, looking relaxed after another dominant season. Charles Leclerc laughing with Carlos Sainz at a nearby table, the easy camaraderie evident. Fernando Alonso, ageless and intense, engaged in animated conversation with Flavio Briatore.

Arthur Leclerc found them first, sliding into an empty chair at their table with his usual effortless charm. "Ollie! Lira! Hiding away back here? Smart move." He grinned, his eyes sparkling with friendly mischief. He chatted easily with Ollie about the season finale, then turned his attention to Lira. "So, Lira, enjoying the F1 glamour? Or is it as tedious as it looks?"

Lira offered him a small, polite smile. "It's… loud," she conceded diplomatically.

Arthur laughed. "Understatement! You need the survival guide. Rule one: avoid anyone holding more than two microphones." He chatted for a few more minutes, regaling them with amusing paddock anecdotes, seemingly oblivious to Lira's reserve, before being called away by his own team principal.

Later, Lando Norris stopped by, bouncing with his usual infectious energy. "Bearman! Good season, mate, seriously impressive!" He clapped Ollie on the back before his gaze fell on Lira. "And you must be the famous Lira! Heard a lot about you," he added with a cheeky wink towards Ollie.

Lira simply inclined her head politely, her expression unreadable. Ollie tensed slightly, but Lando, despite his playful nature, seemed to sense the boundary. He directed a couple of lighthearted questions towards Lira about whether Ollie was behaving himself, received quiet, non-committal answers, and then bounced off towards the McLaren table, leaving Ollie breathing a sigh of relief.

The most significant encounter began with a familiar voice calling out from across the crowded floor. "Lira? Is that really you?" George Russell appeared through the throng, navigating the tables with purposeful strides, his expression a mixture of genuine surprise and warmth. He reached their table, shaking Ollie’s hand firmly first. "Ollie, good to see you, congrats on the season." Then he turned fully to Lira, a wide, incredulous smile spreading across his face. "Li? Wow. Didn't think I'd ever see you at one of these things. It's been… what? Years?"

"George," Lira replied, her voice remarkably calm, though Ollie felt her hand tighten almost imperceptibly on his arm beneath the table. Her nod was polite, a slight inclination of her head. "Hello."

"Seriously, it's wild seeing you here," George continued, his eyes crinkling at the corners, clearly taking in her presence at the Gala. "Last time I think we properly spoke, we were probably teenagers arguing about who cheated at Mario Kart back in Finland." He chuckled, the comment painting a brief, vivid picture of a shared past Ollie hadn't known existed. "Good to see you."

Lira offered a small, non-committal smile, a masterclass in polite deflection. "Good to see you too, George."

George looked between them, perhaps sensing the slight reserve from Lira despite his own easy familiarity. "Well, Ollie, good season, well deserved to be here." He paused, then added with a friendly grin directed back at Lira, "Keeping this one in line, are you?"

Ollie laughed, playing along. "Trying my best, George."

Lira simply murmured, "He manages."

George chuckled again. He chatted easily for a few more minutes, asking Ollie insightful questions about the F2 car, sharing a brief, amusing anecdote about his own early career struggles, making them both feel remarkably at ease despite the high-profile setting. He exuded a natural confidence and warmth. As he made his excuses to leave, pulled away by a Mercedes team member, he gave Lira another warm smile. "Seriously, Li, great seeing you. We should actually catch up properly sometime."

"You too, George," Lira murmured, watching him walk away, a complex, unreadable expression flickering across her face before her usual composure settled back into place.

The encounter left Ollie thoughtful. George's genuine surprise at seeing her, the casual reference to shared teenage years and Finland – it confirmed a history, a connection far deeper than Lira had ever let on. Yet, she hadn't acknowledged it, hadn't elaborated. It was another layer peeled back, only to reveal more questions. The respect Ollie felt for her control warred with a growing ache, a longing for her to finally trust him with the full truth, whatever that entailed.

The evening wore on. Awards were presented, speeches were made, champagne flowed freely. Ollie and Lira mostly kept to themselves, observing the spectacle. The atmosphere grew louder, more boisterous as the formalities concluded and the networking intensified. Ollie felt Lira growing increasingly tense beside him, her earlier composure fraying slightly around the edges as the noise level rose and the press photographers began circulating more aggressively through the room, their flashes popping like random bursts of gunfire.

They were making their way towards the exit, hoping for a discreet escape before the main exodus began, when it happened. A scrum of photographers suddenly converged near the doorway, alerted to the departure of a major F1 star – perhaps Hamilton or Verstappen. The narrow exit became instantly choked, a chaotic bottleneck of bodies, flashing bulbs, and shouted questions. Ollie instinctively put an arm around Lira, trying to shield her, attempting to navigate a path through the periphery.

But the density of the crowd, the sudden, blinding strobes that felt like physical blows, the feeling of being hemmed in, trapped – it triggered something visceral in Lira. Ollie felt her go rigid against him, her breath catching in a sharp, panicked gasp. Her hand clamped onto his arm with surprising force, her knuckles white.

He looked down at her face in the intermittent glare of the flashes and saw raw, unadulterated fear in her wide grey eyes, a terror that went far beyond simple discomfort or annoyance.

She looked utterly overwhelmed, frozen, transported somewhere else entirely.

The deafening roar of shouted names and questions became meaningless noise, the heat and smell of the tightly packed bodies suffocating.

"Lira? Hey, it's okay, we're almost out," Ollie murmured urgently, his own adrenaline spiking in response to her palpable fear. He tightened his grip, no longer just shielding but actively maneuvering, using his shoulder to create a small pocket of space, pushing firmly but politely through the final few feet of the scrum, finally breaking free into the relative calm of the hotel corridor beyond. He steered her quickly towards a quiet alcove, away from the flow of departing guests.

"Lira? Breathe," he urged gently, turning her to face him, his hands resting reassuringly on her arms. "We're out. It's okay now. Just breathe."

She leaned heavily against the wall, her eyes closed, taking deep, ragged breaths, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Her face was deathly pale beneath the harsh corridor lighting.

"I'm sorry," she whispered finally, her voice shaky, not meeting his eyes. "I just… I can't… the flashes…"

"Hey," Ollie said softly, tilting her chin up so she had to look at him. "Don't apologize. Are you okay?"

She nodded mutely, though tears were now welling in her eyes, threatening to spill over. The carefully constructed composure she maintained so rigorously had shattered, leaving behind a raw vulnerability that tugged fiercely at Ollie’s heart.

He knew, with absolute certainty, that this reaction wasn't just about tonight. It was rooted in something deeper, something painful from her past. And he suspected it was intrinsically linked to the secret she guarded so fiercely.

The flashing bulbs. The shouting voices. The feeling of being trapped, suffocated by bodies pressing in, lenses like hungry eyes staring, stealing pieces of you.

The sudden chaos ripped through the present, and for a terrifying moment back there, Lira wasn't in the opulent hotel corridor in Baku in 2024. She was ten years old again, small and powerless, clinging desperately to her father’s hand outside a restaurant in Monaco.

The memory slammed into her with the force of a physical blow, vivid and suffocating. Monaco. Ten years old. The sun wasn't just bright; it was blinding, bouncing off the polished chrome of supercars and the impossibly blue water of the harbour, creating a glare that hurt her eyes. The air, thick with the scent of expensive sunscreen, exhaust fumes, and the salty tang of the Mediterranean, vibrated with the high-pitched scream of distant F1 engines practicing on the track above. They’d just finished a rare, quiet family lunch at a discreet restaurant tucked away from the main bustle – just her, Isi (Kimi), and Minttu. Kimi, shielded behind dark sunglasses and a nondescript baseball cap pulled low, had actually seemed relaxed, a rare, almost imperceptible softening around his usually guarded eyes as he watched her younger half-brother, Robin, then just a toddler, attempting to stack sugar cubes. Lira had felt a fragile bubble of happiness inflate in her chest, a fleeting sense of normalcy in their extraordinary lives.

Then they stepped outside the restaurant door, back into the glaring sunlight.

It wasn't a gradual convergence; it was an explosion. Instantaneous. A wall of sound and bodies erupted from seemingly nowhere, surging towards them like a human tidal wave. Men mostly, large men with predatory eyes, shouting Kimi’s name – "Kimi! Kimi! A word! Kimi!" – their voices a harsh, demanding cacophony. Microphones attached to long booms jabbed aggressively towards her father’s face. Cameras appeared, dozens of them, lenses like huge, unblinking insect eyes, aimed directly at them. The flashes started immediately, a relentless, blinding barrage, turning the bright Monaco sunshine into a disorienting, sickening strobe effect that made spots dance before Lira’s eyes. She felt her small hand engulfed, almost crushed, in her father’s much larger one as he instinctively pulled her tight against his leg, trying to forge a path through the sudden, suffocating throng.

His body went rigid beside her, the relaxed posture vanishing instantly, replaced by a familiar, cold tension. She saw his jaw clench beneath the shadow of the cap, his face hardening into the blank, impenetrable mask he wore for the public, the one that earned him the nickname 'Iceman'. He muttered terse, automatic "No comments" in Finnish, his voice low and flat, trying to push forward. But the crowd was too thick this time, too aggressive, fueled by the frenzy of the Monaco Grand Prix weekend.

They were surrounded within seconds, physically hemmed in against the rough stone wall of the restaurant, the escape route to their waiting car suddenly seeming miles away. Lira felt rough hands brush against her arms, the heat and unfamiliar smell of strangers’ bodies pressing suffocatingly close. Sweat, cheap cologne, stale cigarette smoke. The shouting intensified, becoming a meaningless roar, individual words lost in the aggressive wall of sound. Questions were hurled like stones: "Kimi, are you retiring?" "Is it true about Ferrari?" "Who’s the girl, Kimi? Your daughter?" That last one, shouted close to her ear, sent a jolt of pure ice through her veins. Panic, cold and sharp, clawed its way up her throat, stealing her breath.

She couldn't breathe.

The air felt thick, used up. She squeezed her eyes shut tight, burying her face hard against the rough denim of her father’s leg, trying desperately to disappear, to make herself small, invisible. The flashes continued, relentless, painful even through her closed eyelids, red and white bursts against the blackness. She felt Kimi tense beside her, a low growl rumbling deep in his chest, an animalistic sound of contained fury she had never heard before. He shifted his body, trying to physically shield her completely, one arm coming around her protectively while the other pushed back forcefully against the encroaching bodies. "Leave her alone!" His voice, usually so calm, so laconic, cracked through the noise, sharp with a cold, terrifying anger, laced with undisguised fear for her.

"Back off! Get away from her!"

But it was like throwing pebbles against an avalanche. The crowd surged again, emboldened by his reaction. More flashes exploded directly in her face, the heat from the bulbs momentarily warming her skin even through closed eyelids. Someone stumbled, falling heavily against her side, knocking her off balance, her small body colliding painfully with the stone wall. A sharp cry of fear escaped her lips, swallowed instantly by the surrounding chaos. She felt a hand grab at her own arm, trying to pull her slightly away from her father, maybe for a clearer photo.

Terror, absolute and paralyzing, seized her.

Suddenly, Kimi moved with startling speed and force. There was a sharp cracking sound – maybe a camera hitting the wall – and a man yelped in surprise or pain. Kimi roared something guttural, furious, in Finnish, a string of curses that needed no translation, shoving people back with a strength born of pure adrenaline and protective rage. His movements were economical, controlled, but radiated a chilling fury. Security guards, alerted by the commotion, finally pushed through the dense pack, creating a small, precarious corridor. They were rough, efficient, manhandling Kimi, Minttu (who looked pale and shaken), and a sobbing, trembling Lira towards the sanctuary of their waiting blacked-out car. Bundled inside, the heavy doors slammed shut, muffling the shouting, but the flashing lights still pulsed relentlessly against the tinted windows, strobing the interior like a nightmare disco.

Lira was trembling uncontrollably, tears streaming down her face, unable to catch her breath, the feeling of those strange hands, the crushing bodies, the blinding lights seared into her memory. Kimi pulled her onto his lap immediately, his arms wrapping around her like steel bands, holding her tight against his chest. His own face was pale beneath his usual tan, his jaw still clenched, his eyes behind the sunglasses blazing with a cold, hard fury she had never witnessed before. He didn't say much – he never did in moments of crisis – just murmured soothing, nonsensical Finnish words against her hair, his hand, usually so steady on a steering wheel at 300kph, shaking almost imperceptibly as he stroked her back. But the fierce, almost violent protectiveness radiating from him, mingled with a profound, gut-wrenching helplessness against the ravenous beast of his own fame, was something she would carry with her forever.

The feeling of being hunted, trapped, exposed, utterly powerless, violated by unseen eyes and unwelcome hands – it hadn't just scared her; it had fundamentally scarred her, etching itself deep into her psyche, shaping the walls she would build around herself for years to come.

The roar of the Monaco scrum slowly faded, replaced by Ollie's concerned voice. Now, leaning against the cool marble wall of the Baku hotel corridor, the echo of those flashes still searing behind her eyelids, Lira felt the familiar cold tendrils of that childhood panic begin to recede, replaced by a profound, bone-deep weariness. She opened her eyes to find Ollie watching her, his own face etched with concern, his warm hands still resting gently on her arms.

He hadn’t recoiled. He hadn’t bombarded her with questions. He had simply shielded her, guided her out, and now stood before her, his gaze filled not with curiosity or judgment, but with quiet, unwavering support. The contrast between the chaotic intrusion back then and Ollie’s steadfast calm now was stark.

He knew. He’d known since the mountain, maybe even before. He knew who her father was, understood the implications, yet he hadn't pushed, hadn't pried, hadn't treated her any differently. He had waited. He had protected her silence. And tonight, he had physically shielded her from the very thing that terrified her most, the thing inextricably linked to the secret she carried.

In that moment, something inside Lira shifted definitively. The weight of the secret, carried alone for so long, suddenly felt unbearable. The constant vigilance, the deflections, the half-truths – they were exhausting. Ollie’s patience, his kindness, his unwavering acceptance despite the unspoken knowledge hanging between them, deserved more. He deserved the truth. After tonight, after seeing his unwavering protection when she shattered, keeping the walls up felt like a betrayal. He deserved to understand the depth of her fear, the reason for her walls. He deserved to know exactly who he had committed to, complexities and all. Trusting him felt less like a risk now, and more like a necessity, a release.

She took a deep, steadying breath, meeting his concerned gaze directly. The tears had subsided, leaving behind a raw vulnerability but also a newfound resolve.

"Ollie," she began, her voice quiet but clear, stronger now. "Can we… can we go back to the room? There’s something I need to tell you. Properly."

Ollie searched her face for a moment, his expression softening with understanding. He nodded slowly. "Of course, Li," he said gently, his hands sliding down to take hers. "Whatever you need."

He led her away from the fading noise of the Gala, his hand warm and steady in hers, a silent promise of safety in the midst of the glittering, predatory world they both inhabited.

The waiting game was finally, truly over.

Back in the sterile quiet of their Baku hotel room, the opulence of the Gala felt worlds away, yet its chaotic energy lingered like a bad taste. The heavy velvet curtains were drawn tight, shutting out the glittering cityscape, creating an insular, almost suffocating intimacy. Ollie had ordered room service – comforting, bland food neither of them really felt like eating – which now sat largely untouched on a small table. Lira was curled on the armchair near the window, knees drawn up to her chest, staring blankly at the drawn curtains as if she could still see the flashing bulbs through the thick fabric. The black velvet dress she’d worn with such understated elegance hours earlier now seemed too formal, too exposed for the raw vulnerability clinging to her.

Ollie sat on the edge of the bed opposite her, watching her silently, his heart aching with a mixture of empathy and helplessness. The raw fear he’d seen in her eyes during the paparazzi scrum had shaken him deeply. It wasn't just discomfort or annoyance; it was a profound, almost primal terror, rooted, he now understood, in experiences like the Monaco incident she hadn't yet shared but whose shadow clearly haunted her. He had wanted her to tell him her secret when she was ready, but he hadn't anticipated it being potentially triggered by such a frightening event. He waited, giving her space, letting the adrenaline subside, unsure what to say or do beyond simply being present.

Silence stretched in the hotel room, thick and heavy, punctuated only by the distant hum of the city and the frantic thrumming of Lira’s own heart. The echoes of the Gala – the noise, the lights, the crushing proximity of strangers – still reverberated within her, triggering the cold tendrils of the panic she’d fought so hard to control for so many years. The flashback to Monaco, sharp and visceral, had ambushed her, reminding her of the brutal reality that lay just beneath the surface of her carefully constructed anonymity.

That feeling of being hunted, exposed, utterly powerless while clinging to her father’s hand – it never truly faded.

It was the ghost that haunted her footsteps, the reason she craved shadows and quiet corners, the reason Ollie’s steady presence felt like such a vital anchor. She risked a glance at him. He sat on the bed, watching her, his usual cheerful expression replaced by one of quiet, deep concern. He wasn't pushing, wasn't demanding explanations for her reaction.

He was just… there.

Waiting. Patient. Supportive.

As he had been since the day on the mountain when he’d seen the watch and known, yet chosen silence, chosen to let her keep her shield intact. He deserved the truth. Not the deduced truth he already held, but the truth offered freely, from her. He deserved to understand the fear that had gripped her tonight, the fear intrinsically linked to the name she carried. He deserved to know the full weight of the legacy, the baggage, that came with loving her. Trusting him felt like leaping into an abyss, dismantling fortifications built brick by painful brick over a lifetime.

What if knowing, really knowing, changed things? What if the name, the reality of her father, became a barrier between them, an invisible third presence in their quiet world? What if the pressure became too much for him, for them? But then she thought of his unwavering respect, his gentle kindness, his fierce protectiveness tonight. She thought of his easy laugh, the warmth in his eyes, the way he saw her, Lira, the artist, the quiet observer, not just a potential connection to fame or a puzzle to be solved.

He had earned this trust. And carrying the secret alone, especially now that he essentially knew, felt heavier, more isolating, than the potential risk of sharing it. Keeping it hidden felt like a lie of omission, a barrier she herself was maintaining between them. She owed him the honesty he had so freely given her. She took a deep, shaky breath, the decision solidifying within her, heavy but necessary. She finally met his gaze across the quiet room.

"Ollie," Lira began, her voice low but steady now, cutting through the tense silence. Ollie looked up immediately, his expression attentive, patient.

"That… reaction," she continued, gesturing vaguely towards the door, towards the memory of the flashing lights. "Downstairs. It wasn't just about tonight. It’s… happened before. When I was younger." She paused, gathering her courage. "Being with my dad… sometimes it attracted that kind of attention. Aggressive. Scary. Especially when I was small."

Ollie nodded slowly, his eyes filled with understanding. "I figured it might be something like that," he said softly. "You don't have to explain, Li."

"But I want to," she insisted quietly, meeting his gaze directly. "You deserve to understand. Why I am the way I am. Why the privacy is… everything." She took another deep breath, her hands twisting in the velvet fabric of her dress. "You know already, don't you? Since the mountain? About the watch?"

Ollie held her gaze, his expression open, honest. "I think so, yeah," he admitted gently. "I pieced things together. But Li, I swear, it doesn't change anything—"

"Let me finish," she interrupted softly, holding up a hand. "Please." He fell silent immediately, waiting.

"It's not just a watch," she clarified, her voice barely a whisper. "It was his. One he wore often. He gave it to me a few years ago… said I needed something reliable." A faint, bittersweet smile touched her lips. "Typical him."

She looked down at her hands again, tracing the pattern of the velvet.

"You waited," she murmured.

"You knew, but you waited for me. You didn't push. You just… let me be Lira. Not… not the daughter of…" The name seemed to catch in her throat, the weight of it immense.

Ollie felt his heart ache for her. He wanted to rush across the room, pull her into his arms, tell her it didn't matter. But he stayed put, respecting the space she needed to finally voice the truth.

Lira looked up again, her grey eyes luminous, filled with a mixture of fear, resolve, and profound trust. "My dad," she said, the words spoken clearly now, deliberately into the quiet intimacy of the hotel room. "The reason I hide, the reason the cameras are terrifying, the reason George Russell knows me..." She took one final, steadying breath.

"It's Kimi," she stated simply, holding Ollie’s gaze, letting the name settle between them, finally acknowledged.

"Kimi Räikkönen."

The name, finally spoken aloud by her, landed in the room not with the shock of revelation, but with the quiet, profound resonance of confirmed truth. It filled the space, explaining so much – her knowledge, her reserve, her fear, her need for sanctuary.

Ollie didn’t react with surprise or awe. He simply held her gaze, his expression softening with empathy, with love. He rose slowly from the bed and crossed the room in two strides, kneeling down in front of her armchair so they were eye-level. He gently took her trembling hands in his, holding them firmly, warmly.

"Okay,"

he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "Okay, Lira. Thank you. Thank you for trusting me enough to tell me." He squeezed her hands gently. "And listen to me very carefully." He waited until her tear-filled eyes met his again. "This changes nothing. Do you hear me? Nothing about how I feel about you. If anything," he continued, his voice earnest, passionate, "it just makes me admire you even more. Knowing what you've had to navigate, how you've protected yourself, how strong you are… it’s incredible."

He saw the tension visibly drain from her shoulders, the fear in her eyes slowly receding, replaced by overwhelming relief. A single tear escaped, tracing a path down her pale cheek, but this time it felt like a tear of release, not panic.

"You're still Lira to me," Ollie continued softly, lifting a hand to gently brush the tear away with his thumb. "My Lira. The artist who sees things no one else does, the girl who can somehow make sense of my messy telemetry, the one who makes me laugh even when I've qualified P19. That's who I fell for. The name… it's part of your story, yes, but it doesn't define you. Not to me." He paused, wanting her to absorb the words. "And that paparazzi stuff? The flashes? We'll handle it. Together. I promise you, Li, I will do everything I possibly can to protect you, to keep you safe, to keep us safe. Your secret, our secret now, is locked away. Okay?"

Lira nodded, unable to speak for a moment, biting her lip to control the tremor. Then, she managed a watery smile, a smile that reached her eyes, transforming her face with its raw vulnerability and dawning relief. "Okay, Ollie Bearman," she whispered back, her voice thick with emotion.

She leaned forward, pulling her hands free to wrap her arms around his neck, burying her face in his shoulder. Ollie wrapped his own arms around her tightly, holding her close, feeling the fragile tremors subside as she clung to him. He rested his cheek against her soft hair, breathing her in, feeling an immense sense of privilege, of responsibility, of overwhelming love.

After a long moment, she pulled back slightly, wiping her eyes, though her hands remained resting on his shoulders. Her expression was still fragile, but lighter somehow, the immense weight she’d carried visibly lessened.

Ollie offered her a gentle, slightly crooked smile, wanting to ease the remaining tension, to bring back a hint of their usual dynamic. "So," he said softly, his eyes twinkling, "now that the big secret's out... does this mean I can officially ask for setup advice without pretending I just thought of it myself?"

A genuine, watery laugh escaped Lira, startlingly loud in the quiet room. She swatted his shoulder playfully, though tears still clung to her lashes. "Absolutely not," she declared, her voice regaining a touch of its usual dryness, though the relief in her eyes was unmistakable. "My consultancy rates are extremely high, Bearman. Stick to Marco."

He grinned back, his heart soaring. She was still Lira. His Lira. The name was out, the truth acknowledged, but the person he loved remained. "Fair enough," he conceded easily, standing up and pulling her gently to her feet. "Probably safer for my ego anyway."

She rolled her eyes, but the fear was gone, replaced by the familiar spark of wry amusement. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close as they stood looking out at the drawn curtains, the unseen city glittering beyond. The Gala, the flashes, the fear – it all felt distant now, overshadowed by the quiet intimacy of this moment, the profound significance of a secret finally shared, a burden finally lightened. The waiting game was over. A new chapter, grounded in honesty and mutual trust, filled with unknown challenges but faced together, had just begun.

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